Prompt Fic # 6, 7, 9, 11
[First of all: Dear Flist, sorry for spamming. I'll save everything else until after midnight.:)]
More goodies! I'm on a roll today. I'm also finally catching up with the prompts I have left from my last round of boredom. If you have anything else you'd like to see, gimme!
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He hit on her.
She told him he looked like someone she once knew.
He asked if it was good sex.
She slapped him.
He told her he loved her.
She slapped him again and then saved his life when the guys chasing him stormed the place.
He woke in a hospital and was surprised to find her still there.
She slapped him a third time when he made a dirty ‘nurse’ joke and asked his name.
He told her the truth, stunning himself.
After that things got strange. So strange, in fact, that he still has no idea how she ends up hanging off his arm every time he makes another time-jump. He saw a pretty girl and flirted with her, expecting to get slapped. She did that, but then went and surprised him.
That’s not something many people manage.
So he keeps her around. He insists it’s all about the sex, though.
(She knows that’s a lie, but lets him get away with it anyway.)
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This is Heaven:
Cherubic choirs singing in the cloud banks, eternal sunshine, but never bright enough to blind. Soft sounds and perfect climate, warm and gentle. A breeze, occasionally. Peace and harmony and hope and contentment. Happiness that is no warm gun and calm that isn’t followed by a storm.
Buffy’s never been there.
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This is Heaven:
A land where there was once a century of winter and now the seasons change gently, with summer always lingering just a few weeks too long. A land where rivers flow pure and skies are bright, where centaurs and fauns and speaking animals dwell. Where there is sometimes war but more often peace and always, always, hope and love and care. Where the dead are mourned but never forgotten and the living celebrate each day with zeal. A land where four kings and queens reign well and just, where a lion rules over them all, where magic is real and benevolent and songs are sung around the hearth fires, songs of friendship and bravery and trust and the love of siblings.
Almost perfect. But there’s something missing.
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This is Heaven:
A boy who demands that he be called High King, blonde and golden, too big for his britches, too loud and too proud, pulling her hair as he passes her, stealing her books and her weapons whenever he can get his hands on them. Enlisting his little brother and sister to play pranks on her, calling her names, challenging her in the most unsubtle ways anyone has ever seen.
Obnoxious, loud, annoying, arrogant and did she mention obnoxious?
Too proud. Too young. Too old. Too strong. Too full of faith. Too naïve and too jaded.
Too obnoxious.
Even at night, asleep in her bed, stealing her blankets and snoring in her ear and robbing her of her last nerve.
Kissing her in the morning, still half-asleep and smelly but warm and careful and full of good things, smiling at her after she falls for another one of his pranks, looking like a mischievous little boy when giving back her stolen things.
That, that is Heaven.
So forget your cherubic choirs and your cloud banks. She’s staying right here.
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Hard, so hard to teach an old dog new tricks. Harder still if the dog is a thousand years old and has witnessed the dawn of the Modern Age only to find it wanting and shallow.
There is no blood anymore, no fight. No honor, no pride. People bend and break so easily, for money, for love, for success. Anything they want, they can get with minimal fuss. Nothing costs anymore and nothing is worth anything.
He finds it disgusting, finds these weak, modern humans pathetic. They taste like bleach and act like cattle.
Maybe that’s why he likes his women blonde. If anyone asks, he’ll tell you he simply has a type. Nothing more. But blonde women remind him of the women of his homeland, strong, tall, powerful. Women who knew how to wield a weapon, who defended their homes ruthlessly. Women who knew blood and fight and honor and pride. They walked with their heads held high and their long, flaxen hair flowing behind them, free or in intricate braids, gold like something given by the gods.
Blonde women remind him of how the world once was, back when being human still meant being better than anything else. Being alive, then, was an honor, a victory. You fought for it and you either won or didn’t. Those that lived were hard and they were strong. Today, every weakling is nurtured and every bottom feeder is dragged along. Weakness is praised instead of erased.
Eric likes blondes because in his day, blonde meant from the North, and the people up North, his people, they were never weak.
Seeing her at the bar, her hair a halo of gold amidst an endless sea of bad dyejobs, is riveting. Seeing her break Long Shadow’s face for touching what he has no permission to touch is… fascinating.
She moves like a warrior, like a fighter, a Valkyrie. Strong and blonde and made for the battlefield.
She beats up his bartender and then walks up to him, all sway and swagger, hands on her hips. He smirks at her, lopsided and dangerous and says, “You have my attention.”
She smirks right back, licks a drop of blood from her split lip. “Good.”
Oh, yes.
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She’s his best friend’s girl.
As far as he’s concerned, she might as well weigh three hundred pounds and never wash.
She’s untouchable.
Won’t lay a hand on her, not ever. Out of respect. For her, for Riley, for whatever it is they have, this whirlwind romance that doesn’t quite fit either of them, too small, too tight. It’ll probably end badly, but that doesn’t change the facts.
She’s his best friend’s girl.
She’s untouchable.
But when she comes by Ri’s place late at night and finds only him, when she turns to leave, favoring one side, holding her arm awkwardly, he pulls her back and makes her sit on one of the beds, makes her hold still. She chatters at him nervously while he digs out the First Aid kit, tells him that it isn’t anything big.
“Just a stupid vamp, but it had a hell of a throwing arm. But really, I’m still in way better shape than the headstone I landed on.” She grins, tries to pull him into the joke while he’s stuck on the fact that a vampire just threw her into solid rock and the rock broke and she says it’s just a scratch.
He makes her strip off her shirt, politely looking away as she awkwardly rewraps it around her chest and when he turns back to her, he winces at the sight of her ribcage blooming black and purple.
“Jesus,” he hisses and she brings one arm across the bruises, hiding them.
“It’s fine, really,” she tells him. “They’ll be gone in a couple of days and nothing’s actually broken.”
He pulls out the cotton swabs, intending to clean the few scrapes he can make out on mottled skin and shakes his head. “That doesn’t make it okay.”
“That’s the job.” She shrugs, winces, tries to hide it.
“That doesn’t make it okay,” he repeats, busying his hands with cotton and disinfectant and bandages. When he looks back up, she’s just hiding a look of surprise.
“This is going to sting,” he warns.
She nods and smiles at him through the initial flare of pain, smiles like she means it, like he did something nice for her, or something, and, Jesus. He finds himself rambling, suddenly, all that training forgotten in the face of a girl’s smile. And untouchable girl’s smile.
“Just because it’s your job that doesn’t make it less important when you get scraped up. You can’t change it, I get that, but that doesn’t mean you should ignore it, or that anyone else should and - “
She grabs his hand mid-swipe, squeezes it, smiles again, brighter. He blushes, ducks his head, feels stupid. There’s a reason he usually doesn’t talk all that much. Finn’s the smooth guy in this dynamic duo.
After a moment she lets go of him and he drops the swab, reaches for the bandage. She holds the end to her sternum without him having to ask and he wraps her ribs carefully but tightly, eyes fixed on his work. When he’s done, he tapes everything in place and while he carries the kit back into the bathroom, she redresses herself in her bloody, dirty shirt.
He thinks he should have offered her one of Ri’s, but that chance is passed.
She smiles again, all bright and sunshine-y and he can’t reconcile her with the woman he’s walked cemeteries at night with, the one who kills with a song on her lips.
“Thank you,” she says, a bit unsure, a bit awkward. Good to know he’s not the only one. She waves the hand of her good side between them. “For, you know. I better get home now. Will’s is going to worry.”
Another smile and this one, this one he can reconcile with the other woman because it’s dimmer and sadder and paler and he dislikes it. He reaches for her on reflex but she’s already turned away.
Three steps and she’s by the door, five and she’s gone. She leaves behind a dirt stain on Finn’s bed, a wad of bloody cotton in his hand, and a whiff of her perfume, already losing against the overpowering smell of the disinfectant and Graham feels ridiculously disappointed. Pathetic.
She’s his best friend’s girl.
She’s untouchable.
He hesitates, then throws away the cotton swabs.
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Sixteen down. Five to go. I think. Cheers, and I hope the prompters like their drabbles. Any new prompts, please use to link in the navi bar and leave them at the original prompt-post-thing.
More goodies! I'm on a roll today. I'm also finally catching up with the prompts I have left from my last round of boredom. If you have anything else you'd like to see, gimme!
+
+
He hit on her.
She told him he looked like someone she once knew.
He asked if it was good sex.
She slapped him.
He told her he loved her.
She slapped him again and then saved his life when the guys chasing him stormed the place.
He woke in a hospital and was surprised to find her still there.
She slapped him a third time when he made a dirty ‘nurse’ joke and asked his name.
He told her the truth, stunning himself.
After that things got strange. So strange, in fact, that he still has no idea how she ends up hanging off his arm every time he makes another time-jump. He saw a pretty girl and flirted with her, expecting to get slapped. She did that, but then went and surprised him.
That’s not something many people manage.
So he keeps her around. He insists it’s all about the sex, though.
(She knows that’s a lie, but lets him get away with it anyway.)
+
+
+
This is Heaven:
Cherubic choirs singing in the cloud banks, eternal sunshine, but never bright enough to blind. Soft sounds and perfect climate, warm and gentle. A breeze, occasionally. Peace and harmony and hope and contentment. Happiness that is no warm gun and calm that isn’t followed by a storm.
Buffy’s never been there.
+
This is Heaven:
A land where there was once a century of winter and now the seasons change gently, with summer always lingering just a few weeks too long. A land where rivers flow pure and skies are bright, where centaurs and fauns and speaking animals dwell. Where there is sometimes war but more often peace and always, always, hope and love and care. Where the dead are mourned but never forgotten and the living celebrate each day with zeal. A land where four kings and queens reign well and just, where a lion rules over them all, where magic is real and benevolent and songs are sung around the hearth fires, songs of friendship and bravery and trust and the love of siblings.
Almost perfect. But there’s something missing.
+
This is Heaven:
A boy who demands that he be called High King, blonde and golden, too big for his britches, too loud and too proud, pulling her hair as he passes her, stealing her books and her weapons whenever he can get his hands on them. Enlisting his little brother and sister to play pranks on her, calling her names, challenging her in the most unsubtle ways anyone has ever seen.
Obnoxious, loud, annoying, arrogant and did she mention obnoxious?
Too proud. Too young. Too old. Too strong. Too full of faith. Too naïve and too jaded.
Too obnoxious.
Even at night, asleep in her bed, stealing her blankets and snoring in her ear and robbing her of her last nerve.
Kissing her in the morning, still half-asleep and smelly but warm and careful and full of good things, smiling at her after she falls for another one of his pranks, looking like a mischievous little boy when giving back her stolen things.
That, that is Heaven.
So forget your cherubic choirs and your cloud banks. She’s staying right here.
+
+
+
Hard, so hard to teach an old dog new tricks. Harder still if the dog is a thousand years old and has witnessed the dawn of the Modern Age only to find it wanting and shallow.
There is no blood anymore, no fight. No honor, no pride. People bend and break so easily, for money, for love, for success. Anything they want, they can get with minimal fuss. Nothing costs anymore and nothing is worth anything.
He finds it disgusting, finds these weak, modern humans pathetic. They taste like bleach and act like cattle.
Maybe that’s why he likes his women blonde. If anyone asks, he’ll tell you he simply has a type. Nothing more. But blonde women remind him of the women of his homeland, strong, tall, powerful. Women who knew how to wield a weapon, who defended their homes ruthlessly. Women who knew blood and fight and honor and pride. They walked with their heads held high and their long, flaxen hair flowing behind them, free or in intricate braids, gold like something given by the gods.
Blonde women remind him of how the world once was, back when being human still meant being better than anything else. Being alive, then, was an honor, a victory. You fought for it and you either won or didn’t. Those that lived were hard and they were strong. Today, every weakling is nurtured and every bottom feeder is dragged along. Weakness is praised instead of erased.
Eric likes blondes because in his day, blonde meant from the North, and the people up North, his people, they were never weak.
Seeing her at the bar, her hair a halo of gold amidst an endless sea of bad dyejobs, is riveting. Seeing her break Long Shadow’s face for touching what he has no permission to touch is… fascinating.
She moves like a warrior, like a fighter, a Valkyrie. Strong and blonde and made for the battlefield.
She beats up his bartender and then walks up to him, all sway and swagger, hands on her hips. He smirks at her, lopsided and dangerous and says, “You have my attention.”
She smirks right back, licks a drop of blood from her split lip. “Good.”
Oh, yes.
+
+
+
She’s his best friend’s girl.
As far as he’s concerned, she might as well weigh three hundred pounds and never wash.
She’s untouchable.
Won’t lay a hand on her, not ever. Out of respect. For her, for Riley, for whatever it is they have, this whirlwind romance that doesn’t quite fit either of them, too small, too tight. It’ll probably end badly, but that doesn’t change the facts.
She’s his best friend’s girl.
She’s untouchable.
But when she comes by Ri’s place late at night and finds only him, when she turns to leave, favoring one side, holding her arm awkwardly, he pulls her back and makes her sit on one of the beds, makes her hold still. She chatters at him nervously while he digs out the First Aid kit, tells him that it isn’t anything big.
“Just a stupid vamp, but it had a hell of a throwing arm. But really, I’m still in way better shape than the headstone I landed on.” She grins, tries to pull him into the joke while he’s stuck on the fact that a vampire just threw her into solid rock and the rock broke and she says it’s just a scratch.
He makes her strip off her shirt, politely looking away as she awkwardly rewraps it around her chest and when he turns back to her, he winces at the sight of her ribcage blooming black and purple.
“Jesus,” he hisses and she brings one arm across the bruises, hiding them.
“It’s fine, really,” she tells him. “They’ll be gone in a couple of days and nothing’s actually broken.”
He pulls out the cotton swabs, intending to clean the few scrapes he can make out on mottled skin and shakes his head. “That doesn’t make it okay.”
“That’s the job.” She shrugs, winces, tries to hide it.
“That doesn’t make it okay,” he repeats, busying his hands with cotton and disinfectant and bandages. When he looks back up, she’s just hiding a look of surprise.
“This is going to sting,” he warns.
She nods and smiles at him through the initial flare of pain, smiles like she means it, like he did something nice for her, or something, and, Jesus. He finds himself rambling, suddenly, all that training forgotten in the face of a girl’s smile. And untouchable girl’s smile.
“Just because it’s your job that doesn’t make it less important when you get scraped up. You can’t change it, I get that, but that doesn’t mean you should ignore it, or that anyone else should and - “
She grabs his hand mid-swipe, squeezes it, smiles again, brighter. He blushes, ducks his head, feels stupid. There’s a reason he usually doesn’t talk all that much. Finn’s the smooth guy in this dynamic duo.
After a moment she lets go of him and he drops the swab, reaches for the bandage. She holds the end to her sternum without him having to ask and he wraps her ribs carefully but tightly, eyes fixed on his work. When he’s done, he tapes everything in place and while he carries the kit back into the bathroom, she redresses herself in her bloody, dirty shirt.
He thinks he should have offered her one of Ri’s, but that chance is passed.
She smiles again, all bright and sunshine-y and he can’t reconcile her with the woman he’s walked cemeteries at night with, the one who kills with a song on her lips.
“Thank you,” she says, a bit unsure, a bit awkward. Good to know he’s not the only one. She waves the hand of her good side between them. “For, you know. I better get home now. Will’s is going to worry.”
Another smile and this one, this one he can reconcile with the other woman because it’s dimmer and sadder and paler and he dislikes it. He reaches for her on reflex but she’s already turned away.
Three steps and she’s by the door, five and she’s gone. She leaves behind a dirt stain on Finn’s bed, a wad of bloody cotton in his hand, and a whiff of her perfume, already losing against the overpowering smell of the disinfectant and Graham feels ridiculously disappointed. Pathetic.
She’s his best friend’s girl.
She’s untouchable.
He hesitates, then throws away the cotton swabs.
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Sixteen down. Five to go. I think. Cheers, and I hope the prompters like their drabbles. Any new prompts, please use to link in the navi bar and leave them at the original prompt-post-thing.