Poltergeist Girl: Perhaps my favourite of all my Young Ones fanfics. Written one day on a whim and rated 'M' for language O.o;;
Remember: The boys belong to the BBC.
At the window he sat, staring at the rain as it beat down on the street below in a steady rhythm.
TapTapTap...
In the distance behind him, the usual background sound that accompanied his everyday, and quite frankly, boring life.
Boring by your standards, not by mine.
He side-glanced his room, mildly disgusted by the site. That didn't deture him from spitting on the floor and carelessly discarding his two spiked armbands.
From his spot on the windowsill, the small journey to his bed was nothing. His body hit the uncomfortable rock of a matress like brick, with white paint and drywall dusting the dull blanket in afterthought.
Bloody girly by my standards...
Sneering at nothing, fist met wall in the first act of mindless violence in nearly an hour. Joints and flesh stung, bringing a small smile to his face. The act was repeated, the smile growing larger with each connection. It felt good.
Fuck him
Fist connects with wall,
Fuck his smile
Smile grew,
Fuck his looks
Flesh stung,
Fuck his poetry
Joints ached.
Bloody ridiculous!
This time, his head met the wall, breaking through and leaving a nice-sized hole. The brief daze to follow was shaken off before familiar, unmistakable, muffled whinings broke his train of thought.
"FUCK OFF!" He roared in return, removing and throwing a boot at the door of his room to proove a point.
The message mustn't have gotten through, judging by the next rude interruption.
...Bloody girly...
That familiar presence came. That smile, that charm, that naivity...
Fuck!
Fist connecting with wall again, his knuckles practically shattered. The presence at the door gulped and nearly shyed away in fear.
He never gets the hint!
For a final time, fists connected with wall. Between the fists, that familiar presence. Those despised looks, that hated charm, that despised nervous smile, and most of all, that ever-hated poetry.
TapTapTap...
The rhythm of the rain dominated thought for a split second--aching joints, mixed emotions, and a loathed and all-too-familiar presence staring at him in confusion and fear.
A moment came, and with it, separation. He returned to his original spot on the windowsill to watch the rain.
TapTapTap...
All it took was one more question--a well placed and hesitant question before something snapped.
...Bloody puff
Shoulders hit the door with a dull thud as that familiar presence became pinned between freedom and fear, unable to tear loose. A point had to be made, and with physicality the only real choice of domain...
...Fucking...
...Unwanted feelings of lust prevailed.