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Oct. 22nd, 2004 10:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
doyleThe first lines meme, gakked from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jedi_penguin: Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write a drabble or ficlet with the same first line as one of my stories, and leave it in my comments here. Don't need to use the same characters or fandoms, and please point me in the direction of your own first lines.
"Sure," she says, when you ask her if she wants to fuck your husband.
At four in the morning, tomorrow's spell circling through her head on a merry-go-round, Willow gives up on sleep.
Wes used to be a Watcher.
Cordelia Chase was, without a doubt, one of the most perfect creatures he had ever laid eyes on.
She hugged Wes and Gunn as they left, hard enough that she was sure she cracked at least one rib each.
On the night's last sweep of the city, you save Angel's life.
The half-breed returns to his living quarters, high in his citadel's keep, and he orders her to leave.
"How do you do it?" Wes asks her, stroking those long fingers across the small of her back.
Fred had a dead person's eyes.
"Back in a second," Cordelia announced, extracting herself from the comfortable squish of couch and girlfriend.
"What about me, Spike?" Harmony wailed, the crossbow weaving erratically in her hands.
After, Angelus pats you mockingly on the head as he pulls on his shirt.
The radio's reception fizzled out in a last burst of static right after the word came through that half of Europe was underwater.
Driving past the LA city limits the night after his last stand at Wolfram & Hart, he’d wondered what would happen to Lilah.
Her grief has become quieter in the two years since Joyce's death.
"Shut up, Spike."
She never, ever went for that lame returning to the scene of the crime thing.
"What’s in there?" Angel asked, frowning at the shoebox in his girlfriend’s arms with trepidation.
If it hadn’t been for the scent, and the barely-perceptible sense that family was nearby, he might not have recognised him at all.
The engine sputtered to a slow, clanking death about ten miles from Gerlach.
Spike was starting to hate this place.
A day after Sunnydale he's back in uniform and on a military flight to Belize, and three weeks after that he's in a dirty room above the post office in Punta Gorda with a girl on her knees beside him, fangs buried in his right forearm because the veins in the left are starting to blacken and collapse.
Three days a month, they take the van instead of the Plymouth.
"Sit down. You're gonna wear a hole in the floor."
There was that thing that people said, about everything having a silver lining.
It's something about the voice, Dawn thinks.
In the summer before he enrolled at university, Giles's parents had taken to warning him about falling in with the wrong sort of people.
She wasn’t surprised to feel Spike die, all burnt up from the inside out.
Los Angeles was too small.
Dying does a lot for the perspective.
Connor's friends tease him over how much time he spends at the library.
A couple of things happened all at once: Fred, halfway through her third date with Knox, right about the time when she should have been pondering whether to obey the time honoured rules and invite him into her apartment afterwards, found herself instead fixated on their waitress.
On Dawn’s seventeenth birthday, the world doesn’t end.
"Mexico," Angel repeated.
"Buffy should have sex with Giles."
The Wolfram and Hart building had ghosts.
You know, looking over those, I think I'm proudest of You Pretty Things, purely because it was the only way I managed to revise Bell's Inequality.
jedi_penguin: Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write a drabble or ficlet with the same first line as one of my stories, and leave it in my comments here. Don't need to use the same characters or fandoms, and please point me in the direction of your own first lines. "Sure," she says, when you ask her if she wants to fuck your husband.
At four in the morning, tomorrow's spell circling through her head on a merry-go-round, Willow gives up on sleep.
Wes used to be a Watcher.
Cordelia Chase was, without a doubt, one of the most perfect creatures he had ever laid eyes on.
She hugged Wes and Gunn as they left, hard enough that she was sure she cracked at least one rib each.
On the night's last sweep of the city, you save Angel's life.
The half-breed returns to his living quarters, high in his citadel's keep, and he orders her to leave.
"How do you do it?" Wes asks her, stroking those long fingers across the small of her back.
Fred had a dead person's eyes.
"Back in a second," Cordelia announced, extracting herself from the comfortable squish of couch and girlfriend.
"What about me, Spike?" Harmony wailed, the crossbow weaving erratically in her hands.
After, Angelus pats you mockingly on the head as he pulls on his shirt.
The radio's reception fizzled out in a last burst of static right after the word came through that half of Europe was underwater.
Driving past the LA city limits the night after his last stand at Wolfram & Hart, he’d wondered what would happen to Lilah.
Her grief has become quieter in the two years since Joyce's death.
"Shut up, Spike."
She never, ever went for that lame returning to the scene of the crime thing.
"What’s in there?" Angel asked, frowning at the shoebox in his girlfriend’s arms with trepidation.
If it hadn’t been for the scent, and the barely-perceptible sense that family was nearby, he might not have recognised him at all.
The engine sputtered to a slow, clanking death about ten miles from Gerlach.
Spike was starting to hate this place.
A day after Sunnydale he's back in uniform and on a military flight to Belize, and three weeks after that he's in a dirty room above the post office in Punta Gorda with a girl on her knees beside him, fangs buried in his right forearm because the veins in the left are starting to blacken and collapse.
Three days a month, they take the van instead of the Plymouth.
"Sit down. You're gonna wear a hole in the floor."
There was that thing that people said, about everything having a silver lining.
It's something about the voice, Dawn thinks.
In the summer before he enrolled at university, Giles's parents had taken to warning him about falling in with the wrong sort of people.
She wasn’t surprised to feel Spike die, all burnt up from the inside out.
Los Angeles was too small.
Dying does a lot for the perspective.
Connor's friends tease him over how much time he spends at the library.
A couple of things happened all at once: Fred, halfway through her third date with Knox, right about the time when she should have been pondering whether to obey the time honoured rules and invite him into her apartment afterwards, found herself instead fixated on their waitress.
On Dawn’s seventeenth birthday, the world doesn’t end.
"Mexico," Angel repeated.
"Buffy should have sex with Giles."
The Wolfram and Hart building had ghosts.
You know, looking over those, I think I'm proudest of You Pretty Things, purely because it was the only way I managed to revise Bell's Inequality.
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Harry Potter
on 2004-10-23 08:26 pm (UTC)Fred had a dead person's eyes.
He couldn't look at himself in the mirror anymore; the last time he had deliberately sought out his own reflection (his real, reflected-in-glass, reflection) was a little over three months ago, before the funeral, just a quick glance to check that his tie was straight.
The face looking back at him had not been his own. It would never, ever be his face again; every time he saw himself from this point on, it would be George staring out of his eyes. George, flattening his hair neatly, checking that his robes were unwrinkled, making sure that no spots had erupted on his forehead overnight. George.
He had George had spent hours as children standing side-by-side in front of the mirror, cataloguing every difference they could find, each freckle that wasn't repeated, all the ways they couldn't be the same person accidentally split into two halves somewhere between conception and birth. They had never convinced themselves when they were still together, and after being left alone with nothing to compare himself with, Fred felt like nothing more than one half of a whole that could never be again.
Looking into the mirror was like looking at the missing half of himself, close enough to touch, but twice as far as he would ever be able to travel in this lifetime. He had avoided mirrors ever since, unable to stomach the sight of this man who couldn't possibly be his twin.
He didn't know how other people could bear to look at him. Every time he went home, his mum answered the door with raw, red-tinged eyes, but she kissed his cheek and stroked his hair and told him that she loved him, just the same as she always had. His dad never got his name wrong anymore, but he still called Fred "Son," still badgered him to explain the inner workings of all the Muggle contraptions he would never understand, and never fail to be fascinated by.
Ginny didn't laugh at his jokes now (guess it just isn't the same when it's Fred delivering the punchlines for himself), and his brothers never triple-checked to make sure they were talking to the right twin, but they still laughed when they told him about the friend/partner/colleague/man in the pub who had been chortling over the effects of a Weasleys's Wizarding Wheezes product. They still sat down to eat with him on Sundays and passed him the potatoes when he asked them to.
They didn't see the emptiness of the grave in his eyes. They didn't see a dead man and his murderer battling for space in his head.
Re: Harry Potter
on 2004-10-24 04:24 am (UTC)Re: Harry Potter
on 2004-10-24 01:41 pm (UTC)