December 3rd, 2015

giles back

Drabble: Not Forgotten

Title: Not Forgotten
Author: littleotter73
Character: Giles
Rating: FRC
Prompt: Gingerbread
Word Count: 100
Disclaimer: For fun, not profit.

Giles entered the library cursing that sadistic little tyrant Synder and his penchant for late afternoon staff meetings… and just before the winter holidays. Because of the lateness of the hour, he had missed the gang and their little Christmas party.

Tossing his jacket over the back of a chair, he noticed the perfect gingerbread model of the library sitting on the worktable, complete with miniature Slayerettes researching around the table while the two figures representing Buffy and himself were training off to the side.

And beneath them, written in white icing:


Merry Christmas, Giles!

He smiled at their sentimentality.

cage

Drabble: The House

Title: The House
Author: rebelxxwaltz
Character: Giles, Ethan
Rating: FRC
Prompt: Gingerbread
Word Count: 100
Disclaimer: I own nothing ;D

“It’s from my mum.”

“How did she know where to send it, then?”

There was a scramble and smash, the sort of which had become a worry to Rupert recently.

Ethan, as was typical, broke in.

“Look at the precious cookies. Aren’t they so charming? Randall, we all know your mum is a total slag but at least her baking is nice.”

The crumbs dropped down the front of Ethan’s shirt, cascading off the satin like rain. He tossed the remaining chunks around the room with abandon.

“You’re a bastard.”

“The house is still standing. What more would you ask?”

giles back

Drabble: Winter Idylls

Title: Winter Idylls
Author: littleotter73
Character: Giles/Buffy
Rating: FRC
Prompt: Stargazing
Word Count: 100
Disclaimer: For fun, not profit.

He was sure he was nine the last time he took a sleigh ride through the country, drinking hot chocolate and burrowing into the hay beneath a blanket to stave off the biting cold whilst singing Christmas carols with his friends into the night.

Now he was forty-nine, safely ensconced beneath the duvet with his Slayer in his arms on clear winter night, sipping a hot toddy from his flask and listening to the muted clopping of horse hooves on tamped down snow whilst sillily renaming the constellations in the sky, eternally thankful for the peace he’d finally found.