more fic-things because i'm insane
more fills from the friendship comment ficathon
...feel free to defriend me, really. or haul me away from the computer. it would be good for everyone.
the game is off; sherlock+john; pg; 250w
prompt: in which John wins at Scrabble
"That's not even a word."
"Just like you thought the solar system wasn't a word?" John quirks a brow, far too amused by this for his own good.
"You will never let that go, will you? Besides, that would be two words. This has four consecutive consonants."
"So does warmth, and twelfth, and nightclub actually has five."
"John, do try not to be infuriating. I know it can be difficult for you. Besides those are actual words. This? This is a butchering of the English language!"
The best part of it is that Sherlock is so much more bothered by this than anyone has a right to be. He's a sore loser if John ever knew one; it makes him all the more entertaining as an opponent.
"Well, if Facebook can be a word, a word you chose, I should add, I don't see why Tumblr can't. Just because you haven't heard of it."
Absurd, he thinks he hears Sherlock mumble. And then, definitely audible, "Smug isn't a good look on you."
John smirks, counters with, "It doesn't have your name on it," and doesn't care if he sounds like he's seven. He's going to milk this.
In a whirl of motion, Sherlock stands upright. His coat makes a few scrabble pieces scatter in disarray. "I'm bored anyway. I'm going to pester Lestrade, but only after I have my tea. Want some?"
This is probably as much of a truce as he's going to get. John shrugs. "Why not."
x
sweet dreams are made of these; gwen+morgana; pg; ~450w
prompt: good dreams
She doesn't have them often, the good kind. On the rare occasion that she does, there is one that she wants to hold on to, and keep safe someplace untouchable.
The dream consists of a choice few things: a smile that outshines all the ladies of the court, all the visiting princesses and queens; warmth like nothing Morgana has ever known, like nothing else that she ever will. There are hands that are work-worn and calloused but soft in Morgana's, and a face that lights up golden under the sun (but even brighter under Morgana's own laughter). This girl before her is both the most fragile and the strongest of them all. In this moment, she looks every bit of all of it.
In this garden, there are no flowers where they are sitting. No sign of life save for a great willow tree that hangs from above. There is no sound of birds, no song of the ciacadas, just silence, and it smells like the end of summer, the smoke of autumn in the air. Somewhere in the distance, men are fighting like they often tend to. A fleeting thought says that Arthur is probably with them. Inexplicably, she knows that he is safe and that it has something to do with Merlin, something she still can't quite place.
It doesn't matter anyhow. (Anymore? Just yet?)
The sun is high in the air and Guinevere is telling her about the last summer solstice she spent with her mother. She sounds happy to share it rather than upset at the memory, and so Morgana takes it to be a good one. She then talks about her brother, about his letters from his travels and his life outside Camelot.
Morgana dares to ask her if she would ever consider leaving Camelot.
(The real Guinevere would say, My life and my duty lie here, with you.
Of course, the real Morgana can never ask, Will you come with me if I ever go? But this is a dream, a roundabout way to everything, and so--)
Depends, says Gwen, a knowing look, on who's coming with.
*
Morgana wakes up but, for once, not with a startle. It's the kind of dream that always ends too soon, the kind that you just wish wouldn't.
She has come into her power well enough to know what it means even if not well enough to no longer dread it.
Seers dream their own endings, she had read somewhere once; a book that was burned once Uther discovered it.
She comforts herself with the thought that, in some shape or form, this might be hers.
...feel free to defriend me, really. or haul me away from the computer. it would be good for everyone.
the game is off; sherlock+john; pg; 250w
prompt: in which John wins at Scrabble
"That's not even a word."
"Just like you thought the solar system wasn't a word?" John quirks a brow, far too amused by this for his own good.
"You will never let that go, will you? Besides, that would be two words. This has four consecutive consonants."
"So does warmth, and twelfth, and nightclub actually has five."
"John, do try not to be infuriating. I know it can be difficult for you. Besides those are actual words. This? This is a butchering of the English language!"
The best part of it is that Sherlock is so much more bothered by this than anyone has a right to be. He's a sore loser if John ever knew one; it makes him all the more entertaining as an opponent.
"Well, if Facebook can be a word, a word you chose, I should add, I don't see why Tumblr can't. Just because you haven't heard of it."
Absurd, he thinks he hears Sherlock mumble. And then, definitely audible, "Smug isn't a good look on you."
John smirks, counters with, "It doesn't have your name on it," and doesn't care if he sounds like he's seven. He's going to milk this.
In a whirl of motion, Sherlock stands upright. His coat makes a few scrabble pieces scatter in disarray. "I'm bored anyway. I'm going to pester Lestrade, but only after I have my tea. Want some?"
This is probably as much of a truce as he's going to get. John shrugs. "Why not."
x
sweet dreams are made of these; gwen+morgana; pg; ~450w
prompt: good dreams
She doesn't have them often, the good kind. On the rare occasion that she does, there is one that she wants to hold on to, and keep safe someplace untouchable.
The dream consists of a choice few things: a smile that outshines all the ladies of the court, all the visiting princesses and queens; warmth like nothing Morgana has ever known, like nothing else that she ever will. There are hands that are work-worn and calloused but soft in Morgana's, and a face that lights up golden under the sun (but even brighter under Morgana's own laughter). This girl before her is both the most fragile and the strongest of them all. In this moment, she looks every bit of all of it.
In this garden, there are no flowers where they are sitting. No sign of life save for a great willow tree that hangs from above. There is no sound of birds, no song of the ciacadas, just silence, and it smells like the end of summer, the smoke of autumn in the air. Somewhere in the distance, men are fighting like they often tend to. A fleeting thought says that Arthur is probably with them. Inexplicably, she knows that he is safe and that it has something to do with Merlin, something she still can't quite place.
It doesn't matter anyhow. (Anymore? Just yet?)
The sun is high in the air and Guinevere is telling her about the last summer solstice she spent with her mother. She sounds happy to share it rather than upset at the memory, and so Morgana takes it to be a good one. She then talks about her brother, about his letters from his travels and his life outside Camelot.
Morgana dares to ask her if she would ever consider leaving Camelot.
(The real Guinevere would say, My life and my duty lie here, with you.
Of course, the real Morgana can never ask, Will you come with me if I ever go? But this is a dream, a roundabout way to everything, and so--)
Depends, says Gwen, a knowing look, on who's coming with.
*
Morgana wakes up but, for once, not with a startle. It's the kind of dream that always ends too soon, the kind that you just wish wouldn't.
She has come into her power well enough to know what it means even if not well enough to no longer dread it.
Seers dream their own endings, she had read somewhere once; a book that was burned once Uther discovered it.
She comforts herself with the thought that, in some shape or form, this might be hers.