Explicit, slash, Viggo/Elijah story written as back-up fic for the 2005 lotrips secret slasha exchange, for rosemending, who wanted "this pairing, or Dom/Elijah, or basically Elijah/anyone" (best undemanding assignment ever). This is the fic I was trying to write for the Lotripping zine that did not manage to finish in time.

Big Thanks to esorlehcar for tips on what to write; to her again and telesilla and cindyjade and matildabj and kyuuketsukirui for reassurance, hand-holding and cheering; to diamona for the same and very appreciated beyond-the-call beta notes. Dedicated to both msilverstar & angstslashhope, for it wouldn't have been written without their promptings, though distant in time.

Summary: Elijah's cranky and petulant, and looks to Viggo for comfort.

I don't live, I inhale

Everybody knows that shit doesn't always smell the same. Shit has many many various smells, but there's always this one common thing that enables you to identify it as shit.

Right. It's normal after all. Shit's only those dead bacteria, plus these things you don't digest, and there's always the same er, chemical element or something, if you go down to the molecules-- The Ice Storm was right about that, sadly, poor Mikey, and Elijah doesn't want to think about this anymore. There's no way in hell he'll be able to eat the scrambled eggs cooling on his plate if he does, and he's already abnormally slow this morning. Late morning. Whatever.


Explicit, slash Dom/Elijah story, remix of Sophrosyne's C-series (treated as one story in 8 sections).

Many thanks for their encouragements to Undone, Jenn, and Dutch_Eowyn; for precious beta comments to Sumbitch, Princessofg, Bunnie, and especially Kyuuketsukirui. In hopes that Soph. can find it in her to not keep this savage... compression, I guess, against me. :)

Summary: Enter Dom.


Elijah's rotting away doing nothing. He's grown damp and weak inside, at the core, and meanwhile all sorts of toughening-ups bruised his outside. "Loneliness," they say, and try to draw him out more, barbecues and brunches and festivals for work and festivals for fun. Music is still cool but he's kinda looping the same loud sad songs at home.

He goes, manages, schmoozes, smiles for any and all cameras. He even has fun sometimes. And comes back to slump down. His skin covers up scales, rubbing against each other with a white noise he hears in his dreams.


Explicit, slash, alternate universe Dom/Billy story written for Shanalle as part of the lotrips fic exchange Slashababy in December 2003.


It's past hot and well into sweltering in the warehouse, midday sun beating on the cheap corrugated iron roof as Dominic presses on the clammy red plastic button to activate the bell and ring the signal for lunch.

When the hundred machines stop at once, a wave of relief passes through him, blessed relative silence for two seconds, replaced too fast with the multiplied scrape of chairs on the concrete floor, the unbearable babble of the women chatting as they file out and ping the timeclock one by one.

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