Seperis (seperis) wrote,

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from the far reaches of things i do not want to admit


Icon courtesy of the marvelous flambeau. The most. Adorable. Bunny. Icon. Ever.


B. Right. My badfic.

Okay, an explanation. There are several fics of mine I dislike, and a few I'd burn if the internet's memory wasn't quite so long and I hadn't been all "yes, archive as you please!" during my formative years of fandom. Because some are copied like in five places, and in perhaps one or two other languages, and okay, must stop now.

Worst fic. Below cut. This is what we call "embarassment squick".

Flight. Flight is the worst thing I've ever posted. It's not the worst thing I've written, it's just the rest of them are in notebooks in a very big box that will not be opened until I am dead at least five hundred years. Please God.

This one is--special. It's so *bad*. And worse, it doesn't make sense. I was going through this--*waves hand*--stream of consciousness/metaphor style crisis and for some reason? This seemed like a great idea.

Later (perhaps much later; I'm pretty sure I created my own kind of amnesia and forgot about it) I read it and I have no idea what is going on in that story.

So. With commentary.

ETA: Ack! Forgot! This is also almost songfic! I was totally in this Carnival by Natalie Merchant place and listening on repeat! Okay. That just--really makes it worse.

Back to the horror.

Star Trek: Voyager
Paris/Torres, Paris/f, Paris/m
Posted summer 2000, alt.startrek.creative, ParisTorresFever, alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated (list)

It was hot--he remembered that.

Carnival. On a planet that never slept.

Stripped to shorts, a humid night, so high he didn't know his own name, dancing under naked stars he didn't fly with anymore.

We can tell by this, I think, that this is after Tom got thrown out of Starfleet for that little Caldik Prime thingie. I hope. Jesus, I hope.

That was okay. This flying was just fine.

Could be high? I'm not sure. I think so, but there's also this thing where--well, you'll see.

{"What's your name, baby?"}

Sometimes I used brackets instead of italics. No, I have no idea why.

Fuck that. It didn't matter. Everything lost its edges, the woman against him, red lips parted, fingers drawing circles on his back with blunted nails. Whispering in his ear, licking the sweat from the corner of his mouth.

{"Make you feel alive."} Something cold pressed on his arm.

So many people. Crowded in the smell of sweat.

So hot.


No one slept here. Nights went on forever.

It's causing me physical pain to read this. I just want to say. What. Did. I. Have. Against. Paragraphs? Or hell, complete sentences?

Sand under his bare feet, sweat beading on his forehead, people packed close, music vibrating in solid air, laughter that wasn't forced, that had corners and people who didn't know who he was. Dancing, the beat hot in his blood--moving with it, with her, laughing.

Bolded by me--what does that mean?

He could fly forever in endless velvet dark.

In case anyone is curious, I am never using that phrase again.

The noise, hanging in the thick air, all around him. Like the colors.

*sad* I wonder if I called holy war on verbs or something.

Pushing back damp blonde hair from his forehead, fingers coming away wet, sticky.

He could totally be blond. And wow, I could have spelled that correctly. And not feminized it. Though considering....

He took the dermal patch off his arm, dropping it to the ground.

Yes! Drugs! Okay. I don't feel better, but yes.

"You want more?"

God, yes.

"What's your name?"

He didn't have one.

Okay, granted. I was going for this entire dreamy druggy he wants to forget thing and you know, foreshadow, or what do you call thinking about the past? Backshadow? But God. Beating horse is commencing. It's a sad horse.

The moons were high overhead, he thought he could touch them if he just tried, reached to feel them, coat his hands with cold silver. He kissed her, alcohol and salt on her tongue, bit her lip to see how colors tasted.

The only thing that makes that bearable is the colors tasted bit.

Her blood ran green. She drew patterns with it on his skin, under those moons.

Problem. She's not Vulcan. I think I was trying to imply acid trip and--okay, stopping now.

"You don't need a ship to fly. Let me show you, pretty boy."

Who says that? Seriously? God.

It was a thousand years ago.

Opening his eyes in his own bed, drawing his legs up to his bare chest, staring around his quarters, waiting for the crowd to grow quiet.

Oh! It's a dream! And wouldn't it be nice if I indicated this in some way? In a way that makes sense to other human beings? Because he's already high, so hey, add in a dream sequence and then the pieces will fall into place for everyone!

It was dark and cold.

And silent.

Yes. It was dark. And cold. And silent. This could only be improved by having written it just like that.


That was his name.

And we were worried about this. The name thing. All--two pages of it. Since I didn't bother telling the readers. Unless you read the codes. This is so embarrassing.

"S'okay, 'Lanna. Go back to sleep."

May God strike me dead if I ever do a nickname for B'Elanna again.

Stars flashing by at warp in lines of changing color, as he rose to watch them, naked. Touching the window with the tips of his fingers, tracing a senseless design on cold metal.

Anti-verb crusade continues. Also, he's naked. Yes. That makes sense on a starship in the Delta Quadrant when he could be called to duty at any moment. Naked.

He could taste the colors.

They were bitter.

They were. It happens when you eat crayolas. Which is the only explanation I have for this one.

"Take this."

Italics are symbolic of Tom's flashback into the past. In case the fact I'm tossing random senseless dialogue in makes no sense.

"Computer, raise temperature ten degrees."

Who says that? I think Tom. But I'm not sure. Maybe B'Elanna noticed shrinkage.

"Anything you want."

It wasn't the same.

The same as what no idea. Okay, wait. Temperature--okay. He's trying to heat the quarters up to remind him of being very high and miserable. Yes. I love my logic.

Young. Dance forever under stars that moved, moons turned to liquid in moist darkness. Have anything he wanted.

Have her. Under the stars.

"Come on, somewhere more private."

For a price.

Back in the days of a newbie hetter, I did not have sufficient vocabulary to cover the concept of 'rentboy'. This is so sad. I can feel myself beginning to die inside.


And back to the present. Nothing like those fantastic transitions.Okay, I think--think being the operative word--I'd been reading all about how to not use said too much. Hence it's impossible to tell who is saying what. But be comforted. I didn't enter the use of non-said words. He could have grunted.

He felt her forehead against his back for a moment out of time, didn't fit with his memories.

I need to lie down. I think he's still in a quasi-dream-acid-memory state? But honestly, I just don't know. But I'm sure I had some deep thoughts on the subject at the time.

"Bad dream?" she whispered.

He wasn't sure.


Hot. He remembered that. Sand under his knees, looking down at smiling red lips, blue eyes, dark leather pulled up to her waist. Dark green skin.

In case it was too subtle? The planet was hot. I just want to be sure the reader really feels that.

"God, yes, now."

Italics Expressing Tommy's Angsty Memories.

Licking away the taste of salt and blood and the moon on her skin. Colors he could taste. Music he could see.

Huh. I am very tired of tasty colors now.

"It was a long time ago." His hand covered hers.

Wins for dialogue that does not say, respond to the actual question. Unless you really think deeply symbolically.

Not long enough.

He never knew her name. Not any of them. Never cared.

This is a reference to all the people he slept with as a rentboy. Or something. Subtle there.

"What's your name, baby?"

"Doesn't matter."


Her skin was slippery under his hands, pushing her into the sand. She breathed into his ear, drawing red circles on his shoulder.

He was laughing. She gave him another patch as he slid inside her, taking a breath at the touch of her hand on his throat. Her fingers tracing his back and sides.

God. Verbs. Please. More verbs.

"You're good."

Anything he wanted.

No clue what was going on there.

"It was hot," he said softly.


"What did you do?" she whispered.

For a price.

I have never wanted to change my name more.

She circled him, lifting her eyes.

This is B'Elanna, btw. As there are two women in this story and I seem to have this weird habit of not explaining which one I'm talking about. Though I think I linked one of them symbolically to sand.

She was naked too. Copper skin, brown eyes. He knew how she tasted, how she smelled, the color of her blood on his skin, the patterns she drew with her nails on his back.

This blood thing is getting disturbing. I think the worst part is, I never go anywhere kinky with it. Dammit.

What the moons would have looked like, coating her with cool silver.



That's Tom talking. There is absolutely no way to figure this out unless you count backward by dialogue. She asked, what did you do, he asked why. I assume he wonders why she would want to know the reason her boyfriend turned their room into a sauna and seems to be having an acid flashback. I cannot imagine why she would be interested.

I didn't write the brightest Tom.

"Show me."

Now B'Elanna. Talking, that is. I--what if he'd like, dismembered someone? Did she really want to have him show her?


God, it was hot.

Christ, I am going to kill myself right now.

The patch against his skin, cool.

Compare and contrast. I learned that in fourth grade English. It's sad I am using my education to destroy the English language.

"I want more."

That would be drugs. Yeah. It took me a couple of reads to figure out that one too.

He didn't have money.

"What do you want for it?"

Baby het playing with rentboy concept. I am so charmed. When the crying stops, I might even forgive myself.

"Show me."

B'Elanna again. Apparently he's not tracking. She wants to see the dismemberment thing.

"Just you." A grin from red lips.

I really want to head this off by moving into the technical problems of trying to work inside a dream sequence, an acid flashback, a memory, and actual events. But mostly, I can't figure out why in the name of God I split the italics there.

Sweat beading her skin, brown eyes looking at him coolly. She took a step forward, dragging her nails across his bare stomach. He closed his eyes.

I'm almost sure this is B'Elanna he's watching.


"Show me."

If this doesn't stop soon, I'm seriously going to have a psychotic break.

He was on his back in sand, eyes closed, sweat running down his chest she licked away. Fingers digging into it, then into her, the sound of the surf in his ears, voices blurring.

And whiplash to the past. *makes gesture, gives up.* I--I don't want to talk about it.

Everything he wanted could be right here.

This could be drugs, but also could be referring to B'Elanna. Hell, it could be referring to environmental controls. I have no idea.

"Tell me your name."

"Whatever you want it to be."

I can't even deal with that.

So hard he knew she could ride him all night. It would never end.

He didn't need space to fly.

Sex was colored in green and red, criss-crossed on pale skin. Fascinated.

The only thing that is keeping me going is the warm thought of removing every single reference to color from every fic I have ever written.

"How much would you pay?" he whispered. Her lips brushed his collarbone.

She understands on an intuitive level that this means he did not dismember anyone and can now relax. IT's like a soulbond really.

"What do you want?"

I--don't know. Is that supposed to be past?

He found her shoulders, running his fingers across her skin. Breathed in the smell of her sweat.

Pretty sure this is B'Elanna.

"You're beautiful."

He knew that. The stars poured together into silver lines that matched the ones he drew in dark green skin. Head arching back, breathing thick air. Anything he wanted.

Wait. The other woman is green? Did I ever metnion that before? Is this part of the acid? Is she Orion?

"So beautiful, baby."

He would never come down.

"Fuck me."

He had ice between his teeth, tracing her body with it, cold silver lines--shudders when he traced dark nipples, across her soft stomach. The sound of the crowd so close, the music pounding inside him.

I've learned to hate the mention of silver a lot.

Slipping the ice inside her, body arching sharply off wet sand. Laughing.

"Show me."

Stop. Saying. That. Now.

Sliding his hands down her back, drawing his nails up delicately, tracing the bone and muscle.

Could be B'Elanna. I--*squints*. No?

He pushed her down on her knees, hands pressed into her shoulders.

Yeahhhh. Sexy. In that way that B'Elanna would beat your ass for that shit.

"Everything?" he whispered. She looked up, lips parted, waiting. Knelt with her. The room was hot--he felt the sweat beneath his fingers.

"Show me."

*incoherent mumbling

He kissed her, running his hands through her hair, her skin slippery.

"Lay down." Against her parted lips, her breath fluttering against his cheek.

Okay, definitely B'Elanna. No green.

"On the sand. Let me look at you, pretty boy. Let me touch you. Don't tell me no."

This is a symbolic representation of how while he is *in* the present, he lives in teh past. Note how the dialogue he uses with B'Elanna is continued by an unnamed person in the past? Completely easy to understand there. I make it so easy. How did people read this?

He'd never say no.

"Give me more."

"Anything you want."

"Whatever you want."

He wanted to fly.

The real horror here is that I have no idea what the hell this is. But I'm pretty sure Tom just offered up his ass for drugs. Not that there is any possible way you can figure that out from the given text, of which there is much color and littel actual--er. Explanation.

Copper skin, running his tongue across her collarbone.

"I could fly forever." His voice was hoarse.

Mmm. Incohernet sex talk that bridges the past and present. Very meta of me.

She drew him down, kissing him with closed lips. Carpet whispering when she lifted one leg around his waist, foot sliding over his hip.

Pretty sure this is B'Elanna, though hell, maybe he's thinking of carpet as symbolic for sand.

"It wasn't real." But it had been.


His hands pinned above his head. He closed his eyes, sand clinging to his arms, grinding between them.

This could be B'Elanna--no, sand. Okay, this is someone else. Huh.

Who didn't matter.

"Anything. I can give it to you."

Anything to fly.

He could be anyone. Do anything.

"I want to fly."

"Make it real. Let me see."

Last part B'Elanna. I can't even deal with the rest. This is like--like someone stealing your underwear nad running it up a flagpole. I need to lie down.

Brown eyes watching him. Pressing her leg over one shoulder, tracing her breasts with his teeth, holding her hips on the floor. Opening her carefully, thumbs pulling her apart, finding her clit with the tip of his tongue. He heard her breathe.

Precision, fine work, sliding his tongue in her briefly, tasting her, finding how ready she was, how much he could do, how much she wanted.

*sighs* This does improve on earlier sex scenes, where all the terminology scared me to death. Don't ask. In the name of God, don't ask.

"You're beautiful," she whispered. Her hands threaded through his hair.

Mostly sure it's B'Elanna. No sand, you see.

That wasn't right, and he wasn't sure why.

I'm so glad we agree on something.

"Increase temperature eight degrees."

It was hot.

I am seriously never going to be able to write about weather again. Oh my GOD. What was I thinking?

"I want more."

Dancing on hot sand, hands running down his body, slick with sweat. A chest against his back, pressing him down.

"Let's fly forever, pretty boy."

This is a clever reference to Tom engaged it the buttsex. I'm almost sure I was trying to slide that past the het people in some terrifyingly coy way. I--no. Cannot deal.

On his knees in the sand.

"I want more."

He could fly forever. He was twenty-three and nothing could bring him down.

"Don't tell me no."

Or he will not give you money. For drugs. In the heat. With tasty colors.

Sand grinding between his teeth, fingers digging into his ass.

"Open up for me and we'll fly forever."

There's so much wrong with this I can't even start.

"I can do anything, 'Lanna. Tell me what you want." Hoarse.

Her hips trembled beneath his hands.

Pain was silver-dark, teeth in the back of his neck. Thick hands on his hips.

The patch pressed to his spine.

Totally buttsex. You have to interpret it. Or squint. Or have a reveleation of some kind. But it is there.

Stars reflecting off dark waves he could watch dance through salt-burned eyes.

He closed his eyes, sliding his tongue around her center, her hands tightening in his hair. Patterns he could practice in his sleep. Working slowly, carefully, tasting her, opening her a little wider, her fingers laced through his hair.

"I'll make you fly, 'Lanna."

God. Strike. Me. Dead.

Licking the moisture away, sliding his tongue in her--her back arched sharply--he did it again, sliding a finger inside her, she ground against his mouth--

Her gasps broke the silence of the room. Sliding back up her slick body, legs pressed apart, open to him, whatever she wanted. She stared up at him--her face was wet. He licked the salt from her skin, around dark eyes.

"I can make you scream."

Yes. That is totally sexy in teh context of an acid-trip flashback with your gfriend. Yes.

So hot, her skin, holding his head, whispering with the stars reflected in her blue eyes.

Not B'Elanna.

"Wonderful, baby. Let him have you. Anything you want. Fly with me."

*brightly* That must be his pimp.

"Anything you want me to be."

Not italic, so--seriously. This is fucking creepy. This is the stuff serial-killing girlfriend-mutiliating boyfreinds say before they serial kill/mutilate you.

She touched his face. He pinned her hands to the floor above her head, teeth clenched.

"I want you." He pushed inside her, watching her head go back. Holding her gaze, moving hard inside her. She shuddered.

Love was just another way to pay.

Oh deep. Very.

"I don't ever want to come down."

At this point, I want to be high. A lot.

Never feel earth under his feet again.

"You never have to."

Felt her shaking, nails digging into his back, eyes closed. He could be anyone.

This must be some kind of refernece to him not giving his name?

"Look at me!"

If she's looking anywhere but at possible serial-killing, girlfriend-mutiliating boyfriend, I'll be very surprised. Also, i'm pretty sure this is suppsoed to be him wanting to not live in teh past as a rentboy, but honestly? I could be way too optimistic

Brown eyes--blue eyes--opening on him. Her body beginning to convulse, wrists slippery in his grasp. Letting them go, cupping her face, trying to remember--

Past and present meet in hallucinations! So very awesome.

"Fly forever, never come down. That's what you want."

--trying to forget.

I really want to cry right now.

Kissing the parted lips, losing himself in her mouth, the taste and smell of her, the feel of her under his hands, covering her, trying to get so deep he'd never come down again.

Somehow, mangling that bit of imagery seems almost cute.

Never leave the stars again.

"Tom," against his mouth. "Please, Tom."

Make her fly.

"Anything, 'Lanna."

I should be shot for that.

He closed his eyes, hearing the crowd around him, sand beneath his knees--

Possiblity: public rentboy with audience sex. Huh. Okay, I like this.

--B'Elanna, coming against him, burying her mouth against his neck, teeth sharp--lifting her, against the wall--pushing her harder--legs shaking around him with the next thrust--

I swear to God they were on teh floor a second ago.

Harder, she was here--

"Fly, baby."

--with him. One last thrust into her--

--and sinking down, the shock of orgasm rippling through them both. Clinging to her, carpet under his knees, burying his head in her hair, her arms around him, stroking his back with one trembling hand. Her voice soft in his ear.

"I know."


the end

We shall never speak of this again. I'm going to go try and drown myself in the rain. Because it is raining. Again. As a symbol of my angst. You see? Deep.

ETA 2: Huh. miss_porcupine is right. I just did Badfic DVD Commentary. Am I the first? Can I name it after myself? Please? Please? Please?

(also, will go through and fix my spelling on my commentary in a bit.)

I should totally imbed an audio file of Carnival in this sucker.
Tags: meta: my fic, meta: writing, project: dvd commentary

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  • sgafic(ish): silver

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