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The Picture!spiration Fic-a-thon
THE PICTURE!SPIRATION FIC-A-THON
The rules are simple.
1. Leave a prompt; one picture per comment. Leave nothing else but a picture. The rest is up to ~imagination~. Leave as many flippin' prompts as your heart desires; there is no limit.
2. Fill a prompt! Please include a title, the fandom, and any relevant warnings/ratings in the subject line; also include characters or pairings if they fit. Your fill may be any length, it can be prose, poetry, script, or any sort of contemporary writing. If your piece is too long for one comment, feel free to use multiple comment boxes or link to a posting on your journal.
3. You may fill your own prompt if the inspiration strikes.
4. Any fandom, character, pairing, or genre is welcome.
5. PROFIT.
you were the first mile ; cora/james ; pg-13 ; [2/2]
James would like to say magic, but Cora refuses. Sticks her heels in stubbornly and pokes his chest with insistent fingers. It is, of course, no personal offense meant to magic. Magic is well and fine, but the House? The House needs mending. Like needlepoint. (No, not quite.) Like the tying together that comes after a delicate surgery. Like a slow, careful healing. (Better. Closer.)
The second floor is magic. It is entirely and she knows that. Loves it even, with that persistent extra beat that her heart adds sometimes. That it adds when he grins from his side of the couch. When they fight over who gets the biggest bedroom and she loses (She loses!) because he cheats and tosses her over his shoulder, palm on her arse and laughing loud enough to briefly loosen the charms holding their (Temporarily, Puppy. Shut it.) invisible ceilings in place.
She has, for a moment, paint in her hair and snow on her eyelashes and the whole world upside-down from just James laughing. It's nice.
The first floor, however, is hers. (Not entirely. Not that she'd ever really want it to be. Not when it's theirs.) There's no wands to help with the dusting and no spells to change the paint colors. She moves furniture through brute force (the couch) and judicial employment of desperate whining for assistance (the telly), cleans with rags and towels and vacuum cleaners. Colors her fingertips black and leaves the bridge of her nose streaked with the same.
They meet in the middle, collapsed together on the fifth step up, and they laugh out clouds like dragons. Lean themselves closer.
Sleep themselves cricks in their necks and knots in their spines and tangled intersections in the spaces between their fingers.
-
The first girl that James brings back to the House is, as it happens, also the last.
The girl may very be beautiful - she may remind Cora of caramels, of almonds or brandy or something dark and strange and exotic, if Cora could be bothered to look - and she may even be kind and good and even more right than any other girl before her. It's entirely possible that she is sweet and funny and fine, someone to be kept and someone who deserves very much to walk through their front door. To sit down to dinner, to walk up their stairs. To stay.
But Cora is tired, has shifted the(ir) living room furniture and is sleeping on the(ir) couch with her fingers skimming the hardwood floors when the key turns in the lock. And Cora (still sometimes a very greedy thing) always hates those girls the worst.
It's the laughter to accompany his that twitches along her spine. The too-pleasant (too-perfect, too-better) ring of it that sets her nerves on edge. The hinges swing quiet and the footsteps stumble and intersect and her teeth grind words between them. When the girl (her name is lost in some rising haze of my place, my home, my Boy, mineminemine) excuses herself for a moment, Cora moves.
She has him against the wall before he manages to flick the light switch.
The press is satisfying, harsh and tight and close. His name is a growl, a low note deep in her chest and pressed to the place where his jaw hinges. A place she'd like to sink her teeth into, but her heart (its extra beat) skitters nervously and she shudders, scrabbles with her fingertips and clings with some desperation that whines at the back of her throat.
Mine, Cora says into his skin, and it lilts itself far more into a question than she intends. Please..
The Boy (her Boy) laughs, tugs at the end of her braid in the dark and presses a kiss against her forehead, Guess so, yeah?
The girl, Cora imagines, goes home.
-
The second floor is magic.
(It's only fair, after all, since the first floor is hers.)
And it's lucky, really, that it is. Their bedroom is much bigger without all those walls in the way.
Re: you were the first mile ; cora/james ; pg-13 ; [2/2]
HURTS IN THE BEST WAYS. (I think I started grinning like a loon about halfway into the first bit - and then the grin never left even as I got to the end.)
I love it. And them. And your words. Augh. Jackie - you need to write more.
And this was a fantastic response to the prompt-picture. I can so see it.