Drabbles: Coldfire (G to soft R, slash)
Apr. 2nd, 2006 07:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
winterI should have known better than to offer drabbles to a fic-starved fandom with so many plotbunniers on my f-list, really :) In order of appearance, for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
alighiera, alice_montrose, fuumasfrog and trobadora.
WORKAROUNDS
Ever since Mount Shaitan, Gerald had been learning to appreciate the simple pleasures in life. For example, at the moment he was lying sprawled across Damien’s broad chest, idly toying with the ex-priest’s shirt and watching the dazed look in Damien’s eyes. Even the cramped quarters only meant that he had an excuse to climb just that close, and Damien had to put an arm around his waist.
Presently, Damien blinked, his eyes turning clearer. “Are we on a ship-“
Gerald leaned in and kissed Damien again until the other man’s eyes were glazed over once more, the guarded question turning into a drawn-out moan before it could be fully phrased.
If he had known getting Damien to enjoy ship travel would be that easy, he would have tried this method ages ago.
-FIN-
SO THE WORLD WILL NEVER FIND YOU
Damien sighed as he pushed through the crowd, taking another drink from a flask of liquor someone had pressed into his hand. At least in the black mask and cloak, even if he did make a fool of himself at the Jaggonath carnival, no-one would be able to tell him apart from every other guy dressed up as a vampire. And a few real vampires, he had no doubt.
He wondered what Gerald would wear. The adept had been reticent about his plans, only setting the meeting place on the outskirts of the city-
Near Karril’s temple, he realised as a woman flung herself into his arms. She was wearing a version of a First Landing uniform, though he was sure the real colonists never had ones that tight.
She kissed him on the mouth. “Praise Karril,” she whispered. “A man is waiting for you, two alleys down. An... urgent matter.”
She laughed shrilly, and as she flung her neck back he saw the imprint of teeth. Not quite Gerald’s type, he thought, too strong, but then he wasn’t Gerald’s usual type either.
He stumbled through the throng of people, found the alley, leaned against a door that opened to rapidly for him to do anything but fall through it to the floor.
A chapel of the Church, he realised as he looked around blearily. Closed down temporarily, with a pagan festival roaring through the streets. Yet there were candles burning, and a fresh cloth on the altar.
Something – someone – moving, and he raised his head as he struggled to his feet.
Layers of silk obscuring limbs and body, so that he could no longer recall their past or present look. A broad collar of beaten gold with a pattern of flames. Dark hair instead of light brown, but oh, never mistaken, and now he remembered too clearly.
“I remember you felt particularly strongly about that dream.” Even the old mocking cadences were back in Tarrant’s voice. “You will enjoy this better than you would have the masquerade.”
Strong hands pushed Damien against the altar before he could think of fear, revulsion, desire, sacrilege.
“Don’t worry,” the man who had been the Hunter whispered in his ear as clothes were quickly, deftly pushed aside. “I won’t let you think.”
-FIN-
PETTY ANNOYANCES
Damien moved his wrists experimentally. The cuffs were far snugger than it should be possible for something lined with fur.
“Gerald, this is vulking ridiculous,” he muttered.
The former Hunter shook his head as he surveyed his handiwork. “You have a habit of tearing buttons off my shirts. I’m running out of outfits, and the shops here are not up to my standards. Therefore, you’ll be chained until I undress myself.”
“Only until then?” Damien asked hopefully.
Gerald’s smile was sweetness itself as he ran a hand down Damien’s bare chest. “Perhaps a few minutes longer than that.”
-FIN-
PROOF OF FAITH
The bracelet was tarnished silver, a streak of near-black on the red velvet lining the box set on the street stall. Gerald’s fingers closed in on it without hesitation. Damien raised his eyebrows, but remained silent as Gerald ruthlessly argued down the price.
He got his answer when they left the street fair and Gerald tenderly wiped the grime and tarnish off a fragile piece of glass. Underneath it was the face of a clock, too small to ever house the appropriate mechanism.
“A watch used to be an important theological analogy, Vryce. As the watch with its complexity proves the existence of a watchmaker, so the world proves the existence of its creator.”
Under Gerald’s touch, a tiny screw turned without resistance.
Tick.
-FIN-
alighiera, alice_montrose, fuumasfrog and trobadora.WORKAROUNDS
Ever since Mount Shaitan, Gerald had been learning to appreciate the simple pleasures in life. For example, at the moment he was lying sprawled across Damien’s broad chest, idly toying with the ex-priest’s shirt and watching the dazed look in Damien’s eyes. Even the cramped quarters only meant that he had an excuse to climb just that close, and Damien had to put an arm around his waist.
Presently, Damien blinked, his eyes turning clearer. “Are we on a ship-“
Gerald leaned in and kissed Damien again until the other man’s eyes were glazed over once more, the guarded question turning into a drawn-out moan before it could be fully phrased.
If he had known getting Damien to enjoy ship travel would be that easy, he would have tried this method ages ago.
-FIN-
SO THE WORLD WILL NEVER FIND YOU
Damien sighed as he pushed through the crowd, taking another drink from a flask of liquor someone had pressed into his hand. At least in the black mask and cloak, even if he did make a fool of himself at the Jaggonath carnival, no-one would be able to tell him apart from every other guy dressed up as a vampire. And a few real vampires, he had no doubt.
He wondered what Gerald would wear. The adept had been reticent about his plans, only setting the meeting place on the outskirts of the city-
Near Karril’s temple, he realised as a woman flung herself into his arms. She was wearing a version of a First Landing uniform, though he was sure the real colonists never had ones that tight.
She kissed him on the mouth. “Praise Karril,” she whispered. “A man is waiting for you, two alleys down. An... urgent matter.”
She laughed shrilly, and as she flung her neck back he saw the imprint of teeth. Not quite Gerald’s type, he thought, too strong, but then he wasn’t Gerald’s usual type either.
He stumbled through the throng of people, found the alley, leaned against a door that opened to rapidly for him to do anything but fall through it to the floor.
A chapel of the Church, he realised as he looked around blearily. Closed down temporarily, with a pagan festival roaring through the streets. Yet there were candles burning, and a fresh cloth on the altar.
Something – someone – moving, and he raised his head as he struggled to his feet.
Layers of silk obscuring limbs and body, so that he could no longer recall their past or present look. A broad collar of beaten gold with a pattern of flames. Dark hair instead of light brown, but oh, never mistaken, and now he remembered too clearly.
“I remember you felt particularly strongly about that dream.” Even the old mocking cadences were back in Tarrant’s voice. “You will enjoy this better than you would have the masquerade.”
Strong hands pushed Damien against the altar before he could think of fear, revulsion, desire, sacrilege.
“Don’t worry,” the man who had been the Hunter whispered in his ear as clothes were quickly, deftly pushed aside. “I won’t let you think.”
-FIN-
PETTY ANNOYANCES
Damien moved his wrists experimentally. The cuffs were far snugger than it should be possible for something lined with fur.
“Gerald, this is vulking ridiculous,” he muttered.
The former Hunter shook his head as he surveyed his handiwork. “You have a habit of tearing buttons off my shirts. I’m running out of outfits, and the shops here are not up to my standards. Therefore, you’ll be chained until I undress myself.”
“Only until then?” Damien asked hopefully.
Gerald’s smile was sweetness itself as he ran a hand down Damien’s bare chest. “Perhaps a few minutes longer than that.”
-FIN-
PROOF OF FAITH
The bracelet was tarnished silver, a streak of near-black on the red velvet lining the box set on the street stall. Gerald’s fingers closed in on it without hesitation. Damien raised his eyebrows, but remained silent as Gerald ruthlessly argued down the price.
He got his answer when they left the street fair and Gerald tenderly wiped the grime and tarnish off a fragile piece of glass. Underneath it was the face of a clock, too small to ever house the appropriate mechanism.
“A watch used to be an important theological analogy, Vryce. As the watch with its complexity proves the existence of a watchmaker, so the world proves the existence of its creator.”
Under Gerald’s touch, a tiny screw turned without resistance.
Tick.
-FIN-
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Re: P.S.
Date: 2006-04-04 01:06 pm (UTC)Re: P.S.
Date: 2006-04-04 01:07 pm (UTC)Re: P.S.
Date: 2006-04-04 01:10 pm (UTC)And this from wikipedia could toss up some interesting French poems about body parts: Other genres include the paradoxical encomium (such as Remy Belleau's poem prasing the oyster), the “blason” of the female body (a poetic desciption of a body part), and propagandistic verse.
Re: P.S.
Date: 2006-04-04 01:11 pm (UTC)Re: P.S.
Date: 2006-04-04 01:13 pm (UTC)Re: P.S.
Date: 2006-04-04 01:14 pm (UTC)William blinked at him and only just managed to catch the book that was slipping from his grip.
Closing his book, Herbert rested his chin on the hand of the arm draped on the back of the chaise, his grey eyes resting on William’s face. “You recognise Rimbaud?” he murmured, his intonation and accent perfection.
“I-I-I’ve heard of him,” William felt like his tongue was a rock in his mouth, his every word feeling so clumsy after the perfect purr that was Herbert’s voice, his school-room French not his strongest suit. “I-I’m afraid I didn’t have access to any of his work.”
“Oh, have no fear,” Herbert’s lips curled warmly. “Father has everything.” He tilted his head slightly. “And I see that you have discovered the Byron collection.” His eyes closed with a sigh that sounded out of place anywhere but the bedchamber and William felt his cheeks flame at that thought. “Ah, he is exquisite.”
Re: P.S.
Date: 2006-04-04 01:17 pm (UTC)BTW, I did mention that in my Tanz/POTO thingie Herbert will be out of the way for the first few days because of a whirlwind affair with a certain French decadent named Arthur? And I had that one outlined ages ago :>
Re: P.S.
Date: 2006-04-04 01:18 pm (UTC)Re: P.S.
Date: 2006-04-04 01:23 pm (UTC)Re: P.S.
Date: 2006-04-04 01:24 pm (UTC)Alas, for now, I must be off. Methinks I shall retreat to Coldfire #2, as I finished #1 again today and really need to shut my Damien up.
Re: P.S.
Date: 2006-04-04 01:25 pm (UTC)Re: P.S.
Date: 2006-04-04 01:28 pm (UTC)“Y-you’ve read him?”
“Alas,” Herbert shook his head with a sigh. “I cannot understand English, but my father has translated his words for me.” He looked as if he was listening to a beautiful music that only he could hear. “Such beautifully phrased meaning.”
William couldn’t help but stare at someone - another vampire, no less - who found poetry as pleasing as he did. He was clinging to the heavy book, a sense of reason in a world that suddenly seemed quite extraordinary.
Abruptly, grey eyes opened, looking up at him. “Will you read for me?”
Herbert asked eagerly, motioning for William to join him. “I have longed to hear the language of Byron in the tongue of a native of his land.”
“But... but you said yourself that you don’t understand it,” William mumbled, shying back and clutching the book against his chest.
“Pah!” Herbert patted the chaise again, beaming. “It is all a matter of expression and emotion, cheri.” His lips curled warmly. “Come, now, you do not wish to upset the son of your most generous host, do you?”
William bit his lip. Surely, sitting next to the Graf’s son was harmless, even if the golden-haired vampire did seem rather overly-friendly. Edging around the chaise, he gingerly sat down on the edge.
Grey eyes gazed at him, wounded. “Am I so terrifying?” he asked mournfully, the hurt in his eyes so heartfelt and woeful that William physically winced. Herbert patted the middle of the chaise. “Come, William. Let me read with you.”
He looked so utterly charming and genuinely interested that William wondered why he had hesitated at all and shuffled along sheepishly until there was less than a hand-span’s space between them.
Re: P.S.
Date: 2006-04-04 01:41 pm (UTC)BTW, I've found the anti-wonkiness meds, so I'll try to have something ready for you by tomorrow morning. Can't promise what it will be, but I've a feeling it'll have vampires in it ;)
Yay plagiarism!
Date: 2006-04-04 03:10 pm (UTC)ON A WINTER NIGHT
If life were fair, the winter stars would be weeping with him in sympathy. His life being what it was, the buggers just twinkled.
Spike curled his arms tighter around himself as he hunched over the railing of the terrace. In an act of defiance, he had thrown on one of his oldest t-shirts and the leather coat, but with each gust of wind and snow thrown his way by the Romanian winter, he found himself wishing for one of Herbert’s soft cashmere jumpers. Not that he needed them. But it’d be nice.
Just as it’d be nice for the wanker himself to show his face around, today of all days, he thought. He held on to the shard of anger, trusting it to tide him over the bout of existential melancholy. Stars weeping, indeed; he was worse than sodding Angel.
He’d left the terrace door open, and now he heard two sets of footsteps and a faint voice. “-came out here as soon as it turned dark. He won’t tell me what it’s all about. I told him I’d kick his ass, but he just kinda slumped and brooded at me more, so fresh out of options here.”
Nibblet, bless her heart, and she’d probably dragged the boss down to check up on him. Spike realised he didn’t mind that thought much. Hell, if he pretended this was another attack of post-LA angst, he might even get a pity fuck out of it. Would be nice.
Then slim, strong fingers were lifting his chin, and he knew even before he saw grey eyes instead of dark.
“William, cheri?” Dawn had to have ambushed Herbert straight in the garage, since the older vampire was still wearing driving gloves. “I leave for barely a day, and you choose that moment to brood this way?”
Spike grunted and turned his face away. Or tried to, since Herbert was holding his jaw firmly.
“William, I can’t help if I don’t know what it’s about.”
He just hated it when Herbert got on with that reasonable tone. “Yes, you do.” And then, because telling Herbie the truth had become habit, “‘s not that important, so I guess you forgot.”
Herbert stared at him for a moment with unseeing eyes. Spike sighed. It didn’t matter anyway. He was a stupid sod for expecting anyone but himself to remember, or care.
Then he yelped as he was backwards over the railing and firmly kissed.
“What time is it?” Herbert demanded briskly as he set the younger vampire back on his feet.
Spike swallowed, then remembered there were other uses for his mouth. “Eleven, I think. Heard the clock strike a while ago.”
“Then we still have time.” Herbert ran his hand down Spike’s chest, giving the coat a disdainful look. “You, darling, will go to my room and change to something warmer. I shall get supplies and let Father know. We’ll meet in the garage in ten minutes.”
Spike gaped. “Where are we going?”
“There’s a church in the village, desecrated by those awful Socialist brutes.” Herbert smiled wickedly. “I thought we’d have a picnic.”
Shrugging, Spike decided that Herbert had had worse plans to cheer him up. He let himself be steered from the terrace back to the library, then stopped when he realised Herbert’s hand was no longer at the small of his back.
The golden-haired vampire twirled on his heel and all but lunged at the poetry section, removing two volumes from various shelves. Both books were tossed to Spike, who caught them and looked at them with disbelief.
Rimbaud’s Illuminations and a volume of Byron that was all too familiar.
“You remembered!”
With the familiar dizzying speed, Herbert was in front of Spike again, his lips smiling but his eyes uncharacteristically serious. “You have my promise, William: I shall not forget again.”
Re: Yay plagiarism!
Date: 2006-04-05 01:52 am (UTC)Re: Yay plagiarism!
Date: 2006-04-05 01:57 am (UTC)Re: Yay plagiarism!
Date: 2006-04-05 01:59 am (UTC)Re: Yay plagiarism!
Date: 2006-04-05 02:00 am (UTC)(And now, vamp pr0n in return? :>)
Re: Yay plagiarism!
Date: 2006-04-05 02:02 am (UTC)Re: Yay plagiarism!
Date: 2006-04-05 02:03 am (UTC)Re: Yay plagiarism!
Date: 2006-04-05 02:10 am (UTC)Re: Yay plagiarism!
Date: 2006-04-05 02:11 am (UTC)Re: Yay plagiarism!
Date: 2006-04-05 02:13 am (UTC)Re: Yay plagiarism!
Date: 2006-04-05 02:14 am (UTC)Re: Yay plagiarism!
Date: 2006-04-05 02:16 am (UTC)Re: Yay plagiarism!
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From:Re: Yay plagiarism!
From: