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Saturday Morning -- Charles:Erik:RavenTitle: Saturday Morning (After Friday Night)
Fandom: X-Men First Class
Written for xmen_firstkink prompt asking for hijinks a la Katy Perry's "Last Friday Night." Warnings for drunken debauchery, shameless fix-it, and OT3!
"Erik?" Charles croaked. He could not seem to make his eyes focus. His head hurt abominably in fact, most of his body did and the utilitarian bunk he lay on did not seem remotely familiar. Were... were those bars across the doorway? "Erik, my friend, where are we?"
Erik, sitting on the bunk with Charles's head pillowed on his lap, looked down at him with a toothy grin. "The drunk tank," he said cheerfully. "We all are."
"All?" Charles sat up slowly and looked around the room. Every bunk was occupied, and yes, all the figures were familiar. Only a few of them showed any signs of consciousness, and that consisted mostly of moans for death. "What happened?"
"Read for yourself. I got one of the guards to g
Poetry SlamTitle: Poetry Slam
Fandom: Night at the Museum
Rating: PG, I think. It's definitely not any more than that. They only get very mildly frisky.
Warnings: boykisses, and Roman love poetry. Yeah.
Word count: 814
Disclaimer: I don't own the Night at the Museum movies or their characters. Nor do I lay claim to the person or poetry of Gaius Valerius Catullus.
Summary: For Jed, there's nothing more boring than poetry. For Octavius, there's nothing more inspiring.
Comments: The poem they're talking about is Catullus V. I really, really wanted to include Catullus XVI, because it's the most hilarious thing ever, but I thought that one would actually appeal to Jed!
Jedediah hated to admit it, but there were times when courting a Roman general had its drawbacks. Not often, but there were times.
This was one of those times.
Most of the museum would be downstairs in the foyer, he thought wistfully, playing games and dancing the night away. And on any othe
Vanguard, Chapter 1: DuncanDuncan's Journal: Day 1288
I consider myself a good man. I respect women, elders, my equals, and the dead. I say a morning prayer, and an evening one. Hell, I even thank the gods for a meal, instead of immediately chowing down in the voracious manner as the other soldiers here do. By all logical means, I should be in paradise. No really, not just because I'm a good man, but also because I should be dead by now. So I ask myself: why, oh gods up there, have I ended up in hell?
1288 days. 1288 days of my life have been spent in this misery, and I'm beginning to lose faith in the glory I was promised. Some of the rookies still live in their ignorant bliss, but I've lived long enough to realize that there's not much glory to find here. “Sing the songs of glory and march into battle—-join The Crusade today!”. Such were the words of the posters The Crusade has spread all over The Mortal Realm. Gullible fools practically stand in line for these songs of glory that th
LatreuophobiaI wash off sick-sweet orange lipstick in front of a mirror as dusty as gothic romances. It tastes like oblivion, that is to say, like nothing my tongue can detect.
The door opens with a creak no private restroom could emulate. Some chick with blue bobbed hair and smeared eyeliner. I looked like that once. Ten years ago.
Getting the beer out of my hair is harder. Some men just can't take it when I'd rather they not kiss my feet or call me an angel or-
“Dayum girl, you look like a goddess.”
I gulp, taste of acid.
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