Apologetic fic!
That's right, fic in apology for the several dry weeks previous. And also because this week's Friday fic will not be posted on Friday - early estimates are saying Monday next. Sorry! Have a drabble (plus) to tide you over. :D
Title: One Tequila, Two Tequila...
Fandom: Count Cain.
Characters: Cain, Riff.
Prompt: 060 - Drink.
Word Count: 163.
Rating: G
Summary: ...three tequila, floor.
Author's Notes/Disclaimer: Count Cain and all associated characters, settings, etc., belongs to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. This is a blatant case of taking the prompt too literally - and yes, there really is a Marquess of Hartington - apparently Cain runs in high social circles. :)
The room was quiet but for his master’s rather heavy breathing. Riff stood patiently by the table, content to wait for his master’s orders. His master himself was sitting in the only chair - well, perhaps ‘sitting’ was not the most apt description - was slumped in the only chair, head pillowed on his arms which lay on the table, face hidden, dark hair in a rather undignified tangle dangerously close to getting in his tea. Riff calmly moved the cup a bit farther from his master’s head.
“Riff,” said his master, in a tone more approaching a grunt than anything else.
“Sir?”
“Find whoever is ringing that blasted bell and poison them.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a short pause. Riff idly arranged the teapot and his master’s cup and saucer.
“Riff?”
“Sir?”
“The next time I decide to have a drinking contest with the sons of the Marquess of Hartington, poison me. Or lock me in my room, I don’t care.”
“Of course, sir.”
END
My Little Damn Table.
Title: One Tequila, Two Tequila...
Fandom: Count Cain.
Characters: Cain, Riff.
Prompt: 060 - Drink.
Word Count: 163.
Rating: G
Summary: ...three tequila, floor.
Author's Notes/Disclaimer: Count Cain and all associated characters, settings, etc., belongs to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. This is a blatant case of taking the prompt too literally - and yes, there really is a Marquess of Hartington - apparently Cain runs in high social circles. :)
The room was quiet but for his master’s rather heavy breathing. Riff stood patiently by the table, content to wait for his master’s orders. His master himself was sitting in the only chair - well, perhaps ‘sitting’ was not the most apt description - was slumped in the only chair, head pillowed on his arms which lay on the table, face hidden, dark hair in a rather undignified tangle dangerously close to getting in his tea. Riff calmly moved the cup a bit farther from his master’s head.
“Riff,” said his master, in a tone more approaching a grunt than anything else.
“Sir?”
“Find whoever is ringing that blasted bell and poison them.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a short pause. Riff idly arranged the teapot and his master’s cup and saucer.
“Riff?”
“Sir?”
“The next time I decide to have a drinking contest with the sons of the Marquess of Hartington, poison me. Or lock me in my room, I don’t care.”
“Of course, sir.”
END
My Little Damn Table.