ilcuoreardendo: (hollow)
He’s getting ready for the show
He’s going to the carnival tonight
On Desolation Row

“Desolation Row” – Bob Dylan

He’s in a nondescript hotel room, in a nondescript town, and the blood of a nondescript prostitute—Mary, she’d said, my name is Mary, and he’d had to hold back a laugh—is drying on the threadbare rug.

He washes his hands in the dingy bathroom sink. On the vanity, a silver ring catches his eye. He picks it up, turns it between his fingers, holds it in his palm. Then he’s not in the room anymore.

It’s yesterday. He’s on the street a few blocks from here. He sees the man—lanky, unremarkable, wearing crumpled business clothes—who’d given Mary the ring.

The ring had belonged to the man’s wife; she’ run off, taken the kids, left the ring.

It was more than enough payment for what he’d wanted from Mary. What he wanted to do to her. He’d put her on her knees. Called her by his wife’s name. Slapped her. Then bent her over the mean wooden dresser and fucked her, unprotected, until she bit her lip—breaking the skin—and begged him to stop.

Sylar shudders, blinks his eyes open and is greeted with his own reflection in a filthy mirror. He cracks the vertebrae in his neck to release the tension that had taken him with the sudden onset of the vision. This new ability would take a little getting used to.

He steps out of the bathroom, looks once at the half-clothed form on the bed. The pillow, where the ruin of her head lays, is soaked in blood. But Mary looks…at peace.

He drapes her discarded shirt over her—covering her naked torso and the hand-shaped bruises where yesterday’s John had gripped her around her waist—before flicking off the light and shutting the door behind him as he walks out into the night.

The Meme:

Choose a subject and put your entire music collection on shuffle, hit play, and write. Write for as long as each song plays and move on to a different writing when the song switches (even if it's mid-sentence). Go for 5-10 songs.
ilcuoreardendo: (my everything)
Title: For Body and Soul (32 Wheeljack/Ratchet ficlets)
Author: [ profile] ilcuoreardendo
Fandom: Transformers (2007, with some inspiration from G1)
Characters/Pairing: Wheeljack/Ratchet
Rating: M(ature). [For bot sex, death.]
Genre: Drama
Notes: This piece is complete. It was inspired by prompts from [ profile] 1sentence. I was originally going to do all 50 prompts (properly - 1 sentence each), but life happened and this piece remained partially unfinished and rambling around my flash drive. So I chucked the rules...

The greatest mistake in the treatment of diseases is that there are physicians for the body and physicians for the soul, although the two cannot be separated. ~Plato )

Crossposted: [ profile] tf2007fun
ilcuoreardendo: (shame < fandom + porn)
AN: Another random idea I began playing around with a while back, based on a 5 Senses challenge that I saw someone doing. This is incomplete. I'm not sure it will be completed... (But, hope springs eternal.)

Here's what currently exists. Unedited, unrefined.

If that is his choice...



Bumblebee sat low on his tires in the Witwicky driveway, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun along his body, occasionally scanning the quiet neighborhood. Months of living here and curiosity still moved him to watch the everyday actions of the surrounding humans.

Mrs. Sutterly and her Scottish Terrier out for their mid afternoon walk. The postal worker a block over, delivering the last of the day's mail. Down the street a teenager playing with his newly installed car stereo system, the bass thrumming through the air, vibrating along Bee's sensors until he tuned out.

And inside the Witwicky home, two figures, only. Sam's creators...parents...had left for the week to visit friends a few hundred miles North.

Mojo was a small blot on his sensors, kicking legs and rapid heartbeat as he recharged in one of the rooms at the base of the house. And Sam, a strange and wonderful new presence in his systems, was just rising from an "afternoon nap."

He tracked Sam through the house--rising from the bed, visiting the room Bumblebee often heard him call the "John," (again, he'd had to scour the Internet for the reference, and he still puzzled over its use) then moving down into the kitchen and finally out the front door, dressed haphazardly and blinking into the light of the setting sun.

"Hey, Bee," he said and Bumblebee softly revved his engine before opening the driver's side door.

Bumblebee enjoyed the feel of Sam shaping his body to the seat, sleep-warm human skin on sun heated leather.


Sam didn't hide surprise well. He'd worked at it, but always failed miserably, his cheeks heating without his approval or his mouth falling open despite a clenched jaw.

When he walked out on Sunday afternoon to greet a just-returning-from-a-meeting Bee and found, leaning against the side of the Camaro, a slim, dark figure, he stopped short, blinking, and tried very, very hard to keep his mouth closed. But didn't succeed.

Dark hair, burnished gold, as though it had been bleached. Eyes of that color he could never quite identify, even on humans--a base green with a mixture of brown-turned-gold--dusky skin and a delicate facial structure that hinted at a cross of Caucasian and Asian genetics. Tiniest human imperfections, faint crinkles forming around the eyes, what looked like a healing burn--shiny and smooth hiding near the hair at his temple--and a mass of white scar tissue flowing along his neck, dribbling down onto the collar bone like molten wax.

"Bumblebee?" he asked, moving slowly toward the figure. "Wha--How?"

"The closest word in your language is hologram," Bumblebee said, flashing very white teeth. "There are limits, of course, on our transforming abilities, so this is how we interact with smaller, organic life forms. Some of us are better at blending than others." Bee winked at him, finding the action he'd often seen demonstrated simple in its execution and pleasing in the reward it brought: a quick, faint, rush of blood to Sam's cheeks.

"Do you all get one of these?"

"The generators are not standard issue... But with the odds of us remaining on Earth, I have a feeling Ratchet will be outfitting the rest of the Autobots as quickly as Wheeljack can get new generators together and running."

Sam took a tentative step forward, then another, coming to stand beside the strange new figure. He held out his hand, starting in slight surprise when the "human" Bee raised his own, touched Sam's fingers, slid their hands together until their palms met.

It wasn't quite like touching another human, though he wasn't sure why not. Too much warmth in the skin, maybe? Or a smoothness in the palms that just didn't exist. He turned Bee's hand over, examined the palm, finding the lengthy heart and life lines and hundreds of smaller ones that may have been etchings of a life that had lasted a millenia.

"You ready?"

"What? Where are we going?"

[...No transitional material at this point...]

"I was very pleased when Ratchet repaired my generator. I've missed being able to blend... And as I've said, humans are unlike other life forms we've come across and I've...been..." He paused. "I've been told my curiosity is insatiable."

"What were you curious about?"

"Humans. Certain....interactions. I've wanted to know what it feels like."

"What what feels like?"


He cupped Sam's face in his hands, fingers tracing the fine shape of bones beneath the warm and delicate skin, sifting through the soft fringe of hair that Sam had been letting grow out for the last few months.

The boy sat frozen in surprise, but Bee felt the muscles relax in increments as he continued his slow examination, caressing the brow, the arch of the nose, following the line of the jaw.

Bee had seen other organics in his travels, some undeniably strange looking, and though there was a definite peculiarity to humans--he still wasn't sure about the design of eyebrows, for instance--the similarities in their two species were undeniable.

There were more expressions, more ease of movement in malleable human skin than in metal, certainly, but he admired the zygomatic arch, the shape and color of human eyes--the flecks of green that shone inside Sam's and the way they gave Bumblebee back his reflection--and the clean, strong line of the jaw; just as he might admire, in one of his kind, the design of the malar plating, the clearness of the optics, the length and strength of the mandibular ridge.

And then there were things that were undeniably different...

He traced his thumb over the full curve of Sam's lower lip, admiring the softness of the skin there. He did it again, a little firmer, watching the flesh yield to him. And again, sliding the very tip of his thumb just beyond, feeling the damp heat.

And with that, he dipped his head forward, making up for his hologram's slightly greater height, and brushed a closed mouth along Sam's, heard and savored the responding gasp. He edged his tongue against the parted lips, dipping inside to trace the fine edges of teeth, rising up to brush against the hard palate.

Gustatory sensors ran riot, perusing and adapting the information--chemicals in the makeup of the apple recently eaten, registering the taste as sweet like oil truffles, sharp like well aged energon. Faintest taste of blood rushing beneath the skin, metallic sweet and he calculated the iron contents. Then, something unique unto itself, unidentifiable, a taste that was all Sam's own, crafted by that special combination of human genetics.

Bee sampled, stored the information away for future analysis.

Then tentatively, oh so tentatively--yes--he felt Sam's tongue move, brush against his own and the feel of it was almost electric, like a short in his wiring. Yes. He slid an arm around the boy, one hand resting at the base of his spine, the other cupping the back of Sam's head, a movement designed to soothe as well as dominate.
ilcuoreardendo: (tsengxrufus)
I shamelessly took these prompts from [ profile] 1sentence because I loved the idea of single sentence drabbles.

This isn't an official entry for that comm, I just wanted the inspiration it offered.

Here are the results. The numbers are out of order as I tried to place the sentences in some kind of chronological game time.

# 10 – Drink

“On the rocks or neat?” Tseng had asked and he had answered with a quick—and not at all squeaking—“Neat,” as though he knew what he was talking about.

# 40 – Whisper

One morning, Tseng passed him on the stairs to his father’s office, inclined his head, and leaned in close, breath stirring the hair near Rufus’s ear and that single breath kept his body hard for the rest of the day as Rufus replayed the words contained in it over and over again.

# 16 – Cover

“You just be sure to keep your mind on your matters, Rufus, and be careful which of those little office tramps you’re pulling to bed,” the President said, “we’ve got a hard enough time with our PR without any of your little bastards running around.”

Read more )


ilcuoreardendo: (Default)
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September 2015

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