Musings of a Commodore Admirer

This is in regards to the Torchwood fandom, which is what I mainly read now considering how little navyboys fic we're getting lately, but this is probably a pan-fandom problem.

 

Okay, so I did the whole, put the ipod on shuffle thing and then write something by the time the song ends. There are supposed to be ten, but I've got too much stuff to do right now (Very bad stress right now.) to bother with a whole ten. I did cheat in that I rearranged the songs so that this resembled a story more than just five random drabbles.

Title: Fragile Trust
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Gillington
(Author's note: At least I managed to write something. I don't think I could ever get to the point of publishing. I just don't have the drive.)

10 songs just purchased from Itunes:

1. Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps (Mari Wilson)
2. Rescue Me (Fontella Bass)
3. Love Shack (B-52s)
4. You're So Vain (Carly Simon)
5. Last Train to Clarksville (The Monkees)
6. I'm Into Something Good (Herman's Hermits)
7. I'm Henry the VIII, I AM (Herman's Hermits)
8. The 59th Street Bridge Song/Feelin' Groovy (Simon & Garfunkel)
9. Night Drive (All-American Rejects)
10. Somebody to Love (Queen)

And for this week's episode of The Royal...

Edward snorted. “That man is an idiot and isn’t who we’re looking for.” He sighed. “Or either he’s a damn good actor. What remains is that you can’t challenge every man that wants to be under my skirts.” He closed his eyes in despair at the situation he found himself in. “Don’t ever let me say that again.”

"I have to pull the laces tighter or you’ll never fit into the dress, sir."
 

Well, in between going to the movies I managed to write 210 words of...something. It's still a little nebulous and ranks and names may change if I continue, but here's what I've got so far:

(Sorry for the lack of a cut. LJ isn't letting me use one today.)

Nicholas shrugged. “I think you’ll find Mr. Rodgers,” he dismissed with a wave of his glass, “That the lack of a maid for one’s wife in this instance can lead to any number of amiable activities.” He paused for a moment and threw the man a smug smile. “Her corset alone...” His voice drifted. “Well, I think you can imagine that for yourself.”

“Indeed,” came the reply, “I can see the advantages.”

Nicholas automatically looked in the direction Rodgers was staring. It was Edward, no Mrs. Fairfax, his wife, chatting with a group of matrons in the corner. And the bastard was staring at her as if she were a prize piece of mutton. How dare the man ogle HIS wife? It was his right to ogle his wife!

Er, his Captain. That’s what he meant. No one else had the right to ogle his Captain!

Nicholas frowned and cursed himself. Wait, that wasn’t right either. Nicholas tossed back the rest of the brandy, relishing the burn of it down his throat. Stupid sod. What the hell was he thinking? Captain Wilson wasn’t owned by him, in any guise, and Nick would certainly be hanged for it if he tried.

Christ, he’d blame it on the liquor…if this hadn’t just been his first glass.