electricalgwen

I haven't done one of these in ages. Prompt: play. Gwen, in 100 words.


Whoever dies with the most toys wins.

Not a game she particularly wanted to play, but you have to have something to get up for each morning.

She doesn’t make friends; it’s hard, if you never learned the trick as a child because who befriends a freak? She’s had a few lovers, but condoms are one thing; full-body coverings are another. Eventually the lack of touch, of skin on skin, drives them away.

She’ll never have children. She can’t risk it. She’s not sure what would be worse: that they’d share her…talent, or that they wouldn’t.

So, she’s a thief.

Happy birthday, ubiquirk!

Ubi is a talented and prolific contributor to various fandoms, but I have a particular soft spot for her Firefly creations. I wanted to write her a little something for today (well, I would have loved to write her a great big something, but that wasn't going to happen) and so Firefly it is. I don't know what it says about me that my only Firefly output is River-centric, but there you have it. :)

(Set between "Shindig" and "Safe".)

there is still no up

“Your up is wrong,” River says seriously.

She hangs upside down, cold metal bar behind her knees. Her hair streams out, tendrils reaching for the floor. Ceiling? Wall?

In space, there is no right way up.

“They make it up. They call it up, but it’s down. Lies, always lies.” Her voice thins. “In the light. It should have been dark. Dark deeds. They were bad men. Mal.” She stares into the liquid, dark eyes, mere inches from her own.

“Mal.” She blinks, very slowly. Darkness, then light. “His name lies, too.”

The cow chews stolidly on, offering no opinion.

Inspired by the prompt "ascend" at open_on_sunday.


She always runs hot after a heist, adrenaline backwash and triumph keeping her wired, sparking. She spends so much time keeping herself insulated; letting her power out to play is a high that’s hard to come down from.

Tonight she isn’t trying. Tonight, she’s climbing higher and higher, glorying in touch; she’s almost to the top. She’s afraid to let go, though; she’s not entirely sure the safety net will hold.

“C’mon, baby,” Gunn mutters, and she can’t keep the surge down. It charges white-hot through her, vital and blinding, unlike anything.

She cries, afterwards, so amazed they’re alive.

A drabble for the prompt "Word" at open_on_sunday. This is a prequel to Brilliant Idiots and Are You Pondering What I'm Pondering? - I mention this in case you feel the need for any more Gunn/Andrew in your Sunday. :P


“…Mr. Giles says the vampyres are setting up for the second wave.”

Gunn frowned at the map on the boardroom table. “I say we take this fight.”

“Word!” Andrew said, nodding emphatically.

Gunn kicked the base of Andrew’s chair. Hard.

Andrew sailed backwards. He would have collided with the door, except Spike helpfully opened it.

Crash. Shriek.

“Oh my god, you little dweeb! Look what you’ve done!” Harmony stomped past, holding the blood-soaked front of her blouse away from her chest.

Andrew came gliding in again – still backwards. He stopped by crashing into Angel.

Gunn grinned in spite of himself.

madame_meretrix is fantabulous. Yup.

Sometimes I wish I could have followed her and apreludetoanend into Supernatural fandom. Because I love them both and I miss playing with them, and because I'd like to be writing stuff they'd like to be reading. Especially for birthdays.

But you know what? It's surprisingly easy writing for a fandom you don't really know, if you go with AU RPS. Kinda. Sadly, this is only a drabble, but it's my only SPN output thus far so, y'know. Take what you get. *g* Thanks to darkhavens for advice and inspiration.

( Taking The Wheel )

This is not really Meretrix's birthday present - which, um, I started last year and still haven't finished - but she's kindly given me a couple of months grace.

For the prompt "Squash" at open_on_sunday. Set during BtVS s4 in that ep where... oh, you know the one.


Willow liked to think it was only three days a month. Three days of “the curse.” When the wolf came to town.

He’d never pointed out that for twenty-four days of every month she didn’t bleed, but she didn’t stop being female.

It’s always there, under his skin. In his skin, in his nails and hair and teeth. He’s never grokked the physics of it, but it’s like somehow he and the wolf are inhabiting the same space, two entities squashed into one unstable shape. It’s always there. The moon is simply a trigger.

Jealousy is an even stronger one.

For the prompt "Tie" at open_on_sunday.

Wesley's wardrobe has become slightly more varied over the past few years. The London Fog overcoat now rubs shoulders with a scuffed leather jacket; the Savile Row suits must share closet space with jeans (albeit neatly folded ones.) He owns shirts in colours besides white.

He remains meticulous in caring for his clothes, however. Sweaters are perfectly folded, and trouser seams are crisply pressed. His ties are rolled and stored on their sides, to preserve their shape.

Well, most of them are. A couple are shoved under the mattress. He never liked the pattern, but they hold knots extremely well.

Today's Connor drabble day over at good__evil and so my (probably) last contribution to madame_meretrix's first line meme went in his direction. First line of this is hers.


Not Normal

“You’ll love this.” Fred pushed the tiny, elegant box across the table at him. “Chocolate! Just try it.”

Connor politely took one of the tiny, elegant truffles.

“This is one of the things I missed most in Pylea,” she said dreamily. “I mean, I missed my family, clean clothes, showers… but at night, I dreamed of chocolate.” She popped one into her own mouth and closed her eyes in quiet bliss.

She opened them just in time to see Connor spit his into a tissue.

“You don’t like it?” She looked appalled. “Wes, are you sure he’s not part demon?”