drabbles: btvs and merlin
[title] like you don't remember this
[author]
deora_mystic
[pairings/character(s)] buffy/angel
[ratings/warnings] r / het sexual vague depiction, weirdness
[length] 444 words.
[notes] the first piece of published "fic" after a very long time happened at 2am.
[challenge] oxoniensis "porn battle vii"; prompts: cemetery, time.
[feedback] always appreciated.
[originally posted] on oxoniensis' lj, january 2009.
And at the end of the world, the last thing Angel sees is Buffy.
At the end of it all, the first thing he sees is Buffy's face, young and flushed. The cemetery around them is like a dark memory and Angel can tell, from the way Buffy is moving backwards, pulling him along by the lapel of his coat, that they've been here before. Does she know? Can she tell?
Patterns: like two punctured marks on a pale neck, like the rising and the setting of the yellow sun, like his body crowding hers against this gravestone in particular, like this has happened before. She is small and strong between his arms, her own thin hands grasping at his shoulders, tugging on his neck, pulling on his hair, impatient and young and wanting. His face burrowed in the warmth between her neck and shoulder and his fingers, a reminder splayed across Buffy's canting hips, he can smell her every thought. He's here because he is the first man she's ever loved and the last one she ever will - except she doesn't know it already or may have forgotten it by now. Her moans are rushed and practiced and, after 200 years, this shouldn't feel new or special, but Angel can smell her blood pumping in her veins, heady like her pleading "Angel, oh, Angel!"s, and can't stop himself from baring his teeth and her perfect skin. One hand cupping her jaw and another lost between her legs, he breaks the pattern and bites into her taut skin. Buffy jerks once, twice against him, hard, confusingly, and melts against the grey stone. He pulls back before he's ready or sated - just a taste, this won't change anything, not really - and watches her parted lips, her eyes closed, the shape of two punctured marks on her tilted neck, and thinks she's perhaps dreaming. Before he can shake off the spell of hunger, however, Buffy opens her eyes, and stares right through him, ageless, in a cold cemetery. He can see his whole life, entwined with hers, flash behind her wide open eyes, like maybe she's the only thing standing between a vampire and his fall.
Before this is over, he'll have her again (and again), to the sound of rain or against the cold hard floor, and she'll break him with her arms and blonde hair and red lips and sharp sword against his chest, with a defeated sigh.
They've been here before and they'll be here again because, no matter how many times Angel or Buffy save the world from monsters, they still have their own hell to come back to.
[title] sleepless on your floor
[author]
deora_mystic
[pairings/character(s)] arthur/merlin
[ratings/warnings] r / not-quite-vague (?) sentences about gay sex, au, modern (but not really?)
[length] 214 words.
[notes] we're clearly confused about this. but this was just an image i'd got stuck with in my mind. nothing more.
[challenge] oxoniensis "porn battle vii"; prompts: sleepless, comfort.
[feedback] always appreciated.
[originally posted] on her lj, january 2009.
"This is a game: we'll pretend we're heroes, the world depends on us, all that jazz."
"I'll pretend to be your savior..."
"And I'll pretend to be yours."
Arthur's fingers are tapping the solfege on Merlin's collarbone and Merlin's hand is moving languidly across Arthur's back. It's midnight, the end of summer, they're under a tent made of bedcovers in the middle of Arthur's floor. There's an empty bottle of champagne next to Merlin's hip because they've decided to celebrate New Year's Eve according to a calendar Arthur invented on the spur of the moment.
"It's got to do with moons," Arthur explains it, for the fifth time, and because he's getting bored with that, he wraps his hand around Merlin. "Your mouth is a moon," he notices, smiling, before collecting Merlin's gasp off his lips with a lazy open-mouthed kiss. The dark-haired boy arches against him, like a wave crashing against sand, and Arthur takes him blindly, unknowingly, retracing steps on a not-quite-forgotten, familiar path. Their lean bodies thrust against each other, molding against every dip and hill, welding like flames around a sword. Arthur closes his eyes, mid-rapture, but Merlin watches him tilt his head and can see their past and future entwined in the shape of two thumbprints on his cheekbones.
[title] lessons they left out from the history books
[author]
deora_mystic
[pairings/character(s)] arthur/merlin
[ratings/warnings] r / vague hints at gay sex? somewhat depressing?
[length] 674 words.
[notes] a clear illustration of how bad i fail whenever i attempt to do this 'porn' thing. but the forest imagery was perhaps influenced by this other arthur/merlin draft i'd been working on (ie: the first piece of fic-writing after almost 2years, but not publishable)
[challenge]
oxoniensis "porn battle vii"; prompts: history, winter.
[feedback] always appreciated.
[originally posted] on her lj, january 2009.
Camelot isn't empty during winter, no, but it does feel like a deserted stronghold when the only lively events are feasts thrown merely for gathering human warmth within the castle. Arthur isn't complaining and Merlin doesn't know any better, but even boys grow old.
(The corridors are pale and hollow as servants and nobles alike hide in their chambers, under warm covers or warm bodies.)
Arthur feels weary and spends most of the day staring into the fire or out into the open grey. Merlin, by default, waits two steps behind and hopes to find a way to fix it. At first, he tells jokes and raunchy tales from Ealdor. He does his chores about the royal chambers wearing funny costumes. He keeps his eyes wide open and his hand fisted around Arthur, but the thick friction and release stop there, two feet above ground, between the thighs of the crowned prince. Arthur is wrapped in a transparent screen; Merlin can feel his hand brushing against it every time he undresses him, like a buffer between reticent fingers and tense shoulders, like a different kind of magic.
He takes him out into the cold, wraps him up in heavy furs and incessant stories about these woods, this tree over there, that lake beyond there.
"Everything around us is history," Merlin gushes, feeling his nose and ears and fingers and toes reddening. Arthur follows him suspiciously but Merlin's read this in the books from Gaius. Amid all the spells he forgets to practice because he's spending less and less time away from Arthur, he's also found stories about the world around them. Merlin tries to keep his eyes on the endless expanse of white, but can sense Arthur drawing nearer. He stops, suddenly, when he realizes they've got lost enough and turns to face him.
"Why are we here, Merlin?" Arthur asks evenly, but 'here' might just as well be Merlin's face for that is all the prince is looking at.
"This is the only place I can tell you the truth," he's decided. The best way to break the unknown spell. There were some steps to this, but Merlin likes to improvise and moves to stand right before Arthur. They're close and quiet, breaths mingling between them like fog. If something were to happen to the world right now, if Uther were killed and Camelot crumbled on top of a napping Great Dragon, Merlin suspects the two of them would still be here, frozen between skeletical trees and heaps of white. (Arthur considers this the point where one life ends and another continues, just as smoothly, no hiccup between the pages of history books.)
"No."
(Maybe if they wait long enough, they'll turn into white statues.)
"No, you don't need to say anything. You don't need to say anything anymore, Merlin. I think it's too late for that."
Arthur sighs and reaches out to cup Merlin's frozen cheek in his hand. His thumb rubs roughly against the boy's cheekbone and, for the briefest moment, he catches a glimpse, in his blue eyes, of two great statues, of a future in flames, of two men who broke each other. It's tiny and sudden and Arthur rests his other hand on Merlin's shoulder for support as he feels everything like a punch in the gut. Merlin doesn't know any better so he presses his mouth, his entire body against Arthur's, explodes in a wave of heat that melts the snowflakes on his eyelashes. His cheeks look dyed red from the wetness on his eyes, from the shape of Arthur's thumb. There's crisp moaning and biting of lips, rubbing hips and chilled hands wrapping around flushed necks. There's nothing in between but sharp gasps that seem to cut across the forest, a sharp blade of "oh"s and "oh"s. The warmth spills out of greedy mouths clashing for the sheer sake of contact and arms wrapping around backs like vines around prey. Furs and clothes aside, the aftermath is consumption.
When spring comes, this'll be a distant dream.
[author]
deora_mystic
[pairings/character(s)] buffy/angel
[ratings/warnings] r / het sexual vague depiction, weirdness
[length] 444 words.
[notes] the first piece of published "fic" after a very long time happened at 2am.
[challenge] oxoniensis "porn battle vii"; prompts: cemetery, time.
[feedback] always appreciated.
[originally posted] on oxoniensis' lj, january 2009.
And at the end of the world, the last thing Angel sees is Buffy.
At the end of it all, the first thing he sees is Buffy's face, young and flushed. The cemetery around them is like a dark memory and Angel can tell, from the way Buffy is moving backwards, pulling him along by the lapel of his coat, that they've been here before. Does she know? Can she tell?
Patterns: like two punctured marks on a pale neck, like the rising and the setting of the yellow sun, like his body crowding hers against this gravestone in particular, like this has happened before. She is small and strong between his arms, her own thin hands grasping at his shoulders, tugging on his neck, pulling on his hair, impatient and young and wanting. His face burrowed in the warmth between her neck and shoulder and his fingers, a reminder splayed across Buffy's canting hips, he can smell her every thought. He's here because he is the first man she's ever loved and the last one she ever will - except she doesn't know it already or may have forgotten it by now. Her moans are rushed and practiced and, after 200 years, this shouldn't feel new or special, but Angel can smell her blood pumping in her veins, heady like her pleading "Angel, oh, Angel!"s, and can't stop himself from baring his teeth and her perfect skin. One hand cupping her jaw and another lost between her legs, he breaks the pattern and bites into her taut skin. Buffy jerks once, twice against him, hard, confusingly, and melts against the grey stone. He pulls back before he's ready or sated - just a taste, this won't change anything, not really - and watches her parted lips, her eyes closed, the shape of two punctured marks on her tilted neck, and thinks she's perhaps dreaming. Before he can shake off the spell of hunger, however, Buffy opens her eyes, and stares right through him, ageless, in a cold cemetery. He can see his whole life, entwined with hers, flash behind her wide open eyes, like maybe she's the only thing standing between a vampire and his fall.
Before this is over, he'll have her again (and again), to the sound of rain or against the cold hard floor, and she'll break him with her arms and blonde hair and red lips and sharp sword against his chest, with a defeated sigh.
They've been here before and they'll be here again because, no matter how many times Angel or Buffy save the world from monsters, they still have their own hell to come back to.
[title] sleepless on your floor
[author]
deora_mystic
[pairings/character(s)] arthur/merlin
[ratings/warnings] r / not-quite-vague (?) sentences about gay sex, au, modern (but not really?)
[length] 214 words.
[notes] we're clearly confused about this. but this was just an image i'd got stuck with in my mind. nothing more.
[challenge] oxoniensis "porn battle vii"; prompts: sleepless, comfort.
[feedback] always appreciated.
[originally posted] on her lj, january 2009.
"This is a game: we'll pretend we're heroes, the world depends on us, all that jazz."
"I'll pretend to be your savior..."
"And I'll pretend to be yours."
Arthur's fingers are tapping the solfege on Merlin's collarbone and Merlin's hand is moving languidly across Arthur's back. It's midnight, the end of summer, they're under a tent made of bedcovers in the middle of Arthur's floor. There's an empty bottle of champagne next to Merlin's hip because they've decided to celebrate New Year's Eve according to a calendar Arthur invented on the spur of the moment.
"It's got to do with moons," Arthur explains it, for the fifth time, and because he's getting bored with that, he wraps his hand around Merlin. "Your mouth is a moon," he notices, smiling, before collecting Merlin's gasp off his lips with a lazy open-mouthed kiss. The dark-haired boy arches against him, like a wave crashing against sand, and Arthur takes him blindly, unknowingly, retracing steps on a not-quite-forgotten, familiar path. Their lean bodies thrust against each other, molding against every dip and hill, welding like flames around a sword. Arthur closes his eyes, mid-rapture, but Merlin watches him tilt his head and can see their past and future entwined in the shape of two thumbprints on his cheekbones.
[title] lessons they left out from the history books
[author]
deora_mystic
[pairings/character(s)] arthur/merlin
[ratings/warnings] r / vague hints at gay sex? somewhat depressing?
[length] 674 words.
[notes] a clear illustration of how bad i fail whenever i attempt to do this 'porn' thing. but the forest imagery was perhaps influenced by this other arthur/merlin draft i'd been working on (ie: the first piece of fic-writing after almost 2years, but not publishable)
[challenge]
oxoniensis "porn battle vii"; prompts: history, winter.
[feedback] always appreciated.
[originally posted] on her lj, january 2009.
Camelot isn't empty during winter, no, but it does feel like a deserted stronghold when the only lively events are feasts thrown merely for gathering human warmth within the castle. Arthur isn't complaining and Merlin doesn't know any better, but even boys grow old.
(The corridors are pale and hollow as servants and nobles alike hide in their chambers, under warm covers or warm bodies.)
Arthur feels weary and spends most of the day staring into the fire or out into the open grey. Merlin, by default, waits two steps behind and hopes to find a way to fix it. At first, he tells jokes and raunchy tales from Ealdor. He does his chores about the royal chambers wearing funny costumes. He keeps his eyes wide open and his hand fisted around Arthur, but the thick friction and release stop there, two feet above ground, between the thighs of the crowned prince. Arthur is wrapped in a transparent screen; Merlin can feel his hand brushing against it every time he undresses him, like a buffer between reticent fingers and tense shoulders, like a different kind of magic.
He takes him out into the cold, wraps him up in heavy furs and incessant stories about these woods, this tree over there, that lake beyond there.
"Everything around us is history," Merlin gushes, feeling his nose and ears and fingers and toes reddening. Arthur follows him suspiciously but Merlin's read this in the books from Gaius. Amid all the spells he forgets to practice because he's spending less and less time away from Arthur, he's also found stories about the world around them. Merlin tries to keep his eyes on the endless expanse of white, but can sense Arthur drawing nearer. He stops, suddenly, when he realizes they've got lost enough and turns to face him.
"Why are we here, Merlin?" Arthur asks evenly, but 'here' might just as well be Merlin's face for that is all the prince is looking at.
"This is the only place I can tell you the truth," he's decided. The best way to break the unknown spell. There were some steps to this, but Merlin likes to improvise and moves to stand right before Arthur. They're close and quiet, breaths mingling between them like fog. If something were to happen to the world right now, if Uther were killed and Camelot crumbled on top of a napping Great Dragon, Merlin suspects the two of them would still be here, frozen between skeletical trees and heaps of white. (Arthur considers this the point where one life ends and another continues, just as smoothly, no hiccup between the pages of history books.)
"No."
(Maybe if they wait long enough, they'll turn into white statues.)
"No, you don't need to say anything. You don't need to say anything anymore, Merlin. I think it's too late for that."
Arthur sighs and reaches out to cup Merlin's frozen cheek in his hand. His thumb rubs roughly against the boy's cheekbone and, for the briefest moment, he catches a glimpse, in his blue eyes, of two great statues, of a future in flames, of two men who broke each other. It's tiny and sudden and Arthur rests his other hand on Merlin's shoulder for support as he feels everything like a punch in the gut. Merlin doesn't know any better so he presses his mouth, his entire body against Arthur's, explodes in a wave of heat that melts the snowflakes on his eyelashes. His cheeks look dyed red from the wetness on his eyes, from the shape of Arthur's thumb. There's crisp moaning and biting of lips, rubbing hips and chilled hands wrapping around flushed necks. There's nothing in between but sharp gasps that seem to cut across the forest, a sharp blade of "oh"s and "oh"s. The warmth spills out of greedy mouths clashing for the sheer sake of contact and arms wrapping around backs like vines around prey. Furs and clothes aside, the aftermath is consumption.
When spring comes, this'll be a distant dream.