May Flowers
Soft Serve 4/50 - Strawberry 22. Flowers
Pocky Chain with Malt
Story : knights & necromancers
Rating : G
Timeframe : 1255-1260
Word Count : 499 (5 part chain)
Malt Prompt : Summer 2011 #8: flowers are cheaper than divorce
Complete and utter FLUFF, but hey, I wrote something! I wanted to make something lengthy and deep and all, but graduation weekend = no time, so I'm pretty happy with fluff.
“I have something for you.”
“Oh?”
Lyssa’s not quite sure what to say when he thrusts a little clay pot into her hands. “They’re in a pot,” is probably not the best choice of responses, but it’s what comes out of her mouth. “I-I mean they’re lovely,” she stumbles on, even though Rune doesn’t seem fazed in the least by her initial assessment.
And they are lovely. The blood red poppies look softer than silk. But she’s rather used to being courted with cut blossoms.
“When you cut flowers,” he says with a shrug, “they die. It seems rather sad.”
Rune is staring, dumbfounded, at the pot cradled in his hands. A cluster of thick, green stalks with sprigs of dainty leaves jutting out at all angles stares back.
“Daisies?” he says.
“They’re yellow.” Lyssa’s looking at him out of the corner of her eye while she digs the toe of her boot into the dirt. “You like yellow,” she adds when it’s clear he’s not going to say anything.
“And…?” he says after a moment.
“And they’re… a peace offering. Is it that hard to get?”
He looks up at her and grins. “Is it that hard to say?”
There’s a clay pot on the nightstand. The few slender wisps of green inside it are bent under the weight of their dangling white bellflowers.
“Where on earth did you get flowers in winter?” says Lyssa, settling on the edge of the bed.
“They’re called snowdrops,” says Rune, who’s beaming at her from under a layer of quilts at least six inches thick.
“They’re lovely.” She leans in to kiss him, and he worms his way out of the covers just a little bit.
“They’re yours,” he says, sliding a pajama-clad arm around her all but bare shoulders. “Happy birthday.”
“You know,” says Lyssa, fixing him with a playful grin as her finger trails slowly down his nose. “There are three little words I never hear from you enough.”
One slender, pale brow sharply raised, Rune just stares at her over the pot of frilly, red geraniums she has yet to take from his hands. “I love you?”
Lyssa snorts. She rocks back on her heels, shaking her head. “You say that all the time.”
Rune frowns thoughtfully for a moment. “I’m sorry? No, that’s only two.”
“Try ‘I was wrong.’” She scoops up the flowers with a smirk.
Lyssa’s in the make-shift kitchen, unpacking supplies. Rune shuffles up behind her and leans in to lay a kiss at the base of her neck.
Barely missing a beat in arranging vegetables on the counter, she snakes an arm around behind him to squeeze his rear. “Got something for you.”
“Oh?” He gives the hand still curled around his backside a look before turning back to the counter.
Lyssa reaches for another, smaller sack behind the one she’s been digging through. She peels back the cloth to reveal a pot of perky little violets. “Figured you miss your garden.”
Pocky Chain with Malt
Story : knights & necromancers
Rating : G
Timeframe : 1255-1260
Word Count : 499 (5 part chain)
Malt Prompt : Summer 2011 #8: flowers are cheaper than divorce
Complete and utter FLUFF, but hey, I wrote something! I wanted to make something lengthy and deep and all, but graduation weekend = no time, so I'm pretty happy with fluff.
“I have something for you.”
“Oh?”
Lyssa’s not quite sure what to say when he thrusts a little clay pot into her hands. “They’re in a pot,” is probably not the best choice of responses, but it’s what comes out of her mouth. “I-I mean they’re lovely,” she stumbles on, even though Rune doesn’t seem fazed in the least by her initial assessment.
And they are lovely. The blood red poppies look softer than silk. But she’s rather used to being courted with cut blossoms.
“When you cut flowers,” he says with a shrug, “they die. It seems rather sad.”
Rune is staring, dumbfounded, at the pot cradled in his hands. A cluster of thick, green stalks with sprigs of dainty leaves jutting out at all angles stares back.
“Daisies?” he says.
“They’re yellow.” Lyssa’s looking at him out of the corner of her eye while she digs the toe of her boot into the dirt. “You like yellow,” she adds when it’s clear he’s not going to say anything.
“And…?” he says after a moment.
“And they’re… a peace offering. Is it that hard to get?”
He looks up at her and grins. “Is it that hard to say?”
There’s a clay pot on the nightstand. The few slender wisps of green inside it are bent under the weight of their dangling white bellflowers.
“Where on earth did you get flowers in winter?” says Lyssa, settling on the edge of the bed.
“They’re called snowdrops,” says Rune, who’s beaming at her from under a layer of quilts at least six inches thick.
“They’re lovely.” She leans in to kiss him, and he worms his way out of the covers just a little bit.
“They’re yours,” he says, sliding a pajama-clad arm around her all but bare shoulders. “Happy birthday.”
“You know,” says Lyssa, fixing him with a playful grin as her finger trails slowly down his nose. “There are three little words I never hear from you enough.”
One slender, pale brow sharply raised, Rune just stares at her over the pot of frilly, red geraniums she has yet to take from his hands. “I love you?”
Lyssa snorts. She rocks back on her heels, shaking her head. “You say that all the time.”
Rune frowns thoughtfully for a moment. “I’m sorry? No, that’s only two.”
“Try ‘I was wrong.’” She scoops up the flowers with a smirk.
Lyssa’s in the make-shift kitchen, unpacking supplies. Rune shuffles up behind her and leans in to lay a kiss at the base of her neck.
Barely missing a beat in arranging vegetables on the counter, she snakes an arm around behind him to squeeze his rear. “Got something for you.”
“Oh?” He gives the hand still curled around his backside a look before turning back to the counter.
Lyssa reaches for another, smaller sack behind the one she’s been digging through. She peels back the cloth to reveal a pot of perky little violets. “Figured you miss your garden.”