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Just a few things I found while organising my fic folder.  (Say that five times fast.)  These are drabbles of exactly 100 words each.  It's actually a writing exercise I really enjoy; I should do it more often.

Most of these aren't exactly fanfic - apart from the first one, the others are what you'd loosely call historical fan fiction.  In other words, they incorporate real people (although they're all long dead) into fictional relationships or situations, so if that squicks you, please take this as fair warning.

These fall into three "fandoms":  Miss Saigon, RPS set in the late Roman Republic, and the Spyverse, which is a kind of crossover universe I invented (explained further below).  All are slashy except the first one... which is only slashy if you squint. ;)  Ratings range from G to a soft R, and are marked on the individual stories.


Miss Saigon

(Fandom:  Miss Saigon; Rating:  PG for language)

“Chris, don’t be stupid.  The VC will be swarming over this place in half an hour –“

“I can’t leave her!”  Chris throws his entire weight against John’s restraining arms.  The kid’s breathing is ragged, and he’s struggling so violently John is afraid he’ll send them both off the roof.

“She’s not the only one we’ll have betrayed.”  John turns Chris in his arms and holds those bright, agonised eyes.  Jesus, Chris, you’re in hell because you can’t save her, you can’t save them all, and neither can I.  Have some mercy.

Let me at least save you.

“Come on.”

Roman RPS

(FandomRoman RPS; Rating:  PG-13)

 Sulla has only been in love once.  Metrobius had spice-slathered skin and fathomless eyes; eyes that still have a Bacchanalian gleam to them, though he and Sulla are both old now, some forty years between them and the sinuous young dancer with the beautiful blond boy watching him.

And fidelity was never promised, but still, Sulla always feels better when morning comes, and he drives that moaning, shivering slut Catilina from his bed, often with a savage kick.  Afterwards, Sulla goes to Metrobius for breakfast, for the news, for silent forgiveness.

Catilina will be almost Sulla’s age before he understands.

(Fandom:  Roman RPS; Rating:  PG-13; Warning:  Mentions of gore/character death)

Crushes come easily when you’re only fifteen, especially on saturnine soldiers with tantalising scars, especially on your father’s lieutenant.  Octavian would slip behind columns in the Forum to watch him, talking and laughing conspiratorially with Caesar, those clear, amused eyes fixed adoringly on Caesar’s face.  And the boy would flush and pant, palms damp against the marble, imagining those eyes, those roughened hands, on him instead, and trembling at the blasphemy of it.

After Philippi he hacked that head from its body, tried not to notice the smooth skin of Brutus’ face as he touched it for the first time.

(Fandom:  Roman RPS; Rating:  R for safety)

 Agrippa’s scrawl is big and broad, like its author, like everything he does; he talks expansively, laughs hugely, eats like an army, screws (or so the rumour is) like a stableful of stallions.  There is reassurance in the squat letters, as there is in Agrippa’s calloused palms pushing Octavian’s thighs apart and in the rumbling exhalation of his breath as his hips thrust forward.

Octavian’s writing is narrow, pointed, economical, and the fingers that shape it sketch tight, deliberate circles over Agrippa’s skin.  Agrippa hisses loudly as Octavian silently claws his back.

Tonight? asked the note.

Library, read the reply.

(Fandom:  Roman RPS; Rating:  G)

Antony never speaks of him.

Antony was a boy, barely eighteen; a scion, sensuous and arrogant in his extravagant rings and stiff, fresh toga.  After Catilina’s downfall, he crawled home with lies about falling in with the wrong company; shut up, trained, laboured, and quietly hated Catilina for dying.  And for not taking Antony with him.

He never speaks of him, until one day when he’s watching Octavian dress unselfconsciously.  The boy’s eyes flash in the mirror as he smoothes his hair and rants fluently about protecting the people.  Then breaks off.  “What?”

“You remind me of someone, that’s all.”


What is the Spyverse?

Basically, the Spyverse is a crossover in which spymasters - real and fictional, from any work or any time period - can meet together in a neutral space via some kind of interdimensional gateway.  The premise is laughably ill-defined and the justification for it is non-existent.  Just roll with it. :)

I don't know when John Thurloe became the Spyverse fandom bicycle, I really don't.  (Oh, wait, yes I do.  It was when I read Suzanna Gregory's A Conspiracy of Violence.)

(Cheat sheet:  Francis Walsingham was Elizabeth I's spymaster.  John Thurloe was Oliver Cromwell's.  M heads MI-6 in the James Bond series, and will always be Judi Dench in my mind.  Harry Pierce fills the same role at "little sister" MI-5 in Spooks.  Enabran Tain is the head of the Obsidian Order in Star Trek:  Deep Space Nine.)


(Fandom:  Spyverse; Rating:  R)

Fairfax was never sure what demons pursued Oliver Cromwell, but after catching the Lord Protector with his new Secretary of State, Fairfax had some idea.

He’d never trusted John Thurloe – tongue of a serpent and face of a dove – but Cromwell murmured that Thurloe knew how to keep secrets.  It was only when Fairfax walked into Thurloe’s office to find him bent over the desk, supple back arched, a dangerous fire in those over-sweet blue eyes, that he knew which secrets.  And Cromwell was under him, moaning and whispering, begging, his eyes fluttering shut.

For once, he looked at peace.

(Fandom:  Spyverse; Rating:  PG-13)

Spymasters adapt, whether it’s death or deception or, why not, being dropped into an interdimensional orgy at short notice.  After a moment, the shock wears off, and you learn things.  Francis Walsingham isn’t nearly as kinky as you’d think, despite the silks and the black leather gloves; M hates being called M; Enabran Tain wears cardigans because he likes them, not just because it unnerves his subjects.

John Thurloe is kinky, especially for a Puritan.  And Harry Pierce is lonely, and Thurloe’s mouth is accustomed to commands and secrets; it rakes hot over Harry’s stomach, adapts to his skin, understands.

(Fandom:  Spyverse; Rating:  PG-13)


Because Elizabeth is a vision of gold and tragic eyes, less a human queen than a hot, vanishing memory of divinity, the forbidden scent of roses and incense.  Because Cromwell is all rough hands and growling voice and smile that could light the stars, so close, so clean and distant.

Because of Walsingham’s gloved hands and Thurloe’s secretive eyes; because here, at last, is someone who doesn’t shrink or leer knowingly when you say “agent” or “interrogate”.  Someone understands, oh God, someone understands.

Walsingham moans hopelessly, Thurloe’s teeth a breathspan from his skin.  Their long, clever fingers are intertwined.


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