Prompt Me
I badly need to write something different that's not a WIP, so if you all could do me a favor and leave me prompts that would be great.
- ANY fandom that you know I write.
- Leave me a pairing/character(s), and a prompt word, song lyric, phrase, or picture.
- You may leave up to 3.
- I'm not guaranteeing I finish all of these, but I am going to try ( Read more... )
- ANY fandom that you know I write.
- Leave me a pairing/character(s), and a prompt word, song lyric, phrase, or picture.
- You may leave up to 3.
- I'm not guaranteeing I finish all of these, but I am going to try ( Read more... )
---
“I’ve always wanted to do it in one of these.”
Mason’s spinning around in her swivel chair, like a five year old with an inability to sit still, when she gets back from running something over to Delores, and not for the first time that day she curses the fact that he apparently has nothing to do other than torture her until his five o’clock reap. He manages another two rotations before she clamps her hand down on the back of the chair and holds him there, facing her computer but thankfully far enough back that he can’t do anything to it. “Do what?”
“Fucking, George. The nasty. Dirty deed.” It’s far more elaboration, in far more terms, than she wishes he would’ve given, and she just shakes her head.
“Is this how you proposition women? Do you tell them you’re a virgin too? Because my kid sister could see through that.” There’s some resistance against her hold on the chair and so she lets go, watching him spin to face her, eyes wide and innocent as if to say he isn’t lying. “Please, you’ve been a reaper for how long and you just, what, haven’t gotten around to it?”
Somehow the first defense he throws out there is, “I bet you Rube’s never done it in a swivel chair, and he’s been around a lot longer than I have.”
The topic makes her uneasy. It’s not necessarily something she really wants to think about. Or at all. “Yeah but that’s Rube, and he…”
“Isn’t quite as pretty as me?” Mason supplies, not at all correctly, all smug smiles as he folds his arms across his chest, leaning farther back in her chair. “I know.”
“I was going to say has standards and morals but whatever works for you. Now get out of my chair.”
“Make me,” lets her know that the five year old observation was warranted, and she relocates the bone-crushing grasp that she had on the chair previously to his shoulder, doing a little more than just nudging him out of the chair. What follows is a chorus of “ow’s”, as well as several other colorful words that gets the attention of at least two of her co-workers, but it doesn’t really matter because she gets to both reclaim her seat and enjoy the pained look on his face as he cups his shoulder with his other hand and does something that could be nicely called pouting. “You don’t play fair.”
“Can’t you go bother Daisy? Or Roxy?” She’s ninety percent sure that doing the latter will result in him getting shot again but he can’t die twice so she doesn’t feel all that bad about it afterwards.
“Do they have swivel chairs?” He asks, settling on her desk instead, right next to her computer and, as such, close enough to her that moving her arm results in brushing against his thigh. It’s a serious invasion of personal space, but this is Mason, and that’s to be expected.
She’s only slightly bitter when she says, “No but they do have much more interesting jobs.” He cocks his head to the side and she quickly realizes her error. “Or Roxy does. Daisy doesn’t work, although if you believe her then shopping for the perfect moisturizer is far more taxing. And somehow probably still more interesting.”
But he’s not looking at her, he’s looking at the chair again, and she rubs a hand over her eyes.
“Or you could go buy one of these,” she adds.
“I don’t know. I’d have to take it on a test drive first.”
She knows exactly what he’s getting at. She just would prefer he think she didn’t, because then maybe he’ll let it go. “Well then why don’t you go find some pretty sales assistant to help you with that?”
“Why do that when I have one right here?”
“You have a chair. I have a chair. It’s my chair. And I’m busy.”
“You’re bored,” he counters, “you just said so yourself.”
She did. She did say that. And she is. And this is wrong on many levels, but a lot of things in her life are wrong, for instance getting killed by a toilet seat, so it’s not like this is going to throw things off. “Fine. There’s an empty office with a lock,” she points, his eyes follow. “Meet you there in five.”
The grin he gives her appears to wrap around his entire head and she wonders, a little too late, just what she’s gotten herself into.
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