Airdrop Reveals (and a bonus vignette!)
Jan. 14th, 2024 07:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rosanicusI had an excellent time writing for Airdrop! This was my first of hopefully many and maybe next year I will have learned to pace myself enough to write more treats - I've started four or five of them which may pop up in the next few weeks, outside of the collection but appropriately gifted...
Within the allotted timeframe I wrote two stories, listed below.
frosty wind for california_112 (Ginger&Algy&Biggles, G)
This was my first time writing Ginger, Algy and Biggles in the interwar period and I had an excellent time doing so! I think that the relationship between them at this point is so interesting, because Algy and Biggles clearly have no idea how to look after a soon-to-be-grown-up teenager, while Ginger has no idea how to cope with suddenly living with two of his heroes and also having to teach them how to be responsible guardians. It's never a parent/child relationship but is necessarily one of caretaking, so in this fic Ginger is ill and sad at Christmas mostly so that Algy and Biggles can cheer him up in any way possible. As it turns out this involves early Christmas presents and a few extra decorations. I imagine by the year after this they have actually asked Ginger how he'd like to celebrate and that forms the basis for some truly lovely Christmasses down the line.
never see that girl again forsweetsorcery (Biggles/EvS, E)
I decided to write a treat for SweetSorcery because she very kindly wrote me one for Yuletide Madness, and when I realised this was my chance to contribute to the growing subgenre of Biggles Crossdressing Fanfic, I knew it was meant to be. I actually started writing the entire soiree they were initially undercover at, but then realised it was expanding beyond my scope and turned to the erotic undressing scene instead. Writing Biggles crossdressing from his perspective was a fun challenge since I genuinely believe he would view the whole thing with the same pragmatic sort of focus and sense of fun as IDK having to land on a particularly small lake. Satisfying to pull off but not kinky. Meanwhile Erich is absolutely losing his mind because not only is he already in love with Biggles (obviously) he is now having to act like they're married and keeps LEANING ON HIM and TOUCHING HIM. And is wearing a GARTER BELT.
I also saw that SweetSorcery (feels weird repeating it so much but writing in the second person seemed a bit presumptuous) was 95% certain of who the author was, so I must wonder how I gave myself away so easily OR somehow pulled off an insane coup.
Produced below is as far as I got with the main part of the evening, featuring some dancing and teeny tiny bit of possessiveness.
“I wish you’d stop doing that,” said Biggles, as Erich took him by the elbow and steered him away from a nearby party guest, already drunk and turning more belligerent by the moment.
“I am playing my part, Detective,” Erich replied quietly, with his customary half-smile. “It would behove you to do the same.” He plucked two glasses of wine from a nearby waiter and handed one to Biggles, who restrained the urge to drain the entire thing in one gulp. Instead he took a careful sip and shifted his weight, trying to relieve some of the strain in his calves.
The party was being held by the primary suspect for the Air Police’s current case, a string of robberies targeting a number of small commercial airlines across the South East. It had been trivially easy to obtain an invitation for Erich’s professional alias - one provided by Raymond on such occasions as Erich chose to liaise with the Air Police on a case - and with that invitation came the expectation of a partner. A wife, in fact.
Erich’s hand was still on Biggles’ elbow, a warm reminder of his current role. “Incoming,” came the whisper in his ear. More warmth. Biggles fought back a shiver and turned towards the newcomer, already pasting a smile on his face.
“Good evening,” said the new man. He was tall and wide-set, with thick, dark hair and heavy eyebrows. He was handsome enough, Biggles supposed, except that his eyes were uncommonly pale for his complexion. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Mister…?”
He addressed only Erich, of course. Biggles was well aware that his role this evening was to remain unnoticed and, if possible, conveniently get lost on the way to the water closet. It still rankled.
“Knightley,” said Erich. “Bill Knightley.” He had brought his Major Sterne accent out of retirement for the evening, mellowed by long years of disuse. “Of course, our gracious host needs no introduction.”
“Oh, no need to flatter me, old boy,” said the man of the hour. It was, of course, the head of the crime ring which had orchestrated the robberies. Jack Renard, known by the sobriquet ‘The Fox’, had evaded police capture for years through careful, deliberate sabotage and bribery. Biggles was very much looking forward to his downfall. “I just like to throw a good party now and then. Let me think, Knightley – you’re the contact at Enfield, aren’t you?”
Erich raised an eyebrow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The cover had been easily chosen, once Algy had uncovered the link between the robberies and a series of arms deals made with a reactionary group in South America. “I’d rather not let them keep arming the fascists, if it’s all the same to you,” he’d said, once the whole thing was laid out. Biggles was inclined to agree.
Renard laughed heartily, then clapped Erich on the shoulder. Biggles felt the slight flinch, swiftly concealed. “Good man,” he said. He tapped the side of his nose. “Never know who’s listening, eh?” He glanced at Biggles, then looked again. “I say, here’s a bit of stuff.”
“My wife,” said Erich, in much more convincing tones than he’d managed when the plan had first been suggested to him, earlier that day. He put one arm around Biggles’ waist, pulling him closer into his side. It was odd to realise so intimately how much taller Erich was. “In fact, I believe I promised her a dance. You must excuse us.”
Renard waved them away. Biggles glanced up at Erich, who seemed oddly focused on steering them both swiftly away from their suspect.
There was a live four piece band playing a number of jazz tunes which Biggles recognised from before the war. The whole party felt like a time capsule in a way, from the dress code of tuxedos and gowns to the bizarre opulence of the ballroom, which reminded him of nothing less than faintly remembered illustrations of Versailles.
He glanced down at himself as Erich paused by the dancefloor, a wide area full of couples dancing at various tempos. His dress had been pinned and tucked quickly, and the fit being so fine was more due to his lack of curves than to any ability at tailoring. He wore a light wool cardigan and a necklace borrowed from Raymond’s wife. His hair, clearly too short for purpose, was concealed beneath a carefully pinned hat. He looked, in fact, like the wife of a middle aged bureaucrat, pretty enough and glamorous enough without outshining some of the young women currently dancing up a storm.
It was best to be inconspicuous. He looked at Erich again. He was dressed in his best suit, which Biggles knew was usually confined to a garment bag in his wardrobe for fear of being ruined. He was as slim as ever, no longer so starved now that Sakhalin was several years in the past, and he stood straight-backed without his cane. It would doubtless cause problems for him in the morning, but Erich had insisted that a walking stick would be too conspicuous. His face showed faint lines of strain, as it often did, but Biggles suspected that only he would notice. Only he would look at him closely enough to see them.
The familiar grey eyes met his own. Biggles gestured to the floor. “Well, Bill? Will you take your old woman out for a spin?”
Erich smiled at him. It wasn’t his usual half-smile, or the contemptuous one he had once worn when they were on opposite sides. “If you insist,” he said, and took Biggles’ outstretched hand.
Biggles had never truly learned to dance. It was something which some boys learned at school, but Biggles had never shown an interest and his father had never pressed him into it, and so he had survived his entire adult life without being forced to show off his ignorance of the waltz, the foxtrot, and all the rest. Now, as Erich gently corrected the line of his shoulders with one hand, he wondered if it might be the time to learn.
The band struck up a new tune as Erich led them both closer to the centre of the floor, a slow-paced waltz which at least allowed Biggles a little more time to put his feet in the right places. It was significantly more difficult in heels, he was quite sure, and he would be very lucky to come out of the evening with both ankles intact.
A waltz tended to require the couple to hold hands. Erich’s hand was warm in Biggles’ own, his long, musician’s fingers closed over his own slim, short ones. The hand on his waist was equally warm, and the occasional brush of his thumb against Biggles’ hipbone sent pleasant shivers up his spine. The music was familiar again, this time from the days of his childhood when his father would put on the gramophone and sit with him to listen to a concerto or two.
They had come to this party for the opportunity to snoop around Renard’s house with even a modicum of plausible deniability. Dancing a waltz was not strictly part of the plan, and yet - as Biggles narrowly avoided colliding with another couple, and then stepped perilously close to Erich’s toes - he found he was enjoying himself too much to stop.
“The dress looks well on you,” commented Erich, once they had found something of a rhythm in their steps.
“Thank you,” said Biggles. He had thought so himself, even as he’d told himself it wasn’t the sort of thought he ought to have. “Ginger insisted the colour would bring out my eyes.” The dress was black; Ginger liked to make comments about fashion mostly for the pleasure of seeing Algy wince. Biggles mostly appreciated the fact that it had sleeves.
“Far be it from me to criticise Hebblethwaite’s fashion sense,” Erich murmured, lips pursed in amusement. Biggles tore his eyes away from them just in time to avoid yet another collision. The dance floor was filling up in anticipation of a new song. “You ought to grow your hair longer.”
“As should you,” retorted Biggles. He shifted his hand on Erich’s shoulder, letting his thumb brush against his neck. He could feel the other man’s pulse jump.
Erich shook his head. “In that case I will simply relish this evening for what it gives me,” he said. “Seeing you like this is an unexpected gift.”
“It’s been a long time,” admitted Biggles. “We did a show during the first war.” Biggles had played Cinderella, although the plot had certainly diverged from the traditional story quite drastically. There had been at least one dogfight - represented with scrap-wood planes - and possibly a strafing run. It had been several decades; Biggles could be forgiven for forgetting details.
He did, however, remember seeing himself in Cinderella’s dress for the first time. It had been borrowed from one of the girls in Cassel, who had spent several months leading Smyth around by the nose before he finally realised she wanted him to propose. The material was soft, not from quality but from wear, and the colours had faded to near-invisibility. But the way it brushed against Biggles’ knees as he walked had been… interesting.
He had played Cinderella twice, once for 266 and once - after a lost bet - to the 169. After the 169 performance he’d got quite drunk and Algy told him later that he’d been sat in Wilks’ lap for a decent portion of the evening. It was passed off as a joke, although it explained why Wilks had avoided Biggles’ eyes for the next several times they crossed paths. The dress was returned to Smyth’s beau, and Biggles had only the memory to dwell on.
“I wish I could have seen it,” said Erich, jolting Biggles from his reminiscence. The music had changed again, to something faster paced.
Biggles shook his head. “Could we sit down? I think I’ll get a stitch if I try to dance to this.”
Erich nodded. There was a selection of small tables lined up against one wall, and it was to one of these that Erich led him and handed him into a chair. It was an odd feeling, to be on the receiving end of that sort of chivalry. It was not, Biggles reflected, unpleasant.
He settled into his chair and, with a heavy sigh, slipped off his left shoe. He could feel a blister forming on his heel; he’d had to borrow the shoes as well, and they were just a hair too small for his feet. His stockings, at least, were still firmly attached to their garters.
Erich sat down beside him, slipping off his jacket and extracting his cigarette holder and case. “Do you have a light?” He asked, oddly formal and stiff. His eyes were on Biggles’ stockinged foot, resting crossed-over on his knee.
Biggles rolled his eyes and produced a matchbook from his purse.
Both cigarettes lit, they sat in a bubble of calm as they smoked in silence for a few minutes. Biggles kept his eyes on the dancefloor, where Renard had enticed a much younger woman into a foxtrot.
Within the allotted timeframe I wrote two stories, listed below.
frosty wind for california_112 (Ginger&Algy&Biggles, G)
This was my first time writing Ginger, Algy and Biggles in the interwar period and I had an excellent time doing so! I think that the relationship between them at this point is so interesting, because Algy and Biggles clearly have no idea how to look after a soon-to-be-grown-up teenager, while Ginger has no idea how to cope with suddenly living with two of his heroes and also having to teach them how to be responsible guardians. It's never a parent/child relationship but is necessarily one of caretaking, so in this fic Ginger is ill and sad at Christmas mostly so that Algy and Biggles can cheer him up in any way possible. As it turns out this involves early Christmas presents and a few extra decorations. I imagine by the year after this they have actually asked Ginger how he'd like to celebrate and that forms the basis for some truly lovely Christmasses down the line.
never see that girl again for
sweetsorcery (Biggles/EvS, E)I decided to write a treat for SweetSorcery because she very kindly wrote me one for Yuletide Madness, and when I realised this was my chance to contribute to the growing subgenre of Biggles Crossdressing Fanfic, I knew it was meant to be. I actually started writing the entire soiree they were initially undercover at, but then realised it was expanding beyond my scope and turned to the erotic undressing scene instead. Writing Biggles crossdressing from his perspective was a fun challenge since I genuinely believe he would view the whole thing with the same pragmatic sort of focus and sense of fun as IDK having to land on a particularly small lake. Satisfying to pull off but not kinky. Meanwhile Erich is absolutely losing his mind because not only is he already in love with Biggles (obviously) he is now having to act like they're married and keeps LEANING ON HIM and TOUCHING HIM. And is wearing a GARTER BELT.
I also saw that SweetSorcery (feels weird repeating it so much but writing in the second person seemed a bit presumptuous) was 95% certain of who the author was, so I must wonder how I gave myself away so easily OR somehow pulled off an insane coup.
Produced below is as far as I got with the main part of the evening, featuring some dancing and teeny tiny bit of possessiveness.
“I wish you’d stop doing that,” said Biggles, as Erich took him by the elbow and steered him away from a nearby party guest, already drunk and turning more belligerent by the moment.
“I am playing my part, Detective,” Erich replied quietly, with his customary half-smile. “It would behove you to do the same.” He plucked two glasses of wine from a nearby waiter and handed one to Biggles, who restrained the urge to drain the entire thing in one gulp. Instead he took a careful sip and shifted his weight, trying to relieve some of the strain in his calves.
The party was being held by the primary suspect for the Air Police’s current case, a string of robberies targeting a number of small commercial airlines across the South East. It had been trivially easy to obtain an invitation for Erich’s professional alias - one provided by Raymond on such occasions as Erich chose to liaise with the Air Police on a case - and with that invitation came the expectation of a partner. A wife, in fact.
Erich’s hand was still on Biggles’ elbow, a warm reminder of his current role. “Incoming,” came the whisper in his ear. More warmth. Biggles fought back a shiver and turned towards the newcomer, already pasting a smile on his face.
“Good evening,” said the new man. He was tall and wide-set, with thick, dark hair and heavy eyebrows. He was handsome enough, Biggles supposed, except that his eyes were uncommonly pale for his complexion. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Mister…?”
He addressed only Erich, of course. Biggles was well aware that his role this evening was to remain unnoticed and, if possible, conveniently get lost on the way to the water closet. It still rankled.
“Knightley,” said Erich. “Bill Knightley.” He had brought his Major Sterne accent out of retirement for the evening, mellowed by long years of disuse. “Of course, our gracious host needs no introduction.”
“Oh, no need to flatter me, old boy,” said the man of the hour. It was, of course, the head of the crime ring which had orchestrated the robberies. Jack Renard, known by the sobriquet ‘The Fox’, had evaded police capture for years through careful, deliberate sabotage and bribery. Biggles was very much looking forward to his downfall. “I just like to throw a good party now and then. Let me think, Knightley – you’re the contact at Enfield, aren’t you?”
Erich raised an eyebrow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The cover had been easily chosen, once Algy had uncovered the link between the robberies and a series of arms deals made with a reactionary group in South America. “I’d rather not let them keep arming the fascists, if it’s all the same to you,” he’d said, once the whole thing was laid out. Biggles was inclined to agree.
Renard laughed heartily, then clapped Erich on the shoulder. Biggles felt the slight flinch, swiftly concealed. “Good man,” he said. He tapped the side of his nose. “Never know who’s listening, eh?” He glanced at Biggles, then looked again. “I say, here’s a bit of stuff.”
“My wife,” said Erich, in much more convincing tones than he’d managed when the plan had first been suggested to him, earlier that day. He put one arm around Biggles’ waist, pulling him closer into his side. It was odd to realise so intimately how much taller Erich was. “In fact, I believe I promised her a dance. You must excuse us.”
Renard waved them away. Biggles glanced up at Erich, who seemed oddly focused on steering them both swiftly away from their suspect.
There was a live four piece band playing a number of jazz tunes which Biggles recognised from before the war. The whole party felt like a time capsule in a way, from the dress code of tuxedos and gowns to the bizarre opulence of the ballroom, which reminded him of nothing less than faintly remembered illustrations of Versailles.
He glanced down at himself as Erich paused by the dancefloor, a wide area full of couples dancing at various tempos. His dress had been pinned and tucked quickly, and the fit being so fine was more due to his lack of curves than to any ability at tailoring. He wore a light wool cardigan and a necklace borrowed from Raymond’s wife. His hair, clearly too short for purpose, was concealed beneath a carefully pinned hat. He looked, in fact, like the wife of a middle aged bureaucrat, pretty enough and glamorous enough without outshining some of the young women currently dancing up a storm.
It was best to be inconspicuous. He looked at Erich again. He was dressed in his best suit, which Biggles knew was usually confined to a garment bag in his wardrobe for fear of being ruined. He was as slim as ever, no longer so starved now that Sakhalin was several years in the past, and he stood straight-backed without his cane. It would doubtless cause problems for him in the morning, but Erich had insisted that a walking stick would be too conspicuous. His face showed faint lines of strain, as it often did, but Biggles suspected that only he would notice. Only he would look at him closely enough to see them.
The familiar grey eyes met his own. Biggles gestured to the floor. “Well, Bill? Will you take your old woman out for a spin?”
Erich smiled at him. It wasn’t his usual half-smile, or the contemptuous one he had once worn when they were on opposite sides. “If you insist,” he said, and took Biggles’ outstretched hand.
Biggles had never truly learned to dance. It was something which some boys learned at school, but Biggles had never shown an interest and his father had never pressed him into it, and so he had survived his entire adult life without being forced to show off his ignorance of the waltz, the foxtrot, and all the rest. Now, as Erich gently corrected the line of his shoulders with one hand, he wondered if it might be the time to learn.
The band struck up a new tune as Erich led them both closer to the centre of the floor, a slow-paced waltz which at least allowed Biggles a little more time to put his feet in the right places. It was significantly more difficult in heels, he was quite sure, and he would be very lucky to come out of the evening with both ankles intact.
A waltz tended to require the couple to hold hands. Erich’s hand was warm in Biggles’ own, his long, musician’s fingers closed over his own slim, short ones. The hand on his waist was equally warm, and the occasional brush of his thumb against Biggles’ hipbone sent pleasant shivers up his spine. The music was familiar again, this time from the days of his childhood when his father would put on the gramophone and sit with him to listen to a concerto or two.
They had come to this party for the opportunity to snoop around Renard’s house with even a modicum of plausible deniability. Dancing a waltz was not strictly part of the plan, and yet - as Biggles narrowly avoided colliding with another couple, and then stepped perilously close to Erich’s toes - he found he was enjoying himself too much to stop.
“The dress looks well on you,” commented Erich, once they had found something of a rhythm in their steps.
“Thank you,” said Biggles. He had thought so himself, even as he’d told himself it wasn’t the sort of thought he ought to have. “Ginger insisted the colour would bring out my eyes.” The dress was black; Ginger liked to make comments about fashion mostly for the pleasure of seeing Algy wince. Biggles mostly appreciated the fact that it had sleeves.
“Far be it from me to criticise Hebblethwaite’s fashion sense,” Erich murmured, lips pursed in amusement. Biggles tore his eyes away from them just in time to avoid yet another collision. The dance floor was filling up in anticipation of a new song. “You ought to grow your hair longer.”
“As should you,” retorted Biggles. He shifted his hand on Erich’s shoulder, letting his thumb brush against his neck. He could feel the other man’s pulse jump.
Erich shook his head. “In that case I will simply relish this evening for what it gives me,” he said. “Seeing you like this is an unexpected gift.”
“It’s been a long time,” admitted Biggles. “We did a show during the first war.” Biggles had played Cinderella, although the plot had certainly diverged from the traditional story quite drastically. There had been at least one dogfight - represented with scrap-wood planes - and possibly a strafing run. It had been several decades; Biggles could be forgiven for forgetting details.
He did, however, remember seeing himself in Cinderella’s dress for the first time. It had been borrowed from one of the girls in Cassel, who had spent several months leading Smyth around by the nose before he finally realised she wanted him to propose. The material was soft, not from quality but from wear, and the colours had faded to near-invisibility. But the way it brushed against Biggles’ knees as he walked had been… interesting.
He had played Cinderella twice, once for 266 and once - after a lost bet - to the 169. After the 169 performance he’d got quite drunk and Algy told him later that he’d been sat in Wilks’ lap for a decent portion of the evening. It was passed off as a joke, although it explained why Wilks had avoided Biggles’ eyes for the next several times they crossed paths. The dress was returned to Smyth’s beau, and Biggles had only the memory to dwell on.
“I wish I could have seen it,” said Erich, jolting Biggles from his reminiscence. The music had changed again, to something faster paced.
Biggles shook his head. “Could we sit down? I think I’ll get a stitch if I try to dance to this.”
Erich nodded. There was a selection of small tables lined up against one wall, and it was to one of these that Erich led him and handed him into a chair. It was an odd feeling, to be on the receiving end of that sort of chivalry. It was not, Biggles reflected, unpleasant.
He settled into his chair and, with a heavy sigh, slipped off his left shoe. He could feel a blister forming on his heel; he’d had to borrow the shoes as well, and they were just a hair too small for his feet. His stockings, at least, were still firmly attached to their garters.
Erich sat down beside him, slipping off his jacket and extracting his cigarette holder and case. “Do you have a light?” He asked, oddly formal and stiff. His eyes were on Biggles’ stockinged foot, resting crossed-over on his knee.
Biggles rolled his eyes and produced a matchbook from his purse.
Both cigarettes lit, they sat in a bubble of calm as they smoked in silence for a few minutes. Biggles kept his eyes on the dancefloor, where Renard had enticed a much younger woman into a foxtrot.
no subject
Date: 2024-01-14 09:52 pm (UTC)And I completely agree: Biggles would view dressing as a woman as a fascinating puzzle to solve and do to the best of his considerable ability, while Erich's brain slowly dissolves into a puddle of lust at Biggles in lipstick and garters touching him and dancing with him and flirting with him <333
no subject
Date: 2024-01-15 01:16 am (UTC)I'm sorry, but yes, you gave yourself away in three different ways. :D
But don't feel bad about that, because at least I won't have to cry into my glass of ice cubes about being incapable of figuring out who wrote any of my gifts; I got practically all my other guesses wrong.
Sorry my username is hard to abbreviate in a non-disturbing way!
I very much approve of the fact that the subgenre of Biggles Crossdressing Fic is growing, and I'll happily take partial blame for that.
I'm so glad you wrote a good chunk of the actual evening preceding the fic! Dancing and possessiveness being catnip to me, I very much approve of all of this. Erich really couldn't wait to steer Biggles away from the chap they were there for - not conducive to the case, maybe, but definitely more fun! And I feel fully vindicated now about comparing Erich to a flustered Victorian gent in my comment, as I couldn't help but note his attention being drawn to Biggles' scandalous ankle display. :D