Prompt: any Whedonverse. any. "Happy birthday to me."
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/698800.html?thread=92133040#t92133040
As Ivy gathers up her purse and jacket and keys and gets ready to leave for the day, she pretends she doesn't hear Topher singing Happy birthday to me as he preps an imprint for his annual "diagnostic".
Monday, February 29, 2016
Sunday, February 28, 2016
No. 109
Prompt: Kings, David/Jack The Little Prince
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/697149.html?thread=91921725#t91921725
They lay together, curled on an old mattress in the empty house where Jack knew David had come with Michelle. Jack ached for his sister, for the betrayal she would feel if she knew, but Jack needed David like light, like air, and if David would let Jack have even a half-love with him, he'd take it, because it was more than Jack would ever get with anyone else.
David shifted, dragged the blankets up over both of them to stave off the nighttime chill. He rested his head on Jack's chest, listening, Jack knew, to the beat of his heart. Jack stroked David's hair and tried to hear David's heart beating in return. In his imagination, their hearts always kept time with each other, the way Jack's heart always kept time to the songs David played on the piano just for him.
Are you sly, like a fox? Jack wondered. He knew his father feared David for the potential David had to overthrow him as King. Jack knew his mother feared David for all the ways he could corrupt Michelle. Jack feared the day David would break his heart.
"Can I tame you?" Jack whispered. He remembered the words of a book he'd read once.
What does that mean - tame?
It means to establish ties. If you tame me, then we shall need each other.
David chuckled. "Tame me, the idiot who crossed enemy lines and faced down a Goliath tank and who only survived because he was damn lucky? No."
Jack's heart fractured just a little bit.
David added softly, "But you can keep me."
Maybe that was safer, for the both of them, because a storm was coming. Allegiances were shifting. Plots were coming to fruition. Would either of them survive?
People have forgotten this truth, but you mustn't forget it. You become responsible forever for what you've tamed.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/697149.html?thread=91921725#t91921725
They lay together, curled on an old mattress in the empty house where Jack knew David had come with Michelle. Jack ached for his sister, for the betrayal she would feel if she knew, but Jack needed David like light, like air, and if David would let Jack have even a half-love with him, he'd take it, because it was more than Jack would ever get with anyone else.
David shifted, dragged the blankets up over both of them to stave off the nighttime chill. He rested his head on Jack's chest, listening, Jack knew, to the beat of his heart. Jack stroked David's hair and tried to hear David's heart beating in return. In his imagination, their hearts always kept time with each other, the way Jack's heart always kept time to the songs David played on the piano just for him.
Are you sly, like a fox? Jack wondered. He knew his father feared David for the potential David had to overthrow him as King. Jack knew his mother feared David for all the ways he could corrupt Michelle. Jack feared the day David would break his heart.
"Can I tame you?" Jack whispered. He remembered the words of a book he'd read once.
What does that mean - tame?
It means to establish ties. If you tame me, then we shall need each other.
David chuckled. "Tame me, the idiot who crossed enemy lines and faced down a Goliath tank and who only survived because he was damn lucky? No."
Jack's heart fractured just a little bit.
David added softly, "But you can keep me."
Maybe that was safer, for the both of them, because a storm was coming. Allegiances were shifting. Plots were coming to fruition. Would either of them survive?
People have forgotten this truth, but you mustn't forget it. You become responsible forever for what you've tamed.
Saturday, February 27, 2016
No. 108
Prompt: Leverage, Eliot Spencer, a fight that goes badly.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/698276.html?thread=92091556#t92091556
Eliot is a damn good fighter. He's been in everything from bare-knuckle dust-ups on the playground to Marquis of Queensbury rules in an old gym while people shouted and money changed hands all around him. He can throw a punch the way Mozart played piano, can turn a guy upside down like he was born with combat in his blood.
He knows he could be smart, but he craves the adrenaline rush of dodging, countering, striking more than he craves that subtle little moment when something finally clicks in his mind.
He's a smart fighter, though. Knows when to avoid a fight, end a fight, start a fight. Knows when he has the advantage or disadvantage, how to trick a guy into giving up his better ground, how to fake weaker or slower than he is to catch a guy by surprised. He knows when he's winning or losing – and that's so rare, and usually only by a hair – and he knows the moment when a fight starts to turn. He knows how to make a fight messy or make it neat, knows how to make a guy remember him or forget him completely.
He's been in so many fights it's like his life is one long blur of battle.
So when this fight happens, he never sees it coming, never sees it go down like this.
"I'm going to serve my country, and you can't stop me," he says, voice low and brutally steady.
His father remains in his favorite chair in front of the TV, hands clasped in his lap, and doesn't look at Eliot. He says, "I know."
No. That's wrong. That isn't how this is supposed to go. He's supposed to tell Eliot to stay, that Eliot is all he has left. He gave two years of his life and a good chunk of his sanity for his country, and he's always warned Eliot not to follow in his footsteps.
He always used to tell Eliot how smart he was, how like his mom he was, how he could be so much better than his old man.
He always used to drink, too, had drunk since the day he got home from Vietnam till the day he married mom till the day he drove mom in the car till the day of her funeral and every day after.
Eliot has tried so hard to make it better. With mom gone, he cooks, he cleans. He barely scrapes by in school so he can get a job and bring in some extra cash. He fixes the car and he fixes the house and he tries to fix his dad but all he can do is fix his dad's nightcap every evening before he falls into bed, and he doesn't know what else to do to fix their family anymore, so he does what he does best – he picks a fight.
He knew all the right things to say, all the right ways to pitch his voice and make his point. And he could see his dad take every hit, every wince and flinch as his words hit home.
But he never saw this fight ending so, so badly.
"I know," his dad says. "So go."
And Eliot, dammit, is a Spencer through and through, so he goes, and he doesn't look back, but till the end of his days, he will never be in a fight that goes as badly as this.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/698276.html?thread=92091556#t92091556
Eliot is a damn good fighter. He's been in everything from bare-knuckle dust-ups on the playground to Marquis of Queensbury rules in an old gym while people shouted and money changed hands all around him. He can throw a punch the way Mozart played piano, can turn a guy upside down like he was born with combat in his blood.
He knows he could be smart, but he craves the adrenaline rush of dodging, countering, striking more than he craves that subtle little moment when something finally clicks in his mind.
He's a smart fighter, though. Knows when to avoid a fight, end a fight, start a fight. Knows when he has the advantage or disadvantage, how to trick a guy into giving up his better ground, how to fake weaker or slower than he is to catch a guy by surprised. He knows when he's winning or losing – and that's so rare, and usually only by a hair – and he knows the moment when a fight starts to turn. He knows how to make a fight messy or make it neat, knows how to make a guy remember him or forget him completely.
He's been in so many fights it's like his life is one long blur of battle.
So when this fight happens, he never sees it coming, never sees it go down like this.
"I'm going to serve my country, and you can't stop me," he says, voice low and brutally steady.
His father remains in his favorite chair in front of the TV, hands clasped in his lap, and doesn't look at Eliot. He says, "I know."
No. That's wrong. That isn't how this is supposed to go. He's supposed to tell Eliot to stay, that Eliot is all he has left. He gave two years of his life and a good chunk of his sanity for his country, and he's always warned Eliot not to follow in his footsteps.
He always used to tell Eliot how smart he was, how like his mom he was, how he could be so much better than his old man.
He always used to drink, too, had drunk since the day he got home from Vietnam till the day he married mom till the day he drove mom in the car till the day of her funeral and every day after.
Eliot has tried so hard to make it better. With mom gone, he cooks, he cleans. He barely scrapes by in school so he can get a job and bring in some extra cash. He fixes the car and he fixes the house and he tries to fix his dad but all he can do is fix his dad's nightcap every evening before he falls into bed, and he doesn't know what else to do to fix their family anymore, so he does what he does best – he picks a fight.
He knew all the right things to say, all the right ways to pitch his voice and make his point. And he could see his dad take every hit, every wince and flinch as his words hit home.
But he never saw this fight ending so, so badly.
"I know," his dad says. "So go."
And Eliot, dammit, is a Spencer through and through, so he goes, and he doesn't look back, but till the end of his days, he will never be in a fight that goes as badly as this.
Thursday, February 25, 2016
No. 107
Prompt: any Whedonverse. any. Five people they've kissed.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/697718.html?thread=91974518#t91974518
Roger kissed Adelle because he was programmed to.
Victor kissed Sierra because it was the only thing that made sense in his fractured little world.
Anthony kissed Priya because he loved her, and he could.
Anthony kissed Topher to shut him up, because it was an emergency, and it was the only thing that worked.
Anthony kissed Ballard when the guards at the Rossum facility rounded the corner, tugged the startled man into his arms and laid one on him and shoved a hand into his back pocket forever. Because Ballard had been an FBI agent and was a pro, he didn't make a sound, and he only hesitated for a second before kissing back. There was a sweep of a flashlight beam, and Anthony forced himself not to stop kissing Ballard, and one of the guards made a disgusted noise, and then the guards were gone.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/697718.html?thread=91974518#t91974518
Roger kissed Adelle because he was programmed to.
Victor kissed Sierra because it was the only thing that made sense in his fractured little world.
Anthony kissed Priya because he loved her, and he could.
Anthony kissed Topher to shut him up, because it was an emergency, and it was the only thing that worked.
Anthony kissed Ballard when the guards at the Rossum facility rounded the corner, tugged the startled man into his arms and laid one on him and shoved a hand into his back pocket forever. Because Ballard had been an FBI agent and was a pro, he didn't make a sound, and he only hesitated for a second before kissing back. There was a sweep of a flashlight beam, and Anthony forced himself not to stop kissing Ballard, and one of the guards made a disgusted noise, and then the guards were gone.
No. 106
Prompt: Any fandom with a dog, dog + any, doggie kisses
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/697718.html?thread=91967862#t91967862
Mars snored. Mars kicked. Mars hogged the blankets and took up most of the bed. He had bad breath and he never had constructive criticism for Patrick's latest business ideas.
But sometimes, after a bad day, when Patrick couldn't face the world, couldn't stare at the blank spaces in the house where his parents' memories had been, Mars would cuddle beside him and, when watching his sister's stupid scifi TV show made him miss her so fiercely it hurt, grace him with a little doggie kiss, and maybe he could get through tomorrow after all.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/697718.html?thread=91967862#t91967862
Mars snored. Mars kicked. Mars hogged the blankets and took up most of the bed. He had bad breath and he never had constructive criticism for Patrick's latest business ideas.
But sometimes, after a bad day, when Patrick couldn't face the world, couldn't stare at the blank spaces in the house where his parents' memories had been, Mars would cuddle beside him and, when watching his sister's stupid scifi TV show made him miss her so fiercely it hurt, grace him with a little doggie kiss, and maybe he could get through tomorrow after all.
No. 105
Prompt: Lucifer (2016), Lucifer/Chloe Decker, sealed with a kiss
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/697718.html?thread=91987830#t91987830
"You can save me," Chloe whispered.
Lucifer sat beside her hospital bed and tangled his fingers with hers.
"I can't."
"But you did, before –"
"That was different."
"I was dying then, I'm dying now!"
"That was a mortal wound, a gunshot. Instant damage, instant fix. But this – this has been going on too long. I can't –"
"But you're an angel."
"A fallen one. And, contrary to some misguided beliefs, I am not a god, nor am I as strong as God. There are some things I cannot do, no matter how I wish it."
Chloe's eyes filled with tears.
Lucifer felt something inside him twist, but he didn't have a heart, so it couldn't have been that. "But, if you want to make a deal, I could –"
She blinked at him. "You mean, sell my soul?"
"It's the only way I could –"
"I'll do it. For Trixie."
Lucifer closed his eyes. "Are you sure?" In his possession no soul survived long, kept its spark. When she died, she had no chance of heaven, no chance of forever with her precious little girl.
"Yes." Chloe struggled to sit up, so he eased her upright with a gentle hand at the small of her back, like a gentleman ushering a lady into a fine restaurant.
"If you're sure," he said.
She nodded, so he asked for her full name, and clasped her hands in his, and said the ritual words.
She stared at him. "I don't feel anything different."
He leaned in. "You have to seal it with a kiss."
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/697718.html?thread=91987830#t91987830
"You can save me," Chloe whispered.
Lucifer sat beside her hospital bed and tangled his fingers with hers.
"I can't."
"But you did, before –"
"That was different."
"I was dying then, I'm dying now!"
"That was a mortal wound, a gunshot. Instant damage, instant fix. But this – this has been going on too long. I can't –"
"But you're an angel."
"A fallen one. And, contrary to some misguided beliefs, I am not a god, nor am I as strong as God. There are some things I cannot do, no matter how I wish it."
Chloe's eyes filled with tears.
Lucifer felt something inside him twist, but he didn't have a heart, so it couldn't have been that. "But, if you want to make a deal, I could –"
She blinked at him. "You mean, sell my soul?"
"It's the only way I could –"
"I'll do it. For Trixie."
Lucifer closed his eyes. "Are you sure?" In his possession no soul survived long, kept its spark. When she died, she had no chance of heaven, no chance of forever with her precious little girl.
"Yes." Chloe struggled to sit up, so he eased her upright with a gentle hand at the small of her back, like a gentleman ushering a lady into a fine restaurant.
"If you're sure," he said.
She nodded, so he asked for her full name, and clasped her hands in his, and said the ritual words.
She stared at him. "I don't feel anything different."
He leaned in. "You have to seal it with a kiss."
No. 18
Prompt: Stargate SG1, Jack O'Neill/Daniel Jackson, his kisses taste like coffee
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/697718.html?thread=91987062#t91987062
On any given day, Daniel's kisses taste like coffee. He's circumspect, knows the blind spots in the corridors where the cameras don't quite reach (because he refuses to be a cliché in the supply closet), and the kisses are brief, warm comfort.
But when his coffee kisses have a hint of Irish Cream in them, Jack knows Daniel has had a rough morning, and maybe the kiss should last a little longer, because Daniel's the one who needs the comfort, and if he's stressed out enough, heads will roll, possibly literally.
And when Daniel's coffee kisses taste like fresh vanilla and raspberry, Jack knows he'd better take a long lunch, because those kisses are always much filthier than the vanilla would suggest, and they're going to need some serious time alone.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/697718.html?thread=91987062#t91987062
On any given day, Daniel's kisses taste like coffee. He's circumspect, knows the blind spots in the corridors where the cameras don't quite reach (because he refuses to be a cliché in the supply closet), and the kisses are brief, warm comfort.
But when his coffee kisses have a hint of Irish Cream in them, Jack knows Daniel has had a rough morning, and maybe the kiss should last a little longer, because Daniel's the one who needs the comfort, and if he's stressed out enough, heads will roll, possibly literally.
And when Daniel's coffee kisses taste like fresh vanilla and raspberry, Jack knows he'd better take a long lunch, because those kisses are always much filthier than the vanilla would suggest, and they're going to need some serious time alone.