help_haiti Lightning Round One ficlets (finally) and etc.
So! Forever and a day ago, back when it was still Lightning Round One over at help_haiti, simplelyric bought some Gwen/Morgana preslash ficlets from me. Because I fail at life, they're only just now going up. Again, simplelyric, I'm so sorry for the wait, and I hope you enjoy these.
For the prompt "sparring":
Gwen’s father taught her to use a sword the summer of her seventh year.
“I’m not supposed to,” he said, leading her out into a field so green and open it made Camelot seem very dull, far away and small. His strides were long, and she had to skip-walk to keep up with him, feet almost catching on the hem of her skirt with every other step.
“I’m not supposed to,” he said again, thoughtful, “but I don’t care. I won’t always be there to look after you, and I won’t leave you helpless for when that comes. You’re a smart girl. You’ll know well enough to keep quiet about this.” His eyes were serious and dark, his voice decisive, unquestioning, and Gwen had only been able to nod.
The sword was an unfamiliar, heavy weight, and she stumbled when he first gave it to her. His fingers were strong as he held her wrists, moved her arms for better support and her hands on the hilt for better grip, metal gleaming and sun-warmed even through the gloves he made her wear.
By the end of the day, she could hold the blade on her own; by the end of the next, she could swing it, basic and tentative; by the end of the summer, she could cut eights in the air, smooth and sure while he laughed proudly from a few steps away.
The summer of her twelfth year, Gwen took a position in the kitchens at the castle, and they never mentioned the field again, even though Gwen still slept with a sword wrapped in cloth under her bed.
A few years into her service as Morgana’s lady-in-waiting, Morgana taught her again.
The field wasn’t quite as open, and it wasn’t quite as far from the castle, but Morgana’s face and voice were the same sort of serious Gwen remembered her father’s being.
“Technically,” she said, “I’m not supposed to know this, much less teach you. But technically, the royal family makes the rules, so technically, we’re also the ones who can break them. Stupid, I know, but it has its uses.”
Gwen agreed. Morgana had never been the timid or simpering sort, but she’d also never been so confident as she was now, leather breeches tight on her legs and sword flashing, graceful and teasing, in her grip. Her face read serious, but her posture read happy, which was a new look for her, and one Gwen decided she wanted to see more of.
If technically-illegal swordplay gave her that, then yes, Gwen supposed it did have its uses.
If an afternoon spent close to Gwen -- hands tracing her wrists and adjusting her grip on the pommel, body crowded protective and warm against Gwen’s back to guide her through a basic lunge, breath whispered and laughing into Gwen’s ear the whole time -- gave her a reason to smile wide and open and beautiful like Gwen had never seen, then Gwen supposed pretending she didn’t already know her way around a sword had its uses, too.
Gwen had always done everything to keep the people she loved safe; Morgana, however new and unexpected, was no different.
For the prompt "after a nightmare":
Morgana wouldn’t call them nightmares. Nightmares, when she had them, would blaze through her mind, quick and too-bright and searing. Nightmares would make her wake up soaked in sweat and shaking, face flushed hotly where she buries it in her hands. Nightmares would leave her memory blank and empty like ashes, a gap stretched raw and shining like a burn scare, too sore for her to even think of touching.
These are different.
These dreams, the ones she has now -- they leave her cold. They feel like ice in her head, like the steam-vapour clouds that pour out with her breath in winter. They’re foggy like that, shadowy and damp-feeling and strange, too strange for her to make anything of them. They’re just images, cold and dead and dulled, and she wakes up shivering every night she has them.
She knows they aren’t nightmares, no matter what Gaius tells her. She just doesn’t know what to call them yet.
Gwen doesn’t either. They don’t talk about these dreams much, mostly because neither of them have any idea what they are. It’s scary, not knowing a name for something. Morgana is beginning to understand why Uther fears magic so much: it’s all one big unknown, so much potential and no way to define it, to predict what it may do. Still, at least Uther can point a finger at something and call it sorcery; Morgana can’t even do that.
What she can do -- what she does do -- is not tell anyone who doesn’t need to know. What she does do is get up every morning and dress, rich velvet gowns and her hair piled high on her head like every day is a celebration. What she does do is brush extra powder under her eyes until the dark circles aren’t there for Arthur to tease her about. What she does do is force down Gaius’ increasingly-vile potions, even when she knows they won’t get her more than three hours of rest.
What she does do is spend an hour with Gwen after she jolts awake. What she does do is let herself learn that Gwen’s fingers are soft in her hair, that Gwen’s hands are soothing on her upper back, and that Gwen’s arms are warm where they wrap around her and pull her close. What she does do is allow herself to squeeze back, face hidden in Gwen’s sweet-smelling hair and fingers digging into Gwen’s shoulders tight enough to hurt, tight enough that she can forget that soon, she’ll need to let go.
In other news, Fem Theories is kicking my ass with the reading load. 60-80 pages a week MY ASS. I love everything that we're reading, but between the assigned text books and the outside theory packs we have to read for every week, I'm going to average about 180-300 pages a week for this class. GOOD THING IT'S FASCINATING.
And hahaha, last week, I was a terrible college student and totally blew off, like, 60% of my reading to watch the Kyle/Oliver storyline on youtube. And it was SO WORTH IT. You guys, they are amazing and incredible and the BEST BOYFRIENDS EVER, and yes, it's a stupid soap opera, so there's melodrama and eons of angst, but it's all DELICIOUS and aaaaaaahhhhh. I don't think you understand how much I love them, seriously. Well, itachitachi does, mostly because I made her watch them with me. And then I talked to her about how much of a TOTALLY OBVIOUS TIE!KINK those boys have until she wrote me hotter-than-the-sun tie!porn (with bonus rimming!) that you should all go read RIGHT THE FUCK NOW. And then you should go to this playlist and watch them and fall in hopeless, flaily love. I may even write you porn. After I finish writing tachi some gratuitous Kyle-Lewis-on-his-knees!sure-to-morph-into-another-character-study!smut. And if you still need incentive, here:
NEED I SAY MORE?
P.S. I think this may make up for all the fail I've encountered in the world (I'M LOOKING AT YOU, VANITY FAIR) lately. OH, LOUIS CK. WHY DID I NOT KNOW OF YOU BEFORE?
P.P.S. IF AVATAR WINS BEST PICTURE, BEST SCREENPLAY, OR BEST DIRECTING, SO HELP ME, I WILL CUT SOMEONE. RAAAAAAAAAAGE.
P.P.P.S. Slowly working my way through that ficlet meme I posted about two weeks ago. I'm sorry for failing at life and expedient writing, you guys, I really am.
For the prompt "sparring":
Gwen’s father taught her to use a sword the summer of her seventh year.
“I’m not supposed to,” he said, leading her out into a field so green and open it made Camelot seem very dull, far away and small. His strides were long, and she had to skip-walk to keep up with him, feet almost catching on the hem of her skirt with every other step.
“I’m not supposed to,” he said again, thoughtful, “but I don’t care. I won’t always be there to look after you, and I won’t leave you helpless for when that comes. You’re a smart girl. You’ll know well enough to keep quiet about this.” His eyes were serious and dark, his voice decisive, unquestioning, and Gwen had only been able to nod.
The sword was an unfamiliar, heavy weight, and she stumbled when he first gave it to her. His fingers were strong as he held her wrists, moved her arms for better support and her hands on the hilt for better grip, metal gleaming and sun-warmed even through the gloves he made her wear.
By the end of the day, she could hold the blade on her own; by the end of the next, she could swing it, basic and tentative; by the end of the summer, she could cut eights in the air, smooth and sure while he laughed proudly from a few steps away.
The summer of her twelfth year, Gwen took a position in the kitchens at the castle, and they never mentioned the field again, even though Gwen still slept with a sword wrapped in cloth under her bed.
A few years into her service as Morgana’s lady-in-waiting, Morgana taught her again.
The field wasn’t quite as open, and it wasn’t quite as far from the castle, but Morgana’s face and voice were the same sort of serious Gwen remembered her father’s being.
“Technically,” she said, “I’m not supposed to know this, much less teach you. But technically, the royal family makes the rules, so technically, we’re also the ones who can break them. Stupid, I know, but it has its uses.”
Gwen agreed. Morgana had never been the timid or simpering sort, but she’d also never been so confident as she was now, leather breeches tight on her legs and sword flashing, graceful and teasing, in her grip. Her face read serious, but her posture read happy, which was a new look for her, and one Gwen decided she wanted to see more of.
If technically-illegal swordplay gave her that, then yes, Gwen supposed it did have its uses.
If an afternoon spent close to Gwen -- hands tracing her wrists and adjusting her grip on the pommel, body crowded protective and warm against Gwen’s back to guide her through a basic lunge, breath whispered and laughing into Gwen’s ear the whole time -- gave her a reason to smile wide and open and beautiful like Gwen had never seen, then Gwen supposed pretending she didn’t already know her way around a sword had its uses, too.
Gwen had always done everything to keep the people she loved safe; Morgana, however new and unexpected, was no different.
For the prompt "after a nightmare":
Morgana wouldn’t call them nightmares. Nightmares, when she had them, would blaze through her mind, quick and too-bright and searing. Nightmares would make her wake up soaked in sweat and shaking, face flushed hotly where she buries it in her hands. Nightmares would leave her memory blank and empty like ashes, a gap stretched raw and shining like a burn scare, too sore for her to even think of touching.
These are different.
These dreams, the ones she has now -- they leave her cold. They feel like ice in her head, like the steam-vapour clouds that pour out with her breath in winter. They’re foggy like that, shadowy and damp-feeling and strange, too strange for her to make anything of them. They’re just images, cold and dead and dulled, and she wakes up shivering every night she has them.
She knows they aren’t nightmares, no matter what Gaius tells her. She just doesn’t know what to call them yet.
Gwen doesn’t either. They don’t talk about these dreams much, mostly because neither of them have any idea what they are. It’s scary, not knowing a name for something. Morgana is beginning to understand why Uther fears magic so much: it’s all one big unknown, so much potential and no way to define it, to predict what it may do. Still, at least Uther can point a finger at something and call it sorcery; Morgana can’t even do that.
What she can do -- what she does do -- is not tell anyone who doesn’t need to know. What she does do is get up every morning and dress, rich velvet gowns and her hair piled high on her head like every day is a celebration. What she does do is brush extra powder under her eyes until the dark circles aren’t there for Arthur to tease her about. What she does do is force down Gaius’ increasingly-vile potions, even when she knows they won’t get her more than three hours of rest.
What she does do is spend an hour with Gwen after she jolts awake. What she does do is let herself learn that Gwen’s fingers are soft in her hair, that Gwen’s hands are soothing on her upper back, and that Gwen’s arms are warm where they wrap around her and pull her close. What she does do is allow herself to squeeze back, face hidden in Gwen’s sweet-smelling hair and fingers digging into Gwen’s shoulders tight enough to hurt, tight enough that she can forget that soon, she’ll need to let go.
In other news, Fem Theories is kicking my ass with the reading load. 60-80 pages a week MY ASS. I love everything that we're reading, but between the assigned text books and the outside theory packs we have to read for every week, I'm going to average about 180-300 pages a week for this class. GOOD THING IT'S FASCINATING.
And hahaha, last week, I was a terrible college student and totally blew off, like, 60% of my reading to watch the Kyle/Oliver storyline on youtube. And it was SO WORTH IT. You guys, they are amazing and incredible and the BEST BOYFRIENDS EVER, and yes, it's a stupid soap opera, so there's melodrama and eons of angst, but it's all DELICIOUS and aaaaaaahhhhh. I don't think you understand how much I love them, seriously. Well, itachitachi does, mostly because I made her watch them with me. And then I talked to her about how much of a TOTALLY OBVIOUS TIE!KINK those boys have until she wrote me hotter-than-the-sun tie!porn (with bonus rimming!) that you should all go read RIGHT THE FUCK NOW. And then you should go to this playlist and watch them and fall in hopeless, flaily love. I may even write you porn. After I finish writing tachi some gratuitous Kyle-Lewis-on-his-knees!sure-to-morph-into-another-character-study!smut. And if you still need incentive, here:
NEED I SAY MORE?
P.S. I think this may make up for all the fail I've encountered in the world (I'M LOOKING AT YOU, VANITY FAIR) lately. OH, LOUIS CK. WHY DID I NOT KNOW OF YOU BEFORE?
Click to viewP.P.S. IF AVATAR WINS BEST PICTURE, BEST SCREENPLAY, OR BEST DIRECTING, SO HELP ME, I WILL CUT SOMEONE. RAAAAAAAAAAGE.
P.P.P.S. Slowly working my way through that ficlet meme I posted about two weeks ago. I'm sorry for failing at life and expedient writing, you guys, I really am.