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Drabbles ahoy!
All right, so I've just finished writing them. I'm not a hundred percent happy with them, but if I don't post them now I never will. And okay, they're bigger than what drabbles should be I guess, but who cares. Let's call them vignettes then.
---
Harry/Remus for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stampinground - weirdly, it's the one of those three drabbles vignettes that I like best. Thanks for the (squicky) prompt!
Harry's torso shines with sweat, a young, bright, smooth thing, and Remus increases the rhythm and the pressure. He knows this is wrong, every one of his gestures, the way his breath hitches at the sounds Harry is making, the loud thump of his heart at the sight of Harry's fingers gripping the sheets, the salty tang of Harry's sweat as he licks a stripe of skin across his chest, wrong, wrong, wrong, all of it, because this is James's son.
But precisely. It is James's son, and he's everything Remus never could have, because he never did have James. The same crazy hair, and the eyes are Lily's but they're closed, face tight with concentration as release nears, and those sounds he makes, whispers and moans and groans, they're the same as James did, and still does, in Remus's dreams, and this is so much like those dreams, except not.
When Harry comes it's obviously hot and obviously wet and obviously wrong, and Sirius would kill him if he were still alive. Wrong, wrong, wrong, because this is James's son, but so very right because it is James's son, a second chance, and how sweet he is all damp and salty all over, how sweet he is with his hips bucking in ecstasy, how sweet he is with his back arched, and how sweet he is just breathing, loudly, lowering his body back to the bed.
It was wrong when Harry stumbled into Remus's flat obviously intoxicated, wrong when Remus watched him drink more firewhiskey, drink to their deaths, all of them, James and Lily and Cedric and Sirius and Dumbledore and all the others since, wrong when he let Harry cling to him as he sobbed in earnest, and thought of other ways to comfort him, and wrong when his lips eagerly met Harry's and other ways were explored, robes shed and bodies pressed close, hands and mouth exploring, yes, exploring that young body, so much like James's, a Quidditch player's body, a Marauder's body.
It is the tenth anniversary of Voldemort's fall and Remus listens to Harry's breath coming back to normal, traces a finger along the scar he's earned across the chest, no lightning bolt, a simple straight-forward slash. Harry's eyes flutter open and they're no longer glazed over, they're sharp and oh so bright, Lily's eyes, and Remus freezes. Then Harry reaches up and drags him down into a searing kiss, and sets to returning the favour, and it is all wrong, but dear Merlin.
How right it feels.
---
Sark and Vaughn fortwixou - this is probably nothing like what you expected, 'Lexia, but hopefully you'll still like it. I might give a try to some very short smut between them, if you want, as I'm all for hot desperation-driven smut and that would work very well in between S2 and S3, or even after Lauren's death, but... this is what came out today. I can't believe I wrote S5 Sydney. Argh.
Sydney had said her goodbyes to Vaughn, she really had. They were standing on that beach, and she let him go. Or so she thought, for about a week. Then he came back into her dreams, and it hurt even more because he did not understand that she did not let him go, and neither did she.
I did let you go, she told him, hands bunched up in his shirt.
And then, one night, she fell asleep expecting to see Vaughn, and she found him with Sark.
They were seated at the counter of that bar Vaughn liked going to with Weiss to watch hockey, having a beer together, and Sydney froze in her tracks, hands sliding over her round belly, just stood there a few feet behind them and listened to their conversation. They were talking in French, except she heard them in English, the way dreams substituted one thing for another without bothering to alter the dreamer's knowledge.
There's something to be said for eggs, Sark said, and smiled his infuriating little smile against the brim of the pint, then took a sip. How's Eric?
Weiss is fine, Vaughn answered with some measure of annoyance, but not as much as there should have been. He's in Washington now.
I know, Sark answered, and Vaughn frowned. Seeing as we're just figments of Sydney's imagination, Mickael, do keep up. Come and join us, Syd.
She straightened her spine, as much as she could with being this awfully pregnant, and walked up to Vaughn's side. He was looking at her with that ever present wrinkled brow of his, and it was easier to hold Sark's insolent gaze.
Why haven't you let him go, Syd? Sark asked her genuinely, and she wanted to hit him across the mouth, wipe that look off his face.
Don't call me that, she hissed.
I'm only calling you that because you're making me, he answered offhandedly, stretching on his barstool. Why haven't you let him go yet? Granted, he's become marginally less of a boyscout with the emergence of Prophet Five and those secret missions of his with dear Renée...
What do you know about Renée? she demanded with a frown, exchanging a look with Vaughn. She felt his hand at the small of her back and wanted to mould herself to him and never let go. Instead she focused on Sark's expression and how much she hated him.
Wouldn't you like to know, he answered smartly.
Syd, Vaughn cut in. He doesn't matter. But he's got a point. Let me go.
And they were all three of them standing on top of a skyscraper, wind whipping at their faces, flapping their clothes, cold and biting, and Sydney edged closer to Vaughn's warmth and fought off a wave of dizziness and nausea.
Sark made a small noise from the back of his throat. Those dream relocations can be quite unsettling. Let him go, Syd.
Let me go, Syd, Vaughn echoed.
I want to, she told him, ignored Sark. I really do. I don't know why you keep coming back.
Push me away, Syd.
Push him off, Sark corrected Vaughn, and she shook her head and cried as she looked up at Vaughn, holding his arms. Did you realise how alike he and I are becoming, Sydney?
Shut up! she snapped.
Hear him out, Vaughn asked.
She clang to his forearms and looked up in his face, tried to block Sark's voice out as he circled them, speaking low and true.
He's been deceiving you for years, the other way around. Hiding his darkness, his coldness, the truth about him. He's been lying to you, meeting with Renée, pursuing his own agenda, when you would have trusted him with your darkest secrets. You've been pretending you forgave him, for the sake of the child, but he's gone, he's dead, you don't have to pretend anymore.
Don't pretend, Vaughn asked of her.
Shut up, she asked, but it was a sob that wracked through her lungs.
You can let go, Syd, Sark urged her. Your anger, your resentment, your fucking rage! You trusted him, and he's been lying to you all this time. You have every right to be angry.
Shut up!
Every right, Syd, Vaughn echoed.
SHUT UP! she yelled, and shoved him away.
He tripped on the ledge, and fell. He didn't yell, didn't scream, didn't even look surprised. Sark stood by her side, and she wanted to hit him and kick him and cling to him and cry. Instead she wiped her eyes and compartmentalised the way she had been taught to. They were right, there was anger in her, but what mattered was that she had done what had to be done.
Good job, Sark told her.
She woke up and realised her waters had broken.
---
Mal and Simon forthewatch - as predicted, not paired together, although I'm pretty sure you could read it that way if you wanted to. Hope you like it!
"What's going to happen now?"
Mal stood on Serenity's docking ramp, thumbs hooked in his belt. He rocked on his heels, eyes staring at the three tombstones on the cliff. "Don't rightly know, doc. Best ask that sister of yours, she's likelier to."
There was the faintest hint of wry humour in Simon's voice. "She cannot see into the future, captain."
"No, but her guess is better'n mine." Mal turned to Simon, raised his eyebrows as if daring the good doctor to challenge his words. "I sail where the currents carry me, there's nothing more to me than that."
"I think we all know there's a lot more to you than that," Simon said, because he wasn't afraid of Mal as he used to be. "Not that you like people to know that."
Mal shook his head, but it wasn't clear what he was objecting to. He didn't see the need to make it clear, neither. "Come on, son. Wind's picking up."
"The sails are filling out," Simon agreed with a hint of smile as they both walked into the cargo hold.
"They sure are," Mal nodded, and stopped by the controls to shut the hold. He looked at the tombstones again, only shapes from this far off, and hit the command. He turned to Simon and smiled grimly. "You know, you're not half as bad as I thought you were, back when you came on board."
"I could say the same of you, captain."
Mal headed for the stairs, on his way to the cockpit, and didn't look at Simon when he spoke. "Don't mean I like you, though."
Simon smiled.
---
Harry/Remus for
stampinground - weirdly, it's the one of those three Harry's torso shines with sweat, a young, bright, smooth thing, and Remus increases the rhythm and the pressure. He knows this is wrong, every one of his gestures, the way his breath hitches at the sounds Harry is making, the loud thump of his heart at the sight of Harry's fingers gripping the sheets, the salty tang of Harry's sweat as he licks a stripe of skin across his chest, wrong, wrong, wrong, all of it, because this is James's son.
But precisely. It is James's son, and he's everything Remus never could have, because he never did have James. The same crazy hair, and the eyes are Lily's but they're closed, face tight with concentration as release nears, and those sounds he makes, whispers and moans and groans, they're the same as James did, and still does, in Remus's dreams, and this is so much like those dreams, except not.
When Harry comes it's obviously hot and obviously wet and obviously wrong, and Sirius would kill him if he were still alive. Wrong, wrong, wrong, because this is James's son, but so very right because it is James's son, a second chance, and how sweet he is all damp and salty all over, how sweet he is with his hips bucking in ecstasy, how sweet he is with his back arched, and how sweet he is just breathing, loudly, lowering his body back to the bed.
It was wrong when Harry stumbled into Remus's flat obviously intoxicated, wrong when Remus watched him drink more firewhiskey, drink to their deaths, all of them, James and Lily and Cedric and Sirius and Dumbledore and all the others since, wrong when he let Harry cling to him as he sobbed in earnest, and thought of other ways to comfort him, and wrong when his lips eagerly met Harry's and other ways were explored, robes shed and bodies pressed close, hands and mouth exploring, yes, exploring that young body, so much like James's, a Quidditch player's body, a Marauder's body.
It is the tenth anniversary of Voldemort's fall and Remus listens to Harry's breath coming back to normal, traces a finger along the scar he's earned across the chest, no lightning bolt, a simple straight-forward slash. Harry's eyes flutter open and they're no longer glazed over, they're sharp and oh so bright, Lily's eyes, and Remus freezes. Then Harry reaches up and drags him down into a searing kiss, and sets to returning the favour, and it is all wrong, but dear Merlin.
How right it feels.
---
Sark and Vaughn for
twixou - this is probably nothing like what you expected, 'Lexia, but hopefully you'll still like it. I might give a try to some very short smut between them, if you want, as I'm all for hot desperation-driven smut and that would work very well in between S2 and S3, or even after Lauren's death, but... this is what came out today. Sydney had said her goodbyes to Vaughn, she really had. They were standing on that beach, and she let him go. Or so she thought, for about a week. Then he came back into her dreams, and it hurt even more because he did not understand that she did not let him go, and neither did she.
I did let you go, she told him, hands bunched up in his shirt.
And then, one night, she fell asleep expecting to see Vaughn, and she found him with Sark.
They were seated at the counter of that bar Vaughn liked going to with Weiss to watch hockey, having a beer together, and Sydney froze in her tracks, hands sliding over her round belly, just stood there a few feet behind them and listened to their conversation. They were talking in French, except she heard them in English, the way dreams substituted one thing for another without bothering to alter the dreamer's knowledge.
There's something to be said for eggs, Sark said, and smiled his infuriating little smile against the brim of the pint, then took a sip. How's Eric?
Weiss is fine, Vaughn answered with some measure of annoyance, but not as much as there should have been. He's in Washington now.
I know, Sark answered, and Vaughn frowned. Seeing as we're just figments of Sydney's imagination, Mickael, do keep up. Come and join us, Syd.
She straightened her spine, as much as she could with being this awfully pregnant, and walked up to Vaughn's side. He was looking at her with that ever present wrinkled brow of his, and it was easier to hold Sark's insolent gaze.
Why haven't you let him go, Syd? Sark asked her genuinely, and she wanted to hit him across the mouth, wipe that look off his face.
Don't call me that, she hissed.
I'm only calling you that because you're making me, he answered offhandedly, stretching on his barstool. Why haven't you let him go yet? Granted, he's become marginally less of a boyscout with the emergence of Prophet Five and those secret missions of his with dear Renée...
What do you know about Renée? she demanded with a frown, exchanging a look with Vaughn. She felt his hand at the small of her back and wanted to mould herself to him and never let go. Instead she focused on Sark's expression and how much she hated him.
Wouldn't you like to know, he answered smartly.
Syd, Vaughn cut in. He doesn't matter. But he's got a point. Let me go.
And they were all three of them standing on top of a skyscraper, wind whipping at their faces, flapping their clothes, cold and biting, and Sydney edged closer to Vaughn's warmth and fought off a wave of dizziness and nausea.
Sark made a small noise from the back of his throat. Those dream relocations can be quite unsettling. Let him go, Syd.
Let me go, Syd, Vaughn echoed.
I want to, she told him, ignored Sark. I really do. I don't know why you keep coming back.
Push me away, Syd.
Push him off, Sark corrected Vaughn, and she shook her head and cried as she looked up at Vaughn, holding his arms. Did you realise how alike he and I are becoming, Sydney?
Shut up! she snapped.
Hear him out, Vaughn asked.
She clang to his forearms and looked up in his face, tried to block Sark's voice out as he circled them, speaking low and true.
He's been deceiving you for years, the other way around. Hiding his darkness, his coldness, the truth about him. He's been lying to you, meeting with Renée, pursuing his own agenda, when you would have trusted him with your darkest secrets. You've been pretending you forgave him, for the sake of the child, but he's gone, he's dead, you don't have to pretend anymore.
Don't pretend, Vaughn asked of her.
Shut up, she asked, but it was a sob that wracked through her lungs.
You can let go, Syd, Sark urged her. Your anger, your resentment, your fucking rage! You trusted him, and he's been lying to you all this time. You have every right to be angry.
Shut up!
Every right, Syd, Vaughn echoed.
SHUT UP! she yelled, and shoved him away.
He tripped on the ledge, and fell. He didn't yell, didn't scream, didn't even look surprised. Sark stood by her side, and she wanted to hit him and kick him and cling to him and cry. Instead she wiped her eyes and compartmentalised the way she had been taught to. They were right, there was anger in her, but what mattered was that she had done what had to be done.
Good job, Sark told her.
She woke up and realised her waters had broken.
---
Mal and Simon for
thewatch - as predicted, not paired together, although I'm pretty sure you could read it that way if you wanted to. Hope you like it!"What's going to happen now?"
Mal stood on Serenity's docking ramp, thumbs hooked in his belt. He rocked on his heels, eyes staring at the three tombstones on the cliff. "Don't rightly know, doc. Best ask that sister of yours, she's likelier to."
There was the faintest hint of wry humour in Simon's voice. "She cannot see into the future, captain."
"No, but her guess is better'n mine." Mal turned to Simon, raised his eyebrows as if daring the good doctor to challenge his words. "I sail where the currents carry me, there's nothing more to me than that."
"I think we all know there's a lot more to you than that," Simon said, because he wasn't afraid of Mal as he used to be. "Not that you like people to know that."
Mal shook his head, but it wasn't clear what he was objecting to. He didn't see the need to make it clear, neither. "Come on, son. Wind's picking up."
"The sails are filling out," Simon agreed with a hint of smile as they both walked into the cargo hold.
"They sure are," Mal nodded, and stopped by the controls to shut the hold. He looked at the tombstones again, only shapes from this far off, and hit the command. He turned to Simon and smiled grimly. "You know, you're not half as bad as I thought you were, back when you came on board."
"I could say the same of you, captain."
Mal headed for the stairs, on his way to the cockpit, and didn't look at Simon when he spoke. "Don't mean I like you, though."
Simon smiled.