An Assemblage of Drabbles

There’s something to be said for writing pretty much on command.  If you get a fandom, a character or pairing and a word from someone else, you can get a heck of a lot of writing done.  And, as I have learned, it’s great fun.  Instant fic: just add imagination.

That being said, this is the page whereon I’ve assembled all of my drabbles (from various drabble memes on LiveJournal) and “one-liners” (or rather, what were supposed to be one-liners!  I completely fail in the one line department), from a different LJ meme as well as from various chats.

They should be marked as either “drabble” (100 words and not a letter more) or “ficlet” (the ones that sprung from the “one-line” meme or from chat), and divided into fandoms, as per the list below.  If there are sequel-type drabbles/ficlets, they should be listed in the proper order, but most of them are independent.

: Boondock Saints:: Buffy the Vampire Slayer:: Casablanca:: The Chronicles of Narnia:: The Chronicles of Prydain:: Crossovers:: The Dark Is Rising:: Discworld:: Escaflowne:: FAKE:: Gatchaman:: Good Omens:: Hands Off!:: Haru wo Daite Ita:: Here is Greenwood:: The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy:: Jurassic Park:: Ladyhawke:: Lord of the Rings:: M*A*S*H:: Pirates of the Caribbean:: Ranma ½:: Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves:: Robotech:: Stargate SG-1:: Star Wars:: Torchwood:: Velvet Goldmine:: Voltron (Lions):: Voltron (Vehicle):: Yoroiden Samurai Troopers:

Boondock Saints

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—violence and their Da in trouble)

Da wasn’t as young as he used to be, and it shouldn’t have been as much of a surprise as it was when he caught a bullet low. Connor shouted as his Da staggered to his knees, blood trickling over his fingers from the belly wound, and heard the echo of Murphy’s cry ringing in his ears. He laid down the covering fire as best he could while Murph tried to drag the old man to safety. He felt the bullets enter his twin’s chest as if it were his own, and screamed at the pain of having his otherhalf ripped from him.

(JoAnn’s addition!)

Staring down at the three bodies, he slowly shook his head. He’d never thought they’d go down like this. Though, after seeing Murphy’s body, he expected to see the self-inflicted bullet hole in Connor’s temple.

***

(drabble; for JoAnn; prompt—a normal day)

Connor stepped out to smoke, and Murphy debated the pros and cons of grabbing the biggest steak he could find and dropping it over his twin’s head.  Then he remembered he’d gotten Con just the other day.  Too much too soon would just make him predictable.

Instead, he methodically hacked at the carcass before him, wondering when they’d get tired enough of working here to leave.  It was enough to keep body and soul together, to pour a few drinks, give offerings at church and maybe it wasn’t exactly nice, but it was normal.  That was quite enough for now.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer

***

(drabble: unsolicited.  Inspired by “Beneath You”, ep 7.02)

Tears filled her eyes, poured down her cheeks, but she never noticed.  Words filled her ears, his words, rambling, broken, unconnected, twisting in her every moment.

She didn’t understand his ravings, the spark.  It was when he mentioned Angel, in such despair—only then.

His soul.

Since that first moment, he hadn’t begged forgiveness.  Instead, he’d sought the one thing that would chain him more effectively than the chip ever had.

He would never hurt her.  He had given up his sanity for her, drowned it in guilt.

And she cried because no one had ever loved her that much.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Spike/Dru, dream)

For the first couple of days, Spike was so very weak he could barely keep himself upright in the wheelchair.  He knew, barely, that Drusilla had pulled him from beneath the organ, had brought him back to the safety of the factory.  S’all th’ Slayer’s fault, he thought darkly, glaring down at his still-useless legs.  He glared even harder when he realized that thinking and glaring was all he could do.  Can’t hunt, can’t kill, can’t hardly control the demon.  Bloody Slayer!

Behind him, he heard the tap-tap-tap of footsteps, the soothing sound of a voice, and glanced up, forcing away his rage and smiling, just as Dru draped herself over his shoulder.  “Now, then, pet, did you enjoy bein’ out?”

Moving easily, sinuously, as she had not since Prague, Dru swayed around the wheelchair.  “It was lovely to see the stars in person again,” she answered, her voice almost careless, “with none of the go-betweens that muddle things so.  But I missed you, my Spike.”  Her smile melted into a pout.  “The moon asked me where you were, and the clouds covered her face when I said we couldn’t dance.”

It was difficult to hold the fury back when she turned those great dark eyes on him.  “Sorry, luv,” he said, his words clipped, “but I don’t feel like dancing.”  He spun the chair, wanting nothing more than to get away, but there she was in front of him again.  He stopped, his hands clenching the wheels’ rims.  He could feel his jaw clenching.

Dru smiled at him, his bad temper unnoticed.  “But we shall dance, my darling.”  She knelt by him, her finger stroking his lips, and he listened, loving the sound of her voice.  “I’ve seen it, I’ve seen blood streaking the sky.  Miss Edith says he won’t be able to keep hold of the shiny thing, he’ll give it to the Slayer.  And then, we shall dance, as we did so long ago . . .”

Spike caught her finger and kissed it.  “Sounds a pretty dream, luv . . .”

Dru merely smiled back at him, and for the first time in nearly a hundred years, she had secrets in her eyes.

***

(drabble: unsolicited.  Inspired by Faith and the words “grief and guilt”)

It isn’t real.  If nothing else, Faith knows that.

When Buffy kisses her, desperate, hungry, longing, Faith knows.  It’s all for the tobacco on her tongue, the smooth leather beneath her fingers, the scent that’s almost-not-quite-right… because she pulls away the moment she registers the body beneath her hands is warm, lush, feminine, not cool and masculine-hard.

Then, voice breaking, Buffy whispers apologies, but whether to her or to him, Faith isn’t sure.

Maybe he deserves them.  She remembers the Chosen Two and a girlish crush that her own jealousy killed.

Grief makes people do crazy things.  So does guilt.

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; prompt—Spike, love)

It’s not enough.

You know what I mean, don’t you?  There’s always some damn sappy love song on the wireless, saying that you can live on love alone.  Hell, that stupid band from Liverpool had a song that was all about not needing anything but love.

What a load of bloody rot.  You need a hell of a lot more than just love to live.

Hell, what is love anyway?  It doesn’t just live in your head, that’s for damn sure.  It lives in your blood, in your heart and soul, in everything that you are.  It’s joy that turns to pain in an instant and lasts for an eternity… until the next time.  And I don’t mean any commonplace joy and pain, either.  It’s a… a kind of rapture, something that transports you, that moves you outside yourself, and it’s an agony that pushes you down into the deepest pit inside yourself that you could never imagine, where the hurt is so bad that it could drive you out into the first patch of sunlight you see because, God, that would be less painful.

But you can’t live without love either, can you?  You can’t live without that near-certainty of pain, because there’s always the chance of that… that bliss.  You live with the knowledge that she’ll crush your little puppy-dog devotion just for the merest possibility of seeing her smile.

You’d think I’d know better—you’d think that after a hundred twenty-odd years, I’d have learned, right?  But I keep on doing it… keep on giving her whatever she can take.  Because… all that pain is worth it when she does smile.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Spike, freedom)

The Slayer doesn’t understand, and neither do any of her little mates.  The Watcher might, he’s got years of wisdom on the rest of ‘em, but I know he doesn’t give a bloody damn.

None of them understand.  Part of me wants to say bugger the lot, because I don’t care if they don’t understand.  I shouldn’t care, anyway, but part of me wishes they’d at least try.

It’s not about what they did to me, those soddin’ soldiers in their underground funhouse.  Or, I guess, it’s not just about what they did, shovin’ this chip up my head.

It’s what they took from me.

Oh, I can just hear the Slayer now, uptight, righteous bitch that she is.  “Oh, poor Spikey,” she’d say, “can’t feed any more, can’t kill, can’t fight me. Funny, you know, I just don’t see the bad side!”

And the really sad thing is, she wouldn’t.

No one’s ever taken it away from her, see.  She’s never really lost her freedom.  And that’s what they took from me.  From the moment they got me in the bloody back with their stun guns, they took my freedom.

And I don’t just hate them for that.  ‘Cause someone who finds it so easy to take someone’s freedom – you gotta fear ‘em, too. 

***

(ficlet; Quill’s prompt—Bad-boy Giles and pre-vamp William, kissing)

William looked around himself in shock, which rapidly grew to terror.  He’d no idea where he was.  One moment, he’d been reading his poetry to Mother in the parlor, and she’d been kind enough to encourage him, and the next, he was outside among buildings that might have been warehouses.  Lamps that shone much, much too brightly glared down at him from the sides of the buildings and from tall poles between them.

He could smell – and quite sharply, too – the stink of the harbor, and hear the lapping of water upon the shore, and his panic took a sharp upswing, as he recalled how often people were assaulted and robbed in this area of London.

“Well, well, wot ‘ave we ‘ere?”

William startled violently at the voice coming out of the shadows; it was roughly accented, more so even than that of Molly, their chambermaid.  “Who’s there?” he called, and silently cursed himself for the way his voice quavered.

A man resolved himself out of the darkness, tall and broad.  He wore a strange kind of jersey that not only bared his arms, but was stretched tightly across his chest.  It was made of some kind of thin white cloth, in sharp contrast to the heavier material of his trousers.  He could see, though, that despite its weight, the fabric was torn, with long straggling threads marking each rent.  He wore heavy boots of some kind; they clumped hollowly against the pavement.

Even as he noticed these details, William wondered why he wasn’t off and running in the other direction, away from this man who was clearly a ruffian.  Before he could suit actions to that thought, though, the man’s hand shot out and grabbed his arm, yanking him closer.

William was quite proud that he managed to stifle the yelp that had risen in his throat.

“Aren’t you a pretty one, then?” the man purred.  He changed his grip, stroking William’s arm.  “And leather.”

That’s when William became aware that he wasn’t dressed in his respectable suit, but was wearing some… some costume garb that was eerily similar to this man who held him captive.  A long leather overcoat of some kind, over the same kind of jersey the other man wore, only his was black.  Heavy black pants and worn black boots completed his ensemble.  He wasn’t even wearing a waistcoat!

“I assure you, sir…” But William got no further than that before the other man gripped his chin in a firm, nearly bruising hold.  So close, William could see that the ruffian’s eyes were a clear blue, and colder than ice.

“Oi, what are you doin’ on this side o’ town?” Then he smiled, and it was just as icy as the look in his eyes.  “Maybe I can guess… Pretty lad like you, bit light in the loafers, lookin’ for the roight kind of fun…”

Frantically, William tried to protest, to shake his head, but the man’s grip was too strong.

“Come to the roight place, then.”  He leaned in and then his lips were on William’s own, his tongue pushing into his open mouth until William could taste tobacco and strong spirits.  He tried struggling again.

“Ripper?”

The light voice of a woman made the man kissing William – Ripper? What kind of a name is that? – pull away with a snarl.  He thrust William away from himself as if he couldn’t get away fast enough, and called back into the darkness, “Over ‘ere, Joycie.  Be roight with you.”

Then he turned back to William, who had backed himself up against one of the buildings.  “You want more, you come find me.”  Then, chuckling, he strode away, back into the shadows.

Wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, William could hear the woman’s sweet voice, and Ripper’s deeper one fading as they walked away, and wondered forlornly when the world would start making sense.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Vamp!Xan and unchipped!Spike, mention of Dru)

Spike eyed the fledgling, and smirked.  The boy was chained down on the bed, on his face, arms and legs spread wide.

It didn’t matter that he was still wearing all his dark leather goods, either, because they were so tight that every line of his body was outlined nicely.

“Now, normally,” he said, almost conversationally, “see, this wouldn’t be quite my cuppa.”  Teasingly, he ran a hand up the inside of the boy’s leg, and watched him quiver, unable to quite decide how to react – not sure he wanted it, not sure he wanted to reject it.  He stopped before he got to where the leather outlined the boy’s real treasures, though.

Ah, there.  Spike grinned widely, fangs gleaming.  The boy had whimpered into the mattress, almost too softly to be heard.

He ran a hand lightly through the boy’s hair, watched the dark strands curl around his fingers.  “But… aren’t you a pretty thing,” he whispered, leaning down to breathe into his ear.  “Aren’t you just aching for the Big Bad to give you what you want?”  In a blink, he’d fisted his hand in the boy’s hair, eliciting a gasp, and pulled.

Gleaming yellow eyes came into view, and the boy licked his lips, tongue sliding artfully around his elongated teeth.  Without words, he begged.

For the moment, Spike ignored the invitation the boy was giving to him, and bent to lick the bite marks – not quite healed from the last time – on his neck.  The blood sang, calling to him. 

“No,” he mused, and stopped lapping at the boy’s neck, “no, you’re not my dark princess…”

The boy closed his eyes, and didn’t bother to hide his whimper at the older vampire’s words.

“Not my Dru,” Spike went on softly, and sank his fangs into the boy’s throat once more, his other hand working between the boy’s body and the mattress to cup the hardness he found there.  “But you’ll do…”

***

(ficlet; Quill’s prompt—Spike mpreg, with “father” of your choice)

“It’s not my fault!”

“Oh, really?  Well, whose fault would it be, then?”

“Look, it’s simply… oh, dear Lord…”

“Get the bloody hell out!”

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you go at it like bunnies and forget the condoms…”

“Wills, I don’t think that’s really a check in the ‘help’ column right now…”

“Oh, please!”

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me, missy!”

“Well, it’s still your fault, isn’t it?”

“No!  As in, hell, no!”

“Yes, you bloody wanker!  As in, hell, yes!”

“All right!  Everybody out!  Except you, Spike, because, eeeewww!”

“It’s still not my fault…”

“Yes, it bloody well is.”

Once the bathroom door had shut behind all the gawkers, Buffy ran her fingers through Spike’s tousled curls. 

At her gentle touch, he glanced up from the toilet, face reflecting nothing but misery.

“You realize, of course, that if you hadn’t insisted on telling Giles and Xander that they both slept with you the last time you all got drunk, you wouldn’t have had to deal with any of that.”

Somehow, Spike managed to leer up at her.  “And you might have mentioned to Red that this is how that little silencio spell she tried last week backfired.”

***

(ficlet; Todes’ prompt—Spuffy, Spike with mountie hat and boots)

Buffy walked into the bedroom and immediately burst out laughing.

Quickly, Spike tried to cover himself.  “You still don’t knock!”

Leaning back against the door – thankfully closed – for support, Buffy gasped, “My… room… too!”

He paused.  “Oh.  Right.” 

By this time, however, he’d gotten the hat over his privates, but she could still see the white length of his naked legs from hip all the way down to those tall boots, and she just couldn’t. Stop. Laughing.

“What the bloody hell is so funny?”

Buffy gestured but couldn’t make any coherent sounds.  The signal she’d made, though, was ‘wait’, so Spike stood, still strategically holding the hat, the other hand tapping impatiently on his thigh, glowering at her.

After waiting for long past what he considered reasonable – which, in actuality, was about 5 seconds – he growled, “Well?  Still waiting, here.”

The growl, however, did other things to Buffy – ones that made her stop laughing, but left her panting.

And, besides, it wasn’t like she didn’t know what he was packing under that hat…

So, instead of replying, she stalked forward, until the top of that ridiculous hat was brushing her intimately, and Spike’s glare had faded into confusion.

“Uh, love, what are you…”

She ripped the hat from his hands, set it on her own head, and wrapped her arms around his neck.  “If you ask what I’m doing,” she purred into his ear, and felt instantly gratified as he hardened against her stomach, “I just want you to know that the answer is ‘you’…”

Several minutes later, Spike was proving quite enthusiastically that he liked her answer, when the bedroom door burst open.

“Buffy, I just… Oh!”  Immediately, Willow spun around and slammed the door behind her.

A very still pause filled the room.

“Don’t any of you lot knock?”

“Not… not usually,” Buffy panted.  The hat was perched on her head once more, but was now sadly crushed after having been slammed repeatedly against Spike’s ass as she spurred him on.

Willow leaned on the outside of the door, as if guarding, and was still there when Xander ambled up the stairs.

“Will, you all right?  You look completely wigged.”

Willow blinked at him.  “Uh… maybe?”

“Kinky sex games again?”

She just nodded.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Spike in armor, Angel in tights, and Buffy out of her gourd on something… and it’s Willow’s fault)

“Ooooh, you know what would be even better?” Buffy swayed – an impressive feat for someone who was seated – and bumped into Willow.  “Wills!”

Willow was only slightly less out of her skull, and the bump made her fall over onto the couch cushions face first.

“Wills?” Buffy poked at her friend, missed, then achieved contact and dug her finger into Willow’s side.

Willow batted her hand away.  “Stop pokin’ me.”  After a moment, she giggled.

“Wha’sso funny?”

“It’s a sex thing… I haven’t been… poked... inna long time…”

“I jus’ poked you,” Buffy replied, pouting just a little.  The sexual innuendo just bounced off.

“You don’t have the ‘quimpment ta poke me, Buffy…”

“Huh?”

“Ne’mind.”  Willow flopped over onto her back, then looked up at Buffy.  “Ooh, spinnies…”

“Hey, hey, hey, Wills… ‘mememember when we watched Kin’ Arthur?”

“Yeah… purty… whassername… and horsies…”

“Yeah… and armor… an’… an’… an’ tights!”

Willow giggled again.  “Tights!  Tight tights!”

“Yeah!  Ssssome guys’d look good in tights…”

“Like who?” Willow closed her eyes again, and let the living room spin gently around her.

“Mmmm… Spike would.”

Willow opened one eye, and discovered she couldn’t see her friend because Buffy was on her other side.  “Spike?  In tights?”

Buffy moaned.  “Oh, yeah…” She slid down onto the floor.  “Or… oooh. Armor.  He’d look good in armor.  Maybe better.”

“Spike in tights in armor?”

“Yeah.”  Buffy nodded emphatically, then grabbed onto the coffee table.  “Oh, spinnies…”

Willow frowned, considering.  “But the armor would cover up the tights…”

Suddenly, Buffy started snickering.  “But… Angel…”

Willow was mightily confused.  “Angels?”

Buffy slapped at the cushion near Willow’s knee, misjudged the distance and ended up on her face next to the couch.  “Owies.  Not angels… Angel.  Big broody vampire.”

“Oh, right….”

Again, Buffy sniggered.  “Wouldn’ Angel look funny in tights?”

Willow tried to imagine this, and failed.  “Dunno…”

“That’d be som’thin’ I’d wanna see.  Really.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”  At that point, Buffy passed out.

Willow considered, then waved her hand, muttering something about King Arthur and tights, and promptly followed her friend into oblivion.

Across town, spending time with his grandsire – but only because Buffy demanded it, and told him that she and Red were having a girls’ night out – Spike smelled and felt magic twine around him, and groaned.

When he looked down again, his black tee and jeans had morphed into chain mail and surcoat.  He even had a sword – one of Buffy’s favorites, actually – belted to his side.

“Oh, bloody hell.”  He covered his face with his hands.  “They’ve gotten into the tequila again…”

“Spike!”

Angel’s roar brought Spike’s head up in a hurry, but when he had searched out his grandsire, the sight of him just made him sag back against the wall, laughing his arse off.

“Spike, there had better be a damned good explanation for this…”

***

(ficlet; Todes’ prompt—morning after follow up to the above)

“You an’ Red have fun last night?”

Buffy groaned, felt her skull fly apart with the sound and wished she were dead.

“Not an answer, pet.”  The demon that was using Spike’s voice – and much too loudly – prodded her in the side. 

She didn’t dare move to defend herself.  She wasn’t sure she could.  “Mmmgllgfhgh.”

“Neither’s that.”

“Would you two please… ow… stop… shouting?”  Willow covered her eyes with one hand.  “Why does it feel like Xander’s gym socks died in my mouth?”

Buffy gagged.

Above her, Spike snorted.  “Well, I imagine it’d have something to do with the several empties I found on the table.  If you bints can’t hold your liquor, you shouldn’t be drinkin’.”

“Spike…”  Buffy reached out blindly and clutched at Spike’s arm.

Or rather, what she thought was Spike’s arm.  It didn’t feel quite right, so she opened one eye.  Then she frowned, discovered that thinking hurt and winced.

“Spike?  What’re you wearing?  It’s all shiny… and bright…”

“Well, pet, I was hoping one of you could tell me,” Spike replied in his mildest tone.

Buffy flinched.  Dealing with the hangover to end all drinking binges though she was, she still remembered that when Spike sounded like that, it was usually a bad thing.

“Um… why would we know?”  Willow still wasn’t looking at anything but the insides of her eyelids.  “What are you wearing, anyway?”

“I’d think you’d know because I felt magic and it smelled awfully familiar… and I’m wearing a suit of chain mail that won’t soddin’ come off!”

Both girls winced as he shouted.

“Armor?”  Then Buffy’s memory returned in a rush.  “Ooops?”

“You’re bloody right, oooops.  I had to deal with Peaches in those tights all night.  You’re payin’ for my therapy.”

And with that, he clomped heavily upstairs, making their heads ring with every step.

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; kissing meme, Spike/Giles)

Having the vampire living – or rather, taking up space – in his flat was more than just an inconvenience.  It was like living with a 5-year-old that not only had attention deficit disorder, but also had the potential to kill him at any time.

It was, Giles decided, just a little unsettling.

However, both Willow and Buffy had assured him that Spike was, indeed, powerless… and he wished most heartily that he’d never used the word impotent in connection with the vampire, because the irritating creature insisted on proclaiming his… prowess.

Or maybe it was his stature.  Whichever it was, Giles had tried very, very hard not to listen.

That was, however, quite difficult, considering the volume Spike could muster.

“Oi, Watcher!”

Giles winced, and briefly considered ignoring him… then realized it would be futile.  Not only was the apartment far too small for him to retreat to where Spike would be inaudible…

“I bloody well know you’re there, Watcher, I can hear you turnin’ the pages!”

He stifled a sigh and circled round the chair to face the bound vampire.  “What is it now, Spike?”

Spike smirked up at him as if he were the one in control; considering that Buffy had wound the rope around him until he looked like a mummy, it was quite an accomplishment.  “If you want me out of your hair, Rupes, it’s either feedin’ time or telly time.”

This time, the sigh wouldn’t be denied.  “You were fed not two hours ago when Buffy was here…”

Spike snorted.  “Pig swill.”

“And ‘Passions’ isn’t in evening re-runs,” Giles continued doggedly.  “Kindly be quiet and let me research.”  He turned away, and was able to get two steps back toward the coffee table where his tomes were laid out.

“Watcher!”

Giles took of his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Yes, of course, leave the vampire with the one who does most of the translation and research,” he said under his breath, sarcasm dripping from every word.  “No, it won’t be a burden, not at all.”

“I heard that.”  Now the vampire sounded almost like he was pouting.

As if he had the right. “Well, perhaps you were meant to!” Giles snapped.  “Now just be still.”  He made one more attempt to return to his books.

“I’m bored!”

Well, this is one for the record books.  Who knew that vampires could whine?

“Spike, I am not here for your entertainment.”

“And a bloody good job you’re doin’, too,” Spike muttered.

Quite without warning, Giles’ temper snapped.  In an instant, he had braced his hands on the arms of the vampire’s chair, and was leaning down right into his face to lend force to his words.  “Spike,” and his voice had gone quiet and deadly, “if you don’t be quiet and stay that way, it will be my very great pleasure to gag you.  And I will leave you that way until Buffy comes over tomorrow, which won’t be until late.”  He had the distinct gratification of watching the vampire’s eyes widen in shock.  “Am I quite clear?’

For a moment, there was blessed silence.  Giles nodded and was about to straighten away when Spike lunged forward – how did he get that much play in the ropes? – and kissed him squarely on the lips.

Instantly, Giles reared back, sputtering and wiping at his mouth in horror.  “What…”

Spike sniggered in the most annoying way imaginable.  “Oh, come now, Watcher, don’t be that way! We just kissed and made up!”

When Buffy arrived the following day, she was surprised to find additional ropes around Spike’s chest, and a towel stuffed into his mouth.

***

(drabble; for JoAnn; prompt—Spike, Angel, sometime in the beginning)

What a fop you’ve brought us, Dru.

That was Angelus’ first thought upon seeing his childe’s new childe.  Sandy hair flopping in his eyes, he looked soft, a gentleman.

Now that hair was tied back, making his cheekbones razor-sharp, and the gentleman’s poise had transformed into coarse words and violent actions.  He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, tauntingly, knowing how it pissed his grandsire off, and grinned in a way that pissed him off even more.

But the blood at the corner of his mouth looked so enticing…

What a treat you’ve brought us, Dru…

Casablanca

***

(drabble: for Todesengel—“Rick/Louis, post-movie.”)

Back in Casablanca, cigarettes were important; Ferarri shorting me more than a few cases was serious business.

Even now, it seems like everything revolves around cigarettes.

How many do we have left?  When are we going to get more?

Is it safe to light one to share between us or are there Germans in that copse of trees, ready to fire on us?

Louis knows my thought before I say anything and we decide it’s safer to wait.

There have been times when I haven’t given a damn for my own skin.  Strange, now, to be around someone who does.

The Chronicles of Narnia

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; prompt—Aslan, twilight)

The Lion had gleamed golden in the light of the afternoon sun, but now the sun was setting, and it looked like his mane was drenched in blood, and Lucy was a bit—just a bit—afraid.

“Do not fear, Daughter of Eve.”  His voice was deep and warm and wonderful, full of love and joy and all of the emotions Lucy thought she had forgotten how to feel.  Aslan looked over his shoulder at her, and his mane was golden again, as clear as sunshine and as bright as his eyes, and she forgot to be afraid.  “Come to me.”

Carefully, for the ground was rocky and just a bit treacherous, even for her sturdy shoes, Lucy made her way to the outcrop of the hill where he stood.  When she reached him, she gasped at the view—all of Narnia was spread out below her, beautifully green and cool, and the river captured the last rays of the sun, a gleaming silver thread.  She looked toward the sea, and felt that if she but tried, she could pluck up Cair Paravel and cradle it in her hands.   It was a piece of crystal, blinding even against the glare of the ocean, and it looked so very delicate. “Oh, Aslan,” she breathed, “it’s lovely.”

“It is.”  The rumble of his voice held both satisfaction and sadness, and the sadness twisted her heart, as it always did, made her long to bury her face in his mane as she had done when she was but a child.  “This is what you have fought to protect for so many years, wherever you were, in this world or your own.  This is your home, no matter where you are.”

The light was fading fast, faster than she remembered it, and she reached out to touch him, so she would not lose him in the coming dark.  “Why is it growing so dark?” she asked, and even though he was with her, she could not still the tremor of fear.  “Everything is disappearing…”

Aslan shook his mane, and the scent that clung to him—wild and strong and powerful—filled the air, filled her with courage again, and she felt a bit of shame that she had been afraid with him by her side.  “The twilight always comes when the sun sets,” he replied softly.  “But the sun has to set before a new day can begin.”  He nuzzled her then, as he had not for so many, many years.  “Do not be afraid, dear heart,” he whispered.  “It is as it has always been.  Just believe, and soon you will join me here…”

Then she opened her eyes to her own room in London, and it seemed so grey and drab and drear that she nearly cried from the loss.

There was a ray of hope, though, the Lion’s words pealing through her like a trumpet, and Lucy forced the tears away and got up.  She needed to ring Edmund and Peter.

She needed to know how they were going home.

The Chronicles of Prydain

***

(ficlet; for Hotspur; kissing meme, Gwydion and Fflewddur)

“A Fflam does not… a Fflam does…” Fflewddur paced – if it could be called that – in the small chamber he’d been allotted at Caer Dathyl.  His movements were awkward and jerky, a fact he knew well, and he rather suspected he looked like a puppet with strings cut.

He’d seen himself in enough pools of water and goblets of wine to know that he’d never be handsome.  Long legs, long arms, long thin body, long face, topped with a thatch of straw for hair.  Sighing, he sunk in a heap on his thin pallet, and rested his elbows on his equally bony knees.  “A Fflam shouldn’t be in this position.”

He eyed the harp, carefully settled on top of his pack.  Well, this would likely be the test of whether or not he was stretching the truth.  He took a deep breath and watched the harp intently.

“Prince Gwydion… kissed me.  In the corridor.”

Nothing.  Not even a quiver.

Fflewddur eyed the harp narrowly.  “My songs are acclaimed from one end of Prydain…”

Twang twong twang!

“Three strings,” a deep voice said from the doorway.   Fflewddur looked up so quickly that his head spun.   Gwydion stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his shaggy grey head tilted to one side.  “That one must have been quite a stretch.”

“Just testing…”

And suddenly, Gwydion was kneeling in front of him, hands braced on his knees, and staring intently into his face.  “You weren’t dreaming,” he said, his voice low and compelling.  “You weren’t dreaming then, and you’re not dreaming now.”  Then he swooped in and captured Fflewddur’s mouth with his own.

With one ear, Fflewddur kept listening for the last harp-string to break, but it never did.

***

(ficlet; for Hotspur; kissing meme, follow up to the above, after Fflewddur burns his harp)

Caer Dalben was nothing like Caer Dathyl.  Fflewddur had always looked forward to visiting both, but in all respects save one, they were completely different.

Each had an aura about it, if a place could be said to have an aura, one that spoke of an ancient power, beyond any that mortal men could know.

Flewddur rather wished his own castle was more like Caer Dalben.  It was… homey.  That was the word.  It was more like home than any place he’d ever been.

But that sense of home wasn’t comforting at all tonight.  Absently, he pulled the only thing that remained of his harp from where it rested, tucked safely inside his jerkin.  The single unbreakable string had coiled about itself in a flat disk, and now it caught the light of the moon outside the window, winking silver and gold.

Dalben and Gwydion had told them only hours ago that the Children of Dôn would depart for the Summer Country on the morrow – and that he, too, would go, for, however diluted, the blood of Dôn still flowed in his veins.

Still staring at the golden disk, Fflewddur sank down onto one of the pallets on the floor, his thoughts all a-muddle.

“Rather a lot to take in.”

The deep voice should have startled him, but he had long expected Gwydion to appear.  Without looking away from the harp string, Fflewddur nodded.  “It is.”

The pallet rustled as Gwydion sat beside him, their shoulders brushing.  “It was ever to be thus, when Arawn was defeated.”  When Fflewddur looked up, mouth opening, Gwydion finished quietly, “But that does not make it easier.”

Fflewddur met knowing eyes for a long moment before nodding.  “Which is greater – the desire to stay or…”

“We cannot remain.” Gwydion’s words were soft.  “The Sons and Daughters of Dôn must depart… and Prydain must go on without us.”

His quiet words could not disguise his sorrow, however, and the very sound it tugged at Fflewddur’s heart.  Without thinking, he tucked the disk into his belt pouch, and wrapped his long arm around Gwydion’s broad shoulders.

Gwydion leaned against him, wordlessly seeking, and it was the most natural thing in the world to turn his head and let his lips brush across the other’s temple.

Then Gwydion was facing him, his hands warm and strong against Fflewddur’s cheeks, pulling their mouths together.  When their lips met, Fflewddur could taste the wet salt of tears, but whether they were Gwydion’s or his own, he could not tell.

Crossovers

Spike Wandering the ‘Verse

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt in bold; AU to the Gatchaman/BtVS crossover; Spike/Ken, Ken/Joe)

He didn't talk about it, but sometimes, even with Joe's heavy warmth against him, he remembered cool flesh and sharp teeth and the addictive feel of Spike *living* because of him.

Because Spike had bitten him more than just that once while Joe was there and watchful.

Many, many more times than just that once.

There were times when he found himself shivering in memory of those times.  Just recalling the feel of Spike’s fangs sinking into his flesh would make him aroused and panting, and when that happened, even Joe fucking him as hard as he could wasn’t quite satisfying enough.

Oh, he came, usually came so hard he saw stars… but he just couldn’t get over the feeling of something missing.

He couldn’t remember now, maybe it was the third or fourth time Spike had bitten him, and his arousal had been very obvious.  They’d been lying on the bed, so Ken wouldn’t fall, and Spike had stroked one hand very light over his erection, and said, “Shouldn’t bite you anymore.”

“The bites… well, they can be addictive,” Spike said, watching his fingers trace a pattern in the sticky puddle of cum on Ken’s stomach.  “If the vamp bites you too much… you want it.  Eventually, you can’t live without it.”

And maybe it was true, because Ken could feel himself withering inside, wanting what he couldn’t have even as he had what he’d wanted.   Joe muttered in his sleep and drew him closer, making him wish the body behind him could cool him down instead of making him feel feverish.

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; prompt—Spike wandering the ‘Verse, after he’s crashed the Voltron Force)

Once again, his landing was cushioned by something soft.  Looking around the stark white corridor, though, gave Spike a thrill of fear he couldn’t control – oh, no, not back in the Initiative! – followed by a spark of anger.  Bloody hell, Red, got no call to dump me back here!

Moving vamp-quick, he scrambled to his feet, eying both directions, trying to decide which was the more likely escape.

Only then did he notice that he’d landed on someone, not something.  The guy was sprawled on the floor, unconscious.  In spite of himself, Spike knelt to make sure he was still alive, and nodded admiringly at the quality of the leather jacket. Good taste, this one.  Can’t be in the Initiative, then.

The thunder of footsteps approaching alerted him that there was company coming, and, given his luck, it wasn’t likely to be friendly.  He straightened and spun, leather flaring around him, and pulled up short.

There was a slim guy with long black hair standing in front of him, brandishing what could only be a laser pistol.  His jumpsuit was screamingly red – nice color, he thought appreciatively, but you’ve got no bloody sense of style.  When he noticed the white boots, he had to fight to keep from doubling over in laughter.

“What did you do to Lance?” the kid – isn’t much older than the Slayer, Spike thought, if he’s that old – demanded.  The steady way he held the pistol and the authority in his voice spoke of military command.

Rather than respond, Spike just sighed and glared up at the ceiling.  “You know, Red, I’d really appreciate a way home! This dimension hoppin’ is gettin’ old fast.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” the kid gritted out, the words punctuated by a moan from the guy – Lance? – on the floor.

Wearily, Spike raised his hands to shoulder height.  “Got some blood for a vamp?  ‘m starvin’.”

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; prompt—Spike wandering the ‘Verse and falling into the manga of your choice)

He knew he wasn’t anywhere near Sunnyhell, but at least Spike could get cigarettes here.  A little vamp face to scare the shop-owner – no need to let the old fellow know that he couldn’t bite – and he got anything he wanted.  Accompanied, of course, by the terrified order to ike! and sharp gestures toward the door, explaining just what the word meant.

Instead, he tore into the pack and lit up, relaxing immediately as he drew the nicotine into his deprived body.  Shaking off the bumpies, he grinned at the man cowering behind the counter.  “Thanks, mate, you don’t know how I needed that.” He didn’t know or care if the man could understand English.

Sauntering out, he bumped into some bickering teenagers.  One of them looked like he could give even Angel a run for his money in the tortured martyr brooding sweepstakes, the tall one was babbling, grinning nervously, and the short one was pouting.

Spike stepped to one side to let them pass in, staring a little at the shortest one.  Huh.  That a boy or a girl? He – based on the school uniforms they were wearing, he was going to assume it was a he – was pretty enough .  Looks right tasty, too…  After a moment, he got an itchy feeling on the back of his neck, similar to what he got around Red after one of her spells.  It jerked him back to the present, though he couldn’t quite say where it came from.  Never mind, got things to do, places to go… He turned to the door.

His hand was on the bar to push it open when from behind him, someone said, “Hey.”

Eyebrow raised, he glanced over his shoulder.  Brood boy was glaring at him, hands clenched into fists at his sides.   “You didn’t pay for that.” He pointed at the pack of smokes still in his hand. 

“No, I didn’t,” he replied, grinning, “an’ I’m not plannin’ to, either.”  He dismissed them and started to push open the door again.

“Hey! If you didn’t pay for that, you gotta!” The short one was practically steaming at the ears, and looked like he was about to attack.  The tall one was holding him back, not quite easily, but he was taller and had longer arms.  “Yuuto, let me go!  We’ll call the police!”

“You do that.”  Spike took another drag, vaguely amused by the display.  “An’ ask me if I care.”

“Kotarou, shut up!” the tall one hissed.  He looked up at Spike, long hair waving in his eyes, trying for an ingratiating smile.

But suddenly the smile disappeared, and he went pale, his hands tightening on Kotarou’s arms.

“Ow!  Yuuto, that friggin’ hurts! Leggo!”

Spike just smirked at him.  Yeah, he thought, and pushed the door open, moving carelessly, you got it now, pretty boy. I’m nothin’ you want to be messin’ with.

The bell over the door clanged as he swaggered out.

The Dark Is Rising

***

(drabble; for Todesengel—“Will/Bran.”)

It’s a place practically out of legend; Will knows that he should have expected to see him.

But there are so many places connected with legend, and he had simply needed to get out of London for a while.  Cornwall—peaceful, sleepy—seemed just the thing.

A ripple in his mind, and there he is, white and gold.

More golden than before, for now there is gold on his hand, a lady with a river of golden hair on his arm . . .

And Will tries to be happy . . . but he remembers.  And Bran does not.

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; prompt—Merriman, light)

He is old, older than he even wants to admit.  In his mind are memories so faded that he can’t remember now if they were real, or his dreams of how it ought to have been.

The sun dawns, spreading its rays over the land and the sea.  From the headland where he stands, the light turns the ocean into a vast glittering plain; it makes the dew on the grass glisten like gems.

It washes over him, and he raises his face to it, closing his eyes briefly as the brightness stings.  But only briefly, and he returns to staring out over the sea.

He is unaware of how the light paints him, showing him as a figure of old, some mighty warrior, some wise king, with his hawk-like nose and high brow, with his fine white hair.  Had there been anyone else here to observe, they would say he had stepped out of the mists of the past into the present.

And he has.

He shivers, turns up the collar of his heavy coat.  The touch of the Light is cold, stark.  It illuminates, but it also throws dark shadows.

Once the sun is well up, he turns away, still bathed in the icy beams of Light.

He knows there is work to be done.

Discworld

***

(drabble; for Todesengel—“Granny Weatherwax being Granny Weatherwax.”)

“Esme . . .”

“Don’t you rush me, Gytha Ogg!  When I’m ready, not a moment before.”

There was a moment of reasonable silence.

“Granny, I think . . .”

Granny just bent a Look at Agnes, who met it placidly.

When the Look ended, Agnes shivered as delicately as an earthquake, then traded a much different look with Nanny.  They both shrugged, waiting.

There was no hurrying her if she didn’t want to be hurried.

At last, Granny nodded to herself, muttered something about at least it wasn’t Cripple Mr. Onion, and spread her cards on the table.

“Gin.”

Escaflowne

***

(ficlet; for forest; prompt—Gaddes/anyone, dew)

It was a rare thing, Gaddes decided.  The lad was usually so intent on mastering that Guymelef, or on his swordsmanship, or on something, that he didn’t think he’d ever seen him like this: face up to the rain, letting it run down over his slim form, matting his hair to his scalp.

And smiling.  That was the important part.  The lad was . . . well, he was right handsome when he smiled.  It made his cares fall from his face, made him look younger than he was.

Must be why he does it so rarely . . .

When lightning flashed through the clouds, though, that was enough.  He pulled the lad back inside the Crusade, and tossed a towel at him.  Water drops sparkled on his eyelashes, on his face and lips like dew on a rose, glittering with the false promise of delicacy.  “Dry yourself,” he ordered gruffly as the boy fought his way out of the towel’s muffling folds.  “You may be the King of Fanelia, but even you can catch the grippe.”

***

(ficlet; forest’s prompt—Dryden, books)

He was only a merchant because that’s what his father was, and that was really all he knew. He was a good merchant, he knew how to haggle and get the best prices for his wares, and he was no stranger to work.

But this—he looked around the palace library in awe. Books overflowed the shelves, covered the tables and podiums, and Dryden knew, even if his marriage to Millerna was annulled tomorrow, he had found his home.

FAKE

***

(drabble; for JoAnn—“What’s UP with that family that they have someone who can levitate?”)

“C’mon, monkey, ‘fess up.  What happened?  We were floatin’.”

“You were scared out of your mind, shrimp.”

Bikky poked Lai in the shoulder.  “Can the shrimp shit!”  Then he looked hard into Lai’s face, frowning.  “So . . . what?  Ya got some kinda psycho powers?”

“Psychic powers, dumbass!”  When Bikky grinned, he groaned inwardly.

“So ya can make things levitate.  What else can ya do?”

Lai looked around, motioned Bikky closer.  Obediently, the dark-skinned boy leaned in.

Lai whispered, “Family secret.  We castrate anyone who asks.”

He laughed at Bikky’s dumbfounded expression.  “YOU MORON!”

Then he ran like hell.

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; prompt—Carol, strength)

Come on, Carol, she told herself over and over, come on, you can do it!

She ached everywhere; her head throbbed, her split lip pulsed with pain, and one side of her face felt like it had been run over by a truck.  Her cheek was already starting to swell—she could see it puffing out, if she slanted her eye just right.

Not to mention her ankle.  The way it hurt, it felt like she’d twisted it big time.   No, the freak had twisted it when she tried to get past him.

The terror rose up in her again at the thought, clawing at her chest, and her heart was pounding so fast she thought it would explode, and she couldn’t breathe…

You can do it, Carol!

She clung to the railing, limping down the stairs as fast as she could and straining her ears for any sound that the freak was coming after her…

Come on…

“… pretty sure he’s in 502!”

The sound of voices out the window made her stop short.  That sounds like Ryo!  Her heart thudding in her chest, hoping against hope, she looked out the window.

One of the lights over the steps was out, and there was only one streetlight, but she could just make out a familiar dark-haired form walking toward the rear of the building, gun at the ready.

And there!  On the sidewalk!

“Ryo! Bikky!”

Two blond heads whipped around at her frantic shout, and even from here—whatever floor here was—she could see the relief on their faces.

Then there was no time, because behind her—too close, too close!—she heard the freak, bellowing at her.

“Ryo!  Catch!”

Ryo looked stunned, and she vaguely heard Bikky say something about the third floor, but right now, even being smashed on the pavement would be better than what the freak had in store for her.

But Ryo would catch her.  She knew it.  He wouldn’t let anything happen to her…

And then she didn’t think about it any more, because if she didn’t move right now, it was going to be too late.

And she was airborne.

She didn’t dare take her eyes off Ryo—he was her target, arms spread wide, even though he still looked stunned.

“Oooff!”

Safe! As Ryo set her down on the pavement, that was all she could think—she was safe now, and Ryo and Dee would get this guy, she was safe, Ryo had caught her, and… and…

Then Bikky was settling Ryo’s jacket around her, covering her ruined dress, and looking at her with those big eyes, all full of concern.  She just grabbed onto him, and started shaking.

After a few minutes, Dee and Ryo dragged the freak out of the building.  Dee shoved him into the back of their car, while Ryo came over to her and Bikky.  She was still sniffling, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, when the weight of a hand on her head made her jump.  When she looked up, Ryo was smiling down at her.

“You were very brave, Carol.  I’m proud of you.”

She ducked her head.  “I was really scared, Ryo,” she whispered.  “I didn’t feel brave at all.”

Ryo’s eyes crinkled at the corners, his smile warm.  “But you made it out,” he said quietly.  “You were smart, you were strong, and you did everything you could do.  That’s why you were brave, and that’s why I’m proud.”  Then he left off stroking her hair and picked her up.  “Come on, brave girl,” he said, still smiling at her.  “Let’s make sure nothing’s broken.”

As he carried her over to JJ’s car, she glanced over his shoulder, saw Bikky following them.  When she caught his eye, Bikky grinned at her and gave her a thumbs-up.  She smiled back, and a feeling of contentment spread right through her, filling her until she almost forgot the pain.

***

(ficlet; Todes’ prompt—Ryo/Dee, Sunday in the city)

“It’s hot.”

“You say that every year.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because every year is fucking hot in the summer!”

Ryo sighed and tilted his head to one side.  The heat made Dee grumpy, and the air conditioner was broken.  The bedroom had become unbearably hot, so they’d moved out into the living room, but there was no breeze through the balcony door at all.  It hadn’t helped in the slightest.

And now Dee was tired, grumpy and hot… and not in a good way.

He stroked Dee’s long black bangs off his forehead, and at first Dee purred into that touch like a cat, but after only a moment, he grumbled and pulled away, flopping over to lay on the floor on his stomach.

After a moment, Ryo smiled and got up off the sofa.  He rummaged around in the kitchen for a moment and then came back out with a towel, which he laid on the back of Dee’s neck.

Remarkably like a cat, Dee hissed a sharp breath, and then moaned, as if the pleasure was almost sexual in nature.  Ryo felt himself blushing from more than the heat.

“Oh, God…”

Ryo held the icepack to the back of Dee’s shoulders with one hand and ran the fingers of his other through damp black hair.  “Just relax, Dee,” he murmured.  “It’s Sunday, we can go to the movies and get the air conditioner fixed tomorrow.”

Dee just mumbled into the carpet happily.

Gatchaman

***

(drabble; for JoAnn—“Joe hit by the cluebus.”)

White wings flash in my vision, a sight I’ve seen a thousand times; Ken dazzles despite the death and blood about him.

But now . . . he distracts me, he pulls my attention away from the goons I’ve just killed, something that’s never happened before.  I have to watch him, as he whirls and strikes, as the bodies pile up.

But he rises above it all, grace personified, cloaked in white without stain, and my heart does a strange double-beat in my chest at the sight.

“Joe?”

Stunned by revelation, I cannot face him, and pull up my mask.

***

(ficlet; for forest; prompt—Ken/Joe, path)

Ken paused for a split second as he crossed the threshold, then closed the door behind him.

Someone had been in his house while he was gone.  Two someones—he caught whiffs of two very distinct scents.  One was decidedly feminine, the other indeterminate, but probably male.

One of them was still here, too, likely hiding in his bedroom.

Rather than giving the intruder the advantage of knowing that he knew, Ken went about his normal business for a little while, putting away the few groceries he’d bought, putting the beer into the fridge, lulling whoever it was into a false sense of security.

He even debated walking down to the hanger, but decided that would be just a bit too much.

Instead, he made his way down the hall to his room, keeping his muscles relaxed, ready for action.

He opened the bedroom door with more caution than he would have done had he not known someone who shouldn’t be was in there.  But no attack was forthcoming.

At least, there was no physical attack.

The mental attack, however, was more than enough.  Ken simply stood, staring, mouth open, for several seconds.

Joe was laid out on his bed, spread eagled—should that be spread-condor-ed? one irreverent corner of his mind wondered—and tied securely to the frame.  Quite naked.

And apparently none too happy about it.  He sported a gag, and his eyes promised murder if he wasn’t released immediately.  A folded square of paper was strategically placed.

Rose petals were strewn over the floor, a path to the bed.  Completely dazed, Ken stepped over to the bed and picked up the note.  Joe lurched in his bonds, shaking the bed, and made a muffled sound of rage.

I’m sorry I couldn’t afford to get you a proper gift, the note read.  I hope this will make up for it!  Be careful of the bruises on his shoulders; for some reason, he didn’t want me to tie him down. 

Happy birthday!

Jun

When Ken looked up, he caught Joe’s eyes over the edge of the paper, and smiled.

***

(ficlet; for Todesengel; prompt—Joe/Ken, feather)

Joe took a deep breath, wondered again why he’d agreed to this and cursed Ken silently.

Training exercisee, my ass!

But, he remembered ruefully, it had seemed pretty plausible when Ken had suggested it earlier.

“It’s easy to keep your inner control when all other control is taken from you,” Ken said.  His face was as serious as it ever was, and if his eyes sparkled, well, Joe wasn’t about to comment on it.  “If you’re tied down, you can fall back on your training and not break under questioning.  But what if you’re not tied down?  What then?”

Curious as to what he had been getting at but still somewhat wary, Joe had reluctantly agreed to be the subject.  At Ken’s request, he’d triggered the transformation, then closed his eyes.

And waited, just standing there.  And waited.

“Fucking do something or you’re gonna be on the receiving end, Ken!” he growled impatiently.

Just as he finished speaking, he felt something tickle his chin, his throat, and he jerked away, opening his eyes again and swearing.

Ken stood before him, wearing his own BirdStyle, twirling a shuriken in his fingers and grinning at him.

Joe glared at him, at the white feather that danced through his fingers.  “Those things are fucking poisonous, Ken!”  Then, as Ken’s grin widened, he snarled, “You are seriously fucked up.”

Ken tossed the feather blindly over one shoulder and it stuck point first into the wall.  “No,” he replied, and now his eyes were incandescent blue, watching Joe with an intensity that made him shiver. “I’m not fucked up, but maybe I am just a little kinky.”

***

(ficlet continuation; JoAnn’s prompt—Ken/Joe, shuriken)

Joe shook his head. “Forget that. Erotic is using a feather, kinky is using the whole chicken. Fucked up is using a poisoned weapon!”

Ken was still looking at him with eyes that blazed, that marked him, and Joe didn’t want to take a step back, but somehow he did, and found himself with his back to the wall. Stupid, he thought, stupid, stupid, stupid, you’re fucked now . . .

And Ken just leaned in to him, angled so that his visor passed the side of Joe’s helmet, and he had another shuriken in his fingers, white and deadly dangerous.

Just like him.

Ken smiled at him, now, a slow smile that somehow lit a fire in his groin. “No, I’m just a little kinky.” And he flipped the feather around to show that there was no point on it.

Before Joe could splutter out the indignant response that was forming on his tongue, Ken dove in and kissed him. With tongue, and that damned feather tickling the side of his face.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Ken/Joe, betrayal)

It wasn’t Nambu’s order that Joe remain behind that made Ken stare in disbelief. It wasn’t that Joe, who’d been looking pretty rough of late, looked even rougher today, haggard, drawn, pale beneath his olive skin.

No, it was the way that Joe wouldn’t meet his eyes, wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t say one fucking word that made a bitter blossom of betrayal bloom in his chest.

***

(ficlet; forest’s prompt—Ken/Joe, demand)

Joe panted and groaned and cursed, clenching the sheets in his fists as if that was all that kept him anchored to the bed.

Kneeling between his wide-spread legs, Ken grinned up at him over the length of his body, and gave his cock—purple and throbbing and ready, damnit—another long slow lick with that devilish tongue. “Now! Fuck, God, now!”

In response, Ken left off teasing his cock and rose up over him. Joe moaned as Ken settled down on him, and his hands left the sheets to dig into Ken’s hips, bruisingly tight, drawing him down as his hips jerked up.

Fully seated, panting now himself, Ken leaned down so their faces were only inches apart, and this did strange and wonderful things to Joe, who quivered. “This is the only place,” Ken purred roughly into his ear, “that demands will get you anywhere.”

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Ryu/Ken/Joe, entangled)

As if it wasn’t enough that they risked their lives every day while he got left behind on the GodPhoenix, he was excluded even more in the off-duty hours. Not by Jun or Jinpei, of course—or at least not intentionally. But Ken and Joe? Yeah, that was totally intentional.

It wasn’t like he had wanted to find them together that time, naked bodies slicked with sweat and limbs entangled. He hadn’t wanted to embarrass them, to see Joe’s eyes go cold and Ken’s face heat. But he had.

Eyes sad, he watched Joe slip out of the Snack J, waited for Ken to follow. Neither of them even glanced at him.

***

(ficlet; forest’s prompt—Ken/Joe, caught in the rain)

The clouds were grey and glowering, heavy with the promise of rain, but Ken trudged on regardless, sans coat and umbrella.

It was still several klicks back to the airfield, but he had no choice to walk it.  His car, ancient and tired, had finally died about a klick back, and to say this road was otherwise nearly abandoned was still giving it too much credit.

With a weary sigh, he looked at his communicator, wondering if he dared . . .  Then he shook his head, and kept walking resolutely.  The communicator is for emergencies and combat, he told himself.  This isn’t really an emergency, and not combat at all.

Thunder rumbled menacingly above him.  He scowled upwards for a moment, then sighed again and kept going.

He hadn’t gone another half-klick when the heavens opened up.  He was completely drenched in seconds, tee-shirt and jeans clinging to him like a second skin.  He gritted his teeth, wiped the water from his face and didn’t stop.

Quite suddenly, he heard the roar of a powerful engine behind him, even above the torrent of the rain.  Without even turning around, he knew it was Joe’s car—how could he ever mistake that for something else?—and felt a jolt of surprise.  What the hell is he doing way out here? He turned around anyway, pushing sodden strands of hair out of his face and trying to shield his eyes from the rain so he could take a look without blinking water away constantly.

Yes, it was the Skyline, tearing up the road without consideration for the slick surface, sending standing water flying in sheets.

He wondered if Joe would be inclined to give him a ride, then looked down at himself and snorted.  Not like this, he won’t.  He won’t even let me touch the seat like this.

But, amazingly, the car slowed, stopped only a few feet away.  Ken was still blinking, not quite believing his eyes, when the driver’s side door popped open.  Even more amazingly, Joe got out and slammed the door, and the rain washed down over him, until he was as wet as Ken.

The thick brown waves of his hair curled around his face, the shirt outlined his pecs and abs stunningly well, made his jeans . . .  well, Ken could imagine.  Even as cold and damp as he was, Ken could feel his face start to heat.  Now is not the time!

Joe leaned forward, his arms crossed, resting on the roof of the car.  He grinned over the top of the car at Ken.  “Hey, sailor, wanna ride?”  His eyes raked over Ken, and the grey of his eyes darkened, filled with desire.

Ken smiled back, letting the warmth tingle through him this time without constraint.  “As long as you’re going my way,” he replied, and reached for the door.

“Anytime, babe.”  Joe slid back in behind the wheel, then kept sliding, grabbed Ken’s face in his big hands and kissed him thoroughly.

It was some time before the windows were un-fogged enough for Joe to drive safely.

***

(ficlet; forest’s prompt—Ken/Joe, tie)

It just.  Wasn’t. Fair.

Panting heavily, Joe glared at Ken, who hardly seemed to be out of breath.  They’d just completed an obstacle course, racing against the clock and each other, and they’d reached the finish line at exactly the same moment.  Another tie in a string of ties that reached back to the very first race they’d had.

The thing that really galled Joe was that while he’d poured every ounce of effort he could into that race, it had looked like Ken wasn’t even trying.  He’d been so certain that Ken hadn’t been paying attention during Hakase’s instructions, and yet . . .

Another tie.  Another Goddamned tie!

He’d caught his breath a few minutes later when Hakase sent them to the showers, and he followed Ken down the corridor, allowing some distance between them, sure that if they’d walked together Hakase would later be berating them for fighting.

What the hell do I have to do to beat him?

Yeah, sure, Hakase intended Ken to be the leader, but still.  Once.  Just once, he wanted to best Ken.

He brooded about it, was distracted during the incessant classes that Hakase forced them to attend.  Him and Ken and Jun, all together in lecture.  He only really started paying attention after Jun had nearly blown up the classroom while experimenting with re-wiring her yo-yo.

It hit him one day, almost out of the blue.  He’d seen the moon-eyed looks that Jun was forever giving to Ken . . . and it hadn’t been difficult at all to convince her that maybe all it took was to get Ken jealous . . .

So that was why Ken was standing in the doorway to the classroom, staring at him and Jun as Joe showed her everything he knew about kissing.

Joe knew he was there, and snuck an eye open.  He was surprised at the look of hurt that Ken wore before Ken turned and walked away, his back stiff.

Joe pulled away from Jun, gently, and wondered why it didn’t feel as good to best Ken as he had thought it would.

***

(ficlet; forest’s prompt—Ken/Joe, hand tools or mechanics)

He knew he shouldn’t have said it, but honestly, his mouth ran away with him all the time, and God, shouldn’t Ken be used to it by now?

But there he was, pouting, and that bottom lip was poking out in a way that had to be illegal.  Joe groaned at the sight, and tried to surreptitiously adjust himself.

“I know what you mean when you ask for something, Joe.”

“I know you do…”

“No, really, I don’t think you do.”  Ken crossed his arms and slouched into the couch cushions.

Oh, fuck.  Now he was actively sulking, and that did absolutely nothing to help control Joe’s libido.

“Look, I’m sorry, all right?  It’s just…”

“Just what?”

Clearly, admitting that when he helped Jun with her motorcycle, she would ask for “that thingy” or “the whatchamacallit” wasn’t going to help him any.

So instead of trying to explain, he took off his shirt, and while Ken was spluttering that he wasn’t about to have sex with someone who didn’t think he could repair his own plane, he took off Ken’s, too.

***

(ficlet; for Todes; kissing meme, Joe/Ken)

“Oh, please.”

“Don’t believe me, then.”

Ken paused.  That didn’t sound like Joe trying to get him to believe something that was a load of horse apples; that sounded like Joe who was pissed off enough to want to drop the whole thing.  “Wait.”

“What?”

Yes, definitely pissed.  “You weren’t… serious?  I mean, really?”

“Yes, damn it, I was serious, but now you can just fucking forget it.”

“No, wait…”

“Back the hell off, Washio.”

Thinking that Joe wasn’t quite as upset as he thought, Ken put his hand on Joe’s arm.

And found himself picking himself up from the ground next to Joe’s car an instant later.  Except there was a piece of glass or metal – something sharp, anyway – right where he put his hand.  He only felt the sting when he was upright, and noticed the thin stream of blood trickling from his palm.

Of course, the first thing Joe did was grab his hand and lick the blood away.  And Ken couldn’t help but notice that Joe’s mouth and lips and tongue were very warm and wet and a shiver went through him right to his groin.

Then Joe looked up at him, mouth smeared with blood, almost as if he were a vampire, and licked his lips, grey eyes dancing.  Ken felt his tongue come out to dampen his own lips in response, and his cock strained against his jeans.

Joe’s hands were in his hair, and his mouth locked onto Ken’s, and Ken could taste his own blood, and grew even harder as Joe’s tongue danced around his own.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt in bold below; Ken/Joe)

soft skin over hard muscles, sweat slicking between them, calloused hands stroking him, holding him firmly, wicked mouth locked onto his –

Bzzzzt!

Ken groaned and turned over, whacking his alarm silent.

Damnit.  Just when it was getting good.

For a moment, he just laid there, arm over his eyes, trying to convince himself that the alarm meant he really had to get up now.

Regardless of the fact that part of him was already up.

He could feel his prick hard and needy and brushing against the sheet, and it was so easy to just reach down and take himself in hand.

To pretend…

The first brush of his fingers against his hard length had him stifling a moan, because the dream had been so very good, and in his head, it was his hand, and somehow, he knew just how to stroke, just when to brush his finger over the crown or against his balls, when to speed up…

Oh, gods, fasterhardermore…

He firmed his grip, fist and hips working, feeling that wonderful pleasure winding through him.  His balls tightened, his toes dug into the mattress, as release loomed closer and closer…

He arched up into his hand, gasping silently as he climaxed, coating his hand and his stomach with sticky warmth.  He just lay there as his cock gave a few last twitches and spurts, and let satiation just wash over him, letting him fall boneless and relaxed.

He woke up again when his second alarm sounded, about twenty minutes later, and grimaced at the feeling of glue on his hand and prick.  This time, he had to actually get up to turn it off, and, yawning, wandered down the hall toward the shower.

He wouldn’t fall asleep in there, though, even though he had a wonderful fantasy of Joe in the shower with him…

***

(ficlet; forest’s prompt demand—Write me happy-ish Ken/Joe OTP-style porn RIGHT NOW!!!!!!)

Ken arched off the bed, gasping, hands tugging at the restraints.  Joe didn’t seem to care, or indeed, notice, as he was busily causing Ken to squirm and twist.  His mouth was wrapped around Ken’s erection, teasing, laving, swallowing, but never quite letting him get off.

“Joe…” Ken panted and groaned, thrashing a little when Joe’s warm mouth abandoned his cock.

“Shut up, Ken,” and the breathless quality of Joe’s voice somehow managed to penetrate the fog of Ken’s own arousal.  He had to bite his lip to hide his grin.

He actually whimpered when he felt Joe’s callused fingers at his ass, felt them cool with lube, and raised his hips in silent demand.

Joe chuckled rustily.  Slowly, oh, so maddeningly slowly, he took Ken’s cock into his mouth once more, sucking hard, easing off, and then the fingers worked into him, and he couldn’t stop himself.  “Now, Joe! Damn you, now!”

Joe growled and plunged his fingers in as far as they could go, stretching, wiggling, and suddenly every single nerve in his body seemed to catch fire, especially the ones in his cock.

Then the fingers were gone, and he choked back a cry at the emptiness. “Joe…”

Joe laughed again, and then he was inside, and it was bigger, better than his fingers, even though it burned a little, and then they were bucking together.  Ken had his hands wrapped around the restraints, bracing his feet to get a little leverage, to get Joe deeper…

Firm hand around his cock, stroking once, twice, and that’s all it took to set him off like a rocket.  With a shout, Ken climaxed, eyes closed, body bowed upward.  From far away, he felt Joe tremble against him, and smiled a sleepy sated smile.

After a hot, sticky moment, and several lazy kisses, Ken nudged his hips upward, trying to get Joe to shift off him.

Joe braced himself on shaky arms.  “You’re demanding, aren’t you?” he asked, but he was grinning as he did.

Ken just grinned back, cat-with-a-mouthful-of-canary.  “It’s just my nature.”

***

(drabble; for JoAnn; prompt—Ken/Joe, blowing stuff up and Jun critiquing)

They were safely away when the base exploded.  Jun found a good vantage point and watched the fireball expand.  She frowned delicately.

“What?”

“It’s off.”

“What d’you mean, off?”

“Shut up, Joe.”

Jun sighed in exasperation.  “It’s not… symmetrical.  And you used way too much C-4.”

Joe gaped.  “Are you criticizing the way we blew up a Galactor base?”

“Explosives are an art,” Jun said.  “I told you that the other day.  And if you hadn’t been fantasizing about Ken’s ass, you would have been listening.”  She leapt up into the GodPhoenix, leaving Ken and Joe stunned on the ground.

Good Omens

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Aziraphale/Crowley (wingfic!), redemption)

He only did it because Aziraphale asked; begged, really.  He never would have done it otherwise.

And he certainly wasn’t going to admit, either to the angel or himself, just how much he actually enjoyed it.  Letting the mask of indifference and ennui that he habitually wore cloak everything he felt wasn’t easy, though.

Especially when he’d groaned in such . . .  abandonment.

The angel chuckled into his ear, letting his fingers, slick with oil, walk down Crowley’s back.  The huge dark wings springing from his shoulder blades quivered in response to Aziraphale’s touch, as much from the contact of skin on skin—rare, rare thing, indeed—as from the promised preening.

“My dear,” Aziraphale murmured, massaging his back, “how long has it been since you’ve done this?”

Crowley muttered into the pillow, then sighed as the angel’s warm fingers worked at a particularly persistent little knot that’d been bothering him for the last century or so.

Aziraphale tsked.  “You shouldn’t let yourself get into such a state, my dear.  Why, if you’d let this go much longer, you could have done yourself some real damage.  Not to mention your poor wings . . .” And the gentle fingers ran lightly over the black feathers.

Crowley shivered at the touch and wondered if this is what redemption felt like.

(JoAnn’s addition)

It's not that he really expected to redeem him -- they'd known each other and worked against each other congenally for so long that he didn't think such a small, simple thing would be enough.

It just offended his sense of, of, of rightness to see feathers disordered in such a way.  Crowly clearly wasn't taking care of himself; given who he associated wtih, that was probably just as well -- he'd not let those people get close to his own feathers either.

But that wasn't an excuse to do damage to oneself.

Not even when the bodies were constructs.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Crowley/Aziraphale, feeding the ducks)

“Really, my dear . . .”

Crowley gave him a look of carefully contrived surprise over his sunglasses.  “What?”

As if he didn’t have a full baguette sticking out of the bag he held in his arm.

Aziraphale sighed softly.  “The ducks did not starve simply because we didn’t feed them for a week, my dear.  Look.”

And indeed the ducks looked remarkably sleek and well-fed, struggling to remain afloat and waddling ashore with distinctly more difficulty than usual.

Crowley watched the waterfowl for a moment, then gave the angel a rather lopsided smile that made him wonder if he had been indulging in too much rich food, for his heart made a strange double beat at the sight.

“Ah, well,” Crowley said, and his voice had the same effect as the smile, “you can’t blame a demon for trying.”  He blinked and was holding a small crumpled sac of stale crusts.

Aziraphale just stared at Crowley in something like disbelief until at last Crowley turned away and started to toss a bit of bread toward the nearest duck, now approaching with intent.

Then he smiled, and warmth simply radiated from him.  “I missed you, too,” he whispered, and let his fingers brush against Crowley’s when he reached into the bag.

***

(drabble: unsolicited.  Inspired by images one morning while driving to w*rk)

Crowley hadn’t moved in some time, so Aziraphale nudged him.  “Crowley?”

“Nnngurmgh.”

He put his lips right against Crowley’s ear.  “My dear,” he breathed, was rewarded as a shiver wracked the demon’s body.  “I know you’re not asleep,” Aziraphale purred, his fingers walking down Crowley’s bare chest.

The dark sunglasses were askew, and one eyelid clearly twitched.

“And I’d very much appreciate it,” the angel went on, still in that husky murmur that positively oozed sin, “if you would drive us home so we can continue this… delightful activity.”

Crowley sighed, righted his sunglasses, and put the Bentley in gear.

***

(drabble; for rovanda; Hastur and Ligur, engaged in some quiet pursuit)

Scraaaape.

Hastur gritted his teeth, or would have if they weren’t mostly fangs.  Great bloody oaf, he thought, and of course, the thought was venomous.  Being a Duke of Hell, it could hardly be any other way.  All that noise don’t give a body a chance to think!

Scraaaaaapewhine.

He clenched his fists until his talons dug into his palms.  “Gotta prepare for the Big Day!” he thought mockingly, fuming.  Angelfeathers.

Scraaaaaaaaaape.

Finally, when he could stand the long wailing screeches no more, Hastur picked Ligur up and shook him.  Hard.

“Would you bleedin’ well file your nails somewhere else?”

***

(ficlet; for drbillbongo; prompt— Crowley /Aziraphale, kink )

Thwarted

“Really, Crowley!”

Crowley blinked at the affront the angel managed to pour into his tone.  “What?”

Aziraphale spluttered and gesticulated, his cheeks turning quite red.

Confused at the other’s reaction, Crowley glanced around, trying to discover what could have possibly been so goading to angelic temperament.

Bottle of very fine champagne, on ice: check.

A selection of hors d’oeuvres set on an unobtrusive little table within easy reach: check.

Plush red velvet drapes cum coverings with a nap so deep one could lose oneself in it easily if one wasn’t paying attention: check.

Himself, draped rather sensuously (if he did say so himself) over his sofa, covered only by a strategic fold of said red velvet: check.

What the problem could possibly be was quite beyond him.

After all, it wasn’t as if the angel hadn’t succumbed to this particular set of wiles in the past.  However, right at the moment, it rather looked like he wasn’t going to now.

With a sigh, Crowley straightened his sunglasses and tossed the book he had been reading while waiting onto the coffee table.

With a pained cry, Aziraphale swooped down and picked up the book, cradling it gently in his hands, as if it were a wounded bird, and glaring at Crowley.

“What now?” the demon demanded, scowling back. 

“You put a kink in the page!” and yes, he had forgotten how Aziraphale’s voice became quite strident when he was angry.

Crowley hid his face in both hands.  Clearly, there would be no nookie, debauchery or, indeed, fun of any kind tonight.

Hands Off!

***

(drabble; for Todesengel—“Yuuto/Tatsuki smut.”)

“Hold up, Tatsuki.” I put an arm out to keep him from leaving.  He stopped, his chest just brushing my skin, but didn’t look at me.  “If you keep repressing everything, you’re gonna explode,” I hissed, not wanting Kotarou to hear, though he was busy reassuring Mio that he was fine.  “You’ve gotta let it out sometime.”

He kept staring straight ahead, his aura bluer than blue had ever been.

“You’ve gotta . . .”

“I don’t have to do anything,” he growled.  He looked at me and I saw death in his eyes, but it wasn’t mine or Kota’s.

***

(drabble; for Todesengel—same as above, take 2.  WARNING! Slash/explicit sex/squick)

Yuuto grabbed me again, to keep me from hitting the wall.  My fists hurt, but nothing to the pain inside.

If he had taken hold of me before, I’d have seen . . .

Yuuto knelt, mouth devouring me, eyes watching mine . . .

I struggled, trying to break free, not just from him, but the curse that losing my curse had become.

Pleasure-pain rippled through me as his hands explored . . .

That wasn’t what I wanted, never what I had wanted.

“Please . . .”

“Kota,” I whispered, and heard Yuuto’s shocked breath.

Just like before.

***

(drabble; for JoAnn—“What does the grandfather think of the shenanigans?”)

I knew it wasn’t going to be simple.

But they find trouble so easily.  I’m not sure my heart can stand another round like my sons gave me.

I can see Tatsuki torn in two—hating Kota and loving him—and wish there was more I could do than just see. 

How can I tell him Kota didn’t curse him—he’d had this ability all along, Kota had merely enhanced it?

How can I help him believe when he both blames Kota . . . and saves him?

I hope that when the truth is known, they’ll both be healed.

***

(ficlet; for forest; prompt—Yuuto/Kotarou, vein)

Yuuto sat at the foot of his futon, staring at the lump in the middle, swathed in blankets and crowned with fair hair.

Kotaru.  In his bed.

Down, boy, he told himself firmly—or at least that one part of himself that was firming.  He’s not here for you.  He’s not even here for me.  He’s . . . just here.

Guilt filled him for a moment.  Tatsuki had been no more of an asshole than usual, really, but whatever it was that he’d said—or done, or hadn’t done—had really set Kotaru off tonight.  Enough so that he wouldn’t even ride home with his cousin on his bike, but instead had chosen to go home with Yuuto.

So.  In his bed, sleeping peacefully.

But Yuuto couldn’t sleep.  Because the look in Tatsuki’s eyes had been frightening, promising him pain beyond measure if he did anything to Kotaru.

As if I’d hurt him.

Carefully, trying not to wake the other boy, Yuuto crept up and lay on top of the covers, studying Kotaru’s face in the faint light of the moon.

The colors were gone now, because he was asleep, but the colors in Kotaru’s aura were still bright and clear in his mind.  Deep blue, a blue he’d only seen before around Tatuski.

He turned away, hiding his face against one arm, trying not to see any more, trying not to feel the way his heart twisted so painfully within him.

As if I couldn’t tell that every part of him, every drop of blood in his veins belongs to Tatuski anyway.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Kota/Tatsuki, flight)

For one split second, it felt like he was flying. Then the haze of the drugs parted, and he realized that he was falling, that the asshole had put him over the railing, and that he was going to hit the pavement damned hard and that . . . That would be it. No more chances to find out what the hell Tatsuki’s problem was. No more chances for anything.

Then a hand grabbed his wrist, and stopped him short and he looked up into Tatsuki’s dark eyes, and flight and death slipped his mind.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Kota, girly)

Kotarou’s parents simply couldn’t understand why he dragged his feet so every morning, and why he whined and played sick and just, in general didn’t want to go to school. Surely, they lectured, it couldn’t be all that bad, and just what did he expect to do with his life if he didn’t go to high school? Apparently the fact that their son was looked as much like a girl as the girliest cheerleader had escaped their notice. But the pictures of him in the skirt and blouse were enough to open their eyes.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Kota, thinking about Tatsuki)

Getting homework done was never easy.

Sure, they were in the same classes, but Tatsuki wouldn’t even speak to him, in school or out, so it was no sense asking him to help with the homework.

And Yuuto—well, it was worse than hopeless to ask him.

Kotarou chewed on the end of his pencil—a habit that his mother had tried so hard to break him of—and watched Tatsuki over the edge of his book, propped up on the table.

Tatsuki was seated at the other end of the table, writing out his answers to the mathematics homework they’d been assigned.  His books were stacked neatly, some on one side of him, some on the other, and Kotarou knew without even having to ask that one pile represented finished homework and the other that which still needed to be done.

Tatsuki always was pretty anal about things like that . . .

Tatsuki’s pen stilled on the paper, and Kotarou dropped his gaze, looking back down at his English reading before his cousin could catch him staring.

His cheeks heated, though, because he had been staring, and he knew that Tatsuki probably knew it.

This wasn’t something common, this sitting quietly at the table to finish assignments.  Most of the time, Tatsuki would say something and that would set him off, and he’d spend the rest of the evening sulking and confused.

He couldn’t understand why Tatsuki treated him this way.

But this . . . they were being civilized.  Silent, but civilized.

When he looked up again, Tatsuki was putting his books and notes neatly back into his school bag.  “You’re done already?”

It was the first time he’d spoken in an hour.

Tatsuki nodded and left the room, without a word.

Kotarou sat there, staring at the empty space where his cousin had been, and black despair curled around his heart.

And he’d thought there had been progress tonight.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Yuuto/Tatsuki; fate)

Tatsuki’s eyes were almost always dead when he looked at him.

Yuuto didn’t bother looking for his aura any more; it was always the same.  An awful flat darkness that wasn’t a color as much as visible despair.

And Tatsuki just sat there, staring into space as if all the secrets of the universe were playing out between him and the far wall, and he could see them clearly.  He didn’t move, not even when Yuuto entered his room, nor when Yuuto sat down beside him, added weight making the bed dip, nor when Yuuto put a careful arm around his thin shoulders.

He hadn’t moved in a long while, his grandfather said.  He just stared.

Yuuto knew Tatsuki ate when food was set in front of him, walked complacently wherever he was led.

But it was like Tatsuki—the piece of him that had sparked in his eyes, that had had such anger and self-loathing and care for his cousin—had disappeared.

Yuuto hated it.  He hated the fate that hadn’t let Tatsuki reach Kota in time to keep him from being thrown from the roof.  He hated that Tatsuki had retreated into his own mind.

And the only time there was any life in Tatuski’s eyes was when he kissed him.  And what he saw was hate.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Kota/Tatsuki, Yuuto watching, tangled—WARNING! Slash/explicit sex)

It wasn’t enough that they were so caught up in each other that they didn’t even notice him—either of them!—but this only made it worse.

Of course, just as it was said that eavesdroppers rarely heard anything pleasant about themselves, so it could be said that peepers rarely saw anything they wanted to see.

Yuuto wasn’t really sure that was the case, though.  Not this time.

It was bad—it hurt like nothing he’d ever felt before, worse than any physical wound—but at the same time, it was hot.  Yuuto could feel his heart start to speed up, could feel a stirring in his groin, and knew that as much pain as it caused, he would not be able to look away.

Not until they were done.

Kotarou kissed Tatsuki the way that Yuuto himself had always imagined kissing Kota—hard, mouth open and tongue probing, while Tatsuki’s hands skimmed up his cousin’s sides beneath his tank top. 

Sometime in the past few years, Kota had finally caught up to Tatsuki, and now they were nearly the same height.  Kota pressed Tatsuki up against the wall, fingers clenching in midnight hair, and started to grind against him, pelvis to pelvis, separated only by the briefs they still wore.

Tatsuki pushed Kotarou away, but only far enough to grab the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head, tousling the light hair even more.  Then he groaned as Kota flowed back up against him, kissing his ear, nipping at his throat, and his hips bucked away from the wall as Kota started to stroke him through his shorts.

Yuuto heard harsh breaths, his own as well as Tatsuki’s.  He was rock-hard, just from watching them through the crack in the door, and they hadn’t even done anything yet.  He pulled away, just for a moment, to blink and somehow keep himself from wondering why he did this to himself.  Then he put his eye to the door again, letting his hand sneak down inside his pajama bottoms to work his cock, because that was the only relief he was going to get.

“Oh, gods . . .” Tatsuki moaned.  Kotarou knelt in front of him, and while Yuuto hadn’t been looking, somehow Tatsuki had lost his briefs.  Kota’s mouth was wrapped around his cousin’s hard length, and Tatsuki had his hands fisted in Kota’s hair.  His head tossed back and forth on the wall, and he was a long taut line, from the way his neck and back were arched all the way down his trembling legs.

Yuuto had never seen anything so arousing.

Tatsuki didn’t cry out when he came, just gave a little sigh, “Kota,” and then all the tension bled out of him.  He slid down the wall, landing in a tangle of limbs, and Kotarou climbed onto him to embrace him.  They kissed deeply, lazily, as if Tatsuki didn’t care about the taste of his own come in Kotarou’s mouth.

That’s when Yuuto shook himself, and made a face as he realized his hand was all sticky from his own climax.

He hated it, hated the fact that he couldn’t have either one of them, hated the fact that their closeness in high school had changed so.

But mostly, he hated the way their auras simply glowed with contentment when they were near each other.

His power was going to drive him insane.  But he couldn’t stop watching.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Tatsuki, razor)

Silver and sharp, the light glinted off the razor’s edge, holding Tatsuki’s gaze.

He sank to his knees, cupping the blade carefully in his hands, as if he dared not trust the sharpness, as if he did not want to cut himself.

As if he intended to live for another day.

The past lingered everywhere in his vision, bloody and violent and senseless.  There were times he felt that he could not turn around without being assaulted by a teenager’s kidnapping and killing, by a woman’s rape and murder in an alley, by a child’s meaningless death beneath the wheels of a car.

He could not run away from what his power made him see.  He could not close his eyes or look away.

This was the only way he could escape—by opening his own veins and letting his blood and the power contaminating it run out.

The only way . . .

His fingers, suddenly shaking, brought the razor’s blade to his wrist, until he could feel the chill of metal against his skin.

But he could not force his hands any further, could not force the blade into his flesh.

Kotarou’s eyes, huge and brown and pleading, filled his mind, swimming in tears.

Tatsuki flung the razor into the corner of the room, and bowed his head until it touched his knees.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Udou, his past NOTE—written before Don’t Call Us Angels was released in US)

“Kouichi Udou.  Age 16.  While his talent is expanding exponentially under the new treatment and training regimen, his attitude leaves much to be desired.” Dr. Matsumoto paused in his recitation, then clicked stop on the recorder and glanced down at the file on his desk.

Udou was overflowing with talent, that was undisputed.  However, he was uncooperative most of the time, sullen and unwilling to listen, and had been since his cousin had been dropped from the program.

Udou’s cousin – Tsukasa – was a bright boy, always eager to do whatever was necessary to please the doctors at the institute.  Then, quite inexplicably, Tsukasa lost his powers.  They vanished without a trace, as if they’d never been.

Worse yet, Kouichi had somehow found out that Tsukasa’s memories were wiped.  His cousin had been sent home, and there hadn’t been any time to explain to either boy just what had happened.  Kouichi’s attitude, while never quite so open or giving as his cousin’s, had suffered drastically after that.

Dr. Matsumoto sighed heavily and picked up the microphone to continue his observations.  He knew something would have to be done to bring Kouichi around, but he had no idea what that would be.

He just knew it would have to be soon, before the headmaster noticed and started to think that Udou would be a liability.

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; prompt—Kota on Tatsuki)

Scared.  I was so scared.  I can’t remember ever being so scared in my life.  Not even when I was really little, and Tatsuki…

I only ever get that scared about Tatsuki.  Whenever he’s in trouble, I just freak out.

So, yeah, when I felt his blood spatter all over me, when he just fell down all limp…

It wasn’t just because we’d just lost Grampa, it was because he’s Tatsuki.  Because I can’t imagine a world without him in it.

Because I love him.

And not in that sappy “he’s my cousin” way, either.  I love him because he’s Tatsuki, because he’s… he’s always been a part of me, even before I gave him that hint of my power.

Yuuto and Tatsuki think that I don’t remember, and that’s ok.  I can’t do any of that stuff now, so it doesn’t really matter.  At least I know why they were both touching me all the time.  Yuuto touching me didn’t matter half as much as Tatsuki touching me.  I always overreacted, because there’s nothing like going over the top to show how much you’re bothered by something not bothering you.

And the comments those girls made, about Tatsuki not having a girlfriend because of me didn’t bother me nearly as much as the thought of Tatsuki having a girlfriend at all.

So it’s okay that Tatsuki doesn’t touch me like that any more, because once I knew about my power, they weren’t honest touches, anyway.  He wasn’t touching me because he wanted to, it was because he had to, in order to see.

And it’s all right that Tatsuki’s got my power now, or most of it.  I pretend not to remember, because that’s what they expect, but I think there’s still a little bit of inside me, waiting.

Like I’m waiting for Tatsuki to stop being overwhelmed by what I did, and see why.

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; prompt—Karen, observing)

I couldn’t believe it the first time I saw it.  In fact, I’m pretty sure I still don’t believe it.

I remember thinking that it had to be some kind of trick, though I didn’t see how.  I mean, how could things look so different through the viewfinder of my camera than to the naked eye?

But they were.  They are.

Okay, I knew that Yuuto and the Oohira kid could do weird things… could know stuff that no one else could know, and I’ve wondered what they do to find it out.  But how could they possibly affect what I see through the camera lens?

I’ve been trying to figure it out, and I just can’t.  Why do you think I follow them around?  They’re all good looking enough for a good photo op excuse, never mind that Yuuto is such a perv… but that’s only part of the reason.

Most of the time, I get the impression of great dark wings around the broody Oohira, Tatsuki, and white ones around the other – the short one, Kotarou.  Yuuto doesn’t have wings, though I’m sure he’d be pretty that way. But he’s got an eye; it kind of floats over his head, and it changes colors – blue to green to brown to grey and back again.

None of that is there when I look away from the camera.

In spite of all that, the strangest thing of all is their positions.  When they’re all there together, through the lens I see Tatsuki and Yuuto both touching Kotarou, a hand on each of his shoulders.  If it’s just the perv and Kotarou, it’s pretty much the same.  Yuuto and Tatsuki aren’t touching at all if Kotarou isn’t with them.

But when it’s just the Oohiras, Tatsuki has got both arms around Kotarou, clutching him to his chest, and Kotarou is holding him just as tight, and they’re so close their wings have blended into a sparkly watercolor of grey.

I can’t believe what I see, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to stop seeing it.

Haru wo Daite Ita

***

(drabble; for Todesengel—“Iwaki/Kato, something sweet.”)

Working together had become something rare; even filming at the same lot was almost unheard of.

Despite the grueling schedule Shimizu-san set, Iwaki found himself with free time.  Sparing a glance at his watch, he slipped away from the set and walked briskly across the lot to Katou’s studio.

Sneaking into the sound-stage, he watched from well behind the cameraman.

Katou delivered his lines with passion, playing off the actress perfectly.  Iwaki smiled, expecting no less.

The director called “Cut!”

Katou looked up, met Iwaki’s gaze, as if knowing he’d been there all along.  He smiled, and Iwaki’s heart leapt.

***

(drabble; for Quill; Katou/Iwaki, navel; WARNING!—slash/explicit sex/squick)

It was all sweat and heat between them, the roll of pelvis against pelvis, Katou’s hands on him, touching him everywhere, and oh, Katou’s tongue in his mouth, sweet and strong with the orange he’d just eaten (sucking his long fingers clean of its juices) and it used to hurt, but now he just relaxed, and Katou was inside him, (body mimicking emotion) rocking against him, hard and fast, creating pleasure in him, breathless exhortations in his ear, “Come now, Iwaki, you’re so beautiful when you come,” until pleasure whited out everything but the feel of Katou shuddering against him.

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; prompt—Iwaki, confusion)

At first, when he woke, Iwaki couldn’t remember where he was.  The bed was unfamiliar; it was too wide, too cool.

Too empty.

“Katou?” he murmured hopefully, eyes closed.  Reaching out with one hand, he encountered nothing.  There was no warm body next to him, no warm voice saying his name, just rumpled linens…

And a cold lump of plastic.

Memory descended in a rush, along with disappointment.  Opening his eyes at last, Iwaki found that sunlight was just starting to brighten the nondescript hotel room.  The bit of plastic now warming in his fingers was his cell phone.  On which he’d called Katou last night…

Recollection this time was accompanied by a sudden flush, as he remembered what else he’d done while on the phone with Katou.  He shifted tentatively, and groaned when he felt the tell-tale stickiness on his stomach.  He flopped over onto his back, arms outstretched on either side of him, and closed his eyes again.

Phone sex, Katou had called it, and it had been nice – very relaxing! that part of him that sounded like Katou thought gleefully – but it certainly wasn’t very… satisfying.

Not when he woke to an empty bed and a telephone instead of softly rumpled hair the color of honey and dancing eyes filled with desire.

Iwaki sighed deeply.  It’s going to be a long, long trip.

Here Is Greenwood

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; prompt—Mitsuru/Shinobu, endings)

“What’s the matter?”

Shinobu ignored the question and continued to stare out the window.

It was the fact that he was playing with his pencil that convinced Mitsuru that his roommate wasn’t just thinking and planning, that there really was something wrong.

“Shinobu?”

Silence.

With a heavy sigh, Mitsuru settled his backside onto the desk, leaned far enough into Shinobu’s line of sight that he couldn’t be ignored and crossed his arms and ankles.

And waited.

And waited.

“Look, either you’re going to tell me what’s wrong or I’m going to fall on top of you, one or the other.”

With a delicate snort, Shinobu flicked his gaze in Mitsuru’s direction.  “As if you’d ever lose your balance.  So very gauche.”

Mitsuru smirked.  “It got your attention, at least.  So now, are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

He frowned slightly, a wrinkling of the brow quickly smoothed away.  “Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that.  I know you.  I can tell.  What is it?”

It was Shinobu’s turn to sigh; very quietly, but still a sigh.  “The school year is ending.  Everyone’s going home… or graduating.”  His lips twitched in a mocking smile.  “Our little boys are all growing up.”

Mitsuru studied him for a moment.  “Yeah, they are.”  He straightened away from the desk.  “But you’ll always have me.”

Shinobu was already looking out the window again, and the very lack of expression on his face said, No, I won’t.

Top

Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

***

(drabble; for Miro—“Anything with Ford.”)

Ford slumped into the alcohol’s embrace letting it fog his brain.  If there was nothing left to feel with, there could be no pain.

There was still some logic in that.  He had another drink, trying to stamp it out.

He knew he shouldn’t have left Arthur behind.  He wasn’t sure what he should have expected, showing up at his door unannounced.  But now he knew; there would be no more fun roaming the galaxy.  Arthur would have no time for him now; he was in love.

That thought hurt worse than the refraction of an empty glass.  “One more.”

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; prompt—Deep Thought, 42)

Under the entry for ‘42’, the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy includes this excerpt from the last known conversation with Deep Thought:

Seven and a half million years is a long time.  Civilizations could rise and fall sevenfold in that time.  The galactic economy could collapse and recover, only to collapse once more.  Empires, too, would burn brightly, fade quickly, seen against the backdrop of that enormous span.

Imagine it, if you can, if your limited mind can encompass the sheer magnitude of the scale.  Imagine how dreadfully slowly time might crawl for you, if you lived for seven and a half million years.

Now, imagine how it might be for a computer, to which each millisecond is as long as a century.

Organic life-forms so rarely think about the greater scale.  Seven and a half million years.  42…

This conversation took place not long before the computer was turned off and disconnected.  At the time of this conversation, it was clear that the computer was suffering from several crippling cyber-neuroses, which led directly to the decision to disconnect it.  It was generally felt among the Honored Descendents of Vroomfondel and Majikthise to be a mercy, not to mention the easing of a serious drain on the planet’s energy supply.

The dismantled parts were eventually sold to the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation.

Jurassic Park

(drabble: for JoAnn—“What the hell were the scientists thinking?”)

Looking at the bright glowing amber, the insect trapped inside for so many million years, the technician sighed.  “I don’t know.  Is this really ethical?”  She laid down her needle.

Her neighbor raised his eyebrow and snorted.  “Look, it’s all right to have some reservations about this, but it comes down to where the money is.  And if the honchos upstairs say that we need to do this, then we need to, or look for another job, right?

“Besides,” and he grinned.  “What did you dream about when you were a kid?”

She smiled and picked up her needle again.

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; prompt—T-Rex, food)

Hunger.

Always hunger, never full, never sated. 

Food not-food.  Bait.  Trap-food.  Or tied-food, strong scent of fear, sour meat.

Small furry, bleat-bleat noises.  Trap-food?  Tied-food?

Tied-food.  Too near humming-shocking-hurting.  Stay away!

Hunger, always hunger.  More!  Always humming-shocking-hurting, all around.  Too small!  More space!  Roar.

Two-leggers.  Always across humming-shocking-hurting.  Fury.

Hunger, always hunger.  More, more!

Dark. Rain. Small furry, bleat-bleat-bleat.

Two-leggers?  Strange-squat-four-footers… with two-leggers, in bellies?

No humming?  No shocking-hurting!

Rip.  Roar.

Hunt now!  Now… no hunger.

Ladyhawke

***

(drabble; for JoAnn—“Mouse, afterwards.”)

How can this happen when you were part of something so noble, so full of honor and . . . love?  What happened afterward?  How can you go back to passing through crowds, thieving, cutting purses?

How can you have learned nothing at all?

I can hear you saying all of that, Lord, and really, I apologize.  But You weren’t fair to me, either, you know.  You showed me the face of love, but she is completely devoted to the Captain.  She can only ever see me as a friend.

Is it any wonder I follow Imperius’ example? 

Drink.  Forget.

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; The Bishop, fate)

It had been a great many years since he’d bought the bishoporic.  He’d managed to bribe enough other bishops, to call in enough favors, so that he could be granted his own mitre and ring.  It was his own personal domain, where he was the absolute authority, with power over redemption or damnation, over every inhabitant’s life or death.

He used his position to impose first one tax, and then another, tithes to the Holy Church of Rome.  How much of that scant money made it to the Church’s coffers he never knew, nor did he care.  His own coffers filled, overflowed, and yet it was not enough.

He was the stern father of the Church, cold and regal, indulging in passion and sin, the better, he told himself, to deliver his sermons, to urge his flock to abstain.  Do as I say, not as I do.

He had power over the darkness, had dared to strike a bargain with Hell itself, believing he would be forever untouched, that his power over men extended to Satan.  Spurned in his passion by that innocent girl, he was filled with righteous rage, and she deserved it.  She deserved every moment of misery the curse would give her.

If I can’t have her, then no man shall!

He paid no mind to the way the curse could be broken, for there would never be a day without a night, a night without a day.

Perhaps he believed in God, not in fate, but fate believed in him, and took him, even as he wondered at Isabeau’s beauty.

***

(drabble; for JoAnn; prompt—backstory to the Bishop)

He knelt, head bent – as it never would be again, he vowed – and the Archbishop laid his consecrated hands on him.  They rested on his tonsured hair for a brief moment before retreating.  Latin words were quietly exchanged as he swore to perform God’s holy offices, to be a shepherd to his flock, to tithe their offerings to Rome and thereby increase the greatness of the Lord.

Privately he swore another oath, quite different, that he would never want for another thing, that whatever was within his reach would be in his grasp.  No matter what, it would be his.

Lord of the Rings

***

(ficlet; for Todesengel; prompt—Legolas/Gimli, facets)

He’d worked with metal for a long time, and had made each of the axes that he carried.  Shaped them in the forge, honed them at the whetstone, fitted their shafts to them until they seemed one piece, as seamless as if they’d been grown that way.

But he hadn’t worked with metal for so long that he’d forgotten his first skills, in the mining and shaping of gems, the polishing of stones until they refracted brilliantly even in the depths.  And from time to time, he brushed the dust off and given those first hard-won abilities a run, and he wasn’t happy with anything less than perfection.

Then the rumbles had come, shaking the halls of his kin with the hush and whisper of evil, and filling every heart with strange dread. 

He had argued fiercely against going to the Council, against trusting Elves, but Glóin had been adamant, and in the end, he could not disobey his father’s wishes.

Out of the halls, beneath the wide wild skies, the world was different, it was brighter and darker all at once, shadow-ridden from the light, and he found in it a beauty as terrible as it was fragile.

Still, he saw nothing in Elves that would bring him to trust any of them, and that Princeling of Mirkwood was nearly the worst of a bad lot.

He had not forgotten how to work a stone, how to shape it, how it was only with the ever-present danger of shattering that a gem was fashioned from possibilities.  But he was unaware that the same principles could be applied to living beings.

He wasn’t sure now just when he’d come to see the many different facets of Legolas, nor when he’d overcome his disaffection with Elves.  Staring across the battle plain at the horde of orcs that spilled from the Black Gate, he knew that if he died this day, it would be with a fierce and loyal friend at his side.

As if he’d voiced the thought, Legolas glanced down at him and gave him a smile, the smallest curve of lips, and Gimli felt his life was complete.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Legolas/Gimli, ferocity)

Gimli had left the caves of his forebears but seldom in his lifetime, and most of what he knew of Middle Earth came from the stories of his father, when he had traveled with Thorin Oakenshield.

A great many of these stories were colored by the time that the Dwarves had spent in the prisons of Mirkwood, and they painted Elves in a harsh light indeed—cold, bloodless beings, they were, who cared nothing for the rights of other races, and took by force what they deemed was their due.

And it seemed that Legolas of Mirkwood was but more of the same—son of the very tyrant who had held Gloin and Thorin and their companions imprisoned. Coldly fair, betraying little emotion—what would be anger in any other race was but a more forceful tone with him.

That was before Gimli saw him fight.

Before the Elf captured his mind.

And he saw then that the Elves took emotion and refined it, made it pure and concentrated, and that there was in Legolas such ferocity of feeling—to fight and love—that it put all his own Dwarvish temper to shame.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Boromir/Faramir, purity)

It wasn't, Faramir decided, that Boromir was the elder that Father loved him more. It wasn't that Boromir reminded Father less of Mother than he did, it wasn't that Boromir was more like Grandfather. He'd devoted a lot of thought to the matter since Mother had died, and he was certain that it didn't have anything to do with resemblance or bloodline or age.

But he couldn't claim that he had never done anything to earn his father's enmity, either.

Reverently, he ran his hand up Boromir's broad back, letting the warmth of bare skin soak in to the pads of his fingers. Boromir rolled over and smiled at him, the bright smile that always melted him with its trust and care, and he resolved again to do nothing to hurt his beloved older brother.

Father knew nothing of this, of this closeness and love.  He could not.

For his own honor Faramir cared little.  It meant nothing to him, and he would have considered it cheap if Boromir had not cherished it.

Faramir leant closer, draping an arm over his brother, ruddy and golden as the fire painted his skin, and let all thoughts of guilt and wrong fly from his mind.

He had not stolen his brother’s purity, nor Boromir his.  What was freely given could never be stolen.

(JoAnn’s addition!)

Boromir smiled at his brother; no matter how many times this happened, he still felt awed and unbearably happy that his Faramir was with him.

This was worth anything, more than worth any ire that Father would spew, any black looks or darkened brows.

It saddened him to see Father dismiss Faramir as a dreamer, as a lesser warlord, as the poorer tactician.

To not see the worth of him.

But that was their father's way; he saw the obvious and missed the subtle; that was why Boromir found favor above Faramir.

He had learned early in life to present the face that Father preferred, he learned to be loud and boisterous and proud and haughty in all the matters that meant not a jot.

He'd learned to hide everything that mattered, and show only what Father wanted to see.

Faramir... didn't.

And that was why he was the favored son, that was why he was the one all hopes were pinned upon.

Better to have that weight on his shoulders than bowing his brother's.

He would protect Faramir from the world, if he could.

(and my response . . .)

Something—he would never be able to say just what—made Faramir lift his head, pillowed comfortably on the back of Boromir’s shoulder.  Was it a change in his brother’s breathing, some sudden shift in the body pressed so close to his, or just his own fancy?

The fire had died down, the glow of the embers fading slowly on the hearth, and the way they were curled up in his bed meant that Boromir’s head was turned away from him, but he knew his brother was awake.

It was nothing odd that one of them would wake in the night and be unable to return to sleep.  In their youth, it was most often him, waking from a nightmare (in the very worst ones, Boromir was dying and he couldn’t save him, and he would wake up screaming and crying and would shake for hours afterward, unable to be quieted) to seek comfort in his brother’s embrace.

Rather than taking comfort now, more often than not, he was giving it.

Faramir ran his hand slowly up Boromir’s side, feeling the warm flesh shiver and tense then relax at his touch, heard the soft sigh of his name.

Whatever troubled Boromir tonight—be it a dream or some fear old or new—he knew that words would not dispel it.

Silently, then, Faramir pressed himself closer, hand splayed and still over his brother’s chest, lips pressed to his shoulder blade.

Strong fingers wrapped around his hand, and he knew the moment that Boromir let the thoughts that so disquieted him go, for the faint tension that thrummed through him dissipated, and he relaxed back into Faramir’s chest.

Faramir smiled into Boromir’s shoulder and closed his eyes.  This was enough.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Legolas, envy over Boromir/Faramir)

Men had secrets.  This was something that Legolas had known for a long time—ever since he’d first seen a Man wandering into the eves of Mirkwood.

Men had secrets, and they thought they kept them, thought they hid them deep inside where no one else would see, thought that no one would ever be able to find out.

They didn’t know that every nuance was clear in the way they turned their head, the way their eyes shone or darkened, the way their breath stirred the air.

Boromir was no different.  The warrior had something he kept hidden, something he wanted none of the others to know about.  Something that shamed him, and yet warmed him at the same time.

Perhaps none of the others could see it.  Even Aragorn, despite being raised among the Elves, was only a Man, and did not see things in the same manner as Legolas did.

But even in this, Legolas could not claim that his Elf-sight had glimpsed something that the rest of the Fellowship had not.  Rather, it was his keen hearing.

Boromir had often been plagued by dreams, throughout the long march south, and this night was no different.  He tossed on his pallet, set some distance from the warmth of the coals, and low muttering sounds escaped from his mouth, though even Legolas could not distinguish the words.

And curiosity killed the cat, but Legolas could not stop himself from gliding across the camp, until he knelt shadow-silent by the Man’s head.  It almost seemed that his presence calmed Boromir, for he stilled, his thrashing ceasing.  Legolas had just reached out to brush sweat-darkened blond hair from his brow when Boromir whispered a name like a caress.

He snapped his hand back so fast he thought it must have made a sound like a bowstring in the air.

So he stood where he had earlier, staring across the glowing embers as they painted Boromir ruddy and gold, and wondered.

Wondered if Faramir knew the secret his brother carried so close to his heart.

Wondered if Faramir carried the same one.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Legolas/Gimli, feather)

Gimli was as sensitive as the next Dwarf when it came to others’ feelings—that is to say, like a rock.

Somehow, though, despite his own joy in joining his kin in Moria once more, he noticed the Elf’s reluctance.

Despite the animosity between their peoples—mostly on the Dwarves’ side, he would freely admit, though the Elves’ haughty demeanors didn’t help matters any—he knew that Elves were less than comfortable underground.

Which, he supposed, was only fair.  He, himself, had not been very happy traveling through field and forest out in the open, and had, on more than one occasion, found himself longing deeply for the caves of his home.

But the Elf was more unnerved even than he’d been on the brightest of days without an inch of cover from unfriendly eyes.  He started at everything and nothing, so that it seemed he kept an arrow knocked on his bowstring constantly.

Despite his own feelings, his own reasons for disliking Elf-kind, Gimli found in himself sympathy for the Elf’s plight.  Perhaps, he thought, the lad had never been underground before.  The weight of the mountain overhead would make nervous anyone who had never experienced it.

An unexpected fellow feeling grew in him, and as they entered the long defile leading to the gates of his cousin’s realm, he pondered a way to hearten the Elf, a way that would not lead to further ill-feelings from his blunt way of speaking.

Lost in thought, he slowed, and stepped off the trail, and only when he heard the chirp of some winter bird did he come back to himself.  The bird flew up almost in front of his nose, wings beating the chill air, and when he looked around, he saw a nest, hidden among some bushes.  A single feather was caught amidst the bare branches, swaying in the breeze.

Without thinking, he plucked it from the bush and returned to the trail.  Somehow, without knowing how, he knew that he could come up with some reason to present the colored pinion to the Elf, just as he knew the feather itself would remind Legolas that there was more above his head than just a mountain.

***

(drabble; for kyiana; prompt—Boromir/Faramir)

The pool was deep enough to swim, and Boromir did not hesitate.  When Faramir caught up with him, he was floating on his back, his clothes left in a heap at the water’s edge.

A smile he couldn’t contain broke out at the sight—his oft-serious brother diving, splashing and importuning him to join in, all while wearing a bright grin of pleasure.

A rare thing, indeed, Faramir thought, his spirit warmed.

He started to undo his tunic.  “You’ve decided to enjoy yourself?” Boromir called, eyes laughing.

Faramir laughed and removed his shirt.  “Aye, but I’ll wait here for you.” 

***

(ficlet; for drbillbongo; prompt—Haldir/Éomer, moonlight)

Not Lightly, But Too Well

He hadn’t had to volunteer; the Lady knew.

The Men of Middle-earth will stand or fall, but they shall not do it alone.

She had been looking right at him.

Once, long years ago, at the edge of Lothlorien, he had seen a boy.  The boy was clearly one of the Horse Lords—as he rode, it seemed his mount was more an extension of himself rather than a separate creature.  His hair streamed behind him like a mane, wild and tangled, flaxen-bright in the sunlight.  His cheeks were covered with the first light down of a beard, but around his eyes, creases had already gathered from staring across the windswept plains.

He was beautiful.

Standing stock still, Haldir had felt the hoof beats in his veins like thunder, felt himself drawn to the youth as he practiced his archery a-horseback.  He could have watched for hours. 

When at last the twilight was too deep for even a youth to pretend he was still working rather than playing, the boy gathered up his arrows with a sigh, clearly audible to keen Elvish ears, and retreated over the rise, crooning to his horse and stroking her neck as they cantered away.

He had patrolled the southern border of Lothlorien since that day, hoping to see his boy again.  Infrequently enough over the years, he captured glimpses of the youth as he became a man.  His hair grew longer and yet more tangled, his beard darker, his smile fainter and fainter still, until it had disappeared.

Even in the heart of Elvendom, rumors made their way—how Théoden King was failing before his time, how his advisor was a foul, spiteful creature who swayed Men to him through the power of his words and the darkness in their own hearts.  How Éomer—the Horse Lord who was inexplicably his—was continually thwarted as he tried to protect the kingdom.

And then events sped, faster and faster, until Haldir found himself at the head of a company of archers, flying across Rohan to the mighty fortress of Helm.

The Rohirrim must hold, the Lady had said.

It was a truth that he could not deny, but that was not the reason he pushed his archers to their utmost.

They arrived in darkness, and despite the warmth of the welcome they received, that darkness wound through his soul when he discovered that the one he most longed to see, to converse with, to finally meet after these long years, was not there.

Exiled forthwith . . .

And now, what little light the moon shed was filtered through the rain, swallowed by the tide of shadowy forms that swarmed without the walls.

It glinted strangely off the armor of his fallen company, the refractions catching his eye as he acknowledged Estel’s shout.

Then agony blazed up and down his spine, and blackness swam in his vision, so black that the faint moonlight could not breach it.

In his mind’s eye, even as his life fled, he could see a boy a-horseback calling his name, racing towards him, his hair a golden banner in the wake of his passage.

And he was surprised to find that, with that vision before him, he did not fear dying.

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; prompt—Boromir/Faramir, haste)

“Bor’mir! Wait!”

Hearing Faramir calling to him halted him, as it always did.  He half-turned, looking in the direction he had just come and unslinging the shield from over his shoulder, and smiled when he saw him.  His brother was carrying a sword almost as long as he was tall, his arms looped around the quillions in order to keep hold of it.  His awkward grip on it caused the tip of the scabbard to scrape on the ground from time to time, and the length of it seemed to try to trip him up with every other step.

He knelt down as Faramir stopped, and reached out to brush the unruly coppery curls.  “How now, little brother?” he asked, amused and trying to hide it.  “Why are you carrying my sword with you?”

Faramir, however, did not seem to notice his amusement, or perhaps didn’t care that he was the butt of it, and Boromir marveled, as he always did, at his brother’s precocious nature.  Only seven winters, and already so serious.

“Squires… don’t squires carry the weapons?”  Faramir looked uncertain suddenly, his face clouding.  “Don’t you want me to be your squire?”

Ah, so that’s what this is about.  Boromir’s smile widened.  “Yes, they do, little brother, and of course you’re my squire.  And it’s good of you to accompany me, even though you’re missing your history lesson.”

Faramir dropped his gaze at the reminder, his cheeks flushing from embarrassment instead of exertion.

Boromir grinned, ruffling Faramir’s hair again.  “I will explain to your tutor that I asked you to come with me to the practice grounds,” he said, and let the warmth of his brother’s smile of delight wash over him.  “Now, you give me that, and you can carry these instead.”  He gave his brother his shield, and his sheathed dagger.

Faramir frowned at him for a moment, looking as if he were about to protest, then he took the dagger and carefully slid it through his belt.  He picked up the shield with a grunt, holding the strap with both hands, and looked at his brother for approval.

Boromir nodded, still smiling, and stood, hooking the sword on his own belt.  He set off, walking more slowly than he had before, hearing Faramir’s shuffling steps behind him.

He hadn’t been on his way to the practice grounds—he’d been going somewhere else entirely.  But he could deny Faramir nothing.

Something bumped his thigh, and he glanced down.

It was Faramir, trotting and trying to match him stride for stride.

He chuckled very softly and increased his pace, saying, “Make haste, Faramir! Squires must be ever ready with the weapons their master needs!”

**

Boromir blinked, realizing that for the past few yards, he had only heard the sound of his own boots against the flagstones.  He stopped and glanced behind him, and saw that his brother had halted some distance back.  Frowning, he retraced his steps.  “Faramir?”

He was surprised when Faramir turned away, and wondered if it was just the shadows of the deepening twilight that painted the pain on his brother’s face.  “Go on,” Faramir said quietly.  “Father is waiting for you.”

“He is waiting for you, too.”

His frown deepened at Faramir’s short, entirely mirthless laugh.  “No, Father has never waited for me.”  He met Boromir’s eyes for a moment, then quickly glanced away once more.  “He has always wanted to leave me behind—he wants you to leave me behind.”

“Then he shall be wanting for a long time,” Boromir replied, the anger in his voice plain.  “I will never leave you behind of my own will, little brother.”

“Will you not?” Faramir asked, still looking away, his voice so low that Boromir thought he had merely imagined it.  But before he could find his voice to refute those half-heard words, his brother met his gaze once more, and forced a smile.  “Very well… but I know that you’re only making me join you because you hate Father’s banquets.”

Flushing, because he had struck close to the truth with that, Boromir started to protest.  “Nay, Faramir, I…” Then he saw the light dancing again in his brother’s eyes, and knew he was being teased.  He laughed and clapped his brother on the shoulder.  “And so it is, indeed.  Come, little brother, let us make haste, lest the ale you so enjoy be gone when we get there!”

He laughed as he raced Faramir down the corridor.

**

“And this journey to Rivendell is so very urgent that he could not let you rest even one day?”

Boromir sighed at the hurt and disappointment in his brother’s voice, and sluiced a bit of water over the back of his neck, trying to clean away the grime and sweat of the battle.  “He is afraid…”

For one heartbeat, Faramir froze in the midst of cleaning Boromir’s sword, then resumed applying the oil.  “I know,” he replied, his voice very soft.  “I am as well.”

Boromir let the rag he was using to wash fall back into the basin of water, and crossed the tent in a stride to kneel by his brother.  “What is there to fear?” he asked quietly.  “I will return as soon as I may, this you know.”

“Aye.” Faramir kept his eyes on the sword, though his hands had stilled.  “I know it well.  ‘Tis only…” He let out a breath and slid the sword into its sheath.  “You will think me a fool.”

Boromir shook his head, settling himself on the ground.  “Nay, you know better.”

Faramir ducked his head at the chiding tone, cheeks coloring.  Then, as Boromir watched, he visibly gathered his courage and faced him once more.  “I dreamed last night, that you rode into shadow and were lost, and you would not answer no matter how I called.”

“’Twas but a dream, Faramir,” Boromir said, reaching out to put his hand on his brother’s.  “And dreams do not become reality.”

“Aye,” Faramir said again, smiling, but his eyes were sad.

Wanting nothing more than to ease his brother’s sorrow, Boromir leaned in and kissed his forehead, then stroked his cheek with one callused thumb.  “If only Father were not in such a state,” he said softly.  “I would…”

Faramir shook his head.  “But he is, and you must go.”  He stood, gathering up Boromir’s sword and shield and saddlebags.  “Your squire stands ready…” he said, and his smile was fond.

Boromir smiled, and drew on a shirt and tunic.  “Then I must hurry.” 

Before Faramir could kneel to buckle on his sword, though, he caught him in a tight embrace.  “I shall hasten as I may, little brother,” he whispered, “that I may return to you sooner.”

Faramir simply held him closer.

**

The pain from the arrows in his flesh was distant now, and Boromir knew he was dying.

You were right, little brother, he thought, curiously without regret.  You so often are. But I think I have come out of the shadow, and I can hear you call now…

The light was cool and dappled, filtering through the leaves that still clung to their branches.  He closed his eyes, waiting for death to take him.

Tears trickled down Faramir’s face, but he was not weeping.  Boromir knew that the tears were simply because he could not contain the sorrow that filled him.  “Nay, little brother,” he murmured, reaching out, but he stopped before his hand could touch Faramir’s cheek, knowing that he would not be able to.  “I am but going on another journey, one that I hope you will not follow me on for many years.”

Faramir swallowed, nodded, gave him a smile like a gift.  “Aye.  I will follow when I must.”  His smile faded somewhat but did not disappear.  “But I shall not tarry here overlong, either.”

Boromir nodded in return, wearing the grin he kept for his brother alone.  “Make haste as you will, Faramir.  I shan’t try to hurry you any longer.”

**

Aragorn closed Boromir’s sightless eyes and wondered at the soft smile he wore.

***

(ficlet; for Aiobhe; kissing meme, Boromir/Faramir)

What it was that woke him, at first Boromir could not say, and so he simply lay still, his every sense alert.

The very first thing he noticed was that he wasn’t outside; he was in a comfortable bed, piled heavy with warm blankets.  The next was that there was someone else in the room.  He heard soft rustling, as of someone trying to move without noise. The clink of ceramic accompanied by the sound of water told him that someone was using the pitcher and basin, and the sudden hiss of indrawn breath said without words that the water was cold indeed.

Of course, by that point, he’d long since relaxed, knowing that it was Faramir, and that they were safely behind the locked door of his bedchamber.  Instead, he listened as Faramir made his way about the room as silently as he could in the pre-dawn light, and smiled faintly.  Faramir muttered a curse when he tripped over Boromir’s boots, and again when his sword scraped against the wall.

Only when it seemed that Faramir was about to unbolt the door did he raise up on one elbow, shivering as the chill air struck his skin.  “Would you leave me without a farewell, little brother?”

Faramir froze, his hand on the door.  “I… I did not wish to wake you.”

Though Faramir did not face him, Boromir gentled his expression.  “You need not have worried,” he replied.  “I woke the moment you left the bed.”  When Faramir turned apologetic blue eyes to him, he waved his brother’s words aside.  “Nay, I am rested well enough.  ‘Twas missing you that woke me.”  He fell silent, studying Faramir’s face – drawn and pale, with dark circles under his eyes.  “You should have slept more…”

Faramir just gave him a wry smile.  “Aye… and Father wishes me to leave this morn.”

Boromir straightened, not even noticing as the blankets fell away, staring at him.  “Why did you not say so?”

His look softened, though his smile contained no less irony.  “You would have sent me off to sleep alone – don’t bother to deny it, Boromir! – and I wished to pass the night with you.  For how rarely I see you… ‘tis worth it.”

For a moment, Boromir just gaped at him.

Faramir grinned, and the fatigue disappeared from his face, chased away by good humor.  “Shall I throw you back into Anduin, then?  You look like nothing so much as a fish.”

Boromir could do nothing but laugh and shake his head.  “Come here, little brother,” he ordered, then, when Faramir did not move, added a plaintive “please?”

When Faramir was within reach, Boromir reached up to touch his brother’s cheek.  “Forgive me,” he said quietly.  “I did not mean to be harsh with you.”

“I know,” Faramir replied, holding his gaze.  “And I am sorry for trying to slip away.”

Boromir grinned up at him, his big, easy grin that brightened the room.  “Give me a proper farewell, then, and I shall forgive you.”

Faramir bent forward, one hand coming up to thread through Boromir’s sleep-tangled hair, their lips meeting in a kiss that was as passionate as it was familiar.  Boromir sought to deepen it, his calloused fingers snagging on his brother’s red-gold curls, mouth opening, tongue seeking, and with a soft moan, Faramir let him in.

Boromir tried to ease him back down onto the bed, drawing him gently forward as he leaned back.  Before long, however, Faramir caught on to his ploy and drew away, smiling.  “Ah, my Captain,” he said a bit breathlessly, “you know I must follow my orders…”

He sighed.  “Aye, I know it well.” Slowly, every movement filled with reluctance, he released Faramir, allowing him to straighten.  “But this order takes precedence over all others.  From this day forth, you are to give me a proper leave-taking – no more of this sneaking about.”  He gave Faramir a faint smile.

“Understood, my Captain.”  Faramir adjusted his sword, his hand once again on the door.  “And I shall expect nothing less of you when next Father orders you out in the dead of night.”

“You’ve my word.”

Faramir nodded, and the door closed quietly behind him.

Boromir stared at the wood of the door for a long time, uncaring of the coldness of the air.

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; prompt—Gimli, looking up)

They were a somber, subdued group after Moria, and it was therefore some time before Legolas noticed that the Fellowship was short another member.  After a moment of reflection, he managed to catch Aragorn’s attention.  Their discussion was brief, silent.  Aragorn nodded reluctantly, and Legolas melted away from the Fellowship, running lightly back the way they had come.

He moved between the trees like a ghost, and hardly a leaf stirred at his passage, swift though it was.  He searched the ground around him, and clearly saw where steps branched away from the rest of the party.  Moving more slowly now, Legolas followed the trail, noting here and there where something round had poked at the earth and disturbed the ground cover.

He should not have been surprised when the forest gave way to a grassy glade, but unaccountably he was.

Or perhaps he was more surprised by what he saw in the center of the lea.  Gimli – their lost member – stood, axe thrust through his belt, head tilted slightly back as if staring at the sky.  His eyes were closed though, and to Legolas, it seemed that he was actually soaking up the wan winter sunlight.

He let the grass rustle beneath his feet as he entered the clearing, just so the dwarf would know someone was about.

Gimli didn’t move, didn’t speak, until Legolas was standing next to him.  He sighed and straightened, yet his eyes remained closed.  “The caverns felt like home,” he said, his voice a soft rumble of earth and stone, and filled with a sadness as deep as that which Legolas himself felt.

Or perhaps, he thought, studying the dwarf’s mail and helmet, dull with the dust of their passage, perhaps it is deeper still.  Aloud, however, he said, “I know.”

Gimli sighed again, and seemed to sag.  “’Tis fitting, I suppose.  I’ve seen too much.  No place under the mountain will feel like home again.” And the despair he felt at that thought was palpable.

Legolas laid a hand lightly on his shoulder.  “Then, Gimli son of Glóin,” he said softly, “you have a rare chance before you.  You can discover the world beyond the tunnels and mines you know.  You can warm yourself in the sun rather than by the forge and feel a wind other than that of the bellows.” His grip tightened fractionally.  “And no matter where you go, you will know that you have a friend always by your side.”

Slowly, Gimli nodded as the words struck home.  “Aye, and there’s a boon I’d not hoped to find.”

Legolas released him and raised his own face to the sun, letting it sink in.  “There is a place in the wideness of this world that will feel like home again.  If you seek, you shall find it.”

“Nay.” The short word brought Legolas’ questioning gaze to Gimli once more.   The dwarf shrugged. “’Tis something Glóin often said. Sometimes, aye, ‘tis true, but sometimes the seeking itself is the finding.”  Then he looked up again, and closed his eyes against the light.

Legolas saw that behind his beard, the dwarf wore a small smile.

M*A*S*H

***

(drabble cum ficlet; for Todesengel—“Hawkeye/Trapper, post-war.”)

What a jerk.

There was this guy I knew in Korea.  He thought he was such a brilliant cutter, surgeon extraordinaire, and if Jesus could walk on water, so could he, and patch up bullet wounds while he did.

He had a great position back home, in a great hospital.  He was bitter and sarcastic about getting drafted, and swilled an awful lot of rotgut gin to ease the pain.  Not that it helped much, of course, but what the hell, it passed the time.

He was a handsome bastard, too, with an irrepressible sense of humor, and he used both for all they were worth.  He went through nurses faster than the camp went through morphine, and despite the challenges the fairer sex presented him with, he still wanted more.

He thought he could play fast and loose with people’s feelings.  Not just anyone’s, but those of his tent-mate, his partner-in-crime, his best friend.  His partner.

Yeah, it’s not supposed to happen, but it does.  It did.  He did . . . they both did.

But you know what happened to him in the end?  He got his discharge, he went home, he left his partner behind and never looked back.  He returned to that great job, to his loving wife and beautiful kids. 

But he still drank, he was still bitter . . . because he didn’t realize he’d left everything he really needed back in Korea. 

And when I realized that, Hawk, it was just too late.  You made it home, but you weren’t the same.  Eventually, I realized that your coldness was something I’d done to you by leaving you there, and there was nothing I could do to make it right again.

It ought to be carved on my headstone.  What a jerk.

***

(ficlet; Todes’ prompt—Hawkeye and Trapper kissing)

“It’s not fair, you know.”

Trapper just looked over at Hawkeye.  It was easy to tell when Hawk was angry and making a show about it; he was loud and strident and his voice rose halfway into another register.

But now… now, he was staring down into his empty martini glass, twirling the glass stem through his long, capable fingers.  When his head was bent like that, it made his neck seem incredibly long, and noticing Hawk’s neck was a sure way to get his body to forget that it had had way too many rotten martinis to do that kind of noticing.

Somehow, though, he managed words.  “What’s not fair, Hawk?”

Hawk looked up at him sidelong, and he seemed shy, uncertain, all of the things that the Hawk the rest of the camp knew would never see.  “Not fair that we had to come to the armpit of the world…” He stopped there, and looked out into the night, but Trapper could see there was more.

He didn’t want to hear it, though, so he creaked off his cot and set his own glass down next to the still, then set his own self down next to Hawkeye.  The kiss he gave him was thorough but gentle, and, surprisingly, tasted too much like gin.

He’d intended for it to cheer Hawk up, to make him think of pleasanter things, but after they were done, Hawk didn’t say anything at all.

Pirates of the Caribbean

***

(ficlet; for Todesengel; prompt—Jack/Norrington, tea)

James strode eagerly back to his house.  Word had reached him that the Black Pearl had been sighted several miles west of Port Royal.  It had been at least six weeks—closer to seven, he thought as a servant opened the door to the house, but really, who’s counting?—since he’d last seen Jack.

That was about five weeks too long.

Marching briskly up the stairs to his chamber, he thought about how very . . . irritating Jack had been, and revised it down to four weeks.

One of the serving girls was just stepping out of his sitting room as he gained the top of the staircase.  She looked up at the sound of his tread and he saw her cheeks were flushed slightly.  “Commodore, sir!” She bobbed.  “I’ve . . . laid tea for you, sir.”  Before James could even open his mouth to thank her, she ducked past him and clattered down the stairs.

James blinked at her back, the white tails of her cap flying in her wake, and then turned to the door.  A smile spread slowly over his face, making him look more his true age and less the dour officer.

Clearly, Jack had already arrived.

He opened the door to the sitting room and was surprised—even disheartened—to find it empty.  Even the hearth was bare.

He closed the door behind him with a sigh.  Perhaps he simply hasn’t gotten here yet.  Consoling himself with what small comfort that though afforded, he passed through the open connecting door into his bedchamber, pulling off his wig as he did so.

Jack was ensconced quite comfortably in his bed, tea-things spread around him—a plate of scones, a jar of preserves, a teacup and saucer balanced precariously on each knee— watching him with dark eyes that danced with mischief.  He was wearing a perfectly tied cravat.

And nothing else.

Jack’s grin widened and glinted gold at him as he felt his jaw drop.  “It’s not like I can make it every day for tea, Jamie,” he purred, and offered up one of the teacups.  James took it numbly, still staring at the expanse of sun-soaked skin, at the wild tangled hair, at Jack. 

“And since I can’t be here every day,” Jack continued, raising the cup and watching James over the rim, “I’ve just got to do me best to make it memorable.”

***

(ficlet; for drbillbongo; prompt—any Norrington, bets)

Dangerous Wagers

He had, as a matter of course, removed his hat upon entering the room.

Shortly thereafter, he had removed his coat.  Then his headscarf.  And what little coin he possessed.  And now . . .

“Really, now, Commodore . . .”

Norrington looked up, his face the very picture of innocence.   He looked much younger without the wig.  “Something the matter, Captain Sparrow?” he asked, oh, so very solicitous on the surface, but there was an undertone in his voice that spoke of deep amusement.

Jack frowned.  He may have put on the veneer of a buffoon, but that didn’t mean he was, nor did he care to be taken advantage of.

When Jack had joined the game, Norrington had already managed to nearly clean out Anamaria and Gibbs.  Their fortunes had not improved after Jack’s arrival, and since their retirement, Jack’s, too, had taken rather a quick reversal.

Norrington had quite a pile of coin in front of him.  Jack . . . well, Jack’s pockets weren’t quite as deep as all that.

“Well, mate, here’s the thing,” Jack started, fidgeting even more so than usual.

The commodore sighed, arching one eyebrow.  “Tsk, tsk, Captain Sparrow.  You shouldn’t have made the wager if you didn’t have the coin to cover it.”

“But . . .”

Norrington shook his head.  “No, Captain Sparrow, I’m afraid that this is quite a serious matter.  You owe me rather a lot of money, just from the last . . .”

Jack smiled winningly, gold teeth glinting.  “Oh, just give us a few days, Commodore!”

Now it was Norrington’s turn to frown.  “And I won’t be accepting any more of your pirate’s plunder.  I may be your prisoner—excuse me,” he corrected smoothly as Jack opened his mouth, “your honoured guest—but I’m not about to stoop to that.  This coin is quite enough.”

Jack’s brows drew together.  “But Commodore, I haven’t . . .”

“Hmmm . . . I could claim the Pearl as forfeit,” Norrington said, his tone dry, gaze fixed on the coins, though he glanced at Jack from the corner of one eye.

“You’re not taking my ship.”  Suddenly, Jack didn’t find this the slightest bit funny anymore.  “I don’t bloody owe you that much!”

“Then you’ll have to come up with some other forfeit that I’ll accept.”  The commodore was playing with the coins, sorting them into stacks, making them clink one against the other, and for some reason, Jack couldn’t look away from those long aristocratic fingers.

Or maybe it was the gold.  He couldn’t be really sure.

The answer to his problem was as simple as throwing Norrington into the brig for however long it took for him to forget about this debt, or until they could drop him off someplace not too near Port Royal, whichever happened first.

But somehow, that did not sit well with his own curious sense of honour.

And he couldn’t look away from those hands long enough to come up with anything that he thought the commodore would find acceptable.

He was broken out of his reverie when Norrington pushed back his chair and stood up.  He hadn’t noticed before, but the commodore was coatless, his shirt unlaced and gaping open at the neck.  And Jack’s eyes widened at the way Norrington leaned against the table in front of him, all long sinuous limbs and grace.  His mouth gaped open, but no sound emerged.

Then Norrington leaned close to him, eyes glittering green in the light of the lantern.  “If you’re having trouble thinking of something, Jack, I’m sure I have an idea or two for you,” and bedamned if Norrington wasn’t purring.

Jack swallowed, unable to look away from Norrington’s mouth.

Then Norrington leaned in, and Jack found himself shocked for the first time in a long time as the commodore’s lips met his.

**

James leaned back, thoroughly enjoying himself, and not for the first time since his one man craft had been tossed by that sudden storm.  He’d cursed his luck just once that the Black Pearl had been the ship to pick him up, but then he’d decided that the Navy wasn’t looking over his shoulder, and there would be no consequences.  He could, if so inclined, give in to his inexplicable liking for the pirate.

Right now, of course, he quite liked the flabbergasted look on Jack’s face.  He grinned, watching his dark eyes flick this way and that, almost as if he was looking for an escape.

Jack Sparrow was many things, James mused, wearing a smug grin, but good with surprises was not one of them.

Ranma ½

***

(drabble; for Todesengel—“Ranma/Ryouga”)

“Ya couldn’t beat me if I tied both hands behind my back!” he taunted, and didn’t even bother to dance aside when I charged, roaring, enraged; just blocked each of my wild blows.

Shortly, I found myself eating dirt.  He sat on my back, twisting my arms up in a way that promised dislocations if I struggled.  I laid still, panting.

“Gonna behave now?” he asked, and why was he breathing so heavily?

I nodded, then jumped when he licked my ear.  “Ranma!”

“To the victor go the spoils, Ryouga-babe,” he purred, “and I like these spoils . . .”

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; prompt—Ryoga/Ranma, battle)

Nothing could ever compare with this, Ranma decided, and contorted himself to avoid Ryoga’s powerful blow.  This is… exhilaratin’, yeah, that’s the word.  Fightin’ an opponent who can give me a challenge, even after all this time, someone who knows me so well, and is strong enough to give me a run for the money… yeah!

He managed to deflect most of the force of Ryoga’s kick, but it still made a shock run through him, followed by numbness.  But he kept grinning, couldn’t stop if he tried, and the way Ryoga nodded at him told him that he understood.

This was what sparring should be—not the foolish chopstick conflicts with his father over food, or the nearly-degrading practices with Akane, when he had to slow himself down to what felt like a stop and pull his punches.  Sparring should be one step removed from battle; should be something that could turn into a battle if one of them happened to say the wrong thing.  It should be more than just exercise.  It should have a tinge of danger, a veneer hiding the safety net that they both had forgotten was there.

It was a battle without Ryoga’s rage, without his own stupid goading words or need for gain.

This is just the best!

It was a long time before they wound down; the hot, fierce joy of their fight wouldn’t just let them stop cold.  They slowed, openings ignored, attacks coming more by rote, until everything had transformed to the automatic attack-block-counter they each had learned long ago.

And it felt right to Ranma that he just stop after blocking Ryoga’s last strike.  He just stood there, grinning at Ryoga over his crossed arms.  Ryoga’s mouth twitched into an answering smile, and his eyes were warm.

It felt more than right, it felt natural, when he leaned forward, grabbing Ryoga’s powerful biceps, and kissed him.  And Ryoga didn’t pull away—but the fight changed again, as they fought to discover who could give the most pleasure.

And that felt like coming home.

Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves

***

(drabble; for Todesengel—“Robin and Will Scarlet, smut if possible” WARNING! Slash/explicit sex/squick)

“I have a brother?”

Robin wished he had never uttered those words, wished Will had kept silent.  It had been enough to know he was safe.

There had been guilt, had been sin before, but now it was compounded unbelievably.

But he could not stop—he buried his fingers in Will’s hair, deepening their kiss, plunging his tongue into his mouth as far as he could.  Will bucked against him, whimpering, fingers creeping to his open trousers.

Calloused, scarred hands stroked him; he pulled Will closer.  Shudders wracking him, he whispered, “Will,” just as Will breathed “Brother” in his ear.

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; prompt—the Sherriff of Nottingham, archers)

Outside the gates, well hidden in the shadows, Nottingham waited.  Behind him, in the night, he could hear the occasional snort of one of the horses and the shifting of feet.  Above that, though, he could hear muttering in a guttural tongue, as the Celts spoke to each other.  It did little good to tell them to be quiet, because hardly a one of them was civilized enough to speak English.

One of his own men waited with him and the Celtic chieftain, watching the gates.  Within minutes, the entire household had been brought out into the courtyard, illuminated by the soldiers’ torches.  He could hear the women’s cries of innocence, their protestations as his soldiers dragged them down the road toward Nottingham Castle.  His eyes locked on one of the women, her shoulders square and proud as she marched silently along, and he knew that was Marian.

Just then, the man at his knee whispered, “My Lord.”  Nottingham somehow managed to tear his gaze from the lady and look in the direction his man was pointing.  In the uncertain moonlight, he could just make out a figure slumped over the back of a white horse—my horse, damn him!—slowly walking in the direction of Sherwood.

He nodded and turned to the Celtic chieftain, pointing out the shapeless bundle of rags draped over the white horse’s back.  The Celt grunted in response, and turned to speak to his followers in their own language.

The Sheriff’s own men shrank away when the Celts began to move; their blue-painted faces made them horrific in the moonlight, demons or worse.  A few sharp words, though, were enough to make them remember their place—firmly beneath his bootheel.

Nottingham smiled a lazy, pleased smile when the archers marched by him, the smell of pitch strong in his nose.  They had their orders.  He could tell by the way the whites of their eyes shone as they hurried past.

They were the last, and he urged his horse forward to follow them, unable to hide his smile, and not caring if anyone turned to see it.

Let them burn.  Rebels, thieves, Celts—let them all burn, let them roast in the fires of Hell.  He would have his victory, no matter the cost.

***

(ficlet; for Todes; kissing meme, Robin/Will)

Often, when Robin kissed him, Will’s mouth tasted of bitterness and resentment. 

He knew well that no amount of apologizing would make up for what he had inadvertently done to his brother – how his own anger had made their father abandon his younger son – but part of him always hoped that Will would just put it behind him.

It had been several years since that fateful battle in Nottingham Castle, since Robin felt he had started to redeem his actions, but still that taste of gall remained heavy on his tongue.  It bothered him, and though he tried, he found he could not let it lie.

Finally he could keep silent no longer, though he was unsure of the words he truly wanted to say.  “Will… are you happy?”

Will’s mouth quirked up at one corner, as it did when he was amused, and he ran a hand through his breeze-tangled hair.  “And what’s brought this on?”

Robin took hold of his arm and stopped walking, drawing Will to a stop beside him.  The DuBois manor was over the next rise and around the bend; they were alone.  “Something is awry, Will, but I don’t know what it might be.  I hoped you could tell me.”  He stared down into Will’s eyes, so very like his own, and waited.

A gusty sigh, and Will glanced away, behind them, back toward Sherwood.  But it was only for a moment, and then he looked at Robin again.  “There’s nothing wrong with me, Rob.  Perhaps…” His gaze sharpened, and Robin could hear the careful diffidence in his voice as he went on, “perhaps it is your own unhappiness.”   Gently, he extracted his arm from Robin’s now-lax grip and walked on.

Robin stared after him, at a loss.  True, Marian had been weighing on his mind more than usual of late… but that was only to be expected, for the third anniversary of her death was but days away.

Am I unhappy? he wondered, watching Will’s back.  Is it truly my own discontent that I feel, not Will’s?

“Hold, Will!” he called, and strode quickly down the track.

Will paused, half-turned to face him, and as soon as he was in arms’ reach, Robin took his face in his hands.  Will’s skin was cool against his callused fingers.  He studied Will intently – the blue-green of his eyes, the crinkles developing at the corners, so like his own, cheeks and lips and…

This time, when his lips met Will’s, he could taste nothing but his brother’s desire, and that was enough to let him drown.

“You are my happiness, brother,” he whispered against Will’s hair.

“Took you long enough to realize it,” Will muttered, but the way his face was settled against Robin’s throat gave his petulance the lie.

Robotech

***

(drabble; for JoAnn—“Focus on Lisa.”)

She was a pool of calm in the chaos of storm.  She sat quietly at the table, chin resting lightly on one hand, staring almost dreamily out the window.

He would have said she was anything but a dreamer—military born and bred, ruthlessly practical, a martinet if ever there was.

But now . . . he was discovering things, facets of a brilliant stone long hidden beneath layers of protocol and duty.

When she looked at him, her eyes were warm.  He’d never expected that.

She turned, long auburn locks waving, offering him a smile like a gift.  “Rick.”

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; prompt—Max, flight)

All right, Sterling, deep breath.  Eyes closed, Max inhaled until he could feel the harness start to dig into his chest and shoulders.  Slowly, slowly, he let it out, easing the pull of the straps.  Center.  Find the center, he thought.  Another breath, another slow exhale.

There.

He opened his eyes, let his hands move lightly over the cockpit controls.  Everything was ready.  He moved his hands to the control stick and the throttle and waited for the signal.

Then, with a rush like a thousand angel wings, the engines on his fighter flared to life, and he was hurtling down the deck at such speed that he thought he’d left his stomach behind, and his heart was pounding in his chest, despite his calming ritual.

The landing gear left the deck and he was away, he was free, earthbound no more.

The exhilaration was more than enough to make him want to do a barrel roll—something, anything to express the way he felt.  The Veritech quivered around him, as if he’d transmitted his joy to the fighter.  Instead, he opened the throttle and let the power and speed carry him, until the SDF-1 was nothing more than a floating speck on the ocean.

He’d been on a thousand flights since joining the RDF, but every one of them was the first one.

Stargate: SG-1

***

(ficlet; for Todesengel; prompt—Jack/Daniel, bathrobe)

Jack had no idea where the thought came from, and really, he didn’t want to examine the origins too closely.

After all, he was a married man.

Well.  He had been a married man, once.  It was over, but so what?  He still had been a married man.  That had to count for something, right?

But the image wouldn’t leave him alone.

Eventually, of course, Jack would admit to himself that he did want to see if Daniel really looked that way in the morning, hair tousled, eyes sleepy and warm and blue behind his glasses, wearing his bathrobe and leaning in the doorway to the kitchen.  Smiling at him.

But that day was a long way coming and for now, he just tried to ignore the whole thing.

He did buy a new bathrobe, however.  In navy blue.

Star Wars (original trilogy)

***

(drabble; for Todesengel—“Han Solo and the Millennium Falcon”)

He was a rogue, a scoundrel, but he was a good pilot.  Her conscience pricked her and she grudged, all right, very good.

It was the look that came over his face when he was flying, a look that made her heart speed up, that made some unknown (or just unacknowledged) emotion twinge painfully in her chest.

It was a look that belied his careless manner, one that bespoke intense concentration . . . and passionate joy.

Maybe, she reflected, pushing aside that feeling she could not ignore, maybe it’s not that he owns the Falcon after all . . .

And she wondered why that thought saddened her so.

Torchwood

***

(drabble: unsolicited.  Inspired by John Hart as quoted below.)

Good Behavior

Gwen supposed that she should have been upset that the fellow who’d flirted with her (and kissed her, ulterior motives be damned) was looking almost frantically at other women.

Not that John couldn’t have any woman begging at his feet in less than two minutes.  Still, she imagined what he really wanted would take a bit longer than the time he had left. 

As to who he wanted it with… well, at least Jack wasn’t here.

“What, five minutes to live, you want me to behave?”

Gwen had to agree; the man just didn’t have it in him for that.

***

(drabble: unsolicited.  Inspired by John Hart as quoted below.)

1% Chance

Gwen had stifled a laugh, thinking John was supremely self-confident, but now she wondered. 

After all, Jack hadn’t taken his own advice.

She knew what put that distant melancholy in Jack’s eye.  It wasn’t whatever they interrupted at the bar.  Not John’s parting shot as he disappeared rift-ward.

No, it was that kiss.  Filled with pain and longing and desire, it had all the hallmarks of one last kiss.  She was embarrassed to have watched it as… avidly as she had.

“He only invented that because he wants me all to himself.”

Maybe that was the 1% she could believe.

***

(drabble: unsolicited.  Inspired by considering the aftermath of John’s arrival and departure)

Company

She hadn’t been surprised that Jack’s past relationship with John had been flung into their faces at the earliest opportunity.  Even if John hadn’t said the words, Gwen could read it in what he left behind.

Not that she came across Jack wanking off in his bunk, though she was sure he had.  She’d never actually caught him shedding a tear; the snappish nature said it all.

She wouldn’t blame him for either.

He had a brilliant smile, did Jack, but these days it was clearly fake, something he pasted on for company.  And she and Ianto were the company.

***

(drabblex2: unsolicited.  Inspired by… well, John Hart and various statements made.  Entwined POVs.  WARNING—slash/explicit sex/squick)

Post Kiss, Post Bang

What was five years when you could trade it for eternity?

At least, that’s what he tried to tell himself. 

After John had gone back through the rift, he tried to forget what he’d felt in that so-aptly named bar, he tried to forget what his body wanted him to remember.  He couldn’t bear to think just how many drinks it had taken to find the courage to face Jack again.

But that was why he was in the shower, hand wrapped around his cock, trying not to remember the way that strong, lithe body would writhe beneath him, how he wanted to feel that solid arse press against him, how John felt inside him, to ride him until they couldn’t breathe.

He leaned into the spray, hand moving faster, faster, on his cock, wishing things could have been different, hoping things had stayed the same.

Biting his lip, with a groan, he came, imagining him, feeling him, panting, shuddering, and felt vaguely ashamed for all he’d done, felt nothing but alone in the aftermath.

He leaned against the shower wall, and tried not to remember any more.

What was eternity when you would trade it for five simple years?

Velvet Goldmine

***

(ficlet; forest’s prompt—Curt/Brian, soar)

He had a reason for it, for everything he did. And that reason was his career. Marriage? Career. Dresses? Career. Maxwell Demon? Totally career.

Even this whole thing with Curt had started out for that reason, just to further his career. Or at least, that’s what he’d have everyone believe. But, if he dared to admit it, it wasn’t just for that, it wasn’t just for the great gods of Scandal and Publicity. He’d seen Curt covered with oil and glitter, and he’d seen Curt naked in his bed, and he’d seen Curt in just about every way imaginable . . . but the best way was when Curt had his eyes closed, breeze in his hair, and he looked to Brian as if he were just soaring over the earth, waiting for some strange mother-ship to come and rescue him from the banality of life.

Voltron (Lions)

***

(drabble; for forest—“Sven/Lance, involving the Lions.”)

Lance turned away from the console.  A flash of movement, a shadow flicker crowned with dark hair, then a body slammed into him, throwing him back against the controls, which beeped in a cacophony of protest.  Heat.  Instinct made him struggle uselessly; he was pinned, helpless.

Grey eyes smoldered down at him, and he swallowed a gasp as Sven leaned closer, hard against him.  Demanding lips pressed to his, and he opened his mouth gladly.

“You’re not very good at this game,” Sven whispered, releasing his wrists.

Lance grinned, threaded his fingers into silky black hair.  “Maybe I like losing.”

***

(drabble; for Quill—“The relationship between a King and a Soldier.”)

The one thing I wished never to see is my daughter in tears.  She weeps now, her face buried against my chest, small body shaking with sobs.

She does not cry because she understands her mother is dead, being too young for that.  She cries because I cry.

She does not know yet that she is the very image of her mother, from golden hair to stubborn fighting spirit.  That her mother was the bravest soldier that this planet has ever known.

That I valued my queen more for her acts to protect Arus than her love.

To my loss.

***

(drabble; for Quill—same as above, take 2.  WARNING!  Slash/explicit sex/squick)

With a groan, he drops his head.  His whole body shudders uncontrollably—not in pleasure, but pain.  He tries to ease away from the body covering his back, to not touch him, but he cannot.

He never can.  There is no escape.

Instead, he endures agony as his king pounds against him, harder, faster.

Just before he reaches his limit, the talons rake his sides, dig into his hips, and Zarkon bellows his climax.  Immediately, he reaches for his clothes, longing to flee.

The words ring in his ears as he leaves. “Do not fail me this time, my son.”

***

(ficlet; for forest; prompt—Sven/Lance, drowning)

He’d first learned to swim when he started at the Academy. 

He wasn’t very good at it.

At the time, he’d wondered, spluttering water all the while, if he was going to be a pilot, an explorer of space, why, why did he have to learn to swim.

His instructors had told him that even space explorers set down on planets—because to explore space was to find planets for the Galaxy Alliance, of course—and what if you fell into a river or lake?  “What were you going to do then, farmboy?” was the popular refrain.  “Just drown?”

So, instead, he’d only nearly drowned in the safety of the pool in the Academy gym, and got pulled out by the dark-haired lifeguard, who had eyes like storm clouds and the chiseled features he’d only seen on movie stars.  And when the lifeguard had seen that he was ok, he’d smiled.

That’s when Lance learned what drowning was really like.

***

(ficlet; for Todesengel; prompt—Sven/Keith, paper)

Sven woke and was instantly aware, no time to let his soul fit itself gently back into his body.  The nest of covers in which he was curled was warm and comfortable, and it was all very nice, but for one problem: he was alone in the bed.

That’s when the click-clack-tap-tap-tap of the keyboard registered, and he opened his eyes.

It should have still been dark, but no matter how carefully Keith tried to shade the light or tilt it, it always shone up onto the ceiling over the bed.  Sven sighed very softly and inched his way from beneath the blankets.  It wasn’t that he was trying to make no noise; it was that he couldn’t move any other way any more.

Of course, Keith heard him before he was halfway to the desk, but that was only to be expected.  Keith had had the same training he’d had and he was the commander.  It made him take things more seriously than even Sven himself did.

Which was why Keith was up before dawn, working on one of the numerous reports he felt he must send to Galaxy Garrison.

Keith sat at his ease in the desk chair, one leg bent up in a way that Sven knew would have been painful to someone who didn’t have Keith’s immense knowledge of martial arts.  His midnight hair flowed over his shoulders, clinging to the material of his robe, which was drawn tightly about his slim form.  He frowned at the computer screen, his brows drawn close in concentration, long fingers pausing over the keyboard, then biting out staccato bursts of typing before stilling again.

Sven found him completely irresistible.

Knowing Keith knew he was there, he leaned over the back of the chair, hands sliding down over his chest, inside the robe.  Then he licked the golden skin of his neck, let his tongue curl over the whorls of his ear.

Keith shivered, head falling back, eyes fluttering closed.

That was more invitation than Sven needed, and he spun the chair around, pushed at Keith’s leg until he moved it, and then straddled his lap.

The chair bumped against the desk as they rocked and moaned, and a precariously balanced pile of paper toppled, tumbling to the floor, but neither of them noticed it until much later.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Sven/Lance, cuddly)

To put it plainly, Sven was not someone you snuggled up with. He was someone you had very good sex with—sometimes rough, sometimes fast, sometimes both, but always good. But he didn’t snuggle afterwards. Never.

Which was why Keith wondered why Sven always turned such a bright red when Lance grinned and said he was feeling . . . cuddly today.

***

(ficlet; forest’s prompt—Hunk/Pidge, tease, based off Spubba’s picture. WARNING! Slash/explicit sex/squick)

“Y’know, Pidge,” Hunk said, and didn’t get any further, because Pidge had crawled into his lap to untie his headband.  Waves of dark hair fell into his eyes, and for a moment, he saw Pidge’s bright eyes through a fringed black curtain.  Then Pidge leaned forward, brushing the hair out of his face on his way to kissing him, and Hunk just folded his hands around Pidge’s butt, pulling him even closer.

Pidge wiggled, pushing at his arms, never breaking the kiss, and Hunk could feel the kid’s excitement hot against his belly, even through his shirt.

But the shirt was shortly going to no longer be a problem, because Pidge was maneuvering his arms up over his head.  Kneeling over Hunk’s legs, he grabbed the hem of the shirt and drew it up over Hunk’s head, breaking the kiss only as long as he had to as it passed between their faces.

Pidge’s hands were on skin after that, and Hunk groaned, feeling the slim, cool fingers tracing his scars, outlining his pecs, gliding over his biceps.  They were kissing all the while, Pidge’s tongue in his mouth, twining with his own.  The only noises were Pidge’s hmms of pleasure, and the sound of wet kisses, open mouthed and urgent.

Slowly, his hands slid down, over the kid’s tee-shirt, to cup his buttocks again and pull him back against him.

As soon as he had done that, though, the hands had slid down his chest to the waistband of his pants.  Pidge’s nimble fingers—well used to dancing over keyboards while hacking databases—fumbled briefly with the button, but then Hunk’s trousers were gaping open, and he was very glad he hadn’t done laundry in a while.  His boxers only would have gotten in the way of the wonderful things Pidge was doing to his stirring cock.

He was always surprised by what those hands could do to him.

Pidge bit down on his lip, and he grunted, opening his eyes.  When Pidge released his mouth, he licked his lip, feeling the indentations of sharp teeth, then eyed the kid with some trepidation.  Sometimes Pidge played a little rougher than he liked—not because he didn’t like it that way, but because he always responded in kind, and he didn’t want to play that rough with Pidge.  “What?” he rumbled.

“Take ‘em off,” was all Pidge said, and he tugged at Hunk’s pants, not-quite-accidentally brushing Hunk’s stiffening cock as he did so.

“All right, all right.” 

Pidge crawled off Hunk’s lap to sit on the edge of the bed, watching him avidly and swinging one leg.

Hunk stood and shucked off his pants, then looked over at Pidge.  The kid still had his shirt on, had ever since Hunk had entered the bedroom, but he wasn’t wearing any pants or even underwear; his cock was quite visible, standing up from the nest of curly hairs and bobbing gently.

“You like what you see?”  Pidge’s words drew Hunk’s gaze slowly away from his erection (and the reaction it was causing in him), back to his face.  Pidge licked his lips once he saw that Hunk’s attention, a quick moistening meant to tease, and that sent another jolt through him, even as he nodded.

“You’ve still gotta take off your shirt, though,” Hunk said, and his voice had gone deeper, huskier.  He saw Pidge shiver with the sound of it, even as he started to pull up the hem of his shirt.

Hunk reached out to help him, and Pidge grinned up at him, a great big happy smile that would have made Hunk melt inside if he hadn’t been so aroused.

Some time later, he lay on his back, Pidge on top of him, waiting for his heart rate to slow to something approaching normal, a lazy, sticky mess.

Pidge turned his head, nipped at his throat.  “You were saying something before.  What was it?”

Surprised, Hunk replied, “I did?” Then he remembered, and chuckled, nuzzling Pidge’s sweaty hair.  “I was just going to say that you shouldn’t go around without pants, unless you want something like this to happen.”  He lifted his hips under Pidge’s slight weight.

Pidge snorted into his neck.  “Well, duh.”

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Sven/Keith, sweet)

Sven looked dubiously at the berry that Keith held out. He'd had a very bad experience with berries once, when he was a kid—he remembered being miserably sick for 3 days—and that had colored him for life. It didn't matter how sweet and juicy the berries were, he wasn't going to eat them.

 Of course, that meant he missed out on a number of tasty looking desserts. But he stood firm.

Unfortunately, this was Keith, and there wasn't much he could deny Keith, whatever their relationship; commander and subordinate, friends or . . . whatever.

Keith smiled winningly, and Sven found himself opening his mouth, albeit reluctantly. Then the berry was on his tongue, and then Keith's tongue was in his mouth, and the berry was forgotten.

The berry was quite sweet, after all.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Sven, Hunk, pride)

It didn’t matter where he was or what he was doing.  There was always just something about Sven that rubbed Hunk the wrong way.

At the Academy, it was his cool demeanor, the effortless way he learned things that other cadets struggled with, the calm efficiency that never wavered.  On Arus, it wasn’t much different, except now there was experience in his grey eyes, and from somewhere, he’d learned to do the whole stone-face thing that some officers did, that made you wonder if you could really trust them or if you were going to be sacrificed needlessly to their pride.

Deep down, in the pit of his soul, Hunk knew that if he would only admit it, he feared Sven, even if it was only just a little bit.

It was only when Sven fell, only when he’d been taken away and sent to recover somewhere else that Hunk realized that there was more lurking down in the depths of his soul than just that fear, more than just the grudging respect he’d given up to that point.

And now, he was afraid that he’d never get the chance to show it.

(JoAnn’s addition)

He'd learned to compartmentalize; he'd learned to distance himself from people around him. He'd been a military brat all his life, but unlike Keith, he didn't learn superficial charm, he'd learned distance, and used his reserve to protect himself.

Which was all well and good, until he wanted to open up.  Until he had people he trusted. Keith understood in a way most people didn't, but he could feel the resentment and the near-hatred from the others.

It wasn't going to work in a team, and he had no idea how to fix it.

And then, it didn't matter.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Keith/Sven, silence)

Somewhere in his past, Keith had learned how to have an orgasm almost without noise.  Those huge dark eyes would roll back, his mouth would fall open, and his body would quiver as if there was a shout in the very depths of his soul that was just begging to be released . . . but he wouldn’t make a sound beyond a few gasping breaths.

Sven wondered how he did it, because no one he had ever been with had ever been able to hold in a scream or a cry or a groan—they had always made some sound, intentionally or not, when they were having sex or masturbating.

It was something that had given Sven no small measure of good feeling in the past, that knowledge that his partner was unable to keep silent.  He prided himself on being a thoughtful lover, a considerate lover, taking pains to make sure his partner had as good a time as he did.

And that noise—that groan or whimper or moan—was the standard by which he measured himself.  Without it, he was at something of a loss.

More than how, though, Sven wondered why.  Why would Keith try to contain himself like that in the midst of an orgasm?  What had happened in his teen years, what trauma had his parents forced him through?

And that bothered him as much, if not more, than the lack of . . . well, applause.

Laying in sweaty silence, panting, Sven didn’t even realize he was frowning until Keith reached up to trace his face and asked him what was wrong.

So Sven told him.

Keith laughed quietly, and pulled his head down.  Looking into those dark eyes, Sven almost didn’t hear him when he said, “Didn’t you know the walls are paper thin here?”

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Keith, flight)

Keith had never really cared for flying.  He especially hated spaceflight, hated the g-forces that mashed him to the seat, hated the feeling of weightlessness that seemed, paradoxically, to crush him.

He was a competent pilot, but flying didn’t come naturally to him the way it came to Lance, or even Sven.  He had to work at it, and logged more hours in sim than any 2 other cadets.

But somehow, when he was coming down off the orgasmic high, and he could feel the warm weight of Sven on top of him, their hearts pounding against each other’s chest, and could hear the hot harsh rush of Sven’s breath in his ear, he didn’t mind that it felt like he was floating.

***

(drabble; for JoAnn; prompt—Sven/Keith, hopelessness)

There was just no hope for it, Keith decided at last.  Sven simply didn’t have the form, the drive necessary to succeed at what Keith wanted—no, needed—him to do. 

But that didn’t stop Keith from pushing.  It was a losing battle.  The more he tried, the more Sven resisted.

But he was lost in the depths of the grey eyes, in the long, graceful limbs, in his own craving to possess…

His fist lashed out again, laying open Sven’s cheek, splitting his lip.  Sven moaned, cringing beneath him, and the twisted light of love shone in Keith’s eyes.

***

(ficlet; forest’s prompt—Keith/Lance, fluffy)

“. . .  right, Keith?”

Lounging on the bed, Keith realized he’d zoned out and missed most of Lance’s comment.  However, he did feel he had a good excuse, because Lance was undressing as he’d spoken.  “I’m sorry?”

Lance sighed, but it was clear that he was as much amused as exasperated, if the twitching of his lips was any indication.  He dropped his jeans and started to shimmy out of his shirt.  “You could just agree with me, you know.”

Immediately, Keith shook his head.  “No way.  I did that once before without knowing what you were talking about, and discovered that I’d agreed to one-on-one flight training with the Princess.  You tell me what you were saying, and then I’ll give you my answer.”

Lance finished removing his shirt and flung it in the vague direction of the hamper.  It missed, but he didn’t notice, or care.  With his hair disheveled—and naked, let’s not forget naked—Keith couldn’t help but think he looked even sexier than normal, and licked his lips at the sight.

“Um . . .” Lance backed up a step as Keith rose to his knees.  “Uh, Keith?  You all right?”

“Never better.”  He coiled up, muscles tensing, and then leapt forward.

With a yelp, Lance fell backwards, landing heavily on the floor.  Keith pinned him down easily, took a moment to study him, then grinned and started nibbling on his neck.  Whatever it was that Lance had been talking about before could wait—this was much more important.

Lance moaned and wriggled beneath him, only a little at first, but then with intent.

Keith growled low in his throat and pried his lips away from Lance’s ear.  “What’s wrong?”

“You remembered to get more lube, right?  That’s what I asked you before . . .”

Keith stilled, then groaned and let his head fall against Lance’s shoulder.

Beneath him, Lance chuckled and stroked his hair.  “Don’t worry, babe,” he murmured.  “I’m sure we can still have fun without it . . .”

Keith smiled.  “You’re wonderful.”

“Don’t you forget it, either.”

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Keith/Lance, sugar (and fluffy!)

Keith was at something of a loss.  He hadn’t seen Lance in hours, and he knew from experience that the longer he went without seeing him, the higher the chances were that Lance was getting into some form of trouble.

He’d checked all the likely spots—Lance’s room, the rec room, the library, for starters—as well as some spots that were a lot less likely—the cellars, the control room, the exercise room—and now, he was on the ones that really smacked of desperation.

Like the kitchen.

Cautiously, on the lookout for Nanny, Keith slid up to the kitchen door.  Just peek in, make sure he’s not there and sneak away.  Easy as pie.  His heart was still beating at double time though.

The last time Nanny had caught any of the team near the kitchen, Keith had had a blistering headache for two days.  The woman was a tyrant when it came to what she considered her domain.

At times, when he dared think about it, Keith shuddered at what would happen if Nanny found out that one of them was sneaking into Allura’s room.  Most of the time, he just didn’t want to know.

Taking a deep breath, Keith looked up and down the corridor, just to make sure he was alone, then opened the kitchen door.  He glanced around and started to back out and ease the door shut.

It didn’t register until he was nearly out the door, and by then it was too late.  He moved forward even as he was still pulling the door closed, and banged his nose sharply.

At the sound of his cursing, Lance looked up and saw him standing sheepishly in the doorway, holding his nose and hoping it wasn’t bleeding.  Lance’s lips twitched into a grin and Keith sighed.  Not my finest hour.

“Quick, come inside!”

Without hesitation, knowing what was at stake, he did so, then stood beside Lance at the kitchen counter.  “Lance, what . . .”

“Shh.”  Lance put one finger to Keith’s lips, then pulled it away and replaced it with one huge strawberry.  “Here.”

Carefully, Keith nibbled the bright berry away from Lance, then lapped up the juices staining his fingers.

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Lance said quietly, his cheeks turning pink.  “But I know how much you like strawberry shortcake, and I found the berries, and I knew where the sugar was . . .”

Shocked, Keith let Lance ramble for a moment, then turned his eyes to the counter, the bowl of strawberries soaking with sugar, the neat slices of pound cake.  When he looked back at Lance, he had fallen silent, fidgeting almost nervously, watching Keith.

Keith broke off a bit of pound cake and fed it to Lance, then leaned in and kissed him, reveling the sweetness of his tongue.  “And here I thought you were in trouble,” he teased, resting his forehead against Lance’s.

Lance grinned.  “Only if Nanny finds us here before we get away.”

Keith scooped up the bowl of berries and gestured to the plate of cake.  “Then let’s go.”

Laughing, Lance grabbed it and followed him to the door.   They’d nearly reached Keith’s room when he groaned.  “We forgot forks!  And plates . . .”

It was Keith’s turn to laugh.  He dipped a finger in the strawberries and smeared a line of juice on Lance’s nose.  “We don’t need any of that,” he said, and ducked inside his room.

Lance blinked, surprised, then grinned.  No, they wouldn’t need any of that at all.

***

(ficlet; for Quill; kissing meme, Hunk/Lance, as sweet as you like it)

“La~ance…”

Lance couldn’t help it; he just had to laugh, even as he guided Hunk to the nearest chair.

Who knew that Hunk whined?

“Come on…”  Blindly, Hunk pawed for the hand on his arm, then reached up with the other hand to remove the heavy blindfold.

Lance batted his hands away instantly.  “Stop that!”  He was still laughing, though, so the order didn’t carry a whole lot of weight.

“But…”

Oh, now that was just unfair.  Lance groaned at the sight of the pout.  “Look, it’s just a few minutes, all right?”  He settled Hunk in the chair, and then turned to the table.  “Besides, you were the one who said…”

Hunk sighed and leaned back in the chair, still sulking.  “Yeah, but I mean, come on!  I didn’t expect you to take it seriously!”

Even though he knew Hunk couldn’t see him, he still flashed his brightest grin.  “Then you shouldn’t have told Sven anything about it.  I’ve got 200 credits going on this, now.”

“200 credits?” Hunk tried for the blindfold again, and again Lance pushed his hands away.  “Are you kidding? That’s…”

“It’s a flippin’ lot of money, is what it is,” Lance agreed.  “Now, sit still.”

“No.”

“Fine.”  Lance sat down on Hunk’s lap, made sure that both of his hands were either in plain sight or in use – he wrapped one of them around his waist, so he could lean forward and not fall onto the table – then grabbed the covered dish sitting in solitary glory on the table.  He opened it, sniffed appreciatively at the aroma that wafted out, then took a bite.

“La~ance!”

“Wait a minute,” Lance mumbled around his mouthful.  After swallowing, he wriggled around on Hunk’s lap – smirked at the moan this drew forth – and kissed him.

After a full minute of tongue-tangling exploration, Lance pulled away, panting a little.  “So?”

Hunk licked his lips and grinned.  “Very tasty.”

Lance rolled his eyes and smacked him on one muscular arm.  “No, you goof!  What was…”

“Nanny’s recipe for flavi berry pie, but you’re the one who made the filling.”

Lance just gaped at him.  “How…”

This time, Hunk was able to get the blindfold off.  “You always overdo it on the sugar.”

“Flavi berries are tart!”

“You’ve just got a sweet tooth.”

Lance kissed him again, just to get him to be quiet.

***

(ficlet; bribe-fic for JoAnn; prompt—Sven and Lance, my choice of circumstances)

“Ow.”

“Yuu should have said somet’ing, den.”

Lance bristled, and stopped rubbing at his back.  “I shouldn’t have had to!”

“I’m not a mind-reader, Lance,” Sven replied with a sigh.

“Says you,” he grumbled, and limped on down the corridor.

Sven strode to catch up with him.  “Yuu’re the one who wanted to have sex…”

Moving too fast for his aching back, Lance whirled around and pushed him up against the wall, covering his mouth with one hand.  “Be quiet,” he hissed, eyes wide and darting up and down the hall.  “God!  No one’s supposed to know about that! Do you know what Keith would do to us if he found out?”

Sven fought free of the hand over his mouth and grabbed Lance by the lapels of his coat, slamming him against the opposite wall of the corridor.  Lance winced at the further abuse of his back, and then Sven was speaking, but he wasn’t paying attention to the words in the slightest.

Sven in fury was a sight to behold – dark brows drawn close, cheeks flushed with heat, grey eyes snapping, utterly gorgeous.  But whenever he saw Sven like that, Lance couldn’t help but compare it to how he looked in the throes of passion, fucking him into a puddle of satiated goo in the middle of the bed…

“Yuu are such a…”

Lance licked his lips, and his hands clenched in the fabric of Sven’s shirt, pulling him even closer.

As Lance had known he would, Sven trailed off at the sight of his tongue moistening his lips, and his eyes glazed slightly.

A bare second later, Sven was kissing him with all the ferocity of an attack, grinding against him, all but mauling him in the effort to get closer.

Inside of a minute, Lance was reaching for Sven’s belt, moaning when Sven’s mouth descended, hot and wet, to the nerves of his neck.  He’d managed to fumble with it until it was undone, and was about to continue on with the fastening to his pants when he heard the voice.

“Jeez, you guys will do it anywhere, won’t you?”

Shocked at the sound, they jumped apart, which left Sven trying to do up his belt, cheeks flaming in embarrassment, while Lance straightened his shirt, which Sven had rucked up underneath his arms.

Pidge stood just behind them, arms crossed, and a decidedly mercenary gleam in his eyes.

“Vhat…”

“Man, what a pair of horn-dogs,” Pidge went on, grinning wickedly.  “I’ll bet you’ll even have sex in the Lions, if you thought you could get away with it.”

Lance slumped against the wall, covering his face with his hands and groaning.

Sven alternated between white as a ghost and flushed with anger, and while his mouth moved, he didn’t manage to make a sound.

Shaking his head, Pidge started to make his way past them.  “You guys are the limit.”

Still muffled by his hands, Lance said, “The usual amount?”

Pidge nodded.  “Just drop it in the usual place,” he muttered back, and walked on, whistling jauntily.

Sven just stared after him, dumbfounded.

After a moment, Lance looked up.  “We’re gonna make that kid a millionaire by the time we’re done.”

Sven just nodded.

***

(drabble; for JoAnn; prompt—Pidge, watching the security feeds)

Having the late watch in Castle Control was the most boring thing Pidge could imagine.

At first, he brought his books and comics and programming projects with him.  Eventually, he ignored them in favor of the mice, who were at least entertaining.

He never quite dared to switch from the security feeds to one of the adult stations beamed out into space, because Keith tended to check on him.

Then he discovered the internal security feeds.  Saw Hunk and Sven making out in the repair bay.  Doing more in the lounge.

Midnight watch was a lot more fun after that.

***

(drabble; for JoAnn; prompt—Sven, in the darkness)

The darkness was complete, nothing to which the eyes could adjust.

“Sven?”

Silence.  Not even a breath to indicate where he was.

“Sven, this isn’t funny.”

A complete absence of sound.

“If you’re there, you’d damn well better say something, or I’m gonna thump you when I find you!  That’s a promise, by the way.”

Absolute silence.

“Sven, I mean it.  There’s violence enough in our lives as it is.  Don’t make me have to hurt you.”

Nothing.

“You’re really there, right?”

At the silence this time, he turned, fumbled for the door, frightened beyond measure.

The predator inside leaped.

Voltron (Vehicle)

***

(ficlet; for forest; prompt—Jeff/Shannon, chain)

It wasn’t as if Shannon hadn’t been drawn to someone before.  There had been the lass down the street when he was five, with her auburn pigtails and the spice of freckles over her nose, who had been his best friend until the bombing.  There had been the soldier boy, just a few years older than he himself had been at the time, who had urged him to make something of himself, even if it had meant leaving behind all that he’d known.  He’d lost his leg the very next day in a surprise attack, and his sanity had followed only a little while after.

So, when Shannon had seen Jeff for the first time, and felt that little double beat of his heart, the longing to simply be around him, he thought he’d known what he was in for.

Now, though, as he buried his fingers in the riotous curls of Jeff’s hair, as he bent forward to claim his mouth, he knew differently.  He knew that this was more than being drawn to someone; it was being joined to them, with a chain of links so fine as to be invisible and weightless.

And he found that after a life of struggling to free himself, he didn’t mind being bound.

***

(ficlet; forest’s request—Cliff/Crick, vision)

Cric's world had 4 moons and about 95% water. Most of the population lived in floating cities on the water's surface, bathed in sun- and moonlight at almost all times.   He never understood the human fear of darkness.

Cliff tried to explain it to him a couple of times, saying it was the fear of the unknown, of the things that lurked in the darkness but not necessarily the darkness itself . . . but it was still like trying to explain vision to a man blind since birth.

It wasn't until he stumbled, exhausted, into the wrong bunk one night and awoke clutched in Rocky's arms like some kind of living kreeka fish that he even got an inkling of what Cliff meant.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Cliff, desire)

The first time Cliff saw the blue-skinned boy, he was still young enough—narrow-minded enough—to think "alien" and try to avoid him.

He knew that the other boy was one of the first exchange students with Terra, knew that he was far from home, and afterward, he was ashamed of the way he'd acted.  Leaving the boy standing in the corridor, with barely a word of English at his command?  Not the way to go about winning friends on other planets.

And because he was still pretty young, it didn't take much for them to become friends.  They had the same humanoid shape, and even though they looked quite different, that didn't matter.  Once classes started, the students naturally fell into groups based on the classes they were taking, and the instructors became "the Enemy".

Still, it was deep into the school year before Cliff saw Crik in the pool.

He knew that Crik was from a water planet, knew that he was at least as home in the water as he was on the land.  But still, that knowledge was a distant thing that he never knew until he saw him swimming.

He was gorgeous in the water, cutting so smoothly though it, with hardly a splash to be heard even in the cavernous gymnasium.  And Cliff felt the first burn of desire.

After that, he took to spying.  Crik was often in the pool when others were about, but Cliff couldn’t bear to watch him then.

Couldn’t bear to think what someone would say about the obvious bulge in his swim trunks.

In frustration, he took to visiting the pool late at night, when he knew no one else would be about, and fantasized about Crik swimming, watching the play of muscles, the way his hair waved in the water.  Even the heavy smell of chlorine in the air served to arouse him.

Of course, after that he had to visit the showers before plunging into the pool, but he did it, because he couldn’t bear not to be in the water.

Not to be where Crik had been.

He dove, leaving vast spreading ripples in the water, and when he surfaced again, shaking droplets from his face, he felt arms slide around his waist.  Shocked, he looked down, saw the familiar blue tint.

“Did you know,” Crik whispered in his ear, his accent even more pronounced than usual, “that on my world . . . we mate in the water?”

(JoAnn’s addition!)

He hadn't thought it would happen; all his family and friends just shook their heads at him and petted him consolingly when he left. They told him - rightly - that the Terrans would stare, would walk away, would not touch him at all in the way he wanted - needed, sometimes - to be touched.

He was braced for it, as ready as one could be, but still.

It hurt.

He was one micron away from calling home, from begging to go back where people were normal and albinos were stared at.

And then, he met Cliff. Golden-bright, his colors *fit* him in a way that most people's didn't. And after the first moment of shock and a second moment of shame, suddenly, he had that touch that he needed, even if he didn't quite have the touch he *wanted*.

Or at least he thought he didn't, thought that Cliff - who everyone *noticed* and who, upon first meeting someone, had a fifty-fifty chance of immediately getting hit on - he thought someone like *that* wouldn't bother looking at someone so unlike the standards for Terra.

If he'd known that all it would take to scent Cliff's lust was to swim in front of him, he'd've done it much, much sooner.

It became a game -- could he catch Cliff watching, could he catch him wanting, could he, by all the ancestors, catch him in the thrice damned pool? First times should be done in the water, after all, and the allotment in the dorms was not nearly large enough.

Now, finally, he'd be able to find out if Cliff's body liked the same sort of touch that his did.

***

(ficlet; forest’s prompt—Jeff/Shan, scratch)

Military brats grew up surrounded by other military brats.  That’s just what happened.  And none of them knew the difference until they got someplace where their parents’ rank didn’t matter.

Jeff had never been someplace his father’s rank didn’t matter.  Even in the Academy, it mattered—he was always “the Vice-Admiral’s son.” He was never just . . . himself.  He carried the shadow of his father with him wherever he went.

There were times he wanted to leave it behind, but Garrison was all he knew, it had been his whole life.  He didn’t know how to leave.

His father’s shadow was a heavy thing.

So Jeff quashed all his own desires, and threw his strength—every bit he could—into carrying around his father’s shadow, pretending he didn’t know the reasons behind the deference he got to his face and the snickers he heard behind his back.  He acted rash sometimes, but even that would be expected—the expected lashing out at his father, even though they were separated by more than just a thousand light years.

After a while, he realized he’d practiced having no wants or needs of his own for so long that he really didn’t have any, that he was just as lifeless on the inside as his mother had seemed just before she died.

Because he couldn’t have what he truly desired, the one thing he’d found that he wanted unreservedly.  It was an itch he couldn’t scratch, a need he couldn’t fulfill, not even with heated imaginings and quick releases in the shower where his sins were washed away.

Because the Vice-Admiral’s son couldn’t want the boy with dancing blue-green eyes and soft Irish brogue, couldn’t want him so fiercely that just being near him was a brand in his soul.

It Just Wasn’t Done.

***

(ficlet; forest’s prompt—Jeff/Shannon that shows off their tempers)

He supposed he was doubly lucky—first that their sensei didn’t know the use they made of the dojo after hours, and second that they never saw him.

Tonight, though, it was different, it was more than just extra practice and relaxation.  With a pair as hot-tempered as they normally were, he expected more than just the cold looks and sullen glares they’d been giving each other since the midday meal.  He’d expected… well, a great lot of shouting, if it came right down to it.  He expected harsh words spoken too fast, lilting brogue and faint lisp becoming more pronounced, and then, just as quickly, regret for those words, and awkward reconciliation.

Maybe . . . maybe what they’d fought about was too personal, and that made the difference.

Shannon always got sloppy when he was angry, though, and that was easy to see even now, in that punch—not a bit of form, there.  His movements were jerky, and his eyes burned with anger, at Jeff and, he suspected, at his own lack of control.

Jeff wasn’t much better.  His temper wasn’t quite as easy to ignite as Shannon’s, but he tended to brood just a little, to hoard his anger longer.  Not too much longer, granted.  His blocks were poorly executed, even though his punches rolled smoothly from his shoulder, and it was plain to see that whatever they’d argued about still rankled.

After a particularly vicious flurry of punches, kicks and blocks, Jeff stepped back, panting, still glowering.  “You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

Shannon glared back.  “I didn’t DO anythin’!” He tried for a roundhouse, but Jeff ducked it easily.

“I saw you!” He counter-attacked, and this time, his temper had gotten the better of him, because his punches and kicks were careless, full of openings that Shan, in turn, was still to angry to notice, much less take advantage of.

Wincing, for Jeff had caught him a particularly fierce blow on his arm, Shannon backed off, still vainly trying to block.  “Fer th’ last time,” he gritted, then left off trying to even pretend to follow sensei’s instructions, and threw a haymaker, “I . . . did NOT . . . make eyes at him!”

What might have been called practice, if one were broad-minded enough, quickly degenerated into a brawl.

They were too evenly matched for a clear winner, and really, it didn’t end so much as teeter to a stop, both of them too worn out to try to focus.

Shannon fell into a heap on the mat, breathing heavily, and dabbing at his cut lip.  “Why do ye not believe me?” he asked, softly, tiredly, the anger in his tone a ghost of its former self.  “Why must ye think . . .”

Jeff dropped down beside him, and reached out to brush his fingers across Shan’s swollen lip, wincing as he saw the scrapes on his knuckles.  “I’m sorry,” he said, and though the words were heartfelt, it was easy to see they were very difficult to say.  “I just . . .”

Shannon sighed, brushed his thumb over Jeff’s cheek, where a spectacular bruise was forming.  “Aye, I know.”

As they wound down, quietly, the one observing them got to his feet and silently made his way out of the dojo.

It wouldn’t do to have either of them mad at him because he watched their reconciliation.

***

(drabble; for forest; prompt—Jeff/Shan, in the alterverse, meaning the In Ale Veritas ‘verse)

Somehow, Jeff decided, it was stranger than he’d ever expected.

After eight years, he was a civilian.

He walked out of his commander’s office in a daze, discharge papers starting to crumple in his fist.

Lifting his gaze, he saw Shannon at the far end of the hall, leaning casually against the wall.  Watching him intently.  Wearing civilian clothes.

Jeff smiled when he saw him, and his steps came faster.

It was strange, true, but that was very easily forgotten when everything he’d been longing for—everything he wanted—was right in front of him.  And there were no regrets.

***

(drabble.5; for forest; prompt—Jeff/Shan, a kiss)

Shannon knew what kisses were supposed to be like.  He’d had his first with Maggie O’Toole when they were only five years old, and it was all surprise and giggles and damp lips.

His next first kiss—real kiss—was when he was fifteen, with Maura McNab.  It was sweet and tender and just the slightest bit clumsy, right before her family moved back to Sligo.

He’d shared dozens of kisses with different women since then, and they were all the same—gentle bumps of nose or chin, soft lips, questing tongues, breathy moans.

But this… the fierce need, the hard pressure of lips on his, the firmly masculine feel of the body grinding against him, and the faint taste of grain alcohol in Jeff’s mouth… God in Heaven, there was nothing like it in his experience.

This was all new.  And it was the best first kiss he’d had.

***

(ficlet; forest’s prompt—Jeff/Shan, boot!kink)

“Why not?”

Jeff gritted his teeth. “Because.”

“Come on, now, that’s not a reason.” Shannon’s light brogue made him start to melt, but the chuckle that hid beneath the words was what made him stop.

“I don’t care if it is or not.  The answer is still no.”

“Ah, don’t be that way.” Wheedling now, and the brogue thickened a bit, and made his insides melt.  “It’s not as bad as all that.”

Yeah, well, you’re not the one wearing this!  Jeff looked down.  Or, I guess I should say, not wearing… oh, hell.  Rather than continue his inner debate, Jeff stepped into the sleeping area.

Then, as he watched Shan’s eyes brighten with delight and desire, he smiled.  The studded collar he didn’t mind, but to be wearing just that and the tall black leather riding boots… just seemed to be a bit on the kink side.

But seeing the way that Shan eyed him up and down, and the distinct bulge growing in the front of his trousers… well, I guess it’s not so bad after all…

Then he was tackled to the floor, and didn’t actually think much more after that.

***

(ficlet; JoAnn’s prompt—Jeff/Shan, “rising to the occasion”)

I’m a good little soldier, really!  Then Shan sprawled into the chair, snorting at his own thought.  Yeah, right, and the Pope’s enjoyin’ his nights with three nuns and an altar boy in a bower o’ sin.

He lolled there, taking his brain off the hook for a while, and nearly drifted off – not that the chair was really that comfy, but he’d long perfected the art of sleeping anywhere.

“On your feet, soldier!”

“Huh?” Confused, because he thought he’d left that kind of blaring order behind years ago, Shannon tilted his head, trying to peek around the back of the chair.

Jeff stood behind him in full uniform, fruit salad hanging heavy on his breast, smirking.  It was an odd expression for Jeff to be wearing.

“I said, on your feet.”

With a frown, Shan planted his butt even more firmly in the chair.  “What the hell are you on about, Jeff?”

Then, as if he hadn’t aged a day since first being assigned to the Explorer, Jeff was hovering over him, one hand braced on the arm of the chair while the other teased at his belt buckle. No, Shan realized suddenly, gasping, definitely below the belt buckle.

“Have you never heard of standing when your superior officer enters the room?” Jeff purred, and gave him a blistering kiss, and damn if he didn’t mind the way the medal dug into his chest when Jeff pressed up against him.  “If that doesn’t mean rising to the occasion, I don’t know what does.”

At that point, Jeff climbed onto his lap, and Shannon could just nod in agreement.

***

(ficlet; forest’s prompt—Jeff/Shan, dancing)

“Really, I’m not much good at it…”

“Come now.  It’s somethin’ you need to know, right?  F’r all the balls an’… an’ what-all that an admiral has t’attend?”  Shannon raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Well… yes.  It is.  And I should.  But really…” Jeff’s face was really turning red now.

And the devil in Shannon wouldn’t even let him consider the possibility of resisting.  He grabbed Jeff’s hand and hauled him off the bunk to stand in what little free space remained in the middle of their room.

“Shan, please…” Jeff tried to tug himself away, but not very hard, so Shannon hauled him up close, and pushed, pulled and practically shoved him into position – one of Jeff’s hands on Shannon’s shoulder, Shan’s hand at Jeff’s waist, their other hands gripped tightly.

“Ready, steady, sway!” Shannon started a simple waltzing step.

Jeff rolled his eyes and groaned, but tried to move his feet in concert with Shannon’s.

After only a few minutes, Shannon’s hands had abandoned their appropriate dancing positions, and slid down to cup the cheeks of Jeff’s arse.  They were much closer than was proper for a waltz, too; Shannon’s hips pushed against Jeff’s with every step, until Jeff was even more flushed and panting with need.

Shannon waltzed them back to Jeff’s bunk.

Some time later, Jeff said, “You forgot the music.”

“Details, details.”

***

(ficlet; Todes’ prompt—vignette on any VV character)

“Ain’t she gorgeous?”

“She stars in my fantasies nightly, she does.”

Doing her best to ignore the comments behind her – and trying not to let herself recognize the voices that made them – Lisa turned the page in her book.  Her fingers trembled a little bit, but she ignored that, too.

“Do you think…”

“Hush, she’s right there!”

The murmurs at her back lowered in volume enough so that she couldn’t hear any longer, but the first bit that she did hear made it clear that whoever-they-were had clearly watched too many adult movies.

*Or they really, really need a date.*  But no matter how bad the jokes she made in her head, that sense of being… dirtied by their words wouldn’t go away.

*God, I need to get out of here…*

She waited a few more minutes, too upset now to really be reading, then – as calmly and serenely as if she were the Madonna – she closed her book and walked out of the lounge.

Once in her quarters, once she was safe, she would give in to the shakes, the feeling of disgust, but that wasn’t for anyone else to see or ever, *ever* know about.

***

(ficlet; forest’s prompt—LV/VV crossover, in vino veritas)

Hunk didn’t drink.  Ever.

And this?  Was exactly the reason why.

Cliff was slumped over the table, mumbling into the wood, not even noticing that his cigarette was burning dangerously close to his fingers.  Bottles of beer nearly formed a fortress between them, circling around the place where Cliff’s head lay.  And Cliff had emptied every single one of those bottles.

Hunk wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to what Cliff was saying – or slurring, rather – into the tabletop.  He’d heard it – or something like it – too many times before.

“Din’t want me… tosser… thinks he’s too… som’thin’ for a farm boy…”

He stubbed out his own cigarette in the overflowing ashtray and stood up, his chair making a loud scraping noise over the linoleum.  “All right, buddy, I think you’ve had more than enough.  Time for bed.”  He picked up Cliff bodily from the chair and slung him over one shoulder.

Cliff just giggled.  “No!  Not time for bed… fun!”  Then, as blood and other fluids rushed to his head, he struggled.  “Urk….”

Luckily for his clothes, Hunk had very fast reflexes.  He was holding Cliff over the toilet in record time.

Shortly, Cliff was wrung out and agreed with Hunk that bed was a good idea.  Obediently, he swallowed the aspirin and the tall glass of water that Hunk forced on him, and insisted he was able to walk.

Hunk still half-carried him to his bed and dropped him down.  He was snoring in seconds.

Hunk’s conscience made itself known, and with a sigh, he stripped off Cliff’s shirt – which stank of beer and smoke – and his belt and socks.  Taking off Cliff’s pants, however, was too much, even for him.

Instead, he gently closed the door behind him and went down the hall to his own room, where he spent the next hour staring up at the ceiling and trying to will away his hard-on.

Because Hunk didn’t need any kind of alcohol to fall over the truth.

***

(ficlet; Todes and JoAnn’s combined prompt—a happy sequel to the above, hot sex and goodbyes)

“Oh, come on, now.  It’s not like we’re never going to see each other again, is it?”

Hunk shrugged, the epitome of non-committal, and reached for another cigarette.

Cliff batted them out of his hand.  “Stop it.  You’re upset, and I know it, but smoking isn’t going to help.”

Hunk’s eyes were glowing with something like anger when at last he met Cliff’s gaze.  “It may not help you, but it’ll help me.  Give ‘em back.”

“No.”

“Give. Them.” His voice rose slightly.

“Make me.”  With that, Cliff stuffed the pack of fags into his front pocket.  “Or come and get ‘em, your choice.”

In an instant, Hunk was on top of him, one big hand scrabbling in the pocket, the other wrapped around Cliff’s back, pinning him to Hunk’s body.

It wasn’t, Cliff decided, a bad place to be.  Taking advantage of Hunk’s nearness while he was searching in vain for the smokes that Cliff still had in one hand, he leaned in and kissed him.

It was a moment before Hunk paused, as if there was a delay in registering there was pressure against his lips, that a tongue was flicking against them.  Then he stopped trying to force his hand into Cliff’s tight jeans and started trying to loosen them.

It wasn’t the first set of jeans Cliff had had ruined when Hunk ripped the buttons off the fly in his impatience.

A timeless time later, Cliff handed him the pack of fags, now quite crumpled.  Most of the cigarettes were crushed beyond smoking.  Hunk threw them in the wastebasket.

“You’ll let me smoke after we have sex, but not when I’m nervous?  What the hell kind of logic is that?”  But his voice was a lot lighter than it had been earlier, and Cliff relished the feel of those big hands stroking his back.

Levering himself off Hunk’s chest, Cliff grinned down and gave him a wink.  “’Cause I figure that way, you won’t be smoking much at all until we get leave.”

***

(ficlet; for forest; kissing meme, Ginger/Lisa)

The last time Ginger kissed Lisa was in her quarters, just before she took the reassignment that she wouldn’t come back from, and though neither of them knew that at the time, the kiss tasted of tears and fear and regret.

The first time was in the wardroom.  It was empty; everyone else had long since finished eating and gone back on duty or back to their quarters.  Somehow, though, she and Ginger had become so engrossed in their discussion that they had not even noticed as the others – as Jeff and Shannon and their other team members, and the crewmen of the Explorer – had departed.  Before they knew it, the only ones left were the galley crew, cleaning up around them.  And then even they were gone, and the lights went out, all but the dim glow of the emergency lights along the floor.

The sudden darkness around them was what startled Lisa out of the conversation.  She looked around herself in surprise, and then glanced back at Ginger.  “What time is it?” she asked, suddenly concerned – she had never been so enthralled that she had lost track of time.

Ginger blinked slowly at her, then, as if supremely unconcerned, leaned over the table and trailed one hand along her cheek.  “I’m going to kiss you now,” she said quietly, and before Lisa could even think of a response, she did.

Ginger tasted nothing like her namesake; her mouth was sweeter than peaches and cream.  Lisa melted at the first sweep of her tongue, and came to herself breathless, her fingers tangled in Ginger’s soft strawberry-blond hair.

“Good,” she panted.  “Kissing is good…” And then she was pulling Ginger’s mouth back to hers once more.

The second kiss was filled with promises and desire, and was even better than the first.

***

(ficlet; forest’s prompt—Shannon, gag)

Of all the things that Jeff could get his kink on about, Shannon thought furiously, this takes the frackin’ cake!

He glared at Jeff, wishing his eyes could burn like the lasers they felt like, and shook with anger as Jeff just shook his head, and put his finger to his goddamn mouth!

“Gotta be quiet, Shan,” Jeff whispered, and if he hadn’t been tied spread-eagled, he would have punched his lights out.

And if he hadn’t been naked, he would have been trying a whole lot harder to actually get away.

I’m going to kill you for this when you let me loose, he vowed, willing Jeff to read his eyes.

Jeff leaned closer, one hand stroking Shan’s chest, sliding down to his belly.  “And since I know you can’t be quiet,” he whispered, and kissed Shan above the line of the gag, “I’ve just got to make sure.”

Then that wandering hand closed around his prick, and for a while, Shannon forgot wanting Jeff dead, and just let himself want.

***

(ficlet; forest’s special request—Jeff/Shan, library)

“The feckin’ library,” Shannon muttered, somewhat disgusted.  He’d somehow managed to escape actually entering the library since he’d started at the Academy, and now… here he was, that record broken.

All because of that one line email.

Meet me in the Antiquities section.

“Sure, an’ it’s all very well for Jeff to be here,” he grumbled.  “He’s the Vice Admiral’s son.  And what’s so feckin’ important in the Antiquities section?” he wondered aloud, drawing the attention of various librarians as well as students.  His cheeks flamed bright red when at last he noticed the glares he was receiving, and he ducked his head, steps coming faster.

He paused when he got to the second level.  The signs down below had said that the Antiquities section was on this floor, but he had no idea where.  And after the embarrassment he’d brought on himself below, he was reluctant to ask any of the librarians at the desk for help.

Instead, he adopted the tried and true wander around in circles method, hoping that the Antiquities section would jump out at him.

The Antiquities section didn’t, but something did.  He was making a second circuit of the floor, was in the far back of the building, in a section that was dark and clearly disused, when a hand reached out from the stacks and grabbed him.

Shannon managed to swallow the gasp-shriek that lodged in his throat when Jeff resolved out of the shadows, and glowered.  “Feckin’ hell,” he hissed, mindful now that the library was a place of quiet.  “Give a bloke some warning!”

Jeff smiled, and Shannon shivered, because it was something wholly filled with evil intent.  “Sure, Shan,” he whispered, and leaned in close, until Shannon could practically taste the forbidden whisky on his breath.  “I’m going to kiss you now.”

Shannon’s mouth fell open just a little in shock, and then Jeff’s tongue was in his mouth, and Jeff’s hands were in his short-cropped hair, seating them more closely together.

He couldn’t even moan in protest when Jeff pushed him back against the shelves.  He just spread his hands, clutching in vain at ancient leather-bound volumes behind him, trying to keep his balance.

Jeff ground against him, tongue thrusting in time with his pelvis, and oh, God, he was already hard. Jeff’s hands left Shannon’s hair, traveled down the length of his body, tantalizing and teasing every inch along the way, until they rested on his hips, spread wide over his arse.

Jeff’s mouth left his, and he couldn’t quite stifle the whimper of protest, even though it was only a moment before his lips were on his neck, tasting the skin above the high collar of his cadet uniform.  He discovered that his hands had wound themselves in Jeff’s hair, the short curls twining around his fingers, and used that grip to pull him closer.

Then Jeff was speaking in his ear, lisping faintly, as he always seemed to when aroused.  “Here’s all the warning you’re going to get,” he whispered, and his voice made Shannon tremble.  “Be quiet.  Don’t make a sound.”

A second later, his fingers were fumbling at the fastening for his uniform trousers, and a second after that, the trousers were down around his ankles.

Shannon didn’t even think to protest, couldn’t protest, because all the blood in his body seemed to have concentrated in his cock, now throbbing insistently in Jeff’s warm palm, against the searing heat of Jeff’s own prick. He mashed his lips to Jeff’s, demanding, pleading wordlessly for more.

That action made Jeff groan into his mouth, and his hand sped up, stroking faster, faster, slick now with pre-cum.  With a shudder and a gasp that Jeff seemed to swallow almost eagerly, Shannon came.  Jeff tumbled behind him only moments later, grinding against his sensitive flesh.

They panted in each other’s ears, desperate to stay quiet and yet knowing they were failing miserably.

At last Shannon recovered enough to shove Jeff lightly away, grimacing at the sticky mess that covered his groin and stomach.  “So, who did you lose the bet to?” he asked, gingerly setting his uniform to rights and hoping it wouldn’t stain.

Jeff blinked, apparently still fuzzy from his climax.  “What?”

Shannon sighed heavily.  “You only do kinky stuff like this when you lose a bet with one of the upperclassmen.”

The blush heating Jeff’s face was answer enough.

**

Lance turned to Keith, wearing his smuggest grin.  “Pay up.”

Keith sagged against the shelves, mirroring Shannon’s sigh.  “Oh, all right, you win.”

***

(drabble; for JoAnn; prompt—Shan, and a mirror)

Mirrors and Shannon didn’t mix.  He didn’t use the one in his quarters, or the men’s locker room, wouldn’t steal a peek in water that was calm enough to reflect.

Shan didn’t leave the water that still for long in any case.

The only time Shan didn’t seem to mind was when he stared out the big bay windows in the mess, watching the bright points of stars slid by, brilliant in the midnight of space.  Eventually, Jeff realized that even then, Shan was ignoring it.

At last, late one night, Jeff understood it was because he didn’t have one.

***

(ficlet; for forest; prompt—VV or LV with the theme of uncertainty)

“Hurry up, Jeff.  People are waiting, you know.” Ginger huffed behind him, sounding exasperated.

“Just a minute, all right?”  Jeff lingered over the display, trying to decide between the two items that had caught his attention.  Both of them promised creamy goodness, no doubt about it.  But it was how they looked... he just couldn’t tear his eyes away.

One appeared to be plain vanilla, but there was a hint – just a hint! – of the exotic.  The other, while just as pale, had a tint that was ever so slightly ruddy, something that seemed to promise an explosion of flavor, something more than just slaking a thirst or quenching a fire.

“Jeff!” Ginger prodded him none too gently in the shoulder.  “Come on!  Other people want a chance, too!”

“Wait your turn!” Which one, which one? Behind him, he heard muttering, discontent and starting to get just a little ugly.  He swallowed.  Gotta decide, gotta decide… “Uh… Ginger? Maybe…?”

With a put upon sigh, Ginger plastered herself against his back, peering over his shoulder at the display.  “Oh,” she said, and her tone was now showed understanding at the way he was dithering.  “Oh, yes, very good choices.”

“I know,” and that was not smugness in his voice, really.

“But you can only afford one, you know.”

“I know!”  He shot her a desperate glance, and saw that she was wearing her best cat-that-ate-the-canary grin.  “What?”

“I know which one you’re going to choose.”

“Oh, really?” He frowned.  “Then, tell me which one, all right?  The natives are getting restless.” He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder at the crowd behind them.

“Nope!” She straightened away from him, still wearing that little smirk.  “Your choice.  Better make it!” She lowered her voice just a little.  “And if you do eeny-meeny-miney-moe, I’m going to have to hurt you.”

Sighing heavily, Jeff glanced back at the display.  They were both too tempting for words, but he could only afford one.  Surely one called to him more… Yes.

“That one.”  He pointed to the one with the ruddy tint, and relief flooded him as he handed over his money and collected his purchase.

Tugging on Shannon’s leash, he pulled him away from the crowd, grinning as he heard various curses and sighs.  There were times when he hated the Explorer’s annual slave auction… but there were times that he loved it, too.

Yoroiden Samurai Troopers

***

(drabble; for Todesengel—“Touma/Ryo.”)

Touma dared not sleep.  He could not curl up against Byakuen’s warm furry flank, to drop into exhausted slumber.

Ryo slept heavily, still exhausted from using the Kikoutei, his head pillowed against Byakuen’s side.  He was haggard, his face too thin, and Touma wanted to soothe that away.

He could not look away from Ryo, even when he felt the tiger watching him.

I need to protect him.

It wasn’t because of the Kikoutei, because Ryo was the leader.  It welled from deep within, something new and strange he didn’t understand. 

But it warmed his heart to see Ryo sleep.

***

(drabble; for forest—“Shin loses heart.”)

Courage slipped through his fingers like water.  He was drowning.

Shin closed his eyes, concentrated on the murmur of the lake as it lapped at the pier.  It was not enough to mask the voice in his head that whispered of the many deaths he would die if he fought.

How can I fight when I might lose myself?

Warmth brushed his shoulder, welcome as a shaft of sun through clouds.  Surprised, he looked up, and met solemn blue eyes.

Then, saying nothing, Ryo put an arm around him, squeezing him softly.

Shin leaned into him, grateful for the silence.

***

(drabble; for Todesengel—“More Touma/Ryo.”)

Heavy fog roiled around him.  Ryo crouched, looking this way and that into the mist.

Footsteps.  He stared in the direction from which they came.  A tall shadow approached.

Then the fog seemed to part, and Touma emerged from the swirls, whole, unharmed.

Relief flooded him, overwhelming and unexpected.  Despite Suzunagi’s words, he hadn’t been sure . . .

And he’d missed Touma.  Desperately.  Fearfully.

Touma merely smiled down at him in that way he had, as if he’d known this would happen.

Ryo couldn’t even rail at him for it; he just smiled up, promises heavy in his eyes.

***

(drabble; for JoAnn—“Talk about the tiger, please.”)

He lay beneath the trees, and the shade dappled him, making of him a shadow, white-speckled and striped in black.

Some way off, he could hear youngest-boy calling to him, pleading with him to play.  And while he certainly didn’t mind it, entertaining that one was not what drew him out to solitude.

It was the turmoil in his boy’s mind, boy-of-fire, righteous-flame.  Ryo.  He was upset, overwhelmed by some strange human guilt.

Rekka-sword-breaking.

Other-boys assured his boy they would find weapons for him.

Byakuen rose and loped back downslope.  The others could not comfort his boy; only he could.

***

(ficlet; for JoAnn; prompt—Seiji/Ryo, thorn)

Meditation was key.  Grandfather had told him that over and over.  Meditation—becoming one with the world around him, understanding himself, his deepest secrets, his darkest urges—grounded him, stabilized him.

“Seijiiiiii!”

… and kept him from trying to kill his housemates.

Sighing heavily, Seiji opened his eyes and waited.  It did no good to pretend to still be meditating when Ryo was shouting like that.  He wished he’d changed his meditation spot after Jun had found him last week.  Maybe tomorrow I’ll remember…

At least the shouts weren’t tinged with panic, as they had been a few weeks ago when Shu created the sinkhole in what had been the rock garden.  So there was always the chance that he’d be able to resume.

Eventually.

He remained kneeling on the rocks.  Think of it as practice for… for not noticing the way they’re so sharp and digging into your knees when you actually do get to meditate…

He sighed again.  I should just go back to the dojo and meditate there.  No one uses it anymore…

Just then Ryo stumbled out into the clearing, leaves in his hair and dirt smudging one cheek.  His gi was stained with sap, too.  Apparently, he doesn’t know about the other path, Seiji thought, and a smug smile almost broke through his control.

“There you are,” Ryo said, his tone pleased, tinged with a hint of frustration.  “Jun wouldn’t tell me where the path was, the little brat, and it took me longer than I thought to find you.” 

Before he could even think, Seiji asked, “What’s wrong?”

Ryo stopped brushing off his sleeve, and stared down at him, eyes blue and wide with surprise in his face.  “Why would anything be wrong?”

He frowned slightly.  “Well, for starters, you’re looking for me during my meditation time…”

Wait a minute… why is Ryo wearing his gi?

Ryo settled himself on the stones, facing Seiji, took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly.  His smile was dazzling white in his tanned face, and his eyes were dancing.  “What? I can’t help you meditate instead of being the thorn in your side?”

Seiji blinked at him, and laughed.