let's see how well this works

[fahye]

Plan for the evening: get pissed and write porn.

You can tell I've just about given up on filtering my self-image, can't you? The day my parents find this journal will be an amusing one. Hi, Mum.

Tra la.

If you're around, leave a comment with a prompt and I may comment back a Riesling-infused drabble.

ETA: I am RIDICULOUSLY drunk and the comments currently contain drabbles for: Battlestar Galactica, Brokeback Mountain, Good Omens, Arthurian, Milliways, original.

ETA 2: That's all for now, folks. But I enjoyed that more than I can say, and will definitely be repeating this game some time soon.

Comments

[varadia]

Um, either drunken post-card-game pilotsex, or Xas and Lucifer.

[schiarire.livejournal.com]

Also, Lucifer/Thom, with angry on at least one side.

Actually, just Lucifer porn in general. He lends himself to porn. Like John the Baptist. Ooooh Caravaggio. Hotter than is fair or legal.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

John the Baptist WHAT

Thom is not talking to me :( You get Hob instead, because I am just maudlin enough for that.

~

Everything about them depends on Lucifer's moods. It's the only way it'll work; the only way he feels safe enough to continue, though of course he never says that out loud. He knows that Hob suspects something along those lines, because sometimes he'll look up or to the side and catch the immortal looking at him with that tragic, fatalistic knowledge and the depth in those burning dark eyes is

is

(he frowns and creates another bruise on the pale arm)

familiar.

Good night.

Good luck.

Good mood.

They throw hazelnuts and complex literary refences and insults back and forth, though the teasing never gains the sharp aluminium edge that Billy's does. Too much wonder, too much reverence. Lucifer feels like a stained glass window and itches to shatter something. His smile gets more and more beautiful, and they drink Atlantean and Hob's eyes glaze over and his tongue starts to slip into the old, old language, talking of love and of heofonum and Lucifer laughs, because heaven is so very far away.

Hob knows his moods, and so makes the first move.

Lucifer holds him close (and his enemies closer?) and feels the blood that streams under the skin and wonders that a heart can be broken and go on pumping so long. That is, of course, the appeal. Hob sleeps, the tragedy shuttered. Lucifer will be there when he wakes up; until then, he sits on the floor and watches the slow burn of one of Billy's cigarettes and lets the Lady's words echo through his head.

[schiarire.livejournal.com]

Your porn is totally pornless. Hehehe.

Hob and Lucifer is beautiful, as always. I wish I had a better word. There's something very classical about it.

I really like the dynamic that they have. Also Billy and the Lady etc. It's so quietly heavy with . . . something.

Thank you. :)

In order to clarify:

http://www.wga.hu/art/c/caravagg/07/40baptis.jpg

http://www.wga.hu/art/c/caravagg/07/41baptis.jpg

And more!

[fahye.livejournal.com]

Sorry. Tried. Porn didn't want to happen.

I don't want to know what that relationship did to my psyche, but it's burned there for better or worse.

Write me them in return?

[fahye.livejournal.com]

Sex in a drabble. Well then. *cracks knuckles* I am writing this from start to finish and not editing, so, uh, forgive any glaring errors.

~

It starts off as triad, but when Gaeta wins all the alcohol he donates it to the table - to whistling, laughing applause - as the first step in an entirely different game. Bottles start appearing from all sorts of places. Cally begs something lethally transparent off the Chief. Kara tucks her stogie into the corner of her mouth and smirks at Lee across the table as he shuffles the cards and explains the rules of something ridiculously complex involving shots and swigs and forfeits.

Three rounds in, none of them can remember the rules. They make up some new ones. No one can remember those either. Dee tries to accuse Kara of cheating, but collapses in a giggling heap on the table halfway through and Gaeta rolls his eyes good-naturedly as he carries her away.

Kara laughs and kicks Lee under the table, hard. His eyes widen, but never leave her face.

We're going to get in so much trouble, her smile says. It's a test.

I'm going to blame you, his says in return.

She laughs louder.

And when it's just them and the final bottle of something stupidly sweet and lurid, she sits on the table in front of him and rests her feet on his thighs and they pass the bottle back and forth. Whoever isn't drinking tells a story. A shared experience. Sharing is important. Kara's mother told her that, once upon a time.

Lee frowns when that shadow passes across her face, and as he passes her the bottle his other hand lies across hers, gentle and worried. She smiles. She shrugs. She takes a sip. And then she leans down and pours her thanks into his mouth with the alcohol, his taste blurred and sweet, his lips soft but his grip suddenly tight and demanding at her wrist.

She's not sure when she slides from the table and settles in his lap; she's not sure whose tanks come off first, she's not sure when she stumbled over to the hatch to jam it with the empty bottle, and she's not sure if time stands still and hangs there in the drunken silence filled by whispers and the scratching sound of Lee's chair on the floor.

But she's sure of him. His hands at her waist and his mouth that won't let hers go and his warmth spreading through her upwards and inwards until she's gasping and his voice, blessedly familiar, talking her down until she's resting her head on his shoulder and shivering.

She listens to their harsh breathing, gradually slowing, and tries to live intensely, desperately, in the moment. All of this, she knows, will blur in the morning. She takes what she can.

In actual fact, what she remembers is: his voice. The taste of that first kiss, sugared liquid spilling between their lips. And the way he grasps her hand, tightly, briefly, just before he lets her go.

[vaudevilles.livejournal.com]

DABIMFLKb >itN M Mc!

wub.

GET DRUNK MORE OFTEN!!!!

(this is really hot and good btw)

[varadia]

*stares*

Damn. Just. Damn.

I can't even. um. Damn.

*stares more* So awesome. Yes.

[tammaiya.livejournal.com]

I'm writing porn tonight too! But unfortunately not drunk. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard if I were. *strangles the stupid scene*

Prompt, the title of the song I'm listening to: "Take your pride and swallow." Take that as dirtily as you will. >D

[fahye.livejournal.com]

I would write pilots, but you are yet to be inducted into the joys. Hmm. Inspired by your icon, then.

~

You claim to find her sheets ridiculous; tiny pink flowers on a blue background. Girlish and garish. Maybe both. But they're soft, and familiar, and whilst she sleeps you pull strands of blonde hair between your fingers and make patterns around and between those silly flowers. Everything smells like the lemon and lavender of her shampoo, rushing to your head and hitting some button that can tease the corners of your mouth up into a smile. You bury your face in her neck and breathe.

She surpises you with flowers after work. Everything is flowers, with her. She shoves your favourite red cocktail dress into your hands and giggles whilst you get changed. You go to a restaurant and hold hands across the table and laugh about the fact that the elderly couple sitting near the kitchen are resolutely looking the other way. On any other day it wouldn't be funny, but the saxophone part of the jazz quartet sliding through the invisible speakers has gotten under your skin: smooth, glorious, and you can't take offense.

She orders tiramisu. You order strawberry cheesecake. You laugh because it's the same pink as her lipstick.

And fifteen minutes later you press her against a wall that's dirty-damp and kiss her until that lipstick is smudged and raw and she is less floral, less perfect, less composed. Perfection in her fingernails, sliding along the vein of your forearm. You listen for music and hear only traffic; you breathe in her scent and it's wine and chocolate and no flowers at all.

[tammaiya.livejournal.com]

♥ Pretty girl-love! Yay!

[miscellanny.livejournal.com]

Anything A/C. I am predictable and demanding.

Added Lucifer a bonus.

Er. Not in the threeso-

Whatever you want, actually. XD

[fahye.livejournal.com]

- Well?

- Go away.

And Aziraphael wishes he knew how to give commands, because there's nothing in his tone that can budge someone as determined as the Prince of Lies. For a single brilliant insane moment he wonders if it's too late to sign up for officer training, and then he remembers that the War is over and the laughing dark demon in front of him lost. Lost. Sometimes it's hard to remember that, with the laughing confidence in Lucifer's face and the resolute pride in his bearing. It's hard to imagine him losing anything.

He also remembers the weight of the sword in his hand and how good it felt to pass it off to Adam.

Not -

not his Adam. The first Adam.

That possessive quantifier is a worry, but he's past caring.

- I like this table.

Lucifer laughs, and Aziraphael is glad because Crowley's laugh is not that perfect. That laugh crawls up his spine and shudders its way into his stomach but it is not Crowley's laugh.

- Enjoy, he says, with more force than he'd intended, and he stands up and walks out of the door before the violence that always dances around Lucifer's smile can remind him of a time when he lifted that sword in obedience and horror. There was blood along the edge, once. There was blood on his hands.

Once.

It takes four cups of chamomile tea to stop the shaking. Crowley walks in and says something very rude about London traffic and the breath stops in Aziraphael's throat, because he has to say something but the words aren't comng. He is so used to words. He is intimately connected to the glue that binds them together and the mechanisms that put them on a page of carbon fibres and the leather that encloses them. The lack of words is terrifying.

Crowley takes off his sunglasses and runs his tongue over his lower lip and looks at the angel for a long moment.

Then he smiles, and says nothing.

No words.

Sometimes that's the only way to survive.

[miscellanny.livejournal.com]

*wordlessly shaking head*

Oh, man, Frar.

I wish I was better at this feedback malarkey. Know this: You amaze me and awe me, and I am so happy that I know you.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

I am so, so drunk and so cannot respond to this with the requisite amount of love, but: thank you.

Ask for something else! I am having so much fun! And making a million and one typos, but oh well!

[miscellanny.livejournal.com]

Billy. Anything Billy.

[darthrami.livejournal.com]

I was told to haul my ass over here and get you to write drunken ficlets. Therefore I demand Milliways Adam and Alanna, with Lucifer thrown in there somewhere.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

Hee. I am having way too much fun tonight. Also, a caveat: I am so far from being up to date with Millicanon it's kind of stupid.

~

What lies unspoken (or spoken of too frequently and too casually, which amounts to the same thing) between them is the fact that Milliways is not a place that either of them has ever called home. Sometimes Adam lies awake and wonders if he is, after all, dreaming her. He runs his hands through her hair and counts her freckles to see if there are more than he remembers. Surely if this was all happening inside his wistful, love-starved head, reality would be more fluid.

But then: he is what he is.

And there's a voice that whispers: your reality has always been fluid, if you wish it to be so.

It's a worry. Almost an itch. He wants to talk about it with someone, but Aziraphael has been here since the beginning and has found love and friends and a cornerstone of existence between the myriad walls in the myriad dimensions that such a place can be said to occupy. So. No.

And so it is that he comes to be scowling into a mug of cider and resolutely ignoring Lucifer's idle barbs. Family has come to mean more to him than he'd ever have suspected. Elaine seeks him out sometimes, but more often she seeks out his father. That hurts, a little. Lucifer can be seen smiling at her and talking in a manner that almost implies he cares what she thinks, lends weight to her words. He smiles at her. He smiles in a similar manner at River Tam, at Meg, at Morgan.

Lilly's a different story, but Lilly is a million and one stories.

Adam takes a deep breath and begins the walls of this place seem so thin sometimes and waits for the apathy to come.

But Lucifer swirls his wine in his glass and looks over at where Xas is laughing and gesturing, trying to explain something to Raguel, and there is nothing condescending in the way he looks at his son.

Width and breath, he says, are mostly in your head.

Adam clenches his fingers around his glass until they are white, thinks of Alanna's sleepy morning-smile, and allows himself to hope.

[darthrami.livejournal.com]

Even more love. *flaily*

How you manage to do this while drunk, I'm not really sure, but that's fantastic.

...and somebody should read it on a phone post for that CD for Heather. *decides*

[fahye.livejournal.com]

I am making so many typos. Awful. I will look back on this and wince.

[darthrami.livejournal.com]

But I knew what you meant! and we are, of course, taking into account the whole "drunk" thing. There's almost nobody who doesn't make typos when drunk. So there.

Lovely.

Do you want anything in return?


Also, tell Ji I am not lying to her.

[ashen_key]

Mordred/Galahad. PLEASE.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

Meg says one day, you're like a pair of pendulums. Mordred gives her his slanting smirk and laughs, dark and low: you'll have to be a little more specific, la Oracle.

It doesn't take long for him to get the gist. Up and down. Meeting in the middle, but only at their lowest points. It's a relationship of gravity and strings and solemn ticking regret that shouldn't work, but does. Even when they were alive, it shouldn't have worked. Mordred knew that when he began it. The very first day he threw out a hand to stop Galahad du Lac from walking past him in the corridor. The very first time he stepped a little too close and demanded the respect due him as heir to the throne. The very first time he looked up from the dusted ground, up and up the slim silver length of a sword, up into Galahad's serene flushed face as the world's best knight bested his prince on the practice fields.

There was a short lifetime's heavy weight of cynicism against them, on one side, and a crucifix's authority against them on the other. Galahad's crushing faith. The way his breath ran short at the slow cruel brush of Mordred's hand along his cheeck, as though the wine and wafers of a hundred muttered ceremonies were rising in his throat. Time and time again they looked at each other and realised the impossibilites inherent in everything they felt and did and said and did not say.

Time.

Pendulums, of course.

Mordred sits at a table by himself and thinks about the way the light glanced off Galahad's hair as he claimed a sore head and elected to remain upstairs. He watches a different light - interior and merry - dance across Meg's curls and fights down feelings that he will not allow himseld to contemplate. Discipline is a knightly virtue. But it's Galahad who lives for perfection.

Holding on to anything, in this place, is difficult.

Mordred's heart aches as he climbs the stairs. Meg's laughter spills out into the room behind him, but he doesn't look back.

[ashen_key]

...owowowowowowowthatwasreallyreallyGOODowowowowowow

[fahye.livejournal.com]

I am in such a sadistic mood :D

Sorry, dear.