Tara and Fred drabbles
Jan. 27th, 2015 03:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deird1Here are three drabbles starring Tara, and three starring Fred.
Waking Up
Willow has a very kissable neck.
Soft red is gently curling around her ears, looking lovely and erotic – if slightly mussed from sleep. Tara brushes it aside and kisses along the nape of her neck, lightly, softly, then nuzzles into her hair.
So very kissable.
Willow smiles sleepily.
“Why’re you doing that?”
“Oh… just ’cause I’m allowed.”
Another smile – and Willow’s eyes drift closed again, arms hugging her pillow.
Tara watches her, for a moment, and then turns her attention to more important things. Like today’s classes. Or if the power’s come back on. Or Willow’s ears…
They’re very kissable.
Can I Say “Dawg”?
Vocabulary: words available for expression of thoughts. It’s important to cultivate an extensive vocabulary, ensuring ease of communication across subcultures.
She can discuss eigenstates and simultaneity with the best of them, and her Pylean is reasonable. Her Street Lingo isn’t quite up to scratch yet.
Calling the three of them “all my homies” was met with laughter, and she’s been flatly forbidden from greeting anyone with “hey, bro, how’s it hanging?”
Still, if at first you don’t succeed…
“These tacos are phat, yo.”
Gunn is horrified.
“No! Just… that’s… no. Really, NO.”
Connor looks confused.
“They’re not that big, Fred.”
Replacement
It wasn’t the same – she knew that. A substitute will never be anything but a poor imitation of the real thing.
But Tara did her best.
She packed lunches, did laundry, helped with homework, assigned chores, established a curfew, grounded her for ignoring the curfew and climbing out of her bedroom window to go visit Spike, arranged a weekly Girls Video Night, made sure she ate vegetables, and hugged her as often as possible.
And no, it wasn’t the same.
It never would be.
But substitute or not, Dawn deserved a mother. And it was the least she could do.
Clear Enough Signal?
Fred is kissing him. Softly, intensely, and rather insistently. She presses up against him, hands on his face and then on his chest, refusing to let him catch his breath.
He’s far too startled to react with anything involving thought – he just lets her take the lead, lips on his almost urgently, grabbing his hands and moving them pointedly to where she wants them, pulling him in even closer.
The first few garbled questions (But isn’t she…? Wasn’t Knox…?) are still running round his brain, but apparently Knox wasn’t, and she isn’t, and that really is Fred kissing him now.
Someone I Met On My Summer Vacation
The question came out of nowhere.
About two weeks after they… did what they did, Buffy turned to her and asked, “Your mom – what colour was her hair?”
Tara frowned. “My mom?”
“Was her hair light-brown?”
“Um… yes?”
“And sort of wavey?”
Tara nodded.
“And… she likes horse-riding and cooking muffins, right?”
“Yeah. She did.”
Buffy considered it, and said “huh,” thoughtfully.
“How’d you know?”
No reply.
She waited a moment, and then asked again. “Buffy?”
“Hmm?”
“How did you know? About my mom.”
Buffy looked up absently, said “What? Oh, that. It’s… nothing,” and then lapsed into silence again.
Cavemen Have Fire
Chalk on stone, calculations are formed.
She develops three new uncertainty principles, one foolproof method for theoretical fusion effecting causation, and eleven possible theories of dimensional subspace, vortexes, and wormhole travel emanating from singular microprisms activated by closed-set consonant pairings.
The concepts are groundbreaking; dazzlingly brilliant. At any university in the world, there would be grants, accolades, and paper after published paper.
Here, there is none of that. No reason to stop and receive applause – so she keeps on writing.
(How very crazy she was.)
Later, Fred looks back – and wonders if it was all just meaningless scratchings on stone.
Waking Up
Willow has a very kissable neck.
Soft red is gently curling around her ears, looking lovely and erotic – if slightly mussed from sleep. Tara brushes it aside and kisses along the nape of her neck, lightly, softly, then nuzzles into her hair.
So very kissable.
Willow smiles sleepily.
“Why’re you doing that?”
“Oh… just ’cause I’m allowed.”
Another smile – and Willow’s eyes drift closed again, arms hugging her pillow.
Tara watches her, for a moment, and then turns her attention to more important things. Like today’s classes. Or if the power’s come back on. Or Willow’s ears…
They’re very kissable.
Can I Say “Dawg”?
Vocabulary: words available for expression of thoughts. It’s important to cultivate an extensive vocabulary, ensuring ease of communication across subcultures.
She can discuss eigenstates and simultaneity with the best of them, and her Pylean is reasonable. Her Street Lingo isn’t quite up to scratch yet.
Calling the three of them “all my homies” was met with laughter, and she’s been flatly forbidden from greeting anyone with “hey, bro, how’s it hanging?”
Still, if at first you don’t succeed…
“These tacos are phat, yo.”
Gunn is horrified.
“No! Just… that’s… no. Really, NO.”
Connor looks confused.
“They’re not that big, Fred.”
Replacement
It wasn’t the same – she knew that. A substitute will never be anything but a poor imitation of the real thing.
But Tara did her best.
She packed lunches, did laundry, helped with homework, assigned chores, established a curfew, grounded her for ignoring the curfew and climbing out of her bedroom window to go visit Spike, arranged a weekly Girls Video Night, made sure she ate vegetables, and hugged her as often as possible.
And no, it wasn’t the same.
It never would be.
But substitute or not, Dawn deserved a mother. And it was the least she could do.
Clear Enough Signal?
Fred is kissing him. Softly, intensely, and rather insistently. She presses up against him, hands on his face and then on his chest, refusing to let him catch his breath.
He’s far too startled to react with anything involving thought – he just lets her take the lead, lips on his almost urgently, grabbing his hands and moving them pointedly to where she wants them, pulling him in even closer.
The first few garbled questions (But isn’t she…? Wasn’t Knox…?) are still running round his brain, but apparently Knox wasn’t, and she isn’t, and that really is Fred kissing him now.
Someone I Met On My Summer Vacation
The question came out of nowhere.
About two weeks after they… did what they did, Buffy turned to her and asked, “Your mom – what colour was her hair?”
Tara frowned. “My mom?”
“Was her hair light-brown?”
“Um… yes?”
“And sort of wavey?”
Tara nodded.
“And… she likes horse-riding and cooking muffins, right?”
“Yeah. She did.”
Buffy considered it, and said “huh,” thoughtfully.
“How’d you know?”
No reply.
She waited a moment, and then asked again. “Buffy?”
“Hmm?”
“How did you know? About my mom.”
Buffy looked up absently, said “What? Oh, that. It’s… nothing,” and then lapsed into silence again.
Cavemen Have Fire
Chalk on stone, calculations are formed.
She develops three new uncertainty principles, one foolproof method for theoretical fusion effecting causation, and eleven possible theories of dimensional subspace, vortexes, and wormhole travel emanating from singular microprisms activated by closed-set consonant pairings.
The concepts are groundbreaking; dazzlingly brilliant. At any university in the world, there would be grants, accolades, and paper after published paper.
Here, there is none of that. No reason to stop and receive applause – so she keeps on writing.
(How very crazy she was.)
Later, Fred looks back – and wonders if it was all just meaningless scratchings on stone.
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