Meme drabbles part IV
Apr. 11th, 2010 12:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dolevalanThe challenge:
1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn your music player on and set it to random.
3. Write a drabble/ficlet to each song that plays. You have only the length of the song to finish the drabble; you start when the song starts and stop when it’s over. No lingering afterwards!
4. Do five and post them.
Five for Yuri, five for Katiya.
Yuri sighed. “Yeah, I guess I can make it. If you need me.”
The man smiled, relieved. “I’ll owe you one. Honest to the gods. You’re a bloody miracle.”
Snorting, Yuri lifted his hands. “Yeah, yeah. I know, I’m marvelous. Now tell me what exactly you’ll be needing me for.”
“Well. I was wondering if you could come to the party I’m throwing, as a sort of… planted guest. To entertain certain people, give my wife someone to talk to while I’m occupied. That sort of thing.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I’m your wife’s escort for the evening?”
The client looked very relieved. “Yes! You’ve hit on it exactly. An escort. I’d recompense you, discreetly, at the end of the festivities.”
Yuri’s look turned wry. “Be careful. Women have known to grow besotted with me instantly upon contact.”
( - What Would We Do Without You, Company – Revival Cast)
He came in and flopped onto the bed. Yuri felt dead tired, down to bone and sinew. He hadn’t stopped running for weeks, and now that he finally had an evening to himself, he wanted to do little more than sleep.
But sleep wasn’t coming.
Clara was out of the woods; the doctor had said in a few days she’d be up and about, like new. He hadn’t managed to pull a job in a few months, but they’d last a few more weeks on the money he’d saved. They’d be fine. They were always fine.
Some small, weak part of him complained that it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair he was always the one taking care, planning, providing. That he could never remember, in his 18 years, a solitary time someone else had taken matters in hand. A time someone had said, “Relax, love. Rest. I’ll see to things.”
He really must have been tired, he thought wryly, to let himself indulge in so much self-pity. Yeah, being an orphan was rough. Someday, he’d cry a river over it. But for the time being, he had Clara and himself to feed and shelter, and that was enough to occupy any man’s mind.
(- The World Ain’t Slowing Down, Paul Ellis)
(Santa Fe from Newsies came on, and I laughed really hard, then skipped it. Because Yuri as little Batman is… yeah.)
There was a piano in the house, but he’d never been much good at it. His mother didn’t play; her instrument was violin. But still, there it sat, dutifully tuned and dusted. It wasn’t something George liked to ask about. His mother was, and always had been, private on certain subjects. He sensed this was one of them.
Until the day his cousin visited. The cousin he had never heard of, the son of the brother his mother had never mentioned.
He could play. George’s mother had suggested music as a way to relieve some tension, but it became more than that. The man had talent. Beyond simple accuracy, there was emotion in his playing. George found himself caught up in it, in a way that was more visceral than he was used to with music.
Passion must have been, he decided, a family trait.
(- Medley – Rhapsody, Clair de Lune, When Peace Like a River Attendeth, Robin Lee Howard)
It was probably best that he’d never been in love. At least, this is what Yuri told himself as he poured another shot of whiskey. After all, if he’d actually loved the girl, he’d be truly miserable now that he’d had to leave her.
Besides, it never would have worked. She was beautiful and rich, and he was a rakish but poor soldier of fortune.
And she was bound to eventually find out that he’d robbed her father blind. That was sure to put a damper on the relationship.
Still. Georgiana had the most memorable auburn hair. Almost as memorable as that thing she’d done with her tongue. Gods.
Clara came in and gave him a look. “…are you going to finish the whole bottle?”
“That was the plan,” he said, daring her to disapprove. After all, she was younger than him. What could she understand about heart… well, he wasn’t heartbroken. But he was at least heart-bruised.
She’d been clever, too, had Georgiana. A fantastic flirt. And with an insatiable appetite for…
Clara snatched the bottle. “Get the hell over yourself.”
And to add insult to injury, she dumped it out the window.
(- Love Will Tear Us Apart, Broken Social Scene)
He liked riding. He liked motion. Going from one place to another always lifted Yuri’s spirits. On the road, it was easy to believe everything would eventually be alright.
Clara seemed to relax a little too. Though they talked sometimes, more often, they left each other to their thoughts.
He’d never told her so, but Yuri, before meeting her, had created his own parents, in his imagination. His mother was lovely, of course. Tall and elegant and witty, but kind to him, always. His father was strong, genial, admired. A ship’s captain, perhaps. They’d been well off, but not too rich; if he’d made them too rich, he wouldn’t have been able to avoid feeling like it was just a fantasy.
He gave them little touches to make them feel more real. He knew it was foolish, but by now, he’d almost forgotten they weren’t.
And every now and then, even now, he let himself believe he was riding home.
(- Think of You, Sonya Kitchell)
----
The club was loud, a little dirty, and very, very full. It would work as well as any other. Katiya danced like movement itself was a drug. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to have to deal with anything other than the beat of the music that was almost more vibration than sound.
She could smell the rich, varied scents of human sweat, of alcohol, of lust. But they didn’t concern her, not really. She was a wolf in a club full of humans, and was confident in her own safety. She was an author, or at least half of one, in a place full of characters so flimsy they didn’t even have names.
Though she was aware of the eyes on her, that didn’t really matter either. She was reaching for something quite different. Reaching for a need she couldn’t quite satisfy.
So she danced.
( - By Cover of Night (Fire Fight), Sebastien Grainger)
There was a memory. She wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t dreamed it.
She was very small. There was the impression that her Mama was nearby, or at least not very far off. But her Papa was walking her around the garden, carrying her in his arms. He’d bend to let her smell the flowers.
In the memory, or the dream, he was humming, his chest resonating with the deep, quiet tones.
She’d felt like nothing in the world could hurt her. She’d felt loved.
(- Nancy (With the Laughing Face), Frank Sinatra)
Harold looked concerned. “Are you feeling quite well?”
Katiya turned, drawing the comforter closer around her. “No. But I just want to be left alone. Please.” Though it was made like a request, it wasn’t really.
Still, Harold hadn’t been in a pack long enough to make obedience automatic.
“Miss Willoughby.” He crouched at her side. “If you need me to fetch someone…”
“There’s no one to fetch,” she retorted, a little thicker. “Just leave it, why don’t you?”
After a moment, he stood. “I am sorry. I don’t mean to bother. But if there’s anything you need…”
She knew he was expecting her to cry. To fall apart. Something. But she just stared at the wall.
Katiya had never felt so profoundly alone. Nor had she ever felt so acutely how little her own pain mattered.
The pain was starting to ebb anyway. Even if it wasn’t healing… did it matter, if she could ignore it? Could function through it? She was needed.
She got up, putting the comforter aside. She’d stared at the wall quite long enough. If it took her dulling her own pain a drop at a time, that’s what she would do. She’d do what was necessary. It was right.
Stephen and Natasha had to be the first priority. They might still be saved, and she owed it to them to do everything she could.
She’d begin by finding Harold again. She needed an ally, and he needed control. They would make it work. They’d find a way. And then she would get home. To her family.
(- Comfortably Numb, Pink Floyd)
The village looked the same as it always had. Katiya knew the feeling of smallness was all in her imagination. There were the same number of houses, small and neat and well-kept. The same little shops, filled with good things to eat, pretty but plain things to wear. Even some fine weaponry. Everything had a place, and everything was in it.
(- J’y suis jamais allé, Yann Tiersen (Amélie OST))
Sometimes she thought back on the fractured memories she had of being Katerina. The fine dresses, the strings of pearls, the sweet kisses from a man who loved her. She had no mother, true, but her aunt had loved her just as much. No father… no brother.
No wolf.
She doubted anyone would believe it. Especially not now, as she stood in the rain, hair plastered to her neck about the collar of her leather jacket, half growling as she looked down at the man at her feet. She was a creature of grit and blood and fight. She was what she’d been growing to become.
But the Alpha, now and then, couldn’t help but regret the pastel colored dreams that dissolved into mist as she woke.
(- Oh! My Mama, Alela Diane)
1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn your music player on and set it to random.
3. Write a drabble/ficlet to each song that plays. You have only the length of the song to finish the drabble; you start when the song starts and stop when it’s over. No lingering afterwards!
4. Do five and post them.
Five for Yuri, five for Katiya.
Yuri sighed. “Yeah, I guess I can make it. If you need me.”
The man smiled, relieved. “I’ll owe you one. Honest to the gods. You’re a bloody miracle.”
Snorting, Yuri lifted his hands. “Yeah, yeah. I know, I’m marvelous. Now tell me what exactly you’ll be needing me for.”
“Well. I was wondering if you could come to the party I’m throwing, as a sort of… planted guest. To entertain certain people, give my wife someone to talk to while I’m occupied. That sort of thing.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I’m your wife’s escort for the evening?”
The client looked very relieved. “Yes! You’ve hit on it exactly. An escort. I’d recompense you, discreetly, at the end of the festivities.”
Yuri’s look turned wry. “Be careful. Women have known to grow besotted with me instantly upon contact.”
( - What Would We Do Without You, Company – Revival Cast)
He came in and flopped onto the bed. Yuri felt dead tired, down to bone and sinew. He hadn’t stopped running for weeks, and now that he finally had an evening to himself, he wanted to do little more than sleep.
But sleep wasn’t coming.
Clara was out of the woods; the doctor had said in a few days she’d be up and about, like new. He hadn’t managed to pull a job in a few months, but they’d last a few more weeks on the money he’d saved. They’d be fine. They were always fine.
Some small, weak part of him complained that it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair he was always the one taking care, planning, providing. That he could never remember, in his 18 years, a solitary time someone else had taken matters in hand. A time someone had said, “Relax, love. Rest. I’ll see to things.”
He really must have been tired, he thought wryly, to let himself indulge in so much self-pity. Yeah, being an orphan was rough. Someday, he’d cry a river over it. But for the time being, he had Clara and himself to feed and shelter, and that was enough to occupy any man’s mind.
(- The World Ain’t Slowing Down, Paul Ellis)
(Santa Fe from Newsies came on, and I laughed really hard, then skipped it. Because Yuri as little Batman is… yeah.)
There was a piano in the house, but he’d never been much good at it. His mother didn’t play; her instrument was violin. But still, there it sat, dutifully tuned and dusted. It wasn’t something George liked to ask about. His mother was, and always had been, private on certain subjects. He sensed this was one of them.
Until the day his cousin visited. The cousin he had never heard of, the son of the brother his mother had never mentioned.
He could play. George’s mother had suggested music as a way to relieve some tension, but it became more than that. The man had talent. Beyond simple accuracy, there was emotion in his playing. George found himself caught up in it, in a way that was more visceral than he was used to with music.
Passion must have been, he decided, a family trait.
(- Medley – Rhapsody, Clair de Lune, When Peace Like a River Attendeth, Robin Lee Howard)
It was probably best that he’d never been in love. At least, this is what Yuri told himself as he poured another shot of whiskey. After all, if he’d actually loved the girl, he’d be truly miserable now that he’d had to leave her.
Besides, it never would have worked. She was beautiful and rich, and he was a rakish but poor soldier of fortune.
And she was bound to eventually find out that he’d robbed her father blind. That was sure to put a damper on the relationship.
Still. Georgiana had the most memorable auburn hair. Almost as memorable as that thing she’d done with her tongue. Gods.
Clara came in and gave him a look. “…are you going to finish the whole bottle?”
“That was the plan,” he said, daring her to disapprove. After all, she was younger than him. What could she understand about heart… well, he wasn’t heartbroken. But he was at least heart-bruised.
She’d been clever, too, had Georgiana. A fantastic flirt. And with an insatiable appetite for…
Clara snatched the bottle. “Get the hell over yourself.”
And to add insult to injury, she dumped it out the window.
(- Love Will Tear Us Apart, Broken Social Scene)
He liked riding. He liked motion. Going from one place to another always lifted Yuri’s spirits. On the road, it was easy to believe everything would eventually be alright.
Clara seemed to relax a little too. Though they talked sometimes, more often, they left each other to their thoughts.
He’d never told her so, but Yuri, before meeting her, had created his own parents, in his imagination. His mother was lovely, of course. Tall and elegant and witty, but kind to him, always. His father was strong, genial, admired. A ship’s captain, perhaps. They’d been well off, but not too rich; if he’d made them too rich, he wouldn’t have been able to avoid feeling like it was just a fantasy.
He gave them little touches to make them feel more real. He knew it was foolish, but by now, he’d almost forgotten they weren’t.
And every now and then, even now, he let himself believe he was riding home.
(- Think of You, Sonya Kitchell)
----
The club was loud, a little dirty, and very, very full. It would work as well as any other. Katiya danced like movement itself was a drug. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to have to deal with anything other than the beat of the music that was almost more vibration than sound.
She could smell the rich, varied scents of human sweat, of alcohol, of lust. But they didn’t concern her, not really. She was a wolf in a club full of humans, and was confident in her own safety. She was an author, or at least half of one, in a place full of characters so flimsy they didn’t even have names.
Though she was aware of the eyes on her, that didn’t really matter either. She was reaching for something quite different. Reaching for a need she couldn’t quite satisfy.
So she danced.
( - By Cover of Night (Fire Fight), Sebastien Grainger)
There was a memory. She wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t dreamed it.
She was very small. There was the impression that her Mama was nearby, or at least not very far off. But her Papa was walking her around the garden, carrying her in his arms. He’d bend to let her smell the flowers.
In the memory, or the dream, he was humming, his chest resonating with the deep, quiet tones.
She’d felt like nothing in the world could hurt her. She’d felt loved.
(- Nancy (With the Laughing Face), Frank Sinatra)
Harold looked concerned. “Are you feeling quite well?”
Katiya turned, drawing the comforter closer around her. “No. But I just want to be left alone. Please.” Though it was made like a request, it wasn’t really.
Still, Harold hadn’t been in a pack long enough to make obedience automatic.
“Miss Willoughby.” He crouched at her side. “If you need me to fetch someone…”
“There’s no one to fetch,” she retorted, a little thicker. “Just leave it, why don’t you?”
After a moment, he stood. “I am sorry. I don’t mean to bother. But if there’s anything you need…”
She knew he was expecting her to cry. To fall apart. Something. But she just stared at the wall.
Katiya had never felt so profoundly alone. Nor had she ever felt so acutely how little her own pain mattered.
The pain was starting to ebb anyway. Even if it wasn’t healing… did it matter, if she could ignore it? Could function through it? She was needed.
She got up, putting the comforter aside. She’d stared at the wall quite long enough. If it took her dulling her own pain a drop at a time, that’s what she would do. She’d do what was necessary. It was right.
Stephen and Natasha had to be the first priority. They might still be saved, and she owed it to them to do everything she could.
She’d begin by finding Harold again. She needed an ally, and he needed control. They would make it work. They’d find a way. And then she would get home. To her family.
(- Comfortably Numb, Pink Floyd)
The village looked the same as it always had. Katiya knew the feeling of smallness was all in her imagination. There were the same number of houses, small and neat and well-kept. The same little shops, filled with good things to eat, pretty but plain things to wear. Even some fine weaponry. Everything had a place, and everything was in it.
(- J’y suis jamais allé, Yann Tiersen (Amélie OST))
Sometimes she thought back on the fractured memories she had of being Katerina. The fine dresses, the strings of pearls, the sweet kisses from a man who loved her. She had no mother, true, but her aunt had loved her just as much. No father… no brother.
No wolf.
She doubted anyone would believe it. Especially not now, as she stood in the rain, hair plastered to her neck about the collar of her leather jacket, half growling as she looked down at the man at her feet. She was a creature of grit and blood and fight. She was what she’d been growing to become.
But the Alpha, now and then, couldn’t help but regret the pastel colored dreams that dissolved into mist as she woke.
(- Oh! My Mama, Alela Diane)
