Is it time for springkink yet?
Feb. 20th, 2007 01:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blue_soaringI have this nigh-uncontrollable urge to fling these ficlets-I-mean-drabbles at people. I mean, I'm down to three two left to write. Two. I'm going to go out on a limb and say they're not stellar, hours-and-hours put into them, but I've got time for that. What I don't have is a handy evil twin who has time to beta and cheer enthusiastically at me.
Would it be really so horrible if I snuck just one in a post? I mean, so really very horrible?
Instead, have two short ficlet-type things that are a) sadly un-porny, b) afflicted with a startling case of bad humour and c) stuck with titles that make me giggle like a two year old. If you happen to see glaring typos, please to be letting me know, as I can't beta my own work to save my life, and the aforementioned evil twin has the unfortunate audacity to be studiously planning her prosperous future instead of being ever-faithfully at my beck and call.
...see, see? I only like to think I'm funny.
Roy makes me abuse italics.
Beer Goggles
FF1. Red Mage/Black Mage. R. ~300 words. Because she sketched this out for me in record time.
Somewhere near the bottom of Red Mage's second cup of ale, this seemed like a fantastic idea.
*
"You hit me with some sort of muddling spell, didn't you?" B tries to roll away, knocking some dastardly-looking apparatus to the floor. Just what he'd be doing with that in bed, Red Mage is sure he doesn't want to know.
Somewhere near the bottom of Red Mage's second cup of ale, this seemed like a fantastic idea. Round about the fourth, he'd felt rather like he'd die if he didn't. B had seemed fairly amicable about the whole endeavour until he'd come to the apparently startling realisation that Red Mage's concept of sport had very little in common with his.
"B, really, you did say yes," Red Mage says, the tiniest, deliberate hint of something darker in his voice, as he pins B's wrist to the pillow. "You're not going to tell me your word's not worth half a copper gil, are you?"
"Absolutely worthless," B agrees. His hat's been lost somewhere between the table and the bed, his hair no longer whip-straight but tousled, black and fine, spread across the rough-weave sheets. Even on skin so dark as his, there's colour high in his cheeks, and his eyes beneath the soft glow are fetchingly dazed. "You're a liar and a cheat, which normally you'd think would be something I'd respect, but-"
B's words turn into meaningless noise, his mouth still open but speech moderately impossible with Red Mage's tongue in the way. He starts to kiss back before realising it, stopping abruptly.
"Are you saying you've a measure of respect for me, then?" Red Mage asks, his lips wet and tingling, warmed by B's breath.
"I promise I won't in the morning," B says.
*
End
One of Those Days
FMA. Roy/Hughes/Gracia. R. ~550 words.
Perhaps Wednesdays could be salvaged after all.
*
The old hinges of Roy's chair creak as he leans back. "And then you'll-"
The answer-phone's (a clumsy, nearly-useless device only Hughes would take the time to painstakingly assemble) perpetual static clicks off, and Roy thinks something to the tune of: oh shit, now he's going to have to make good on that promise, and he should have thought of that before he let his cock run away with him, in the second or so before Gracia's voice spills warm and golden into his ear.
"Roy," she says, affectionately, and if he wasn't already standing at full attention, that alone would do it, "Maes was called in to relieve the morning shift," which snaps Roy to a different sort of attention.
Hughes hadn't replied to his last message, a very Hughes-like thing to do when he's trying to 'get a little something more' out of Roy. If it'd been any other day, Roy wouldn't have taken the bait. If it'd been, say, Thursday instead of Wednesday, he would've been able to wait, which in turn would've driven Hughes crazy instead.
But, as his boring calendar so happily declares, it is Wednesday, and his hand is currently stuffed down his pants, and he'd be a little bit ashamed of himself if, just maybe, he weren't so fucking hard.
Roy makes the appropriate 'I'm listening' noise Hughes taught him. He doesn't think Gracia buys it despite Hughes's extreme confidence, but he makes it just the same.
"And," Gracia goes on, "I'm afraid the PTA is lunching at our house today."
Roy yanks his hand free. "Gracia-"
She laughs (her wife's laugh, Roy likes to think, because it's a boggling mix of soothing and seductive no unmarried woman he's ever been with - or any woman, for that matter - could possibly dream of producing), and he seriously considers putting his hand right back where it belongs.
"I'm sure we'll be finished by two at the latest," she says. "Call back and tell me what Maes is going to owe you then."
Muffled through the wires, the Hughes's front doorbell chimes. "I'd really like to know," she adds, sounding young and breathless for a moment, like the first time she kissed him.
There's a slight pause, expectant silence, and Roy regresses to a fumbling, blushing teenager long enough to trip over the two syllables in, "Okay." He clears his throat to add something a smidgen less asinine but manages only a peep of sound as Gracia echoes him and the line goes dead.
Roy's chair squeaks back at him as he leans forward to drop the receiver onto the cradle. Perhaps Wednesdays could be salvaged after all. They do have some merit, occurring in the very middle of the week as they do. The glass could be half full.
The beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips, Roy pulls out his pocket watch. His secretary - bright girl, cheerful, not bubbly - knocks lightly on the door frame, automatically echoing his smile as she brings in a not-really-too-tall stack of papers.
"Sir. These are the newest...."
Roy stares at his watch, her boring drone suddenly sliding in one ear and straight out the other.
What - what, he'd like to know - could the PTA possibly have to discuss that would warrant a three hour luncheon on a blasted Wednesday morning?
*
End
Would it be really so horrible if I snuck just one in a post? I mean, so really very horrible?
Instead, have two short ficlet-type things that are a) sadly un-porny, b) afflicted with a startling case of bad humour and c) stuck with titles that make me giggle like a two year old. If you happen to see glaring typos, please to be letting me know, as I can't beta my own work to save my life, and the aforementioned evil twin has the unfortunate audacity to be studiously planning her prosperous future instead of being ever-faithfully at my beck and call.
...see, see? I only like to think I'm funny.
Roy makes me abuse italics.
Beer Goggles
FF1. Red Mage/Black Mage. R. ~300 words. Because she sketched this out for me in record time.
Somewhere near the bottom of Red Mage's second cup of ale, this seemed like a fantastic idea.
"You hit me with some sort of muddling spell, didn't you?" B tries to roll away, knocking some dastardly-looking apparatus to the floor. Just what he'd be doing with that in bed, Red Mage is sure he doesn't want to know.
Somewhere near the bottom of Red Mage's second cup of ale, this seemed like a fantastic idea. Round about the fourth, he'd felt rather like he'd die if he didn't. B had seemed fairly amicable about the whole endeavour until he'd come to the apparently startling realisation that Red Mage's concept of sport had very little in common with his.
"B, really, you did say yes," Red Mage says, the tiniest, deliberate hint of something darker in his voice, as he pins B's wrist to the pillow. "You're not going to tell me your word's not worth half a copper gil, are you?"
"Absolutely worthless," B agrees. His hat's been lost somewhere between the table and the bed, his hair no longer whip-straight but tousled, black and fine, spread across the rough-weave sheets. Even on skin so dark as his, there's colour high in his cheeks, and his eyes beneath the soft glow are fetchingly dazed. "You're a liar and a cheat, which normally you'd think would be something I'd respect, but-"
B's words turn into meaningless noise, his mouth still open but speech moderately impossible with Red Mage's tongue in the way. He starts to kiss back before realising it, stopping abruptly.
"Are you saying you've a measure of respect for me, then?" Red Mage asks, his lips wet and tingling, warmed by B's breath.
"I promise I won't in the morning," B says.
End
One of Those Days
FMA. Roy/Hughes/Gracia. R. ~550 words.
Perhaps Wednesdays could be salvaged after all.
The old hinges of Roy's chair creak as he leans back. "And then you'll-"
The answer-phone's (a clumsy, nearly-useless device only Hughes would take the time to painstakingly assemble) perpetual static clicks off, and Roy thinks something to the tune of: oh shit, now he's going to have to make good on that promise, and he should have thought of that before he let his cock run away with him, in the second or so before Gracia's voice spills warm and golden into his ear.
"Roy," she says, affectionately, and if he wasn't already standing at full attention, that alone would do it, "Maes was called in to relieve the morning shift," which snaps Roy to a different sort of attention.
Hughes hadn't replied to his last message, a very Hughes-like thing to do when he's trying to 'get a little something more' out of Roy. If it'd been any other day, Roy wouldn't have taken the bait. If it'd been, say, Thursday instead of Wednesday, he would've been able to wait, which in turn would've driven Hughes crazy instead.
But, as his boring calendar so happily declares, it is Wednesday, and his hand is currently stuffed down his pants, and he'd be a little bit ashamed of himself if, just maybe, he weren't so fucking hard.
Roy makes the appropriate 'I'm listening' noise Hughes taught him. He doesn't think Gracia buys it despite Hughes's extreme confidence, but he makes it just the same.
"And," Gracia goes on, "I'm afraid the PTA is lunching at our house today."
Roy yanks his hand free. "Gracia-"
She laughs (her wife's laugh, Roy likes to think, because it's a boggling mix of soothing and seductive no unmarried woman he's ever been with - or any woman, for that matter - could possibly dream of producing), and he seriously considers putting his hand right back where it belongs.
"I'm sure we'll be finished by two at the latest," she says. "Call back and tell me what Maes is going to owe you then."
Muffled through the wires, the Hughes's front doorbell chimes. "I'd really like to know," she adds, sounding young and breathless for a moment, like the first time she kissed him.
There's a slight pause, expectant silence, and Roy regresses to a fumbling, blushing teenager long enough to trip over the two syllables in, "Okay." He clears his throat to add something a smidgen less asinine but manages only a peep of sound as Gracia echoes him and the line goes dead.
Roy's chair squeaks back at him as he leans forward to drop the receiver onto the cradle. Perhaps Wednesdays could be salvaged after all. They do have some merit, occurring in the very middle of the week as they do. The glass could be half full.
The beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips, Roy pulls out his pocket watch. His secretary - bright girl, cheerful, not bubbly - knocks lightly on the door frame, automatically echoing his smile as she brings in a not-really-too-tall stack of papers.
"Sir. These are the newest...."
Roy stares at his watch, her boring drone suddenly sliding in one ear and straight out the other.
What - what, he'd like to know - could the PTA possibly have to discuss that would warrant a three hour luncheon on a blasted Wednesday morning?
End
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Date: 2007-02-21 03:05 am (UTC)>->
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I've never been able to work this style of journal layout...