sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-12 10:06 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-12 10:06 am
Rome and Dead Zone ficlets; PG-13
Two short fics I found in my post-Hack excavations; thought I'd stash them here.
Title: What's Good For Vorenus
Fandom: Rome
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Titus Pullo wants what's good for his Centurion. (Pullo/Vorenus)
Warnings: In-character ethnic slur.
First posted 11.14.2005
***
Titus Pullo is not as stupid as he looks, and most of the time not even as stupid as he acts. Not anymore; not after that bar fight that got part of his skull removed.
The thing is, though, that he likes to make Vorenus just a little bit angry. Vorenus lives on nerves, thrives on them, and when he's angry he becomes meticulous, he does everything the most proper way possible, as if to annoy the gods with his perfect attendance upon their laws. He annoys Pullo, that's for sure. But he takes out all that pent up Republican rage at a world which occasionally falls apart around his ears on Pullo, too, and Pullo likes that.
It's how things should be. Pullo is the legionary, the private soldier; Vorenus was his primipilus and now is a prefect. Vorenus is his superior officer, so it's only right that Vorenus fucks him, not the other way around. Vorenus won't fuck whores and Pullo can tell he only gets off alone when he can't avoid it, but obscure old laws say that fucking other men isn't adultery. It's like playing dice. Just something you do with the boys sometimes. Vorenus can be goaded into that, even if he doesn't think he likes it. Pullo's smart enough to see it.
He's not all that smart, though. The night the Gyppo princess invited Vorenus into her tent, Pullo was happy to see him go. Vorenus tried so hard to be middle class and kept ending up with the Patricians somehow. Favourite of Caesar, right hand of Antony, concubine of Cleopatra. It was good for him, Pullo felt.
But he doesn't know why Vorenus wouldn't go through with it. She fucked like a cat in heat. He doesn't know if it's that Vorenus was unmanned (too much riding or perhaps fretting about what Caesar would think) or he was thinking of Niobe (and who wouldn't?) or his staunchly political soul rebelled at the very idea of kings and princesses.
So, for the past little while, he keeps Vorenus awake, keeps needling him about Cleopatra as they lie on their camp-pallets in the tent they pitched. Just filthy soldier talk at first, to annoy him, then little details. And finally Vorenus rolls over and swears at him, loudly, and then Pullo knows to expect the hands like iron bands holding him down, the harsh twist of Vorenus' hips against his.
It's good for Vorenus. Pullo wants what's good for Vorenus. He'll pretend to be a fool, pretend Vorenus is the one in control (he is, after all, his superior officer), if that's what it takes.
Pullo sometimes thinks he'd follow Vorenus into the jaws of death...then he remembers that he already has.
Title: I'm Having A Vision
Fandom: The Dead Zone
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Bruce knew he was in trouble when Sara mistook his date for Johnny. (Bruce->Johnny)
Warnings: None.
Also available at AO3.
***
Bruce knows Johnny better than anyone, though not better than anyone ever did. He thinks that might have been Sara or maybe Johnny's mama. He might've liked to know Johnny's mama, though apparently she wasn't the greatest judge of character in the world. She raised Johnny right, anyone can see that.
But Johnny isn't the same now. His mama's dead and Sara doesn't want to see that he's different, and so she doesn't really know him at all anymore. Bruce does, though; he hasn't ever known him any other way. Bruce is the one who was there when Johnny had his PT, the one who taught him about all the changes in the world and in his own body.
Bruce was the one who shouted at him to push harder, to go farther and faster. He was the one, not Sara, not Walt, not the Reverened Gene, who held Johnny when he tripped and fell and burst into frustrated tears, his anguish over his body's disobedience oddly childlike. When Bruce held him, Johnny had no visions.
Bruce made him take his gloves off. All right, so Bruce had bought him the gloves in the first place, but that was a moot point.
Most people who knew John could recognise that he'd had a vision. It wasn't hard; he'd pause and his eyes would get all wide and frightened. He'd breathe shallow and he wouldn't meet anyone else's eyes, especially if it had been a bad one. Only Bruce could see when he was having one, though, right as he was having it -- the minute tension, the odd wham that rippled off him.
A couple of months after Johnny came out of the coma, Bruce's girlfriend Shelly left him because he was "bringin' home his work" and being difficult but anyway she didn't appreciate a good man when she had one and he wasn't all that sorry to see her go. There were plenty of fish in the sea, and Bruce had the advantage of playing the full field. His daddy would have killed him if he found out and Bruce knew that if anyone else from the church had ever found out they'd all have said he was going to hell, but damn -- did they not notice how fine all these fly young men were?
And all right, the dating pool of gay black men was pretty slim in Maine, but it was easier to date women anyway. When he did go out looking for a little down-low, he hadn't had much to choose from, until he started noticing white boys. How had he not noticed white boys before? Yeah, they had kinda pasty asses and way, way too many of them were hung up on the idea of fucking a black man for the sake of fucking a black man, but some of them were oh, so worth it.
And then.
Then came the Horrible Night. The Horrible Night where he picked up this pretty blue-eyed man and hell, it was still early so did he want to get a beer away from all the stupid dance music? And as they were walking down Cleaves Mill's one main street Sara came up to them obviously doing an evening grocery run and called the man Johnny before she'd properly seen him and of course he wasn't John at all and he asked Bruce if John was his boyfriend or what and flounced off and Sara was all waiflike and confused like always and Bruce decided to go home for a while and have a serious, serious deep think. And also a lot to drink.
And there he was, a day and a half later, still thinking about the fact that for the last six months he'd been fucking guys who looked like Johnny. It was pathetic was what it was, like something out of a third-rate romance novel. Not that he read those, but all the church women did and you picked stuff up, growing up with church women.
The doorbell had rung twice, but Bruce was still sitting in his easy chair, thinking.
"Bruce!" came the muffled yell from outside. "Hey Bruce! I know you're in there! I'M A PSYCHIC, REMEMBER?"
Bruce groaned and got to his feet, opening the door. Johnny stood there, grinning.
"Now that's more like it!"
"Hey John," Bruce said, trying not to sound like he was miserable and confused.
"Hey yourself. Listen, put out your hand."
Bruce eyed him.
"Come on," Johnny said, grinning. Bruce knew that grin. It was the grin that Sara could wipe off Johnny's face with one well-placed bat of her overly long eyelashes, but it was Johnny's mischief grin. "Put out your hand."
"Man, what you want?"
"Bruce," John whined. Bruce rolled his eyes and put out his hand. John touched the back of his hand with his fingertips and closed his eyes.
"I'm having a vision!" he announced. Bruce snorted. "I'm seeing....me....buying you dinner....at Joey's Seafood Buffet."
"Big spender," Bruce drawled. "Did you spring for the large soda cup?"
"I'm seeing me...buying you dinner at....Quintillo's?"
"Now that's more like it! Do you see me ordering the lobster?"
"I might, I might," Johnny said, eyes still screwed shut. "And then I see you...doing me a huge favour."
Bruce scowled. "Yeah, what's that? Listen, you know you only get two favours a month from me..."
"This one's medical," John said a little more soberly, opening his eyes and putting his hand back on the knob of his cane. "It's the leg."
"What up?" Bruce asked, medical concern overriding mild embarrassment at playing along with Johnny's game.
"It's, ah," Johnny looked embarrassed. "It's cramping a lot and I'm losing mobility. It was really embarrassing, I was...you know, Rebecca and me..."
He bobbed his head, making the "you know what I'm talking about" face.
"Oooh," Bruce said, eyes widening. "Bad time to cramp up."
"Tell me about it! So what do you say? I'll buy you dinner, you give me one or two of your awesome muscle treatments? It's almost like a date, except I'm going to end up in excruciating pain at the end of it. Which, you know, the way my last date with Rebecca went, I'm not entirely unused to that."
Bruce frowned.
"Or...I could just pay you," John said uneasily, misinterpreting the hesitation.
"Nah! Nah, it's all good, the dinner I'm gonna get is gonna cost you more than the muscle treatments anyway," Bruce said. "I got time to get dressed and stuff?"
"Oh yeah -- I'll meet you there in an hour or so?"
"Sure thing," Bruce said, and John went back to his jeep while Bruce closed the door, leaned on it, put his face in his hands, and steeled himself for a lobster dinner with John Smith, after which he would be getting physical.
With John's leg.
Bruce sighed.
Having a crush on a psychic was going to be complicated.
END
Title: What's Good For Vorenus
Fandom: Rome
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Titus Pullo wants what's good for his Centurion. (Pullo/Vorenus)
Warnings: In-character ethnic slur.
First posted 11.14.2005
***
Titus Pullo is not as stupid as he looks, and most of the time not even as stupid as he acts. Not anymore; not after that bar fight that got part of his skull removed.
The thing is, though, that he likes to make Vorenus just a little bit angry. Vorenus lives on nerves, thrives on them, and when he's angry he becomes meticulous, he does everything the most proper way possible, as if to annoy the gods with his perfect attendance upon their laws. He annoys Pullo, that's for sure. But he takes out all that pent up Republican rage at a world which occasionally falls apart around his ears on Pullo, too, and Pullo likes that.
It's how things should be. Pullo is the legionary, the private soldier; Vorenus was his primipilus and now is a prefect. Vorenus is his superior officer, so it's only right that Vorenus fucks him, not the other way around. Vorenus won't fuck whores and Pullo can tell he only gets off alone when he can't avoid it, but obscure old laws say that fucking other men isn't adultery. It's like playing dice. Just something you do with the boys sometimes. Vorenus can be goaded into that, even if he doesn't think he likes it. Pullo's smart enough to see it.
He's not all that smart, though. The night the Gyppo princess invited Vorenus into her tent, Pullo was happy to see him go. Vorenus tried so hard to be middle class and kept ending up with the Patricians somehow. Favourite of Caesar, right hand of Antony, concubine of Cleopatra. It was good for him, Pullo felt.
But he doesn't know why Vorenus wouldn't go through with it. She fucked like a cat in heat. He doesn't know if it's that Vorenus was unmanned (too much riding or perhaps fretting about what Caesar would think) or he was thinking of Niobe (and who wouldn't?) or his staunchly political soul rebelled at the very idea of kings and princesses.
So, for the past little while, he keeps Vorenus awake, keeps needling him about Cleopatra as they lie on their camp-pallets in the tent they pitched. Just filthy soldier talk at first, to annoy him, then little details. And finally Vorenus rolls over and swears at him, loudly, and then Pullo knows to expect the hands like iron bands holding him down, the harsh twist of Vorenus' hips against his.
It's good for Vorenus. Pullo wants what's good for Vorenus. He'll pretend to be a fool, pretend Vorenus is the one in control (he is, after all, his superior officer), if that's what it takes.
Pullo sometimes thinks he'd follow Vorenus into the jaws of death...then he remembers that he already has.
Title: I'm Having A Vision
Fandom: The Dead Zone
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Bruce knew he was in trouble when Sara mistook his date for Johnny. (Bruce->Johnny)
Warnings: None.
Also available at AO3.
***
Bruce knows Johnny better than anyone, though not better than anyone ever did. He thinks that might have been Sara or maybe Johnny's mama. He might've liked to know Johnny's mama, though apparently she wasn't the greatest judge of character in the world. She raised Johnny right, anyone can see that.
But Johnny isn't the same now. His mama's dead and Sara doesn't want to see that he's different, and so she doesn't really know him at all anymore. Bruce does, though; he hasn't ever known him any other way. Bruce is the one who was there when Johnny had his PT, the one who taught him about all the changes in the world and in his own body.
Bruce was the one who shouted at him to push harder, to go farther and faster. He was the one, not Sara, not Walt, not the Reverened Gene, who held Johnny when he tripped and fell and burst into frustrated tears, his anguish over his body's disobedience oddly childlike. When Bruce held him, Johnny had no visions.
Bruce made him take his gloves off. All right, so Bruce had bought him the gloves in the first place, but that was a moot point.
Most people who knew John could recognise that he'd had a vision. It wasn't hard; he'd pause and his eyes would get all wide and frightened. He'd breathe shallow and he wouldn't meet anyone else's eyes, especially if it had been a bad one. Only Bruce could see when he was having one, though, right as he was having it -- the minute tension, the odd wham that rippled off him.
A couple of months after Johnny came out of the coma, Bruce's girlfriend Shelly left him because he was "bringin' home his work" and being difficult but anyway she didn't appreciate a good man when she had one and he wasn't all that sorry to see her go. There were plenty of fish in the sea, and Bruce had the advantage of playing the full field. His daddy would have killed him if he found out and Bruce knew that if anyone else from the church had ever found out they'd all have said he was going to hell, but damn -- did they not notice how fine all these fly young men were?
And all right, the dating pool of gay black men was pretty slim in Maine, but it was easier to date women anyway. When he did go out looking for a little down-low, he hadn't had much to choose from, until he started noticing white boys. How had he not noticed white boys before? Yeah, they had kinda pasty asses and way, way too many of them were hung up on the idea of fucking a black man for the sake of fucking a black man, but some of them were oh, so worth it.
And then.
Then came the Horrible Night. The Horrible Night where he picked up this pretty blue-eyed man and hell, it was still early so did he want to get a beer away from all the stupid dance music? And as they were walking down Cleaves Mill's one main street Sara came up to them obviously doing an evening grocery run and called the man Johnny before she'd properly seen him and of course he wasn't John at all and he asked Bruce if John was his boyfriend or what and flounced off and Sara was all waiflike and confused like always and Bruce decided to go home for a while and have a serious, serious deep think. And also a lot to drink.
And there he was, a day and a half later, still thinking about the fact that for the last six months he'd been fucking guys who looked like Johnny. It was pathetic was what it was, like something out of a third-rate romance novel. Not that he read those, but all the church women did and you picked stuff up, growing up with church women.
The doorbell had rung twice, but Bruce was still sitting in his easy chair, thinking.
"Bruce!" came the muffled yell from outside. "Hey Bruce! I know you're in there! I'M A PSYCHIC, REMEMBER?"
Bruce groaned and got to his feet, opening the door. Johnny stood there, grinning.
"Now that's more like it!"
"Hey John," Bruce said, trying not to sound like he was miserable and confused.
"Hey yourself. Listen, put out your hand."
Bruce eyed him.
"Come on," Johnny said, grinning. Bruce knew that grin. It was the grin that Sara could wipe off Johnny's face with one well-placed bat of her overly long eyelashes, but it was Johnny's mischief grin. "Put out your hand."
"Man, what you want?"
"Bruce," John whined. Bruce rolled his eyes and put out his hand. John touched the back of his hand with his fingertips and closed his eyes.
"I'm having a vision!" he announced. Bruce snorted. "I'm seeing....me....buying you dinner....at Joey's Seafood Buffet."
"Big spender," Bruce drawled. "Did you spring for the large soda cup?"
"I'm seeing me...buying you dinner at....Quintillo's?"
"Now that's more like it! Do you see me ordering the lobster?"
"I might, I might," Johnny said, eyes still screwed shut. "And then I see you...doing me a huge favour."
Bruce scowled. "Yeah, what's that? Listen, you know you only get two favours a month from me..."
"This one's medical," John said a little more soberly, opening his eyes and putting his hand back on the knob of his cane. "It's the leg."
"What up?" Bruce asked, medical concern overriding mild embarrassment at playing along with Johnny's game.
"It's, ah," Johnny looked embarrassed. "It's cramping a lot and I'm losing mobility. It was really embarrassing, I was...you know, Rebecca and me..."
He bobbed his head, making the "you know what I'm talking about" face.
"Oooh," Bruce said, eyes widening. "Bad time to cramp up."
"Tell me about it! So what do you say? I'll buy you dinner, you give me one or two of your awesome muscle treatments? It's almost like a date, except I'm going to end up in excruciating pain at the end of it. Which, you know, the way my last date with Rebecca went, I'm not entirely unused to that."
Bruce frowned.
"Or...I could just pay you," John said uneasily, misinterpreting the hesitation.
"Nah! Nah, it's all good, the dinner I'm gonna get is gonna cost you more than the muscle treatments anyway," Bruce said. "I got time to get dressed and stuff?"
"Oh yeah -- I'll meet you there in an hour or so?"
"Sure thing," Bruce said, and John went back to his jeep while Bruce closed the door, leaned on it, put his face in his hands, and steeled himself for a lobster dinner with John Smith, after which he would be getting physical.
With John's leg.
Bruce sighed.
Having a crush on a psychic was going to be complicated.
END
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Rome is interesting. Classically it's fairly accurate, but it also likes to take the old stories and twist them a bit. For example, the rumour that Octavian slept with Caesar as a young man? In Rome, the rumour starts because Caesar's having an epileptic fit and Octavian squirrels him away in a convenient closet until he recovers. A servant sees them go into the closet, hears the grunting of Caesar having his fit, and tells Octavian's mother, who praises him for "getting in good" with his uncle. :D
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GREAT line and OH SO TRUE!
Thanks for this!
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