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Random ficlets...Misc. Fandoms
I actually wrote some of these ages ago. But since I just wrote a tiny ficlet for the Inspector Lynley series that I blame on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aj, I figured I should post more than one ficlet... sigh.
Lynley. Helen. Angst and knitting.
"You knit your Sergeant a scarf," Helen's voice sounds almost unsurprised. She can't decide whether she's jealous or not, of if the idea of her husband knitting another woman (she's just his sergeant, Helen, you know that) a scarf is merely a relief, since it means she won't have to wear the ugly thing.
"She gets cold," Lynley replies, not particularly attending.
And Helen thinks that maybe that's best (and maybe he's never been attending to what she says and feels--oh, that's a lie, Helen, and you know it). She doesn't want him thinking she's jealous of little Barbara Havers with her back door apartment (not jealous of the freedom of no one knowing you're Someone, dear) and awful car, and lack of looks (now that's just rude, dear).
"Does she. Well, I suppose everyone does," Precisely. Of course they do. Helen yawns and stands, "I'm going up to bed, Tommy."
He doesn't look up from the case he's making notes on when he mumbles, "Good night, dear."
And Helen wonders if this was her fault, or his. Or if it's both of theirs or no one's at all, as she climbs into a cold bed.
She wouldn't have liked the scarf, but she would have worn it. It would have shown that he saw her as something other than his wife, and Helen isn't really sure he sees her as that anymore, anyway.
Bionic Woman (new version) Prompt was Sarah, swing
It's an idyllic scene: mother and child, together. Just another bonding experience for them both. The little girl begs to go higher, fly faster on her swing. It was the swingset her father built for her, the wood darker with the passage of the year. Another request, and her mother laughs, hands moving to push her higher.
The little girl crows a triumph as she flies higher and higher, the wind whipping through her hair.
The scene changes, years passing. But the laughter and the love never change.
Standing on a rooftop, as though she owns it, Sarah Corvus stares down (down, down, so far you can touch the sky) and feels some of that old thrill. The thought's stale, now.
She's flown high and had her wings burned off. Falling back to Earth wasn't the thrill it used to be.
Wind whistles through the streets below, people talk, their chatter barely discernable from the mubmlings of ants. And Sarah wonders why she thought of her mother. The grave she used to visit is long overgrown, no flowers decorating the grey stone. When you're dead, it's hard to keep appointments.
Touching Evil UK, prompt Susan, island (and I'm hoping I haven't posted this, though I'm uncertain) Contains spoilers for series three.
Creegan is a sea of rage, an ocean of chaos, an over-flowing river of passion and bile.
Sometimes, Susan Taylor thinks of herself as the island of calm in the midst, but she knows that's not true. Knows it like she knows how fast a heart can break ('..we regret to inform you...')
The knife in her hand had been slick with sweat. And need. That terrible, horrible need to have it all make sense. To atone, in some way, for letting Rivers die. For making his fiancee look so lost.
Creegan had said she would enjoy it. She knows he was right. She would have enjoyed ending Michal Lalwor's life, watching him bleed out as he'd watched Mark.
There would have been something clean in it.
BSG2003, Kara/Anders fluff
"Those are my socks."
"Comfy."
Anders glared at Kara. "My. Socks."
She wiggled her toes in them and smirked. "So you said. You notice I'm the one wearing them?"
And nothing else. But he wasn't going to let that distract him. "Kara. My feet are cold." Maybe an appeal to her sense of kindness -- wait. Did Starbuck have one?
"I can think of ways to fix that."
"Give me my socks back."
"Nah." She pushed at his shoulders and climbed onto the bed after him, settling in his lap. "This's more fun."
"Uh-huh." He wrapped his arms around her waist, and sighed, "Am I going to get them back?"
"Maybe." A giggle escaped her, "You have to earn them."
ooh. Femslash. BSG/SG-1 crossoverish, Kara Thrace/Sam Carter (damn, it's been a while). This was started for the porn battle, but never finished/
"Are you done?" Kara's tone is impatient.
From under the viper, a muffled voice replies, "Almost."
Almost is another five minutes, then ten, the seconds filled with Kara's mutters and complaints, and the occasional request for tools. At fifteen, Kara has enough and kneels down, leaning in and grabbing Sam by the waist, pulling her out before she can protest. "You're done under there."
Blinking in the suddenly brighter light, Sam Carter replies, "Kara, if I don't re-attach--"
Kara's mouth latches onto hers, cutting her off mid-sentence. It's an act of desperation--Kara knows that if Sam starts talking about the parts she has to fix, and which coupling meets which, and how if she does this, the engine will work that much better, they could be stuck there for hours. Days, even. And while Kara thinks it's kinda hot when Sam babbles on about science and engines (not to mention looking hot when she's all, disheveled and greasy, her coverall unzipped halfway, because she got too warm and had it down around her waist), she'd like to have a moment of Sam's time. Possibly even some sex.
"Ok," Sam murmurs, fingers stroking through Kara's hair. "I get the message. You're bored."
Kissing the side of Sam's mouth, Kara grins, "Very bored."
"Then," says Sam, her voice amused, "Let me finish hooking the fuel line up, and I'll be done."
"I don't know, Carter," Kara narrows her eyes, "I do that, I might not get you back out from under there."
Sam's hand reaches up, pulling Kara's mouth to hers for a very long, very heated kiss. Finally breaking it, Sam says, her voice breathless, "If that doesn't convince you, then how about the fact fuel will start leaking out all over Chief's deck shortly?"
"Two minutes," Kara decides, dipping her head to the side and kissing Sam's neck. "And then I come in after you. And you have to decide which you'd hate more: leaking fuel, or getting frakked in the middle of the deck?"
Unfinished Blake's 7 Cally 'n' Travis fic (this one may've been posted before. I've no idea). Mostly posted 'cause, well, I had one more cut tag to fill. ;)
"Why are we doing this again?" asked Travis, leaning gingerly against the wall (as if at any moment it would buck and throw him off).
"Because you're drunk," replied Cally.
"I'm not drunk."
The look she shot him was amused. "You're very drunk, Travis."
He considered this for a moment, then shook his head and nearly fell over. Her hand on his arm prevented the catastrophy from occurring. "It was only two bottles of raslak."
"Four." She corrected, "And we're blowing the communications base up because the Federation need to remember that they're not all-powerful."
"You sound bitter."
"I'm very bitter."
"Mmm. Guerilla actions." He sneered, "So bourgeoisie, Cally."
"I'm sure you were trying to make a point there, but I missed it." She steadied him again and nodded. "I think I'll go on alone from here, unless you want to be left with the explosives."
"Afraid I'll ruin the one-person-army effect?"
"No. Afraid you'll pass out. And you're too heavy for me to carry back out."
"Your mocking of my abilities--"
She punched him, fist connecting neatly with his chin. He folded like a piece of paper, and she slowed his descent only a little, then patted his shoulder. "You'll be much happier out here, Travis."
If he'd been awake, he probably would have continued objecting. Since he wasn't, her only answer was a faint snore.
Cally smiled and steadied herself against the wall. After all, she'd help consume that four bottles. Her gait as she slipped towards the communications complex wasn't entirely steady. But years of training kept her from being caught.
aj, I figured I should post more than one ficlet... sigh.Lynley. Helen. Angst and knitting.
"You knit your Sergeant a scarf," Helen's voice sounds almost unsurprised. She can't decide whether she's jealous or not, of if the idea of her husband knitting another woman (she's just his sergeant, Helen, you know that) a scarf is merely a relief, since it means she won't have to wear the ugly thing.
"She gets cold," Lynley replies, not particularly attending.
And Helen thinks that maybe that's best (and maybe he's never been attending to what she says and feels--oh, that's a lie, Helen, and you know it). She doesn't want him thinking she's jealous of little Barbara Havers with her back door apartment (not jealous of the freedom of no one knowing you're Someone, dear) and awful car, and lack of looks (now that's just rude, dear).
"Does she. Well, I suppose everyone does," Precisely. Of course they do. Helen yawns and stands, "I'm going up to bed, Tommy."
He doesn't look up from the case he's making notes on when he mumbles, "Good night, dear."
And Helen wonders if this was her fault, or his. Or if it's both of theirs or no one's at all, as she climbs into a cold bed.
She wouldn't have liked the scarf, but she would have worn it. It would have shown that he saw her as something other than his wife, and Helen isn't really sure he sees her as that anymore, anyway.
Bionic Woman (new version) Prompt was Sarah, swing
It's an idyllic scene: mother and child, together. Just another bonding experience for them both. The little girl begs to go higher, fly faster on her swing. It was the swingset her father built for her, the wood darker with the passage of the year. Another request, and her mother laughs, hands moving to push her higher.
The little girl crows a triumph as she flies higher and higher, the wind whipping through her hair.
The scene changes, years passing. But the laughter and the love never change.
Standing on a rooftop, as though she owns it, Sarah Corvus stares down (down, down, so far you can touch the sky) and feels some of that old thrill. The thought's stale, now.
She's flown high and had her wings burned off. Falling back to Earth wasn't the thrill it used to be.
Wind whistles through the streets below, people talk, their chatter barely discernable from the mubmlings of ants. And Sarah wonders why she thought of her mother. The grave she used to visit is long overgrown, no flowers decorating the grey stone. When you're dead, it's hard to keep appointments.
Touching Evil UK, prompt Susan, island (and I'm hoping I haven't posted this, though I'm uncertain) Contains spoilers for series three.
Creegan is a sea of rage, an ocean of chaos, an over-flowing river of passion and bile.
Sometimes, Susan Taylor thinks of herself as the island of calm in the midst, but she knows that's not true. Knows it like she knows how fast a heart can break ('..we regret to inform you...')
The knife in her hand had been slick with sweat. And need. That terrible, horrible need to have it all make sense. To atone, in some way, for letting Rivers die. For making his fiancee look so lost.
Creegan had said she would enjoy it. She knows he was right. She would have enjoyed ending Michal Lalwor's life, watching him bleed out as he'd watched Mark.
There would have been something clean in it.
BSG2003, Kara/Anders fluff
"Those are my socks."
"Comfy."
Anders glared at Kara. "My. Socks."
She wiggled her toes in them and smirked. "So you said. You notice I'm the one wearing them?"
And nothing else. But he wasn't going to let that distract him. "Kara. My feet are cold." Maybe an appeal to her sense of kindness -- wait. Did Starbuck have one?
"I can think of ways to fix that."
"Give me my socks back."
"Nah." She pushed at his shoulders and climbed onto the bed after him, settling in his lap. "This's more fun."
"Uh-huh." He wrapped his arms around her waist, and sighed, "Am I going to get them back?"
"Maybe." A giggle escaped her, "You have to earn them."
ooh. Femslash. BSG/SG-1 crossoverish, Kara Thrace/Sam Carter (damn, it's been a while). This was started for the porn battle, but never finished/
"Are you done?" Kara's tone is impatient.
From under the viper, a muffled voice replies, "Almost."
Almost is another five minutes, then ten, the seconds filled with Kara's mutters and complaints, and the occasional request for tools. At fifteen, Kara has enough and kneels down, leaning in and grabbing Sam by the waist, pulling her out before she can protest. "You're done under there."
Blinking in the suddenly brighter light, Sam Carter replies, "Kara, if I don't re-attach--"
Kara's mouth latches onto hers, cutting her off mid-sentence. It's an act of desperation--Kara knows that if Sam starts talking about the parts she has to fix, and which coupling meets which, and how if she does this, the engine will work that much better, they could be stuck there for hours. Days, even. And while Kara thinks it's kinda hot when Sam babbles on about science and engines (not to mention looking hot when she's all, disheveled and greasy, her coverall unzipped halfway, because she got too warm and had it down around her waist), she'd like to have a moment of Sam's time. Possibly even some sex.
"Ok," Sam murmurs, fingers stroking through Kara's hair. "I get the message. You're bored."
Kissing the side of Sam's mouth, Kara grins, "Very bored."
"Then," says Sam, her voice amused, "Let me finish hooking the fuel line up, and I'll be done."
"I don't know, Carter," Kara narrows her eyes, "I do that, I might not get you back out from under there."
Sam's hand reaches up, pulling Kara's mouth to hers for a very long, very heated kiss. Finally breaking it, Sam says, her voice breathless, "If that doesn't convince you, then how about the fact fuel will start leaking out all over Chief's deck shortly?"
"Two minutes," Kara decides, dipping her head to the side and kissing Sam's neck. "And then I come in after you. And you have to decide which you'd hate more: leaking fuel, or getting frakked in the middle of the deck?"
Unfinished Blake's 7 Cally 'n' Travis fic (this one may've been posted before. I've no idea). Mostly posted 'cause, well, I had one more cut tag to fill. ;)
"Why are we doing this again?" asked Travis, leaning gingerly against the wall (as if at any moment it would buck and throw him off).
"Because you're drunk," replied Cally.
"I'm not drunk."
The look she shot him was amused. "You're very drunk, Travis."
He considered this for a moment, then shook his head and nearly fell over. Her hand on his arm prevented the catastrophy from occurring. "It was only two bottles of raslak."
"Four." She corrected, "And we're blowing the communications base up because the Federation need to remember that they're not all-powerful."
"You sound bitter."
"I'm very bitter."
"Mmm. Guerilla actions." He sneered, "So bourgeoisie, Cally."
"I'm sure you were trying to make a point there, but I missed it." She steadied him again and nodded. "I think I'll go on alone from here, unless you want to be left with the explosives."
"Afraid I'll ruin the one-person-army effect?"
"No. Afraid you'll pass out. And you're too heavy for me to carry back out."
"Your mocking of my abilities--"
She punched him, fist connecting neatly with his chin. He folded like a piece of paper, and she slowed his descent only a little, then patted his shoulder. "You'll be much happier out here, Travis."
If he'd been awake, he probably would have continued objecting. Since he wasn't, her only answer was a faint snore.
Cally smiled and steadied herself against the wall. After all, she'd help consume that four bottles. Her gait as she slipped towards the communications complex wasn't entirely steady. But years of training kept her from being caught.
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Sam Carter is from Stargate: SG-1. And they will never ever meet. But in my head they have, a lot. So.
And it's funny you call the Sarah drabble creepy, when my original intent was anything but. *pleased*
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LYNLEY FIC!!! OMG that was fantastic. You rule.
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