by Halrloprillalar


Draco never knocked. Draco never even used the door. He'd just apparate in Harry's flat, in Harry's bedroom, and Harry never knew when that would be.

Every night for a week, then nothing for three months. Once on a Wednesday morning, when Harry was already late for work, and Harry had to owl in sick, because Harry couldn't leave the bedroom when Draco was in it. Once when Harry had a girl in bed, a Muggle even. Draco pushed her out into the hall without so much as a memory charm and made Harry come three times before dawn.

Harry didn't bring girls home any more.

Harry didn't know what Draco did, when he wasn't fucking Harry. He knew Draco was married now, one reads these things, but it didn't seem to make any difference.

He tried not to think about these things too much. It was easier not to think about them when Draco was there, because then it was hard to think at all.

Draco was there now, a blur of light and dark across the room from Harry. Harry reached out for his glasses, but before he could find them, Draco was so close that Harry didn't need them any more.

Harry pulled Draco's robe off his shoulders, black silk slipping through his hands. Draco stripped the sheets away and lay down on top of Harry. Just the weight was enough to make Harry hard.

Draco moved his face down Harry's cheek, nose skimming the skin, not kissing Harry, but smelling him. Draco always did this and it drove Harry mad, the touch so light it almost tickled. He endured it as long as he could, and then took Draco's face in his hands and kissed him so hard, so wide, Harry thought his mouth would crack.

He ran his hands down Draco's back: shoulderblades, spine, buttocks, then up again. His cock was pressed against Draco's hipbone and Harry began to rock, to get some friction.

Draco moved with him for a moment, then rolled away. Harry swore at him, then kissed him, first his mouth, then his neck and chest. Draco slid his fingers over Harry's chest and sides and back, marking a complex pattern that Harry always supposed he should worry about, but never did.

Harry moved down, ran his cheek over Draco's belly, then took Draco's cock into his mouth.

If Harry ever wanted to kill Draco Malfoy -- and Harry didn't, but just supposing he did -- this was the only time Harry thought he'd even have half a chance. Draco's hips were arching, his hands were on Harry's shoulders, still but for the nails digging into Harry's skin. When Draco came, his body went rigid and his eyes went glassy and Harry wondered if Draco was even there at all.

Then Draco wrapped his hand around Harry's cock and put his tongue in Harry's mouth and made him come. Harry was still sighing against Draco's neck when Draco disapparated.

The sheets were tangled. Draco's robe was on the floor. Harry put it on, pulled the covers up to his chin, and began to wait for next visit.



Take care of your sister.

Those were the last words Eomer heard from his mother when she died, and the first he heard from his uncle when he came into that house.

And so he had. He'd dried Eowyn's tears in her grief, fed her bread in her hunger, given her strength in her need. She would not leave his side to do as the women did and so he taught her on the field as well, with sword and shield and bow.

Take care of me, brother, she would say, her hand in his, and he could deny her nothing.

When Eowyn was a woman grown, men's eyes began to follow her. But always she turned her head away, for she had no need, she said, for any other man. And Eomer would smile, but sadly, for he knew some day she would not turn away.

Then one night, when the north wind was bitter with snow, she came to him at night and roused him from his sleep.

I am cold, Eowyn said. I would not be alone. She lay down beside him, her head pillowed on his shoulder and her unbound hair spilling over his chest.

Her body stretched alongside Eomer's and he put his arms around her. She shook and to Eomer she seemed to give off heat, so that he thought her fevered.

I will fetch the leech, he said, but she embraced him and would not let him go.

Take care of me, brother, she said, and put her arms about his neck and kissed his mouth.

This was wrong, Eomer knew, a brother did not lie with his sister. But her mouth was warm and her arms clinging and he loved her more than anything else on the black earth.

The taste of her filled him with hunger. He pulled her close and stroked her face and throat, kissed the hollow of her neck, her shoulder where her gown had pulled aside.

She kissed his face over and over, his cheeks above the beard, his temples, the corners of his mouth. She loosened her gown and took his hand and held it to her breast.

Eomer learned her body, intent upon each curve, as though he were a skald and Eowyn a verse that he was making. He touched her and she cried out softly. He wished that he could see her face.

Take care of me, she said again, and Eomer could wait no longer. He raised her gown, his hands sliding over her strong thighs. He entered her and she cried out again, this time in pain. It grieved him, but she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him as he moved against her.

He spent before too long, and when he rolled aside, Eowyn put her face against his neck and wept. And Eomer wept too, wetting his beard with tears, and they lay sleepless in each other's arms until dawn.

The next night, she came to him again.



"We're running away," Tirian said. "To the lodge." He shouldered a pack and rested a hand on Jewel's flank.

"And why does a king need to run away?" Jewel asked.

"Oh, from tiresome men telling him what to do," Tirian said. "Best we go now." They walked through the courtyard, Tirian looking back over his shoulder at intervals.

"The tiresome men don't know we're leaving?"

"It wouldn't be running away if they did," Tirian said. "I've left a note. Perhaps we should walk a little faster."

They made it away from Cair Paravel without being seen and took the path through the woods. It was several hours walk to the lodge and they passed the time with stories and songs. The air was keen and they breathed deeply.

It was dusk when they arrived, too late to do much more than eat. Tirian had food in his pack and Jewel grazed on the spring grass. Tirian opened a cask of wine and they drank for thirst, and then for joy, and then for friendship.

"For never will I have a better friend and companion, Jewel," Tirian said, and twined his arms around Jewel's neck.

Jewel touched Tirian's cheek with his nose. "Nor I, Sire, nor could I want one."

The night was cool and firelight flickered in Tirian's eyes. "They're after me again," he said. He sighed and rested his head against Jewel's neck. "They want me to get married."

"You didn't care for the lady?" Jewel asked.

"I didn't even see her," Tirian said. "I didn't need to." He was silent for a while, then he turned and looked at Jewel. The light was almost gone, but for the fire. Jewel's white flank glowed in the firelight and his horn shone blue as ice. "You saved my life, once, Jewel, do you remember?"

Jewel looked back at Tirian and his eyes were deep and black. "I only recall that you saved mine."

They were silent for a while, leaning against each other. Jewel nuzzled Tirian's cheek softly as Tirian stroked Jewel's ears and forehead.

"I suppose it wouldn't do any good to insist I won't be married," Tirian said.

"You must have an heir," said Jewel and Tirian sighed. "If you are married, Sire, perhaps I should be married too," Jewel added.

"Why, do you want to be?" said Tirian. He had never before considered this.

"No," said Jewel. "While you are with me, there is nothing more I desire." Jewel stretched out and ran his head, warm and strong, along Tirian's neck. And then Tirian felt the smooth curve of Jewel's horn drawn along Tirian's jaw, then last of all the point, needlesharp, just brushed his cheek.

"Nor I, Jewel," said Tirian. "Perhaps I can insist that I need not be married yet. Twenty-five is quite young enough for that and that is four years off."

"Mayhap something will happen by then to prevent it," said Jewel.

"May it be so," Tirian said, and embraced Jewel and kissed him.



This is Faith. Dark hair, white skin, red rage inside of her. She is always moving, always trying to catch the thing that's chasing her, and so they run in circles.

This is Faith in prison. No room to run, no dark to hide in. She wants to come into the light, but they're harsh fluorescents, and they leach her away little by little, day by day. She has to hide the red down deep inside of her, or she'll lose that too and then who will she be?

This is Faith having sex. Her pants around her ankles, bare ass on a scratchy blanket, lying on a lumpy mattress. There's a woman going down on her, calloused hands on Faith's thighs, sharp tongue on Faith's clit, and Faith is staring at her hair, dirty blonde and buzzed short.

Faith never kisses them, never even touches them. But she has to get off somehow and she can't seem to do that for herself.

She never really could before, either, and that's what the boys were for, with their bodies for fucking and their minds for fucking and their hearts for eating. Nighttime toys and it was thinking of the look on their faces in the morning that made her come.

Now it's even harder, with the women and the fluorescent lights. The women are afraid of her, but they don't want her, they don't need her. She doesn't know their minds and they have no hearts to eat.

She looks at the woman and thinks about what she could do to her, anywhere but here, in the dark, or in the sunlight.

Faith could take the woman's head in her hands, hold it gently, palms pressed against the woman's cheeks, then, just as Faith was coming, twist until she heard the crack.

Faith could fuck the woman with a strap-on, pound her like dough, and stop her breath with one hand, so that her orgasm and her burning lungs were the last things that she felt.

Faith could kiss her until she trembled, until she was begging. Then Faith could push two fingers up inside of her and tear her open, cunt to sternum, and watch her reeking guts fall on the floor.

And that's what Faith does. She kills the woman over and over, every way she can think of, until finally she comes.

She pushes the woman away, pulls up her pants, lights a cigarette. Gives two to the woman, what the hell, then stretches out to smoke. The woman leaves. Faith lies on her back and stares into the light. It's still three hours until they turn them out.

One day, Faith thinks, a woman will be going down on her and Faith will be so diminished, so wasted away under the fluorescent lights that the woman will stick a shank into Faith's belly and Faith won't stop her. And all the red will spill away.

This is Faith dying.



Skinner was leaving the FBI. Early retirement, going to work for some consulting firm, Doggett heard.

Doggett hadn't seen Skinner in a long time, not seen him to talk to. Not since Doggett had gone to work for VCU. And that was probably good, Doggett figured. There were too many things that they shouldn't be talking about, especially in the halls of JEH.

But Doggett wondered about those things. Were they still in danger? Had Mulder and Scully been in touch? What was out there?

Did Skinner ever think about him?

They had only been together a few months, together being a fancy word for "fucking your boss". And then it was over. It didn't stop them from working together. It didn't stop Doggett sleeping nights.

Now Skinner was leaving. And if Doggett never saw Skinner anyway, it shouldn't matter to him. But not seeing someone that you know has an office on the fourth floor and not seeing someone that you have no idea where the hell he is are two different things.

Of course there was a party. Doggett knew he should go, knew he shouldn't go. So he went.

He had a gift, a jazz CD that had been sitting unopened on the top of Doggett's bookshelf for close to a year now. He'd got it for Skinner back when they were "together", and Scully had mentioned that Skinner's birthday was approaching.

And then they weren't together anymore and so the CD had been gathering dust. It would have been an awkward gift back then, it was sure to be more so now. But Doggett brought it anyhow.

The party was in a bar and it was noisy by the time Doggett arrived. Skinner was in a crowd of people. He looked right at home, but Doggett suspected that he'd rather be anywhere but here.

Doggett dropped his gift on a table. It looked like Skinner would be able to set up his own bar, judging by the other gifts. And Doggett went to get a drink.

He talked to a few people, and when the crowds thinned a little, said a few empty words to Skinner and shook his hand. Then somebody called for a speech and Doggett went off to sit in the corner.

He watched Skinner speak and thought about the scars on Skinner's chest and the strength of his body. The strength of his purpose. The way they'd agreed and disagreed and backed each other up.

You don't share a journey like they'd had and just forget about it, whether you're fucking or not.

But Doggett thought he'd better forget about it anyway. As soon as the applause was dying, he left. Walked a block, found another bar, had another drink.

He was starting to think about calling a cab when someone sat down beside him. It was Skinner.

Skinner didn't speak, but he slid something across the bar to Doggett. A business card. All it had on it was a number.

Doggett looked at Skinner and for the first time, it occurred to Doggett that maybe Skinner didn't have a consulting job waiting for him. That maybe he was going somewhere else.

"Call," said Skinner. And then he left.

Doggett put the card into his wallet. Then he got a cab.


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