Fifteen minute ficlets - Word 99
Mar. 23rd, 2005 08:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dolevalanVintage
Fandom: Original Character
Rating: R for language and implied violence
Geoff, I don't know if you read this, but my first temptation when I saw today's word was to write an Anya fic...
The word was "gourmet."
---
Juliette watched intently as the man left the bar. He was staggering slightly, and his large bulk threatened contact with the brick walls of the alley. She could hear him muttering under his breath, slightly slurred “…thinks she can jus’ up an leave me, does she. Bitch.” Harry, for that was the drunk’s name, blinked and yelled up to the night sky “Well…fuck!” Juliette almost allowed herself a smile.
Her research had led her to him, and he was as close to ideal as possible. She gathered the shadows to herself, in readiness, and stepped out of the doorway. “Excuse me, sir.”
Harry blinked again, though in surprise. “Uh…ma’am?” He tried to see her through the gloom.
She did smile this time, though he couldn’t see her. “I seem to have lost my wallet, and I think I dropped it around here. Could you help me?”
“You…you should get home,” he slurred roughly. “If ya lost it here, ‘s gone.”
Quicker than seemed possible, she had moved from the doorway to be standing in front of him. “Be still,” she almost purred. He was. She reached up, and ran her fingers over his hair, as if missing the experience of uncorking a bottle of wine. And then she took him.
Everyone was slightly different, just as every bottle had been different. The mix of their blood and whatever they had been drinking that evening made for a unique signature…a bouquet if you will. He had been drinking whiskey sours.
It was ecstasy. By the time she finished, she was slightly giddy. Not to suggest that she didn’t appreciate the fine gourmet experience she had just enjoyed. She cloaked herself in shadows again once more, so no one noticed the slight weaving motion she made. Nor could anyone see the large smile on her lips. “Well…fuck,” she murmured, though her meaning and Harry’s were, she suspected, somewhat different.
Fandom: Original Character
Rating: R for language and implied violence
Geoff, I don't know if you read this, but my first temptation when I saw today's word was to write an Anya fic...
The word was "gourmet."
---
Juliette watched intently as the man left the bar. He was staggering slightly, and his large bulk threatened contact with the brick walls of the alley. She could hear him muttering under his breath, slightly slurred “…thinks she can jus’ up an leave me, does she. Bitch.” Harry, for that was the drunk’s name, blinked and yelled up to the night sky “Well…fuck!” Juliette almost allowed herself a smile.
Her research had led her to him, and he was as close to ideal as possible. She gathered the shadows to herself, in readiness, and stepped out of the doorway. “Excuse me, sir.”
Harry blinked again, though in surprise. “Uh…ma’am?” He tried to see her through the gloom.
She did smile this time, though he couldn’t see her. “I seem to have lost my wallet, and I think I dropped it around here. Could you help me?”
“You…you should get home,” he slurred roughly. “If ya lost it here, ‘s gone.”
Quicker than seemed possible, she had moved from the doorway to be standing in front of him. “Be still,” she almost purred. He was. She reached up, and ran her fingers over his hair, as if missing the experience of uncorking a bottle of wine. And then she took him.
Everyone was slightly different, just as every bottle had been different. The mix of their blood and whatever they had been drinking that evening made for a unique signature…a bouquet if you will. He had been drinking whiskey sours.
It was ecstasy. By the time she finished, she was slightly giddy. Not to suggest that she didn’t appreciate the fine gourmet experience she had just enjoyed. She cloaked herself in shadows again once more, so no one noticed the slight weaving motion she made. Nor could anyone see the large smile on her lips. “Well…fuck,” she murmured, though her meaning and Harry’s were, she suspected, somewhat different.
