(no subject)
Here are five drabbles. Each pairing is a favorite of someone(s) on my friends list, and a pairing I never/rarely write.
My dear Andrew was forbidden from making an appearance, since he turns up in everything. *g*
It's sort of a writing experiment. Let's see how it worked out.
* * *
Connor is sprawled wantonly atop Wesley, and Wes tells himself that he would move, were the boy’s long limbs not so entangled with his own.
He pulls his mouth away long enough to tell Connor, again, that they can't do this. “I’ve been with your father,” Wes says, tongue flicking out, licking Connorspit from his own flushed lips. Connor’s pout widens into a wicked smile.
The kisses end in staccato breathing and trembling caresses. Wrong, Wes reminds himself, even as Connor stands and pulls him to his feet. It’s no less wrong when Wesley locks the bedroom door behind them.
* * *
There were wild daisies on her pillow. A small bouquet, picked carefully, tied with string.
Cold moonlight shone upon the encampment at Dunharrow, where thousands of men bedded down hours before. Silently, Eowyn’s bare feet ran over trampled grass, past tent after tent. Her legs were long, his half the length, and soon she’d caught him.
Kneeling, hands against her thighs, she said his name in a breath. In her hand, she clutched one daisy; without voice, she asked her question.
Merry’s face reddened under her gaze. She had the answer.
Eowyn kissed the halfling’s lips, and tomorrow was forgotten.
* * *
Nothing would break Harry Potter’s confidence. Nothing would bend the spine or cause the shoulders to curl inward, hunched against the world like a defensive dog.
Neither would Draco be broken. He’d continue to walk with impeccable poise, head held aloft, even if the entire sky crashed down upon him.
When Harry leveled his unbreakable gaze with Draco’s and said, “Come, Malfoy,” Draco knew exactly how the evening would end: with spent seed cooling on an unswept stone floor, a sour-salty taste in his mouth that he couldn’t vomit away, and enough self-hatred to make him come back again.
* * *
He was born underground.
Mirkwood was a dangerous place to be young, and few times had Legolas ventured into the forest. He’d rarely seen open sky, and even more rarely had he seen the sun.
For centuries, he’d lived underground.
So pale was Legolas that blue veins shone through his wrists. His hair was long, washed of color, and his eyes glittered like a cat’s in the night.
He longed for the stone walls of home.
That Legolas found companionship with a Dwarf seemed fitting.
After the War, he returned to Mirkwood and his father’s caverns. Naturally, Gimli came along.
* * *
Jonathan opened his mouth and shamelessly sung out his order at Starbucks.
After that, he'd decided to not leave the house, not until this latest weirdness had cleared up.
Later, Jonathan gave an encore. His song was one of loneliness, longing, and despair. Lines about regret and jealousy came as naturally as breathing. A rhyme had even emerged for “clock tower”, before Jonathan realized the words his mouth had shaped.
The rhyme for “slayer” had made Jonathan blush.
Warren had witnessed the entire performance, but Warren would never tell Buffy. He'd never tell anyone, because Jonathan had heard Warren’s song.
* * *
My dear Andrew was forbidden from making an appearance, since he turns up in everything. *g*
It's sort of a writing experiment. Let's see how it worked out.
* * *
Connor is sprawled wantonly atop Wesley, and Wes tells himself that he would move, were the boy’s long limbs not so entangled with his own.
He pulls his mouth away long enough to tell Connor, again, that they can't do this. “I’ve been with your father,” Wes says, tongue flicking out, licking Connorspit from his own flushed lips. Connor’s pout widens into a wicked smile.
The kisses end in staccato breathing and trembling caresses. Wrong, Wes reminds himself, even as Connor stands and pulls him to his feet. It’s no less wrong when Wesley locks the bedroom door behind them.
* * *
There were wild daisies on her pillow. A small bouquet, picked carefully, tied with string.
Cold moonlight shone upon the encampment at Dunharrow, where thousands of men bedded down hours before. Silently, Eowyn’s bare feet ran over trampled grass, past tent after tent. Her legs were long, his half the length, and soon she’d caught him.
Kneeling, hands against her thighs, she said his name in a breath. In her hand, she clutched one daisy; without voice, she asked her question.
Merry’s face reddened under her gaze. She had the answer.
Eowyn kissed the halfling’s lips, and tomorrow was forgotten.
* * *
Nothing would break Harry Potter’s confidence. Nothing would bend the spine or cause the shoulders to curl inward, hunched against the world like a defensive dog.
Neither would Draco be broken. He’d continue to walk with impeccable poise, head held aloft, even if the entire sky crashed down upon him.
When Harry leveled his unbreakable gaze with Draco’s and said, “Come, Malfoy,” Draco knew exactly how the evening would end: with spent seed cooling on an unswept stone floor, a sour-salty taste in his mouth that he couldn’t vomit away, and enough self-hatred to make him come back again.
* * *
He was born underground.
Mirkwood was a dangerous place to be young, and few times had Legolas ventured into the forest. He’d rarely seen open sky, and even more rarely had he seen the sun.
For centuries, he’d lived underground.
So pale was Legolas that blue veins shone through his wrists. His hair was long, washed of color, and his eyes glittered like a cat’s in the night.
He longed for the stone walls of home.
That Legolas found companionship with a Dwarf seemed fitting.
After the War, he returned to Mirkwood and his father’s caverns. Naturally, Gimli came along.
* * *
Jonathan opened his mouth and shamelessly sung out his order at Starbucks.
After that, he'd decided to not leave the house, not until this latest weirdness had cleared up.
Later, Jonathan gave an encore. His song was one of loneliness, longing, and despair. Lines about regret and jealousy came as naturally as breathing. A rhyme had even emerged for “clock tower”, before Jonathan realized the words his mouth had shaped.
The rhyme for “slayer” had made Jonathan blush.
Warren had witnessed the entire performance, but Warren would never tell Buffy. He'd never tell anyone, because Jonathan had heard Warren’s song.
* * *