(no subject)
Oct. 7th, 2004 05:17 pmI've started a Memory section for the Drabble meme.
I've written 8 in the last 2 days.
Untitled for
ellen_fremedon. It's sort of a Brimstone drabble
Lucifer's wings, where they meet his skin, are still new and almost raw. He flexes them gingerly, hating the new leathery rustle, already missing the scarlet feathers.
His skin has changed, his appearance has changed. No longer the most beautiful, no longer best beloved of the Father. No one could take him for anything other than what he is: outcast, unloved, traitor.
He takes stock of himself, and his new domain. He knows his work, and if he does it well, perhaps God will be pleased with him once again. Maybe he can go home at the end of time.
Whiskey Memories for
kwaldo12. It's a Post-Bespin, Leia PoV.
She twisted the stem of the wine glass between her fingers, wondering if she was brave enough to actually drink what was in it. Hundred year old fire-whiskey was not to be trifled with.
She stared at the golden whiskey, the shimmering orange and scarlet flecks. She remembered. It burned as she drank it from his mouth, but not as hotly as his hands upon her body, chasing the chill of the asteroid.
Leia drank the glass and poured herself a second from the bottle she’d stolen. If she couldn’t get drunk the day her lover was next-to-executed, when could she?
Reflections for
musesfool. It's a Quantum Leap drabble
He has many names, none of them his. Only one calls him by his own name, sees his real face.
When he looks in the mirror, he sees young, old, male, female, black, and white. He has learned to respond quickly to whatever name he is called: Max, Tom, Frankie, Jesse, Darlene, Samantha. He walks in shoes that are not his, loves women he will never meet, and wears clothing in styles he never knew.
It is a sign of Sam's unstable lifestyle that he associates the sound of his own name with rescue. With Al. With timeless love.
Changes for
jedi_penguin. It's BtVS, Spike/Dru.
He doesn't feel like a dark creature. Same hands. Same clothes. Same everything. Except that he’s cold. Very, very cold. And he’ll never be warm again.
He tries to speak, but nothing happens. He remembers to take a breath first and says, “Drusilla?”
“Right here, lambkin. Mummy’s here.”
“I’m cold, Dru.”
“We’re all cold. It’s the way of things. Come sit by the fire. I have a lovely spot of tea.”
William drags himself to the fire, and feels its warmth without absorbing any. Drusilla pours a cup from the teapot.
“Drink. Before it gets cold.”
The tea is red.
Changing Seasons for
mirabellawotr. It's Harry Potter.
Untitled for
virtualinsomnia. It's Smallville, post series, with CLex.
Clark Kent loved Christmas. He always had. His earliest memories with the Kents included the big tree and Martha’s cookies in the kitchen.
Now, his little Metropolis apartment felt cold and dark next to the memories of the warm farmhouse. The tiny tree with four too-large ornaments drooped on his coffee table. He dropped his coat and went to the kitchen for another frozen dinner. Two more working days and he could head home.
A knock. He saw Lex, holding two boxes.
“Merry Christmas.” Lex handed him the larger one. Clark could smell ginger, molasses and sugar. “From your mom.”
Touch for
hobsonphile. It's Babylon 5, Vir/Lennier.
Vir Cotto knows the power of touch. A sincerely shaken hand, a well-placed shoulder clasp, a hearty back-slap. These are all political tools and Londo has taught him well.
On Minbar, he touches no one. The Minbari do not welcome the physical familiarity. When he returns, he is reticent and works not to flinch from Mollari’s constant ersatz contact.
Lennier understands. They meet for drinks, and sometimes for more. Lennier has two hands, and no pseudopods, but he is gentle, and does not flinch from the touch of Vir’s tentacles.
Touch is powerful, Vir knows. It connects, controls, and binds.
Preparation for
frahulettaes. It's Pirates of the Carribean, Will/Jack.
I'm doing these as much as I can without duplicating fandoms. And it gives me lots of chances to use my shiny new Spock icon.
I've written 8 in the last 2 days.
Untitled for
Lucifer's wings, where they meet his skin, are still new and almost raw. He flexes them gingerly, hating the new leathery rustle, already missing the scarlet feathers.
His skin has changed, his appearance has changed. No longer the most beautiful, no longer best beloved of the Father. No one could take him for anything other than what he is: outcast, unloved, traitor.
He takes stock of himself, and his new domain. He knows his work, and if he does it well, perhaps God will be pleased with him once again. Maybe he can go home at the end of time.
Whiskey Memories for
She twisted the stem of the wine glass between her fingers, wondering if she was brave enough to actually drink what was in it. Hundred year old fire-whiskey was not to be trifled with.
She stared at the golden whiskey, the shimmering orange and scarlet flecks. She remembered. It burned as she drank it from his mouth, but not as hotly as his hands upon her body, chasing the chill of the asteroid.
Leia drank the glass and poured herself a second from the bottle she’d stolen. If she couldn’t get drunk the day her lover was next-to-executed, when could she?
Reflections for
He has many names, none of them his. Only one calls him by his own name, sees his real face.
When he looks in the mirror, he sees young, old, male, female, black, and white. He has learned to respond quickly to whatever name he is called: Max, Tom, Frankie, Jesse, Darlene, Samantha. He walks in shoes that are not his, loves women he will never meet, and wears clothing in styles he never knew.
It is a sign of Sam's unstable lifestyle that he associates the sound of his own name with rescue. With Al. With timeless love.
Changes for
He doesn't feel like a dark creature. Same hands. Same clothes. Same everything. Except that he’s cold. Very, very cold. And he’ll never be warm again.
He tries to speak, but nothing happens. He remembers to take a breath first and says, “Drusilla?”
“Right here, lambkin. Mummy’s here.”
“I’m cold, Dru.”
“We’re all cold. It’s the way of things. Come sit by the fire. I have a lovely spot of tea.”
William drags himself to the fire, and feels its warmth without absorbing any. Drusilla pours a cup from the teapot.
“Drink. Before it gets cold.”
The tea is red.
Changing Seasons for
Untitled for
Clark Kent loved Christmas. He always had. His earliest memories with the Kents included the big tree and Martha’s cookies in the kitchen.
Now, his little Metropolis apartment felt cold and dark next to the memories of the warm farmhouse. The tiny tree with four too-large ornaments drooped on his coffee table. He dropped his coat and went to the kitchen for another frozen dinner. Two more working days and he could head home.
A knock. He saw Lex, holding two boxes.
“Merry Christmas.” Lex handed him the larger one. Clark could smell ginger, molasses and sugar. “From your mom.”
Touch for
Vir Cotto knows the power of touch. A sincerely shaken hand, a well-placed shoulder clasp, a hearty back-slap. These are all political tools and Londo has taught him well.
On Minbar, he touches no one. The Minbari do not welcome the physical familiarity. When he returns, he is reticent and works not to flinch from Mollari’s constant ersatz contact.
Lennier understands. They meet for drinks, and sometimes for more. Lennier has two hands, and no pseudopods, but he is gentle, and does not flinch from the touch of Vir’s tentacles.
Touch is powerful, Vir knows. It connects, controls, and binds.
Preparation for
I'm doing these as much as I can without duplicating fandoms. And it gives me lots of chances to use my shiny new Spock icon.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 08:26 am (UTC)