Drabbles, Pt. II
I decided that 15 drabbles was more than enough on the last post, so I'm continuing here. I also found out that Microsoft Word counts every ". . ." as three words, so I got rid of them and got to play around with the word count for some of the drabbles. I also went back and changed some of them to make them better. So.
Old (but revamped) drabbles are here.
Rea wants guard duty with more action, but the Princara’s word is law. If ey wants Reamonn to protect a dusty scholar, it must be done.
But something is wrong with Ailean.
The historian’s gaze, akin to an owl’s; simultaneously piercing and surrounding Rea. Fingers, deft with turning ancient, crumbling pages, tremble and drop random objects.
But never a word.
It makes Rea nervous; at last, it is too much. “What is wrong with you?”
Aile jumps; scattering pages, knocking an inkpot into eir lap. “Nothing. Just distracted,” softly.
Rea eyes the other, but says nothing. Academics are so weird.
Darkness. It hides his movements, though does nothing to muffle sound. He must be cautious.
It must be destroyed, this evil too great to leave unharmed. He is the only one who can; the girl is too afraid.
He finds it, nestled in its protective shrine, surrounded by photographs and clumsy hand-drawn effigies. He shudders, wishing he’d brought gloves.
He knows the consequences; tears, flailing, possibly hatred. But he will endure. In the long run, evil must be vanquished.
A click, and light fills the room. “Sky?” Brad’s sleepy voice makes him freeze. “What’re you doin’ with my Buffy DVDs?”
Michael draws his knees up to his chest, bringing the sheets with them. He winces. He hurts all over, no matter how many times his boyfriend tells him it will get easier, feel better.
His body isn’t the only thing in pain.
Michael shudders. It’s too late now.
But really, he thinks, it’s better than nothing. At least he pretends to care. Pete won’t - not the way Michael needs -
No. Not thinking that.
Still fast asleep, Brian rolls over and flops half on top of Michael, mumbling. His dead weight makes it hard to breathe, but Michael doesn’t dare move.
So this one and the following are in reference to the conversation I mentioned in my other LJ, and it was too insane to explain. Maybe I'll put the relevant bits up under a cut so people can understand, but right now, eh.
Paul was crying.
Michael bit back a curse - they’d both heard enough angry words tonight to last them a long time.
His fingers ghosted over Paul’s shoulder.
“It’s just,” Paul barely whispered. “All the hatred, the anger. It’s been a while.”
“Consider the source,” Michael stroked his hair; Paul had his back to him still.
“But he called us - and said that we, that our -“
“Don’t,” Michael closed his eyes. “He was wrong. I love you.”
“You too,” Paul sniffled. “So much.”
Michael tugged Paul into his arms; held him until the other’s muffled sobs quieted to peaceful breaths.
“Can’t - believe - how -“
“Stop it,” Manda eyed Pete. He stormed around his room, kicking anything not too breakable at the walls.
“I can’t!” Pete raged, gripping his hair. “He called Michael - and Paul, god, he doesn’t need to hear -“
“Please,” Manda gripped his arms. His expression frightened her. “You’re scaring me.”
The anger softened, simmered. “Sorry. I- he hurt them and - the ignorance and - so unnecessary! I couldn’t-“
She kissed him, fiercely. “Enough. Let them fight their own battles.”
He whimpered. “It’s so hard.”
Manda didn’t know what to say to that, so she kissed him again.
Old (but revamped) drabbles are here.
Rea wants guard duty with more action, but the Princara’s word is law. If ey wants Reamonn to protect a dusty scholar, it must be done.
But something is wrong with Ailean.
The historian’s gaze, akin to an owl’s; simultaneously piercing and surrounding Rea. Fingers, deft with turning ancient, crumbling pages, tremble and drop random objects.
But never a word.
It makes Rea nervous; at last, it is too much. “What is wrong with you?”
Aile jumps; scattering pages, knocking an inkpot into eir lap. “Nothing. Just distracted,” softly.
Rea eyes the other, but says nothing. Academics are so weird.
Darkness. It hides his movements, though does nothing to muffle sound. He must be cautious.
It must be destroyed, this evil too great to leave unharmed. He is the only one who can; the girl is too afraid.
He finds it, nestled in its protective shrine, surrounded by photographs and clumsy hand-drawn effigies. He shudders, wishing he’d brought gloves.
He knows the consequences; tears, flailing, possibly hatred. But he will endure. In the long run, evil must be vanquished.
A click, and light fills the room. “Sky?” Brad’s sleepy voice makes him freeze. “What’re you doin’ with my Buffy DVDs?”
Michael draws his knees up to his chest, bringing the sheets with them. He winces. He hurts all over, no matter how many times his boyfriend tells him it will get easier, feel better.
His body isn’t the only thing in pain.
Michael shudders. It’s too late now.
But really, he thinks, it’s better than nothing. At least he pretends to care. Pete won’t - not the way Michael needs -
No. Not thinking that.
Still fast asleep, Brian rolls over and flops half on top of Michael, mumbling. His dead weight makes it hard to breathe, but Michael doesn’t dare move.
So this one and the following are in reference to the conversation I mentioned in my other LJ, and it was too insane to explain. Maybe I'll put the relevant bits up under a cut so people can understand, but right now, eh.
Paul was crying.
Michael bit back a curse - they’d both heard enough angry words tonight to last them a long time.
His fingers ghosted over Paul’s shoulder.
“It’s just,” Paul barely whispered. “All the hatred, the anger. It’s been a while.”
“Consider the source,” Michael stroked his hair; Paul had his back to him still.
“But he called us - and said that we, that our -“
“Don’t,” Michael closed his eyes. “He was wrong. I love you.”
“You too,” Paul sniffled. “So much.”
Michael tugged Paul into his arms; held him until the other’s muffled sobs quieted to peaceful breaths.
“Can’t - believe - how -“
“Stop it,” Manda eyed Pete. He stormed around his room, kicking anything not too breakable at the walls.
“I can’t!” Pete raged, gripping his hair. “He called Michael - and Paul, god, he doesn’t need to hear -“
“Please,” Manda gripped his arms. His expression frightened her. “You’re scaring me.”
The anger softened, simmered. “Sorry. I- he hurt them and - the ignorance and - so unnecessary! I couldn’t-“
She kissed him, fiercely. “Enough. Let them fight their own battles.”
He whimpered. “It’s so hard.”
Manda didn’t know what to say to that, so she kissed him again.