In case this looks like productivity, the two Gwendolines are old fics pulled from obscurity and reworked a bit, and Sam/Riley was something I impro'd once to katemonkey and themongkey in Cappucetto before getting sidetracked into impro'ing 'Sister' for them.
It was one of those conversations.
Waiting for the Man from Lille
The dead wench in the outer room smelled of protracted suffering and regret.
This much at least showed promise fulfilled.
Darla swept past her in a flurry of green silk, taking care not to soil either her skirts or her satin slippers. Visiting her Master in his sewers was hard enough on her clothes without further collateral damage.
The woman she was here to see was seated on a simple wooden chair that hardly matched the elaborate furniture around her and was dressed, as though for a journey, in a black riding habit and a jaunty white hat.
Of the two glasses before her, one held red wine, the other death.
'I told you, Milady,' Darla said. 'That I would come to you before your game was quite played out.'
'As you see Mademoiselle', the other said, ' I have made almost my last move. I can wait for them, or I can let them find me gone.'
'As I explained some years ago,' Darla said impatiently, ' you have a third option.'
'How charming to be given the luxury,' the other said, ' but, you know, I think not. I have played my game and it pleases me to take the consequence.'
'They will kill you.'
'Yes,' the other woman said with a husky langour Darla envied, ' but they will know always that I let them, that I made my choice. You will be fortunate, mademoiselle, if you achieve so much choice in your own end.'
And bowed her neck in farewell.
Darla curtseyed and stalked from the room.
She turned at the door.
'We could have had an eternity of wickedness, you and I.'
The other smiled in soft dismissal.
'As you wish,' Darla said. 'As you wish, Milady deWinter'
It was dark and cool under the willows.
The punt rocked gently in the river and trailing strands of willow brushed in and out of it, slowly transferring water onto the cushions.
The punt rocked more, now, in a staccato rhythm that sent lines of ripples out into the river, causing passing moorhens to give it an even wider berth.
A cooler, with an opened and half-drunk bottle of champagne, fell onto its side, and started to add froth to the mess in the bottom of the boat until a decisive hand with red painted fingernails reached out of the confusion of stripped off clothes and fallen sunshade and righted it, then plunging back into the muddle to claw at her partner's back, then reached back out again to grab the bottle.
She lay back, swigging from its neck, and stretched, half-satisfied.
'I'm sorry, Wesley,' Gwendoline said. ' That just wasn't quite as good as your father.'
A seemingly endless line of Russian tanks was crossing the Charles Bridge and machine gun nests ringed the outer wall of Hradcany Castle; they stood watching in the glare of streetlights in the darkness before dawn. This was not their concern, either of them; it was a thing of the world.
' Look,' one of them said,' all of those men are wearing little stars. And yet there are still just as many stars in the sky - how can that be, lover?'
The other pulled a bored face and pulled the other woman close to her, her mouth bruising lips that were still soft and human, her hand tweaking a nipple through the crushed red velvet of her dress.
'The second star on the right says you mean me harm' the first said.' The second star on the left says that you want to fuck me until I bleed. So many stars and some of them must be liars.'
' I don't know,' said the other, pulling a stake from her greatcoat pocket. 'We are who we are, but it can be pleasant along the way.'
There were shouts from the bridge, and pistol shots; the woman in the red dress pulled away, falling backwards over the embankment, red blood blooming against her red dress as she crawled into the shadows under the bridge.
'Typical bloody Slavs,' said the other, walking unmolested away.' No manners, spoiling a girl's fun.
Sam looked at him thoughtfully.
'You think of her, sometimes, when we make love,' she said, pulling delicately on the hairs on his chest.
Riley pulled his face into an apologetic little boy grin.
'It's hard not to, sometimes,' he said. ' You are so alike in many ways - as brave, as funny.'
'But not as strong', Sam said, pinching his left nipple so that she left him wincing.
'Well, no,' he said. 'But otherwise.'
'And no inconvenient obsession with the undead', she went on.
'Ah,' he said. 'I knew there was something special.'
She laughed, high and clear. then after a little while, she said, 'Riley'.
He kissed her cheek and said, 'Yes dear.'
'Is it all right if sometimes I think of her a little too?'