Kissing fools, drabbles, etcetera.
medie is running the You Must've Been Kissin' a Fool comment drabble-thon (if there's a more accurate name for it, I don't know what it is!) this weekend. There's tons and tons of prompts, so ficcers and artists are bound to find something to tickle their fancy.
I've already contributed twice today (and, no, I still haven't done my taxes).
Arvin squints against the bright white light, his wrists looking narrow in the restraints, his clenched fists ineffectual. Her heels click against the floor, staccato taps, and her lips press in a thin line as she runs her fingers along the edge of the silver briefcase at his left.
"I expected you to be bigger," she murmurs, removing the first blade, testing its tip.
"I had no expectations," he says, his voice hoarse but buoyant. "But you are as beautiful as they say, Madeline."
She smiles, as she always does when her beauty is complimented. So many men, and some women, fall to that trap, of her Madonna eyes and her controlled sexuality. She has taught dozens of recruits the art of feminine warfare. None will ever surpass her.
He thinks that the balance has shifted with that pleasant line, that he has the power. "When do you expect to be finished? I'll be needed at SD-6 by 0700."
"We're finished when you tell me the location of the warhead you're planning to sell Red Cell." He starts to laugh, until she bends close enough to whisper. "We're finished when I say we're finished."
She lightly kisses his mouth. And then begins to cut.
He watches her spar with Bart. They're still such *kids*, so there's a lot of falling, a lot of laughter, a lot of Bart zipping around as she rolls her eyes and deepens the Texas twang in her voice to whine, "Stooooop it."
Oliver doesn't remember being that young. Not anymore. But Claire brings him just close enough. Like the first day she showed up at the League, the address clutched in her fingers, the ink leaving stains, as she said "Kansas," and "Smallville," and he made a mental note to quit telling Clark *anything* about where they were camping out. Claire looked tiny, not indestructible, and so blond and fragile that he almost saw himself mirrored in her eyes. If he were seventeen and a girl, maybe he'd be her. And maybe not.
The red and white suit fits her like a second skin. She's happy to call it a uniform, pointing out she wore one for years as a cheerleader. A *cheerleader*, for Christ's sake. No wonder she keeps their spirits up. No wonder he's remembered how to laugh again.
"Okay, I'm out!" Bart flashes past him, out the doors of the training room, in a blur, headed for Baja or Cancun or the horizon.
Claire is left mopping her face with a towel and still giggling. She's glowing, exhilarated, and it's infectious. When she reaches out, tugs at his sleeve and says, "Well, come on. What about you, your highness?" he can't help but chuckle, sweep her up, and bear her down to the mats in a mock body slam.
His fingers skim down her sides to tickle, to force her to cry "Stoooop it," and they stall at her hips. She's slight, so small, and one of the strongest people he knows. "Ollie?" she murmurs, tilting her head to one side, still gasping for breath. Her eyes are shining, reflective, and full of something he can't even define. "Aren't you ever going to kiss me?"
She brings him just close enough. He bends the rest of the way and tastes what it's like to have hope.
I've already contributed twice today (and, no, I still haven't done my taxes).
Arvin squints against the bright white light, his wrists looking narrow in the restraints, his clenched fists ineffectual. Her heels click against the floor, staccato taps, and her lips press in a thin line as she runs her fingers along the edge of the silver briefcase at his left.
"I expected you to be bigger," she murmurs, removing the first blade, testing its tip.
"I had no expectations," he says, his voice hoarse but buoyant. "But you are as beautiful as they say, Madeline."
She smiles, as she always does when her beauty is complimented. So many men, and some women, fall to that trap, of her Madonna eyes and her controlled sexuality. She has taught dozens of recruits the art of feminine warfare. None will ever surpass her.
He thinks that the balance has shifted with that pleasant line, that he has the power. "When do you expect to be finished? I'll be needed at SD-6 by 0700."
"We're finished when you tell me the location of the warhead you're planning to sell Red Cell." He starts to laugh, until she bends close enough to whisper. "We're finished when I say we're finished."
She lightly kisses his mouth. And then begins to cut.
He watches her spar with Bart. They're still such *kids*, so there's a lot of falling, a lot of laughter, a lot of Bart zipping around as she rolls her eyes and deepens the Texas twang in her voice to whine, "Stooooop it."
Oliver doesn't remember being that young. Not anymore. But Claire brings him just close enough. Like the first day she showed up at the League, the address clutched in her fingers, the ink leaving stains, as she said "Kansas," and "Smallville," and he made a mental note to quit telling Clark *anything* about where they were camping out. Claire looked tiny, not indestructible, and so blond and fragile that he almost saw himself mirrored in her eyes. If he were seventeen and a girl, maybe he'd be her. And maybe not.
The red and white suit fits her like a second skin. She's happy to call it a uniform, pointing out she wore one for years as a cheerleader. A *cheerleader*, for Christ's sake. No wonder she keeps their spirits up. No wonder he's remembered how to laugh again.
"Okay, I'm out!" Bart flashes past him, out the doors of the training room, in a blur, headed for Baja or Cancun or the horizon.
Claire is left mopping her face with a towel and still giggling. She's glowing, exhilarated, and it's infectious. When she reaches out, tugs at his sleeve and says, "Well, come on. What about you, your highness?" he can't help but chuckle, sweep her up, and bear her down to the mats in a mock body slam.
His fingers skim down her sides to tickle, to force her to cry "Stoooop it," and they stall at her hips. She's slight, so small, and one of the strongest people he knows. "Ollie?" she murmurs, tilting her head to one side, still gasping for breath. Her eyes are shining, reflective, and full of something he can't even define. "Aren't you ever going to kiss me?"
She brings him just close enough. He bends the rest of the way and tastes what it's like to have hope.