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Ficlets from Icon Prompts
God bless you all for prompting me, this was a wonderful exercise. Results under the cut, bearing in mind these were written in one sitting with no beta, mmkay?
She's so pissed at him, it takes even longer than usual to fall asleep. Something is nagging at her, the way he said what he did, but he hurt her and so he can go to Hell.
When he appears in her dream, she considers waking herself up out of spite. He looks clean, in all senses of the word, and they're standing in the hallway of her house. The words are hazy, she doesn't care what he has to say.
Then it skips, as dreams are wont to do, and he leans in to kiss her in a way Clark Gable would have admired. She swears she can taste his lips on hers, the tender but firm pressure making her tingle even though it isn't real.
It's imagined, but it's remembered too.
He presses her against the wall, kisses hungry now, her focus slightly off. She wishes that dreams came with camera angles and directors because she wants to stay in the action rather than trying to watch it too. He trails soft little bites down her neck and when she can't feel the stubble she knows it can't be perfect.
They don't talk, but their hands co-ordinate seamlessly. Like alternating steps in a dance, they shed an item of clothing on each desperate break for air. Cuddy is overwhelmed with arousal now, and she worries that it will drag her from sleep. The dream version of her seeks out the zipper of House's pants and she's immersed once more.
She could tell him that she hates him, that he doesn't deserve to touch her even in fantasy, but there's no rationalizing with her dreams and they mock her by erasing his limp and letting him carry her to her bedroom, where the sheets are the wrong colors but she doesn't give a damn.
He's rough with her, it's how she likes it but can never quite summon the courage to ask it of the mild-mannered accountants and lawyers she spends isolated nights with. When the House in her dream shoves her down on the bed, she lets him without complaint.
The foreplay isn't the stuff of Harlequin romance, but these are her little kinks after all, so she responds with a murmured chanting of his name as he licks, then sucks, then bites her painfully erect nipples. His fingers, those long and elegant fingers that have distracted her during countless meetings and official reprimands are gently rubbing her thigh, nudging ever closer to where she needs them most desperately.
She can't get enough detail, enough sensation, but she knows how good it should feel when he pins her to the mattress before guiding his cock inside her. He pounds into her as though twenty years haven't elapsed, as though no muscle was ever damaged, and she slips her fingers between their thrusting bodies and grinds two fingers jerkily against her clit. The counterpoint rhythm is working and as she feels the climax build, she's suddenly awake and panting in her own bedroom.
Curiosity wins out in an instant and she finds that she's as wet as she would have been in her dream. Quickly, urgently she replicates the caress on her throbbing clit and slips two fingers of her right hand inside, knees hitched up under the tangled sheets.
She closes her eyes and can still picture him, it's distant but it's enough and she comes with his name frozen on her tongue.
In the morning the hatred has cooled to indifference, but she takes an extra ten minutes in a scalding hot shower and digs out one of the blouses that makes the nurses call her a Puritan behind her back.
Today she will regain control. Today she won't think about him that way, even if his ass looks damn good in the jeans he insists on wearing.
Tonight is already a battle lost.
Day one of the coma is the operation: the middle ground he'll never forgive them for.
Day two they avoid each other, turning in opposite directions in the corridors, Cuddy flitting into his room only when Stacy leaves for food, the bathroom or most likely a cigarette.
Day three they sit in uneasy silence, Cuddy watching the monitors instead of reading her book. She doesn't believe Stacy's written more than two lines of the briefing memo she has to do by Monday, but she refuses to interfere, because life is complicated enough already.
Day four and Cuddy can't find her anywhere in the hospital, which panics her for some reason that she can't explain. She shows up at the apartment Stacy shares with House, unable to believe she'd be hiding out there on the night before they wake him up and everything will begin to fall apart.
Stacy ushers her in and pours a generous glass of wine that Cuddy didn't ask for. She accepts it anyway, and the second that follows. They try to make small talk, but only one thing is weighing on their minds.
Cuddy searches in vain for a topic that will distract them, but Stacy already has a plan of her own. She leans across the shiny new sofa cushions and kisses her friend with a mixture of panic, desperation and tenderness. Cuddy knows she absolutely shouldn't respond, but there's apparently no way to stop herself.
She wakes up in another couple's bed, Stacy already sitting, wrapped in a sheet and staring down at her with eyes that clearly haven't closed all night. Cuddy wonders if she should apologize, laugh it off, ask what it means. Instead, she walks straight out of the awkwardness and into the shower.
By the time she's dressed and almost presentable, Stacy has her implacable lawyer's face on and they say goodbye without a word about what happened between them.
Four hours later, House emerges from the chemical coma and nothing is the same again. He assumes all their guilt and strangeness is rooted in the betrayal of his medical wishes, and neither one of them can face making it even the slightest bit worse.
Five years later, Stacy is general counsel once more, and Cuddy stands beside House to argue her case. She can't help feeling like the competition goes beyond whose medical judgement wins. But she's not a fool, and when she sees what's building between those two again, Cuddy knows what she had means nothing.
It's just a shame that doesn't make it hurt any less.
Of course he shows up at her place that night.
He knocks so softly that she almost doesn’t hear it, engrossed in a stack of research grants that need her final approval. She checks the clock before shuffling towards the door, it can’t be anyone else, but the display of consideration has thrown her off-course. Another of the tiny changes from having a baby in the house, she supposes. She pulls the heavy front door open and there’s House, refusing to look her in the eye.
Expecting him to push past her, she stands aside and is stunned when he waits for an explicit invitation. She charts his slow progress into her living room, each returning limp of pain burning into her guilt center, the final sign of betrayal that just a few hours ago she thought was gone for good.
They sit uncomfortably on either end of her sofa, the protective buffer of paperwork between them. She waits, watches, tries to gauge his pain levels from the depth of the furrows on his forehead. He always looks out of place amongst the soft fabrics of her living room, no matter how much she secretly longs for him to fit there.
It’s rushed and abrasive, and to the untrained ear it sounds nothing like an apology. But she learned a long time ago how to translate him, and she understands at last why he can’t take the methadone, why he can’t make that change. It doesn’t matter how strong her gut instinct to tie him down and force the sticky green liquid on him is, this is how it’s going to be.
The decision to go across and hug him isn’t really a decision, but before she’s aware of what she’s doing him, Cuddy is kneeling on the floor in front of him, squeezing him in the firmest embrace she’s capable of. They have that quiet moment, until he protests about her freakish upper body strength and cracked ribs, and she releases her grip on him with some reluctance. She’d forgotten how pleasant it could be to have human contact with anyone other than a squirming infant.
Before she can pull away completely, his hand is on the back of the neck and she’s moving back towards him, without control. He kisses her and it tastes of Scotch and the chalky residue of Vicodin; it’s desperate and bitter and exactly what she needs.
Her mind is made up, and when the kiss eventually ends, she pushes him gently before attacking his belt buckle. He mutters protests about pity and mistakes, but there isn’t an ounce of sincerity in the words. There’s a brief panic rising in her chest when he doesn’t get hard right away, but it’s age and pills and surprise working against them, and soon enough he responds to her touch. By the first contact from her tongue, he's lost in a steady stream of cursing, praise and thirty variations in how he says her name.
When he comes, his fingers are tangled in her hair and her name is falling from his lips with something approaching reverence. Cuddy smiles and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and when their eyes meet she thinks he might finally believe that she’s okay with getting this version of him.
It’s about time.
They all assumed she'd some crawling back, begging for Valium, for another round of ECT.
By the second day back at her mother's house, Diana was assuming the same thing.
On the third day she takes the first pill in a month - but it's a multivitamin and so the world doesn't change. She realizes that it's actually sort of bearable.
Of course there are still the times when she can't get her head off the pillow all day, or the weekends lost to rearranging every piece of furniture in the creepy old house she grew up in. She writes to Natalie and thinks about calling Dan, but the impulse fades with time and she wonders if needing him for so long was simply muscle memory or love. Then she decides that the difference doesn't matter; all she needs now is herself.
For the first time in eighteen years she keeps a sketchbook, a collection of designs for the perfect family home. Her father collects college application forms, but she can't find the words to tell him there's no way back, and even if you find it, it's the wrong road to take.
Gabe flickers into her dreams some nights, but he's always gone by morning, just as he should be. He tells her sometimes that he's helping his father; she agrees that it's about time.
She finds her own little place by the shore, and while nothing is perfect, at last she knows it's real.
A very small, very private part of him is wryly amused to hear that it's too late for an epidural. It's not in his nature to wish people harm, but the thought of Andrea experiencing a pain close to the way his heart was just ripped in half makes him feel just the tiniest bit better.
Then his children are being born and he forgets to hate her. He loves her all over again as he wipes the sweat from her forehead, and tries to help her remember how to breathe. They're back on familiar ground when she starts bitching that he's making it worse. Maybe he should have canceled a meeting every now and then and actually attended a single Lamaze class like he'd promised he would.
They experience one of their lulls - he's changing Presidents and when he does make it to her place, Andy's asleep and her mother hovers as he peeks in at the kids in their crib.
She finally relents, and moves into the house. He tells her there are no strings attached, that it's for the kids and the life they always promised they would offer. He moves into her old apartment where the rooms smell of her fading perfume and he can hear the echoes of her footsteps when he's alone at night.
After six months, she's back to the force of nature that he fell in love with, though there are dark circles under her eyes that rival his own. The storm is brewing about his neglect, and broken promises, but he can never bring himself to explain that time is running out and he needs to make sure that the world didn't change for the worse on his watch.
Nothing could prepare him for the sick somersault his stomach does when he sees the television screen flashing yellow despair about the bomb in Gaza. He dials her number while the words of the Tefilat HaDerech run through his mind, and he begs God to let her be safe.
When he sees that shock of red hair on the television screen, his knees almost betray him. Until she lands at Dulles he remonstrates with himself, having adopted a sudden Buddhist inclination to believe in karma, certain that any harm befalling her is his fault for wishing her ill all those months ago.
He hasn't waited in arrivals for her since before they were married, when she'd fly into Newark or LaGuardia and he was too in love to waste a single minute of them being in the same city. When she clears customs, she doesn’t look surprised to see him, and he helps her with her bags though she’d never have let him before.
They make it to his car, he packs everything in the trunk with care while she eases into the passenger seat. When he joins her in the front of the car, her tears are flowing and all he can do is hold her, whispering comforting words into her hair.
When it passes, he drives them to her house. He hasn’t ever thought of it as his, despite the name on the deeds. Toby feels peripheral to her tear-soaked reunion with her mother and the kids, but he can’t bear to leave when he just got her back.
Her mother leaves and they deal with the first priority: a bottle of formula and a baby for each of them. He calls takeout while she puts them to bed, and he doesn’t eavesdrop on the promises and apologies he knows will take the place of lullabies.
Conversation becomes easy once they deal with her dead friends, worry for Donna, her own disbelief that it really happened to her. When he calls her shiksa to make some point, she smiles in a way that dazzles him, temporarily.
It might be comfort, it might be the spirit of carpe diem, but they trade their noodles for kisses without a discussion or plan. When she takes him to her bed, he sees the fading bruises from the collision and he wants to blow up half of West Asia just to make it not be true. He channels the fear and frustration into their love-making and it might just be as good as it’s ever been for them.
They can’t hold off morning, though they try. She has a full calendar of appearances; he has a President to counsel. All the worries and recriminations of a week ago resurface without provocation, no matter how much they wish that being terrified somehow granted them a clean slate. They’ll always be prisoners of their history, of their failings, and there’s no free pass out of that.
He wishes he could marshal his words to do his bidding, but they desert him when he needs them most. Toby wants to grab her by the arms and tell her that he’ll always love her, that the imperfections they see in each other are nothing compared to the failings of everyone who isn’t her. Instead he kisses the children goodbye and slips off into the weak sunlight of a May morning; she says nothing to stop him.
His first thought when he ends the call to Greg Brock is whether she’ll stand by him. It almost makes it worth it when she does.
They've developed their own language over the years, so when Jackie says that Kevin wouldn't like it, Eleanor knows that her payment to Immaculate Virgin needs to be discreet. The check that Jackie signed will never be cashed, and that's what friends are for.
She wants to tell her that she can do better than Eddie, that it's okay to not be satisfied with Kevin. If there was a magic solution, she'd offer it without a second thought. Eleanor understands the impulse to just shake some sense into Grace and tell her to get over all this Armageddon nonsense that seems to plague her, but she also knows what it's like to be the only kid who understands how fucked-up the world is, so she tries to exercise patience.
Instead they drink and smoke, and she shares her Xanax like her mother always taught her. They wage puerile wars on Akalitus and anybody else who dares cross them. The rest of the world doesn't 'get' them, assumes they only spend time together because everyone else is too petrified to get close. She and Jackie know different, but they'd never do anything as stupid as admitting they need each other.
She's so pissed at him, it takes even longer than usual to fall asleep. Something is nagging at her, the way he said what he did, but he hurt her and so he can go to Hell.
When he appears in her dream, she considers waking herself up out of spite. He looks clean, in all senses of the word, and they're standing in the hallway of her house. The words are hazy, she doesn't care what he has to say.
Then it skips, as dreams are wont to do, and he leans in to kiss her in a way Clark Gable would have admired. She swears she can taste his lips on hers, the tender but firm pressure making her tingle even though it isn't real.
It's imagined, but it's remembered too.
He presses her against the wall, kisses hungry now, her focus slightly off. She wishes that dreams came with camera angles and directors because she wants to stay in the action rather than trying to watch it too. He trails soft little bites down her neck and when she can't feel the stubble she knows it can't be perfect.
They don't talk, but their hands co-ordinate seamlessly. Like alternating steps in a dance, they shed an item of clothing on each desperate break for air. Cuddy is overwhelmed with arousal now, and she worries that it will drag her from sleep. The dream version of her seeks out the zipper of House's pants and she's immersed once more.
She could tell him that she hates him, that he doesn't deserve to touch her even in fantasy, but there's no rationalizing with her dreams and they mock her by erasing his limp and letting him carry her to her bedroom, where the sheets are the wrong colors but she doesn't give a damn.
He's rough with her, it's how she likes it but can never quite summon the courage to ask it of the mild-mannered accountants and lawyers she spends isolated nights with. When the House in her dream shoves her down on the bed, she lets him without complaint.
The foreplay isn't the stuff of Harlequin romance, but these are her little kinks after all, so she responds with a murmured chanting of his name as he licks, then sucks, then bites her painfully erect nipples. His fingers, those long and elegant fingers that have distracted her during countless meetings and official reprimands are gently rubbing her thigh, nudging ever closer to where she needs them most desperately.
She can't get enough detail, enough sensation, but she knows how good it should feel when he pins her to the mattress before guiding his cock inside her. He pounds into her as though twenty years haven't elapsed, as though no muscle was ever damaged, and she slips her fingers between their thrusting bodies and grinds two fingers jerkily against her clit. The counterpoint rhythm is working and as she feels the climax build, she's suddenly awake and panting in her own bedroom.
Curiosity wins out in an instant and she finds that she's as wet as she would have been in her dream. Quickly, urgently she replicates the caress on her throbbing clit and slips two fingers of her right hand inside, knees hitched up under the tangled sheets.
She closes her eyes and can still picture him, it's distant but it's enough and she comes with his name frozen on her tongue.
In the morning the hatred has cooled to indifference, but she takes an extra ten minutes in a scalding hot shower and digs out one of the blouses that makes the nurses call her a Puritan behind her back.
Today she will regain control. Today she won't think about him that way, even if his ass looks damn good in the jeans he insists on wearing.
Tonight is already a battle lost.
Day one of the coma is the operation: the middle ground he'll never forgive them for.
Day two they avoid each other, turning in opposite directions in the corridors, Cuddy flitting into his room only when Stacy leaves for food, the bathroom or most likely a cigarette.
Day three they sit in uneasy silence, Cuddy watching the monitors instead of reading her book. She doesn't believe Stacy's written more than two lines of the briefing memo she has to do by Monday, but she refuses to interfere, because life is complicated enough already.
Day four and Cuddy can't find her anywhere in the hospital, which panics her for some reason that she can't explain. She shows up at the apartment Stacy shares with House, unable to believe she'd be hiding out there on the night before they wake him up and everything will begin to fall apart.
Stacy ushers her in and pours a generous glass of wine that Cuddy didn't ask for. She accepts it anyway, and the second that follows. They try to make small talk, but only one thing is weighing on their minds.
Cuddy searches in vain for a topic that will distract them, but Stacy already has a plan of her own. She leans across the shiny new sofa cushions and kisses her friend with a mixture of panic, desperation and tenderness. Cuddy knows she absolutely shouldn't respond, but there's apparently no way to stop herself.
She wakes up in another couple's bed, Stacy already sitting, wrapped in a sheet and staring down at her with eyes that clearly haven't closed all night. Cuddy wonders if she should apologize, laugh it off, ask what it means. Instead, she walks straight out of the awkwardness and into the shower.
By the time she's dressed and almost presentable, Stacy has her implacable lawyer's face on and they say goodbye without a word about what happened between them.
Four hours later, House emerges from the chemical coma and nothing is the same again. He assumes all their guilt and strangeness is rooted in the betrayal of his medical wishes, and neither one of them can face making it even the slightest bit worse.
Five years later, Stacy is general counsel once more, and Cuddy stands beside House to argue her case. She can't help feeling like the competition goes beyond whose medical judgement wins. But she's not a fool, and when she sees what's building between those two again, Cuddy knows what she had means nothing.
It's just a shame that doesn't make it hurt any less.
Of course he shows up at her place that night.
He knocks so softly that she almost doesn’t hear it, engrossed in a stack of research grants that need her final approval. She checks the clock before shuffling towards the door, it can’t be anyone else, but the display of consideration has thrown her off-course. Another of the tiny changes from having a baby in the house, she supposes. She pulls the heavy front door open and there’s House, refusing to look her in the eye.
Expecting him to push past her, she stands aside and is stunned when he waits for an explicit invitation. She charts his slow progress into her living room, each returning limp of pain burning into her guilt center, the final sign of betrayal that just a few hours ago she thought was gone for good.
They sit uncomfortably on either end of her sofa, the protective buffer of paperwork between them. She waits, watches, tries to gauge his pain levels from the depth of the furrows on his forehead. He always looks out of place amongst the soft fabrics of her living room, no matter how much she secretly longs for him to fit there.
It’s rushed and abrasive, and to the untrained ear it sounds nothing like an apology. But she learned a long time ago how to translate him, and she understands at last why he can’t take the methadone, why he can’t make that change. It doesn’t matter how strong her gut instinct to tie him down and force the sticky green liquid on him is, this is how it’s going to be.
The decision to go across and hug him isn’t really a decision, but before she’s aware of what she’s doing him, Cuddy is kneeling on the floor in front of him, squeezing him in the firmest embrace she’s capable of. They have that quiet moment, until he protests about her freakish upper body strength and cracked ribs, and she releases her grip on him with some reluctance. She’d forgotten how pleasant it could be to have human contact with anyone other than a squirming infant.
Before she can pull away completely, his hand is on the back of the neck and she’s moving back towards him, without control. He kisses her and it tastes of Scotch and the chalky residue of Vicodin; it’s desperate and bitter and exactly what she needs.
Her mind is made up, and when the kiss eventually ends, she pushes him gently before attacking his belt buckle. He mutters protests about pity and mistakes, but there isn’t an ounce of sincerity in the words. There’s a brief panic rising in her chest when he doesn’t get hard right away, but it’s age and pills and surprise working against them, and soon enough he responds to her touch. By the first contact from her tongue, he's lost in a steady stream of cursing, praise and thirty variations in how he says her name.
When he comes, his fingers are tangled in her hair and her name is falling from his lips with something approaching reverence. Cuddy smiles and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and when their eyes meet she thinks he might finally believe that she’s okay with getting this version of him.
It’s about time.
They all assumed she'd some crawling back, begging for Valium, for another round of ECT.
By the second day back at her mother's house, Diana was assuming the same thing.
On the third day she takes the first pill in a month - but it's a multivitamin and so the world doesn't change. She realizes that it's actually sort of bearable.
Of course there are still the times when she can't get her head off the pillow all day, or the weekends lost to rearranging every piece of furniture in the creepy old house she grew up in. She writes to Natalie and thinks about calling Dan, but the impulse fades with time and she wonders if needing him for so long was simply muscle memory or love. Then she decides that the difference doesn't matter; all she needs now is herself.
For the first time in eighteen years she keeps a sketchbook, a collection of designs for the perfect family home. Her father collects college application forms, but she can't find the words to tell him there's no way back, and even if you find it, it's the wrong road to take.
Gabe flickers into her dreams some nights, but he's always gone by morning, just as he should be. He tells her sometimes that he's helping his father; she agrees that it's about time.
She finds her own little place by the shore, and while nothing is perfect, at last she knows it's real.
A very small, very private part of him is wryly amused to hear that it's too late for an epidural. It's not in his nature to wish people harm, but the thought of Andrea experiencing a pain close to the way his heart was just ripped in half makes him feel just the tiniest bit better.
Then his children are being born and he forgets to hate her. He loves her all over again as he wipes the sweat from her forehead, and tries to help her remember how to breathe. They're back on familiar ground when she starts bitching that he's making it worse. Maybe he should have canceled a meeting every now and then and actually attended a single Lamaze class like he'd promised he would.
They experience one of their lulls - he's changing Presidents and when he does make it to her place, Andy's asleep and her mother hovers as he peeks in at the kids in their crib.
She finally relents, and moves into the house. He tells her there are no strings attached, that it's for the kids and the life they always promised they would offer. He moves into her old apartment where the rooms smell of her fading perfume and he can hear the echoes of her footsteps when he's alone at night.
After six months, she's back to the force of nature that he fell in love with, though there are dark circles under her eyes that rival his own. The storm is brewing about his neglect, and broken promises, but he can never bring himself to explain that time is running out and he needs to make sure that the world didn't change for the worse on his watch.
Nothing could prepare him for the sick somersault his stomach does when he sees the television screen flashing yellow despair about the bomb in Gaza. He dials her number while the words of the Tefilat HaDerech run through his mind, and he begs God to let her be safe.
When he sees that shock of red hair on the television screen, his knees almost betray him. Until she lands at Dulles he remonstrates with himself, having adopted a sudden Buddhist inclination to believe in karma, certain that any harm befalling her is his fault for wishing her ill all those months ago.
He hasn't waited in arrivals for her since before they were married, when she'd fly into Newark or LaGuardia and he was too in love to waste a single minute of them being in the same city. When she clears customs, she doesn’t look surprised to see him, and he helps her with her bags though she’d never have let him before.
They make it to his car, he packs everything in the trunk with care while she eases into the passenger seat. When he joins her in the front of the car, her tears are flowing and all he can do is hold her, whispering comforting words into her hair.
When it passes, he drives them to her house. He hasn’t ever thought of it as his, despite the name on the deeds. Toby feels peripheral to her tear-soaked reunion with her mother and the kids, but he can’t bear to leave when he just got her back.
Her mother leaves and they deal with the first priority: a bottle of formula and a baby for each of them. He calls takeout while she puts them to bed, and he doesn’t eavesdrop on the promises and apologies he knows will take the place of lullabies.
Conversation becomes easy once they deal with her dead friends, worry for Donna, her own disbelief that it really happened to her. When he calls her shiksa to make some point, she smiles in a way that dazzles him, temporarily.
It might be comfort, it might be the spirit of carpe diem, but they trade their noodles for kisses without a discussion or plan. When she takes him to her bed, he sees the fading bruises from the collision and he wants to blow up half of West Asia just to make it not be true. He channels the fear and frustration into their love-making and it might just be as good as it’s ever been for them.
They can’t hold off morning, though they try. She has a full calendar of appearances; he has a President to counsel. All the worries and recriminations of a week ago resurface without provocation, no matter how much they wish that being terrified somehow granted them a clean slate. They’ll always be prisoners of their history, of their failings, and there’s no free pass out of that.
He wishes he could marshal his words to do his bidding, but they desert him when he needs them most. Toby wants to grab her by the arms and tell her that he’ll always love her, that the imperfections they see in each other are nothing compared to the failings of everyone who isn’t her. Instead he kisses the children goodbye and slips off into the weak sunlight of a May morning; she says nothing to stop him.
His first thought when he ends the call to Greg Brock is whether she’ll stand by him. It almost makes it worth it when she does.
They've developed their own language over the years, so when Jackie says that Kevin wouldn't like it, Eleanor knows that her payment to Immaculate Virgin needs to be discreet. The check that Jackie signed will never be cashed, and that's what friends are for.
She wants to tell her that she can do better than Eddie, that it's okay to not be satisfied with Kevin. If there was a magic solution, she'd offer it without a second thought. Eleanor understands the impulse to just shake some sense into Grace and tell her to get over all this Armageddon nonsense that seems to plague her, but she also knows what it's like to be the only kid who understands how fucked-up the world is, so she tries to exercise patience.
Instead they drink and smoke, and she shares her Xanax like her mother always taught her. They wage puerile wars on Akalitus and anybody else who dares cross them. The rest of the world doesn't 'get' them, assumes they only spend time together because everyone else is too petrified to get close. She and Jackie know different, but they'd never do anything as stupid as admitting they need each other.
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and all your House prompts were perfectly executed...
On the first one I really enjoyed "Tonight is already a battle lost." "Today she will regain control."
OhHH perfect and the post the softer side.. OMG so possible, I love how you write using all the elements!! GREAT!
Mlo
ps. I so need THAT song!! lolz...
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P.S.: Hey can I ask(actually beg) you something? Would it be okay if I used your C.J. icon, the default one? I just loved it so much...
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And feel free to snag the CJ icon - I'm just getting started on the ani-icons, so go ahead :)
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Product review
(Anonymous) 2011-10-31 04:39 am (UTC)(link)and quality review