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allanaTitle: Silent Running
Author: Allana
Fandom: The Faculty
Pairing: Zeke/Casey
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not claim these characters as my own, nor make any profit from this story. The Faculty is owned by Dimension Films
Notes: This is my first foray into The Faculty fandom. I'd be interested to hear if I got Zeke's voice right. Even just a little bit right. Depending on your preference, you can read this as either pre- or post-movie.
Silent Running
Zeke likes to drive barefoot. Long, looping, aimless laps of Herrington. Shards of gravel stuck in the grooves of the pedals prick his feet with sharp pleasure-pain as the throb and vibration of the engine thrums through his body. Like sex, but without all the complications.
He likes to think of himself as a non-materialistic person, but his car... that's a whole other thing.
Casey Connor walking down the street barefoot sparks his interest. Pale as a wraith, flitting through the night and just looking so fucking unreal. Zeke pulls up beside him, and hops out of his car, trailing his hand across the hood. I'm not leaving you baby. Casey shuffles along, oblivious to the roar of the engine and Zeke reaching out for him.
He's ice cold when Zeke grabs his shoulder. Chill inches up Zeke's arm and finds a new home in his heart when he turns Casey around and finds one blank eye, almost dull, and the other... swollen, dark, sealed shut. He’s docile when Zeke opens the door and almost pushes him in.
He curls up on the seat--no one can curl up as efficiently as Casey--looking even paler against the leather and impossibly fragile. Zeke rakes his fingers through his hair and stares at him until he notices that the marble of Casey’s skin has a distinct blue tinge. And the shaking. Fuck.
He fiddles with the dials, whacks the heat up as high as it’ll go, but minutes later, Casey is still shivering and silent. The thin cotton of his t-shirt ripples hypnotically, drawing Zeke’s eyes. Swearing under his breath, Zeke wheels his baby round and heads for home. He needs a smoke.
He has to half-carry Casey down to the basement; the shivers--no, full-blown shakes now--that wrack Casey's body are now thrumming through his body too. He eases Casey onto the couch, fully intending to wrap a blanket around him, but somehow wraps himself around him instead. Maybe it's the eyes--eye--but he needs to keep Casey safe.
Small hands cling to his large, square hands with surprising strength. There’s gotta be a core of steel there. Casey’s still cold; he should get up and find that blanket, maybe some peroxide, but that would mean lugging death-grip Casey with him. So, he continues to hold Casey, and finally takes a good, long look at him.
Specks of blood dot the hem of Casey’s sweats. His eyes slide further down and take in the blood-covered feet. It’s 3.00 am. Just how far did Casey walk? And why? He catalogues everything, then locks all thoughts away. He’ll deal with them at a later date. Right now, the Casey-shaped lump in his arms is what matters.
He brushes his mouth over the shell of Casey's ear. Casey jerks and twists in his arms; his sharp bones press into Zeke as he uncurls and raises his head. The horrible stillness of his face slowly shifts to puzzlement. Encouraged, Zeke lets his mouth drift in a thin stream down Casey's jaw, hovering over the bone-white skin, letting his heat warm Casey.
The kiss is inevitable. Casey’s a smart guy, he knows where this is going, even if he’s fucked up, and his lips open almost instantly. Chapped, yet soft. All the awkward sharpness in Casey’s body dissolves as Zeke pulls him closer, melding them together.
When Zeke pulls away, Casey’s eye is open, watching him. He stares for a few seconds longer, then, apparently finding the right something in Zeke’s face, settles himself more comfortably. Zeke feels kiss-swollen lips press against his neck and curve into a smile.
Zeke thinks that maybe he could enjoy complications.
Author: Allana
Fandom: The Faculty
Pairing: Zeke/Casey
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not claim these characters as my own, nor make any profit from this story. The Faculty is owned by Dimension Films
Notes: This is my first foray into The Faculty fandom. I'd be interested to hear if I got Zeke's voice right. Even just a little bit right. Depending on your preference, you can read this as either pre- or post-movie.
Silent Running
Zeke likes to drive barefoot. Long, looping, aimless laps of Herrington. Shards of gravel stuck in the grooves of the pedals prick his feet with sharp pleasure-pain as the throb and vibration of the engine thrums through his body. Like sex, but without all the complications.
He likes to think of himself as a non-materialistic person, but his car... that's a whole other thing.
Casey Connor walking down the street barefoot sparks his interest. Pale as a wraith, flitting through the night and just looking so fucking unreal. Zeke pulls up beside him, and hops out of his car, trailing his hand across the hood. I'm not leaving you baby. Casey shuffles along, oblivious to the roar of the engine and Zeke reaching out for him.
He's ice cold when Zeke grabs his shoulder. Chill inches up Zeke's arm and finds a new home in his heart when he turns Casey around and finds one blank eye, almost dull, and the other... swollen, dark, sealed shut. He’s docile when Zeke opens the door and almost pushes him in.
He curls up on the seat--no one can curl up as efficiently as Casey--looking even paler against the leather and impossibly fragile. Zeke rakes his fingers through his hair and stares at him until he notices that the marble of Casey’s skin has a distinct blue tinge. And the shaking. Fuck.
He fiddles with the dials, whacks the heat up as high as it’ll go, but minutes later, Casey is still shivering and silent. The thin cotton of his t-shirt ripples hypnotically, drawing Zeke’s eyes. Swearing under his breath, Zeke wheels his baby round and heads for home. He needs a smoke.
He has to half-carry Casey down to the basement; the shivers--no, full-blown shakes now--that wrack Casey's body are now thrumming through his body too. He eases Casey onto the couch, fully intending to wrap a blanket around him, but somehow wraps himself around him instead. Maybe it's the eyes--eye--but he needs to keep Casey safe.
Small hands cling to his large, square hands with surprising strength. There’s gotta be a core of steel there. Casey’s still cold; he should get up and find that blanket, maybe some peroxide, but that would mean lugging death-grip Casey with him. So, he continues to hold Casey, and finally takes a good, long look at him.
Specks of blood dot the hem of Casey’s sweats. His eyes slide further down and take in the blood-covered feet. It’s 3.00 am. Just how far did Casey walk? And why? He catalogues everything, then locks all thoughts away. He’ll deal with them at a later date. Right now, the Casey-shaped lump in his arms is what matters.
He brushes his mouth over the shell of Casey's ear. Casey jerks and twists in his arms; his sharp bones press into Zeke as he uncurls and raises his head. The horrible stillness of his face slowly shifts to puzzlement. Encouraged, Zeke lets his mouth drift in a thin stream down Casey's jaw, hovering over the bone-white skin, letting his heat warm Casey.
The kiss is inevitable. Casey’s a smart guy, he knows where this is going, even if he’s fucked up, and his lips open almost instantly. Chapped, yet soft. All the awkward sharpness in Casey’s body dissolves as Zeke pulls him closer, melding them together.
When Zeke pulls away, Casey’s eye is open, watching him. He stares for a few seconds longer, then, apparently finding the right something in Zeke’s face, settles himself more comfortably. Zeke feels kiss-swollen lips press against his neck and curve into a smile.
Zeke thinks that maybe he could enjoy complications.
