verushka70 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
verushka70) wrote2005-11-21 11:54 pm
verushka70) wrote2005-11-21 11:54 pm
Finally, new fic.
Well. I finally updated a version of a story I wrote five freakin' years ago. http://www.squidge.org/dsa/archive/16/bitlike.html I re-edited it to submit to the Writer's Contest for Zebracon 17. Which I barely attended because I was so damn busy with school (I just visited the dealer's room, and that was about it). (As I horribly was this past weekend). I was shocked as hell when I won 1st place! But then, I don't even know if people look at the DSA anymore. I've been so out of it for so long. And no one is reading this blog, anyway... it's more for me than for public consumption. I've been a diarist since, like, age 9... and I do tend to talk to myself, to think aloud.
The DSA Squidge archivist was so kind as to remove myold story and let me upload the newer version. I may yet get back into the swing of things, writing fanfic. I know Due South is dead and only had three seasons... but... but... it was such a great show. And so... inspiring of slash. Not that other shows aren't or weren't. And, hey, slash isn't all I want... smoldering, fucked-up impossible love (Buffy/Angel, Buffy/Spike) is always good. So is great UST ala Scully/Mulder. Angst, tension: bring it on.
But also, the funny shows. The weird shows. Dead Like Me. Lexx. I'm even considering writing something really obscure (as long as no one is looking, what difference does it make?): a Hard Core Logo/For Those Who Hunt The Wounded Down Joe Dick/Jerry Bines xover. I mean, no one will want to read this except someone from http://www.yuletidetreasure.org/fandoms.shtml --but it's a challenge, and I've decided to set it during the time that Billy left and Joe was doing "some acoustic gigs" (or nothing, depending on whether you found his statement believable). I'm going to try to write that over xmas vacation. Which starts Dec. 13 for me and goes until Jan. 17. One blissful month to decompress from the hell of nursing school.
Now that my wrists are, well, still imperfect and prone to pain (hurting right now, azzamattera-fac), but much, MUCH better than they were between the first attack of tendinitis in 2000 and the later bad downward spiral which resulted in the medical leave from work and eventual job change (among other reasons) in 2003, I intend on writing more. When I can. When !@#$%^&* school permits.
(I've said it before. I will no doubt say it many times again in the future: this going back to school post-35 thing sucks. I practically had a nervous breakdown this weekend. I had an exam today (49/50, yay!), and I have a care plan due Wednesday 11/23 at 7am (at my clinical site) (it's currently 13 pages with 27 footnotes from 6 texts), and another exam at 1pm Wednesday 11/23. I did not leave my house from the time I got home Friday late afternoon, until this morning to leave for my 9am exam (except to take my car to the body shop). )
The near-nervous breakdown made me glad, in retrospect, that in my procrastinating and escapist way, I had already started work on a new fic (in addition to the old, re-edited and much improved one). And I was rewarded for my near-breakdown by a final grade of A for the course whose final I took today. So though I should be studying for Wednesday's exam, and I will -- tomorrow -- I'd rather enjoy some escapism for now. So here is an excerpt, for now...
~~~
“Remember,” Ray rasped without realizing he’d begun talking, “Remember what I said in the bar? ’Bout how I thought you did know what happened, why my mood changed in an hour?”
Fraser slowly drew his palm away from Ray’s forehead, but did not let go of Ray’s forearm.
“Yes, I remember.”
“I don’t think that anymore. I think you have no clue,” the detective finished, slowly twisting his forearm in Fraser’s grip until the Mountie let go and let him have his arm back.
He sank back down on the couch, his trembling knees thanking him.
“I’m sorry, Ray. I don’t think I did know, then,” Fraser began quietly, looking down at him kindly. So kindly. Too kindly. “But I think I know now.”
“Ya do?” Again his traitor heart leapt. Get it over with, Ray thought. As long as we’re this close to the edge, might as well jump.
“Yes.” Fraser paused. His eyes shifted downward, embarrassed, then back up to Ray’s face.
“And?” Ray had only taken a shallow breath, but he held it.
“Stella was at the precinct after the arrests.”
It took a minute for Ray to connect his previous hopeful thoughts to what Fraser had just said.
“What?” It made no sense.
“Stella. I know her presence makes things… difficult for you, Ray,” Fraser finished, stepping closer to the detective. He stood between the easy chair and the sofa where Ray sat.
“Stella,” Ray repeated numbly.
“Yes. That is… isn’t that… what you meant that I did not know?” Fraser hesitated, wrinkling his brow again.
Ray said nothing, just looked up at the Mountie, a growing tension filling his chest.
His throat closed with anger, hopelessness, frustration, and the isolation of feeling that even his best friend didn’t get it, didn’t get him, never would. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what he was looking for. It was just that he was getting older and harder to console.
Fraser stood in front of him, a look of confusion on his face.
“I’m sorry, Ray, it would seem I’ve misunderstood yet a—”
Ray’s hand snapped out and grabbed Fraser by the sensible brown leather belt behind which he had tucked in both his flannel shirt and Henley. Ray yanked, hard enough to make Fraser almost stumble, until the Mountie stood directly in front of him. When he began unbuckling the belt, Fraser’s hands began to try to stop him.
Ray smacked them away.
“Ray—”
“Shuddup, Frase,” Ray snarled. He’d unbuckled the belt so he made short work of the top button, yanked the zipper down, jerked the shirt tails out of Fraser’s jeans, and slapped Fraser’s hands as they tried to pull his pants closed again.
“Ray, what—” Fraser’s hand scrabbled alongside his own, trying to redo all that Ray undid, trying to pull up that which Ray roughly pulled down: jeans, briefs.
In a detached part of his mind, it reminded Ray of a PBS special where one much more hungry animal was trying to steal another less-hungry animal’s food, and the one being stolen from—Fraser—wasn’t giving it up as easy as he should have.
“Shut the fuck UP—” Ray had it, now, had Fraser’s cock in his right hand, soft, musky smelling, very dealable-with because it wasn’t hard and huge like in his fantasies.
He yanked the shirt tails apart (popping off the very last button)—they were in his way—and stuffed Fraser’s cock in his mouth. The tendons in his left wrist corded as he prevented Fraser’s right hand from rising to stop him. Fraser’s left hand pushed on Ray’s forehead, but with Fraser’s cock in his mouth, Ray now had his right hand free to shove it away and hold it.
It all happened in seconds. But by the time he held Fraser’s wrists and began sucking as if his life depended on it (which, at this point, might be true), Ray felt it.
Felt Fraser hardening. Hardening fast. He had shut the fuck up, all right, choked right up when Ray’d sucked his cock in.
~~~
Yay. Mountie-cop manlove. And I can't wait for Brokeback Mountain to come out: cowboy manlove! "Alexander" w/Colin Farrell just didn't go far enough for me, though the broody, dewy-eyed romantic gazes between Alexander and Hephaistion were exciting, but ultimately not overt enough for me. I find the continuing willingness of distributors to release mainstreamified manlove movies quite encouraging, though. Ang Lee's going farther than Oliver Stone did. But then, Brokeback is fiction, Alexander was a real man, and those Greeks in denial wanted the whole bisexual thing whitewashed (and I say that being part Greek myself).
Looking forward to the DVD I just ordered: Clive Owen in Bent, another manlove movie. Though I'm told there is no happy ending. Well, angst is my middle name. Sometimes. How very un-What-The-Bleep of me. Am I addicted to fictional angst? (Or factual?) Yeah, probably. Must be my biochemistry.
The DSA Squidge archivist was so kind as to remove myold story and let me upload the newer version. I may yet get back into the swing of things, writing fanfic. I know Due South is dead and only had three seasons... but... but... it was such a great show. And so... inspiring of slash. Not that other shows aren't or weren't. And, hey, slash isn't all I want... smoldering, fucked-up impossible love (Buffy/Angel, Buffy/Spike) is always good. So is great UST ala Scully/Mulder. Angst, tension: bring it on.
But also, the funny shows. The weird shows. Dead Like Me. Lexx. I'm even considering writing something really obscure (as long as no one is looking, what difference does it make?): a Hard Core Logo/For Those Who Hunt The Wounded Down Joe Dick/Jerry Bines xover. I mean, no one will want to read this except someone from http://www.yuletidetreasure.org/fandoms.shtml --but it's a challenge, and I've decided to set it during the time that Billy left and Joe was doing "some acoustic gigs" (or nothing, depending on whether you found his statement believable). I'm going to try to write that over xmas vacation. Which starts Dec. 13 for me and goes until Jan. 17. One blissful month to decompress from the hell of nursing school.
Now that my wrists are, well, still imperfect and prone to pain (hurting right now, azzamattera-fac), but much, MUCH better than they were between the first attack of tendinitis in 2000 and the later bad downward spiral which resulted in the medical leave from work and eventual job change (among other reasons) in 2003, I intend on writing more. When I can. When !@#$%^&* school permits.
(I've said it before. I will no doubt say it many times again in the future: this going back to school post-35 thing sucks. I practically had a nervous breakdown this weekend. I had an exam today (49/50, yay!), and I have a care plan due Wednesday 11/23 at 7am (at my clinical site) (it's currently 13 pages with 27 footnotes from 6 texts), and another exam at 1pm Wednesday 11/23. I did not leave my house from the time I got home Friday late afternoon, until this morning to leave for my 9am exam (except to take my car to the body shop). )
The near-nervous breakdown made me glad, in retrospect, that in my procrastinating and escapist way, I had already started work on a new fic (in addition to the old, re-edited and much improved one). And I was rewarded for my near-breakdown by a final grade of A for the course whose final I took today. So though I should be studying for Wednesday's exam, and I will -- tomorrow -- I'd rather enjoy some escapism for now. So here is an excerpt, for now...
~~~
“Remember,” Ray rasped without realizing he’d begun talking, “Remember what I said in the bar? ’Bout how I thought you did know what happened, why my mood changed in an hour?”
Fraser slowly drew his palm away from Ray’s forehead, but did not let go of Ray’s forearm.
“Yes, I remember.”
“I don’t think that anymore. I think you have no clue,” the detective finished, slowly twisting his forearm in Fraser’s grip until the Mountie let go and let him have his arm back.
He sank back down on the couch, his trembling knees thanking him.
“I’m sorry, Ray. I don’t think I did know, then,” Fraser began quietly, looking down at him kindly. So kindly. Too kindly. “But I think I know now.”
“Ya do?” Again his traitor heart leapt. Get it over with, Ray thought. As long as we’re this close to the edge, might as well jump.
“Yes.” Fraser paused. His eyes shifted downward, embarrassed, then back up to Ray’s face.
“And?” Ray had only taken a shallow breath, but he held it.
“Stella was at the precinct after the arrests.”
It took a minute for Ray to connect his previous hopeful thoughts to what Fraser had just said.
“What?” It made no sense.
“Stella. I know her presence makes things… difficult for you, Ray,” Fraser finished, stepping closer to the detective. He stood between the easy chair and the sofa where Ray sat.
“Stella,” Ray repeated numbly.
“Yes. That is… isn’t that… what you meant that I did not know?” Fraser hesitated, wrinkling his brow again.
Ray said nothing, just looked up at the Mountie, a growing tension filling his chest.
His throat closed with anger, hopelessness, frustration, and the isolation of feeling that even his best friend didn’t get it, didn’t get him, never would. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what he was looking for. It was just that he was getting older and harder to console.
Fraser stood in front of him, a look of confusion on his face.
“I’m sorry, Ray, it would seem I’ve misunderstood yet a—”
Ray’s hand snapped out and grabbed Fraser by the sensible brown leather belt behind which he had tucked in both his flannel shirt and Henley. Ray yanked, hard enough to make Fraser almost stumble, until the Mountie stood directly in front of him. When he began unbuckling the belt, Fraser’s hands began to try to stop him.
Ray smacked them away.
“Ray—”
“Shuddup, Frase,” Ray snarled. He’d unbuckled the belt so he made short work of the top button, yanked the zipper down, jerked the shirt tails out of Fraser’s jeans, and slapped Fraser’s hands as they tried to pull his pants closed again.
“Ray, what—” Fraser’s hand scrabbled alongside his own, trying to redo all that Ray undid, trying to pull up that which Ray roughly pulled down: jeans, briefs.
In a detached part of his mind, it reminded Ray of a PBS special where one much more hungry animal was trying to steal another less-hungry animal’s food, and the one being stolen from—Fraser—wasn’t giving it up as easy as he should have.
“Shut the fuck UP—” Ray had it, now, had Fraser’s cock in his right hand, soft, musky smelling, very dealable-with because it wasn’t hard and huge like in his fantasies.
He yanked the shirt tails apart (popping off the very last button)—they were in his way—and stuffed Fraser’s cock in his mouth. The tendons in his left wrist corded as he prevented Fraser’s right hand from rising to stop him. Fraser’s left hand pushed on Ray’s forehead, but with Fraser’s cock in his mouth, Ray now had his right hand free to shove it away and hold it.
It all happened in seconds. But by the time he held Fraser’s wrists and began sucking as if his life depended on it (which, at this point, might be true), Ray felt it.
Felt Fraser hardening. Hardening fast. He had shut the fuck up, all right, choked right up when Ray’d sucked his cock in.
~~~
Yay. Mountie-cop manlove. And I can't wait for Brokeback Mountain to come out: cowboy manlove! "Alexander" w/Colin Farrell just didn't go far enough for me, though the broody, dewy-eyed romantic gazes between Alexander and Hephaistion were exciting, but ultimately not overt enough for me. I find the continuing willingness of distributors to release mainstreamified manlove movies quite encouraging, though. Ang Lee's going farther than Oliver Stone did. But then, Brokeback is fiction, Alexander was a real man, and those Greeks in denial wanted the whole bisexual thing whitewashed (and I say that being part Greek myself).
Looking forward to the DVD I just ordered: Clive Owen in Bent, another manlove movie. Though I'm told there is no happy ending. Well, angst is my middle name. Sometimes. How very un-What-The-Bleep of me. Am I addicted to fictional angst? (Or factual?) Yeah, probably.
no subject
a Hard Core Logo/For Those Who Hunt The Wounded Down Joe Dick/Jerry Bines xover
Trust me. You will have an audience. That is a - well, mind-boggling, but awesome idea. (go check out