Prompt 050 fic - Is This Weird?
Title: Is This Weird?
Author: firefly_124
Rating: PG
Word Count: 666
Prompt: 050 - Surrealism
Characters/Pairing (if any): Oz/Willow
Her lips were so soft and sweet. He wished he could kiss her all night, but if he did, there would be nothing soft left of her. Stroking her hair gently, he tried to memorize the feel of her, the taste of her.
“It’s time,” he said, once he’d pulled back an inch or two. Her hair looked brighter somehow. It always did on these nights, just as her eyes looked sadder.
“Stupid moon,” she said with a pout. But she let him go and locked the door of the library cage behind him.
That was good. It was always easier when she didn’t resist it.
It wasn’t long before it started. He didn’t watch the fur sprout from his hands or pay attention to the cracking and rearranging of bones. He watched her as she watched him. Brave. Sad.
He tried to focus on the red of her hair, easily the most vibrant thing in the library. The way it swung about her face, the way she sometimes seemed to try to hide behind it, even though it wasn't that long anymore.
It turns gray.
He wants it to be red. There should always be red.
And then he no longer knew what red was, only that he was hungry. The prey made noises and moved away, but it didn’t run. It sat behind a large object and picked up a smaller one. He cocked his head as it drank from the smaller object, then pounced at the wall of metal in his way.
The prey just made more noises, but it didn’t run.
For a very long time, it looked at things that had very thin pieces it moved from one side to the other. It usually moved the pieces the same way, but sometimes the prey moved a lot of pieces the other way and made a big noise, squealing the way prey should when it was afraid.
But it wasn’t afraid, and it didn’t run.
There was something very wrong with the prey, but he couldn’t understand what. It wouldn’t matter except that he couldn’t get out to hunt it, couldn’t rip and tear and drink the coppery liquid and devour the tender meat, so he had nothing to do but watch and wonder what was so wrong. He still tested his prison sometimes, but that just made the prey make more noises.
After awhile, he felt the moon leave, and sleep came. A relief from trying to think with a brain no longer fit for it.
When he woke, it always took him a minute to remember why he was lying naked on the floor. Then he remembered and scrambled for clothes.
With a clink, she unlocked the door. Her hair was still beautiful, but not quite as red this morning. And when she kissed him, she tasted less sweet and more like coffee.
“You didn’t run,” he said when they broke for air.
“Good morning to you, too.”
He pushed her hair back from her face. She really shouldn’t hide. The hiding didn’t fit with the not running.
“I don’t know why I said that.” He kissed her again. “Good morning.”
“Much better.” She nodded firmly. “Breakfast? I think there might even be a mocha with your name on it.”
He nodded and started to leave with her. Then he stopped. She kept going for a couple of steps.
“Is this weird?” he asked.
“That we’re going to go have a nice hot breakfast involving large stacks of pancakes or possibly French toast and mochas after you just spent the whole night growling and slobbering at me while I did my homework with a tranquilizer gun next to me just in case you got out and tried to kill me?” she asked.
“Well, yeah.”
She shrugged. “Not so much.”
With a smile, he let himself be pulled along by the elbow, out into the bright Saturday morning sunlight that glinted brilliantly off her hair, turning it coppery. She’d never run.
Author: firefly_124
Rating: PG
Word Count: 666
Prompt: 050 - Surrealism
Characters/Pairing (if any): Oz/Willow
Her lips were so soft and sweet. He wished he could kiss her all night, but if he did, there would be nothing soft left of her. Stroking her hair gently, he tried to memorize the feel of her, the taste of her.
“It’s time,” he said, once he’d pulled back an inch or two. Her hair looked brighter somehow. It always did on these nights, just as her eyes looked sadder.
“Stupid moon,” she said with a pout. But she let him go and locked the door of the library cage behind him.
That was good. It was always easier when she didn’t resist it.
It wasn’t long before it started. He didn’t watch the fur sprout from his hands or pay attention to the cracking and rearranging of bones. He watched her as she watched him. Brave. Sad.
He tried to focus on the red of her hair, easily the most vibrant thing in the library. The way it swung about her face, the way she sometimes seemed to try to hide behind it, even though it wasn't that long anymore.
It turns gray.
He wants it to be red. There should always be red.
And then he no longer knew what red was, only that he was hungry. The prey made noises and moved away, but it didn’t run. It sat behind a large object and picked up a smaller one. He cocked his head as it drank from the smaller object, then pounced at the wall of metal in his way.
The prey just made more noises, but it didn’t run.
For a very long time, it looked at things that had very thin pieces it moved from one side to the other. It usually moved the pieces the same way, but sometimes the prey moved a lot of pieces the other way and made a big noise, squealing the way prey should when it was afraid.
But it wasn’t afraid, and it didn’t run.
There was something very wrong with the prey, but he couldn’t understand what. It wouldn’t matter except that he couldn’t get out to hunt it, couldn’t rip and tear and drink the coppery liquid and devour the tender meat, so he had nothing to do but watch and wonder what was so wrong. He still tested his prison sometimes, but that just made the prey make more noises.
After awhile, he felt the moon leave, and sleep came. A relief from trying to think with a brain no longer fit for it.
When he woke, it always took him a minute to remember why he was lying naked on the floor. Then he remembered and scrambled for clothes.
With a clink, she unlocked the door. Her hair was still beautiful, but not quite as red this morning. And when she kissed him, she tasted less sweet and more like coffee.
“You didn’t run,” he said when they broke for air.
“Good morning to you, too.”
He pushed her hair back from her face. She really shouldn’t hide. The hiding didn’t fit with the not running.
“I don’t know why I said that.” He kissed her again. “Good morning.”
“Much better.” She nodded firmly. “Breakfast? I think there might even be a mocha with your name on it.”
He nodded and started to leave with her. Then he stopped. She kept going for a couple of steps.
“Is this weird?” he asked.
“That we’re going to go have a nice hot breakfast involving large stacks of pancakes or possibly French toast and mochas after you just spent the whole night growling and slobbering at me while I did my homework with a tranquilizer gun next to me just in case you got out and tried to kill me?” she asked.
“Well, yeah.”
She shrugged. “Not so much.”
With a smile, he let himself be pulled along by the elbow, out into the bright Saturday morning sunlight that glinted brilliantly off her hair, turning it coppery. She’d never run.