drabble (re)post
...mostly so I can get to them easier. All of these are from the 'first kiss' prompt that I did lo these many weeks ago.
...and if I haven't gotten to yours yet, don't worry; I haven't forgotten.
Armistice
11 November 1918
The night starts in a tavern in France, one of the few buildings in the village that isn't a bombed-out ruin, and maybe it's the giddy hysteria of sudden peace, but instead of running when he feels Presence, Methos decides to stay where he is. He's numb and shell-shocked and not bloody moving, not for the whole German army at this point.
Fortunately, the other Immortal has no intention of challenging him to anything but a drinking contest, and after a round of introductions and a round of shots, they're well on their way to establishing a comfortable rapport. Hugh Fitzcairn practically radiates a sort of harmless geniality that Methos is almost certain is not feigned, and he's surprised by how very much at ease he is in the man's company. He hasn't wanted to talk to anyone in what feels like a very long time.
They spend the early part of the evening at the bar, getting steadily more intoxicated as the hours wear on. Fitz carries on an idle flirtation with a pretty waitress who seems entranced by the captain's bars on his uniform; Methos watches him, amused, and somehow fails to read any significance into the sidelong glances that Fitz sends his way.
When Fitz suggests that they move on, Methos is faintly startled; he'd expected that the man would be happily ensconced near his waitress until closing, and maybe take her to bed afterwards. Still, he's happy enough to acquiesce, and they buy two more bottles of wine to take with them when they leave.
Fitz, by virtue of his captain's bars, has a relatively comfortable room in the only remaining inn, though it's small enough to seem crowded with both of them in it. There's no chair, but they're both old enough not to be self-conscious at stretching out next to each other on the bed, passing first one bottle, then the second, back and forth between them. Methos has just been startled into laughter by an improbable story of Fitz's about a plot to blow up one of the more irritating English kings when Fitz looks at him, eyes bright with wine and something else.
"You should laugh like that more often," he says, his voice more serious than it's been all evening, and Methos has only a second's warning before Fitz leans in and kisses him, gently, gently, one large hand coming up to cradle Methos' face. His eyes when he pulls back are asking permission, and Methos, to his surprise, finds himself granting it with a kiss of his own. This one moves quickly past gentleness and into the blatant desire in Fitzcairn's face, and as he pulls Methos down for a third, Methos can't help feeling hopeful for the first time in what seems like an age.
***
(for
lferion)
Wrath
Angelus didn't kiss, or at least he didn't kiss Spike. He kissed Darla, and Drusilla when he wanted to make a point, but there was nothing remotely resembling tenderness between Spike and Angelus. Angelus didn't kiss Spike for nearly a century, and when he did, there was still nothing of tenderness in it.
Spike was still pretending to be wheel-chair bound, was frustrated and furious; Angelus and Drusilla had been out all night painting the town red, ripping out throats and scattering fear like flower petals in their wake.
They came in less than ten minutes before sunrise, Drusilla languid and dreamy-eyed, Angelus self-satisfied and radiating arrogance. Dru went to bed almost immediately, humming to herself as she did, while Angelus stopped in the middle of the floor, watching Spike with an expression that made the younger vampire uneasy.
When Angelus came closer, putting his hands on the arms of Spike's wheelchair, it was all Spike could do to keep himself from jumping to his feet and revealing his trump card. Instead, he forced himself to stay seated, and looked up at Angelus with as insolent an expression as he could muster.
"What the hell d'you think you're doing?" he demanded. Angelus smelled of blood and human fear, and Spike couldn't quite hide the tremor of desire that ran through him at the combination of scents.
"Why, Spike, is that nice?" Angelus asked, the mock-cheer in his voice nearly as disconcerting as the gleam in his eyes. "I thought you might be lonely sitting here all by yourself...bored, helpless..."
Spike didn't like the direction the conversation was taking. He opened his mouth to object, but Angelus was there first, kissing him with bruising force while one hand came off the arm of Spike's chair and gripped him by the back of the neck, holding him in place.
Angelus tasted like he smelled: of blood and fear and power, and Spike realized that he was kissing the bastard back in spite of himself, fury mingling with desire in his veins. He bit Angelus' lip with blunt human teeth, hard enough to draw blood, and Angelus chuckled into his mouth before deepening the kiss.
Spike was desperately, achingly hard, and was seconds away from climbing out of the damned wheelchair and showing Angelus just how much he'd learned in the past century when the bastard pulled away, eyes still gleaming with that nauseating self-satisfaction they'd worn since he'd lost his soul.
"It's a pity you're still crippled," he said nastily, and Spike, freed from the dizzying proximity of his sire, had a moment to be grateful that his long shirt hid his physical reaction.
"You bastard," Spike snarled, as Angelus walked off with another chuckle. Again Spike was tempted to get out of the wheelchair; again he subsided.
You'll get yours, he promised Angelus silently. You'll get yours in the end.
***
(for
marauderswolf)
Price of Purchase
Adam Pierce is unusual -- not for his money, which is hardly unexpected in a man who can afford to engage a Companion for a week's time -- but for his youth. He is two years younger than Inara, and while she's had young clients before, they are usually supported by family, whereas Pierce, according to his dossier, is alone in the 'verse.
When they meet for the first time, she is startled again, this time by the wealth of experience in his green-hazel eyes. She'd half-expected a green boy, despite the sophistication his application video had shown, and when it turns out that sophistication was merely the tip of the iceberg, she can't help feeling a bit overwhelmed. His education is as extensive as any Companion's, and their conversation ranges over such topics as the literature of Earth-That-Was, the political situation facing the border planets, and the history of the tea ceremony.
They talk for hours before he finally kisses her, and when he does, she realizes with a start that *he's* seducing *her* -- and that he's doing an excellent job of it.
***
(for
cat_i_th_adage)
Lead Us Not
It happens while they're sailing to Tortuga, because Will really is very pretty when he's being stubborn, and Jack has never been able to resist pretty things, as all manner of maids and magistrates can attest to. He can't remember what's got Will annoyed this time, but the lad's practically *pouting*, he's inches from Jack's face, and the temptation really is too much for a man of Jack's dubious character, so he leans forward that last crucial bit of distance and bites gently at Will's pouting lower lip. Will really should have known better than to open his mouth to object, Jack thinks vaguely, tilting his head to get better access to said mouth. Then again, given the way that Will is kissing him back, the lad might well have known exactly what he was doing all along.
***
(for
restrainedchaos)
...and if I haven't gotten to yours yet, don't worry; I haven't forgotten.
Armistice
11 November 1918
The night starts in a tavern in France, one of the few buildings in the village that isn't a bombed-out ruin, and maybe it's the giddy hysteria of sudden peace, but instead of running when he feels Presence, Methos decides to stay where he is. He's numb and shell-shocked and not bloody moving, not for the whole German army at this point.
Fortunately, the other Immortal has no intention of challenging him to anything but a drinking contest, and after a round of introductions and a round of shots, they're well on their way to establishing a comfortable rapport. Hugh Fitzcairn practically radiates a sort of harmless geniality that Methos is almost certain is not feigned, and he's surprised by how very much at ease he is in the man's company. He hasn't wanted to talk to anyone in what feels like a very long time.
They spend the early part of the evening at the bar, getting steadily more intoxicated as the hours wear on. Fitz carries on an idle flirtation with a pretty waitress who seems entranced by the captain's bars on his uniform; Methos watches him, amused, and somehow fails to read any significance into the sidelong glances that Fitz sends his way.
When Fitz suggests that they move on, Methos is faintly startled; he'd expected that the man would be happily ensconced near his waitress until closing, and maybe take her to bed afterwards. Still, he's happy enough to acquiesce, and they buy two more bottles of wine to take with them when they leave.
Fitz, by virtue of his captain's bars, has a relatively comfortable room in the only remaining inn, though it's small enough to seem crowded with both of them in it. There's no chair, but they're both old enough not to be self-conscious at stretching out next to each other on the bed, passing first one bottle, then the second, back and forth between them. Methos has just been startled into laughter by an improbable story of Fitz's about a plot to blow up one of the more irritating English kings when Fitz looks at him, eyes bright with wine and something else.
"You should laugh like that more often," he says, his voice more serious than it's been all evening, and Methos has only a second's warning before Fitz leans in and kisses him, gently, gently, one large hand coming up to cradle Methos' face. His eyes when he pulls back are asking permission, and Methos, to his surprise, finds himself granting it with a kiss of his own. This one moves quickly past gentleness and into the blatant desire in Fitzcairn's face, and as he pulls Methos down for a third, Methos can't help feeling hopeful for the first time in what seems like an age.
***
(for
lferion)
Wrath
Angelus didn't kiss, or at least he didn't kiss Spike. He kissed Darla, and Drusilla when he wanted to make a point, but there was nothing remotely resembling tenderness between Spike and Angelus. Angelus didn't kiss Spike for nearly a century, and when he did, there was still nothing of tenderness in it.
Spike was still pretending to be wheel-chair bound, was frustrated and furious; Angelus and Drusilla had been out all night painting the town red, ripping out throats and scattering fear like flower petals in their wake.
They came in less than ten minutes before sunrise, Drusilla languid and dreamy-eyed, Angelus self-satisfied and radiating arrogance. Dru went to bed almost immediately, humming to herself as she did, while Angelus stopped in the middle of the floor, watching Spike with an expression that made the younger vampire uneasy.
When Angelus came closer, putting his hands on the arms of Spike's wheelchair, it was all Spike could do to keep himself from jumping to his feet and revealing his trump card. Instead, he forced himself to stay seated, and looked up at Angelus with as insolent an expression as he could muster.
"What the hell d'you think you're doing?" he demanded. Angelus smelled of blood and human fear, and Spike couldn't quite hide the tremor of desire that ran through him at the combination of scents.
"Why, Spike, is that nice?" Angelus asked, the mock-cheer in his voice nearly as disconcerting as the gleam in his eyes. "I thought you might be lonely sitting here all by yourself...bored, helpless..."
Spike didn't like the direction the conversation was taking. He opened his mouth to object, but Angelus was there first, kissing him with bruising force while one hand came off the arm of Spike's chair and gripped him by the back of the neck, holding him in place.
Angelus tasted like he smelled: of blood and fear and power, and Spike realized that he was kissing the bastard back in spite of himself, fury mingling with desire in his veins. He bit Angelus' lip with blunt human teeth, hard enough to draw blood, and Angelus chuckled into his mouth before deepening the kiss.
Spike was desperately, achingly hard, and was seconds away from climbing out of the damned wheelchair and showing Angelus just how much he'd learned in the past century when the bastard pulled away, eyes still gleaming with that nauseating self-satisfaction they'd worn since he'd lost his soul.
"It's a pity you're still crippled," he said nastily, and Spike, freed from the dizzying proximity of his sire, had a moment to be grateful that his long shirt hid his physical reaction.
"You bastard," Spike snarled, as Angelus walked off with another chuckle. Again Spike was tempted to get out of the wheelchair; again he subsided.
You'll get yours, he promised Angelus silently. You'll get yours in the end.
***
(for
marauderswolf)
Price of Purchase
Adam Pierce is unusual -- not for his money, which is hardly unexpected in a man who can afford to engage a Companion for a week's time -- but for his youth. He is two years younger than Inara, and while she's had young clients before, they are usually supported by family, whereas Pierce, according to his dossier, is alone in the 'verse.
When they meet for the first time, she is startled again, this time by the wealth of experience in his green-hazel eyes. She'd half-expected a green boy, despite the sophistication his application video had shown, and when it turns out that sophistication was merely the tip of the iceberg, she can't help feeling a bit overwhelmed. His education is as extensive as any Companion's, and their conversation ranges over such topics as the literature of Earth-That-Was, the political situation facing the border planets, and the history of the tea ceremony.
They talk for hours before he finally kisses her, and when he does, she realizes with a start that *he's* seducing *her* -- and that he's doing an excellent job of it.
***
(for
cat_i_th_adage)
Lead Us Not
It happens while they're sailing to Tortuga, because Will really is very pretty when he's being stubborn, and Jack has never been able to resist pretty things, as all manner of maids and magistrates can attest to. He can't remember what's got Will annoyed this time, but the lad's practically *pouting*, he's inches from Jack's face, and the temptation really is too much for a man of Jack's dubious character, so he leans forward that last crucial bit of distance and bites gently at Will's pouting lower lip. Will really should have known better than to open his mouth to object, Jack thinks vaguely, tilting his head to get better access to said mouth. Then again, given the way that Will is kissing him back, the lad might well have known exactly what he was doing all along.
***
(for
restrainedchaos)