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and you're never coming home again
be it regular fic? IT BE REGULAR FIC! (well, as regular as regular goes around here.) regular fic in miniature proportions.
title: fire
pairing: blossom/brick (HOLY CRAP I KNOW I WROTE THEM FOR ONCE 0Д0)
rating: pg-13
parts: one-shot
disclaimer: i dig smoothies. don't sue me please.
summary: practicality and flame just don't mix. my summaries suck. also, i like metaphors.
notes: endless thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mathkid for beta'ing. SEND HER COOKIES! major, MAJOR kudos to those of you who catch the e.e. cummings ref. also, the first fic of mine in a long while to have only one title!
Fire
-songbirdjen-
“I don’t want to do this,” you whisper against his skin, urgently, only it doesn’t come out sounding very urgent at all, and you aren’t really sure he’s heard you until he stops kissing your neck and brings your wrist up so he can whisper against it.
“Neither do I,” he says in a voice, a voice that deserves its own language, a language that travels up through the inner muscles of your legs, opens into your chest, wraps around your head and shoulders and curves its way back down the dome of your back, but wait, maybe those are his hands, you’re not really sure at all.
Brick is so handsome. He is so handsome when he stops being stoic and silent and brooding, when he stops being himself. It’s as if his eyes are matches that suddenly spark and explode into flame, and like all fire it courses through his body quicker than water can douse it, forcing his arms around you, sweeping your practical hair into a mess of tangles as the heat of it escapes into your mouth when he kisses you, and fire burns everything in its path, you cannot help it, it burns logic and sense and practicality into ash, and all that’s left is the fire.
So in a way, you really mean it when you say you don’t want to do this. For a moment.
But then he kisses you, breathes, “Blossom,” against your lips like it’s a prayer, in that voice, that language of his, that sucks the air between the both of you away as he draws you close.
And suddenly there is nothing. Nothing but him and the air between you two that isn’t there, that still won’t go away because there is never enough skin on skin despite all the heat, all that fire. Nothing in your head can make you believe this is a bad idea, nothing that makes you think of good and evil or right and wrong or who he is and who you are.
He’s repeating your name into your hair as you gasp for breath, wishing there was enough skin and less air and that he would stop, no, never, you never want him to stop.
But—like all fire—it runs its course.
At the end of it all you drop each other, unceremoniously, like it was a mistake (it’s always a mistake, though, isn’t it), and amidst all that ash you pull away from each other, retreating into your logic while he retreats into his stoicism and you both go back to denying feeling when feeling is first, when feeling is what draws you to each other over and over again.
“I don’t want to do this,” you whisper against his skin, urgently.
“Neither do I,” he says, and kisses you.
-fin-
title: glass
pairing: brick/blossom, one-sided?
rating: pg
parts: one-shot
disclaimer: *dodges ctn lawsuits*
summary: brick wishes he could reach her.
notes: applause formathkid, who helped me out immensely with this one. any soul-crushing mistakes left behind are my fault, and mine alone.
Glass
-songbirdjen-
It’s like he’s staring at her through frosted glass.
Her image wavers and shimmers through, not quite real and not quite discernible, but he can pick out color, movement, the sound of her voice, because frosted glass isn’t always soundproof (and besides, he’s got superhearing, hasn’t he?).
He wants to reach for her, as if touching her, grabbing her arm and holding it there will suddenly bring her into focus, and he’ll see her with strikingly crystal clear clarity (that’s horrible alliteration and even worse, it’s repetitive), and hey, it’s been a long time since he’s been able to form any cohesive thoughts in his mind when it comes to her. They shimmer across the wrinkles in his brain, not quite real and not quite discernible… just like her.
He can break through glass, easy, nothing to it (what are superpowers for, anyway?), but nevertheless it stops him when he musters the energy to step toward it (toward her) at all. His hands bump against it, it’s cold on his skin, and his breath fogs in the air as he sighs, millions of tiny little pinprick crystals too minute to see.
Brick wants whatever is behind that glass. Whatever hides behind it, whatever lives and moves and breathes behind it, whatever laughs and cries and loves behind it.
There is nothing more he wants than whatever is behind that glass.
The glass is just a metaphor. But Blossom may as well be. Glass, that is.
-fin-
geez, it'd been so long since i posted semi-regular fic up here, i'd almost forgotten how. witness my patheticism at work!
on to the rest of the drabbles from here on! and then... aw, geez. i guess there's more regular fic coming. and polishing of bks, oh my god. i created a monster of mediocre proportions with that one.
say, any recs as far as ppg/rrb fic goes? currently i'm majorly digging elleoquent, and plan to move on to cap'n chryssalid from there (i know, i know, i've fangirled the ppg for so long and i haven't even read that one yet), but what then? powerprof, peccavi, andgo_google_me aside :) i know the fandom's kinda... nrgh, dead, but perhaps there are gems yet out there. heck, i'll even take ppgz fic, so long as it's well-written (maybe that's asking too much, though?).
title: fire
pairing: blossom/brick (HOLY CRAP I KNOW I WROTE THEM FOR ONCE 0Д0)
rating: pg-13
parts: one-shot
disclaimer: i dig smoothies. don't sue me please.
summary: practicality and flame just don't mix. my summaries suck. also, i like metaphors.
notes: endless thanks to
mathkid for beta'ing. SEND HER COOKIES! major, MAJOR kudos to those of you who catch the e.e. cummings ref. also, the first fic of mine in a long while to have only one title!Fire
-songbirdjen-
“I don’t want to do this,” you whisper against his skin, urgently, only it doesn’t come out sounding very urgent at all, and you aren’t really sure he’s heard you until he stops kissing your neck and brings your wrist up so he can whisper against it.
“Neither do I,” he says in a voice, a voice that deserves its own language, a language that travels up through the inner muscles of your legs, opens into your chest, wraps around your head and shoulders and curves its way back down the dome of your back, but wait, maybe those are his hands, you’re not really sure at all.
Brick is so handsome. He is so handsome when he stops being stoic and silent and brooding, when he stops being himself. It’s as if his eyes are matches that suddenly spark and explode into flame, and like all fire it courses through his body quicker than water can douse it, forcing his arms around you, sweeping your practical hair into a mess of tangles as the heat of it escapes into your mouth when he kisses you, and fire burns everything in its path, you cannot help it, it burns logic and sense and practicality into ash, and all that’s left is the fire.
So in a way, you really mean it when you say you don’t want to do this. For a moment.
But then he kisses you, breathes, “Blossom,” against your lips like it’s a prayer, in that voice, that language of his, that sucks the air between the both of you away as he draws you close.
And suddenly there is nothing. Nothing but him and the air between you two that isn’t there, that still won’t go away because there is never enough skin on skin despite all the heat, all that fire. Nothing in your head can make you believe this is a bad idea, nothing that makes you think of good and evil or right and wrong or who he is and who you are.
He’s repeating your name into your hair as you gasp for breath, wishing there was enough skin and less air and that he would stop, no, never, you never want him to stop.
But—like all fire—it runs its course.
At the end of it all you drop each other, unceremoniously, like it was a mistake (it’s always a mistake, though, isn’t it), and amidst all that ash you pull away from each other, retreating into your logic while he retreats into his stoicism and you both go back to denying feeling when feeling is first, when feeling is what draws you to each other over and over again.
“I don’t want to do this,” you whisper against his skin, urgently.
“Neither do I,” he says, and kisses you.
-fin-
title: glass
pairing: brick/blossom, one-sided?
rating: pg
parts: one-shot
disclaimer: *dodges ctn lawsuits*
summary: brick wishes he could reach her.
notes: applause for
mathkid, who helped me out immensely with this one. any soul-crushing mistakes left behind are my fault, and mine alone.Glass
-songbirdjen-
It’s like he’s staring at her through frosted glass.
Her image wavers and shimmers through, not quite real and not quite discernible, but he can pick out color, movement, the sound of her voice, because frosted glass isn’t always soundproof (and besides, he’s got superhearing, hasn’t he?).
He wants to reach for her, as if touching her, grabbing her arm and holding it there will suddenly bring her into focus, and he’ll see her with strikingly crystal clear clarity (that’s horrible alliteration and even worse, it’s repetitive), and hey, it’s been a long time since he’s been able to form any cohesive thoughts in his mind when it comes to her. They shimmer across the wrinkles in his brain, not quite real and not quite discernible… just like her.
He can break through glass, easy, nothing to it (what are superpowers for, anyway?), but nevertheless it stops him when he musters the energy to step toward it (toward her) at all. His hands bump against it, it’s cold on his skin, and his breath fogs in the air as he sighs, millions of tiny little pinprick crystals too minute to see.
Brick wants whatever is behind that glass. Whatever hides behind it, whatever lives and moves and breathes behind it, whatever laughs and cries and loves behind it.
There is nothing more he wants than whatever is behind that glass.
The glass is just a metaphor. But Blossom may as well be. Glass, that is.
-fin-
geez, it'd been so long since i posted semi-regular fic up here, i'd almost forgotten how. witness my patheticism at work!
on to the rest of the drabbles from here on! and then... aw, geez. i guess there's more regular fic coming. and polishing of bks, oh my god. i created a monster of mediocre proportions with that one.
say, any recs as far as ppg/rrb fic goes? currently i'm majorly digging elleoquent, and plan to move on to cap'n chryssalid from there (i know, i know, i've fangirled the ppg for so long and i haven't even read that one yet), but what then? powerprof, peccavi, and
go_google_me aside :) i know the fandom's kinda... nrgh, dead, but perhaps there are gems yet out there. heck, i'll even take ppgz fic, so long as it's well-written (maybe that's asking too much, though?).
no subject
thanks for the link :) def. brought a grin to my face!
no subject
Glass was good. The asides were really interesting, and I loved how you pointed out that Brick >could< technically reach out to Blossom, but something keeps holding him back. What I got from it was a kind of "He wants Blossom but because of the 'glass' he doesn't exactly know what all >Blossom< entails, so he's actually not sure that he wants her at all...etc..." Totally believable dilemna.
Fire, however... Fire blew me away. Absolutely perfect. I mean, like "get out of my head". That's really the only way I picture Blossom reacting to Brick if/when he goes for her: involuntary reciprocation. It's...
There are no words. No MORE words. I'm done.