quaggy: Elizabeth looking back at Mr. Darcy (Down)
[personal profile] quaggy
I asked some friends for drabble prompts.  At the same time, [livejournal.com profile] giles_shorts has offered a bunch of Shakespeare related prompts. So, here are the first few with more to come.



Title: Chatterbox
Fandom: Harry Potter
Word Count: 100
Prompt: "You talk too much"


“You talk too much” she was told, when she knew that most of the boys in her class talked far more than she ever did. “You talk too much for a girl” is what they really meant. But she was the professor now and they had to play by her rules.

No one ever said that Minerva McGonagall favored the girls in her class. She was too tough on everyone for that accusation to hold water. But if Hogwarts girls did better in Transfigurations in relation to their other subjects… perhaps it was simply because they were allowed to speak.





Title: Still of the Night
Fandom: West Wing
Word Count: 100
Pairing: C.J./Simon
Notes: This was less inspired by a prompt and more that I wanted to write C.J. & Simon. I may have C.J./Toby leanings, but C.J./Simon will always be my OTP.


You weren’t there when he was shot, but, years later, the nightmares still plague you. Part Rosslyn, part what must have happen in that convenience store. You can never stop it, though you always try.

And then you wake up, gasping and shaking in the pitch black of night, to tender hands and a warm voice.

“It’s okay. It’s just a dream. I’m still here,” your husband whispers.

You’re confused enough to wonder if that means this is the dream and reality is one where he didn’t survive. But the thought fades with sleep’s hold and you return Simon’s smile.





Title: Father’s Son
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Word Count: 200
Prompt: "It is a wise father than knows his own child."


The boy was the rough looking sort. All leather and shredded denim, splattered with something that looked like blood. But rather than scurry past, the man –who looked like he should be in Mayfair, not in this particularly rough and grimy part of London— sat down beside him on the bank of the Thames, heedless of his pristine suit.

“How did you find me?” the boy asked, gruffly.

“An educated guess.”

“So you know, then?”

“Yes. Between the books you left behind and what we could gather from your… companions, I think we have a clear picture of what happened. You were reckless to play with such things, but, even so, what occurred couldn’t have been predicted,” the man replied. Leaning forward, the man caught the boy’s eye. “The fact that it wasn’t worse is due to your quick thinking. You handled yourself beautifully. I’m proud of you.”

And that was it. The boy broke down sobbing. Though the man offered no words of comfort or physical demonstrations of affection, his compassion enveloped the boy like a blanket. When the boy had finally calmed himself, the man asked quietly, “Shall we go home then, Rupert?”

“Yes, Da. I’d like that.”



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