[Whose Line Is It Anyways RPS - fic] She Knew.

Ryan/Colin, G, RPS.
Debra knows things.
Written January 25, 2006 by Zekkass.

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She had always, in a way, expected it.

From the day she had met him to the day they had married, Ryan had been there. Always.

Ryan had always been a constant in Colin’s life, so she had forced herself to accept him and everything he stood for.

He was the one who had helped Colin onstage. He was the one who had always been there, for whatever Colin needed.

He was there before she had ever met Colin. He introduced her to Colin.

Some part of her understood the whys and the hows and knew that Colin needed Ryan. Sometimes she wished she had someone like that.

Other times, she was bitter and wished that Colin had never met Ryan, that Ryan never existed, and that he had never intruded on her life.

Most of the time, she just knew that Colin needed Ryan and Ryan needed Colin.

Either way, she was glad when he left.

[Original - original fic] Searching for Gravestones.

Jack Dalliard & Neddy Muldoon. Implied slash between them. R for utterly creepy and death.
Written July 28, 2008 by Zekkass.

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Jack Dalliard was not cremated. That was a fact that he had long ago found out. (The Assistant's last words. "He'll be hidden, not set to flame." Oddly cryptic, even for him. It all made sense now.)

They had instead put him in a coffin and buried him. Oh, they were not honorable - they had placed a different name on the tombstone, and burned the files that said which graveyard held him.

It was near impossible to find him - especially with his Assistant gone - but he would be found. Somehow. (He had started out with a shovel and records and had gone through graveyard after graveyard, disturbing bodies far too often.)

Of course he had not found him. They had changed the dates, too, and even added a little engraving that said 'Beloved.' (And he was. Just not by them, the ones who had buried him.)

He supposed he should have stopped looking by now - he was older, he knew better. But something compelled him to make the nightly excursions, and to make the daily digging in Records.

(He was respected, now. Worked like his cousin, was independent.)

Records revealed little, until that special, precious day -

"This is it." He said to himself, staring at the file. "This is it."

With trembling hands, he opened the file, and scanned the numbers and columns.

There it was. Hidden, and misfiled - no wonder he hadn't found it, no wonder it wasn't burned. (He wished he had found it years ago.)

J. Dalliard - (his eyes read across the column, ignoring numbers, looking for the name) - Dorian Stonewall.

There it is. The answer. His hands are shaking, he knows he won't have much time left -

He feels like cheering, but doesn't. Instead, he puts the file back, and returns to work after memorizing the cemetery and plot and number and address.

(It is two days before he can get the shovel out, make the trip, successfully dig up the coffin.)

He brought a crowbar for this purpose. He pries out the nails, pulls up the lid - and there.

(There. Now he can be properly buried.)

There is Jack Dalliard. Dead Jack Dalliard. Dead with closed eyes and a bullet hole and dried blood on his forehead that was never cleaned up Jack Dalliard.

(They find old Neddy Muldoon curled at Jack Dalliard's feet in the morning, dead.)

(The medical examiner cannot explain the death.)

("Perhaps he died of sheer terror?" He suggests.)

("Or pleasure?" He doesn't say. The insane smile on old Neddy Muldoon's corpse will never leave his mind.)

(MI5 will bury the incident. One last casualty of Jack Dalliard's Cause.)

---

[The Colbert Report/The Daily Show RPS - fic] In All Seriousness.

Jon Stewart/character!Stephen Colbert, R, subtle hints to slash, bondage, and more.
All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Stephen has Jon in a compromising position. Then he asks for something.
Written Feburary 21, 2008.

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It wasn't long before he caved. Something was terribly wrong, of course, but he could say nothing. So he nodded, whimpered, and closed his eyes as Stephen betrayed his trust.

Stephen grinned a maniac grin, unseen by Jon. “About time, don't you think?”

“Th- think what?” Jon stuttered, his gut twisting slightly.

“I asked you for my own show.”

What? “What?”

Stephen leaned back, admiring the sight. “I'd like my own show.” He made a show of raising an eyebrow - how was he so good at that?

Jon closed his eyes again, but Stephen touched his nose. Jon opened them in a hurry.

“Can I, Jon?” He sounded so..so innocent. Jon knew he was seriously asking.

“Why are you asking me?” Jon managed, and Stephen's grin faltered.

Jon almost closed his eyes again. That was the wrong question, he should have said yes, yes yes -

Stephen stood up, letting go.

“Yes you can have your own show!” Jon said quickly.

Stephen appeared to mull this over. “You'll have to say that where someone else can hear you, Jon.” He said casually.

Jon didn't move. Maybe he could get out of this. Maybe he could give Stephen his own show.

Maybe.

Stephen touched Jon's nose again, and Jon's eyes flickered up.

It was time to focus.

Jon nodded without hesitation this time, and Stephen grinned. It was the first real grin Jon had seen on his face all day.

And Stephen finally began to untie him.

---

[Whose Line Is It Anyways? - fic] He noticed.

Colin+Ryan, PG.
Written November 20, 2006 by Cosmic.

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He noticed.

He noticed when Ryan tilted back his chair, he knew that mean he was thinking hard, thinking about something important.

He noticed his soft hands, how large, yet delicate they were when they were in a scene, holding hands.

He noticed the adoring, loving look in Ryan's eyes that he gave him when he thought Colin wasn't looking.

The way Ryan was always close to him, even if it was only touching sleeves.

Colin always noticed these little things about him, he wondered if Ryan ever noticed him.

---

[Lord of the Rings, fic] March.

Random Orc/Gollum, R.
Written August, 2, 2006 by Zekkass.

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Marching. Gollum screams again, and Ugluk is forced to kick him to unconsciousness to shut him up.

Sauron wants this creature alive, but he never specified if he could injure Gollum or not.

“Up, filth.” He growls, when Gollum stirs. “Move.”

Gollum whines, but he lurches to his feet and shuffles on. Ugluk jerks the chain that is tied around Gollum’s neck and drags him along.

They march for another day, through the blasted lands. They stop at night for rest, but that is all.

Gollum sits and stares at the ground at nights. When he eats his ration of crackers, Ugluk doles them out carefully. Gollum must not eat enough to be strong, but he must eat enough to survive.
The days go on, and they continue on their way. It is a long march to Sauron’s tower, and a difficult one. Once, Ugluk nearly died when he slipped on a cliff face. Thankfully, he was holding onto Gollum’s leash, and Gollum was forced to save him; otherwise Gollum would have died, himself.

The little life-and-death moments make him wonder about the creature. It’s a filthy little thing, but when he is covered with dust from the trek, they really aren’t so different.

He does not consider Gollum a friend, nor would he free him. His loyalty to Sauron is too strong for that.

But he does consider Gollum a plaything, and when the nights are at their worst, and the travel difficult, he holds down Gollum and pleasures himself. The screams add a nice touch, he thinks, but he chokes him to silence with the chain anyways.

It is his rightful reward for putting up with Gollum, after all.

---

[House MD - fic] Drinkery

House/Wilson, R.
Drinking in a bar.
Written October 8, 2006 by Zekkass.

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The first drink was a long, sordid affair. House smirked every single time Wilson took a sip, and he ended up nursing it for at least ten minutes. (House had his eyes on Wilson every single time he drank. Every. Single. Time.)

The second glass was a gulp-gulp-gulp-nevermind-the-burn affair.

(House wasn’t watching – Wilson didn’t know why.)

The third went down fast, and so did the next three.

By the ninth drink, Wilson was very, very drunk.

---

The lampshade was an odd touch, House thought.

---

“I’m not stupid, Housh.” Wilson slurred against House’s shoulder.

“Of course you aren’t, Jimmy. Just drunk.” While it was incredibly entertaining to watch Wilson wear a lampshade and hit on everyone in the bar, once he started slurring, well, unless he did something incredibly embarrassing, House wasn’t amused.

“I’m not Jimmeh. Mm James.” Wilson stopped for a second, and finished off another drink. “Yeh know I luove you, man.”

House raised his eyebrows and wished for a tape-recorder.

(In House’s mind, Santa suddenly jumped in through the window, bitch-slapped the bouncer, and handed House recordings of everything Wilson had ever said. And a shiny red recorder. Then he departed via helicopter with three girls in tow.)

"Dancsh?"

House sighed. Things were not going his way, tonight. “My leg? Hello?”

“So?”

“Hell.”

The music was slow, and they waltzed together with the oddest dance steps ever seen outside a strip bar. No one noticed, and no one cared, though. (Drunks were drunks, even if they were gay drunks.)

It wasn’t magical, to House, just a series of painful movements for his leg - he hadn’t taken his Vicodin, yet, and if there was any chance of him scoring tonight, he wasn’t going to. (It’s no fun if you can’t feel anything, after all.)

Wilson didn’t notice, and danced with his lampshade hiding his grin. When the song ended, he pushed his ‘shade up, giggled, and kissed House.

It was sloppy, it was alcohol-tainted, it was an opening: House immediately began guiding Wilson off of the dance floor.

“Come with me, Jimmy.”

“’m not Jim – “

“I know. Come on.”

As soon as they were outside and in the cold night air, House kissed Wilson again, hard.

Wilson almost sobered, then didn’t.

“Housh?”

“My place. Come on.”

---

Wilson was bad, horribly drunk bad, but House didn’t care. It was Wilson, the untouchable. He had a lampshade, and House found that kinkable.

---

Wilson swore off drinking in the morning.

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[Blackadder II / fic] Last Offer

Melchett/Ludwig, PG-13, contains spoilers.
Ludwig offers Melchett a chance.
Set during the credits of the last episode in II. (Chains)
Written September 25, 2006 by Zekkass.

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A flash of bitterness. “Why…why did you save me for last, Ludwig?” Melchett gasps, holding his arm. “Did you want to save your old friend?” Oddly enough, when he is about to die, Melchett shows his craftiness. Stalling for time is the only way he might live, unless Ludwig decides to spare him. (Which is unlikely.) He is no brave idiot, so he will not attempt to kick the knife away, nor is he a sniveling fool. He will not beg for his life.

Only the craftiest and most hardy of men may survive the Queen for more than a week, and Lord Melchett has surpassed nearly everybody in this regard. Perhaps, now, this is why Ludwig hasn’t killed him.

Ludwig says nothing, which is odd. Melchett knows that Ludwig should be gloating, taunting, torturing him. However, Ludwig holds his bloody knife and stares at him.

Melchett almost breaks for the door, but Ludwig lifts the knife, and speaks. “Do not leave. I am not finished with you, Melchett.”

“Then kill me already! You’ve won! What are you waiting for, my old age?” Melchett shouts, scared. He is tired, he has lost, he will die. It would be folly to even attempt to get out of this one, but Melchett enjoys living too much.

“No, Melchett.” Ludwig smiles. “I think I will not kill you. I will need someone to advise me, in matters of ruling, and you fit the bill very nicely. You will not die.”

Melchett can not deal with this. He is prepared to die, to live, to wait there forever, watching that knife, but to live under Ludwig’s command, pretend he is the Queen, pretend he loves him, as he loved Queen Elizabeth, no. He can not do this. “Damnit.”

“You do not like my decision?”

“…No.” Melchett wants to live. Needs to. The word is torn out, and he can’t quite find regret.

Ludwig frowns, but there is a note of victory in his voice. “Very well, Lord Melchett. You will die, then.” He steps forward, and stabs Melchett. “A pity, Melchett.” He hisses as the blood flows. “I was so hoping to shag you again.”

Melchett does not say a word; he is dead.

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