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Things We Are Not; "He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer"
Got a perfect score on the midterm I finally got back from ENG 210, am doing splendidly in Creative Writing, and probably ought to start a research paper tonight, as it's due Thursday. Ten pages, double-spaced with footnotes. I have less interest in doing this paper than I have ever had in any paper in my life. I actively resent this paper not only because I have to do it, but also because it's so ambiguous. He gave us nothing to work with or build off of. I hate you, DeBlasi. You kill Japanese history.
Drabble drabble drabble. This is the last of the ones I have currently written, though. ^_^ I'm about a third through something about Devin, not that anybody knows what I'm talking about, but hey. If I write enough drabbles, you will!
Original
Title: Things We Are Not
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kay_willow
Rating: PG
Notes: Response to the "Deja Vu" challenge on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
beginnings -- challenge #8, "He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer." Written in about 50 minutes after many distractions, 471 words by my count. Marilyn and Vadim, slight warning for prose-ness and more tension in these 471 words than Marilyn will possess in the next two years combined.
Things We Are Not
He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer. She likes his hair, though, which is a bit long and thickly brown and a joy to touch, and he makes her laugh; he never hits her and he'd probably grovel at her feet if she asked. He would manage to turn it into a joke somehow, glancing up from where he'd thrown himself prostrate with dancing eyes and that quirk to his lips that could make anything funny, even death, and she would laugh.
She was afraid that she wouldn't like it when he touched her, that she would think back to when her father used to hit her and how she used to curl up in her closet when her father came home drunk and wonder if this would be the time when her father would try to rape her. They always said in those stupid health class presentations that the drunk alcoholic father might try to rape his poor little girl who had never done anything but try to live.
She's glad it's different with him when he touches her, because that means she never has to be afraid. She knows he wouldn't hit her and that if she asked him to stop he would stop.
It's strange to think that at this time last night she was still a virgin, and might still have been one at this time now if it hadn't been for a casual offhand comment by a casual offhand friend who wanted to know didn't she find it funny that even though she had the longest and most enduring relationship of all her friends she was the only virgin among them well didn't she.
She didn't feel like a virgin, and she doesn't feel any different now, lying in the darkness beside him and watching the nightlight's glow on soft curves of muscle. He has an arm sprawled across her naked waist, not so much a presence as a solid weight; he feels like she does, same temperature and consistency and substance, just slightly more than she's used to. His hair feathers across the pillow and she almost wants to touch it, but she doesn't want him to wake up. She knows he wouldn't be angry, and he certainly wouldn't hit her, so it's probably out of consideration that she refrains. She'll feel silly having to explain to him that she wanted to fondle his hair and that's why she woke him up -- he'll make her laugh and she thinks that if she laughs right now it might hurt something very real somewhere.
His eyes are only half-closed. He stares unseeing at the headboard.
His hair is really lovely, she thinks. She doesn't want to place any wagers on his intelligence, though.
If he's stupid, he doesn't have to wonder what she's thinking while they lie awake.
Drabble drabble drabble. This is the last of the ones I have currently written, though. ^_^ I'm about a third through something about Devin, not that anybody knows what I'm talking about, but hey. If I write enough drabbles, you will!
Original
Title: Things We Are Not
Author:
kay_willowRating: PG
Notes: Response to the "Deja Vu" challenge on
beginnings -- challenge #8, "He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer." Written in about 50 minutes after many distractions, 471 words by my count. Marilyn and Vadim, slight warning for prose-ness and more tension in these 471 words than Marilyn will possess in the next two years combined.Things We Are Not
He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer. She likes his hair, though, which is a bit long and thickly brown and a joy to touch, and he makes her laugh; he never hits her and he'd probably grovel at her feet if she asked. He would manage to turn it into a joke somehow, glancing up from where he'd thrown himself prostrate with dancing eyes and that quirk to his lips that could make anything funny, even death, and she would laugh.
She was afraid that she wouldn't like it when he touched her, that she would think back to when her father used to hit her and how she used to curl up in her closet when her father came home drunk and wonder if this would be the time when her father would try to rape her. They always said in those stupid health class presentations that the drunk alcoholic father might try to rape his poor little girl who had never done anything but try to live.
She's glad it's different with him when he touches her, because that means she never has to be afraid. She knows he wouldn't hit her and that if she asked him to stop he would stop.
It's strange to think that at this time last night she was still a virgin, and might still have been one at this time now if it hadn't been for a casual offhand comment by a casual offhand friend who wanted to know didn't she find it funny that even though she had the longest and most enduring relationship of all her friends she was the only virgin among them well didn't she.
She didn't feel like a virgin, and she doesn't feel any different now, lying in the darkness beside him and watching the nightlight's glow on soft curves of muscle. He has an arm sprawled across her naked waist, not so much a presence as a solid weight; he feels like she does, same temperature and consistency and substance, just slightly more than she's used to. His hair feathers across the pillow and she almost wants to touch it, but she doesn't want him to wake up. She knows he wouldn't be angry, and he certainly wouldn't hit her, so it's probably out of consideration that she refrains. She'll feel silly having to explain to him that she wanted to fondle his hair and that's why she woke him up -- he'll make her laugh and she thinks that if she laughs right now it might hurt something very real somewhere.
His eyes are only half-closed. He stares unseeing at the headboard.
His hair is really lovely, she thinks. She doesn't want to place any wagers on his intelligence, though.
If he's stupid, he doesn't have to wonder what she's thinking while they lie awake.