Yolande Kleinn

[This ficlet is not part of a larger work. I don't have any other stories involving these characters. It's just a fun little story written using the three prompt words in the subject line. I very much hope you enjoy it. :)]


Pretty, Fabricate, Comply

"There are rules, you know. Procedures. Safety regulations. Reasons we are not supposed to be up here." Gordon's handsome face looked a little too determined. Almost as though it were costing him conscious effort to keep his habitual stern glower in place.

Sam smirked, crossing his arms atop the sturdy metal railing that ran the perimeter of the roof. "And you comply with every rule that crosses your path?"

Gordon didn't answer. He couldn't very well answer without either lying—transparent and unconvincing—or conceding the point. The glower on his face took a faintly sullen turn, but his posture remained taut. He clasped his hands stiffly behind his back, and his gaze left Sam in favor of casting out across the city.

Sam did not mind his employer's rigid posture or sour expression. He knew how significant it was that Gordon was here at all—that he had accepted Sam's invitation despite the rules, and joined him on this inconceivably high rooftop.

It was a hell of a view. This far up, the grid-work of panels along the massive dome was visible above their heads. In all directions stood a vast array of city. Tall, sturdy buildings, fabricated in orbital construction facilities. No less beautiful for being comprised of repurposed metal and bio-filament, and the detritus of the solar system.

Sam let his own attention linger on the blocky skyline. He'd been to plenty of planets since he first started working for Gordon; none of them were compelling in quite the same way as Mars.

"It's a pretty view, though." Sam spoke loud enough to be heard over the endless wind. "You can't see nearly this far from the observation lounge."

"It's something," Gordon agreed in a tone of grudging appreciation.

The concession was honestly more than Sam had hoped for, and his smirk spread into a wide smile of genuine satisfaction. He bit his tongue, because as always he needed to be careful. Gordon knew him too well, and it became every day more difficult to guard the secret but distracting infatuation Sam had been harboring for far too long. Affection glowed brightly in his chest; if he spoke now, he would give himself away for sure.

In his peripheral vision he saw Gordon's weight shift, saw the unyielding posture ease just the barest fraction. Saw Gordon uncross powerful arms and brace them almost casually on the guardrail.

"And how long," Gordon murmured in that all too familiar rumble, "is it customary to 'take in the view' when one is trespassing on restricted sectors of corporate property?"

Sam's smile did not fade. "Technically it's not trespassing if you own the building."


 

[This ficlet is not part of a larger work. I don't have any other stories involving these characters. It's just a fun little story written using the three prompt words in the subject line. I very much hope you enjoy it. :)]



"Do you really have to go?" A plaintive note snuck into the question, but Alec didn't waste any effort worrying whether it made him sound desperate. So what if it did? Maybe it would convince Grant not to leave. Surely some underling could go in his place.

( Wasn't that the point of being a CEO? The ability to delegate? )

So. Here's a truth: I don't like writing about me.

I never really have. Even as a kid writing blatant self-insert fanfic—projecting every scrap of youthful angst onto characters I wanted to be—I only ever wrote fiction. I kept to the pretext of writing stories and nonexistent events. I never successfully kept a journal; I think I gave up on anything like a diary somewhere around sixth grade.

No matter how many issues I hash out through fictional characters, knowingly or otherwise, the hardest stories for me to write are the ones that hit close to home. The sweet but overwhelming family in "Simple After All" tracks so near to my own that drafting the story was surreal as hell. I'm working on a book now in which a character picks up their violin and discovers the joy/difficulty of playing again after years away.

And then there's Ilsa Vance, my asexual space detective who has a falling out with a close friend in "Open Skies". She's by far the most difficult character arc I've ever written—not least because I was determined to give her the support and acknowledgment I never received from the friend who said the same hurtful things to me.

This habit isn't likely to change. Projecting onto fictional characters has its merits. Even better, the blatant escapism and entertainment of my less personal stories is satisfying in ways I've never really known how to express. (My family, bless them, has supported me at every turn, despite my inability to articulate why I sometimes bury myself in fiction for days or weeks at a time.)

But. Maybe it would do me good to branch out a little. Take a more direct approach now and then. Try and shake off the fierce but irrational voice in my head insisting The Real Me is too boring to waste words on, and instead put myself out there a little more.

That's what this is. No promises, but I'm going to do my best. And hey, if you're reading this and there's anything you'd like to know, go ahead and ask. I may not possess a whole lot of insights or life-hacks, but what I've got I'm happy to share.

Cheers.

Sometimes I deal with winter by burying myself in half a dozen blankets and comforters and quilts. Other times I cope with the cold by inflicting it on fictional characters. You get two guesses which this is.


Midnight
by Yolande Kleinn

( Midnight always does strange things to Alan's head, and to his heart, and to the voice of reason that usually stops him from making an idiot of himself. )

 

( The problem with falling in love with your best friend was that eventually—inevitably—it became impossible to keep your mouth shut. Connor had been fighting a losing battle since the moment he put two and two together in his own head. He wasn't a good liar, not when it came to selling a story for the long haul. He knew from the start he'd never be able to keep this quashed down where it belonged. )

 

Here it is, that thing you didn't even know you were waiting for. This one's an actual drabble, one hundred words exactly (please be impressed by this; word limits and I aren't always friends). This is a snapshot, not part of a larger project. Just a brief exchange that was kicking around my brain.

( The night is slurred with meaning, and Drew aches in all the best ways. )