meme/poll

Weekend Words III

1) Fridays in the summer I get off early.

2) I have a deep want/need to get back into the swing of writing.

2b) But in order for this to actually happen, I need help remembering how much I truly do enjoy writing. On an individual sentence, tweak-each-word-until-it's-perfect scale.

3) THEREFORE: Leave me three (3) words in the comments and before Monday morning I will write at least one hundred (100) words somehow related to your prompt. You may request a fandom, but no guarantees. I do promise I won't include a fandom that/if you didn't ask for [it].



IN SUM: 3 words gets you at least 100 in return: that's a pretty good ROI.
Indexing:
Sam isn't scared of thunderstorms, exactly--an angry spirit trying to throttle you while it flings your brother across the room and drops a chandelier on your dad kind of puts a different perspective on the impersonal forces of nature--but when one comes close enough that each peal of thunder rattles the air in his lungs, and then just sits directly overhead for what seems like the entire night....

Sam also isn't really young enough to be crawling into his brother's bed anymore, but right now he just needs someone to hold onto so he doesn't get shaken to pieces by the weight of sound.

"Dean," he says during a lull, clutching at the edge of his brother's sheets. "Dean, please be awake." Because if Dean's somehow sleeping through this, Sam's a little afraid he might go mad.

But, "yeah, okay," Dean answers, and rolls a little closer to the wall so Sam can climb into bed with him.

"'m not scared," Sam tells him, once they're settled--or as settled as they can be when the bed frame keeps juddering from the sheer volume of the thunder. "Just can't...." he doesn't know how to finish the sentence. Think? Sleep? Stop expecting the world to fall to pieces? "Just can't," he concludes, pressing his face into the safety of Dean's shoulder.

"Yeah, okay," Dean says again, voice fond, and rolls a little closer to Sam so he can cup the back of Sam's neck, thumb rubbing up and down in Sam's hair. After a minute or two he starts scratching his fingers through Sam's hair properly, and Sam can't help but go boneless.

Dean keeps it up until the storm finally begins to move away, by which point Sam is all but purring, so at ease that he doesn't even notice when he begins sliding back into sleep, almost missing Dean's murmured, "Okay?" when his fingers finally go still again.

"'Kay," Sam exhales, and when he opens his eyes the sun's up, the world is clean and fresh, and Dean's scrambling eggs in the kitchenette.
"Oh, so you're back again," Marissa said without looking up from rolling out her pie crust.

"Seems that way," answered the man lounging in the doorway to the castle's kitchen. Underneath all the mud, his clothes might once have been a uniform of some sort. "His Nibs got tired of camp food and rocks under his pillow and finally signed a treaty."

The crust, now perfectly thin and even, went into the pan, to be pricked and filled with savory meat paste. "Did he get anything in the bargain, besides all the dirt his army could wear home?"

"A few scrubby hillsides and a pile of rocks the locals like to call a mountain."

"He's off his game if that's all." Pie safely in the oven, Marissa finally turned to her visitor, who had filched one of the pasties still cooling on the table beside her. "And I'd wait to eat that if you don't want the inside of your mouth entirely burnt off."

"Well," her visitor said, and stuffed half the pastie into his mouth in one go. A momentary flinch was the only sign Marissa might have been right. "At least two copper mines and one seam of gold--in those scrubby hillsides and under the pile of rocks." A second, wooden-faced bite, and the pastie was gone. "I know, because I was the one that scouted it." He licked his fingers, eyeing the remaining pasties wolfishly.

"That sounds more like him." Marissa folded her arms across her chest and cocked an eyebrow at her visitor. "Should I expect everyone else to be as hungry as you?"

"Probably, but they won't be here for another week. I got to ride ahead because I found the copper and gold."

"Go sluice off, then." Marissa placed a protective hand on the table, blocking access to its contents. "There'll still be food left when you get back, and the scullion spends more than enough time scrubbing the floor anyways."

"As you command." With an ironic bow, her visitor sauntered back out of the kitchen--already devouring a second pastie he'd managed to lift despite Marissa's guard.

"Wretch," she muttered to his back, but began assembling the ingredients for another pie.
Thanks for this little bit of sweetness and warmth! I love the "favored son" feeling given off by Marissa, and the affectionate teasing wound throughout their conversation. :D A comforting read after a tough week.
I'm glad it was of comfort! Making people happy is a big motivation for me to keep/get back into writing.

Sometimes with the prompts I have to scrounge a little to get something together--this one pretty much presented itself to me fully formed. :D
Not for the first time, John entertained the possibility that Rodney's claims that Carson actually practiced voodoo instead of medicine. Because really, was there any other reason to draw so much blood?

"We have to make sure you weren't poisoned," Dr. Biro claimed as she took away the latest offering.

"Well, I was stabbed and bled out for awhile," John pointed out (despite his lack of audience). "Maybe it would be a good idea to leave my remaining blood where it is?" The empty room remained silent, which he took as assent. "And anyway, Rodney got nicked by the same knife, so why isn't he in here too?"

Of course, the next day when he learned that Rodney had seized twice during the night and had almost died alone in his bedroom, he was kind of glad no one had been around to hear him.
Someone requested 'any - artifact, facsimile, factotum'
After a couple of months, Radek figured out that how any given day would go could be predicted pretty well by whether or not he got to eat his breakfast in peace. Or at all. (On average: once a week without interruptions, and at least twice where he couldn't make it past four bites.)

He really couldn't blame it on anyone but himself: Rodney was Rodney, and so everyone came to Radek first because they knew he'd probably say 'yes'--or at least 'maybe'--or would actually answer their question instead of ignoring it for six months or until some crisis forced the issue. Or refusing out of hand to work on something because it was 'too soft science-y'.

More than one late night he'd spent staring at the ceiling over his bed, trying to imagine what it would be like to remake himself in Rodney's image. Probably worse for his blood pressure but better for his ulcers.

But he had a small row of clay and carved wooden birds across the top of one of the cabinets in his room, and memories of grateful smiles to go with each one, so all in all he was happy enough to just be himself. Let Rodney earn his Nobel; Radek was content.

(Except when the bastard drank the last of the coffee and didn't refill the pot.)
I'm quite glad you filled the prompt despite my awkward inability to post the comment properly. =] Radek as not-entirely-reluctant factotum is a lovely fill. Thank you!
You're very welcome! It's always fun seeing what my brain comes up with to connect all three words.