amaranthh (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
greenling) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2014-05-28 02:28 pm
greenling) wrote in rainbowfic2014-05-28 02:28 pm
Entry tags:
Daffodil #15
Name: Greenling
Story: Shatterverse/Standalone
Colors: Daffodil #15 (new beginnings)
Supplies and Styles: None
Word Count: 931
Rating: G
Warnings: None specifically.
Summary: Someone has a very strange day. Week. Something that ends in waking up in the wrong place and wrecking a lamp.
Bits of a story that wouldn't let go. Not sure if it fits into anything yet. Comments, criticism, and questions are all appreciated.
Hungry.
Hunger.
Sharp and empty, scrambling, red, nostrils flaring, gasping for breath and none came. Dull, burning, ache that began to consume him, he cried out. Strangled. Something grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, dragged him- and something was in front of him, strange-smelling something, then his teeth were inside it. Snap.
Mouth and throat moved without thought, so his mind disconnected and settled on the butterfly feeling in his stomach. Flitting and soothing and jumping through him, piece by piece, now in his hands, chest, running in a line down his back. He could feel every part of himself but himself, and his mind began to float away on an electric cloud.
Then something lit up in his mouth and a lance of pain shot through him. He screamed, knocked backwards in a heap on the floor.
Shivering, gathering his wits, he lay there, twitching and now exhausted. The burning was gone, along with both the ache and the butterfly feeling, replaced with a different and sharper pain. A hand stroked his hair, cold and familiar, and the sudden calm sent him to sleep.
*
His head hurt.
Slowly, he realized he was laying down, that he was covered in silk sheets, and that he had been sleeping, in that order, and he wasn't certain about the last one. He didn't feel as if he were dragging himself up from unconsciousness, more like... well, by then it was gone.
He shut his eyes as soon as he'd opened them. The world was jarringly bright, a shifting million-color haze of pain; clearly he had some kind of hangover. Some kind of horrible, death's door hangover. That would also explain the silk sheets, if he'd gone home with a girl.
He didn't remember anything else. Okay, he remembered his name.
He (Bird, that was his name) tried to think past the ache in his head to where the hell he could be. At one point, evening, he was at home. Somewhere. A shitty apartment sounded right. Then he wasn't. It seemed like a few days had passed since then, but he wasn't sure why. "Hangover" was making less and less sense as an explanation, but he didn't feel up to coming up with a new one. Bird rolled over on his side and attempted to get up.
Head swimming, hair brushing the floor, half out of bed. That was not what he had intended. His eyes flickered open and shut, not as painful as the first time, as dark as it was under the bed. Why was he looking under the bed?
At least he didn't feel like throwing up, even if the world was spinning. Not thinking, he tried supporting himself on his arms and sliding the rest of the way out of bed. He made it onto his hands and knees, but then he was flat on his back and he'd smacked his head up against some furniture. Something had gone horribly wrong. Something in his balance- he felt accomplished, managing to narrow it down like that. The stinging from smacking his head was mercifully short-lived as well, if likely only because the pain inside was worse, but in his estimation that still put him significantly ahead of where he'd been just a moment before.
At that point, there was a shuffling and a knock. It echoed, making him wince and groan. He sounded like a dying goose.
"Sir will be wanted in the dining hall at his earliest convenience." After a pause, the voice continued: "It is recommended to avail himself of the amenities as necessary."
Bird lay there with his eyes closed, trying to sort out whether he should respond, or... mostly one thing at a time. There was another shuffling, this time heading away. It was away, now that he was able to think about it, coming from several feet away, and now farther. That was about when he realized he wasn't wearing clothes. He was naked in a strange place and his hearing was really, really intense.
It was going to be a minute before he felt safe to get up, not just because he was pretty sure he'd smack his head again.
Instead, he considered what he could do. Twitching his fingers seemed doable; the floor was soft and dense and woven, with fringes at the edge and hard bits under his feet. So he was on a nice rug. Gingerly, he reached out to his right, towards where the bed should have been. He hadn't landed far away. The thing he'd smacked his head against felt like a bedside table, and to his left was empty air. That was about as much information as he could get laying on the floor with his eyes shut. Very carefully, he decided to try rolling onto his side towards the bed. Shifting his weight was easy enough; he felt lighter than he should be, but he didn't go flying. Feeling adventurous, he pushed up from the ground into a sitting position. His muscles responded quicker than he expected, but now that he was mostly conscious, he was able to compensate for it.
Opening his eyes was not any easier.
Over the course of several awkward minutes, Bird managed to get himself back onto the bed and locate the major source of his dancing rainbow eyestrain: a lamp on the bedside table. Turning it off was as simple as accidentally knocking it into the floor, which dislodged the cord on its way down. He immediately felt a little better. Time to try opening his eyes again.
Story: Shatterverse/Standalone
Colors: Daffodil #15 (new beginnings)
Supplies and Styles: None
Word Count: 931
Rating: G
Warnings: None specifically.
Summary: Someone has a very strange day. Week. Something that ends in waking up in the wrong place and wrecking a lamp.
Bits of a story that wouldn't let go. Not sure if it fits into anything yet. Comments, criticism, and questions are all appreciated.
Hungry.
Hunger.
Sharp and empty, scrambling, red, nostrils flaring, gasping for breath and none came. Dull, burning, ache that began to consume him, he cried out. Strangled. Something grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, dragged him- and something was in front of him, strange-smelling something, then his teeth were inside it. Snap.
Mouth and throat moved without thought, so his mind disconnected and settled on the butterfly feeling in his stomach. Flitting and soothing and jumping through him, piece by piece, now in his hands, chest, running in a line down his back. He could feel every part of himself but himself, and his mind began to float away on an electric cloud.
Then something lit up in his mouth and a lance of pain shot through him. He screamed, knocked backwards in a heap on the floor.
Shivering, gathering his wits, he lay there, twitching and now exhausted. The burning was gone, along with both the ache and the butterfly feeling, replaced with a different and sharper pain. A hand stroked his hair, cold and familiar, and the sudden calm sent him to sleep.
*
His head hurt.
Slowly, he realized he was laying down, that he was covered in silk sheets, and that he had been sleeping, in that order, and he wasn't certain about the last one. He didn't feel as if he were dragging himself up from unconsciousness, more like... well, by then it was gone.
He shut his eyes as soon as he'd opened them. The world was jarringly bright, a shifting million-color haze of pain; clearly he had some kind of hangover. Some kind of horrible, death's door hangover. That would also explain the silk sheets, if he'd gone home with a girl.
He didn't remember anything else. Okay, he remembered his name.
He (Bird, that was his name) tried to think past the ache in his head to where the hell he could be. At one point, evening, he was at home. Somewhere. A shitty apartment sounded right. Then he wasn't. It seemed like a few days had passed since then, but he wasn't sure why. "Hangover" was making less and less sense as an explanation, but he didn't feel up to coming up with a new one. Bird rolled over on his side and attempted to get up.
Head swimming, hair brushing the floor, half out of bed. That was not what he had intended. His eyes flickered open and shut, not as painful as the first time, as dark as it was under the bed. Why was he looking under the bed?
At least he didn't feel like throwing up, even if the world was spinning. Not thinking, he tried supporting himself on his arms and sliding the rest of the way out of bed. He made it onto his hands and knees, but then he was flat on his back and he'd smacked his head up against some furniture. Something had gone horribly wrong. Something in his balance- he felt accomplished, managing to narrow it down like that. The stinging from smacking his head was mercifully short-lived as well, if likely only because the pain inside was worse, but in his estimation that still put him significantly ahead of where he'd been just a moment before.
At that point, there was a shuffling and a knock. It echoed, making him wince and groan. He sounded like a dying goose.
"Sir will be wanted in the dining hall at his earliest convenience." After a pause, the voice continued: "It is recommended to avail himself of the amenities as necessary."
Bird lay there with his eyes closed, trying to sort out whether he should respond, or... mostly one thing at a time. There was another shuffling, this time heading away. It was away, now that he was able to think about it, coming from several feet away, and now farther. That was about when he realized he wasn't wearing clothes. He was naked in a strange place and his hearing was really, really intense.
It was going to be a minute before he felt safe to get up, not just because he was pretty sure he'd smack his head again.
Instead, he considered what he could do. Twitching his fingers seemed doable; the floor was soft and dense and woven, with fringes at the edge and hard bits under his feet. So he was on a nice rug. Gingerly, he reached out to his right, towards where the bed should have been. He hadn't landed far away. The thing he'd smacked his head against felt like a bedside table, and to his left was empty air. That was about as much information as he could get laying on the floor with his eyes shut. Very carefully, he decided to try rolling onto his side towards the bed. Shifting his weight was easy enough; he felt lighter than he should be, but he didn't go flying. Feeling adventurous, he pushed up from the ground into a sitting position. His muscles responded quicker than he expected, but now that he was mostly conscious, he was able to compensate for it.
Opening his eyes was not any easier.
Over the course of several awkward minutes, Bird managed to get himself back onto the bed and locate the major source of his dancing rainbow eyestrain: a lamp on the bedside table. Turning it off was as simple as accidentally knocking it into the floor, which dislodged the cord on its way down. He immediately felt a little better. Time to try opening his eyes again.