sharp as a tack and twice as quick (juleskicks) wrote in weekend_battle,
sharp as a tack and twice as quick

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Week 1 Prompts

Ordinarily, the challenges will go until Monday night, but ordinarily, they'll be going up Thursday night. So this one will be running until Tuesday night, just to make up for it.

All ficlets should go in the comments to this post. Any fandom, any content, any pairing, etc; just include, in the subject line of your comment, the fandom, pairing (if applicable), rating, and prompt you're using. For example: BtVS; Buffy/Fred; R; Cherry Lemonade.

For the first weekend, the prompt list consists of the names of various Urban Decay products (I've found cosmetics to be awesome inspiration in the past). I've left some out which I thought might be too vague, specific, or easy ("Kiss" and "Gotham", as a couple of examples). Use these in any way you feel inclined to do -- as the title, working them in some way, working in some interpretation of the word, whatever.

Air Guitar
Big Bang
Big Ticket
Brick House
Cherry Lemonade
Easy Rider
El Dorado
Ginger Snap
Go Army!
Kiddie Pool
Last Call
Mai Tai
Maui Wowie
Midnight Cowboy
Midnight Cowboy Rides Again
Midnight Cowgirl
Oil Slick
Pina Colada
Polyester Bride
Spare Change
Trust Fund
Tags: prompts, week 1
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Cassie’s changed her costume over the years, but this was --

"That's a new outfit, isn't it?" he finally managed, staring at Cassie as she drew her legs up to her chest, curling up a few feet away from him.

"Yeah," she said, and wouldn't look at him.

"You look really, um... " Hot had actually been his first thought, followed soon after by fine, bangin', and smokin'. Fortunately, his survival instincts kicked in as well, and he managed to just keep it to a weak "good".

Lamer than lame? Duh. But also safe. Probably. You never quite knew with Cassie.
It was an unkindness to mention the chains, G’Kar knew. But he had, he felt, earned the right to some small unkindness here and there. The mention of them had brought those days rushing back again and he closed his eyes to fight them away as he wrapped his hands around his wrists to remind himself of his freedom.

It had been difficult, enduring the Centuri’s presence aboard Babylon 5. He has assumed that, as the new Prime Minister, Mollari would stay on Centuri Prime and so that first time in the Zocalo G’Kar had felt shockingly exposed and vulnerable. To walk free and clothed amongst such ordinariness had been hard enough with the memories fresh in his mind - that Mollari was there, watching him, staring as he had done all those times he had visited G’Kar’s cell on Centuri Prime, had made G’Kar’s gut clench in fear.

He had acted in good humour. He was a hero after all, had endured much to free his world. He was on the side of right, of the just, of the oppressed. He had joked with Franklin about losing his eye, with Garibaldi about their good fortune, with Londo about the chains. The first two occasions put his friend's minds at ease, ensured they didn’t dwell too long on what had happened to G’Kar or think that he had been unable to endure it and keep his self in tact.

The last one was an unkindness. But he had earned such things.
"A strange feeling. Like a little box hidden from the rest of the universe. Another universe inside this one. Nothing made sense the same way it does out here."

Lennier is nodding, but Vir looks in his eyes and sees that he doesn’t understand.

"I can’t explain it very well. It’s odd being back on the station." Vir twists his glass around. It isn’t going well. He takes a drink and then says, "things are different here. Things are different now."

"It was a strange time for us all. Everything is different now. No more Vorlons, or Shadows, or First Ones. It is a different universe."

Vir nods, his head starting to spin from the alcohol. He drinks, rolling the taste of it on his tongue and thinks - I can’t tell him. "I think I’m different now," he says instead.

"You seem different." Lennier tilts his head and regards the Centuri curiously, as if working out a puzzle.

"I think I grew up, finally." Vir murmurs under his breath, but Lennier’s hearing is excellent.

"You saw a lot of suffering on Centuri Prime and on Narn. That changes you, makes you grow up more quickly."

Vir nods again. "I changed a lot. I did things... I did something..." He lets his voice trail off. The words are like poison on his tongue, bitter. Lennier watches him carefully.

"Sometimes we do things we are not proud of."

Vir laughs, giddily. The alcohol has seeped through his blood into his hearts, making them race. "They were strange times," he tells Lennier. And then, more soberly, "I’m glad they are over."

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Izzie spends the first week in her bedroom with the drapes closed and the lights off. She comes down to the kitchen to eat a bowl of cereal and get more water once in a while, but otherwise that's it. The first few days, George knocked on her door a couple of times to ask her if she wanted to talk, but when she ignored him, he left her alone.

The first day of the second week, Izzie gets up. She opens her curtains. She takes a shower. She brushes her teeth. She gets dressed and does her hair. She sits down at the kitchen table and gets out her cookbooks and starts making a list.

She walks down to the grocery store. It's raining out, but very lightly, more like a mist over her skin than actual drops. She holds the door open for a woman and a baby who are coming out of the store while she's coming in; the baby smiles at her, and Izzie smiles back.

She buys flour and sugar and butter and cocoa and ginger and molasses and cream cheese, and drag it all back up the hill to the house.

Izzie knows she's not the only person who's ever lost the love of her life. Look at Meredith: she lost McDreamy, and she got drunk and slutty and went on a depressive spiral for six months. Izzie's not going to do that; she's not Meredith, after all, no poor little rich girl. Izzie has dealt with plenty of shit in her life, and she's gotten through it all; she'll get through this, too.

Baking is much cheaper therapy.
Oh, Izzie. <3 This is lovely.
"Hey, student! Join the army?"

"No, thanks."

"Hey, student! Join the army!"

"What are you supposed to be, a pirate? What is this shit?"

"Hey, student! Join the army?"

"Fuck off!"

Recruitment Week at Hearst College was a hard one for Buster. If the nerds weren't flicking pizza toppings at him, the Mexicans were making rumbly noises with their teeth and laughing. The only person who had come to his table to sign up had left the name of "Heywood Jablome" and an address with no zip code. Half of a cherry popsicle whizzed through the air and landed on the ground beside him.

"Nice shot! Not!" Buster said in his outside voice.

He turned around to put on his Sportsmanship Medal -- that would show these kids who was a real patriot and who wasn't -- and found a 19-year-old girl typing on his government-issue laptop.

"Excuse me," Buster said. "I'm pretty sure you're technically committing--" he looked around and lowered his voice "--light treason."

The girl didn't look fazed, but Buster could smell the fear beneath her fruity girly sparkly she-scent. She pushed the 'Delete' button and smiled.

"Prove it," she said.


So she'd had to work her Veronica magic on the stupid recruiter to squeak out of it. Like a charm, every time! And now Eli Navarro (Esq.) was no longer on the Army's list, which meant that they were even from that time he'd saved her ass... whenever it was that he'd saved her ass, and she could go back to writing her Comm 202 midterm paper.

A knock on her door. Veronica opened it a crack and saw the spastic Army recruiter, hair slicked sideways and hat in hook. He was carrying a bunch of balloons in his other hand.

"I just wanted to apologize for the things I said before," he said in a low voice. "You know, I have some deep personal experience with light treason. Not personal personal, you understand, but--" He giggled nervously.

Veronica sighed and opened the door further. Weevil owed her so much! So much!
Heeeeeeee. You win, dude. You win. *gives you a stuffed seal*
this is what the wraith do to hoff:

there's no time for final acts of heroism, no time for anyone to bravely deny the wraith their food. there's a flash in the sky as the atmosphere burns away. everyone dies vomiting their own lung tissue onto the concrete floors of underground bunkers. chuck grimaces and shakes his head when the malp comes back.

this is what the wraith do to athos:

from high orbit, it looks fine, vegetation, atmosphere, the land in greens and browns. as if the athosians could come back and take up again the dropped stitches and abandoned crops. wherever the land is bordered by water, though, the trees are dying. the contamination works its way inland. from a lower orbit, stackhouse sees the shimmer-black threading the continents like a poison in the planet's blood. there is no water left.

this is what they do to doranda:

there was a moon with an atmosphere in that system. miko will never tell rodney that there was a moon with an atmosphere in that system.

this is what they do to atlantis:

there's a great explosion, followed by other great explosions. the city sinks into the sea again. radek watches, safe in a cloaked jumper, his finger on the button.

this is what they do:

john and rodney fuck sometimes, in mediocre motel rooms in colorado springs. they don't kiss or caress or love. they are horsemen, world-eaters, plague-bringers. they devoured the pegasus galaxy and returned to earth with their hunger unabated. sometimes they cry, but never together. sometimes they can forget about it, but never for long.
It's a habit that Ginji knows neither of them will probably ever break. Eyes carefully trained to the ground. Not constantly, mind, but darting downwards every few steps. Pausing and stooping to pick up the odd coin they might come across. There are days when Ban even goes so far as to dig around in between the cushions in the booths at the Honky Tonk until Paul tells him to knock it off or he'll boot the both of them out. Not that the threat is often enforced, but it's enough to give Ban momentary pause. Half a second where he shoots a look of pure annoyance over one shoulder before letting it melt into a smile and promising that whatever he manages to dig up he'll put towards their tab. Which is, of course, a blatant lie but since all parties involved know it for what it is, Paul doesn't call him on it and Ban goes back to scrounging for change that will more than likely go towards a pack of smokes.

And Ginji simply shrugs and promises that they'll pay their tab after their next job. Which really isn't a lie per say. It just always seems to turn out false.
It wasn't until Amy was safe at home with her family and Cutter was in bed (naked, as always, and alone, and already half hard) that he let himself think about it.

Amy lying there on Lennox's bed, drunk and more than willing – hell, eager – and it was so easy to imagine her all over him, her kisses sloppy and smelling of beer, her body lithe and warm as she twined her arms and legs around him.

Didn't hurt, either, to think of Lennox there watching as Cutter stripped Amy's clothes off (and then his own, but he wasn't ready to think too hard about Lennox watching that), staring at her bare little tits with her nipples already big and hard and Cutter hadn't even licked them yet.

Cutter was rock hard now, stroking himself slowly, trying to make it last, but it was going to be tough because he was hot as hell and wanting it bad and goddamn it, he'd done the right thing (for a change) tonight and it was fucking hard to do and there damn well ought to be some payoff for it.

He closed his eyes and saw it play out: He was between Amy's thighs, licking her sweet pussy, and she was moaning and whimpering – and Jesus, there was nothing hotter than making a woman whimper and squirm except maybe for the way that she'd get really still and kind of quiet when she was getting close, just breathless gasps and little helpless sounds and if he opened his eyes he could see Lennox (naked now, not sure when that happened) kissing her and their mouths were open and he could see their tongues and Lennox was jacking his cock practically in Cutter's face and it was big and hard and shiny with moisture right at the tip oh Christ too close, don't go there, it's Amy, it was all about Amy and how his eyes were closed and he was licking Amy and she smelled and tasted so good and wanted it so bad and he suckled on her clit until she went rigid and then she was coming and screaming and Cutter looked up and there was Lennox's cock so hard so close, and there was Lennox staring him right in the eyes and God Jesus God oh fuck he was groaning deep and loud and coming hard and arching up off the bed, painting his chest and belly.

He lay there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling with his hand still wrapped around his slowly softening cock, feeling his semen cooling on his belly.

Well, hell, he thought. Son of a bitch.
Dean sulks. Tempted to start kicking the back of Dad's seat, but knowing that sort of behaviour really won't help much. Instead conveying his displeasure with a sneer and headphones clamped firmly down on his ears. Brand new AC/DC tape playing in a slightly battered Walkman. Concentrating on glaring daggers at the back of Sammy's head.

It's not fair, after all. He's the older one. He's the one who should be riding shotgun. Sammy's too young yet to even know about the backup weapons tucked safely away in the glove box, let alone know how to use it if necessary. But that morning when they'd left the diner after breakfast Sammy had hopped up into the passenger's seat like he owned it and kicked up a fuss when Dean told him to move. Dad finally snapping, "Just let him ride up front for a while, Dean," in exasperation. Obviously anxious to get on the road. Leaving Dean to hope that they stop for lunch soon. Because there's no way he's letting Sammy get away with this again.
“Chopper,” Greg House stated quite clearly as he swung his leg over and settled onto the leather seat of the motorcycle.

“Giant speeding vibrator,” Wilson countered, arms crossed over his chest, every line of his body screaming that he was not getting on it. At least, that's what he wanted Greg to think.

“Chop. Her.” Greg rolled his eyes and started the motorcycle up, revving it’s engine to drown out his friend’s protests. When James’ mouth stopped moving, House let the sound die down. “Oh stop being such a whiny wuss and get on.”

There were several long moments when it looked like Wilson might possibly out-stubborn the older man, but it didn’t last. With a long suffering sigh, he jammed the helmet onto his head and climbed on.

As House sped down the road, he had to agree. It was just like a giant speeding vibrator. Why the hell else would he try to get Wilson on it with him?

It's after dinner, already dark outside, and Irene is sitting at her desk working on her trig homework when she hears the signal at the window.

She glances over at the hallway -- the light's on, but everybody else is downstairs, or in their own bedrooms. She gets up and closes her bedroom door, locks it and pushes her desk chair under the knob, and then she goes to help Ray in.

When they're both inside, standing together in her room, Irene says, "I didn't think you were going to come tonight."

Ray gives her something that's almost a smile. "Yeah, well, my old man decided today was a good day for a nice family dinner together. I had to get out of there. I don't think my ma would ever forgive me if I popped him one."

Irene frowns, but she doesn't say anything. They don't really talk about their families; it's one of their rules, the ones they don't discuss. She kisses Ray lightly on the lips, and then takes his hand and leads him over to her bed.

Ray sits against her headboard and watches her close the curtains around them. "I love this, being like this here," he says. "It's like we could be anywhere and the rest of it doesn't even matter."

Irene knows exactly what he means. "Just the two of us," she says, climbing onto his lap.

"Exactly," says Ray, "just you and me, Irene--"

"Shhhh," Irene says, and she shuts him up by kissing him again, wrapping her arms around his neck. Ray moves one hand, soft and gentle, up to her hair; his other hand goes down to her leg, clutching tight and hot on her skin, just above where her knee socks end and just below the hem of her skirt.
Oh. That's just lovely. *heart*
Cissie pops her bubble gum and turns the page of her glossy teen magazine. They're both in pajamas and Cassie's even painting her toenails (bright red, the same shade as her new costume)--the only difference between now and the slumber parties they used to have is that they *live* together now, sort of. Which is strange, but not in a bad way, Cassie hopes. Her mom looked a little worried when Cassie told her that they were going to be roomies, and said something about friendship and strain. Which strikes Cassie as odd: if her friendship with Cissie can survive things like interplanetary space travel and werewolves, surely boarding school won't be a problem.

Even if the whole situation is kind of weird. Cassie still isn't used to Cissie always being right *there,* hanging out in her PJs (or sometimes, just her underwear), snacking all the time, reading Cosmo and listening to Bare Naked Ladies. A few weeks ago, if Cassie wanted to hang out with her friend she would have had to fly across the country.

Cissie reaches over, poking Cassie in the ribs. Cassie squeaks and messes up her toenails, smearing a stripe of red across the top of her foot.

Cissie just grins impishly when Cassie glares. "So how are the Titans? You're going again this weekend, right?"

This Friday will be the third time Cassie's flown out to San Francisco. Cassie puts away her nail polish. "They're okay. It's still weird, you know? I thought it would be kind of like Young Justice all over again, but..." she frowns.

Cissie tosses her magazine to the side. "I thought that would be a good thing. You quit that team, Cass."

"I know. It's just--" she sighs. "Robin and Impulse are both so different and I don't know why. Well, I know why with Bart, but I *know* there's stuff he's not telling me."

"What about Superboy?" Cissie is looking at the bedspread instead of at Cassie, her eyes hidden.

Cassie picks at a piece of drying polish. They never talk about her and Kon--Conner, and that's just another thing that's different. "He's nice. We haven't done anything but kiss that one time. I don't know if we're actually..." She waves a hand expansively, and knows that Cissie gets it.

"Yeah." Cissie leans over, brushing a finger down the instep of Cassie's foot. It makes Cassie's skin kind of tingle, the way she feels when she's holding her new lasso. "Do you think you're going to 'actually'...?"

Cassie rests her cheek on her knee. Cissie is lying on her stomach, and Cassie can see her pajama top riding up her back, exposing the curve of her spine and the top of her underwear peeking out above her sweatpants. "I don't know."

Oh oh oh oh oh!

Just. &flail; Oh, this is so wonderful. Cissie doesn't get nearly enough play, and nor does Cassie, and yay! I'm sorry, I'd like to be coherent, but it's not happening.
The tip of Ray's nose was fucking freezing, and he rubbed his gloved hand against it until he felt a little less worried that it was going to fall off his face.

He'd just gone out to feed the dogs, grab some fire wood from the barn, but the wind was biting, and it had started to snow, and god, what the hell was he doing in a place like this, a place where he felt like he was already frozen through after ten minutes outside?

So he sat at the kitchen table, shivering, while Fraser, crouching down, put a mug of steaming hot cocoa into his cold, now-bare hands. "Thanks, Fraser," Ray said, taking a sip and feeling the hot liquid burn his tongue, just a little.

"You're very welcome." Fraser laid his hand on Ray's knee and just stroked there, and the feeling was coming back to Ray's hands and his legs.

Ray downed the last of the cocoa and sat the mug on the table before reaching down to tangle one hand in Fraser's hair, which was warm, from the fire he just started, and soft. "Jesus, Fraser, it sucks out there. I don't think I can handle this, I --"

"Ray, you can, we can," Fraser said, cutting him off.

Ray sighed. "It's just -- what the fuck am I doing here, huh? What was I thinking?"

Fraser shifted from his crouching position to his knees, resting both of his palms against Ray's thighs before moving his hands up to Ray's waistband and slipping under the hem of his -- well, Fraser's -- flannel shirt. Fraser’s fingers were warm, so warm, and he kept one palm against Ray’s belly while he thumbed open Ray’s jeans and dragged down the zipper.

“Fraser, what are you doing?” His voice was shaking. He still had his hand anchored in Fraser’s hair, and Fraser was working Ray’s cock out of his boxers.

Fraser looked up and smiled at Ray, fingertips stroking lightly down the length of his cock. “I’m answering your question.” And then, Fraser’s head was down and he was taking Ray’s cock all the way into his mouth.

Ray planted his boots firmly on the floor and cupped Fraser’s head. His dick might have tried to crawl back up into his body just a few minutes ago, when he was outside, but it was sure as hell making up for it now inside Fraser’s warm, wet mouth.

Fraser was moving his head, letting Ray’s cock slide through his lips, almost all the way out, before taking him back in and swallowing him down. Yeah, he wasn’t going to last long at all like that, not with Fraser on his knees in their kitchen.

He tried to listen, to the words Fraser was trying to say without saying them (not that he could really say anything right then), that Fraser wanted him here, that he was here to be with Fraser. He would learn how to handle the cold, toughen up, and it somehow seemed like it would all be okay when he knew that Fraser would be there, with a cup of cocoa and a fucking fantastic blowjob.

Fraser’s tongue was riding the underside of his cock, and Ray pulled Fraser’s hair, just a little. Fraser looked up, and Ray smiled at him. “I love you, so much, god,” he said, before coming down Fraser’s throat, pulse after pulse, and Fraser stayed with him, didn’t back away one bit.

Fraser pulled away and laid his head on Ray’s knee. Ray was stroking his hair absently. After a moment, Fraser said, “Are you still having doubts?”

Ray laughed and ran his hand down the side of Fraser’s face. “Not a one, buddy.” He knew exactly what he was doing here.
Awww, this is sweet - yay.
"The thing about being high," Richie slurs out in a voice that sounds like he needs to drink water, "is that it's the only thing" He offers the roach to Virgil, who waves it away with all of the conviction of a boy raised by a social worker who truly gets scared when he sees that ad about eggs frying in pans.

"Works?" He eyes his best friend warily as Richie takes another hit. "Works what?" He also fights the urge to cough in sympathy as, apparently, it was far too much.

"To slllllllooooowwwww me dowwwwwnnnn." Richie wipes tears from his eyes and leans his head on Virgil's shoulder. "You brain. Thoughts. And stuff." There's a sigh as drk fingers run themselves through his hair. "Makes the bad, super thoughts go 'way so I can do things like ponder my existence and nap."

" pot really necessary for that?" Virgil is understandably confused, just like any other sober person dealing with the clarity of the stoned. "Can't you like...meditate? Or do a focusing exercise?"

"Been there, done those. No worky, no worky." He takes another hit, noticeably coughing less than the previous one. An aborted attempt to sit up is made, followed by giggling and him promptly falling into Virgil's lap. "Holy shit, I'm fucked up."

"Good thing you're the genius...I would have never spotted that otherwise." Richie sort-of snuggles in while still giggling. "But still there's got to be something else you could do that's not illegal, expensive, and that murders braincells. I'm just saying."

Richie finally calms and looks at him, considering, pondering. "Or maybe there's something you could do." He rolls over and nuzzles in and Virgil is forced to shift the way he's sitting.

With no other way to respond, the hair gets stroked again.

"I want to see Tony." Abby has her knees pulled up to her chin, heels tucked up on the edge of her rolling chair. Her voice is a little muffled, but what Tim can hear sounds petulant and impatient, like a little kid who's been kept up way past her bedtime. And she has, actually--they both have.

"I know," he says. It's been almost thirty-six hours since Tony opened an envelope full of Y. pestis, and they've been up the whole time. All Tim could to help was hunt down Sarah Lowell's case files and scare up a search warrant for Lowell Pharmaceuticals, and yet he's worn out. Abby's the one who did all the analysis--she's got to be in even worse shape than Tim is. But she won't leave her lab.

And Tim's not going to leave her by herself.

Abby rocks a little, and her chair squeaks with the movement. "It's not fair. Because she got sent to isolation with him, Kate gets to see him. And Ducky's a doctor, and Gibbs is... Gibbs."

Tim drops his head and rubs the back of his neck. "You heard what Ducky said. The bacteria's dead, but Tony's not out of the woods yet, and he needs his strength. They're just afraid of wearing him out."

"I know. It's still not fair. I just--really want to see him." Abby stares at him with wide eyes. The sun's going down again, and she looks fragile in the gloom.

"I know," he says, just to say something. He has a moment of not knowing what to do with his hands, and he drops them into his lap. Thirty-six hours ago, that envelope was in his hands. Until Tony snatched it away. He looks up at Abby and says, "So do I."

She drops her feet with a thud and walks her chair over to his. Their knees bump, and she wraps her arms around his neck. The point of her chin pokes into his shoulder as she says, "I'm really glad you didn't get infected, too."

"Tony did me a favor," Tim says, and it's weird, almost callous, definitely in bad taste. But he's too tired to explain, and there's a lump in his throat, besides, making it hard to talk.

He thinks Tony would get it the way he meant it.

Abby hugs him harder, nestling her head against his shoulder, and Tim figures she gets it, too. He slides his hands around her waist and holds on, and if they're clumsy in the desk chairs, an awkward gap between them, it somehow seems only fitting.