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keelywolfeSo, I'm poking through some of my older, unfinished stories and these are ones that I particularly want to write. Since I'm too sick to write but too bored to do anything else, I clipped an excerpt from each one to share with y'all.
Illya/Napoleon. Listed in my notes as The Drunks Affair, but that's really, totally not the title.
*
Only a few hours later, Illya was contemplating the merits of Napoleon's ceiling while lying on his floor. Napoleon had lied; the brandy was exquisite and the level of the bottle was quite a bit lower than when he had first arrived. He listened to Napoleon's idle chatter distantly, offering a grunt of acknowledgment whenever it seemed appropriate.
He didn't often think of death, or rather, his own death except to hope that when he did have to die, it would be with some amount of grace and not from the embarrassing manner THRUSH often chose for them.
But tonight it lingered in his thoughts, perhaps loosened by too much brandy. If he hadn't managed to slip his cuffs just in time, if he'd been only a moment later they would probably both be dead. He remembered the cold, wet cement closing over his head, the darkness as he struggled to open the cuffs. Napoleon had already been unconscious by the time Illya had managed to pull his limp form from the clinging heaviness of the wet concrete, his mouth slack and gritty when Illya had breathed for him until he choked on a strangled breath of his own.
Illya had held him while he vomited, gagging and coughing out the small amount of cement he had swallowed and they hadn't died that day. But someday perhaps, the cuffs would remain and the darkness would not recede.
He wondered if perhaps he was a little too drunk.
It was probability, that was it. Like roulette. On one affair, Illya had posed as a gambler in a casino while inspecting the THRUSH activity rumored to be ongoing. The beginnings of a money laundering operation had been quickly eliminated but he'd had an entire week to play the tables. It was the first time he'd ever filed a paid in for his expense account.
It was simply probability and knowing the odds. Eventually, the ball would fall into the cup with your number, no matter how long it took to happen, and if one knew how to bet, then one could reap in the benefits. Or the consequences.
Unless he didn't. Couldn't.
Unless Napoleon died first. There was a burst of pain inside him at the thought of Napoleon's death that he hadn't felt with his own and it was like a cork was pulled from the wine bottle of his thoughts and they were running out of him unchecked.
Napoleon could die; he could die first and the only touch of his lips that Illya would ever have would have been gray-gritty and cold with the first edge of death.
Well, to hell with that. To hell with fear and death and Waverly and to hell with Napoleon's dedicated lifelong heterosexuality; this was one thing Illya was not going to die without. Let probability work for him for once. One kiss could not possibly be too much to ask.
Napoleon was more asleep than not and looked at him quizzically as he pushed up unsteadily onto his knees. It was hard to lean with Napoleon moving around the way he was, except he was laying on the sofa so how he was moving, Illya wasn't certain. His puzzled eyes never left Illya's and they crossed as he leaned in, lining up with great care and pressed his mouth against Napoleon's.
It wasn't exactly a kiss worth dying for. Napoleon's mouth was slack against his own, far too reminiscent of earlier that day, but this time his mouth was warm and tasted like brandy, and echo of the flavor already in Illya's mouth. He traced Napoleon's lips with his tongue, just once, savoring this one moment that was his before he pulled away, regretfully, content that at least tomorrow he'd be able to plead too much alcohol. Surely Napoleon would allow him the illusion, to preserve their partnership.
Or it was more like he tried to pull away. Something was stopping him, holding him firmly against Napoleon, whose lips had slowly come to life beneath his own. Napoleon's arms, he realized, were wrapped around him and Napoleon was kissing him back. Kissing him *back*, on the sofa in his living room and suddenly Illya was on top of him in an awkward spill of arms and elbows and knees.
Angel/Doyle, From Blackbird, which is the sequel to Strawberry Fields
*
"So, that Wesley guy. D'you…nevermind."
"Hmm?" Angel murmured, searching through another drawer. It was here somewhere, he knew that much.
"You knew him before, didn't you?"
He stopped. "Doyle, if you want to ask me something, just ask and I'll tell you."
"Do you think he's attractive, like?"
Angel stared at him. He opened his mouth to answer and realized he had nothing to say so he closed it and went back to staring. Finally, he settled on, "Doyle, I'm not gay."
"I know, but—"
"No. Really. I'm not gay."
"I know!" Doyle said irritably, "I was just wondering and all, because we haven't been up to the most heterosexual bits lately,"
"Really, I'm not."
"And you did say there was that once with Spike. "
"Once! That doesn't—"
"And he's wearing those leather pants."
"Why are you staring at his pants? Do YOU think he's attractive?"
Horrified. "No! I was just wondering—"
"Don't wonder, okay? Just—don't."
"Right. Completely. Not gay." Silence. "But—"
"What exactly is it that you want to hear? Do you want me to say yes? Fine. Yes. Yes, I want to screw Wesley. I want to throw him across the table and just have at it. Hell, why stop there, let's invite Cordelia down and we can have a big pileup right here on the kitchen floor! We'll get out the bottle of Wesson oil and have an orgy, all right?"
Doyle was bright pink and he gestured feebly. With a sense of foreboding that had very little to do with any enhanced senses, Angel turned around to Wesley and Cordelia standing behind him.
"Is this a bad time to tell you about the upcoming disaster?" Cordy asked. "Great. Excuse me while I scrub with a wire brush. Like seeing Doyle naked wasn't bad enough."
"What?" Doyle sounded rather strangled. "When did you—what's wrong with me being naked!"
Wesley cleared his throat. "Yes, well. We should get going."
"Course we should," Doyle grumbled. "Y'know, for a man in leather pants, you're at least ten of the dullest people I've ever met."
Doyle had at least enough decency to wait until Wesley had started back up the stairs before he murmured questioningly. "Wesson oil?"
"It was on sale."
Illya/Spike -- which I started writing in the art show at Mediawest of all places...just because. Heck, why not, two blondes are better than one. *G*
*
It was as smooth as reflex to step away from the shadowy figure, twisting back and striking in the approximate place where the person's face would be. There was a mingled sound of crunching bone and a muffled curse, and Illya stepped backwards, his eyes never leaving the newly sprawled form on the sidewalk.
A man, his hair bright and obviously bleached to a blond so crisp it was a wonder his hair stayed attached to his scalp. Interesting.
The man pushed up smoothly to his feet with unnerving suddenness, his narrow face barely visible in the dim light from a nearby streetlamp. Two dark smudges were visible against his lips and chin, blood, Illya saw. The man swiped it away with the pad of his thumb and looked at it. His eyes were little more than darkened hollows in this light, barely visible lines of anger that melted into—bemusement, perhaps?
"Well, well, pet, little more bite than I gave you credit for," the man said, eyebrows raised as he studied the smear on his thumb. "Never thought a pretty boy like you would have a set of bollocks worth using."
Illya didn’t reply, adrenaline still burning through him, leaching away any unsteadiness from the alcohol. He waited in silence, unwilling to give this man his back again. It felt ridiculously like a stand off, neither of them making a move to step away. The man smiled suddenly, a sudden white gleam of bared teeth.
"This might be more fun than I thought." He raised his hand to his mouth, licking away the blood smear. His tongue was a flash of pink against white skin, lingering to catch every trace even as he backed away.
"Be seeing you, pet," he called softly, a laugh barely hidden beneath his voice. Illya shivered without knowing why and watched as he melted into the dark night. He was gone, of that Illya was certain but who he was or who might have sent him, well, that was a mystery yet to be solved.
Such was London.
Illya turned on heel and started walking again, keeping his pace as had been before. A running man was a target and he had had enough of being a target this night.
Kyle/Connor -- Okay, so technically this is my most recent fandom. So sue me, I still wanna write this one. It has an actual title already: Someone To Drive.
*
When he had been in college, none of his friends had cell phones. Not because they couldn't have used them but because if you had enough leftover cash to spring for a cell phone then you were obviously not dedicating yourself enough to the more important aspects of college life.
Like, say, beer.
Anyone who did manage to save enough to pay for a month on one of those so-called free phone inevitably decided that they did, actually need to eat more than ramon noodles and so deserted it, letting their debt spiral expand in ways that they would be able to regret far too soon.
The fact that Kyle could easily afford a cell now made him feel old in ways that didn't seem possible.
He'd dreamed of college the past few nights, or more precisely, a dream version of college where he had never gone.
It wasn't that strange. These days he felt like he was in college again, in a studio apartment where he slept on a futon mattress with no frame and ate over the sink. It would look better soon enough, when he found some real furniture to replace the stuff he'd left (with jenn) back at the other place. He wasn't sure when it was going to feel better.
But he doubted it was going to start at three am with the phone ringing.
'H'llo?"
"Can you come get me?"
It might have taken him a little while to recognize the voice even if he hadn't been mostly asleep. They hadn't talked in months and even then not for long.
Connor.
"Where are you?"
"The airport in Houston."
"Houston? Like, Texas, Houston?" Houston that was nowhere near New York, Houston?
"Yes."
He sounded normal enough but this was Connor, at an airport in Houston calling Kyle in New York and…it wasn't even a choice.
"All right." Kyle rubbed a hand over his face. "I can be there in a half an hour, maybe. Just hang tight, all right?"
"Sure."
He hung up the phone and dragged on a t-shirt that was in the mostly clean pile and wondered vaguely at the temperature in Texas.
Three of those are destined to be pretty long ...actually, all of them would be of a decent length which means they'd take a decent amount of time to write, which is...well, why they aren't written. I miss my laptop, I was so much more productive with it.
Illya/Napoleon. Listed in my notes as The Drunks Affair, but that's really, totally not the title.
*
Only a few hours later, Illya was contemplating the merits of Napoleon's ceiling while lying on his floor. Napoleon had lied; the brandy was exquisite and the level of the bottle was quite a bit lower than when he had first arrived. He listened to Napoleon's idle chatter distantly, offering a grunt of acknowledgment whenever it seemed appropriate.
He didn't often think of death, or rather, his own death except to hope that when he did have to die, it would be with some amount of grace and not from the embarrassing manner THRUSH often chose for them.
But tonight it lingered in his thoughts, perhaps loosened by too much brandy. If he hadn't managed to slip his cuffs just in time, if he'd been only a moment later they would probably both be dead. He remembered the cold, wet cement closing over his head, the darkness as he struggled to open the cuffs. Napoleon had already been unconscious by the time Illya had managed to pull his limp form from the clinging heaviness of the wet concrete, his mouth slack and gritty when Illya had breathed for him until he choked on a strangled breath of his own.
Illya had held him while he vomited, gagging and coughing out the small amount of cement he had swallowed and they hadn't died that day. But someday perhaps, the cuffs would remain and the darkness would not recede.
He wondered if perhaps he was a little too drunk.
It was probability, that was it. Like roulette. On one affair, Illya had posed as a gambler in a casino while inspecting the THRUSH activity rumored to be ongoing. The beginnings of a money laundering operation had been quickly eliminated but he'd had an entire week to play the tables. It was the first time he'd ever filed a paid in for his expense account.
It was simply probability and knowing the odds. Eventually, the ball would fall into the cup with your number, no matter how long it took to happen, and if one knew how to bet, then one could reap in the benefits. Or the consequences.
Unless he didn't. Couldn't.
Unless Napoleon died first. There was a burst of pain inside him at the thought of Napoleon's death that he hadn't felt with his own and it was like a cork was pulled from the wine bottle of his thoughts and they were running out of him unchecked.
Napoleon could die; he could die first and the only touch of his lips that Illya would ever have would have been gray-gritty and cold with the first edge of death.
Well, to hell with that. To hell with fear and death and Waverly and to hell with Napoleon's dedicated lifelong heterosexuality; this was one thing Illya was not going to die without. Let probability work for him for once. One kiss could not possibly be too much to ask.
Napoleon was more asleep than not and looked at him quizzically as he pushed up unsteadily onto his knees. It was hard to lean with Napoleon moving around the way he was, except he was laying on the sofa so how he was moving, Illya wasn't certain. His puzzled eyes never left Illya's and they crossed as he leaned in, lining up with great care and pressed his mouth against Napoleon's.
It wasn't exactly a kiss worth dying for. Napoleon's mouth was slack against his own, far too reminiscent of earlier that day, but this time his mouth was warm and tasted like brandy, and echo of the flavor already in Illya's mouth. He traced Napoleon's lips with his tongue, just once, savoring this one moment that was his before he pulled away, regretfully, content that at least tomorrow he'd be able to plead too much alcohol. Surely Napoleon would allow him the illusion, to preserve their partnership.
Or it was more like he tried to pull away. Something was stopping him, holding him firmly against Napoleon, whose lips had slowly come to life beneath his own. Napoleon's arms, he realized, were wrapped around him and Napoleon was kissing him back. Kissing him *back*, on the sofa in his living room and suddenly Illya was on top of him in an awkward spill of arms and elbows and knees.
Angel/Doyle, From Blackbird, which is the sequel to Strawberry Fields
*
"So, that Wesley guy. D'you…nevermind."
"Hmm?" Angel murmured, searching through another drawer. It was here somewhere, he knew that much.
"You knew him before, didn't you?"
He stopped. "Doyle, if you want to ask me something, just ask and I'll tell you."
"Do you think he's attractive, like?"
Angel stared at him. He opened his mouth to answer and realized he had nothing to say so he closed it and went back to staring. Finally, he settled on, "Doyle, I'm not gay."
"I know, but—"
"No. Really. I'm not gay."
"I know!" Doyle said irritably, "I was just wondering and all, because we haven't been up to the most heterosexual bits lately,"
"Really, I'm not."
"And you did say there was that once with Spike. "
"Once! That doesn't—"
"And he's wearing those leather pants."
"Why are you staring at his pants? Do YOU think he's attractive?"
Horrified. "No! I was just wondering—"
"Don't wonder, okay? Just—don't."
"Right. Completely. Not gay." Silence. "But—"
"What exactly is it that you want to hear? Do you want me to say yes? Fine. Yes. Yes, I want to screw Wesley. I want to throw him across the table and just have at it. Hell, why stop there, let's invite Cordelia down and we can have a big pileup right here on the kitchen floor! We'll get out the bottle of Wesson oil and have an orgy, all right?"
Doyle was bright pink and he gestured feebly. With a sense of foreboding that had very little to do with any enhanced senses, Angel turned around to Wesley and Cordelia standing behind him.
"Is this a bad time to tell you about the upcoming disaster?" Cordy asked. "Great. Excuse me while I scrub with a wire brush. Like seeing Doyle naked wasn't bad enough."
"What?" Doyle sounded rather strangled. "When did you—what's wrong with me being naked!"
Wesley cleared his throat. "Yes, well. We should get going."
"Course we should," Doyle grumbled. "Y'know, for a man in leather pants, you're at least ten of the dullest people I've ever met."
Doyle had at least enough decency to wait until Wesley had started back up the stairs before he murmured questioningly. "Wesson oil?"
"It was on sale."
Illya/Spike -- which I started writing in the art show at Mediawest of all places...just because. Heck, why not, two blondes are better than one. *G*
*
It was as smooth as reflex to step away from the shadowy figure, twisting back and striking in the approximate place where the person's face would be. There was a mingled sound of crunching bone and a muffled curse, and Illya stepped backwards, his eyes never leaving the newly sprawled form on the sidewalk.
A man, his hair bright and obviously bleached to a blond so crisp it was a wonder his hair stayed attached to his scalp. Interesting.
The man pushed up smoothly to his feet with unnerving suddenness, his narrow face barely visible in the dim light from a nearby streetlamp. Two dark smudges were visible against his lips and chin, blood, Illya saw. The man swiped it away with the pad of his thumb and looked at it. His eyes were little more than darkened hollows in this light, barely visible lines of anger that melted into—bemusement, perhaps?
"Well, well, pet, little more bite than I gave you credit for," the man said, eyebrows raised as he studied the smear on his thumb. "Never thought a pretty boy like you would have a set of bollocks worth using."
Illya didn’t reply, adrenaline still burning through him, leaching away any unsteadiness from the alcohol. He waited in silence, unwilling to give this man his back again. It felt ridiculously like a stand off, neither of them making a move to step away. The man smiled suddenly, a sudden white gleam of bared teeth.
"This might be more fun than I thought." He raised his hand to his mouth, licking away the blood smear. His tongue was a flash of pink against white skin, lingering to catch every trace even as he backed away.
"Be seeing you, pet," he called softly, a laugh barely hidden beneath his voice. Illya shivered without knowing why and watched as he melted into the dark night. He was gone, of that Illya was certain but who he was or who might have sent him, well, that was a mystery yet to be solved.
Such was London.
Illya turned on heel and started walking again, keeping his pace as had been before. A running man was a target and he had had enough of being a target this night.
Kyle/Connor -- Okay, so technically this is my most recent fandom. So sue me, I still wanna write this one. It has an actual title already: Someone To Drive.
*
When he had been in college, none of his friends had cell phones. Not because they couldn't have used them but because if you had enough leftover cash to spring for a cell phone then you were obviously not dedicating yourself enough to the more important aspects of college life.
Like, say, beer.
Anyone who did manage to save enough to pay for a month on one of those so-called free phone inevitably decided that they did, actually need to eat more than ramon noodles and so deserted it, letting their debt spiral expand in ways that they would be able to regret far too soon.
The fact that Kyle could easily afford a cell now made him feel old in ways that didn't seem possible.
He'd dreamed of college the past few nights, or more precisely, a dream version of college where he had never gone.
It wasn't that strange. These days he felt like he was in college again, in a studio apartment where he slept on a futon mattress with no frame and ate over the sink. It would look better soon enough, when he found some real furniture to replace the stuff he'd left (with jenn) back at the other place. He wasn't sure when it was going to feel better.
But he doubted it was going to start at three am with the phone ringing.
'H'llo?"
"Can you come get me?"
It might have taken him a little while to recognize the voice even if he hadn't been mostly asleep. They hadn't talked in months and even then not for long.
Connor.
"Where are you?"
"The airport in Houston."
"Houston? Like, Texas, Houston?" Houston that was nowhere near New York, Houston?
"Yes."
He sounded normal enough but this was Connor, at an airport in Houston calling Kyle in New York and…it wasn't even a choice.
"All right." Kyle rubbed a hand over his face. "I can be there in a half an hour, maybe. Just hang tight, all right?"
"Sure."
He hung up the phone and dragged on a t-shirt that was in the mostly clean pile and wondered vaguely at the temperature in Texas.
Three of those are destined to be pretty long ...actually, all of them would be of a decent length which means they'd take a decent amount of time to write, which is...well, why they aren't written. I miss my laptop, I was so much more productive with it.
