Fic Meme

[unknownfate]

So here is the five minute comment fic meme, yoinked from rosehiptea. I did this one over at her lj. I know lots of good writers, so I figured I would try it too.


1. Clear your schedule for five minutes (or longer if you have time, I'm not gonna turn down more fic).
2. Then look under the cut tag, where you will find ten prompts, all of which are song titles (selected at random from my iPod WMP library iTunes library.)
3. Choose one of the prompts, and - using any appropriate fandom/character[s] (meaning ones you think I might enjoy) - write. (Note: As far as I'm concerned, you can write anything you want, really...)
4. Reply with your teeny weeny story in the comments to this post.
5. Repost this in your journal and make your friends write for you.


1. Under My Wheels
2. Somewhere That's Green
3. You Could Be Mine
4. I Want To Be An Angel
5. My Greatest Fear
6. Protectors of Earth
7. Little Drop of Poison
8. Lonely (But I Ain't That Lonely Yet)
9. Here Comes the Rain
10. Lonesome, On'ry and Mean

Comments

4. I Want To Be An Angel

[rosehiptea.livejournal.com]

Wow, you got some good titles. I used this one for a little dark movieverse BJ/Lydia, hope that works for you...

"Are you my angel?" he asks her. His grin is feral, as always. Lydia shakes her head. She's never wanted to be an angel.

"I'm not even dead," she points out, logical as always.

He runs his dead hand down the warm skin of her arm, bringing up gooseflesh and causing her to shiver. She pretends the shivers are revulsion.

His cheek is against hers, his useless breath in her ear, and the gooseflesh spreads. "But you're my little angel, my little ghost, my little... demon."

His hand is on her hip and she's burning in places an angel doesn't burn, though perhaps a demon does.

"I'm not your anything," she says, and she pulls away. This time.

Somewhere That's Green

[findmyantidrug.livejournal.com]

The cityscape is beautiful in its own right. Dan knows that, he really does, and the city fits him comfortably, with its citizens in every corner and the pervasive smells of innovation. It's hard to feel truly alone, here. Loneliness can be tricked away by stepping into a busy cafe and eating lunch surrounded by happy people, watching them like he watches birds, fascinated and a little envious underneath it all.

But there is always a faint griminess, a layer of ugliness just underneath it all. He's felt it there, on occasion, when he was younger; now, as a crimefighter, he dives into it, sometimes stares into the ugliness for so long that he can't see anything else. Rorschach has the benefit of having adapted to it after years of constant exposure; his armor is strong enough that he can go months without being fazed. Dan can count the nights Rorschach hasn't been able to drink coffee on one hand.

If Dan is honest with himself, it's Rorschach more than anything else - Rorschach with his guard constantly up, who never lifts his face to the sky except to search rooftops, who sometimes stops to gaze at a pitiful line of trees as if they're priceless - who makes him want to turn his back to the city. He wants to take Rorschach to the heart of a forest, where no sounds but birdsong and crickets could reach them, where their eyes would brim with life.

Dan wonders what Rorschach would become, were he safely nestled away, free from guilt, free from anger.

It won't happen. They can't, not when their city needs them. But when the city lights shine too brightly and the alleys swallow them whole, he wishes, more than anything, that they could.

[wednesday42.livejournal.com]

9. Here Comes the Rain
Rain cleanses nothing here. What it does do is wipe away the layers of prevarication that people insist on constructing. It brings out the truth of personalities, dissolving false courtesies and empty promises - the longer a person stands in rain, the more honest he will become. It does the same for the city around them, eliminating the garish colors and deceptive grays that gloss over flaws, distract from the true nature and purpose of things. Only the stark contrast of light and dark remains, pointing the way for those who care to look.

domestic fluff, catschach style

[tuff-ghost.livejournal.com]

"Good timing," Dan muttered, tying off the rope around the small deer's legs. Rorschach had made the kill and had sat in the tall grass while Dan dressed it, looking gory and smug as he ate the organs. The rain was starting in earnest now, pounding down from a dark sky. They had an hour's walk back home.

Rorschach was always able to find the way where Dan might get turned around, even back when he had only human senses, and they moved through alleys and subway tunnels rather than forest. Dan followed blindly, sweating under the bloody weight, walking always towards Rorschach's silhouette where it faded in and out of the trees ahead. How long would I last if he just disappeared?

The deer had to be hung up when they got home, and Dan revived the fire. They both bathed in front of it, Dan in a tub and Rorschach with his own paws and tongue, scouring away the blood and the smell of wet fur.

Their conversations were naturally one-sided, and even though Rorschach had always been reticient Dan still sometimes felt desperate for words. Rorschach would lean against his side, or push his brow against Dan's; these gestures were all he could offer to assure Dan that his monologues were understood.

Dan had driven back from town one day with a new typewriter, full of great ideas. It took a lot of urging and shredded paper to get Rorschach to use it. Just to prove he hadn't lost his faculties of language, he wrote,

DANL THIXDS ISZ STUP;ID