I had to write something. I was on a seriously bad kick. /facepalms. So, my friends! Have some crappy fanfic.
Mememememe
1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.
3. Write a drabble related to each song that plays. You only have the time frame of the song to finish the drabble; you start when the song starts, and stop when it's over. No lingering afterwards!
4. Do ten of these, then post them.
Fandom: Infernal Affairs
Toshiro Masuda – Wata Houshi
Sam loves his temples. The incense is thick and strong, smoke messages to the blue sky above him. Fire flickers at the edges of his sight where people throw prayer papers in. All around him, the low chant of the monks hum. People bow their heads before a higher power, clutching their hands together and kneeling down in submissiveness.
This is the one and only place he would bow his head to another.
Willow Smith – Whip My Hair
"The fuck is that bullshit?" was the first thing Piero said when the electronic tones blasted out, shredding the silence of the night.
He turns around. Stares at Keung, who simply fishes out his blue phone from his pocket – I WHIP MY HAIR BACK AND FORTH – face a mask of indignation. "I think it's quite nice –"
"Turn it off, for fuck's sake, we're collecting cocaine for the boss – don't make him lose face. Jesus."
When they went back to headquarters, Piero tells the boss that it would be, perhaps, better for him to call Piero instead of Keung next time he sent the duo out to collect the shipments.
The Last Goodnight – Pictures Of You
Lau takes pictures of Mary with his cellphone, and always, always – she shies away from him, laughing coyly. It is a game they play, a game he relishes in – and always, always, they end up in bed after the first few furious snaps.
When they finish, and he lies awake in the rumpled sheets later – Mary curled up tight next to him, breathing deep and even and long – he flicks through the pictures in his cell.
And quietly, he compares.
Abingdon boys school – Innocent Sorrow
He watches Yan leave the police academy behind him, head turning back for a moment, a look of uncertainty flashing across his face before turning forwards again, shoulders set.
He watches Yan run from the three policemen chasing him, sweat dripping and eyes wild, mouth spewing out virulent curses when he stumbles and falls, the three policemen's weight bringing him down.
He watches Yan trudge into the line-up, face worn and lined, hair greasy and unwashed, the sides of his mouth tilting into a mocking smile as he holds the sign up and waits for the camera's light to flash.
He watches Yan stumble up to the rooftop, jerking back for a moment at the naked light washing down, shading his dark eyes behind a wary hand.
He can only watch. And there is nothing he can do.
Panzer AG – Monster
The night after the disastrous cocaine shipment, everybody is on edge. Curses are exchanged, a knife is pulled out and the drugs go untouched. Above them all, Sam fidgets. Just a little.
In the police force, requests for coffee go unanswered, drawers are locked and computer passwords are changed. Behind them all, Wong fidgets. Just a little.
Everybody is waiting, just waiting, for the skin of the human being to peel away – Just a little! – and show the monster behind it.
Imogen Heap – Angry Angel
"I can't do anything to help you if you don't help yourself!" The psychiatrist is angry today, less given to softness and Yan's coming in to flop on her comfortable chair and sleep. "I can't do anything, if you don't tell me what on earth is going through your head!"
Yan, he looks up at the ceiling above and close his eyes, sinking deeper into the warm brown softness. Around him, the angry shouts peter away into a desperate kind of muttering, edged with something – something familiar – "Damnit, Yan –"
He hears her heels click away, a chair pull out and the clicking of the computer mouse begin. He shifts a little, adjusting himself into a more comfortable position.
And he sleeps.
YACHT – Summer Song
"Watermelon!" roars Keung as he stumbles into the bar, holding up the plastic bags bulging with green-coloured – as he said – watermelons. Behind him, Piero walks with a more steady gait, his own hands filled with six-packs of Tiger beer.
Yan stares at them from the bar.
"What?"
"It's summer," says Keung, his breath smelling of fruit and beer. "It's hot. It's smoky. Watermelon is cooling, and refreshing, and healthy."
He says it like it's the end of the whole matter.
And then he fishes out a watermelon from the bag, a real beauty, round and firm and viridian green striped with bold black.
"Have one."
And what could Yan do but to accept it?
David Archuleta – A Little Too Not Over You
"I hate love songs," announced Lau one day when he was out in the club – some club, whatever club, he only knows that it's supposed to be one of the best – drowning in beer and salted peanuts. Above the noise of the club, some whining love song plays, and he feels his brow furrow and the corners of his mouth pull down. "I hate love songs," he says insistently – and he hears laughter erupt around him.
"Trouble in heaven?"
"Fiancée trouble, don't worry about it, man. It happens."
He feels his lips pull into a grin, his face a rictus of jollity and amusement – and Lau thinks, Fuck, I'm drunk.
Bethany Joy Lenz – Halo
When they have sex, Yan leaves bruises behind. Always. He claws, he scratches, he clings to her like he was a drowning man and she was a fucking raft.
When they have sex, Yan occasionally forgets to put on condoms.
It was after one of these times – that her cravings for pickled mangoes got too intense and the vomiting began.
It was after one of these times – that she went to a small clinic at the end of a street and laid down on the sterile hard bed, legs held wide and open for a doctor to insert cold steel into her vagina, scraping out a little bit of blood.
And later, at the end, Yan cries and screams, and she cries and screams back – "I am not your saviour," she shouts at him, watching him shrink back as if he was slapped. "I am not your saviour," she repeats again, and this time, she wipes away her tears.
Tarkan – Istanbul Agliyor
Hong Kong is dusty and noisy, her streets filled with cars and neon lights. People move around her, here one day, gone the next – bits of life shifting and moving about.
She is cruel, her buildings steel and strong and tall. She doesn't care about the life that seethes in her, and she watches with an impassionate eye as people fall from great heights to rock bottom, passing no judgement or mercy.
A prison is a prison is a prison – and those that are trapped in continuous hell know this all too well.
fin.