scarlet diva

Fic: Spousal Privilege

2009-12-06T13:44:08Z

Title: Spousal Privilege
Fandom: Mad Men
Rating: PG
Characters: Roger, Joan, Trudy, Pete
Summary: How gossip travels. Conversations with married people. [Spoilers for S3 Finale]

“Don’s getting divorced,” Roger said.

“I gathered as much,” Joan said. It was 8:30 p.m., and they were waiting at the curb for her cab. She tucked a stray hair under her green headscarf. He had never imagined she’d be the type to wear headscarves; she had never cared much for hats, even, save for the three months some milliner had been trying to woo her.

“Betty’s going off with one of Rocky’s men, Henry Francis.” The wind lashed Roger’s scarf straight back, and Joan’s headscarf slipped a little. “Nice man. I’m not saying that to be nice.”

“No, you’re saying it to be mean.” She didn’t turn to look at him. It was almost like the old days—her and him, standing twenty feet apart in front of some hotel, like their bodies hadn’t been damp and ampersanded together twenty minutes ago.

“Can’t imagine what she was thinking, a man like that. Guess she wanted something to cuddle and cry. Women do that.”

“Men do that too, Roger.” Joan tightened the belt of her overcoat and folded up the collar. Behind them, a flock of kids in black caps passed, noisy and hopeful. He could feel the lights on their faces, garlands of green and red and bright, the world warmly yielding under their boots.

“You remember the Christmas party? Nine years ago. You and Draper danced the Varsouviana. He had just nailed Ballantine.”

“There were a lot of parties,” she said fondly. The kids had crossed to the next block; Roger couldn’t hear them anymore, over the wind.

“I grabbed him in the hall, after.” Roger tilted on his heels. Jane was napping at home (it would be a lie to say “waiting”), with equal parts hot chocolate and cognac. “I said two words: ‘Not Joanie.’”

"That's sweet."

Her cab arrived with a slushing sound. Opening the door for her, he added: “And last year, you got married.”

Even the warning look she gave him seemed weary. “And what insurmountable conclusion did you land on this time?”

He put his cold cheek to hers, a continental kiss. “I hate Christmas!”

She turned her face abruptly, but the glimpse of white neck above her collar was just as satisfactory. “I’m coming in tomorrow,” she said as she settled in the cab, brushing the ice from her lap. “Just for the half-day.”

“Good,” Roger said as he shut the door, then rapped the roof twice, like he used to do in the service with precious cargo. He did catch the profile of her smile, through the misted window.

Before the year ended, he would make her laugh, in person.

**********

“Don’s getting divorced,” Peter said in the middle of an elbow turn.

“What?” Trudy’s limbs still moved through the swing steps, even as her mind went numb. They were at her favorite little club on the East Side; the chiffon skirt of her dress poufed, leisurely, under her leopard-spotted belt.

“I picked up the phone, when he was still on.” Peter’s eyes were dazed as he twirled her. He was wearing a blue-black tie, and his hair had a slight wave to it, and the night had been going so well. “It’ll be finalized, in three weeks.”

“I’m so sorry, Peter. No one really knows what happens in a marriage.” The trumpet notes flowed like wine over them; they fell into basic three-step.

“She’s marrying a man she met, at Roger’s derby party.” His voice was choked with disdain. “What was she like, that day?”

“I don’t know. Pregnant,” Trudy said. Peter stopped, and she stopped, and they were two statues on a floor full of whirling couples.

“I’m sorry.” He held her to his chest. She could hear his heart going, underneath the music. “It’s just… it’s like someone died.”

“Do you want to leave?” she asked. Peter shook his head. Slowly, like she was leading, Trudy took his hands and nudged his feet into rhythm.

“She had no right,” he said savagely, into her cheek. “Would you leave Don Draper?”

“Contrary to what you may think, dear” — and now, Trudy felt comfortable enough to smile, to tease — “not everybody wants to marry Don Draper.” She scooted around him in a quick back pass, beaming when they were face to face again. “He’ll be fine.”

“He’ll be fine,” Peter echoed, before purposefully speeding his pace. Trudy relaxed into the flurry of jangling legs and deft hand touches. Heads turned in admiration, and she smiled harder. She loved dancing with Peter, even more than that other thing, because dancing you could do in public.

The song ended. He tilted her back, and she snapped up to meet him. “Betty Draper was very polite, and very beautiful,” Trudy said, a little breathless. “But she always seemed sad. And I don’t want to be sad.”

She tapped her fingernail against the knot of his tie. He butted his forehead against hers. “I love you, lovely.”

“What a coincidence,” Trudy Campbell said as the five-man band wound up again. “I love you, too.”

**********

“I’m getting divorced,” Don said into the phone.

“Oh,” Anna said, and in the long silence Don heard a gentle arpeggio, the sluice of waves against lukewarm sand. “I am so sorry, Dick.”

“Betty went to Reno, to make it legal.” He pressed his elbows into the mattress. It was Sunday, noon, and he hadn’t even brushed his teeth yet. “Everyone at the office knows—well, all seven of them. Maybe not Harry.” Don rubbed his forehead. “I didn’t want to tell you. I was ashamed.”

“There's no need—”

“After she found out everything, I thought.” He rolled over, stared at the empty nightstand. It was pristine, almost reflective, because every Saturday a girl came in to clean. “But then nothing happened, and I thought, Maybe.”

“You’re going to feel like dying, for a good deal of time.”

He clenched the phone cord. “Aren’t you going to ask whose fault it was?”

“You love that girl.” He imagined Anna standing in a kitchen, arranging daffodils in a vase. “You built a life with her. And you’ll keep on loving her, because that’s the sort of thing you can’t turn off. But eventually, you’re going to forget. What it was like sharing a house, sharing a bed, saying good night every night. And that” — her voice cracked, down the middle, and Don felt it all the way in New York — “is what makes it bearable.”

Don finally sat up, planted his bare feet on the chilly wooden floor. “I wish you were here.”

“Why, so you can take me dancing?” At that, they both laughed.

“Listen, this might not happen soon or—anytime this year, but… I would like to bring my kids to meet you. If that’s okay.”

“I’d like that.”

“Okay. I don’t want to make you late for church.”

“I won’t be. Have a good week, Dick.”

He set the phone on its cradle, grabbed a cigarette, walked to the window. Forced the curtains open, as far as they would go, and stood at the sill, smoking, as the people bustled in the decaying city below.

Fic: Hospitality

2009-11-26T15:06:35Z

Title: Hospitality
Fandom: Mad Men
Pairing: Don/Trudy/Pete
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~2,500
Summary: Don catches ill, and Trudy nurses him back to health in her own, um, special way.

Campbell, the little shit, infected him a week into January, when the holidays were no longer an excuse for a fallow schedule. Don stumbled into the hotel suite at 11 a.m. with watery eyes, a pinging headache, and a grapefruit-sized soreness fisted in his throat.

Peggy’s eyes flickered up warily. “I don’t think you should be here.”

Don rubbed a hand across his Adam’s apple and set down his briefcase by Campbell’s vacant chair. “I’m fine, Peggy.”

“No, I mean—” Peggy brought up one corner of her blue silk scarf to cover her mouth. “It’s not good if more of us get sick. Pete tried to work through it, and he passed it on to you.”

“Jennifer’s laid out with the flu,” Harry called from the doorway to the bedroom. “I come here to escape that dingy hospital feeling. It’s all over the house. For such a skinny woman, you’d be surprised how much she—”

“Hello everyone!” Trudy swung open the door, holding a box of small oranges against her hip. The cuffs of her fur coat were speckled with snowflakes. “I brought Clementines today. They’re seedless, so you can eat them at your desk without making a mess.”

Peggy took two oranges and returned to her seat; Harry grabbed four, and retreated to the bedroom. Trudy walked to the coffee table, nudging the typewriter several inches. “I’ll just place the crate here, so Roger, Lane, and Bert can help themselves after their lunch meetings.”

“Thank you, Trudy.” Don tried very hard not to croak.

“Don!” The petite woman instantly wheeled on him, hair bouncing. “You sound horrible! You must have caught that bug that Peter had.”

“I’ll be fine. You know how it is—I can’t afford to not work.” He glanced pointedly at Peggy, who darted her head back down.

“Well, if you don’t have any client meetings scheduled for today, why don’t you work from home?” Trudy brisked around the room, moving lamps and empty teacups. It was Joan’s day off; over the past several weeks the women had developed a tacit agreement in which Joan conducted (prospective hires, material purchases, simple book keeping) and Trudy bustled (tea, sliced bagels, fresh flowers). “Most enthusiastic back-up dancer I’ve ever seen,” Roger marveled, and Don had to agree.

Don shut his eyes, imagined the dusty blankness of his apartment. “It’s hard to work at home.”

“Oh!” Trudy stopped. “Why don’t you stay at our place? It’ll be peace and quiet; I can cook in our own kitchen, and I can be your secretary if you need one.”

“That’s… really an imposition.” He sneezed, tightened his grip on the back of the couch between them. Trudy tilted her head and crossed her arms.

“Nonsense! I’ve done the same for Peter the last two days; it wouldn’t be any trouble at all. It’s the least we could do, after leaving you indisposed.”

His mouth went dry; he couldn’t think. Trust a Campbell to have no sense of private space. “I don’t have any clothes with me.”

“Don’t worry about that! I’ll just call the front desk and have something comfortable brought up for you.” Trudy reached for the table drawer underneath the generic landscape painting. “I believe Joan keeps everyone’s clothing measurements in here.”

“You put our sizes on record?” Peggy blurted from her desk.

“Ah! Here we go.” Trudy held up a pink index card. “What do you say, Don?”

This was all wrong. There were a hundred plausible reasons, a hundred pleasant equivocations, that would easily excuse him from spending a day or more in the care of the Campbells. Unfortunately, under the earnest thrust of Trudy’s eyelashes and the quiet eavesdropping of Peggy and the impotent squirm of his swollen throat, he couldn’t conjure one.

“I have to make some calls first.”

“Of course!” Trudy beamed. “I’ll be waiting for you in the lobby, and we can take the cab together.” She paused. “Peggy, make sure he actually leaves.”

Peggy’s grin was entirely too wide for Don’s liking, although that could have been the orange slice in her mouth. “Yes, Trudy.”

As the door closed, he sank on the couch and palmed a Clementine, rolling it in his hands.

“She’s very persuasive.” Peggy swept her ragged orange peel into the waste bin.

“How did I get sick and not you? You’re the one who shares a desk with him.”

The scent of citrus, as Peggy bit into her second orange. “I make an effort not to touch him.”

**********

If the cab ride didn’t cement the inherent awkwardness of the situation, Don acutely felt the impact of his poor choice as he stood in the threshold, briefcase in one hand and Pierre-monogrammed sleepwear in the other, while Trudy called out, “Darling, I have a surprise for you!”

Then: Peter Campbell with mussed hair, in paisley pajamas, exclaiming “Don” in a pitch that dangerously approximated a squeak, with an expression that dangerously approximated delight. “Are you staying over?”

“You better be sick this time,” Don growled, moving past him.

**********

Don had never thought much of Trudy Campbell. Her chirpiness, her swingy fashionability. It was unnerving. Roger, for some reason, adored her: A time ago, before the divorce with Mona, the elder man had claimed Trudy as his second-favorite wife. After Betty, of course.

Despite his misgivings, the rest of the afternoon and dinner had been acceptable. He frowned over Gillette with Pete. Bert called, with updates. Trudy spread an ivory quilt over the olive couch and said goodnight.

When he awoke, Pete had already left for work. “I think having you here lifted his spirits,” Trudy said, placing a tray in front of him. Thin chicken soup, hot water, and scoops of vitamins. Don grimaced, and starting rifling through stacks of Pampers market research.

Sometime around noon, when the text started to melt together, he noticed a grey-green hardbound book, with gold-edged pages, at the foot of the coffee table. “The history of the lives and secret intrigues of the wives of the twelve Caesars,” he read.

“—of those of the other Roman emperors, and of the princesses of their blood: in which are introduced the most remarkable transactions of the Roman history,” Trudy recited, as she lifted his desecrated food tray. Today, she was wearing a loose gray sweater and navy pants. “Peter bought it for me, when he received that promotion to Head of Accounts. I don’t think he realized I read it before, in college.”

“I didn’t take you for a history buff.”

“It was my major, actually.” Trudy walked to the kitchen. Don opened the book. It smelled fresh, like it never had been read. She came back, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “The classics.”

“Men in bed sheets, stabbing each other.”

She smiled, running the dish towel over the black surface of the coffee table. “My Latin was terrible. But there’s this entire universe. And at the end of the day, you can close it up in a book and put it away.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.” He stroked the embossed logo on the title page. She perched at his shoulder.

“I wanted to be a teacher, when I was younger.” Her voice was lower, now. “Daddy said that wasn’t proper—he was right, of course.”

Don coughed, trying to imagine away the wavy brown hair, the slender frame, the worn sweater. If she noticed the twitch in his face, Trudy didn’t say anything, and merely patted his shoulder.

That night, she prepared a bath, with lavender oil. Don hated the smell of lavender. Nevertheless, he drifted in and out of consciousness, and by the time Pete came home, he was fully asleep in the tub. He dreamed of Betty at twenty-three in a green scarf, picking apples with him in New Hampshire. The relaxed bent of her body on the ladder, as if for once she were completely unaware of being watched. Laughing as she lobbed apples at him and missed.

(Or maybe that was some other woman, some other time.)

**********

Only two days in, and he had already become inured to the sound of Trudy’s voice.

She had just come back, from getting her handbags dry-cleaned. “Did you have any trouble when I was gone?”

Don barely moved from his seat at the dining table, the phone in his lap. He would have to double up his calendar for the following week, to make up for his absence. “I’m like a cat. Just set out a bowl of milk for me.”

“The way you’re sitting, you’re going to get a neck ache.” Her hands swam to his shoulders, and he tightened. There was something undignified about sitting in pajamas at 5 p.m., with Trudy Campbell pressed against the back of his chair, but he didn’t protest.

“I wanted to thank you,” Don said, after a minute. “For the Clearasil account.”

“Oh?” Her tone was airy, unflappable. She massaged in circles. “Peter did that. You know how men can be, but he patched things up with my father, seeing as—”

“Thank you.” He put his hands on top of hers, at the junction where his neck met shoulder, and Peter Campbell walked in.

“Hello, darling!” Without a hitch, she sprang up to peck her husband’s cheek. “How was your day?”

Pete fastened his gaze on Don. “It was fine.” Then, with the slowness of deliberation, he wound his arms around Trudy’s waist, tipped his face into hers. A show kiss, Don noted, the kind with sighing sounds. Trudy giggled pink when he broke the embrace, and she flitted past Don, to the bedroom, to fetch Pete’s slippers.

Don looked at the phone, heavy in his lap. Thought fleetingly of teenage hitchhikers in a sullen hotel room, the insistent little gasps of the girl before the boy slugged him in the head. “Don. I want to come home.”

The Campbells didn’t fully shut the bedroom door that night. It disconcerted Don, underneath layers of ivory quilt, how soothing the murmuring, rocking sounds were. How vividly he could see the shy slope of Trudy’s breasts, the flex of her back in the darkness. He wasn’t supposed to want anything that belonged to Campbell.

**********

The next day, the flu abated. He announced during dinner that he was feeling much better, thank you, and that he would be returning to work tomorrow. To celebrate, they had drinks.

After the third round, Pete went to make more cocktails. Trudy scooted closer to Don on the couch and put a hand on his glass, rubbing the dampened rim with her thumb.

“Are you going to come out and say it?”

“What are you talking about?” Still a committed liar, with those saucer eyes. Even when tipsy. Her gold skirt fanned out, brushing his knee.

“You’ve been raised right. You’re not Jane Sterling.” He pulled the glass from her fingers. Some vodka splashed on his left hand. “Why are you doing this?”

She swallowed, dipped a finger to the back of his wet hand, where the wedding band would be. “When I married my husband, my mother took me aside and asked me, ‘Does he love you a little more than you love him?’ I said no. Even then, I knew.”

Talking like this, she looked beautiful. Don stroked a curl of her hair. He knew where this was going, could already taste her perfume and sweat.

“Then, she asked, ‘Does he need you more than you need him?’ I said yes. And my mother said, ‘you might not have a happy marriage, but you will have a successful one.’”

Successful. His heart contracted so hard he couldn’t meet her eyes, just stared down at the gold brocade of her little party dress, her little seduction dress. She bent her head to his, curls falling into his face. “Please, Don. I love him.”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.” He stood up, lifting Trudy, and bellowed: “Campbell, get in here!” And when Pete skittered in, pale-faced and shirt undone, Don nodded to Trudy, wound his arms around her waist, and tipped his face into hers.

She was soft, and scared, but she opened her mouth obediently, and by the time he pressed his body flush against hers, she was tugging at his bathrobe, nipping at his neck. He slid onto the couch, bouncing her on his lap. Saw Campbell sitting in the opposite chair, blushing bright.

“Peter, could you help me with this dress?” Trudy said breathily. He got up, slow, and in the lamplight Don could see how irrevocably hard the little shit was.

The dress widened, crumpling down her torso, and Trudy tumbled to her knees, pushing back the coffee table with her feet (“Campbell, move that thing,” Don said, and Pete complied). Her fingers fluttered to the drawstring of his pants, then his cock was out in her hand and in her mouth.

“Trudy!” He pulled back, cupped her chin. “Not—not this. Not you.” She lowered her eyelashes and crossed her arms over her breasts.

“Don’s right. Not you, Trudy.” And Jesus, Campbell had gone hard all over, his voice, his face, his sullen bright blue eyes as he strode up to Don and kneeled. “Me,” he said as he grabbed Don’s cock. “Me,” he said as he lapped the length, testing, before he sucked Don in, like a treat that would get snatched away if he didn’t have it right now. And all the while, Trudy was at Don’s side, kissing along his chest, guiding his hand between her legs, whispering “thank you, thank you.”

**********

They moved to the bedroom. There were condoms placed on each pillow, like mints. Pete colored. “It was Trudy’s idea.”

Trudy pouted in the middle of unbuttoning her husband’s shirt. “Dear, I believe Don would want us to be responsible adults,” she said, with a forceful tug on his pants at the word “adults.”

Don smiled, rolled the condom on himself. “Yes, that’s very, er, thoughtful of you.”

“See?” Trudy tossed her head sitting up, and wrapped her arms around Don as he slid into her.

“Whatever,” Pete said, and suckled at her neck. They could be siblings, Don thought, and nearly came at the idea.

Afterward, Trudy pulled Pete’s discarded shirt around her and attempted to smooth her hair. “Well. Would anybody like a glass of water?”

“I’m fine.” Campbell was curled around him like a cat and showed no indications of letting go. Trudy gave her husband a meaningful look. “In that case. I’m going to wash up.” She shut the bathroom door, all the way.

Pete shifted sleepily in bed. “I didn’t tell Trudy about the box, Don. I would never.”

Don pulled the sheets up, over the two of them. “That was a lifetime ago. Tomorrow, this—” he paused—“will be a lifetime ago.”

“I know,” Pete said, and Don wondered how his eyes could be so bright even in the dark. “Don, I…”

“Go to sleep, Pete. We’ll have breakfast tomorrow.”

Sometime in the middle of the night, Don woke up. Pete was crushed against his left side, breathing fitfully, smelling of stickiness and musk. Trudy lay on her back, barely touching him. He turned his head, rubbed his cheek against her hair. She smelled like apples.

15-word meme

2009-11-21T07:40:34Z

OHMIGAWD, YOU GUYS. THIS WAS SO MUCH FUN.

1. Write down the names of 10 characters.
2. Write a fic of fifteen words or less for every prompt, using the characters determined by the numbers. Do NOT read the prompts before you do step 1.

1. Pete Campbell (Mad Men)
2. Judeau (Berserk)
3. Hinata Hyuuga (Naruto)
4. Joan Holloway (Mad Men)
5. Shane Vendrell (The Shield)
6. Pam Beesley (The Office)
7. Robert Chase (House)
8. Mello (Death Note)
9. Kenny McCormick (South Park)
10. Number Six (Battlestar Galactica)

1. First time, 4 and 6 (Joan and Pam)
“Redheads stick together,” Joan murmurs, sliding her hand under the band of Pam’s underwear. “See?”

2. Angst, 7. (Chase)
Mother or father. Religion or medicine. Cameron or House. Choices don’t matter, in the end.

3. AU 1 and 8. (Pete and Mello)
The Death Note is his. Pete whines, Let’s make a deal. Mello fucks him harder.

4. Threesome, 3, 6, and 9. (Hinata, Pam, Kenny)
Hinata’s Byakuugan sees Kenny’s technicolor deaths, Pam’s unlived lives. She kisses them with open eyes.

5. Hurt/Comfort, 5 and 10. (Shane, Number Six)
In the afterlife, there’s a hot platinum bitch on his arm. He still wants Vic.

6. Crack, 1. (Pete)
Pete adjusts the wig. Prettiest junior executive gets Head of Accounts. Luckily, Sal isn’t judging.

7. Horror. 10. (Number Six)
Six is vexing, icy, merciful; serial killers and suicide bombers pray to her at night.

8. Baby fic, 5 and 9. (Shane and Kenny) --> ohkay, I sort of cheated. but it involves babies!
“We kill your wife, or your kid.” Shane laughs, relieved. The boy always comes back.

9. Dark, 2 and 8. (Judeau and Mello)
Even many lives later, he never learns. Mello says, “Die with me.” Judeau moans yes.

10. Romance, 4 and 8. (Joan and Mello)
Call girl: melodic curves, intelligent even. Not a bad way to spend his last night.

11. Death fic, 2 and 3. (Judeau and Hinata)
Her first boyfriend, a snub-nosed, easygoing blond. It gets serious. Neji orders the hit.

Fic: I Am a Gentleman

2009-11-19T10:09:38Z

Title: I Am a Gentleman
Fandom: Mad Men
Characters: Don/Roger
Rating: R
Summary: Roger does his hardest sell. All dialogue, and *cough* slash.
Word Count: 609
Warning: Spoilers for Season 3 finale.

“You brought a vase?”

“It’s an amphora, actually. Nearly dropped the damn thing four times on the way. You going to invite me in?”

“I didn’t know housewarming gifts were compulsory.”

“It’s for the mantle. Break in the place, a little.”

“The idea is not to break it in.”

“Too bad... Joan picked out a good one. French décor. The curtains feel nice.”

“You put—something in the vase?”

“Some takeaway. Swedish meatballs, from dinner with the Campbells.”

“It’s heavy. Is this thing real?”

“Not sure. I think it’s a couple hundred years old. The meatballs are from scratch, though. Trudy insisted I bring some over to you. I must be losing it—a girl like that, and I can’t even think bad thoughts about her.”

“She is something.”

“If you asked, Campbell would throw her at you so fast you’d need a catcher’s mitt. Hell, if you asked, Campbell would throw himself—”

“Roger, I can’t keep this vase.”

“Amphora. Don’t be ridiculous. See how good it looks on the mantle? You can’t knock me up, so this is the best shot I’ve got at keeping you around. Besides, you never got to see Greece. Connie didn’t take you there.”

“Athens would have been the next stop.”

“Mmm. These meatballs. You should really try them, Don.”

“I’m not hungry. You go ahead. Drink?”

“Yeah. Jane can’t cook, you know. She’s great with drinks, just not solid foods. How’re the kids doing?”

“They’re fine.”

“I remember when Margaret was Sally’s age. So affectionate it was embarrassing. Then she turned sixteen, and she stopped smiling, at me anyways. I asked her about it recently. She said, ‘Daddy, you did such a good job of decorating my cage, for sixteen years I didn’t realize it was there.’ It was the way she said it, too. Not angry. Just sad.”

“Sally won’t talk to me."

"Ah."

"I call the house from work, I tell our girl Carla to put the kids on the phone. I can hear Sally breathing on the line, but it’s… light. Like she’s turning her face away.”

“Christ. I’ll pour you another drink for that. It sounds counter-intuitive, but it’s probably a good thing she’s angry. Open that cage door a little… Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

“The rules are different now, you know. Everything’s going to change. That little hotel suite, you’re not going to have an office or a girl to hide behind.”

“Roger.”

“Joanie’s starting to wear red again. What is it about a hotel room that makes everyone look new?”

“Roger. What. Are you doing.”

“I’m going to speculate, and God knows it’s speculation because you never tell me anything—you’ve got someone you could call, easily, and she’d come running. Fact, she’d come running too fast. That’s the problem, isn’t it?"

“…”

“Come on, it’ll take the edge off. I know you like to cut and run… I don’t want this new thing becoming something you feel trapped in. Consider this our contract.”

“Funny, I don’t see you trying this business exchange with Lane.”

“You think that forcing me to say I want you is going to deter me? I want you. Your career has been the biggest goddamn cock tease of my entire life.”

“You planned this. What, did you rehearse your speech in the car?”

“Don’t need to. Made it up on the spot, just like you. You gonna punch me? Punch me. Else I’m going to take a piss and jerk off in your bathroom.”

“Sit down. You don’t get the bathroom—”

“Oh—”

“On your knees. Now.”

“I—ah— actually do need to piss.”

“You’ve wanted this for ten years. Your dick can wait a little more.”

this just in

2009-11-12T14:21:38Z

Title: Screwball
Fandom: Mad Men
Pairing: Ken/Allison
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1,300
Summary: The ballad of Ken and Allison wouldn’t fill a page. Fitful romance, written in the margins of composition notebooks. Takes place over the entire MM run, so spoilers for Season 3 finale.

A/N: And again, my obsession with tertiary female characters continues. This is a shamelessly fluffy excuse for writing snappy dialogue. Please forgive.

She had a neutrally pretty face and an easy, apple-cheek smile, so he decided to give it a shot. After the Belle Jolie crew departed with their samples, he sidled up to her desk.

“Find something you like?”

Allison—that was her name, right?—shook her head and didn’t slow her typing. “Too many colors. It was overwhelming.”

“Figures.” At this distance, her perfume was just barely perceptible. “First, you want more choices, then you complain about too many of them.”

She pursed her lips, which were painted a particularly vicious red. “I’d like to think that I match with everything.”

He wrote that line down in his pocket diary, in between his 1 and 2 p.m. meetings. In retrospect, Ken thinks, there might have been an ad campaign in that. But Peggy talked to Rumsen, and Rumsen put her on the account, and Peggy became a copywriter and got fat.

Funny how choices work out.

**********

Two weeks after election night, he asked her out to the movies.

“I promised Lucille I’d help her with some craft project or other,” Allison said, folding her scarf into her purse. “She did cover for me yesterday, so I owe her.” Ken frowned and tried to remember whether she was good at lying.

“So you’d rather spend your Friday night playing with glue and safety pins than with me?” The surge of irritation in his voice surprised him. She wasn’t even his first choice.

“I don’t know.” He nearly cut himself on her halfway smile. “Safety pins have multiple uses.”

“You’ve been hanging around Joan too often,” he said and stalked off to Kinsey’s office before she could retort. When he dropped by his desk to pick up his briefcase, there was a typed note folded in thirds, tucked through the handles.

There’s nothing good in theaters right now. I like adventure. Like Dickens, but not boring.

They finally went to the movies in December — Village of the Damned. She screamed three times, but didn’t grab his arm. Afterward, they got black coffee and milkshakes. At the threshold of her apartment, she kissed him on the corner of the mouth and wished him a good night. On the taxi ride home, Ken put his elbow to the dirty window and thumbed his bottom lip, wondering why he didn’t feel gypped.

**********

“I’m going to the ancestral home in Vermont this weekend,” he said on their third date. “Want to come with?”

Allison’s face froze (not a good liar, Ken confirmed). She prodded her penne. “What’s the occasion?”

“Mother’s birthday.” He downed the rest of his water glass. “You’ll get to eat butter cake and watch her envy your weight.”

“I don’t know—well, that’s not true.” She placed a hand on her own water glass, rubbing the rim with her index finger. “I can’t.”

“We’ve been having a good time.” That, he could say with absolute confidence. “Why not make it official?”

“Because, Mr. Cosgrove, if things go badly, it’ll be harder to walk away.”

“Why are you assuming they’ll go badly?”

Allison went silent and pulled her hands into her lap. Ken lit a cigarette, to give her more time.

“My parents own a farm,” she said slowly, “and it’s not the Vermont kind.” At his bemused expression, she added: “I didn’t go to Columbia.”

“To be fair, no girl has.” Flexing his wrists, he resisted the urge to reach across the table for her. “Come on. I’ll write terrible things about you until you give in.”

She looked at his shirtfront, then up at the weak lights. “I’m not going to give in,” she said, and even as Ken noted the sad tilt of her neck, he resolved to never, never write about this moment.

**********

They spent the rest of 1961 and half of 1962 pirouetting around each other at office parties. In June, Allison left SC for a week — visiting her relations in Wisconsin, he learned from Hildy. She came back wearing an updo like a shield and a necklace with a teardrop clock pendant.

To test a theory, he stopped her in the hallway. Tugging the necklace lightly, where the chain touched the edge of her collar, he asked her what time it was. In response, she coolly removed his hand and moved around him, her olive crepe suit rustling at every step.

So, now she had a steady with questionable taste in jewelry. Good for her. He poured himself an extra drink at lunch and spent the rest of the afternoon flying paper cranes into the wall.

When Joan resumed regular office manager duties and moved Allison to Draper’s desk, he realized the real reason for the tighter hair and sleeker dresses. She had been angling for that spot ever since Jane had left for graying pastures. Better pay, an opportunity to impress the notoriously implacable ad man by virtue of not fucking the boss. If she did well, a shot at becoming office manager herself, once Joan got married. Not bad at all.

“Congratulations,” he grinned at her on his way in. “You swung that like a champ.”

Allison smiled back. “Joan wanted a more — reputable secretary for Mr. Draper. Actually, the wardrobe was more for her benefit. She said I should buy a signature jewelry piece, something classy and subtle.”

“Well, after the performance of Draper’s previous girl, everything you do will be classy and subtle by comparison.”

“Don’t tease. You liked Jane.”

“Well, I guess I didn’t like her enough.”

“I guess not.” She pretended to scope the room, then lowered her voice. “Do you think Cooper’s still available?”

“Wouldn’t your steady be scandalized?”

Her laughter faded, and she looked contemplative. “He would.” Briefly, her hand hovered at the necklace pendant before the phone rang, ending the conversation.

Ken hated being right.

**********

In high school, Ken ran track and field. He did the 200-metre sprint (there was some joke there about avoiding commitment), and in the mornings he would get up in winter darkness to lap the track with a fervor that he would never apply to anything else ever again, writing included. Flying in silent footfalls. Doubled over hands on knees afterward, the breath reeving from his lungs. That’s how he first got into smoking in college—the visual of clouds streaming from his lips, like he was 14 in Burlington all over again.

That was what he wanted to say to Allison at the farewell party, as she lolled back on his lap and he nudged her shoulder with his chin and she asked if he was going to chase her again.

“I’ll chase you all you want,” he said before the rip-screams-splatter hit, and it all went to Iwo Jima, as Roger said.

**********

In the aftermath of the Great Escape (what was Sterling Cooper without a Sterling and a Cooper, Kinsey boozily drawled, and Ken was depressed enough to find a philosophical grace in the question), Ken made 17 phone calls and 4 soggy contingency plans before deciding to call it a day.

He stepped out his office and caught Allison heading out the lobby door. She was still crying, a little.

“Wait,” he said. “Let me get my coat, and I’ll come with you.”

They rode the elevator down in silence. When the doors pinged open, she didn’t move, and he took her hand.

“I worked so hard,” she whispered as he led her out the elevator. “I didn’t expect him to take me. I wouldn’t have told anyone.” She stared at the floor; their hands were still entwined. People with shopping bags and wet shoes swished by. “What are we going to do?”

For the first time since 9 a.m., Ken’s mind cleared. “We’re going to get coffee and milkshakes,” he said firmly. “Then we’ll go to the skating rink, and I’ll ask you out because I’ve liked you for three years. And after you’ve said no or yes, I’ll go to Moneypenny and tell him to keep you.”

Her face flushed a sunset shade of pink, and even without lipstick, her smile was radiant. “Okay.”

They walked down the avenue, his breath easing with every step.

there is room beneath your bed, just for me

2009-11-11T07:14:44Z

Title: Office Wife
Fandom: Mad Men
Characters: Pete + Hildy (gen)
Rating: PG
Summary: "He may act like he wants a secretary, but most of the time they're looking for something between a mother and a waitress." Sometimes, even Pete Campbell gets it right.
Warning: Major spoilers for "Shut the Door. Have a Seat."

Once the euphoria of purloined files, giddy promises (Bert clapping him on the shoulder, Roger smiling at him like he was the prettiest girl at the ball, Joan laughing softly at everything) and Trudy’s sandwiches had abated, it was Hildy he felt the worst about.

Kenny Account Something Something had made his own Atlantic-trussed bed a long time ago, Kinsey had been diminishing returns since Maidenform, and Pete could still take or leave Harry. Kurt and Smitty were more Peggy’s pals (a short man and a homosexual — Pete wondered about Peggy’s taste in male company) than anything else.

No, it was Hildy that brought on the hum of guilt under the roar of Sterling Cooper Draper Campbell Pryce taking flight. Draper Campbell Pryce. He liked the sound of that. Mostly “Draper Campbell.”

He had planed on leaving Sterling Cooper for weeks, but he had imagined a more — dignified farewell, perhaps with Hildy tearing into a coarse cambric handkerchief that scraped the skin around her eyes. Whispering “thank you” into the pique of his suit lapel, where no one could see her cry. After all, Hildy had been his secretary longer than Trudy had been his wife. One had to recognize these kinds of bonds.

So Wednesday night, after buttering HoHo (naturally, HoHo was beyond enthused about Pete striking out on his own) and paying obeisance to Trudy’s father, Pete fished Hildy’s home phone from the calfskin emergency address book Trudy kept in their night drawer and dialed.

“Hello?” She sounded tired. Pete loosened his tie and widened his mouth, hoping the smile would spread to his voice.

“Hildy! This is Pete. How are you?”

“Mr. Campbell?” He heard her shift the phone, perhaps from one hand to the other. “I’m—fine.”

Pete peeled off his socks and sprawled backwards, dangling his feet off the edge of the bed. Trudy was in the bathroom, showering. “I’m sorry; I should have told you sooner. You must have been terribly confused.”

“Allison spent Monday morning crying at her desk. She said Don didn’t even leave a note.”

Pete nodded in slow motion. “That’s unfortunate. How did everyone react?”

“You’d have to ask everyone.”

“Keeping it close to the vest, Hildy. That’s very professional of you. I really want to know, though, how you are doing.” He tilted the handset away from his mouth as he slipped out a yawn.

“I’m assigned to Mr. Kinsey now.”
Trying to ignore the sudden ache in his stomach, Pete squeezed the black phone cord with his left hand and wound it around his wrist. “Christ. I am sorry. Well, at least you won’t have to deal with me anymore.”

“Mr. Campbell—” He visualized her posture getting even straighter with impatience.

“I was so excited when I found out you were my secretary. It was like getting a puppy.” He paused. “And then you hated me. For three years, you hated me, and it was just starting to get better.”

For the first time, her voice faltered. “I’m not sure what you want me to say to make this better.”

“I don’t know,” he murmured, pressing a pillow to his stomach. “I sort of imagined myself just—talking at you.”

Hildy took a long breath. “I spoke to Joan. It seems very exciting, what you’re doing.”

Trust Joan to get to his own secretary first. “This is hush-hush, but. It’s like a clubhouse in here. Harry and Roger fight for space on the bed in between commercials.”

“I’m glad Harry went.”

Pete laughed. “When Bert gave him the pitch, he asked for his wife, first thing. Hasn’t changed at all.”

“That’s good. Mr. Campbell, I… I have to go.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you. Good night, dear.”

“Goodbye, Peter.”

He waited for her to hang up first. By the time Trudy emerged from the shower, she found her husband flopped asleep in his work clothes, with the handset beeping softly in his limp fingers.

**********

Thursday morning, Pete couldn’t concentrate.

One year ago, he thought as he stared at the market graphs in his hands. One year ago, the girl across the desk from him sat on a couch and performed transubstantiation. She passed her beatific hand over his ribcage and turned everything inside to gunpowder. One year ago, his secretary came in after hours and found him sitting at his desk with a rifle in his hand. One year, ago, his secretary pried the rifle from his grip and guided him to the couch.

Mr. Campbell, I’m going to call you a cab.

I thought we were going to be a team. It’s not like anything in the commercials. I can’t even. I can’t even come up with a picture. It’s like—running water, in the dark. You don’t know where it is, but you can feel it. If you wait long enough, you can feel it.

I’m going to make you some tea.

You think it’s just her and you, in this breath of space. And then you find out there’s this, this third thing, pushing between you. And you’ll never be able to touch her again, because you’ve become this third thing.

Mr. Campbell, what you’re describing is a marriage.

Pete shoved the papers in the nearest file, gave a curt nod to Peggy, and scribbled instructions to Joan before walking out the suite. One had to recognize these kinds of bonds.

**********

Three days before Christmas, two packages arrived at Hildy’s doorstop. The first box, expertly wrapped in creamy curlicue ribbon, held a pink cashmere scarf. “Dear Hildy,” the note read, “Merry Christmas. For the chilly commute. I don’t recommend wearing this color so close to your face, but you seem to like this shade. All the best, Peter Campbell.”

The second box, long and heavy, had no note and no decoration.

Years later, Hildy’s husband—a veterinarian with gentle, myopic eyes and scarred hands—would ask her why she kept an unloaded hunting rifle in the attic.

Years later, Hildy still couldn’t explain why.

sleeping beauty

2009-11-07T13:51:24Z

Title: Venus of Urbino
Fandom: Mad Men
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 980
Summary: Just what was in those letters? Betty, international model of mystery. Spoilers for "Wee Small Hours"

Sally’s favorite food is macaroni and cheese, and Betty is trying.

It’s early afternoon; Sally and Bobby are at the library with Carla. Baby Gene is sleeping in his pram, in the living room. Betty twists the dial on the stove, waits for the iron coils to heat. She will only make a small batch—she doesn’t want to encourage Sally to overeat.

There’s a catalogue on the dining table. She sits on the edge of the chair, like she can’t decide whether she wants to stay, and cups her right hand against the side of her neck, palm to pulse, while her left hand drifts through pages of blurry dresses.

The pot, half-full, is waiting on the counter. She gets up to check the stove top. The front burner is just beginning to blush. Betty frowns at that turn of phrase. She’s been doing that more often lately, salvaging bits of beauty throughout the day just so she has something to write about in her letters to Henry.

She writes her letters on thick paper the shade of congealed silver-blue — one couldn’t quite tell the color. The stationery feels masculine, authoritative, like it could contain official business. Betty sets the pot of water on the stove, glides to the study, and pulls a fresh leaf of paper from the drawer.

Walking through the living room, she smiles at baby Gene before sitting down at the dining table. Today, she selects an enamel fountain pen with blue ink.

“Dear Henry.”

The nuns at her school used to scold her for her poor penmanship: skittish g’s, k’s that jutted out like broken bones. One day, after a glance at her report card, her mother rolled a carpet of white paper across the living room floor and made her repeat lines of cursive until her writing smoothed itself out. Eventually, halfway from the fireplace to the front door, it had. Now, Betty’s script is all slender loops and gentle slants; she couldn’t write messy if she tried.

“I hope this finds you well.”

The water in the pot hisses — she pours in the hard macaroni, breathing in the curls of steam before placing the lid on.

“The weather is agreeable today.”

Her mind blanks. She swerves her head, flicking her eyes from the walls to the floor to the windows. Describe something, she murmurs to herself. Anything. The cabinets are polished. The air smells expectant and mournful. I am wearing a very pretty dress.

“It’s the sort of weather that gives you sweet dreams. I had one yesterday, about my time in Italy. I suppose it was more of an elongated memory than anything else.”

Baby Gene cries out. She rocks him, burps him. As soon as he settles in sleep again, she rushes to the stove—the water is churning underneath the pot lid—and drains the macaroni. Her nose crinkles when she pours the cheese packet over the steaming pasta curls (for some reason, Sally prefers the instant kind). The smell of cheddar cheese has always seemed tawdry to her.

The kitchen clock shudders out another hour; she looks at the time, then forgets it.

“One weekend—it was the same time of year that it is now—a man came to Giovanni’s studio. He arrived with a woman who was several years older than me. Or maybe she was taller than me.”

Betty shuts her eyes, pressing her elbows to the table. She conjures a hazy image of a visit months ago to Don’s office, when she was hugely pregnant. There was a secretary of some sort, not the thin-lipped one. Red hair, hips—what was her name?

“Her name was Rosalind.” Betty leans forward and relaxes her grip on the pen. “She was very white and very red. The man and her walked around the studio, looking at the dresses. She pointed at me and said she wanted that one. ‘It’ll have to be let out everywhere, though.’ Giovanni was pleased.

“The man had a meeting, and she wanted me to entertain her that evening. She didn’t know the language. We rented a vespa, and she drove. It’s a curious feeling, a woman’s hair blowing in your face. I’ve never thought of it that way.”

Betty gets up to plate the macaroni, shrouding the dishes in paper towels. The smell of the melted cheese still vexes her.

“We went to the Uffizi. It was near closing time, so we didn’t have to wait in line. ‘I just want to see this one painting,’ she said running and when we came to it she grabbed my wrist. We spent the fifteen minutes staring, a little breathless, until the guards ushered us out.

“At her hotel, she kissed me on the cheek too long. She said that any man who proposed to her in front of that painting would have her forever. ‘That’s what a man should do. He should be able to look at a whole gallery of pictures and find the one that makes you ache.’

“I haven’t thought of her in nine years. She must be married now. Isn’t that strange?”

When the doorbell rings, Betty sharply creases the stationery and tucks it into her purse before answering. Bobby and Sally burst in before Carla, dumping their books on the table. She tells them to go wash, then tells Carla to watch them because she has an errand to run.

Betty always keeps envelopes in her purse, nowadays. It’s a quick drive to the post office, and as she slips the letter in the mail slot, her stomach wrenches with worry that she has somehow been inelegant.

Four days later, the reply comes. “The painting was a woman on a couch — H.”

Yes, Betty thinks as she settles into bed next to Don. That’s precisely it, she mouths, unsleeping undreaming, as the floor whispers with the weight of her husband dressing in the dark.

Fic: Mad Men drabbles

2009-10-08T11:26:54Z

And here I thought I'd actually stick with canon pairings in this fandom. *facepalm*

Title: Business Casual
Pairing: Pete/Peggy
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~600
Summary: Modern-day AU. Peggy Olson is a good pledge.

After dinner, Pete signs her pledge binder confirming the active-pledge meeting and is pleasantly surprised by the effusive comments in the back. “Adorable, hard-working. Would be great addition to the frat. – KC.” Well. Kenny always had a weakness for Norwegian girls. “Only girl in pledge class. Impressive. –Menken.” Trust Rachel to play the gender card in a business fraternity.

“You know you’re not supposed to read the pages in the back,” he says, handing her the binder across the table. She tucks it into the light blue backpack at her feet.

“I don’t, Mr. Campbell.” Peggy folds her hands in her lap, her pledge pin (a pyramid inscribed in a circle) gleaming against the flaccid brown of her sweater. “If it’s… positive, I don’t need to know, and if it’s negative, I don’t want to know.”

He laughs, genuine. “I heard your pledge master ripped you a new one last Monday for not matching your suit jacket to your pants.” There must have been blood all over the conference room after that demonstration.

The corners of Peggy’s mouth turn down. “Miss Holloway is very fair. I’m buying a new suit at Macy’s this weekend.”

“Say, I might have one you can borrow.” He raises his tone of voice, as if he’s just thought of the idea. “My girlfriend Trudy, she’s president of the Women in Business club. She’s got so many suits, she stores some in my closet. Imagine that.”

Peggy’s lips waver, and for a moment Pete panics that he’s lost her. “I don’t want to impose,” she says finally.

He waves his hand in dismissal and smiles. “She won’t even miss it.”

While Peggy changes, he waits in the hallway. After five minutes, he knocks softly—the door is unlocked—and walks in. She’s standing in the middle of the room, fully dressed, holding Trudy’s black Dior at arm’s length. “It didn’t fit, but thank you for the offer.”

He shrugs and crams the skirt suit in the wardrobe. His gaze falls on his latest purchase, a Motto and Crest tie looped underneath a polo shirt.

“What do you think about this?” He holds out the tie to her. It’s black silk, with a crosswise leather panel in the middle. “I’m thinking of wearing it to McKinsey tomorrow.”

She strokes the leather inset like a little girl petting a pony. “I don’t know very much about menswear, but it’s beautiful.”

“What do you think is the tensile strength?”

At this distance, he can hear her throat constrict. “Pardon?”

Pete wraps the tie around her wrists, does a serviceable Boy Scout knot, gives the end a little tug. “How much pressure do you think it can take before it snaps?”

Her answer is a breathy “oh” before his body crashes into hers, and her neck-pulse goes wild under his tongue.

***
At 9 p.m., Peggy pulls on her jeans, adjusts her pledge pin. Pete sits on the wrecked bed and watches her finger-comb her hair in the mirror. There’s something he should say, perhaps, but a soothing wooziness has settled in his skull and his chest, and all he wants to do is sleep.

“I’ve seen your girlfriend around campus before,” Peggy says, hoisting her backpack onto her shoulders. “She’s very petite.” At Pete’s blank expression, she adds: “The suit must fit her perfectly.”

She strides to the bed and actually extends her arm for a handshake. “Good night, Mr. Campbell.”

“Good night, Peggy.”

He does wear the tie to the McKinsey presentation the next day. Throughout the PowerPoint, he runs his left thumb over the leather stripe, remembering the crush of Peggy’s legs around his waist, the dryness of her tongue inside his mouth.

Title: Mark Your Woman
Pairing: Hildy/Joan
Rating: PG
Word Count: 240
Summary: Response to prompt "Ladies' room"

Despite her annoyance at the title of “second-best-looking redhead in the office,” Hildy never begrudged Joan for… well, Joan. Still, she was less than thrilled to be caught at the ladies’ mirror at the same time as her office manager, since the side-by-side comparison was not doing her any favors.

Joan leaned to the glass and pressed a tissue to her lips like it was the Holy Communion. Hildy flushed and shut off the tap.

“I really like that shade of lipstick,” she said, wiping her hands on her skirt. Joan was blocking the way to the paper towel dispenser.

Turning, Joan smiled and placed a hand on Hildy’s arm, just above the elbow. “Why, thank you, dear.” Then she placed her other hand on Hildy’s waist and kissed her.

It was—careful, and soft, and although Joan’s nails dug into her arm, Hildy didn’t mind. She blinked, hard, and stumbled back. Her foot hit the trash can.

“Enjoy,” Joan murmured, and glided out the door.

Hildy set the trash can upright, then washed her hands again. When she finally brought herself to look in the mirror, the lovely red of the lipstick on her own face surprised her. She moved her hand to her mouth, then stopped herself.

Later that week, Belle Jolie came to town. Fighting with cooing secretaries, Hildy picked through the smug array of colors in the sample box. She couldn’t find the same shade.

Title: The Graduate
Pairing: Peggy/Joan
Rating: R
Summary: Spoilers for "The Souvenir." Response to prompt "submission"

Peggy shows up at the hotel bar wearing a strapless coral number that almost compliments her skin tone, and insists on paying for the drinks. Joan lets her. It’s easy to inquire about Sterling-Cooper, for Peggy to explain the fallout from Lois’s lawnmower adventure.

“I always thought you put her on Paul’s desk to upset him,” Peggy says. Joan refuses to confirm or deny.

“In any case, thank you for not putting her on mine.” She flicks her eyes up from the Brandy Alexander cuddled in her hands. The way she’s drinking it, it might as well be a milkshake.

“Is that new girl of yours treating you well?” Dipping into her pocketbook, Joan smoothes some Fleur d'Eau lotion over her hands. They get cracked easily nowadays, in retail.

“Yes, thank you.” Peggy lowers her eyes, sniffs at the scent of flowers wafting from Joan’s loosely clasped hands.

After her second drink, Peggy stops talking work and starts talking boys. The degree of enthusiasm she has for both is admirable. Joan smirks politely, and interjects anecdotes when necessary. She ends up interjecting quite often.

Peggy also insists on showing Joan her apartment, and although Joan already has a good idea of what a bachelorette pad in Manhattan looks like, thank you very much, Miss Olson is so relentless that she gives in. “How charming you must be to clients,” Joan lilts into the muggy late July air. “Beating them into submission.”

The tour takes three minutes. Evidently, Peggy’s roommate is away for the weekend (“she’s a scream,” she says, sweeping away the empty cartons on the kitchen counter). Joan sits in the living room, legs crossed. She looks at the dim lighting, the limp white curtains, the eighteen inches of couch between her and Peggy.

She taps a cigarette out of the carton, lets Peggy see how red her nails are even in the half-dark. “Are you going to light my cigarette, too?” The girl’s mouth twitches and her hands tighten in her lap.

Joan laughs and places a hand on Peggy’s knee, at the hemline of her skirt. “It’s very flattering, dear, but I’m not—”

“Neither am I,” the girl frowns. “I … just want to try it out.”

Joan lifts her hand from Peggy’s knee, edges the unlit cigarette between her lips. “Most girls get over this in college.”

Peggy pulls the cigarette from Joan’s mouth. “I went to Miss Deaver’s Secretarial School,” she says, and her eyes catch the dusty lamplight as she leans in.

Motorcycle roars in the distance as their tongues touch. They break away, Joan exhales, and Peggy breathes it in, reverently, like she’s taking in a plume of smoke. Her hands are cupping Peggy’s shoulders, and her feet are throbbing and her earlobes are sore and it’s one in the morning.

“You’re going to call my house in the morning,” Joan says tightly, and pinches coral fabric where Peggy’s left nipple would be. “To apologize for being such a drunken mess and forcing me to nurse you.”

Nodding, Peggy clumsily straddles her. Guides Joan’s manicured hand from her shoulder to her leg, past her flimsy stocking, and—well. Little Peggy Olson.

“Please, Joan,” she moans. “Tell me how to do it.”

Joan shows her.

but don't blame me, i was only making sense

2009-10-06T07:13:17Z

Instead of doing more productive things, I'm filling out the pairing survey for my most recent fandoms, in reverse chronological order.

Mad Men

OTP: Pete/Peggy like burning. The first exposure I ever had to Mad Men was Pete's infamous "hunting" monologue to Peggy, and that exchange told me everything I needed to know about their relationship -- power differentials, a certain professional respect, gory fantasies, nostalgia for something that might have never existed, and of course, delicious repression. That got me hooked on the series, so if it *weren't* for those two, I wouldn't be an MM fan!
Runner-up: Pete/Don. Pete/Trudy. I adore Pete and will ship the little shit with anybody.
Honorable mention(s): Sal/Ken. Don/Joan, because although Don as a character does not excite me, the combination of those two would burst the universe with hotness.
Crack pairing(s): Roger/Don. Pete/Hildy. Pete/Joan.
Ship everyone else seems to like, but I don't: Don/Betty. I understand that their marriage receives the most attention of all the romantic relationships in the series, but they bore me.

South Park

OTP: Stan/Kyle. I'm such a traditionalist.
Runner-up: Christophe/Kenny (which is a crack pairing but I heartilation the Mole).
Honorable mention(s): Craig/Tweek, Wendy/Cartman, Craig/Stan, Wendy/Bebe.
Crack pairing(s): Kenny/Kyle, Christophe/Kyle, Craig/Christophe, Craig/anyone but Clyde, Kenny/Kyle/Stan.
Ship everyone else seems to like, but I don't: Butters/Kenny. Cartman/Butters. Cartman/Kyle, because I cannot see Kyle consenting to any sort of relationship with Cartman. They blunt-force hate each other, with no subtle understanding or similarities in character to offset the hostility.

Merlin

OTP: Merlin/Arthur, because, duh, the only reason I watched this show was because I was promised gay subtext.
Runner-up: Gwen/Morgana.
Honorable mention(s): Morgana/Uther, unf.
Crack pairing(s): You know what, just about everyone on this show is slashable with everyone else... Er, Merlin/Lancelot?
Ship everyone else seems to like, but I don't: I violently flinch at Morgana/Arthur, even though I enjoy their mutual teasing and I think they have more romantic tension that Arthur/Gwen.

Star Trek

OTP: Kirk/Spock.
Runner-up: Chekhov/Sulu
Honorable mention(s): Kirk/Spock Prime
Crack pairing(s): Sulu/anybody. I think it's hilarious; I don't know why. Uhura/Bones.
Ship everyone else seems to like, but I don't: Kirk/Bones.

Death Note

OTP: Matt/Mello
Runner-up: L/Light
Honorable mention(s): L/Mello
Crack pairing(s): Matt/Near, Ryuuk/Light
Ship everyone else seems to like, but I don't: Near/Mello

Metal Gear Solid

OTP: Big Boss/Ocelot
Runner-up: Snake/Otacon
Honorable mention(s): one-sided Raiden/Snake, Boss/EVA, Volgin/Raikov, Ocelot/Raikov, Sniper Wolf/Big Boss
Crack pairing(s): Snake/box
Ship everyone else seems to like, but I don't: well, I don't think many people actually like Rose (or Rose/Raiden by extension), so I'll say Meryl/Snake. Vamp/Raiden also does nothing for me.

i'll make you a deal

2009-10-06T05:41:36Z

Title: i'll make you a deal
Fandom: Mad Men
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Pete and Trudy Campbell spend a morning of penitence. Spoilers for "The Souvenir."

Cane Miro: I'll make you a deal. I won't try to make you a bad woman, if you stop trying to make me a good man.
Marshal Rose Hood: You're not bad, you're just no good.

-- Gunslinger

“I’m not going to work today.”

Although her husband was murmuring face-down into his pillow, Trudy heard him all the same. She propped herself up on her elbow, the sheet sliding down her shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m not going to work today.”

She stilled. Peter never took time off from the office, despite how often — no, because how often — she begged him otherwise. She abruptly rolled over and swung her feet over the side of the bed. “I’ll go and make you some soup.”

“No.” He grabbed the back of her nightgown, and the neckline went tight against her throat. “I’m not ill.” He let go. Trudy looked down at her lap, her bare feet on the floor. “What do you want, Peter?”

She heard him scoot into her side of the bed. An arm wound around her waist. “I want to stay here with you.”

Trudy felt the tremble of his mouth against her back, through her nightgown. Three days ago, this was a different woman, a different circumference, in your arm. The thought was sharp and sweet, like sucking down cold water after eating a mint.

“All right,” she said. “Move over.”

“I’m so tired,” he said, curling his body into hers. They lay face to face on her pillow, and soon after his mouth slackened.

Trudy listened to the shallow of his breathing, but didn’t fall asleep.

**********

When he awoke, he refused to let her prepare breakfast.

“No, no, we’ll have — cereal. On the floor, in front of the television,” Peter ran his hand through his hair and shut the closet door on her dresses. “You don’t have to change.”

“Peter, this is white.” She gestured at her nightdress, fingering the rosettes at the hem. “It’ll get dirty.”

“Nonsense, dear, the floor is immaculate.” Peter hefted his eyebrows. “Or are you afraid you’ll just spill all over it?”

“My manners, Peter Campbell, are immaculate,” she giggled as she turned to make the bed. He smiled, relieved, and if this was some sort of test for her, it was the good kind of test, the kind she’d always pass.

They watched Gunslinger cross-legged, with a box of Cap’n Crunch between them. Peter refilled his bowl twice. Trudy attempted to tug the fabric of her gown over her bare knees, then gave up. Her empty bowl was cold against her right shin.

Peter reached his left hand over to move the cereal box to the side, then skimmed his fingers up her right thigh. She watched the flex of his hand, the light glinting off his wedding band.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was low, coiled. “I forgot that Westerns must be boring for you.”

Trudy blushed and tried not to bite through her lip. “They’re not always boring.” His fingers were damp, or maybe she was sweating underneath his touch, and she stretched out her legs and he pushed her gently down.

Forgiveness is such a strange thing, she thought as he kissed her for the first time since he confessed. I wish you could save this for me, only me, always.

**********

Afterward, she got up and clicked off the television. “I have a lunch meeting with the ladies from the Symphony,” she said apologetically.

“Oh,” he said, and his hands stopped buttoning his pajama shirt. “Which one?”

“The Philharmonic.”

“Well. You should get ready, then.” He bent over to clean up the cereal bowls, nesting one into the other.

“It’s just for an hour.”

He kissed her forehead, and passed by her into the kitchen. “I’ll be waiting when you get back.”

Even after the shower and quick blow-dry, her face was flushed in the bathroom mirror. Through the taxi ride to Lincoln Center, she looked up at the bit of sky she could see, and crossed her fingers.

whose girl friday

2009-09-10T10:17:25Z

Title: valkyries don't smile
Fandom: Mad Men
Summary: four times hildy was serious, and one time she wasn't

The office manager reminded Hildy of her older sister Wilma, only with shinier hair and a larger vocabulary. Hildy stared straight ahead as she walked two steps behind, keeping her body outside the orbit of Ms. Holloway’s hips. She noted the manager’s advice about bringing band-aids, aspirin, and spare blouses (she already had a needle and two colors of thread, tucked in the outer pocket of her purse).

“You should really have that taken in.” Ms. Holloway gestured lightly at Hildy’s brown dress. “A slim girl like you doesn’t need that much fabric.”

“I like my dress the way it is,” Hildy said tightly. Ms. Holloway really was like Wilma, all scented powder and fluttery parlance: Oh, Hildy my darling, you’ve bloomed—halfway. If the coldness of her voice bothered Ms. Holloway, the other woman didn’t let it show in the soft curve of her smile.

“Of course, dear,” she said, like a benediction. They stopped at an empty, clean desk. “You’ll be working for Mr. Campbell” — and now, something undeniably coiled in those rosy lips — “I think the two of you will be well-suited to each other.”

*****

Over the course of the week, Hildy learned that Mr. Campbell had two modes: petulant and smug. She also learned that his flights of greasy elation irritated her far more than any temper tantrum he could huff up.

On Thursday night, a spider bit Hildy on the left corner of her mouth. By Friday morning, her lips had swelled to twice their normal size. She put a cold compress on her mouth for fifteen minutes and went to work anyways; it was poor form to take a day off during the first week.

“Jesus, Hildy, you look terrible.” Mr. Campbell halted in front of his door.

“It’s not serious,” Hildy said carefully, refusing to blush or fidget her hands over her mouth.

Mr. Campbell pulled out his wallet and tossed two bills at random on her desk. “No, take the day off and go see a doctor. I can’t have a deformed girl working out front. It’ll look like I got the scrap secretary.”

Her crackled lips were too puffed to frown or even properly hiss. “Thank you, Mr. Campbell.”

She kept the money and bought a steak dinner for her parents instead. Her mother applied a foul green salve to her lips, and by the time she walked into Sterling-Cooper on Monday, her mouth had resumed its normal appearance.

Mr. Campbell positively glowed when he saw her in the morning. “Hildy! Good to see you looking better.” For a horrifying moment, Hildy thought that he was going to place a hand on her shoulder, but he merely half-leaned, half-sat at her desktop. He faux-whispered: “I was afraid I would have to take you behind the shed and shoot you.”

“That won’t be necessary.” She pried a file from under Mr. Campbell’s rear.

“Why are you so sour?” Mr. Campbell slid off her desk. She had never realized how red his lips were, in that polished moon face. “I helped you get better, didn’t I?”

“The doctor gave me a shot,” she lied. “He told me not to smile for several days.”

“Well. That shouldn’t be difficult for you,” he said and slammed his door. Elbows on table, she pressed her fingers to her brow bone and wondered why she had agreed to work for a five-year-old.

*****

The girls were debating which executive in Sterling Cooper had the best name, for marrying purposes.

Marge crossed her arms in front of the water cooler. “Don Draper, without a doubt. ‘Draper’ goes with everything; Peggy, you are one lucky girl, to be working his desk.”

The new girl dropped her eyes, and her ponytail bounced. “I guess so.”

Hildy blew into her cup of tea. In six months at Sterling-Cooper, no one had ever told her how lucky she was.

Allison giggled, fiddling with the black bow on the front of her vest. “As long as we’re only talking names, I think ‘Harry Crane’ sounds pretty swell. Although he’s not very crane-like.” She giggled again.

“If he actually looked like a crane and had the last name Crane, it would be a joke,” Hildy said tartly, clinking her cup against the counter. How dim of Allison, to overlook the juxtaposition of soft features and sharp, clean sounds; the touches of gold in horn-rimmed glasses; the sweet hesitancy in a company full of glib blackguards and paper-bag beauties.

“Aw, Hildy Campbell, don’t be sore with me,” Allison grinned, and before Hildy could throw her tea in the other secretary’s face, Joan sashayed in and told them all to get back to work.

*****

“Hildy, have you ever read Little House on the Prairie?”

“Yes, Mr. Campbell,” Hildy said, and tried not to wonder what this had to do with the account files in her hand.

Mr. Campbell swiveled around in his chair—a move that she had seen him practice several times, when his office door hadn’t been properly closed. The silly rifle he had bought yesterday was still in the corner of the room, casting a shadow on the couch.

“I thought you would have. Did you like it?”

“I suppose. I read the books a long time ago.” She straightened her shoulders and tried to give off the impression of competent impatience. It was 4:55 p.m., and she had to catch the 5:15 p.m. train to make it to her sister’s engagement dinner.

“You know, you would fit right in there.” He stretched, laced his fingers behind his head. “Sitting by the fireplace, sewing. Wearing one of those—calico dresses. With buttons down the front.”

She placed the files on the edge of the desk. “My father took me camping once. I hated it.”

“Well, maybe you should try again. Have you ever been hunting, Hil—”

“I’m going to leave now,” she said, walking backwards, as if Mr. Campbell were an especially dangerous ferret that would tear into her ankles once she turned around.

(Hildy was mildly late for dinner. Wilma pouted for all of five seconds before flitting kisses over her little sister’s face and stroking her cheek, back of left hand only, so Hildy could feel the hard glide of the diamond ring.)

For the rest of the week, Mr. Campbell called her “Little House" and "Calico Buttons," probably because “Laura Ingalls Wilder” was too long to pronounce.

*****

Hildy had always been a lightweight. The thrum of election night had traveled through her high heels up the back of her legs and her spine, and the warmth of the crème de menthe was unfurling in her throat, and she was laughing the hardest she had in forever. Ken wagged his eyebrows at her and reached vaguely for her skirt, and Harry swatted his hand away.

“She already has to deal with one kid clutching at her skirts,” he chuckled, and since it was Harry, and more specifically Harry insulting Pete, she laughed until tears—or was that alcohol?—sprinkled her cheeks.

She felt like twirling on her tiptoes. She felt like kissing somebody. It could have been the best night of her life.

let's see how far you get out the gate

2009-08-18T09:47:26Z

Title: Everything Artifice, Everything Rinsed (1/2)
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Gwen/Morgana, Gwen/Arthur, Gwen/Lancelot, brief mention of Morgana/Uther.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A big bright ad agency in a big bright city. See Gwen go. See Gwen burn.
Word Count: 3,017

She showed up in the lobby wearing a fur capelet and the tightest purple sheath Gwen had ever seen on a woman in daylight. She was pretty and pale from a distance, and absolutely fearsome head-on.

“Hello Gwen,” the woman said smoothly, extending a gloved hand. It was expensive-feeling suede, and because the chill hadn’t quite left Gwen’s fingers from the ten-block walk from the station, she gripped a little too long. Before she could will her throat to unseal itself, the woman pivoted on her heel and clicked to the elevator, and Gwen tottered after, already wishing she had worn the lucky yellow sweater.

In the elevator ride up, Gwen learned that her guide’s name was Morgana LeFay, just Morgana. “I’m the office manager and I’ll be helping you around today.” Morgana crossed her arms and let the silence curl around her sentences. Even as her eyes locked on Gwen’s face, she looked distant, like she was gazing inwards instead of out. “I hope you’re a fast study.”

“People call me steadfast all the time,” Gwen said, twisting her purse handles. “Er. Not that it has anything to do with being fast, I mean. I’m quick at learning. Rather quick, people say. Once I get over the talking bit. Like I’m doing now.”

“Well, there’s being fast and there’s being called fast, isn’t there?” Balancing her scarlet purse in the crook of her arm, Morgana pulled her gloves off and tucked them in her handbag.

“I — suppose?” Gwen was grateful for the elevator being empty save the two of them, plus the red-uniformed attendant who was staring straight ahead and hopefully ignoring every part of the increasingly lopsided conversation. “I’m really looking forward to starting, Ms. Morgana.”

Morgana held her hand in front of her face, examining the coloring of her fingernails. “You’ve already started.” She smiled with teeth as the elevator doors slid open. “Let’s see how far you get out the gate.”

***

Uther-Cooper is nothing like Gwen had imagined. There are layers of frosted glass and rows and rows of frosted girls in tweed skirts and executives skittering about in cut-corner suits, all set to the shrilling of telephones and the tang of wet-paper promises. Gleaming, smoking men and women joined in one intricate dance, harried but united. Nervous delight bubbles in Gwen’s veins. She’s never felt this way in a group full of strangers, so awed and hopeful. She’s never felt this way, even in church.

***

“Has anyone told you that your facial expressions are particularly amusing?” Morgana asked on the second day. Gwen froze at her typewriter, but not before her nostrils involuntarily twinged. It was beneath Morgana to giggle, but the whipcrack of her brows showed her delight. On account of lunch hour, the main floor was mostly deserted.

“What do you find amusing?” Gwen found herself at a height disadvantage, since Morgana was still standing, but to rise from her chair would have been a concession, as well. She forced herself to continue typing the memo on designated market areas and cut-ins.

Morgana leaned forward across the typewriter between them, pressing her hands to Gwen’s. The younger girl felt her fingers crumple, mashing against the black keys. The memo would have to be retyped. “I saw your reaction when you met Mr. Penn,” Morgana breathed. “You looked like it was Christmas, New Year’s, and Jesus rolled in one.”

Gwen gritted her teeth and lowered her eyes from Morgana’s face to Morgana’s breasts. At least those wouldn’t change expression. “Mr. Penn is—” light eyes marble face broad body firm touch “my boss.” A pause. “If you’ll excuse me.” She yanked her hands out from underneath Morgana’s. Her office manager straightened herself, giving a sideways smile like she had just pushed Gwen in a muddy puddle.

“Of course, dear. It wouldn’t work out anyway; ‘Gwen Penn’ sounds atrocious.”

For the rest of the day, “Gwen Penn” ran in loops through Gwen’s brain to her heart and fingers and typing. She ruined three drafts this way, and then she was so fixated on not letting that ridiculous name seep into her copies that she made even more mistakes.

In his oak-and-shadow office, Mr. Penn didn’t even take the effort to frown. “Redo this whole batch and have it ready on my desk 8 a.m. tomorrow.”

“Of course, Mr. Penn. I’m sorry.” She creaked the door shut after her.

At 5:15 p.m., when most of the steno pool girls were sailing out the door, Gwen knocked over her half-sipped coffee onto the front of her cotton skirt and lucky yellow sweater. She yelped and jumped up, swabbing first at the seat of her chair because she didn’t want to ruin company property. There was a stripe of congealed brown across the stack of papers on her desk, the same stack that had to be immaculate for her implacable, redoubtable, beautiful boss tomorrow. If she wanted to keep her job, she would not be leaving the office for another hour. At least.

It was her second day, and Gwen refused to cry.

***

The next morning, she accosted Morgana in the break room.

“How do I, umm. Fix the expressions. On my face.”

At the worn wooden counter, Morgana wiped off her lipstick with a pink napkin and bit into a squat apple. She wiped her mouth again, considering. “When you go home tonight, crack an egg and drain out the white part. Take the yolk, and put it into your mouth. Don’t swallow. Relax your facial muscles so your cheeks don’t bulge out. Stand in front of the mirror, and you’ll see it.”

“It?” Gwen blinked. The image is ludicrous, yet she was already thinking of whether her roommate had any eggs she could nick from the refrigerator.

“The solution.” Morgana examined the bitten apple in her hand, then wrapped it with the smeared napkin and tossed the whole thing in the trash. At Gwen’s appalled face, she shrugged. “The first bite is always the best. A girl’s got to watch her figure.”

***

After work, the junior executives insisted on taking her out for a drink. Usually, her protestations would win out over any individual supplicant, but it was a multi-flanked attack: Mr. Owain wheedled her, clasping a hand to her shoulder, proclaiming her maidenly presence would much improve this band of miscreants; Mr. Pellinore nodded vigorously; Mr. Mordred smirked and told her not to be a bore; Mr. Lance smiled gently in the background, as if she were already in; and Morgana, swaddled in mink for a theater date, lilted as she passed, “Gwen, it’s your Wednesday night, not your virginity.”

The last comment decided it.

They went to a bar where the lights felt silky and the booth seats were a venomous red. She ordered a Grasshopper and chatted with Mr. Pellinore about bird-watching until he glimpsed at his watch and realized he had to be at home in twenty for dinner.

“Don’t feel like he blew you off,” Across the table, Mr. Owain grinned over his martini. His teeth seemed too square, too large for his mouth. “Pellinore’s a stand-up guy, less he’s with his wife. Then he’s more of a knee-walker.”

Gwen quirked her lips obligingly and changed the subject: “Does Mr. Penn not join you on outings?”

“No,” Mr. Mordred cut in. With his deep blue tie loosened and his shirt rolled up his forearms, he appeared even younger; the pale complexion and side-slicked schoolboy hair only assisted in the impression. “Arthur never takes drinks with us; sometimes he’ll go out with Uther, but that’s it.” Gwen realized that he was honest-to-goodness pouting and stifled a giggle.

They ordered a second round. Next to her, Mr. Lance lit a cigarette. “For reference, Uther’s the grumpy one and Cooper is the crazy one,” he winked at Gwen. “Although if you’re given a first name like ‘Gaius,’ I suppose you have to turn out crazy.”

For the first time that night, Gwen laughed. “That’s unfair! People like you are the reason why I had to shorten my name.”

Lance’s eyebrows flickered up. “Let me guess: ‘Gwenivitus.’ ‘Gweniferous Rex.’ Or is it something even more awful?” His mouth was wide and generous like this, and Gwen thought that if he grew his hair out it would curl at the ends. Curl soft and rough at the same time.

“Like I’d tell you now!” Gwen exclaimed as she rose for the bathroom to check if she was blushing. At the sink, she wiped her face with a damp paper towel, pulled her hair tighter in her ponytail, and tried to smooth the wrinkles in her lime green blouse before deeming it a lost cause. She rounded the corner with a smile, preparing a quip.

She saw two girls in her booth. One sitting on Owain’s lap. The other one coiled around Lance.

“Mordred had to leave,” Owain said. “Married men, huh?”

The girl on Lance took her spot, so Gwen moved to the seat that Mordred vacated, next to Owain. The girl had glass-cutter cheekbones and a sharp blue cocktail dress that showed her shoulders. She appeared to be very entertaining.

The second Grasshopper was even more delicious than the first. Owain asked his girl if she had ever read On the Road. Lance kissed his girl’s hand. Her cameo earrings flashed as she turned her head, left to right.

Gwen finished her drink and made her excuses. The boys barely inclined their heads as she left.

***

As she stepped out of the shower (didn’t want to go to bed smelling like a bar), she remembered Morgana’s advice about the egg and tiptoed to the kitchen. Still in her towel, she cracked the egg against the bathroom sink. The cold yolk felt oddly pleasurable against the flat of her tongue, supple saltiness she could just taste the edges of. She slowly closed her lips, a flush in her mirrored cheeks and wetness in her eyes, something expectant, perfect yolk bobbing at her tonsils, slippery and secret—

Gwen spewed gold streaks down her chest and bent over the sink gasping as soiled yellow ran molten down her throat.

***

The day she received her first paycheck was her first real conversation with her boss.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to celebrate,” Mr. Penn said, pouring himself a glass of rye. He moved compactly through the room, no fussing gestures. The way sharks would walk if they had legs, Gwen wryly thought. His demeanor had greatly improved since the Arpege perfume campaign pulled through. Gwen had seen the colored proofs: a drawing of a woman in jewels, head tossed back, opera-gloved hands coyly covering her chest. Her whorled red hair the only dash of color in the image. The tagline, “Promise her anything, but give her ARPEGE.” Mr. Penn’s idea, of course.

“No sir, not tonight. I’m saving up for something.”

“A dress, a new pair of shoes? Perfume?” He smiled with just one corner of his mouth, and suddenly Gwen saw why Mr. Arthur Penn, Creative Director of Uther-Cooper, was renowned for his legendary pitches. It was not about looks or even charisma; Mr. Lance, equally handsome, radiated charm through every pore, every second — she could admit this now, without rancor. Arthur Penn was compelling because he could turn that natural brilliance on and off. And when he was on, well, the recipient felt broken up and blissful. Salt dissolving in water.

“I’m actually — not fond of perfume,” Gwen said. “I like to buy things that are, ah, solid. And it’s not for myself, in any case. I’m getting a hat for my father. He’s a mechanic, but. Every man should have a good hat.”

Mr. Penn actually chuckled. “Sounds like ad copy to me.”

“Oh, I didn’t even think of it that way,” Gwen stared at the front pleats of her skirt. “Men’s hats are so… dignified, I guess. The fabric, the way the crown slopes against your hand... They’re warm and fashionable, but most of all, they protect you from the rest of the world.” She glanced up to see if he was laughing. He wasn’t.

“Gwen, are you telling me you’re in the habit of wearing men’s hats?”

“No!” she reddened. “I just like the idea of them. And I want my father to have a decent hat, for once. My mother usually coaxed him into making himself presentable, but after she passed on, the job fell to me.” Gwen hesitated. “And I’m not nearly as persuasive,” she added, to lighten the mood.

“Right.” Mr. Penn tapped his glass against the table. “Well, Gwen, don’t let me stop you from getting lunch.”

“Thank you, sir.” Gwen tucked the file of proofs against her chest and turned, head glimmering with strange half-thoughts.

When she came back from lunch, on her desk was a Hudson’s catalogue, opened to the hats section. Only one of the hats was circled. The product caption read, “Classic Borsalino fedora. Deep black extremely soft Belgian rabbit fur felt with 5” teardrop crown and pinch front. Satin lining, 2” brim, easily formed to your style.”

In the margin was a note in block letters: “Pricey but long-lasting.”

It took her three more paychecks to garner enough funds for the hat; it was worth it to see the expression on her father’s face at Christmas.

***

Between cursing the copy machine and cutting her fingers on company stationery, Gwen learned to observe without looking. She learned that Mordred’s waspish secretary Mary Collins had an immutable crush on shy Pellinore, that Lance wrote stories about lonely hunters and Owain wrote stories about cocoa-skinned bar beauties (his words, not hers). She learned that Mordred bled old money and familial resentment, and that Mr. Uther gazed upon Mr. Penn with bemused pride. She learned that Morgana had exactly seven cap-sleeved office dresses of equal tightness, and that there was nothing bemused in Mr. Uther’s eyes when he gazed at Morgana.

All the above, however, did not prepare for this disaster.

She shouldn’t have picked up the phone. Had she taken ten seconds to finish chewing her ham sandwich at her desk before lifting the phone, she would not have heard the breathy exhortation on Mr. Penn’s line:

“Arthur, come fuck me.”

Mr. Penn’s tight growl: “Give me ten minutes.”

As it was, Gwen barely had time to choke on her sandwich and drop the phone back on the receiver before Mr. Penn breezed out his office, past her desk, with the same air of cool determination he carried to every sales pitch.

And then, his wife and children arrived.

“Hello Mrs. Penn, I believe Mr. Penn is out—” of your marriage bed — “out at the moment. Would you like to wait inside his office?”

Mrs. Sophia Penn clasped her hands loosely at her waist. “Yes, I’ll wait. Arthur shouldn’t be long; he knows that we’re taking our New Year’s portrait today.” She turned to adjust the collars of the two somber, spit-shined blonde children behind her. Twins. Of course, twins had to be involved. Gwen willed her hands not to tremble as she opened Mr. Penn’s door.

“Please take a seat. If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

Gwen found Morgana alone in the copy room and launched herself at the other woman. “Oh God Morgana help me I don’t know what to do I don’t want to be a bad secretary I’m going to get fired aren’t I.”

Morgana calmly removed her arm from Gwen’s grasp and stepped a foot back. “What did you do this time?”

“What—what did I do? I’m not the one darting off when I’m supposed to have a family picture and I would’ve reminded him but he left so quickly and now his wife is here and I can’t reach him and it’s all his fault and I’m going to get fired!”

The glee flitting across Morgana’s face was not reassuring. “He’s off with another woman, isn’t he?”

“He — No!” Gwen folded her arms to her chest, as if to ward off the accusation.

“Gwen, you really are a terrible liar. Did you ever try the trick with the egg—”

“Yes I tried it and it was disgusting,” Gwen snapped. “Just tell me what to do.”

Morgana leaned her elbows against the copier, head tilted. If it were a piano she probably would have lain on top of it. “Answer my first question, and I’ll help you.”

“Oh, you — YES, okay?” Gwen hissed, wringing air. “Yes he’s with another woman I heard them on the phone, and I just — please, Morgana.”

“Very well. Put on your best hostess smile and tell his wife you don’t know where he is, which is true. Let him come in, with his own excuse. Apologize and say that you should’ve reminded him earlier about the appointment. And Gwen, in the future, don’t compromise your employer for information you could have thought of in five minutes if you just shut your mouth and concentrated.”

“Yes Morgana thank you Morgana” a chastened Gwen murmured as she whipped out the door.

The advice worked brilliantly. Although Mrs. Penn clearly was wondering about her husband, she chatted to Gwen with automated politeness. Unlike her husband, she was a fidgeter. Once relaxed, or at least not in immediate danger of explosion, Gwen found that she disliked Sophia Penn’s features, which were objectively delicate in separate, but when combined gave her round white face a simpering, ratlike characteristic. Or maybe it was the high-pitched, pinched voice, like she was straining words through a cheese cloth… Gwen mentally slapped herself: the woman’s husband was cheating on her, for goodness’ sake!

Finally, Mr. Penn walked in, and if Gwen averted her eyes when he kissed his wife, no-one noticed. She dutifully apologized for her carelessness and slunk back to her desk, relief flooding her lungs. Mr. Penn got to keep his marriage, Gwen got to keep her job.

And Gwen got to keep the secret that the breathy voice she heard on the phone wasn’t female.

Fic: [DN] Cheap Date [MxM]

2009-06-09T11:19:30Z

Title: Cheap Date
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: MxM
Summary: Unabashed high school AU (and *prom*, no less!), genderswitch Matt, angsty inarticulate sexings. And they say romance is dead. Spoiler warnings for real names.

Mail scooted forward in the hard diner seat, elbows balanced delicately on the edge of the greasy tabletop. Usually she gave fuck all about crinkles or stains, but the suit was rented and she couldn’t afford to pay extra for damages, not when she was saving up for a decent ride, one that could hit 90 mph on the highway without trembling. She touched a fingertip to the hint of light pink fabric peeking above the jacket cuff. The pink was all wrong for her coloring, apparently, but Mail had insisted on a pastel-colored shirt, to prove that she wasn’t a complete dyke, Mel. Her best friend had simply scoffed at the tux store and grinned savagely at the Filipino saleswoman. “Don’t you think she’d look fucking hot in just the blazer, with no shirt on? Very 1966, le smoking, right?” Making a swiping gesture with his finger, drawing the lower swell of breasts. How the petite, long-faced saleswoman, probably twice their age with kiddies running around at home, had giggled at Mello’s unique brand of erudite assholery.

Her thoughts halted as Mello plunked down their order of two King’s Noodles, size Large, extra spicy. Even at 11:00 p.m., he managed to look immaculate, from the purple gloss of the handkerchief tucked in his jacket pocket (purple, to match his date’s dress) to the hard glitter of his Gestapo boots. His hair was tied back in a low ponytail, for once, and Mail had yet to decide whether it was attractive.

“How much do I owe you?” Mail stuck a hand in the shredded messenger bag behind her and pulled out her wallet.

Mello shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Easy there, tiger.” Mail set the wallet on the table, between their two bowls. “I’m not your date, you don’t have to impress me.”

“Don’t be such a cunt.” Mello raised his eyes to the fluorescent-paneled ceiling, and the simple fact that he wasn’t glowering at her, couldn’t look at her eyes, was enough to make Mail give in, tuck the striped wallet back into her bag.

“You sure Halle won’t be upset?” Mail said quietly, rubbing two plastic green chopsticks with a translucent napkin and placing the cleaned chopsticks on Mello’s bowl. “Seeing as you ditched her and all.” Halle — statuesque, sarcastic Halle — seemed like the type who’d demand flowers-dinner-prom-hotel. Not nag or wheedle: demand, like Mello demanded, blithely expectant, like one would dive into water with the anticipation of blue and wet. The two of them had looked good together, Halle in her purple gown touching Mello’s arm, Mello smirking winding his arm around her waist, so confident that Mail had to bite her lip and turn to Rester to argue the merits of FFVIII versus FFX, because no-one ever played FFIX.

“Nah, Halle’s cool.” Mello waited for Mail to finish cleaning her own chopsticks before starting in on his meal. “Her real boyfriend is some thirty-year-old podiatrist or proctologist or something who doesn’t want to come off as a pedo in public.”

“Huh. I guess she can pull it off,” Mail swallowed, suddenly careful. “Lady in the streets…” She idly nudged Mello’s foot with a red canvas sneaker. Mail wasn’t smart the way that girls are supposed to be — neat handwriting, fervid studying, hand-raising straightened-hair pleated-skirt genius like Halle and Naomi and Takada on her better days. Mail wasn’t dumb the way girls are supposed to be, either — simpering squealing beguiling nail-filing lip-lubricating like Misa and Wedy and Takada on her worse days.

Mail ran a hand over her hair; she had dumbly slapped it back with mousse that afternoon, but at this hour tiny strands were starting to sprick out. Mello’s hair, flat and shiny as usual, remained snugly consecrated in its ponytail. Biting into her extra-spicy peanut noodles, Mail wondered what Halle would have preferred, in her powdered hotel room. Letting the dress slink to the floor, rubbing her nipples, settling into Mello’s arms with a sigh. How hard Mello would be, his hands fisting her gauzy white panties, how flushed his face would be, how long and white his exposed neck would be, how grateful Halle’s teeth and tongue and lips would be.

No, Mail wasn’t girl-stupid. Just regular stupid.

“So. How did wonder boy treat you?” Mello sneered, and in her interrupted shame Mail took the bait.

“Near was the perfect gentleman, really.” She raised her chin and swallowed. “I changed my mind about the guy.”

“Really.” Mello reached over, natural-like, and touched a fingertip to Mail’s cheekbone. “End of the dance, did he kiss you here?” He dragged his finger lightly down her cheek, to the corner of her mouth. “Or right here?” He tapped his fingertip against the center of Mail’s lower lip. “Or did he hit the spot?”

Mail pulled back, smiling hard to ignore the tingling in her lips. “Why, I’m touched by your concern for my virtue.”

“What virtue?” Mello drawled, and underneath their postage stamp of a tabletop, she felt his legs jostling hers, angry, insistent. They were the only two patrons in this side of the diner, tucked away in the corner.

“I was planning on being nice, tonight, on account of your darling Lawliet essentially sucking Light Yagami’s cock at prom, in front of God and everyone.” Mail raised her voice. “All those little touches, like the neck grab on the dance floor? Misa looked like she was going to shit herself right there.”

“Mail.” She was in so much trouble now, it was fucking amazing. The redhead continued, feverish, venomous: “L’s a logical guy, if he’s going to ruin his entire goddamn teaching career it might as well be for the hottest, brightest, tightest piece of ass in the academy. Meaning, not you. And while you and Halle were busy sucking down vodka and chocolate milk from that super-gay monogrammed flask of yours, Near and I were on the balcony, and I can’t even show you where he kissed me.”

And with that, Mail Jeevas slid out of the booth, bag in hand, and sauntered out the restaurant. She made it to her car, on the far side of the parking lot, when Mello whipped her around by the shoulder and kissed her, bulls-eye.

Her bag whumped to the ground. Mail reared back. Mello grabbed her wrists. He kissed her again. She couldn’t taste anything in it, just wetness and pressure. He pushed her against the side of the car. She kicked him in the shin, more scuff than actual kick.

He was panting, soft spicy puffs of air against her open mouth. “You’re going to show me. Where he kissed you.”

Her car was filthy; her suit was ruined. Back still pressed against the driver door, Mail wrenched her left hand from Mello’s grip, and coolly unzipped her pants, easing them down her thighs. She couldn’t see his face. She guided his hand—was it shaking?—into the waistband of her panties. “Right there,” she breathed.

Mello surged forward with a groan, and crushed his face against the curve of her neck. Right-hand fingers pumping. “And this is Near’s saliva, right?” he hissed. “This is why you’re so wet, right?”

“Y-yes,” Mail shut her eyes and angled her hips toward her best friend, her very best friend. The backs of her bare thighs crushed against grime and calcified bird shit on metal and her free hand fisted in Mello’s hair. Pulled his face to hers and lapped his cheek as she came.

Afterward, Mello slumped in the passenger seat, eyes down: “I’m sorry, Mail.”

Mail, tossing her dirtied rented trousers and jacket in the back, sitting bare-assed: “What?” She dipped her head to the steering wheel, bumping her sweaty forehead against faux leather.

“ ‘m glad you’re going away after graduation. You deserve better than anybody here.”

At this, Mail laughed like sandpaper cracking. She stuck the keys in the ignition. Above the wheezing of the engine, she might have heard Mello say something more, but then the car was revving with the radio switched on and the highway entrance was greeting them and by then it was gone, gone, gone.

[YGO] you were supposed to return

2009-03-06T23:52:56Z

Title: The Grand Retour
Series: YGO
Rating: R
Summary: The prodigal brother returns. Futurefic, Kaibacest

It’s this infernal afternoon rain. The rain of commerce and black-bleeding newspapers and traffic jams. The hems of his jeans are irreparable with mud, wet denim crescents in the creases inside his knees. His luggage, a defiant green boxy thing, is scant and cheap in the aisle; waiting for the train to start, he kicks it idly but with affection. No comfort derived from the plasticine seat under him — he squeezes his eyes shut, but sleep has yet to grace him the entire day.

There had been a hideous sixteen-hour flight from Ixtapa. Mexico. Even his hair tie feels oily. Seto had offered a driver to pick him up from Narita, and Mokuba had refused with a breeziness that effectively (he thought) disguised his disappointment. If Seto didn’t want to pick him up in person, why then, Mokuba would take public transport. After a year of tinny hacking buses and epic sweating walks, the idea of long black lovely cars has become alien to him.

His backpack on the seat next to him, formerly tan, is now the color of grime. Originally, he had left Japan with four slender journals he intended to fill, but somewhere along the way they got too heavy. The sole reminder of his—literary? Autobiographical?—conceit is a single sheet of folded paper in the inner zipped pocket next to his passport. It’s a drawing of a griffin, coffee-stained, a griffin with Mokuba’s earnest head plopped on top, a whimsical looping signature across its smoothly shaded haunch. The signature is now illegible, but at one time it read “Anneke. With love.” My griffin. My little hodgepodge, she would say, the curve of her lip-ring mirroring the curve of her persistently amused mouth, with all the airy superiority of a girl exactly one year older than himself. There might have been an address written on the paper, once, but that corner has been torn off.

The train shudders into motion. Mokuba moves his backpack to his lap, takes off his black track jacket and balls it up between his head and the dirty glass. Falls, finally, into sleep.

***

No lengthy communication, that’s what they promised. Every two weeks, Mokuba sent a postcard, making sure to choose the gaudiest ones possible (sombrero-wearing Mona Lisas, for instance), ones that didn’t even correspond to his current location.

Sometimes money arrived, spontaneously, and Mokuba cursed himself. As if he genuinely thought he could escape the reach of the hand of the prominent head of Kaiba Corporation. As if an alias and an insolent smile could ward off the thin glittering filaments that radiated from a certain mansion in Tokyo, radiated across oceans, and enmeshed themselves around his browning legs and arms and hair. Who did he think he was fooling with this Third World tour. And in this momentary desolation he would frenzy himself into generosity, folding hundred-dollar bills under produce in the market and slipping even more into the pockets of shy pregnant women on buses.

There had been bohemians and prostitutes, both ill-advised—fumbling kisses, too much money exchanged. Some called him clever, some called him beautiful. Everyone told him how young he was, even for seventeen (By the age of seventeen, Seto Kaiba had conquered the world).

He spent his birthday on his back in a teetering gondola in Bruges, holding his breath and staring up at the innumerable swirling stars.

He spent Seto’s birthday half-swimming half-floating in a hidden beach in Curacao, pretending the ultramarine blue of the water didn’t remind him of anything else.

***

The train halts at the station. Mokuba shuffles off, hails a cab, and after a thousand minor indignations of transit finds himself at buzzed into the threshold of the manse. Thankfully, there’s no servant to take his luggage. The slink of white carpet under his sore feet (is he sullying the carpet?) delights him to an uncomfortable degree as he ascends the stairs and enters the east hall. The regulated air feels—good, actually, quite good, something sterile but sweet inside Mokuba’s dusty mouth. When hears the polite rap upon the study door by his own hand he notices with a start that his eyes have been closed in reverence this entire trip down the hall. Muscle memory has conveyed him here, has borne him up to this stark elegant door unlocked and oh he’s trembling as he enters.

There is Seto eyes down, in a suit, at the desk. The shape and form so absurdly familiar that Mokuba looses an embarrassing indistinct cry. He moves, he registers that the numerous pieces of paper splayed on the desk are not reports, but the written side of his postcards, all 26 of them spread out like stained tapestry, and that Seto is looking at him and in that astringent beachwater gaze he realizes his brother didn’t pick him up at the airport to avoid any possibility of others contaminating this one moment.

Seto stands. In his hand is the final postcard and his shirt is light green and his cologne is verdant and god even kissing doesn’t feel immediate enough so Mokuba grabs his brother and bites him, bites him on the junction between neck and shoulder, bites him because language cannot express, bites him until Seto slams him against the wall and shoves his hand down Mokuba’s pants, and Mokuba lets out a ragged sound that could be a sob or a moan or anything at all.

***

Mokuba finally does speak, in the shower. “It took me the longest time to understand,” he half-yells, over the water spraying ardent over their entwined bodies. “What you tried to tell me the day I left.”

Seto leans back, wrenches off the tap without breaking eye contact. “Yes.” There’s a droplet on his lower lip, and Mokuba pauses to suck it off.

“All the time I thought you meant, ‘You are my heir.’ Responsibilities and, and — progeny, and all of that.” Mokuba flushes, nudging their hips closer. He’s dizzy with the billows of steam, with the wet press of Seto’s forearms across his back.

“Silly,” Seto whispers. “That’s not what I meant at all.” He lowers his mouth to Mokuba’s ear. “You are my air.”

A foregone conclusion, low laughter, and in between kisses Mokuba nuzzles his face into Seto’s neck and inhales home.

Fic: Death Note [MxM] - Blackout

2008-08-27T04:17:15Z

Title: Blackout
Pairing: Matt x Mello
Rating: R
Summary: Eat, drink, and be married, for tomorrow we

Matt’s drunk and thirteen again.

The first three shots of Johnny Walker gave him the courage to order the mango mojito he really wanted, and from there on he lurched from White Russian to Black Russian to sangria until tingly bits of mint, peach, and cream melded between his teeth and Mello pulled him up from the floor, the lilac-haired waitress in the background tsk-tsking with her lip ring.

Mello pushes him in the car and Matt unfurls on the backseat, head propped against the wooden door panel. Their latest acquisition is a convertible, and Mello leaves the roof down as he tears through the dark streets. Gazing up at the moon, Matt swipes his tongue along his bottom lip and tastes a little bit of chocolate martini (between cocktails he had leaned across the sticky table to suck on Mello’s fingers). The rumble of the engine is so soothing he wants to close his eyes, but then he’d miss the stars.

“Hey,” he croaks softly, “remember when.” But Mello keeps on driving, gold hair fluttering in the breeze.

***

Mello promised him a surprise, a really fucking great surprise, so Matt feels almost disappointed when the handcuffs click neatly around his left wrist and the iron bedpost, until he remembers that this is Mello, and Mello does amazing things with cocks.

There’s a giggle, and it’s coming from him, because Mello’s bangs tickle against his chest. Mello straddles his waist and tells him to count to ten eyes closed, and by the time Matt slurs out twen-ty and lifts his eyelids, in walks the past.

“M-Mel?” And Matt sounds thirteen now, voice splintering into a prepubescent whine because there’s Mello from Wammy’s, young and blithe and smiling with sharp teeth.

“Hey, Matty.” This Mello strides and jumps on the bed, no snarl no swagger, just a coltish pounce that Matt remembers from rainy Sunday rugby games. He wants to run his hands, his tongue, his cock all over the boy’s pink, smooth skin — making up for lost time, all the times he shut his eyes when they were changing, all the times he grinded his hips against the mattress to the rhythm of the soft breathing across the room.

“Call me by my real name,” he whispers into Mello’s mouth.

“What’s wrong with ‘Matt’?” the boy laughs. His lips are so pliant.

“My real name,” Matt insists. “I want you to say it.” He grabs the blonde’s wrist with his free hand. “Say it.”

The slight hesitation in the boy’s eyes is enough to send a jolt through Matt. A jolt, then clammy, heavy recognition. “You aren’t Mello.”

The boy scrambles off the bed, zipping up his pants in defeat. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew—”

Matt shuts his eyes and screams for Mello.

***

“Your real name? Do you want to die? What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mello screeches, pacing around the room. Matt grits his teeth and thrashes against the bedposts. The asshole was smart to handcuff Matt in the first place, or else he’d be spurting blood from his lying fucking face.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Christ, how old was that kid? Fourteen?”

“Of course he was fourteen,” Mello snaps, hands on hips. “I pride myself on being accurate.”

Matt trembles, presses his face against his left shoulder. His left arm is completely numb. “Fourteen, Mello. Jesus.”

“Oh, so after all the real shit we’ve been through, now you’re worried about a statutory rape charge?” Mello’s laughter is brittle in the dim light. “May I remind you that I did that exact same shit several years ago? He’s not a kid, he’s a pro. A rather expensive but enjoyable pro, or at least he would have been if you hadn’t freaked the fuck out and ruined the surprise, you fucking cunt!”

“Is that what you think I want?” Matt’s voice is veering into high-pitched territory. “Some underage street rat sucking me off while you listen at the door?”

Mello stomps over to the bed and leans in, gripping Matt by the chin. “Listen, asshole.” He places Matt’s free hand on the scar tissue scrawled down his face. “You know what this feels like.”

Matt strokes the burned flesh, feeling the familiar grooves underneath his fingertips. “Yeah. It’s a part of you.”

His leather-bound companion stiffens. “Well, I wish it weren’t. I knew you liked me at Wammy’s, and I never said anything. All those johns —” he looks down at nothing, refusing to meet Matt’s gaze — “They had me when I was... before. And you never got the chance.”

Now there’s an ache all over Matt’s body, and he wishes he could just be numb and forgo this incoherent, surging fierceness in his limbs and organs and bones. “You’re so stupid, Mello,” he murmurs. “Unlock me.”

Mello laughs, still brittle, and pulls out the key from his back pocket. Within seconds, the handcuffs thud against the floor. Rubbing his left wrist, Matt wriggles over to the right to make room.

“Night, Matty.” Under the covers, Mello turns to trace a pattern down Matt’s left cheek, down his neck and his left pec, until the redhead falls asleep.

Matt doesn’t remember the conversation in the morning.

Fic: Death Note [MxM] - Closet Needs

2008-06-20T09:27:34Z

Title: Closet Needs
Pairing: Matt/Mello
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Matt plays housewife.

Matt likes going to the drugstore at this time, when it’s so late it’s early, when the cashiers are gaunt-eyed and the birds are just starting to chirp in darkness outside and the aisles stretch out long and lovely in their emptiness. The jaundiced 24-7 fluorescent lights are just bright enough to balance out the haze of his goggle lens, so that for a while, he sees the world as it is. Sort of.

The last time he dropped by this store in particular, it had been 4:50 a.m. as well — a mission for three-pack Belgian dark chocolate bars in lilac foil. Matt had returned to Mello with three-pack Belgian dark chocolate bars in silver foil, along with a box of sixteen extra-strength scented pads. With wings.

(Incidentally, he spent the rest of the night/morning clutching a pad to his bloody nose. The damn things were really quite absorbent.)

The shopping cart wheels squeak underneath his feet as he glides through the aisles, picking up the usual items: 10 frozen beef-and-something dinners for the price of 7, six-pack of dark ale, two-ply toilet paper, duct tape, lemonade, water, and a set of plain white T-shirts to replace the ones Mello ruined. After some thought, he skates to the First Aid section, tossing in 200 centimeters gauze and 500 milliliters hydrogen peroxide. The checkout counter is within sight when Matt remembers they’ve been out of shampoo for three days (for a former street rat, Mello was surprisingly fastidious about personal hygiene).

Gnawing his lip, the gamer scans the variegated offerings of the Hair Care section. The rows upon rows of jewel tones in cheap plastic all promise better volume, frizz control, rich lather, instant shine, curl protection, bigger tits.

A white logo in the corner catches his eye, and he pulls the black container from the upper shelf. This bottle is a bulbous metallic shape, the kind reserved for expensive cars and sex toys. Matt reads the label — “salon-approved, professional shampoo” — and then the price tag. Shit.

He stands in the aisle for a full minute, holding the shampoo bottle like some holy relic. Matt opens the cap, takes a sniff, stops, sniffs again.

What the hell, he thinks. I can sleep shirtless.

***

He reaches the apartment door at the same time as Mello. The older boy’s hands are shoved into his pockets, and he slumps against the doorway when they walk in.

They leave the light off. In the dimness, Mello’s voice is quiet, crumpled. “You were asleep when I left.”

Matt shrugs and hands him the plastic bag. Mello disappears into the bathroom, and the brunet flops on the unmade bed, boots off, listening to the sound of water running. After ten minutes, the bathroom door swings open. Mello walks over to the bed, leaving wet footprints. His right hand is swathed in gauze.

“I thought you were going to get new shirts this time,” he says as he sinks onto the bed, his back to Matt. His hair is dripping all over the place; he’ll have a cold in the morning.

Matt kicks off his jeans and pulls the thin covers over the both of them. “Yeah, well.” The sun is rising behind the bent blinds.

“You know I would’ve woken you,” Mello mumbles under the sheets. “If I had any doubt, I would’ve woken you up.”

“Okay,” Matt whispers, tracing lines down Mello’s slick, bare back. He waits for the other boy’s breathing to deepen, and then he nestles his head in the curve of Mello’s neck and inhales, scent of mango and orange blossom, and he wants to say it, wants to scream it, but he’s a coward and a fatalist and Mello is asleep. So he opens his mouth and sucks on a strand of wet blond hair, his tongue and nose and heart throbbing please, please, just let me keep this moment.

Fic: Death Note [MxM] - Right-Hand Man

2008-06-18T11:03:31Z

Title: Right-Hand Man
Pairing: Mello x Matt
Summary: Pillow talk, minus pillows. Matt asks a hypothetical question.
Word Count: 386

“When you become L, what will happen to me?”

He’s damn lucky they’re both past drunk and post-coital, because sober Mello would have kicked him, then kicked him out. A ridiculous question. When you become L. As if they were anything more than two bit parts in the Grand Guignol of the Kira show (Role: Unmarked Graves #1 and #2). As if he didn’t know this was a one-way trip to forevernever the moment he flipped open his phone at 4 p.m. on a limp workday, and that voice transfigured him into platinum flame (with this ring, I do thee wed).

Mello lolls on the floor and idly reaches into the pocket of Matt’s discarded pants, pulling out a cigarette on the third try. It’s fucking hot, they’ll be stuck to the goddamn carpet at this rate, and Matt really needs to take a piss, but he lies still, watching. The blond licks the sweat off his upper lip and sticks the unlit cigarette in his mouth.

“What d’you mean?”

Matt reflexively shrugs, his raw shoulders scraping against dirty, itchy carpet. His head feels too heavy for his neck, like maybe it’ll snap off if he gets up too quickly.

“Would I be like Watari? Lugging around a laptop with a huge-ass ‘M’ on it? And I’ll have to wear suits all the time and you’ll stick your hand up my ass and I’ll flap around and that freaky synthesized voice will come out?”

The cigarette jerks up and down as Mello laughs. “Jesus, Matt,” and the dismissive tone garrotes him.

“Fuck you. Forget it,” he says, turning his face away. The couch is within sprawling distance; if he can just get enough momentum, he’ll be able to hoist himself up.

Instead, Mello rolls over and straddles him.

“You won’t get clothes.” The blond takes a fake drag from the cigarette and digs his fingernail down Matt’s chest, skimming the right nipple. “No one will ever see your face. And,” — he leans closer, sour scent of rum — “the only ‘M’ you’ll carry will be the one I pound in your ass, you little slut.”

Despite himself, Matt grins and hardens, and he’s thirteen and certain again. “So, I’m your right-hand man.”

Mello scoffs as he slides the bent cigarette in Matt’s dry mouth. “You’re just mine.”

maaaagnum

2008-06-08T06:09:27Z

you are steelblue
#4682B4

Your dominant hues are cyan and blue. You like people and enjoy making friends. You're conservative and like to make sure things make sense before you step into them, especially in relationships. You are curious but respected for your opinions by people who you sometimes wouldn't even suspect.

Your saturation level is medium - You're not the most decisive go-getter, but you can get a job done when it's required of you. You probably don't think the world can change for you and don't want to spend too much effort trying to force it.

Your outlook on life is brighter than most people's. You like the idea of influencing things for the better and find hope in situations where others might give up. You're not exactly a bouncy sunshine but things in your world generally look up.

the spacefem.com html color quiz

Aww, steel. "Curious but respected" -- I should certainly hope so.

Fic: [Death Note] Player King [MxM]

2008-04-17T04:55:05Z

Title: Player King
Pairing: Matt/Mello
Rating: R
Summary: Mello is a natural actor.

“Embrace me Gaveston, as I do thee.”

Mello leaped on the bed and swept out his arms with royal elan, scattering crumpled binder paper to the hardwood floor. Across the room, Matt sat cross-legged with his back to the door, holding the script in his lap.

“Why should’st thou kneel?” The blond continued, eyes dreamy. “Not Hylas was more mourned than Hercules, than thou hast been of me since thy exile.”

“And since I went from hence, no soul in hell” — Matt paused to take another bite out of his apple — “Hath felt more torment than poor Gaveston.” The seated boy snorted at the last line, ignoring the glare of his companion. “Mello, I realize that you’re a homo, but this play sucks melted balls. Why didn’t you pick something from Shakespeare?”

“Shakespeare.” Mello sneered and flopped backwards on the bed. “That’s all anybody knows. Shakespeare.”

Matt shrugged, looking out the open window. Several kids were playing football outside, and he briefly contemplated joining. “Shakespeare is… you know. Elegant. Like Richard II.”

“What the fuck about Richard II?” Mello was now lying on his stomach, propping his elbows against the edge of the bed.

“It’s the same thing — poofter king, bad rule, usurpation. It’s just done better.” Matt chewed his lip, letting the apple core fall from his hand. “Shakespeare will always be better.”

A pillow sailed across the room and struck the door above Matt’s head, followed by an array of small-density, high-velocity objects. “Fuck you Marlowe’s fucking awesome get out” was the last thing Matt heard as he scrambled into the safety of the hallway.

***

Matt dimly remembers there was much huffing at dinner that night, and L had to step in as the arbiter of taste, explaining that Marlowe was more interested in analyzing social systems than psychology.

“Richard II is quite moving, actually,” the detective said, lancing a strawberry in half with his fork. “Richard is so fixated with the gap between what he is and what he should be that he shatters, beautifully.”

What he is and what he should be. The words wriggle and wrap tight around his skin, dissolving into his flesh prickled by the hotel’s overblown air-conditioning. Above him, Mello stands at the foot of the bed, cock-warm and hungry.

“Embrace me, Gaveston,” Mello whispers as he kneels, and Matt lifts his head to kiss his king.

[Death Note] Breaking and Entering [MxM]

2008-03-22T08:01:00Z

Title: Breaking and Entering
Pairing: MxM
Rating: R
Summary: Illicit activity.

Despite Mello’s expertise in all flavors of sabotage and espionage, breaking in the apartment was proving harder than expected.

Upon the third attempt, Matt shook his head. “You’re fumbling with that lockpick like a virgin on prom night.”

Mello whipped around to glare death at his companion in the grimy hallway. “Well, Matt,” he hissed, “Care to demonstrate your fine-honed skills of burglary?”

Matt just smiled, feral, before pouncing. Fury and delight lanced down Mello’s spine as his shoulder-blades cracked against the wall and the taste of glove leather filled his mouth. Even as he thrashed to free his pinned arms, he parted his thighs.

“It’s easy,” Matt whispered against scarred flesh, rubbing groin to hip. “First, I break you, then I enter you.”

[Death Note] Hero Worship in Three Messy Steps [MxM]

2008-03-08T08:30:08Z

Title: Hero Worship in Three Messy Steps
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Matt started smoking because of television.
Warnings: X-over, of sorts. Spoilers for ep. 35, and *huge* spoilers for a certain jazzy, futuristic anime from Bandai.

1.

Matt started smoking because of television.

He refuses to acknowledge that his background had any influence. Ash was the first scent and the first color he ever knew, but he won’t credit his no-called parents with anything, not even his flaws.

He might have been clean all his life out of sheer contrariness, if not for that show. If he concentrates, he can still visualize the hero’s cigarette grin, the hero’s liquid gait. Shabby yet imperious, so goddamn cool. And Matt has never been cool; he’s apathetic, which is almost.

Saturday mornings, the television room at Wammy’s was a certified battleground, with Mello the loudest and hardest of the jousters, but Matt didn’t complain. He just stole a TV small enough to tuck in his closet.

The act of smoking hurt more than he expected. He anticipated the terms of addiction and cancer and death, but not the scorching dryness fisting his twelve-year-old lungs. In five minutes, he gulped down two bottles of water, with Mello laughing the entire time.

(Although Matt teased Mello about L, he never begrudged the blond’s bruised adulation. At least L is real. Was real.)

His memory’s starting to crumple and burn, ashes-to-ashes, but Matt still remembers how much the ending hurt him. Heroes died frequently, foolishly, in real life, but not in movies, not in shows. His hero collapsed, the credits scrolled, and Matt felt cheated — all that casual badassery dissolved, for some blonde bitch in rain-wet leather. Matt dimly recalls ripping the mini-television from his desk and dropping it from the window, the inside of his goggles blurring before the machine hit the damp ground.

2.

After that, he switched entirely to video games. Games had no plot, no character connections. Easy come, easy go. His PSP and cigarettes stayed with him, long after everyone else had left.

Then one Saturday morning, cigarette in hand, he answered the phone and it was Mello, with that familiar dirty pride. Come, Mello said, and Matt’s shudder was all the answer needed. Twenty-five hours later, the hacker was on a plane, heading to his dame and damnation, like he always knew he would.

“We could die,” Mello said forty hours later, in bed.

“We will die,” Matt said and twisted his fingers in Mello’s hair, remembering, memorizing.

3.

At the barricade, the bullets hurt more than he expected.

When he dies, Matt forgets to say, “Bang.”

[Death Note] it's the beat [Matt x Mello]

2008-03-07T07:38:18Z

Title: it's the beat
Rating: R
Summary: Matt has excellent timing.

The sound system is the only thing working in this shit vehicle, so Matt cranks up the volume to brain-bleed.

The radio reception in this stretch of L.A. highway cracks and shivers. The static warps the music, mutating the electronic beats into something sinister.

I’m a hustler baby — That’s-what-my-daddy’s-made-me —

“Seriously, Matt, you listen to the gayest stuff.” Mello slouches into the dirty beige seat, hoisting his right foot onto the dashboard. The blond’s body betrays him, though; his torso subtly undulates to the static-snarled rhythm, and his lower stomach gleams in the indifferent sunlight. “Fuck, when does this song end?”

“Four minutes, about.” Fixing his gaze on the road, Matt leans over with his right arm and smirks when his fingers brush taut leather.

The music drowns out Mello’s gasp, but Matt can feel it, just the same. “What are you — oh”

Multi-tasking has always been Matt’s forte. He steers and rubs and teases, humming all the while.

Mello comes by the last verse.

Fic: [Naruto] "Blinder"

2008-02-24T12:03:23Z

Title: Blinder
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Even after all this time, Neji still needs to know. Future!fic, spoilers for Chapter 385 and beyond.

“If I had the curse.”

Hinata pauses. Neji usually never deals in hypotheticals; she’s the dreamer of the two.

“Which one?” She idly runs her hand through his heavy, dark hair, coils the strands around her fingers.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, but doesn’t turn his head to her. “The Uchiha one.”

So, that’s what this is about, Hinata muses as she resumes her previous task. The evening air is hot, and she wipes her sweaty hands on her nightgown. It’s been a while since she last tied a knot.

“I would give you my eyes, if that’s what you’re asking.” Her tone is gentle but assured. Over the years, she has gotten better at lying. She’s also gotten better at telling the truth.

He gives a harsh scoff-laugh, a remnant of his pre-Chuunin days. “A blind leader of the Hyuuga. I'm sure the clan would appreciate the irony.”

“You are ANBU. You would have more need of vision,” she says simply, finishing the knot. “Politics requires a different kind of eyes.” The kind that hide in corners. Out of habit, Hinata scans the perimeter of the bedroom. Satisfied, she gets to her feet and walks in front of Neji.

She suppresses a gasp at the sight: the taut blindfold emphasizes the hauteur of his cheekbones, and his eyelashes tremble underneath the white cloth. "Is it — is it on too tight?"

"No." His mouth frowns as he unties the sash of his robe. “Dying I wouldn’t mind. But losing the Byakugan — losing sight — I can’t. Not even for…”

The robe falls from his shoulders, pooling at his waist. Neji reaches out his arms in supplication and Hinata kneels to embrace the man who exploded her heart eight years ago.

He grips her wrists, her thighs. “You should have married Naruto.”

“You have nothing to atone for,” she whispers, and she wonders if she’s telling the truth.

you'd better watch yourself

2008-02-22T10:00:14Z

This week, I'm ficcing in honor of underappreciated female characters, so I whipped up this quick drabble for GB.

Title: Tactile
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Kagami likes to touch, and she looks so soft.

Sakura Kakei is so very proper.

Kagami initially misreads the fine print of her apologetic smiles, and it takes him several visits to realize that she hates him. While Makubex seethes and schemes, Sakura waits, ever maternal, ever fanatical.

Kagami likes the sleek untamed, things that gleam hot and cold at the same time. Sakura’s mild face and indifferent dress are none of those things. There’s no glass, no steel in her gaze.

There are other textures, though, that Kagami wouldn’t mind exploring.

He sidles up to her in the lair. Her face is enmeshed in code — Makubex gone, resting. He lays a hand against her straight, straight back, and out of deference, she doesn’t flinch.

“Sakura, I have a question.”

“Yes, Kagami-kun?” Such proud gentleness.

He grasps her chin, tilts her face to him. “Is it true that Kakei blood runs lukewarm?”

Even in the dimness, Kagami can see Sakura’s eyes changing texture. She lifts her left hand — the dominant one, he notes — and offers him her white, taut wrist.

“See for yourself, Kagami-kun,” she says, so very politely.

Kagami smiles, and bites down.

girl next door

2008-02-21T22:28:13Z

Title: Straightforward
Rating: PG
Summary: Tenten isn't like the other Konoha kunoichi.

Tenten isn't like the other Konoha kunoichi. She doesn't get much attention, and that suits her fine. Attention isn't the same as glory.

She feels no need to sparkle like Ino or flutter like Sakura or float like Hinata. No need for curves or tangles or guilty oscillation. Tenten thinks in straight lines, and that makes her closer to Neji and Lee than she'd like to admit.

Training leads to experience leads to victory leads to recognition, so if she works hard enough, she'll hit her mark. And she always hits her mark.

There are concessions. She gets up early to pin her hair in perfect buns and wears bright pink and squeals over boys in the street, because there's no point in pretending to be something that you're not, either. Tenten hates pretension.

Then she meets Temari.

The sand nin is all hard body and smirks, every word an iteration of "Come and get it." Tenten takes the invitation and fails, horribly; Temari swats her out of the sky and impales her upon the white fan like a fallen sparrow.

The loss itself was crushing, but what infuriated her was Temari's ease, entirely unlike Lee's hardworn fluency of battle or even Neji's inbred genius. It was -- style, it was careless art, an extension of the woman's boisterous laughter and brilliant, sharp smile.

Tenten prides herself on being different from the other rookie girls. But like Sakura, like Ino, like Hinata...

Her first crush had spiky hair.