Dollhouse fic
Title: Men of Action
Fandom(s): Lord of the Rings/Dollhouse
Pairing: Éomer & Dominic
Rating: PG
Word Count: 430
Written for: themiddleearth crossover challenge.
A/N: I... had forgotten about this fic. It was like reading someone else's story when I found it in my folder. I guess it's a sort-of-but-not-really tag to the Dollhouse episode Echoes.
The man with the bizarre foreign name holds out an equally bizarre-looking instrument. “It’s sooooo heavy!” he whines.
Éomer frowns, lifting a hand to place it on the hilt of his sword. This… object, whatever it is, cannot possibly be any heavier than Gúthwinë. Slender and shapely though she may be, his lady packs quite a wallop. “Your burden seems not so severe,” he replies disdainfully.
Laurence -- Éomer rolls that name around again in his head, to see if he can think of any hints toward its origin -- peers at him blearily. “Aw, hell. Since when did everyone get so proper and disapproving and British?”
“On the contrary, I can assure you of my good will,” Éomer replies. “I do not know what ‘British’ is, but I will assume you meant no slight upon my character.”
“Your character looks to be a bit enhanced by those shoulder pads,” Laurence says. “But I still don’t think I’d ever refer to you as ‘slight’.” He chuckles as though he’s made some sort of joke. Éomer begins to seriously consider dispatching Gúthwinë.
“I think you are unwell, sir.”
“You know, I think I am, too,” Laurence says cheerfully. “I think I have possibly been given a horrible, horrible virus.” He opens his odd coat, which reveals something that appears to be a sort of sheath for the object he holds in his hand. Éomer's deduction proves to be correct when Laurence slides into place that which now appears to be a weapon. He settles the coat back around himself.
It is a very small weapon; Éomer cannot imagine that it should be particularly powerful or effective. Yet Laurence seems to place an extreme amount of dependence on its protective capabilities. He wears no armor of any kind. It is the most intriguing thing Éomer has seen in a fortnight.
“Where are you from, anyway?” Laurence asks. “Iceland?”
“I am unsure how to answer your query. Rohan has seasons, yes. And there is, on occasion, ice and snow during winter.” Éomer pauses, realizes he has an opportunity. “Where are you from?” he borrows the question.
“Ck--” Laurence begins, then slaps a hand over his mouth mid-syllable. His eyes are comically wide. He drops the hand from his mouth, and clasps his hands in front of himself while attempting to exert control over his facial expression. “I mean, I am not authorized to disclose that information.”
“So you are keeping secrets,” Éomer says. “Most interesting.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” Laurence asks, lowering his voice and leaning toward Éomer.
“It is my fondest wish,” Éomer replies.
“You smell like horses.”
Title: Perchance to Dream
Fandom(s): Dollhouse
Pairing: DeWitt/Dominic
Rating: G
Word Count: 330
Written for: whedonland gift giving
A/N: derevko-child requested DeWitt/Dominic fic in which everything is made of cotton candy & rainbows. A case of be careful what you wish for.
“Well, Mr. Dominic. Since I am speaking with you, and I appear to be sitting on a sofa made of candy floss, I must assume I have been given placement within The Attic.”
Out of habit, Adelle lifts her teacup to her lips. She pauses when she sees that it is not her customary petit ceramic cup; it is a rather large and garish cloisonné cup emblazoned with leaping koi fish. She lowers the cup to its saucer, then peers over the rim at its contents.
“One cannot drink a rainbow,” Adelle hears herself saying.
“Suit yourself.” Dominic speaks at last, and Adelle looks up.
He is sipping his rainbow through an oversized swirly straw.
He selects an enormous biscuit from the platter on the table, and flicks it casually into the corner of the room.
At least, it appears casual. Adelle sees something dark and skittery in the shadows.
Disgruntled, she picks up a pair of tongs from the table and places a marshmallow in her cup. She stirs and stirs, but it does not melt. Eventually, the marshmallow fluffs up even further, rises to hover over the cup, and darkens to grey. She watches the miniature storm as it brews.
“Do you know why I am here?” she says absently.
“Specifically? No,” Dominic drawls. “But I think I have a pretty good idea.”
Adelle feels the corner of her mouth twist upward. “No, I don’t suppose it is a very difficult task for you to imagine a reason for my imprisonment.”
In her peripheral vision, she sees more movement. Many-legged things as they scurry along the edge of the wall.
“We have to go,” Dominic says, and his hand enters her field of vision.
She is feeling rather cross with him after his rude comment, but nevertheless decides to accept his offer of help, placing her hand inside his.
After all, he does look rather dashing in the powder blue leisure suit.
As she sets down the teacup, Adelle feels a light rain fall upon her fingertips.
Fandom(s): Lord of the Rings/Dollhouse
Pairing: Éomer & Dominic
Rating: PG
Word Count: 430
Written for: themiddleearth crossover challenge.
A/N: I... had forgotten about this fic. It was like reading someone else's story when I found it in my folder. I guess it's a sort-of-but-not-really tag to the Dollhouse episode Echoes.
The man with the bizarre foreign name holds out an equally bizarre-looking instrument. “It’s sooooo heavy!” he whines.
Éomer frowns, lifting a hand to place it on the hilt of his sword. This… object, whatever it is, cannot possibly be any heavier than Gúthwinë. Slender and shapely though she may be, his lady packs quite a wallop. “Your burden seems not so severe,” he replies disdainfully.
Laurence -- Éomer rolls that name around again in his head, to see if he can think of any hints toward its origin -- peers at him blearily. “Aw, hell. Since when did everyone get so proper and disapproving and British?”
“On the contrary, I can assure you of my good will,” Éomer replies. “I do not know what ‘British’ is, but I will assume you meant no slight upon my character.”
“Your character looks to be a bit enhanced by those shoulder pads,” Laurence says. “But I still don’t think I’d ever refer to you as ‘slight’.” He chuckles as though he’s made some sort of joke. Éomer begins to seriously consider dispatching Gúthwinë.
“I think you are unwell, sir.”
“You know, I think I am, too,” Laurence says cheerfully. “I think I have possibly been given a horrible, horrible virus.” He opens his odd coat, which reveals something that appears to be a sort of sheath for the object he holds in his hand. Éomer's deduction proves to be correct when Laurence slides into place that which now appears to be a weapon. He settles the coat back around himself.
It is a very small weapon; Éomer cannot imagine that it should be particularly powerful or effective. Yet Laurence seems to place an extreme amount of dependence on its protective capabilities. He wears no armor of any kind. It is the most intriguing thing Éomer has seen in a fortnight.
“Where are you from, anyway?” Laurence asks. “Iceland?”
“I am unsure how to answer your query. Rohan has seasons, yes. And there is, on occasion, ice and snow during winter.” Éomer pauses, realizes he has an opportunity. “Where are you from?” he borrows the question.
“Ck--” Laurence begins, then slaps a hand over his mouth mid-syllable. His eyes are comically wide. He drops the hand from his mouth, and clasps his hands in front of himself while attempting to exert control over his facial expression. “I mean, I am not authorized to disclose that information.”
“So you are keeping secrets,” Éomer says. “Most interesting.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” Laurence asks, lowering his voice and leaning toward Éomer.
“It is my fondest wish,” Éomer replies.
“You smell like horses.”
Title: Perchance to Dream
Fandom(s): Dollhouse
Pairing: DeWitt/Dominic
Rating: G
Word Count: 330
Written for: whedonland gift giving
A/N: derevko-child requested DeWitt/Dominic fic in which everything is made of cotton candy & rainbows. A case of be careful what you wish for.
“Well, Mr. Dominic. Since I am speaking with you, and I appear to be sitting on a sofa made of candy floss, I must assume I have been given placement within The Attic.”
Out of habit, Adelle lifts her teacup to her lips. She pauses when she sees that it is not her customary petit ceramic cup; it is a rather large and garish cloisonné cup emblazoned with leaping koi fish. She lowers the cup to its saucer, then peers over the rim at its contents.
“One cannot drink a rainbow,” Adelle hears herself saying.
“Suit yourself.” Dominic speaks at last, and Adelle looks up.
He is sipping his rainbow through an oversized swirly straw.
He selects an enormous biscuit from the platter on the table, and flicks it casually into the corner of the room.
At least, it appears casual. Adelle sees something dark and skittery in the shadows.
Disgruntled, she picks up a pair of tongs from the table and places a marshmallow in her cup. She stirs and stirs, but it does not melt. Eventually, the marshmallow fluffs up even further, rises to hover over the cup, and darkens to grey. She watches the miniature storm as it brews.
“Do you know why I am here?” she says absently.
“Specifically? No,” Dominic drawls. “But I think I have a pretty good idea.”
Adelle feels the corner of her mouth twist upward. “No, I don’t suppose it is a very difficult task for you to imagine a reason for my imprisonment.”
In her peripheral vision, she sees more movement. Many-legged things as they scurry along the edge of the wall.
“We have to go,” Dominic says, and his hand enters her field of vision.
She is feeling rather cross with him after his rude comment, but nevertheless decides to accept his offer of help, placing her hand inside his.
After all, he does look rather dashing in the powder blue leisure suit.
As she sets down the teacup, Adelle feels a light rain fall upon her fingertips.