Meme drabbles
Mar. 9th, 2010 06:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dolevalanTitle: Assorted drabbles
Fandom/original: original (with one loosely set in Rhedrah, another loosely set in Ravenloft)
Rating: For the whole set, probably PG
A/N: The prompts, inspired by this meme, were all from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rougen, and were as follows: Horny!Tahar, Dark!Arthur, Sexy!Dominic, Broken and/or Crazy!Nicolas, and Parent!Katiya. Ceres also belongs to her.
Tahar found it hard to pinpoint, exactly, where the gods ended and he began. Some days this bothered him. Others, it was just a fact of life. There was nothing to do anyway, when it bothered him; it wasn’t as if he had anyone to speak to.
He could, he supposed, attempt to speak with the child Hope, but frankly, there was little enough mortal left about him. And the little there was… well. He was a child.
There were days when Tahar could feel the power humming through him: times when he could feel almost nothing else. Other days, he would forget until he saw himself in a mirror, platinum eyes meeting his gaze as if they were someone else’s. Or he’d absently touch the base of this throat, fingers brushing the scar that he occasionally forgot.
That much divinity didn’t fit in mortal skin, much less leave any room for the mortal. They had their own desires. Their own lusts. And they fought it out within him.
At times he would take something, anything, that he could tell was his own.
Ceres was his.
The way she moved, all that lithe grace, drove him mad in a way he found much more endurable. He would catch the line of her body under her robe as she walked, the fabric suggesting very little, but enough. The curve of her lips as she smiled. Her eyes, so green they almost didn’t look real.
Making love to his wife pinned him to the earth. And he could not imagine a man who would trade it for even the finest heaven.
--
He was probably just a stooge. Some patsy Verscetti had hired to send a message. You didn’t send anyone this sloppy, if you actually expected to kill a man, after all. Verscetti wasn’t that thick.
The man was in his thirties, thin, and nervous. Maybe a guy with one debt too many. Maybe he was just a schmo who thought he was a tough guy. Hard to say. He was waiting in the outer office, shifting his weight and trying not to touch the .38 in his breast pocket.
Dumb place for a piece. Visible without being handy.
At least he wasn’t a cop. Last thing anyone needed was the DA getting too interested in why the Wolf had it out for one Arthur Sloane, P.I.
He could just kill the guy in the office, but that would leave a lot of messy cleanup. Same reason he doubted he was in much danger as long as they were here. Offices made for messy crime scenes, and unlikely settings for a suicide. No, the stooge would try to get him to take a walk. An alley, maybe, or out toward the lake. Riverside. Somewhere a body could just disappear.
Arthur could, of course, just scare the guy. Take his gun off him, tell him to go home to his kids. He’d probably do it too; he could tell by watching the joe had no flint to him.
But the stupid mic had pushed him too far, one tiny push at a time. Maybe he deserved a message back.
Arthur pocketed his own snub-nosed beauty. Just in case getting the gun off the other guy was more of a hassle than he expected. After all… it never hurt to have a backup plan. If they didn’t go to the lake… well. He could always claim self-defense.
It would almost be true.
--
It wasn’t that he was oblivious to the staring, as such.
It was more that he kept futilely hoping they’d go away.
One girl whispered something he couldn’t quite catch, and the other two burst into high giggles.
He considered putting his shirt back on. But at this point, he was sweating enough that the idea was far from appealing. And he doubted it would much deter them, anyway.
They were under a tree, far enough away that he couldn’t claim they were actively bothering them, nor could he say he was giving them any encouragement. One girl, the brunette, started to wave when he glanced their way, but one of the blondes caught her hand to keep her from doing so.
Dominic sighed, swinging the ax again. He really couldn’t afford not to chop the wood, as it was likely to rain tomorrow, and the logs getting soaked would do no one any favors. But he couldn’t help but wish the girls would lose interest.
Their giggling and staring was more than a little distracting.
--
There were rumors, on the road to Kantora, of a beast in the woods. As fast as a horse, at least; maybe faster. Something wicked and brutal, that cut to ribbons a man or woman foolish enough to ride that way alone.
People talked.
Some claimed the killings were too savage to be a mere animal. Talk of monsters, whispered among the steppes. Talk of victims found carved, like cattle.
With a knife. Not a claw.
Sage words, behind closed doors. A man – a foreigner, surely; no Vaasi could do such a thing. An aristocrat. An uppity bourgeois. A hunter. The teller determined the tale. He had lost his lover. Lost a child. All his children; a whole family. It had driven him mad.
The stories had pieces, but never the whole. No stories told of the calmer, more cautious monsters who’d fathered such a man. Of the twin who’d deserted him; the father cruel enough to kill the woman he loved.
No stories told of the rage that tore through him, seeing both children, broken and dead.
No stories told of how revenge hadn’t proved enough of a solace; how it didn’t satisfy his need for blood to flow.
The monster heard the rumors. He waited, and he watched.
But he never went hungry for long.
--
“What, what,” Katiya laughed, as the child jumped up into bed with her.
“Mama, it’s Sunday.”
“Hm.” Katiya made a great show of thinking. “And what happens on Sunday? I can’t remember.”
Simon looked aggrieved. “It’s the day we get cinnamon rolls.” He intoned this with the greatest gravity imaginable.
Katiya smacked her forehead theatrically. “That’s right! I forgot. No cinnamon rolls this week.” At Simon’s aghast expression, she laughed and pounced on the boy to tickle him. After reducing him to giggles, she scooped him up.
“Will we bring some for Papa?” Simon asked, as she carried him toward his room to get him ready.
“Of course, little love. We could hardly go get cinnamon rolls and not bring any for your father. We’d never hear the end of it, would we?”
“Never ever,” he agreed.
Fandom/original: original (with one loosely set in Rhedrah, another loosely set in Ravenloft)
Rating: For the whole set, probably PG
A/N: The prompts, inspired by this meme, were all from
rougen, and were as follows: Horny!Tahar, Dark!Arthur, Sexy!Dominic, Broken and/or Crazy!Nicolas, and Parent!Katiya. Ceres also belongs to her.Tahar found it hard to pinpoint, exactly, where the gods ended and he began. Some days this bothered him. Others, it was just a fact of life. There was nothing to do anyway, when it bothered him; it wasn’t as if he had anyone to speak to.
He could, he supposed, attempt to speak with the child Hope, but frankly, there was little enough mortal left about him. And the little there was… well. He was a child.
There were days when Tahar could feel the power humming through him: times when he could feel almost nothing else. Other days, he would forget until he saw himself in a mirror, platinum eyes meeting his gaze as if they were someone else’s. Or he’d absently touch the base of this throat, fingers brushing the scar that he occasionally forgot.
That much divinity didn’t fit in mortal skin, much less leave any room for the mortal. They had their own desires. Their own lusts. And they fought it out within him.
At times he would take something, anything, that he could tell was his own.
Ceres was his.
The way she moved, all that lithe grace, drove him mad in a way he found much more endurable. He would catch the line of her body under her robe as she walked, the fabric suggesting very little, but enough. The curve of her lips as she smiled. Her eyes, so green they almost didn’t look real.
Making love to his wife pinned him to the earth. And he could not imagine a man who would trade it for even the finest heaven.
--
He was probably just a stooge. Some patsy Verscetti had hired to send a message. You didn’t send anyone this sloppy, if you actually expected to kill a man, after all. Verscetti wasn’t that thick.
The man was in his thirties, thin, and nervous. Maybe a guy with one debt too many. Maybe he was just a schmo who thought he was a tough guy. Hard to say. He was waiting in the outer office, shifting his weight and trying not to touch the .38 in his breast pocket.
Dumb place for a piece. Visible without being handy.
At least he wasn’t a cop. Last thing anyone needed was the DA getting too interested in why the Wolf had it out for one Arthur Sloane, P.I.
He could just kill the guy in the office, but that would leave a lot of messy cleanup. Same reason he doubted he was in much danger as long as they were here. Offices made for messy crime scenes, and unlikely settings for a suicide. No, the stooge would try to get him to take a walk. An alley, maybe, or out toward the lake. Riverside. Somewhere a body could just disappear.
Arthur could, of course, just scare the guy. Take his gun off him, tell him to go home to his kids. He’d probably do it too; he could tell by watching the joe had no flint to him.
But the stupid mic had pushed him too far, one tiny push at a time. Maybe he deserved a message back.
Arthur pocketed his own snub-nosed beauty. Just in case getting the gun off the other guy was more of a hassle than he expected. After all… it never hurt to have a backup plan. If they didn’t go to the lake… well. He could always claim self-defense.
It would almost be true.
--
It wasn’t that he was oblivious to the staring, as such.
It was more that he kept futilely hoping they’d go away.
One girl whispered something he couldn’t quite catch, and the other two burst into high giggles.
He considered putting his shirt back on. But at this point, he was sweating enough that the idea was far from appealing. And he doubted it would much deter them, anyway.
They were under a tree, far enough away that he couldn’t claim they were actively bothering them, nor could he say he was giving them any encouragement. One girl, the brunette, started to wave when he glanced their way, but one of the blondes caught her hand to keep her from doing so.
Dominic sighed, swinging the ax again. He really couldn’t afford not to chop the wood, as it was likely to rain tomorrow, and the logs getting soaked would do no one any favors. But he couldn’t help but wish the girls would lose interest.
Their giggling and staring was more than a little distracting.
--
There were rumors, on the road to Kantora, of a beast in the woods. As fast as a horse, at least; maybe faster. Something wicked and brutal, that cut to ribbons a man or woman foolish enough to ride that way alone.
People talked.
Some claimed the killings were too savage to be a mere animal. Talk of monsters, whispered among the steppes. Talk of victims found carved, like cattle.
With a knife. Not a claw.
Sage words, behind closed doors. A man – a foreigner, surely; no Vaasi could do such a thing. An aristocrat. An uppity bourgeois. A hunter. The teller determined the tale. He had lost his lover. Lost a child. All his children; a whole family. It had driven him mad.
The stories had pieces, but never the whole. No stories told of the calmer, more cautious monsters who’d fathered such a man. Of the twin who’d deserted him; the father cruel enough to kill the woman he loved.
No stories told of the rage that tore through him, seeing both children, broken and dead.
No stories told of how revenge hadn’t proved enough of a solace; how it didn’t satisfy his need for blood to flow.
The monster heard the rumors. He waited, and he watched.
But he never went hungry for long.
--
“What, what,” Katiya laughed, as the child jumped up into bed with her.
“Mama, it’s Sunday.”
“Hm.” Katiya made a great show of thinking. “And what happens on Sunday? I can’t remember.”
Simon looked aggrieved. “It’s the day we get cinnamon rolls.” He intoned this with the greatest gravity imaginable.
Katiya smacked her forehead theatrically. “That’s right! I forgot. No cinnamon rolls this week.” At Simon’s aghast expression, she laughed and pounced on the boy to tickle him. After reducing him to giggles, she scooped him up.
“Will we bring some for Papa?” Simon asked, as she carried him toward his room to get him ready.
“Of course, little love. We could hardly go get cinnamon rolls and not bring any for your father. We’d never hear the end of it, would we?”
“Never ever,” he agreed.
