ultaviolet730: (Shameless by groaty)
[personal profile] ultaviolet730
There's creativity in the air! Or maybe it's just pollen. Anyway, after reading great new ficlets from [livejournal.com profile] cheights and [livejournal.com profile] rileyc and a whole new chapter from [livejournal.com profile] caliban22170, I decided I needed to jumpstart my long-dormant writing engine. I think there was a meme a while back, where you were supposed to post something from your WIPs. I can't remember how it went, so I'm just going to post stuff that's been sitting on my hard drive forever and wants to go out for a little ride, in the hopes that it gets my Muses off their lazy, bonbon-eating asses! (I know, you're supposed to be nice to the Muses, but that hasn't been working.)

So sit back, relax, read these WIPs and feel free to tell me to continue, beg me to stop in the name of all that is holy or tell me to find myself a hobby that doesn't involve computers, writing and/or fictional characters.

Fandom: Oz/SVU
Title: DNR
Notes: This was begun for the Cuff 'Em Kinks and Cliches challenge, but sadly never made it as far as the kink. It's chock-full of cliches, though, if that helps :) First line shamelessly stolen (and reworked) from Alexa's Covenant, a classic and sadly unfinished Oz fic. It's my favorite fic-opening-line ever.


Tobias Beecher was a good addict.

He hadn't been a good husband. He wasn't a good father. He might have been a good lawyer, if he had tried, if he had kept his mind on the job. But back then, before, he spent most of his energy, and his brain power, thinking about his next drink - where exactly he would go to get it, how long he would have to stay in the office until he could leave without drawing attention, what excuse he'd make up for his secretary, how he could avoid his father on the way out and then his wife once he got home. If he made it home at all.

He could while away whole hours just anticipating how that first slow slide of scotch would taste. Add to that all the time he spent actually feeling it. And then not feeling, which was, after all, the point.

Then, after, he wasn't good for much of anything. Or anybody. The law wouldn't allow him to return to his job. Gen's parents did their best to keep him away from his kids. In their efforts to keep Toby on the straight (so to speak) and narrow, his family prevented him from making any adult decisions.

Worst of all, his own mind - and his memory - obliterated the possibility of anyone else. Toby would never fall in love again, never get married. Never have a family of his own, a place to call home.

So the past became his addiction. He couldn't drown himself in booze, so he wallowed in memories. In longing and regret. And in guilt - his faithful companion.

Now, lying here, in the dark, he still had all those regrets. And all that guilt. But none of it mattered anymore, now that he had this - the one thing he thought he'd lost forever.

Back when he thought he'd never see Chris Keller again, never touch his skin or feel his lips or taste his cock - back then, Tobias Beecher would have done anything, sworn anything, sold anything, for just one glimpse of his lover.

Then the unthinkable happened. And he got more than a glimpse. He got the whole package. Chris Keller. In the flesh. Alive and well and living in New York City.

Okay, so he wasn't really well. Some nights, he was barely breathing. And technically, his name wasn't Chris Keller. But he was alive. He was getting well. And Toby was never going to leave him again.

Toby had traded one addiction for another. Instead of dwelling on the past, he seized the chance to recreate it.

Initially, Toby had told himself he just wanted to make sure Chris was all right. That first news report had almost done him in. He hadn't even been paying attention to the TV blaring in the background, but he couldn't escape it. Every channel the bartender flipped to had a hysterical reporter covering the breaking news. When Toby finally looked up at the screen, it was Oz all over again. Except with more blood. And in the middle of it, that strong body lying on the ground as the life seeped out of him.

But this Chris Keller had the entire NYPD working for him, and Toby sat at the bar, transfixed, as the forces of good massed to prevent a repeat of unbearable history. Watching the frantic ministrations of paramedics and police, Toby felt an eerie calm. Followed by a familiar rush of adrenaline, and then the first flush of hope he'd had since watching Chris fall that awful day.

All thoughts of the business that had brought him to New York vanished, as the heady beginnings of a plan began to take hold in Tobias Beecher's brain. In minutes, even before the broken and bruised body was airlifted to the hospital, Toby was on the phone. By the time that helicopter touched down, Toby knew this Chris's name (Elliot Stabler), rank (Detective First Grade) and badge number (41589). And that this Chris had one wife, four kids and almost 20 years on the force, 13 in the Special Victims Unit.

What he didn't know, of course, was if it was real, if Chris, this Chris, was real. If he'd somehow become Elliot Stabler, courtesy of the fastest reincarnation ever. Or perhaps the most ironic Witness Protection placement in history, in which a sexual predator becomes a sex crimes cop.

Or if, maybe, probably, it was just a coincidence, and Elliot Stabler simply looked exactly like Chris Keller, but had no connection to him. Or to Toby. Or if Toby should probably leave it at that.

But leaving well enough alone had never been an option once Toby saw his face.

Fandom: SVU
Title: Mr. and Mrs. Smith
Notes: This was one of those ideas that I think would be better served if I gave it to [livejournal.com profile] sloanesomething and [livejournal.com profile] annakovsky for their SVU A/U game. But I'm too selfish and deluded to give it up yet. If I did, the prompt would be: Elliot Stabler and Alex Cabot, paid assassins

She loved watching him like this, though she rarely got the chance. Elliot didn't sleep. At least, as far as Alex could see, he didn't. He'd lie in bed, but whenever Alex looked over, he was awake, ever alert for any strange noise or sudden movement that might mean danger or discovery. She knew it was his marine training and his cop sense that kept Elliot on guard, but she wondered whether it was really another way to keep the nightmares at bay. The protective instinct was a good escape from the ravages of conscience and memory.

Anything to avoid that, she sighed knowingly. Wide awake, even after a long, strange, miraculous day and evening that had brought them closer together than ever. But as she slowly recovered from the blissful, orgasmic afterglow, Alex couldn't keep her mind from shifting into overdrive. After months of hard, raw, mind-blowing sex, tonight Elliot had made slow, tender love to her. It was so surprising, and so sweet, that she had felt shy, embarrassed. Even now, she flushed at the memory of his soft lips and gentle touch. When she had tried to change the mood, to regain control, to go back to their familiar games, Elliot simply smiled and kissed her reluctance away.

She couldn't remember how long they'd made love or how many times she came or how long she'd slept. When she woke up, it was still dark and Elliot was still asleep. And still in bed, still holding her. As Elliot slumbered peacefully beside her, Alex tried to bask in the relief, and the joy, she felt. She told herself not to question Elliot's sudden sensitivity. She tried not to wonder what had caused this outpouring of emotion. She couldn't examine his words, because he hadn't uttered any. The usual crude demands and exhortations – which Alex gave as well as she got – were missing. Instead of four-letter words and guttural moans, Elliot was mostly silent. That had been almost as unnerving as his reverent gaze.

Alex shuddered, both aroused by the memory and alarmed at the dawning realization that none of it had been meant for her at all. Because while she was the (officially) dead woman he'd been fucking for months, the ghost Elliot had made love to tonight was his wife.

Fandom: Oz
Title: Fate
Notes: Not quite a drabble, not quite a story. Britney would be proud!


Was there a crueler, fouler, darker four-letter word in all of the fucking English language?

Fate had brought them together. Even though Vern - speaking of four foul letters - liked to take the credit, there was something bigger at work. Chris was a force of nature. Vern couldn't control him anymore than Toby had.

At least, that's what Toby told himself whenever he thought about Chris lying dead on the EmCity concrete. His words hadn't sent Chris over that railing, just as his actions hadn't pushed Cathy Rockwell into the path of his car and his neglect hadn't driven Genevieve into that garage.

Fate had done all that, and more. And you can't fight fate, he reasoned, taking another swig. Not in Oz.
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