Drabble: (n) Set by the Birmingham University SF Society as thus: a self-contained vignette of exactly 100 words, no more, no less, with up to 15 more words are allowed for the title. Hyphenated words are in dispute. The term originates from a Monty Python skit: "Drabble. A word game for 2 to 4 players. The four players sit from left to right and the first person to write a novel wins." Drabbles started in British SF fandom in the late '80s. A half-drabble is fifty words long; a double drabble is 200 words long.

*All drabbles on this page copyrighted to Deirdre, 2004.

Gasping for breath, JC was utterly willing to lie melted into the mattress, his legs open and draped across Justin's powerful biceps.

Warm wetness slipped over his skin, from navel to the base of his dick; Justin's tongue, licking sweat and come from his belly. Blindly he reached down and his fingers slipped over Justin's silky short hair, over one ear.

"I think...you've killed me," JC said, finding his voice.

Justin's laugh ghosted over his belly, sounding very pleased and self-satisfied. He rubbed his cheek against JC's inner thigh, and his stubble rasped against the sensitive skin, making JC shiver.

"Staring."

Joey jabbed with an elbow, but Chris danced out of his way, trailing a chuckle behind him.

His eyes drifted back to JC, on the other end of the sunlit stage, hands waving to illustrate some point as he talked with Wade. The sun picked out gold and copper strands in his curls, seemed to shine in the sweat on his long neck and muscled arms.

Warmth spread within him, sweetly familiar.

Chris' fingers tweaked his ear. "Straight boy crush," he teased.

Maybe not so straight, Joey thought, as he caught Chris and knuckled his head until he squealed.

Chris looked out over the top of his book as Lance closed the door, and locked it behind him. Well. Interesting.

Lance leaned against the door, one hip cocked, and tucked his hands behind his back. The pose stretched the wifebeater across his chest, outlined the curve of his erection beneath loose sweatpants. His smile curved lazily, promising, and his green eyes glittered beneath his lashes.

Chris grinned. "That's a Justin pose. Number forty-seven, if I'm not mistaken."

A chuckle rumbled in Lance's chest. "Is it working?"

Heat pooled between his legs, and Chris tossed his book aside. "Oh, yeah."

"I'm not," Lance said slowly. "Everyone thinks I am, but I'm not."

Justin looked up from his book, over the rims of his glasses. Lance sat with his long, fine hands folded neatly, his eyes, pale green and almost translucent, looking out the window. The light from the reading lamp between them gilded the long pale line of his neck, the soft curve of his cheek. His voice made Justin think of soft ice cream, melting beneath bittersweet hot fudge. It made him think of home, of long humid summer days.

"Have you ever...."

"That's how I know," Lance replied.