snippets
i've never been a big writer, mostly because i have difficulties to keep focusing on one piece for more than a few hours - that's probably why i have dozens of tiny ficlets, and bits & pieces cluttered on my harddrive...
now that i'm a bit more active on lj, i thought that i could post some of them - they're not exactly drabbles, but too tiny to be real fanfics as well. i have no idea if anyone's interested, *g* but maybe... mostly, i write these fic-fragmets when i'm just done watching an episode or something - they're almost always angsty & emotional
a little warning: these are all unbeta-ed & english is still not my mother language, so if you see something i absolutely need to correct, i'll be glad :) - & enjoy!
-
title. rocks
fandom. stargate sg-1, daniel
note. set some time after season 3
Rocks
Those weren't artifacts beneath his hands. His long fingers tracing the lines engraved in the reddish stone - those weren't letters, no words, sentences. Sure, someone had etched these small drawings into the hard stone, but perhaps it was never meant to be read. Personal. Undefined.
"These are just rocks."
His voice was soft, lost in the overstuffed lab, no one heard him. Although to him the words felt like glass, slitting open his paper-thin skin. As if that one sentence everyone had always told him, these words that had lain asleep in his mind for such a long time - now uttered out loud in the safety of his own lab - made him bleed; and finally made him see the shambles his life had become.
Just rocks.
He wished he could cry. Cry for something he only now realized he'd lost such a long time ago. When had he lost his meaning? His fire and his goal to find peace, love, understanding...
But he couldn't cry, because that's what he was like now. A man without tears for something as unsubstantial as this. Tears for a friend, for a loved one, for a bullet wound. Maybe. Tears for a line etched on a stone, an idea, a dream - none for that. None.
Maybe it was because there was no one there to remind him how to cry.
fin.
-
title. in memory
fandom. invisible man, darien
note. i always get the feeling that darien has changed very much since becoming the invisble man..
In Memory
He stared at his bloodshot eyes and wondered.
He couldn't tell the difference, couldn't tell if his eyes were red because of the vodka or because of the quicksilver saturating his blood. He hurt, his head throbbing - the pain in the back of it was making him think it was the quicksilver madness, but the way the room was spinning, tilting under his feet told him it was the alcohol.
He touched his face - the mirror felt cool under his fingers, his image solid. He traced his cheekbones, his nose, his lips, the eyes. He couldn’t feel the red under his fingers.
Are you sure the gland is undamaged - Yes, thank God.
Compassion.
Only one shot counteragent per mission - Accomplished.
Freedom.
The things he'd lived for. Maybe the reason he was still living for - the memory of loving who he was and knowing what being free meant.
fin.
-
title. unending
fandom. torchwood, jack/ianto
note. set after 213 - exit wounds
Unending
It was a song.
No words, but breathing and moaning and sometimes a word, in a language no one understood but him. It was the slide of skin over skin and the clashing of their lust and hunger and sorrow. Droplets of sweat, kissed away, licked, tasted and categorized. Tears. Lips over the pulse point, feeling the rhythm of life. Hands gliding over the sticky and hot body, reaching for love.
It was desperation and it was trust. The way their bodies fitted against each other, scared to break contact, maybe unable to; their fingers glued to the other man's skin.
It was a song consisting of the rustle of the blanket and the soft laughter that surfaced between suppressed anxiousness and sobs. The music was played with fingers on the keyboards of their souls, on the wrongly tuned strings of their lives.
The melody was fast and uneven and they couldn't sing along. It was changing too fast, directions and steps lost.
And Tosh.
And Owen. Maybe.
And one touch for the bloody writing on the floor, a kiss for the love of her last thought. Another one for the love they'd had for each other. A third one for the love, the joy, the relief to still have each other.
Jack.
A never ending love story, a never ending thought in a dark and starless night. And his lover. The one to touch him, to coax this melody from his thighs, his neck, his teeth - and melt into the pause between two heartbeats.
fin.
-
title. jack daniel's
fandom. ncis, tony & gibbs
note. set some time after bury your dead (501) / family (502)
Jack Daniel's
"Drink."
Jack Daniel's.
Okay, how did that bottle get into the office? And more precisely: Why did it stand on his desk? The hand wrapped around it belonged to his boss. Suspiciously, Tony looked up.
"What?" Gibbs looked no different than earlier, still stern and grey and - Gibbs. But now he let go of the bottle and Tony stared at it for a moment. Gibbs was slamming two glasses on the table beside it and letting a few ice cubes fall into them. And where the hell did he get those from? Gibbs poured some of the liquor into the tumblers, filling them. Almost up to the rim.
"We're at the office, boss. You want to get drunk at work?" With me?
"It's one o'clock, we're not working anymore. Now drink." He pushed one of the glasses over to Tony, who still looked unsure - of the situation, himself, the man standing across him. He lifted his eyes to watch Gibbs pull one of the other chairs close to the desk and sit down. His boss wasn't looking at him, he just took a sip from the clear liquid.
"You're not drinking, DiNozzo." His voice sounded oddly gentle.
Tony shrugged, a half-smile on his face, one he didn't mean and still couldn't repress - it was instinct, a learned response, the inability to smile for real - and lifted his own glass. He was still at work though, behind his desk, his computer on, displaying the file of an old clod case and the ugly pictures that came with it.
The first sip made him close his eyes, the strange yet alluring taste of the whiskey burning his mouth and the line of throat. He opened them again - the blood, the terror edged on the dead face of the once beautiful woman. He swallowed. Now the fire was in his stomach, the liquid were tears and the salt water a sea threatening to swallow him.
The monitor switched from the crime scene images to a black nothingness. "Hey!"
Gibbs just sat back in McGee's chair, looking inappropriately comfortable. Tony couldn't help but snort, the fake grin disappearing from his face, "yeah, right." And he took a larger sip, aware of Gibbs eyes on him.
And another one.
It was a fire that burned hotter than the pain and the love he lost. It didn't burn in letters or touches or memories, but in an all consuming way, embracing him in warmth and forgiveness.
They didn't speak anymore, but sat in relaxed silence, each floating in the haze of alcohol and peace. When Tony was almost finished, he let Gibbs fill the glass again and watched him while he refilled his own. His boss had demons of his own to fight - but sometimes it was easier to fight together. Even if they couldn't talk about it.
And when he met Gibbs' eyes, there was a smile in them. Not faked, not hidden nor tinted with irony or bitterness. It was just there. For him.
He didn't smile back, but Gibbs' smile still widened when he looked down again. As if he understood.
fin.
-
...tell me what you think, comments = ♥
now that i'm a bit more active on lj, i thought that i could post some of them - they're not exactly drabbles, but too tiny to be real fanfics as well. i have no idea if anyone's interested, *g* but maybe... mostly, i write these fic-fragmets when i'm just done watching an episode or something - they're almost always angsty & emotional
a little warning: these are all unbeta-ed & english is still not my mother language, so if you see something i absolutely need to correct, i'll be glad :) - & enjoy!
-
title. rocks
fandom. stargate sg-1, daniel
note. set some time after season 3
Rocks
Those weren't artifacts beneath his hands. His long fingers tracing the lines engraved in the reddish stone - those weren't letters, no words, sentences. Sure, someone had etched these small drawings into the hard stone, but perhaps it was never meant to be read. Personal. Undefined.
"These are just rocks."
His voice was soft, lost in the overstuffed lab, no one heard him. Although to him the words felt like glass, slitting open his paper-thin skin. As if that one sentence everyone had always told him, these words that had lain asleep in his mind for such a long time - now uttered out loud in the safety of his own lab - made him bleed; and finally made him see the shambles his life had become.
Just rocks.
He wished he could cry. Cry for something he only now realized he'd lost such a long time ago. When had he lost his meaning? His fire and his goal to find peace, love, understanding...
But he couldn't cry, because that's what he was like now. A man without tears for something as unsubstantial as this. Tears for a friend, for a loved one, for a bullet wound. Maybe. Tears for a line etched on a stone, an idea, a dream - none for that. None.
Maybe it was because there was no one there to remind him how to cry.
fin.
-
title. in memory
fandom. invisible man, darien
note. i always get the feeling that darien has changed very much since becoming the invisble man..
In Memory
He stared at his bloodshot eyes and wondered.
He couldn't tell the difference, couldn't tell if his eyes were red because of the vodka or because of the quicksilver saturating his blood. He hurt, his head throbbing - the pain in the back of it was making him think it was the quicksilver madness, but the way the room was spinning, tilting under his feet told him it was the alcohol.
He touched his face - the mirror felt cool under his fingers, his image solid. He traced his cheekbones, his nose, his lips, the eyes. He couldn’t feel the red under his fingers.
Are you sure the gland is undamaged - Yes, thank God.
Compassion.
Only one shot counteragent per mission - Accomplished.
Freedom.
The things he'd lived for. Maybe the reason he was still living for - the memory of loving who he was and knowing what being free meant.
fin.
-
title. unending
fandom. torchwood, jack/ianto
note. set after 213 - exit wounds
Unending
It was a song.
No words, but breathing and moaning and sometimes a word, in a language no one understood but him. It was the slide of skin over skin and the clashing of their lust and hunger and sorrow. Droplets of sweat, kissed away, licked, tasted and categorized. Tears. Lips over the pulse point, feeling the rhythm of life. Hands gliding over the sticky and hot body, reaching for love.
It was desperation and it was trust. The way their bodies fitted against each other, scared to break contact, maybe unable to; their fingers glued to the other man's skin.
It was a song consisting of the rustle of the blanket and the soft laughter that surfaced between suppressed anxiousness and sobs. The music was played with fingers on the keyboards of their souls, on the wrongly tuned strings of their lives.
The melody was fast and uneven and they couldn't sing along. It was changing too fast, directions and steps lost.
And Tosh.
And Owen. Maybe.
And one touch for the bloody writing on the floor, a kiss for the love of her last thought. Another one for the love they'd had for each other. A third one for the love, the joy, the relief to still have each other.
Jack.
A never ending love story, a never ending thought in a dark and starless night. And his lover. The one to touch him, to coax this melody from his thighs, his neck, his teeth - and melt into the pause between two heartbeats.
fin.
-
title. jack daniel's
fandom. ncis, tony & gibbs
note. set some time after bury your dead (501) / family (502)
Jack Daniel's
"Drink."
Jack Daniel's.
Okay, how did that bottle get into the office? And more precisely: Why did it stand on his desk? The hand wrapped around it belonged to his boss. Suspiciously, Tony looked up.
"What?" Gibbs looked no different than earlier, still stern and grey and - Gibbs. But now he let go of the bottle and Tony stared at it for a moment. Gibbs was slamming two glasses on the table beside it and letting a few ice cubes fall into them. And where the hell did he get those from? Gibbs poured some of the liquor into the tumblers, filling them. Almost up to the rim.
"We're at the office, boss. You want to get drunk at work?" With me?
"It's one o'clock, we're not working anymore. Now drink." He pushed one of the glasses over to Tony, who still looked unsure - of the situation, himself, the man standing across him. He lifted his eyes to watch Gibbs pull one of the other chairs close to the desk and sit down. His boss wasn't looking at him, he just took a sip from the clear liquid.
"You're not drinking, DiNozzo." His voice sounded oddly gentle.
Tony shrugged, a half-smile on his face, one he didn't mean and still couldn't repress - it was instinct, a learned response, the inability to smile for real - and lifted his own glass. He was still at work though, behind his desk, his computer on, displaying the file of an old clod case and the ugly pictures that came with it.
The first sip made him close his eyes, the strange yet alluring taste of the whiskey burning his mouth and the line of throat. He opened them again - the blood, the terror edged on the dead face of the once beautiful woman. He swallowed. Now the fire was in his stomach, the liquid were tears and the salt water a sea threatening to swallow him.
The monitor switched from the crime scene images to a black nothingness. "Hey!"
Gibbs just sat back in McGee's chair, looking inappropriately comfortable. Tony couldn't help but snort, the fake grin disappearing from his face, "yeah, right." And he took a larger sip, aware of Gibbs eyes on him.
And another one.
It was a fire that burned hotter than the pain and the love he lost. It didn't burn in letters or touches or memories, but in an all consuming way, embracing him in warmth and forgiveness.
They didn't speak anymore, but sat in relaxed silence, each floating in the haze of alcohol and peace. When Tony was almost finished, he let Gibbs fill the glass again and watched him while he refilled his own. His boss had demons of his own to fight - but sometimes it was easier to fight together. Even if they couldn't talk about it.
And when he met Gibbs' eyes, there was a smile in them. Not faked, not hidden nor tinted with irony or bitterness. It was just there. For him.
He didn't smile back, but Gibbs' smile still widened when he looked down again. As if he understood.
fin.
-
...tell me what you think, comments = ♥