samsom (samsom) wrote,
samsom
samsom

ficlets post

Reposting the ficlets I did this weekend at the drabble-a-thon happening over at ahigheroctave's site.

Anne Steele/Charles Gunn - for the prompt this is how they make a difference from staringiscaring



She get up in the morning. She goes out to the streets. She finds the runaways, the lost. She speaks, she gives hope. She is seen. She fights. She crosses her arms and lets her hard eyes tell her tale, no matter what their stories are. She's seen it all. She's been them, been where they are. She got over it, left it behind.

But she didn't leave them behind.

She smiles and jokes and reads and cooks. She shows them that it can be them as well. Forever is an illusion. They can be her, because she is her, and she wasn't always.

This is how she makes a difference.

He sleeps all day and hunts at night. He swoops in with his wooden sticks and his cocky attitude and he shows all the forgotten people how not to be afraid, and how to fight back.

He feeds his crew with his easy charm, and he cares for his sister withe gentle touches and stern lectures.

He practices to keep his body battle-ready and he reads to keep his mind sharp. He listens to music and remembers to smile even when he doesn't want to.

He's gets hurt but he does not stop.

This is how he makes a difference.

They meet and exchange information and supplies when they can. They stand straight when they stand face to face. Spines like steel, words harder than the concrete under their feet.

And when the business of the night is concluded, he eases his shoulders, takes her hand in his and leads her to a shadowed corner where an old couch sits. And they talk, and sometimes she trails a finger along his forearm. And he smiles at her because she makes him want to.

They bow their heads together and recharge.

This is how they make a difference.



Cordelia in Acapolypse Nowish, for the prompt and you said something I've never forgotten from eleusis_walks.



Are you gonna let her do this to you? Dammit, you're Cordelia Chase!"

She is Cordelia Chase.

She isn't just gonna let some insane bitch higher power take that from her.

The snake wraps its body tighter around her mind and her spine and the words come tumbling out of her mouth anyway, and the clothes come falling off her body with his young hands smoothing the way after hers.

Clammy palms and horrible breath because hell dimensions didn't come with toothbrushes or bathtubs.

Angel's baby boy climbs onto her body and Cordelia screams as she struggles and claws, but the only sounds that comes out of her mouth are moans and encouraging whispers.

I'm sorry Angel. I don't think I'm Cordelia anymore.

The snake coils tighter.



Angel/Cordelia after YW, angst-o-rama, for the gorgeous prompt Some nights I just never go to sleep at all, and I stand, shaking in the doorway like a sentinel, all alone, bracing like the bow upon a ship, and fully abandoning any thought of anywhere but home, my home, from anythingbutgrey.



Angel has three separate residences all around Los Angeles County, all under Liam Angel.

He has a beachhouse in Malibu, tempered by glamoured glass, floor to ceiling.

He has the suite at the top of the tower that houses the beast of Wolfram & Hart.

He still has the Hyperion.

He has just recently bought an apartment building in Silverlake.

When the edges of his world are too sharp and too violent, and the weight in his chest is too full of heavy grief and quiet keening, he goes there, to Pearson Arms, and he walks into an apartment where the door is already open and waiting and straight into the bedroom that still smells like suntan lotion and nail polish and lies down on the unmade bed and curls up into a ball around the pillow that still has her perfume embedded in the Egyptian cotton, and he -

He keens. Low and hot, like an animal over the body of its mate, like a body missing an arm, an eye, its heart.

He keens for home.



Jenny/Willow, for the prompt young teacher/the subject/of schoolgirl fantasy, from eleusis_walks.



Jenny has dark eyes.

When did Ms. Calendar become Jenny?

Gypsy eyes.

Wow, that was poetic!

They glitter darkly, holding secrets that Willow can only see hints of, glimpses during those quiet moments in class when everyone else has their heads down.

Willow listens to the quiet scratches of the chalk against the board and imagines Jenny glancing over her shoulder at her, hair swaying, with that secret smile on her full lips.

In her mind, Jenny beckons with an elegant finger and Willow slips out of her chair and comes forward as everyone else remains oblivious.

Willow hesitates, unsure, but Jenny wants to show her something, glancing down at her monitor before smiling at Willow again. So she rounds the desk carefully as her teacher watches, and puts a hand on the back of Jenny's chair in order to lean over her shoulder, aware that Jenny does not move away.

Willow bends close to Jenny's knowing, beautiful face and then glances down at the compute monitor.

On the screen are words in a language she has never seen before.

She glances at Jenny again and the woman meets her eyes with a level gaze.

"This is for you now," she tells her. When Willow frowns, Jenny raises up and presses her lips to Willow's mouth.

Coffee and chapstick, Willow thinks dreamily, leaning into the kiss.

Then a bell sounds and pulls her fantasy apart at the seams, breaking Jenny up into a thousand tiny fragments.

Willow jerks upright in Ms. Calendar's chair as the other students begin to file out of the room.

"Whoa," she whispers.

That was new.




Wow.

I really hate coding. *drops dead*
Tags: 2010 fic, angst, c/a fic, other fic
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