i feel celestial
Omg, I haven't posted in like, over two weeks. I've kind of had a full on month. ANYWAY. Have some drabbles. All bar the Twelfth Night one (which is for a fabulous prompt over at lesaut's amazing Queerly Awesome Comment Ficathon are for commentfic prompts.
I Came Out of the Wilderness
Chuck, Bryce/Sarah, PG. 381 words.
Somewhere between Palestine and Finland, they have a few days off, apart, and she spends most of it curled in bed, wrapped around herself or Bryce alternately.
“Licking your wounds?” Bryce asks. He’s shaving, neck pulled long, taut, his jugular standing out like a pulled violin string, and she follows it down to his exposed collarbone. She could kill him like this, easily, painlessly. She lets her eyelids flutter shut, an uneasiness unfurling in her belly.
“Something like that,” only not really. It’s more like piecing herself back together, trying to remember which parts of her are her alone, and which are Beth Langston, Rita Heller, Sarah Walker.
“I had this roommate in college,” Bryce says, and he’s grinning now, something loose and easy, fond, and it’s out of place on his face, doesn’t work, and she tries not to think about how she doesn’t see it all that often. “He like. He couldn’t hold his liquor at all, and he’d always crawl out of bed the mornings after and talk about how he felt like he didn’t fit in his skin, like a shapeshifter or whatever, and he was some asshole wearing his own body instead of living in it. I can’t even imagine how he’d feel playing us.”
There’s something in his expression that makes it look like he’s telling the truth, and Sarah wonders if this is too close, if he’s opening himself too much to this, to her.
“You could tell me something,” Bryce says finally. “Anything.”
And she sits up a little better, props herself on her elbows and watches the flick of his pupils, the brightness of his irises and opens her mouth to say, I know, but kisses him instead, feels him breathe against her, into her like she’s something to be trusted, wanted, even when she’s not.
Later, he’ll pull on a blazer, colour contacts and a tie, step into Alistair Simons like they’re one and the same, and she’ll wriggle into Monica Langseth like she’s a size too small, wrong and too-tight and straining against her breasts and her stomach, and all she can hope is that the seams don’t give when there’s no one there to help sew her back up.
Goodbye, Apathy
Gilmore Girls. Jess/Rory. PG. 288 words.
Rory’s stumbling her way to thirty, too many boys left lost in her wake, but a job that she loves and a reputation as a woman who’s cutting edge instead of just cutting.
“This is-“ she starts, and then stops, breathes sharp and heavy and Jess smiles, sweet and not even a little bitter, as he gestures to the barstool beside him.
“I read your features,” he says, “in Time Magazine. They’re good.”
“They’re okay,” she mumbles, orders a daiquiri and tries not to pay attention to the way Jess hasn’t stopped looking at her, asks, “You write novels now?” like she hasn’t read every one, left notes in the margin on every page for him, like she doesn’t see him and her in every character and every pair of star-crossed lovers.
“I do,” he says. “They’re okay.”
At least this much is familiar, she supposes. Because, at the end of the day, Jess will always be held to somebody’s misguided expectations and Rory will always be her own biggest critic.
Later, when he kisses her, lips like scotch and hands clammy like he’s sixteen again and a fuck up and she’s the apple of everyone’s eye, she’ll remind herself that this isn’t starting again. This is starting. This is giving them the chance, him the chance that he deserved from the beginning. Without Lorelai, without Luke or Dean, but with her, and they’ll fuck up, they’ll argue and spit and fight and he’ll love her like he did from the start, and maybe this time she could love him too in the way that she never let herself.
Oh! The Divorces
Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. Viola/Olivia. PG. 426 words.
“If you could be Cesario forever,” Olivia starts, her voice lyrical and lilting, posture firm, but she trails off, her eyes somehow out of touch and far away.
“You want him?” Viola states, and she’s grown unaccustomed to the corset from her time as Cesario, and suddenly it’s all to tight, pinching at her sun-browned skin and clipping at where her breasts are still tender from so many weeks bound down. “He’s gone, mistress. I could not play at manhood forever.”
Olivia doesn’t respond immediately, instead sighs, lips pursed and fingers clasped in her lap. Because at the end of it all, when Viola finds her way back into gowns and petticoats and fasteners, Olivia is full in all the ways that Viola is found stretched out and wanting.
Between them her lacks are realised, and it’s there in the way Olivia hesitates over every slight. Every sigh and faint and flush makes Olivia the virgin of Illyria and Viola the monster. She grimaces, her hands loose and her legs parted in a way she still hasn’t been able to remedy. Her posture impossibly masculine with all the slopes and musicality of Olivia’s. She needs to leave, Viola supposes, get back and away and she moves to rise, only to be stopped by Olivia’s long fingers against her wrist.
“It was perhaps my greatest fear realised,” she starts, voice small and hesitant, “When I woke up and wanted you both.”
And it affects Viola like a knife to the gut, because Cesario had wanted her too. So thoroughly and deeply had he dreamed of getting to touch her, of pulling away the layers of cloth that entrapped her gender, her sex, as Viola’s had her own. Of getting to free Olivia, spread her out and open her up, take her apart and keep the sounds that coloured her, that made her.
“I stand here now with offerings that I am not warranted to make,” Olivia is trembling now, her pale hand curling harder around the skin of Viola’s wrist. “With the promise that, perchance, we could be as the great lovers that time refuses to forget. Of Helen and Paris and Antony and Cleopatra.”
“The best and the worst,” Viola tries, and Olivia smiles, warm in all the places Viola has been cold, and she thinks of her brother and of Orsino and Malvolio. Of all the men in their lives who breathe between them, and later, when she kisses Olivia, she doesn’t think of anything at all.
Good Friends, Bad Habits
Star Trek Reboot. Kirk/Sulu. M. 77 words.
They won’t remember who started it, and Jim will wonder, later, with Sulu pressed against him, eyes closed and mouth open, if it matters. He’s left awake with teeth marks on the inside of his thighs and memories that blur like the lines between them. Sulu had come apart beneath his hands without reserve or effort and Jim doesn’t think it matters who kissed who first, as long as it’s him who gets to do it next.
I Came Out of the Wilderness
Chuck, Bryce/Sarah, PG. 381 words.
Somewhere between Palestine and Finland, they have a few days off, apart, and she spends most of it curled in bed, wrapped around herself or Bryce alternately.
“Licking your wounds?” Bryce asks. He’s shaving, neck pulled long, taut, his jugular standing out like a pulled violin string, and she follows it down to his exposed collarbone. She could kill him like this, easily, painlessly. She lets her eyelids flutter shut, an uneasiness unfurling in her belly.
“Something like that,” only not really. It’s more like piecing herself back together, trying to remember which parts of her are her alone, and which are Beth Langston, Rita Heller, Sarah Walker.
“I had this roommate in college,” Bryce says, and he’s grinning now, something loose and easy, fond, and it’s out of place on his face, doesn’t work, and she tries not to think about how she doesn’t see it all that often. “He like. He couldn’t hold his liquor at all, and he’d always crawl out of bed the mornings after and talk about how he felt like he didn’t fit in his skin, like a shapeshifter or whatever, and he was some asshole wearing his own body instead of living in it. I can’t even imagine how he’d feel playing us.”
There’s something in his expression that makes it look like he’s telling the truth, and Sarah wonders if this is too close, if he’s opening himself too much to this, to her.
“You could tell me something,” Bryce says finally. “Anything.”
And she sits up a little better, props herself on her elbows and watches the flick of his pupils, the brightness of his irises and opens her mouth to say, I know, but kisses him instead, feels him breathe against her, into her like she’s something to be trusted, wanted, even when she’s not.
Later, he’ll pull on a blazer, colour contacts and a tie, step into Alistair Simons like they’re one and the same, and she’ll wriggle into Monica Langseth like she’s a size too small, wrong and too-tight and straining against her breasts and her stomach, and all she can hope is that the seams don’t give when there’s no one there to help sew her back up.
Goodbye, Apathy
Gilmore Girls. Jess/Rory. PG. 288 words.
Rory’s stumbling her way to thirty, too many boys left lost in her wake, but a job that she loves and a reputation as a woman who’s cutting edge instead of just cutting.
“This is-“ she starts, and then stops, breathes sharp and heavy and Jess smiles, sweet and not even a little bitter, as he gestures to the barstool beside him.
“I read your features,” he says, “in Time Magazine. They’re good.”
“They’re okay,” she mumbles, orders a daiquiri and tries not to pay attention to the way Jess hasn’t stopped looking at her, asks, “You write novels now?” like she hasn’t read every one, left notes in the margin on every page for him, like she doesn’t see him and her in every character and every pair of star-crossed lovers.
“I do,” he says. “They’re okay.”
At least this much is familiar, she supposes. Because, at the end of the day, Jess will always be held to somebody’s misguided expectations and Rory will always be her own biggest critic.
Later, when he kisses her, lips like scotch and hands clammy like he’s sixteen again and a fuck up and she’s the apple of everyone’s eye, she’ll remind herself that this isn’t starting again. This is starting. This is giving them the chance, him the chance that he deserved from the beginning. Without Lorelai, without Luke or Dean, but with her, and they’ll fuck up, they’ll argue and spit and fight and he’ll love her like he did from the start, and maybe this time she could love him too in the way that she never let herself.
Oh! The Divorces
Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. Viola/Olivia. PG. 426 words.
“If you could be Cesario forever,” Olivia starts, her voice lyrical and lilting, posture firm, but she trails off, her eyes somehow out of touch and far away.
“You want him?” Viola states, and she’s grown unaccustomed to the corset from her time as Cesario, and suddenly it’s all to tight, pinching at her sun-browned skin and clipping at where her breasts are still tender from so many weeks bound down. “He’s gone, mistress. I could not play at manhood forever.”
Olivia doesn’t respond immediately, instead sighs, lips pursed and fingers clasped in her lap. Because at the end of it all, when Viola finds her way back into gowns and petticoats and fasteners, Olivia is full in all the ways that Viola is found stretched out and wanting.
Between them her lacks are realised, and it’s there in the way Olivia hesitates over every slight. Every sigh and faint and flush makes Olivia the virgin of Illyria and Viola the monster. She grimaces, her hands loose and her legs parted in a way she still hasn’t been able to remedy. Her posture impossibly masculine with all the slopes and musicality of Olivia’s. She needs to leave, Viola supposes, get back and away and she moves to rise, only to be stopped by Olivia’s long fingers against her wrist.
“It was perhaps my greatest fear realised,” she starts, voice small and hesitant, “When I woke up and wanted you both.”
And it affects Viola like a knife to the gut, because Cesario had wanted her too. So thoroughly and deeply had he dreamed of getting to touch her, of pulling away the layers of cloth that entrapped her gender, her sex, as Viola’s had her own. Of getting to free Olivia, spread her out and open her up, take her apart and keep the sounds that coloured her, that made her.
“I stand here now with offerings that I am not warranted to make,” Olivia is trembling now, her pale hand curling harder around the skin of Viola’s wrist. “With the promise that, perchance, we could be as the great lovers that time refuses to forget. Of Helen and Paris and Antony and Cleopatra.”
“The best and the worst,” Viola tries, and Olivia smiles, warm in all the places Viola has been cold, and she thinks of her brother and of Orsino and Malvolio. Of all the men in their lives who breathe between them, and later, when she kisses Olivia, she doesn’t think of anything at all.
Good Friends, Bad Habits
Star Trek Reboot. Kirk/Sulu. M. 77 words.
They won’t remember who started it, and Jim will wonder, later, with Sulu pressed against him, eyes closed and mouth open, if it matters. He’s left awake with teeth marks on the inside of his thighs and memories that blur like the lines between them. Sulu had come apart beneath his hands without reserve or effort and Jim doesn’t think it matters who kissed who first, as long as it’s him who gets to do it next.