Drabbling the Alphabet - 26 Danny/Flack drabbles!
I came across this LJ community called ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif)
26_drabbles and decided to sign up and claim CSI:NY and Danny/Flack for some drabbly goodness. It, uh, seems like people aren't expected to churn out all twenty-six drabbles in one go, but me being the hypergraphia-like person that I am ... I couldn't help it.
So here they are, twenty-six D/F drabbles with ratings ranging from G to XXX.
Writers on my f-list (or anybody reading this, really), do give 26_drabbles a shot if you have the time. It's a lot like 1sentence, except you work with 100-word drabbles instead of just one sentence per prompt. Mucho fun to write, I tell ya. Sure helped to get me out of a writing rut. :D
A. Angry.
“You make your decision now, Messer.”
Sassone’s voice was gravelly, rough with years of cigarette smoke and ash and searing alcohol that pared the insides of his throat.
“Fuck you, Sonny. Fuck you.”
Danny’s voice was just as hoarse, though for a very different reason. His hands were clenched in fists so tight his arms ached. His eyes burned with blinding wetness.
I’m sorry, I’m so sorry …
“You make your decision now, you traitorous little shit,” Sassone growled again, shoving the gun against Flack’s bleeding temple. “Or he dies.”
B. Blue.
Flack never liked the color blue.
It was a depressing color. It could drive a person mad after staring at it for too long. It was the color of his mother’s dress the day he came home from school and found her lying on the kitchen floor, dead from a stroke at the age of thirty-four.
It was the color of his eyes, which discouraged him from looking at himself in the mirror for long.
Flack never liked the damn color, until he gazed into the blue eyes of CSI Danny Messer … and realized he was in love.
C. Complete.
Flack’s broad chest rises and falls with each steady, deep breath.
Danny watches this ordinary and yet so extraordinary phenomenon with half-lidded eyes, rubbing his foot against the slumbering man’s ankle beneath the blanket, tucking his hands under his chin and nestling his head on the pillow. He lies on his side, his face mere inches away from Flack’s.
He reaches out to brush his fingertips across Flack’s parted lips, and smiles at Flack suckling on them even in his sleep.
So, Danny’s heart says with a newfound joy, this is what it feels like to be complete.
D. Dark.
The sharp click of the padded handcuffs fastening around Danny’s wrists makes them both jolt with intense excitement.
“Please.”
Danny’s naked, face down on the bed, arms behind his back and buttocks thrust upwards in the air and Flack thinks it’s the hottest sight he’s ever laid eyes on. What turns him on most, however, is the black silk scarf tied around Danny’s head and over those blue eyes.
Danny can’t see a thing. He’s at Flack’s absolute mercy.
“Please what?”
Flack’s hand swings down in a hard smack upon Danny’s bottom.
“Please,” Danny whispers again. “Master.”
“Good boy.”
E. Echo.
The first time Flack did it, Danny bit his lower lip.
The second time, Danny cupped one hand over his mouth to conceal a smile.
The third time, he finally turned around and mock glowered at Flack who stood in the center of the ostentatious foyer of the multi-million dollar penthouse apartment.
“Isn’t it cool, Danny? Everythin’ I say is echoed six times!”
Flack spread his arms dramatically and yelled, “I LOVE DANNY MESSSSSSEEEEEEEER!”
Danny laughed at his lover’s child-like expression of wonder as the heartfelt declaration reverberated around them. Thank God the others had returned to the labs!
F. Fear.
The meat cleaver was heavy in Flack’s hand. Its wooden hilt and wide, rectangular blade was slathered with God knows how much blood, and he wasn’t even sure if it was animal or human.
His breaths were short and shallow from a growing panic he denied with all his might.
A sweat drop rolled down the side of his grimy face.
He glanced back one last time at Danny who was tucked inside the cramped space of the kitchen cupboard. Touched the unconscious man’s ashen face and prayed for salvation for both of them.
And then, the kitchen door opened.
G. Goodbye.
Cleaning up Flack’s bedroom is the hardest thing Danny has ever had to do.
Every object his trembling hands encounter is immersed with memories. With glimpses of the beautiful past, and bittersweet possibilities of the future that will never become reality now. A mauve jacket still carries Flack’s comforting scent. A piece of paper on the bedside table still exhibits Flack’s elegant handwriting. A picture frame still shows a recent photograph of Flack in his overwhelming handsomeness.
By the time Danny’s done with his task, the glass atop the photograph is dotted with drying droplets from a broken heart.
H. Hold.
“I wanna go to Central Park,” Danny whispered. His voice was very faint and croaky. The cannula fitted to his nose made him sound different.
Flack gently stroked Danny’s bare head, swallowed once then murmured, “Ya like bein’ ’round them trees and bushes that much, huh?”
Danny let out a weak chortle. His eyelids fluttered.
“I wanna go there again, Don. Be with you. Like the first time.”
Flack gazed down at Danny in his arms. At Danny’s head gone bald and face and body gone skeletal from the chemotherapy, and he closed searing eyes.
“We’ll go. I promise.”
I. Ice.
“Are you sure?” Flack asks in a low, dangerous voice, and Danny’s spread thighs quiver just a little more than they already do.
“Yes,” he murmurs.
He watches Flack lift the glass of ice cold water to his lips and sip a mouthful. Watches Flack place the half-full cup back onto the floor next to the sofa.
The only warning he receives from the kneeling homicide detective is a closed-lip, impish smirk before Flack swiftly dips his head and encloses cool lips around his throbbing erection.
One, two, three and Danny’s coming hard, arching his back, writhing and moaning.
J. Jealousy.
Flack is a composed man. There isn’t a lot of crap out there that’s capable of getting to him, but there are some things that do. A few things, very few.
Like watching grieving parents embrace the body of their dead child for one last time. Like watching a criminal walk scott free from court, knowing the sonofabitch’s guilty.
Like watching Danny being with her. With her, when he is the one who truly loves Danny.
They’re walking down the hallway now, and for the thousandth time, he tells the green monster within him to shut the hell up.
K. Kiss.
It’s quiet, peaceful. They’re alone out here in the magnificent wilderness, and Danny thinks to himself, God, it’s perfect.
He’s kneeling beside Flack’s sleeping bag. He’s just lost his final ounce of self-restraint. Within five seconds, a snoozing Flack is about to discover what it’s like to be kissed by another man.
Danny sucks in a quick breath. Shuts his eyes and bends down before his paranoid mind changes direction.
Flack’s lips are both firm and soft. Warm, dry.
And at dawn, nude and snuggled next to an equally naked Flack, Danny knows it’s going to be a fine day.
L. Luck.
Flack was beginning to feel light-headed from holding his breath for so long. Danny was taking his sweet time giving him an answer, alright.
“You wanna take me to a hockey game?”
Flack shrugged in nonchalance.
“Yeah. Promise you’ll still have all yer teeth after it’s over.”
Danny’s laugh did something really good to the left side of his chest.
“A’right, Crimestopper, I’ll be your hockey date.”
Flack’s mien lit up in a wide grin that remained till the evening when he went to pick Danny up from his apartment.
Maybe, just maybe, luck was on Flack’s side after all.
M. Marks.
Tiny sweat drops are speckling Flack’s high forehead. They’re the only visible signs of discomfort.
“I’m gonna finish the banner,” the tattoo artist says, and Flack’s brow furrows as the inkwork resumes on his upper right arm. “You want me to add the name in today?”
Danny glances at Flack, who returns the look with a sideways smile.
“Yeah,” Flack replies, still gazing at Danny. “I want it in big capital letters.”
The tattoo artist chuckles.
Danny’s certain his face is already warm, and it becomes scorching hot when the tattoo artist suddenly asks him, “So. Is Danny your name?”
N. Never.
The rain was soaking their clothes to the skin.
“I’m tired, tired a’ everythin’.” Danny appeared so young and vulnerable without his glasses. “I don’t wanna drag you down with me -”
Something thick clogged up Flack’s throat at hearing such blatant resignation in the other man‘s voice.
“That’s not gonna fuckin’ happen -”
“Yes, yes, it is,” Danny cut in, his eyes abruptly old and weary. “Ya don’t need me. I’m just dead weight. Ya don’t need me ’cause ya already got everythin’, Don.”
“No.” Flack had to blink hard to clear his vision. “Never … not without you.”
O. Over.
Danny is thinking about black holes. Black holes, regions of space where nothing can escape once you’ve fallen too far into them. He’s uncertain if that’s accurate, but his life seems to resemble one this very instant in time.
Danny is watching Flack walk down the aisle between the full pews, so charming in his black tuxedo. Looking like the luckiest bastard alive as he smiles at the woman in white who’s grasping his hand.
Danny is falling into the darkness now. He has no yearning to escape.
It’s safe here in the pitch-black.
Here, heartache and loss don’t exist.
P. Panic.
Danny’s breathing hard, very hard. Bright blood pouring out from the man’s mouth frightens Flack to the core.
“Stay with me, Danny, stay with me!”
Flack presses the folded cloth down on the gunshot wound in Danny’s chest. It’s a desperate action that brings forth more agony for the reclined CSI. Flack shudders at the pained cry ripping out of Danny.
“Stay with me … please.”
All Flack sees is red. His vision is too blurred to discern anything else.
The chest beneath his hands becomes motionless.
And then, his distant, terrible roar of anguish deafens the world into silence.
Q. Quiet.
Flack is doing, of all things, a yoga exercise, and Danny finds his lover’s physical contortions to be incredibly … arousing.
“It’s called Ardha Matsyendrasana,” Flack murmurs. “The Half Spinal Twist.”
Danny doesn’t reply. He sits on the bedroom floor in front of Flack, wordlessly marveling at the other man’s flexibility. He caresses the curvature of Flack’s smooth back. After a minute, Flack turns his head to smirk at him.
“Like what ya see?”
Danny merely smiles.
“Wait till I teach ya the Duo Downward Dog pose,” Flack rasps with a wink, and Danny laughs softly together with him.
R. Rational.
Eating cornflakes with milk for breakfast is rational.
Going to work on time and submitting his reports on time is rational.
Restocking his fridge after he’s consumed most of the food and drinks in there is rational.
Fucking Danny hard against the lockers at CSI headquarters when anyone can barge in isn’t rational … but fuck it, he doesn’t give a damn about that because Danny’s moaning his lungs out and bucking his hips back and forth just the way they both like it, and one, two more deep thrusts and boom, Flack’s yelling while he rides out his orgasm.
S. Subtle.
Danny’s bag plummeted to the floor with a loud thud.
He blinked. Hard.
“Hey, babe, was ‘bout time ya came home,” Flack said softly without turning around.
Danny blinked again.
Flack was utterly naked, standing with his arms spread and his head tilted back before the living room windows, awashed in brilliant sunlight. The man looked like a pale angel with ethereal wings.
“Don … how - how long have you been doin’ that?”
Flack finally swiveled to face him. The homicide detective glanced down at the vicinity of his groin, then sent him a broad grin.
“Long enough.”
T. Two.
Flack’s life used to be made up of ones.
One father, one mother. One car. One water bed. One television. One homicide case at a time. One girlfriend at a time.
The only thing he’s never had one of was … love. Not the fake crap. The real deal.
He never had it, till he met a certain CSI who was just as wary and suspicious of love as he was.
Now there’s him and there’s Danny. Two of them.
He hears Danny whisper, “Two halves make one,” and he smiles, in awe of the truth in those words.
U. Unbearable.
The falling snow is covering any footprints he’s leaving behind.
He trudges along the pedestrian walkway of the George Washington bridge, and he’s damn glad there’s no one else there with him. He’s even more fortunate that it’s such a shadowy night; as long as he steers clear of the lanes, no vehicle headlights shine on him.
He stops and leans on the walkway’s steel railing, staring down at the murky waters of the Hudson river.
He swings one leg over the edge, then the other to sit on the railing, facing the river.
“I’m coming, Don.”
And Danny jumps.
V. Vulnerable.
Danny was trembling.
Flack could feel it through Danny’s hands upon his bare chest, palms flat and side by side. It was an ironic turn of tables that Danny would be the nervous one, what with him being the guy who was wholly unclothed here.
“Don …”
Danny was gazing between the gap formed by his arms. At something below his chest.
At his unsightly abdomen, mutilated by that bomb so long ago.
“It’s -”
It’s hideous, it’s disgusting, it’s -
“It’s part of you. And I love all of you,” Danny murmured, and then kissed his fears away.
W. Winter.
The snowball struck Flack directly on the ass.
However, it was Flack’s hilarious reaction of leaping into the air and shrieking like a girl that cracked Danny up big time. He had to catch his breath between cackles and wipe his face with a gloved hand before crouching and rolling up more snowballs for a second round of attack. He had to make them quick before -
“IIINNNCOMIIIIIIIIIIIING!”
One giantass snowball made dangerously close contact with his groin.
The second one hit him on his head.
“Goooootchaaaaaa!” Flack hollered, and Danny laughed while Flack bear-hugged him and spun him around.
X. X-Rated.
He’s inching his way into Danny. It’s a mind-blowing sight, his hard cock disappearing into Danny’s hot, tight body, like Danny was made to take him, like they were a perfect fit.
Danny’s groaning and whimpering and squirming in his grip, and Flack knows the guy is aching to move, to thrust his hips upwards and be filled up already -
“Oh fuck, Don, please …”
Danny’s face is flushed, his mouth open and his eyes closed and his thighs are spread so beautifully, and Flack loses it and pushes in to the hilt, hurling them over the edge.
Y. Yes.
There’s a little square box between them on the bench. Its exterior is black velvet; Danny doesn’t have to touch it to know that.
Flack has a forefinger on it, pinning it there, and Danny doesn’t have to look up at Flack’s visage to know Flack is dying to push the box towards him.
It’s a small box. Just big enough to hold a round object of immeasurable worth.
A minute ticks by.
He extends his left hand and rests it upon Flack’s and the box, raises his head to gaze into Flack’s eyes and simply says, “Yes. I will.”
Z. Zero.
Danny’s wearing his white Rangers jersey. It’s too big, draping down to the knees, making Danny look like a boy in adult clothes.
Flack thinks it looks cute on his lover though.
Especially when it’s all Danny’s wearing.
“Of all the numbers, it had to be zero,” Danny teases.
“You’d rather I bought number one?”
He observes Danny studying himself in the mirror. Feels heat growing between his legs when Danny lifts up the back of the shirt to expose an ample bottom.
“I have the number one butt, after all,” Danny crows, and Flack grins wide in tacit agreement.
Only notes I got is that there's a possibility H. Hold may eventually become a full story. I dunno yet. It'll be one hell of an angst fest, though.
Oh and U. Unbearable is a follow-up to G. Goodbye.
Geez, now I'm itching to find more drabble communities and write more.
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csiny_sl) wrote,
hyper
