Drabble madness!
Dec. 30th, 2003 07:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
indriI went to work today and I was the only person there. All day. So I stopped work early and spent half the day writing fanfic. Not the long fic I'm trying to finish, mind you, just endless drabbles.
So, I spam you now. Here are three, presented in order of likely amusement value.
First, some William/Dru, spoilers to "Destiny", NC17.
Early Days
He starts with her lips, mashing them to his own, letting her tongue slip through when she kisses back. She coils her legs around him and pulls him firmly up the bed.
"Drusilla!" he says with delight as she looks up at him, blinking her ineffably deep and lustrous eyes.
He drowns in her gaze so long that she has to knee him to remind him to continue. "Oh yes," he says, "oh yes," and fumbles with his trouser buttons. Her skirts are still a struggle---there's so much of them and he doesn't always understand her underwear.
He pulls himself out and somehow finds the spot where he needs to go, finding the angle a good deal more quickly this time. Drusilla growls and thrusts her pelvis up so hard that he almost faints. He bites his lip, to steady himself, and gets a better grip on her and the bed, before pushing back. Then it's up-down up-down up-down and the pleasure's so great that he thinks he'll lose the use of his limbs.
One of her breasts pops out of her corset and he reaches down to suck, doing his best not to lose his arse's rhythm. She gives an appreciative wiggle that wriggles her cunt and he spends.
He feels happy and giddy and starts mumbling sweet nothings into her neck while she grinds herself to completion. "Just give us a minute," he says, smiling, once she's done, "and we'll do it again." He thinks this time he'll take off her dress.
Then Angelus says, from the armchair next to the bed, "That's not how you do it, my boy," and begins to unbuckle his belt.
Then, some post-NLM maunderings (PG)
Aftermath
Lydia can't make it to the funerals. There's too many of them, for a start. Fifty-four people died in the Council explosion and dozens more Watchers were knived. She has an armed guard at the hospital now and the news reports can't decide between the IRA and Al-Qaida.
Then there's the fact that she can't leave her bed. They're still not sure whether she'll ever get the feeling back in her legs. "Still," everyone tells her, "it's a miracle that you survived at all."
On the day of Nigel's funeral, she asks for her address book, which survived with her in her suit's inner pocket. It's stained a little (she's not sure with what) but it stays largely intact when she pulls out the shrapnel. She tries to flick through to the Prasads' number, but on every page is the name of another dead friend. She asks for a pen then and with stalwart resolution, begins to cross out the names. She doesn't get very far before her will crumbles and she starts weeping all over the bed.
That night, Nigel's sister Elaine comes to visit, looking tired in her dark linen suit. She takes the seat next to Lydia's bed and then takes Lydia's hand, without disturbing the drip.
They sit like that for an hour, not daring to look at each other, but Lydia is very glad of the warm hand on her own.
Finally, she says, "You know I dated him? Just once, and it went very badly."
"He said."
"We had so much in common but I don't think we found each other attractive at all."
"There's nothing wrong with that," Elaine says softly. "You were his friend."
Lydia turns her head at last and sees the tracks of tears staining Elaine's cheeks and blouse. She pulls her hand free and reaches out to stroke her surviving friend's face and hair.
"Elaine," she says, knowing she's not good at this. "Elaine."
And now for some Olivia, post-Hush (G)
Holidays Abroad
Olivia unlocks the door to the agency, wondering if she'll be the first person in. But no, Angela's there in reception, fiddling with the fax machine and sipping a coffee.
"Olivia!" Angela cries. "Good to see you! How was the holiday?" She rolls her shoulders with the anticipatory thrill of a veteran office gossip. "The big ol' US of A? California?"
"It was all right," Olivia says, although this is pretty much the sort of conversation she'd been hoping to avoid. "Any messages for me?"
"Nothing urgent," Angela assures her. "The rest is on your desk. But your man---how was he?"
Olivia studies the staff notice board. "He was well."
There's a pause while Angela tries to decipher her tone.
"So he's not the one, eh?"
"Wasn't in Pink Floyd after all," Olivia admits.
Her colleague laughs. "Want some coffee?"
"Tea," she says, and Angela goes to put on the kettle while Olivia starts sorting through her mail.
"Never you mind," Angela calls out from the tearoom, above the tinker and clatter of mug and spoon. "Next year we'll find ourselves some real men in Ibiza."
Olivia grimaces but then Angela comes through with the tea. They sit together on the edge of her desk.
"And how was California?"
Olivia thinks for a moment, tasting her tea.
"Weird," she says.
So, I spam you now. Here are three, presented in order of likely amusement value.
First, some William/Dru, spoilers to "Destiny", NC17.
Early Days
He starts with her lips, mashing them to his own, letting her tongue slip through when she kisses back. She coils her legs around him and pulls him firmly up the bed.
"Drusilla!" he says with delight as she looks up at him, blinking her ineffably deep and lustrous eyes.
He drowns in her gaze so long that she has to knee him to remind him to continue. "Oh yes," he says, "oh yes," and fumbles with his trouser buttons. Her skirts are still a struggle---there's so much of them and he doesn't always understand her underwear.
He pulls himself out and somehow finds the spot where he needs to go, finding the angle a good deal more quickly this time. Drusilla growls and thrusts her pelvis up so hard that he almost faints. He bites his lip, to steady himself, and gets a better grip on her and the bed, before pushing back. Then it's up-down up-down up-down and the pleasure's so great that he thinks he'll lose the use of his limbs.
One of her breasts pops out of her corset and he reaches down to suck, doing his best not to lose his arse's rhythm. She gives an appreciative wiggle that wriggles her cunt and he spends.
He feels happy and giddy and starts mumbling sweet nothings into her neck while she grinds herself to completion. "Just give us a minute," he says, smiling, once she's done, "and we'll do it again." He thinks this time he'll take off her dress.
Then Angelus says, from the armchair next to the bed, "That's not how you do it, my boy," and begins to unbuckle his belt.
Then, some post-NLM maunderings (PG)
Aftermath
Lydia can't make it to the funerals. There's too many of them, for a start. Fifty-four people died in the Council explosion and dozens more Watchers were knived. She has an armed guard at the hospital now and the news reports can't decide between the IRA and Al-Qaida.
Then there's the fact that she can't leave her bed. They're still not sure whether she'll ever get the feeling back in her legs. "Still," everyone tells her, "it's a miracle that you survived at all."
On the day of Nigel's funeral, she asks for her address book, which survived with her in her suit's inner pocket. It's stained a little (she's not sure with what) but it stays largely intact when she pulls out the shrapnel. She tries to flick through to the Prasads' number, but on every page is the name of another dead friend. She asks for a pen then and with stalwart resolution, begins to cross out the names. She doesn't get very far before her will crumbles and she starts weeping all over the bed.
That night, Nigel's sister Elaine comes to visit, looking tired in her dark linen suit. She takes the seat next to Lydia's bed and then takes Lydia's hand, without disturbing the drip.
They sit like that for an hour, not daring to look at each other, but Lydia is very glad of the warm hand on her own.
Finally, she says, "You know I dated him? Just once, and it went very badly."
"He said."
"We had so much in common but I don't think we found each other attractive at all."
"There's nothing wrong with that," Elaine says softly. "You were his friend."
Lydia turns her head at last and sees the tracks of tears staining Elaine's cheeks and blouse. She pulls her hand free and reaches out to stroke her surviving friend's face and hair.
"Elaine," she says, knowing she's not good at this. "Elaine."
And now for some Olivia, post-Hush (G)
Holidays Abroad
Olivia unlocks the door to the agency, wondering if she'll be the first person in. But no, Angela's there in reception, fiddling with the fax machine and sipping a coffee.
"Olivia!" Angela cries. "Good to see you! How was the holiday?" She rolls her shoulders with the anticipatory thrill of a veteran office gossip. "The big ol' US of A? California?"
"It was all right," Olivia says, although this is pretty much the sort of conversation she'd been hoping to avoid. "Any messages for me?"
"Nothing urgent," Angela assures her. "The rest is on your desk. But your man---how was he?"
Olivia studies the staff notice board. "He was well."
There's a pause while Angela tries to decipher her tone.
"So he's not the one, eh?"
"Wasn't in Pink Floyd after all," Olivia admits.
Her colleague laughs. "Want some coffee?"
"Tea," she says, and Angela goes to put on the kettle while Olivia starts sorting through her mail.
"Never you mind," Angela calls out from the tearoom, above the tinker and clatter of mug and spoon. "Next year we'll find ourselves some real men in Ibiza."
Olivia grimaces but then Angela comes through with the tea. They sit together on the edge of her desk.
"And how was California?"
Olivia thinks for a moment, tasting her tea.
"Weird," she says.
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no subject
Date: 2003-12-30 11:39 am (UTC)Thank you for sharing them!
no subject
Date: 2004-01-02 06:17 am (UTC)And thank you for letting me know you enjoyed them!
The Lydia piece is actually an extremely truncated version of a full-length fic that I considered writing.
no subject
Date: 2004-01-01 11:21 pm (UTC)You seem to be making a speciality of good last lines. :)
Deepa D.
no subject
Date: 2004-01-02 05:18 am (UTC)You seem to be making a speciality of good last lines. :)
That seems to be how I wtite drabbles. Actually, it's how I write everything, now I think about it. I never start writing unless I know the ending already. I think that's why I usually write stuff to fit in with canon, because canon supplies me with a ready-made ending that I just have to work towards.