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ysrith, who wanted Subreality Cafe fic where Will Turner and Lee Adama meet and do teh sex. The other is just random Sam Carter/Jack O'Neill fluff.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Subreality was the concept of Kielle, Falstaff and Tapestry.
Warnings: boyslash, mockery, pedanticness
Rating: PG
In a little-known town, in a little-known place (well, once, it was well-known. Now it's less well-known, but that's a condescending rant for another time), there is a building. It can be anything, to anyone, but in general it looks like your generic English Pub from Ye Olde Britain, complete with neatly, ornately-lettered sign which proclaimed 'Subreality Cafe'.
Just a slight glance in the door--if you can sneak past the Bouncer.
We're getting ahead of ourselves. The Bouncer stops writers, muses, those who really don't belong in the Cafe from entering--though, these days, he's allowing the tumbleweeds in. It gives the Bartender something to do, after all.
He doesn't stop the fictives, the characters who live within every non-canon story. The Cafe was built for them, after all.
In particular, he doesn't stop the random group that slowly begin to appear and trickle inside. Some of them even have doubles, if not triples (we won't discuss how many variations of Sam Carter and Kara Thrace there are, of course). Amazingly enough, they seem to eventually fill the Cafe. Possibly this is simply because the inter-dimensional geometry had gone for a nice nap, leaving the walls ordinary wood and the floor ordinary sandstone. The roof is another matter entirely and best not discussed at this juncture.
At one table, slumped a man who's rather flamboyant pirate shirt was soaked. To his right was a man clad in nothing but a towel. The rest of the table was similarly outfitted, right down to two blondes in metal bikinis. They seemed to be plotting the demise of the author.
Or, possibly, a rendezvous with a blacksmith.
Speaking of blacksmiths... "This is quite uncomfortable," Will Turner muttered. He plucked part of his wet shirt up and frowned at it.
"At least you have a shirt," pointed out Lee Adama.
"Yes, but it's wet."
"It's a good look, for you."
Will rolled his eyes, "So I've heard. If you've got a better line, now would be the time to employ it."
"I'm bored," Lee replied. "With the right incentive, I could drop the towel."
That gave Will pause for thought (never a good thing in a place such as Subreality, but it's not as though he truly knew this. Besides, his thoughts are simply pixels on a screen), and then he nodded slowly, "I believe we need a large amount of rum. And possibly a feather tickler."
"Kinky," murmured Lee. He paused before he stood, "Not that I would consider this, normally."
"No. Nor I." Will looked down, "My heart belongs to Elizabeth." And Jack, his conscience suggested.
"Mine is... Kara's, Dee's, maybe even Laura's," admitted Lee. He frowned, himself, "Possibly even Helo's or Sam's. I'm never quite sure."
"But one thing's certain." And now Will smiled, eyes wide with innocence, "If you lose your towel, what sort of things might be revealed?"
"No, no," catcalled someone at one of the other tables, "What kinda hitchhiker is 'e if he loses a towel?"
Someone shut the man up.
Not that Will or Lee paid him any attention.
As with most bits of narrative causality, they rose and drifted towards the stairs that hadn't been there a few moments before. At the top of the stairs was a room with a large feather bed. And Lee discovered that he liked dropping his towel, whilst Will discovered there were certain uses for a wet shirt.
And the Cafe continued to exist, as it always has, in one form or another. As it always never might will be.
Somewhere, the tea has long grown cold.
Disclaimer: not mine.
Rating: PG.
Set: Eh.
Pairing: Sam Carter/Jack O'Neill.
"This isn't funny, *Colonel*."
"Oh, but it is, Carter."
"I'm having your child, Jack, can't you call me by my name?"
"No!" He waved a hand, "It's weird, Carter."
"Weird?!" She stared at him in disbelief. "It's a name, *Jack*."
"You're Carter." A finger was pointed at her, "That's all. I can't--" He paused, then glared at her. "And stop calling me that."
"Jack?"
"Carter!"
"You're weird."
"Says the woman who would rather play with naquadah than fish."
A snort escaped her. "And I'd still rather play with naquadah than have a baby."
"I've heard it's a painful experience."
She glared at him. "Oh you have, have you?"
=-=
"Casey Jones is comin' round the track --"
Sam Carter stared at the man who was the father of her child. "What *are* you doing?"
"Singing."
"To my stomach."
"Well, yeah." He looked smug.
She closed her eyes. "Jack?"
"Yes, Carter?"
"Stop singing at my stomach."
He let out a sigh. "Why?"
"Because it's irritating."
His eyebrows went up. "You sayin' I can't sing, Carter?"
"Yes. And neither can I, so don't get your hopes up."
"Huh. Bet Daniel can sing."
"Jack." Her eyes narrowed, "You are not having Daniel sing at my stomach."
"Aw, why not? It would be enlightening."
"No."
He pouted.
"It would be creepy."
Jack gave her the I Want Sex and/or Cookies and/or Beer Look.
"No."
He sighed, extravagantly. "All right." He leaned closer, "Wanna have sex?"
"Yes."
-f-
Told you.
ysrith, who wanted Subreality Cafe fic where Will Turner and Lee Adama meet and do teh sex. The other is just random Sam Carter/Jack O'Neill fluff.Disclaimer: Not mine. Subreality was the concept of Kielle, Falstaff and Tapestry.
Warnings: boyslash, mockery, pedanticness
Rating: PG
In a little-known town, in a little-known place (well, once, it was well-known. Now it's less well-known, but that's a condescending rant for another time), there is a building. It can be anything, to anyone, but in general it looks like your generic English Pub from Ye Olde Britain, complete with neatly, ornately-lettered sign which proclaimed 'Subreality Cafe'.
Just a slight glance in the door--if you can sneak past the Bouncer.
We're getting ahead of ourselves. The Bouncer stops writers, muses, those who really don't belong in the Cafe from entering--though, these days, he's allowing the tumbleweeds in. It gives the Bartender something to do, after all.
He doesn't stop the fictives, the characters who live within every non-canon story. The Cafe was built for them, after all.
In particular, he doesn't stop the random group that slowly begin to appear and trickle inside. Some of them even have doubles, if not triples (we won't discuss how many variations of Sam Carter and Kara Thrace there are, of course). Amazingly enough, they seem to eventually fill the Cafe. Possibly this is simply because the inter-dimensional geometry had gone for a nice nap, leaving the walls ordinary wood and the floor ordinary sandstone. The roof is another matter entirely and best not discussed at this juncture.
At one table, slumped a man who's rather flamboyant pirate shirt was soaked. To his right was a man clad in nothing but a towel. The rest of the table was similarly outfitted, right down to two blondes in metal bikinis. They seemed to be plotting the demise of the author.
Or, possibly, a rendezvous with a blacksmith.
Speaking of blacksmiths... "This is quite uncomfortable," Will Turner muttered. He plucked part of his wet shirt up and frowned at it.
"At least you have a shirt," pointed out Lee Adama.
"Yes, but it's wet."
"It's a good look, for you."
Will rolled his eyes, "So I've heard. If you've got a better line, now would be the time to employ it."
"I'm bored," Lee replied. "With the right incentive, I could drop the towel."
That gave Will pause for thought (never a good thing in a place such as Subreality, but it's not as though he truly knew this. Besides, his thoughts are simply pixels on a screen), and then he nodded slowly, "I believe we need a large amount of rum. And possibly a feather tickler."
"Kinky," murmured Lee. He paused before he stood, "Not that I would consider this, normally."
"No. Nor I." Will looked down, "My heart belongs to Elizabeth." And Jack, his conscience suggested.
"Mine is... Kara's, Dee's, maybe even Laura's," admitted Lee. He frowned, himself, "Possibly even Helo's or Sam's. I'm never quite sure."
"But one thing's certain." And now Will smiled, eyes wide with innocence, "If you lose your towel, what sort of things might be revealed?"
"No, no," catcalled someone at one of the other tables, "What kinda hitchhiker is 'e if he loses a towel?"
Someone shut the man up.
Not that Will or Lee paid him any attention.
As with most bits of narrative causality, they rose and drifted towards the stairs that hadn't been there a few moments before. At the top of the stairs was a room with a large feather bed. And Lee discovered that he liked dropping his towel, whilst Will discovered there were certain uses for a wet shirt.
And the Cafe continued to exist, as it always has, in one form or another. As it always never might will be.
Somewhere, the tea has long grown cold.
Disclaimer: not mine.
Rating: PG.
Set: Eh.
Pairing: Sam Carter/Jack O'Neill.
"This isn't funny, *Colonel*."
"Oh, but it is, Carter."
"I'm having your child, Jack, can't you call me by my name?"
"No!" He waved a hand, "It's weird, Carter."
"Weird?!" She stared at him in disbelief. "It's a name, *Jack*."
"You're Carter." A finger was pointed at her, "That's all. I can't--" He paused, then glared at her. "And stop calling me that."
"Jack?"
"Carter!"
"You're weird."
"Says the woman who would rather play with naquadah than fish."
A snort escaped her. "And I'd still rather play with naquadah than have a baby."
"I've heard it's a painful experience."
She glared at him. "Oh you have, have you?"
=-=
"Casey Jones is comin' round the track --"
Sam Carter stared at the man who was the father of her child. "What *are* you doing?"
"Singing."
"To my stomach."
"Well, yeah." He looked smug.
She closed her eyes. "Jack?"
"Yes, Carter?"
"Stop singing at my stomach."
He let out a sigh. "Why?"
"Because it's irritating."
His eyebrows went up. "You sayin' I can't sing, Carter?"
"Yes. And neither can I, so don't get your hopes up."
"Huh. Bet Daniel can sing."
"Jack." Her eyes narrowed, "You are not having Daniel sing at my stomach."
"Aw, why not? It would be enlightening."
"No."
He pouted.
"It would be creepy."
Jack gave her the I Want Sex and/or Cookies and/or Beer Look.
"No."
He sighed, extravagantly. "All right." He leaned closer, "Wanna have sex?"
"Yes."
-f-
Told you.
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*grins at Will and Lee, too*
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Thank you =)
(huh, I should go post it on ye ol' cafe mailing list...)
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Oh!
I couldn't remember who Will Turner is. I looked back at "My heart belongs to Elizabeth." And Jack, his conscience suggested, and I googled "will turner" stargate.
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Sam/Jack fluff? With Sam pregnant?
*blinks*
*checks journal's name*
Has this place been hijacked? :)
(It was cute though - and I like how Sam is cranky at Jack and not worshipping at his feet for his powerful mansperm.)
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Thank you, though. =)
Please note how often I've ended up with fic because of stupid on the S/J list. I'm pretty sure this started out as something of the sort.
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The fluff is just so happy and so them.
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Ahahah. This is Subreality: http://www.subreality.com/sc.htm
It's been pretty defunct for years, but some of us have long memories. ;)
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Will and Lee, both conflicted about who their hearts belong to. Lee more so than Will. Poor Lee!
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Lee's a man. He has balls. He should use them. ;)
Thank you =)
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Wait a minute! Naah! He can still be poylandric and be angst filled! Would like to see him use the balls more aggressively!
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Hahahaha! That is SO Jack.
Yay for lyssiefic!