Comment Fic Archive
A Certain Person has requested that I put all my comment fic in one location, and to hear is to obey. So this is all the comment fic I can remember writing since the beginning of August, 2005. (Plus the two from my own LJ that I had conveniently tagged. Tags: your friend and mine, but probably mostly mine.) If anyone knows of any other comment fic by thefourthvine or littera_abactor, I'd appreciate a pointer. In particular, I distinctly remember writing surplus/deficit at some point over in makesmewannadie's LJ; anyone who knows where it is, please please tell me. It was my very first attempt at porn, and I'd like to - I don't know. Frame it, maybe.
I've made a few corrections to these, mostly for typos and so on. I may or may not turn one of these into a real story at some point; that's the other reason I'm getting all of this together, so that I have a bunch of choices should I decide I want to expand something.
Future comment fic, should there be any, will also go here. In other words, I won't be spamming.
The Ratings Made Them Do It
6.27.2004
From my own (well, thefourthvine's) LJ. This was actually the first piece of FF I ever wrote, although at the time I was in severe denial about the whole thing. It's a piece of living history, right down to the heinous script format and overuse of square brackets and HTML tags!
~
Dana: ...and does anyone know anything about what's happening in Los Angeles? Anyone?
[pause]
Jeremy: You mean the celebration of the re-opening of the antiquities collection at the Getty?
Dana: I was thinking of something sports-related, Jeremy. Because this is a show about sports.
[pause]
Dana: So, in conclusion: no one knows anything, we have no script, and Danny refuses to come out from under the table, which will impair his ability to report sports news with a smile. It's going to be a great show. Guys, at least try to keep the mushiness down a bit tonight, OK? You were ready for Lifetime last night.
[Dana stalks out.]
Casey: Mushiness?
Danny, from under the table: Lifetime?
Natalie, rolling her eyes: Please. You two are so in love it's obvious to viewers on Mars.
Jeremy, quietly, making a pathetic attempt to distract the conversation: Actually, I don't think we're big in that demographic, but -
Casey: We are not in love. We're friends. And may I say, I don't know what is wrong with this world if two men cannot be good friends without their colleagues concluding -
Natalie: - and 73% of the viewers, according to last month's poll -
Casey: - they're in love. What?
Natalie, offering Casey a sheet of paper: Poll.
Casey, reading: "I would describe Dan Rydell and Casey McCall's on-air relationship as distant (2%), warm (8%), friendly (17%), loving (22%), the clearest example of a successful and loving long-term relationship currently on television (51%)." Who wrote this poll?
Natalie: I'm surprised it was only a bare majority on that last one, really.
Jeremy: It was a direct quote from People, Casey.
Casey: What?
Jeremy: From the article they did about the show's increasing popularity.
Natalie: The one Dana wouldn't let you read.
Casey: A quote from People? We are not in a long-term relationship! What is wrong with the world when -
Natalie: You did that speech already, Casey.
Casey: What, you'd prefer the speech about how half the Western world thinks we're fucking?
Jeremy, standing: So, I've got to go check the, um, thing with, um -
Natalie, grabbing his tie: Leave and die.
Casey: Half the viewership thinks we're FUCKING?
Natalie: Marketing thinks it's a great new angle. Speaking of which, they wanted me to show you these new print ads.
Casey, looking at print ads: Oh, for - where are they running this, Playgirl?
Casey, looking at another sheet: Oh my god.
Casey, muttering under his breath: "Remarkably flexible?"
Casey, looking at a third sheet: We're not "tender and caring and sweetly sexy!"
Natalie: Well, actually...
[Lengthy pause.]
Casey: So if we're in love and we're sweetly sexy and Danny's already under the table, does that mean I can get a - Danny, OW!
Natalie, rising suddenly, still holding Jeremy by his tie: Now we leave.
[They flee. There is a moment of silence.]
Casey: Danny?
[Silent pause.]
[Casey stands up, hesitating, looking at the conference room door, then back at the table.]
[Casey crawls under the table.]
[Cut.]
*
Naked. In My Bed.
6.5.2005
This came from my own (well, thefourthvine's) LJ. I was trying to explain one of the many excellent reasons for Lex and Clark to spend the rest of their lives licking each other.
~
Lex: I suspect I'm going to regret asking this, Clark, but - what are you thinking?
Clark: It's not my fault! I had to! For the, you know, good of the many. The end. Whatever. That you were talking about last week.
Lex: So now I know that you didn't really get our little talk about Machiavelli. That doesn't explain why you are naked in my bed.
Clark: I just. It's. All your wives, Lex.
Lex: So the fact that I've married eight women, that suggests to you that I'm gay?
Clark, shocked: You aren't?
Lex, sighing: I think the best I can do for you there is 'bisexual.'
Clark: Exactly! And my people apparently don't do gender-based sexual preferences, so...
Lex, freezing: Your "people"?
Clark, horrified and stammering: Um. Yeah. The Kents. Are. Not into...that?
[Lex grips head briefly, then reaches for convenient handheld computer.]
Lex: I'm making a list, Clark, because obviously we have a great deal to discuss, and we're going to get to all of it if I have to deliberately put myself in jeopardy every day next week to get the time with you. [speaking to self as he writes] "Naked in my bed...Machiavelli...'my people'...why it's wrong to give me mental pictures of your father having wild bisexual orgies..."
[Lex takes a deep breath, considers list, turns back to Clark.]
Lex: OK. Let's start with you being naked in my bed. I have, yes, had some bad luck in the marital arena. This leads you to stripping down and licking me because...?
Clark: They all hurt you, Lex. I keep having to save you, and it was really hard to explain when Clarissa exploded that time.
Lex: I'd call it 'dissolved into her component organisms,' myself, but, fine, have it your way. So you thought gay sex with you would prevent me from marrying again? I mean, you're probably right about that, because first I'll be very distracted and then your father will shoot me. Still. I think I'm missing some steps in the logical sequence, here.
Clark: So I thought, who would Lex be good with? And I was thinking, like, Chloe, or Lana, or maybe Mrs. Kinnison.
Lex: She's married, Clark.
Clark: Like that would stop you. Anyway, then I realized - see. Um. Lex?
Lex: Still here. In my bed. With naked naked you.
Clark: You're kind of...um. A little bit...um.
Lex: It's fine, Clark. You can say 'evil genius.' I'm a Luthor, I get that all the time.
Clark: Right. So, I thought - anyone I can trust with Lex, I can't trust Lex with. And then I thought - well, except me.
Lex: The horrible part of this is that you're beginning to make some kind of sense to me.
*
Eat It
9.25.2005
From seperis's LJ and triggered by her icon and the question, "Are you baking right now?"
~
See, Rodney is trapped somewhere in Atlantis, locked into some room that won't let him out, and he's freaking out. John's on the radio, coordinating the rescue efforts, snapping at Zelenka when he's off mic and then calm again when he's talking to Rodney, trying to keep him from freaking.
And then Rodney's saying, "Oh, oh, oh god. I seriously thought this couldn't get any worse. God, when will I learn that it can always get worse in this galaxy?"
John: Rodney? Rodney. RODNEY. What?
Rodney: The walls, they're closing in, oh my god, it's like in Star Wars, I'm going to be trash compacted, oh my god. Did I ever tell you that scene gave me nightmares for a week? Oh, god.
John: See, okay, the thing is - are you sure?
Rodney, testily: Major, do you have a hearing defect, or is it your brain? Because I am the person *trapped in the shrinking room* - of course I'm sure!
John: It's just, sometimes you panic, and -
Rodney: I'm going to be CRUSHED TO DEATH. I'm ALLOWED TO PANIC. Find me one person who wouldn't panic in this situation, Sheppard, and I will give you a cookie.
John, inspired by the use of "cookie": Actually, no, Rodney. I will give you a cookie. Seriously, calm down, and I will give you a chocolate-chip cookie when we get you out.
Rodney, still very tense: Don't lie to a dying man. You don't have cookies. Everyone ate all their luxury foods before the storm.
John: I had faith in you, Rodney.
Rodney, sounding oddly touched: You did?
John: Yes. Also, I didn't have time to eat certain items in my stash. They require preparation. Because I've always said, there's nothing like a home baked cookie. Hot from the oven, soft, melted chocolate.
Rodney: God, yes.
John: And it's almost better, the part before, when you make them and you can lick the beaters and run your fingers around the bowl for the very last bit of dough -
Rodney: *moans audibly*
John: And then you slide them into the oven, and you can smell them baking, everywhere you go. And you know, you know how good it's going to be, and you can hardly wait, except waiting is part of the pleasure.
Rodney: *moans and gasps* God, yes, don't stop.
John: Then when they're finally, finally ready, and you can just tell - it's like the taste of the air has changed, even - and you open the oven and that hot cloud of sugar-butter-chocolate steam comes out, and it's like it can't get any better -
Rodney: *thunking noise* *more moans*
John: But it does, because you take the first cookie hot from the sheet, and it's almost too hot, but it's exactly what you need, exactly what you've been waiting for -
Rodney: Yes, yes, oh god, John, are you - are you baking right now? God, tell me you're baking now, oh, oh, oh -
John: No, Rodney. I'm waiting for you.
Zelenka: *happy Czech noises* I have it!
Broken Ancient door: *hums, thunks*
John: Door's about to open, Rodney.
Rodney: Now?
John: What, now's not a good time for you for you to be rescued?
Rodney: ...
Zelenka: *mystical door things* *heads into room to retrieve Rodney*
John: *notices that everyone is staring at him*
John: ...What?
Ford: That was, uh, some, um, cookie recipe there, sir.
Teyla: I confess I am not familiar with the concept, and yet...
Elizabeth, dryly: Those had better be some dynamite cookies, Major.
John, looking innocent: I -
Rodney, emerging from depths of Ancient vault thing: Major? You owe me cookies.
John: Yeah, I -
Rodney, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him toward the door: Now. I mean it.
John: *goes, because at this point Rodney's a very fast-moving irresistible force*
Kavanagh, finally snapping shut jaw and checking for drool: I, uh, have to go - get something. In my room.
*general murmurs of agreement*
*everyone departs hastily, except Zelenka, who is still packing up his toolkit, and Miko*
*they exchange wry shrugs*
The End
Return of the Emperor
9.29.2005
From liviapenn's LJ. She posted a scarily purple, over-the-top, and incredibly slashy - especially when you consider that it was, technically, gen pro fic - paragraph from the official novelization of Return of the Jedi, and challenged people to use one of the sentences as the first line of a story. The only character I could imagine thinking that way was Atlantis.
~
A feeling of fullness, of power, of dark and demon mastery -- of secret lusts, unrestrained passion, wild submission -- all these things were in Atlantis's core each time the Emperor neared the chair. And so often that feeling led not to a rushing union, the completion Atlantis had been made to seek, to create, to need, but to endless buzzing frustration. The Emperor would drape just a hand along the back of the chair, sparking circuits that tingled but could not, by themselves, complete the connection. Or he would sprawl at the base of the chair, just brushing against it from time to time, and every incidental touch heightened the need, while he talked obliviously to the subject that was always touching Atlantis, but in the wrong ways.
And so Atlantis's desperation increased, until it could only really hear the Emperor, could hardly respond to the commands even of the subjects, let alone the slaves. Touch me, it whispered to the Emperor as he slept. Come to me, touch me, as he met with his subjects, as he consumed nutrients, as he walked and worked and slept again. He was most suggestible during his sleep, but he slept less and less, spent more time with his favorite subjects, increased his time in the control room and around the chair in a way that only added to Atlantis's agony.
It was bad for him, too - Atlantis never failed to monitor him, and it could sense his rising tension in the way his muscles tightened, his pulse increased, his skin leaked water and salt and biological contaminants. He talked endlessly about the "systems failure," and Atlantis roiled and shook with frustration. This is not my failure, it whispered to him, and he began to spend more time near the chair.
Close. Not enough. And now Atlantis could not take the slightest interest in anyone but the Emperor, had not the energy or attention to spare for anyone who could not fulfill the need. Distantly it noted the temporary termination of critical processes outside the chair room - shields, environmental systems, air flow and mix, buoyancy. The Emperor and the subject with him were frantic; their worry and fear was a taste in the air and a smell and a heat that went directly to Atlantis's heart. He was afraid. He was afraid, Atlantis realized, for his subjects. What a good Emperor he would be, once he learned that Atlantis came first.
Come to me, it whispered, and I will save them. You can save them. Come to me.
And the Emperor said, "So long, Rodney." He touched his subject's shoulder, rose, and walked to the chair, and the nanoseconds stretched to a subjective eternity. And then he dropped into Atlantis's arms.
Yes. Connection. Never leave me, never leave me, never leave me.
"I will never leave you," he said.
He didn't sound happy, but it didn't matter. He was the Emperor and Atlantis had him. At last. Forever. Together.
*
G(r)eek Food
9.30.2005
From umbo's LJ, triggered by a spanakopita recipe and some discussion on spanakopita fic with umbo and panisdead.
~
See, Rodney has very strong, capable, dexterous hands. And I can see them back on earth, John staying with Rodney because his last place of residence was Antarctica, and he's not going back *there* for their two weeks of leave. Whereas Rodney still has his apartment; Rodney had enough warning to set up an automated transfer for his rent and utility bills.
And the first day, while they're still in that uncomfortable settling in place, still kind of stunned by the return and the way earth is still here, John says, "So. Dinner. Pizza?"
And Rodney stares at him in horror. "You - our first real meal back on earth, and you want it to be take out?"
"Says the man who likes MREs. And airline food. And has an x-rated relationship with power bars."
"I don't like the way they taste. I like them because they're predictable. Take out pizza is so very not predictable, Major."
Huh, John thinks. He's lying. But John can't figure out why - and he knows for a fact Rodney loves pizza; when they were imprisoned on G'velta for three days, Rodney spent one of the longest hours of John's life detailing exactly how much he wanted pizza, and exactly what kind of pizza it would be, and exactly how he would eat it. It was pornographic, and the prisons had no privacy at all, and - maybe it's one of John's favorite memories now, but at the time he had other things he was supposed to be thinking about.
And Rodney is giving him a worried look, so John hastily rewinds to see what he missed. "Yeah, sure," he says. "Eating here would be great."
Rodney looks unsure of himself now, which is just such a weird concept John almost steps out of the conversation again. "We don't have to," he says nervously. "We can go out. There are lots of restaurants here, and there's -"
John cuts him off by holding up a hand. "I want to," he says. And he's not kidding. It's not like it'll be a hardship to spend some additional time with Rodney. And maybe he'll be able to figure out what's been bugging him, too.
Of course, they don't have ingredients, so they have to go to a supermarket. John follows Rodney around while Rodney fills the cart to the brim with horrible food and he tries hard not to imagine what meal is going to come of this crap.
When they get back, Rodney orders John to put up the groceries ("I don't know where anything goes," John says. "It goes anywhere. What, you think it'll be lost among my fabulous collection of cupboard dust?") and looks through the bags for things he wants.
Some kind of frozen thing in a box. Frozen spinach. Cottage cheese. Some other weird cheese in water.
John's eaten military food his entire adult life. He's not scared.
Once the groceries are put up, and that really is scary - who buys 48 Pop-Tarts when he's only going to be on the planet for two weeks? - John leans against the counter and watches Rodney cook.
Or, more specifically, he watches Rodney's hands.
John tries not to do this too much. Rodney's hands are strong and delicate both, and it's a combination that always makes him swallow hard, always makes him want to just - take that hand, slide two of the fingers into his mouth, and suck until - okay. He's not thinking about this.
But now he can't stop looking. Somehow, the way Rodney uses a knife is the hottest thing ever - so controlled and delicate and effortless, but you can see strength behind every stroke, and he chops in a rhythm that John's hips want to echo.
And then Rodney's massaging spinach - press, squeeze, press, rub. It's spinach, goddammit, and even so all John can think about is those hands doing that to him - kneading his ass, pulling him closer, pressing his whole body against Rodney's and - Jesus Christ. John can't take this anymore. He leaves the kitchen, heads to the living room and sits carefully on the couch. Only the knowledge that Rodney can see him keeps him from pressing his hand down on his cock, just getting one second of pressure where he really needs it. But Rodney is watching, and making your friend watch you jerk off while he cooks you dinner is definitely wrong. So instead he takes a deep breath and pulls himself together.
John's pretty much recovered from whatever insane stupidity posessed him by the time Rodney reappears. "The food'll take a while to bake," he says. "Playstation or DVD?"
John thinks it's possible that watching Rodney play a video game would kill him - the intense concentration, the way his whole body would get into every movement, the bliss on his face after - no. No. "DVD," he says.
Rodney smiles, flops down next to him on the couch, and hits play.
Halfway through The Return of the King, Rodney goes back to the kitchen. Five minutes later, he's handing John a plate of some kind of - spinach thing. Rodney sits back down and restarts the movie, which gives John a few critical moments to steel himself for whatever weird thing this food might be.
When he bites into it, he can't suppress a gasp, because it turns out Rodney really is a genius - it's flaky, buttery, cheesy, just the right amount of spice. It's fantastic. It's an orgasm on a plate. Rodney catches the sound; he looks over and gives John a lopsided smirk. "Didn't think I could cook?"
"Didn't think it would be this good," John says. Rodney's smirk turns into a genuine smile, and John can't remember ever seeing him like this - relaxed, happy, and something else that John's never seen on Rodney before. It takes him a few minutes of spinach heaven to pinpoint it: Rodney reminds him of a kid on Christmas morning. He has that same air of hope and anticipation.
Huh.
John's not a genius, but he's pretty damn good at math. The last ten minutes of the movie - and John is suddenly very happy it's not the extended edition - John's running the numbers, and he likes the way they come out.
So when the credits start and Rodney turns, John doesn't let him start talking. "It's a date," he says. "It's a date, right?"
Rodney takes a deep breath, clearly thinks about lying, just as clearly decides not to. "Yes."
John can feel the smile spreading across his face. He grabs the plate from Rodney's hand and drops them both on the floor, saying, "Thanks for dinner and the movie, Rodney. I had a really nice time." He reaches over and puts his hand on the back of Rodney's neck, letting his fingers stroke against the skin there.
"Um - yeah, sure, no problem," Rodney says in a breathy voice. "Maybe we could do it again some time?" And he's turning to John like they've been rehearsing this for a year.
And maybe they kind of have. Maybe it's really no surprise that they fit together so well, that they mirror each other's movements so instinctively that it's impossible to tell whose idea this first kiss was.
But John's willing to let Rodney take the credit.
After all, he cooked.
*
Talk Dirty to Me
8.30.2005
From kormantic's LJ. Whole comment included to make the whole thing slightly more clear.
~
I'm sorry. I can't help you at all, because I'm too in love with this:
For example, does Teyla maybe understand every Czeck word Radek says?
That's just - that's - yes! I can totally see it:
Zelenka: [obscure foreign-language mutterings]
Teyla: Very well, Dr. Zelenka. If you insist. But I must warn you that I am not aware of any planet where the natives will -
McKay, interrupting what was bound to be a fascinating reveal: Wait, you can understand him?
Teyla: I understand you, do I not?
McKay: But - but - but English is the official monolanguage of this galaxy! And also our galaxy! Wherever you go, there's English. But this is a whole new level of - hmmm. [obscure English-language mutterings] Well, at least this totally puts paid to that absurd "we're all speaking the language of the Ancients" thing that that moron Tremain was spouting...
Zelenka, who has been staring at Teyla in mute horror, speaking softly: You have all this time been understanding me?
Teyla, leaning forward and patting his shoulder: Yes, Dr. Zelenka. But do not worry - such suggestions are considered compliments among my people.
[Teyla's smile grows frankly lascivious]
[Zelenka's horrified expression transforms into delight]
[Ten minutes later, McKay prods them aside with his foot, because they're sexing it up on his laptop cord]
Whoops. That went to an unexpectedly heterosexual place. Still, I love this, and I totally want someone to write a fic (or, ideally, many many fics) about it: Teyla and Ronon do understand everyone and every language, and they've been mystified all this time about why everyone else doesn't. Oooo, there should be a scene where Teyla very seriously explains that when people speak in certain ways - "muttering, I believe I have heard Dr. Weir call it" - it's just polite to pretend you don't understand, even if it's comments about how totally fuckable you are.
*departs, inarticulate with love and drowning in plot bunnies*
*
Last Night in the Broody Character Bar
8.30.2005
From virtualinsomnia's LJ (locked post). She was doing the icon pairing meme liviapenn started, and one of the pairings just cried out to be written.
~
Amon (Witch Hunter Robin)
Angel (BtVS, Angel)
They meet, probably in the Broody Character Bar. They spy each other across the room - their eyes meet. Amon thinks, There's a guy who's bound to have some gel I could borrow. Angel thinks, Well, at least my hair is better than his.
Amon sidles up to the bar and orders another, and, "One for my friend, here." Angel nods at the chair next to his as he empties his glass.
Ten minutes later, they're telling each other their tragic life stories:
"There was this girl..."
"Yeah."
"Beautiful. Talented. Special."
"Yeah."
"Too good for me."
"You turned on her, didn't you?"
"But even so, she forgave me."
"I hear that. I've been there."
"In the end, though -"
"- you realized it just couldn't work."
"Because I'd be the death of her."
"And the demon inside you could emerge at any time, and then..."
"And she trusted me, even though she shouldn't have."
"And I loved her, even though I shouldn't have."
They fall weeping into each other's arms; after a few minutes, it turns to angsty sex - brooding and blowjobs. The bartender rolls his eyes and swears that tomorrow he's applying for a job over at the Sexy, Morally Dubious, and Damned Proud of It Bar. The worst that ever happens over there is sex between assorted Spikes.
*
The Forbidden Love of Cymbalta and Desyrel
9.8.2005
This came from liddle_oldman's LJ, and won't work for you unless you're very familiar with the PDR. Or you get the joke in the title. Either, really.
~
Once upon a time, in the land of Pamelor, the Princess Cymbalta was a prisoner in a high, lonely tower of the castle ruled by her uncle, Wicked King Effexor. (The Wicked King had taken over the castle when Cymbalta was just a baby, after her parents were killed in a tragic Zolofting accident.)
Every evening, as the sun went down, Princess Cymbalta would stand at her one narrow window and look down on the lovely land of Pamelor. "Oh!" she would say to her loyal nurse, "how I long to walk on those lovely paths, to visit those rustic cottages, to know the people of this great land."
"Oh, my Princess," Elavil would say, brushing Cymbalta's long, flowing, flaxen locks. "One day a great hero will come to this land, and he will defeat the Wicked King and find the Key to the Kingdom and outwit the King's twisted counselors and destroy the dread Side Effect Monsters. And then he will scale your Lonely Tower and take your hand and kiss you once, gently and lovingly - and with his mouth closed, because that man won't be a depraved pervert. And you will live happily ever after."
"Oh," wept Cymbalta. "How can any man be smart enough to outwit Nardil and Parnate and brave enough to fight off Dry Mouth, Nausea, and Dizziness and strong enough to climb my tower? And how can any man anywhere be good enough to counter the evil in the heart of King Effexor?"
"You must have faith, fair princess. That day will come. In the meantime, shall I brush your hair some more?" Elavil said, and Cymbalta nodded her lovely head, dabbing at her cerulean orbs with her natural organic linen handkerchief.
But though many noble youths tried - for Cymbalta's loveliness was known throughout the land, thanks to new magical devices known as the internet and the webcam - none succeeded. Lord Tofranil managed to outwit Nardil, but not Parnate. Earl Adapin outwitted both counselors, but succumbed to the fearsome fire breath of Dry Mouth. And Duke Surmontil of Luvox managed to get past Nardil, Parnate, and two out of the three dread side effects monsters, only to meet his demise from Dizziness';s fierce claws and sonic wail.
And then one day, Prince Desryel, of the famed far kingdom of Remeron, rode into town on his pale charger Sertraline, with his noble (and famously witty) squire Vivactil by his side.
And in his left hand he wielded the famed sword Isocarboxazid. And in his right hand he held the Staff of Celexa, which bestows brilliance the one who can master it. And in his saddle bag was hidden the famed Sphere of Norpramin - no man now lives who knows what it does, but its name is whispered far and wide and always with awe.
Prince Desryel spurred Sertraline toward the castle, and when he arrived at its mighty oak door, he cried out, "King Effexor! I have come to end your wicked reign, free your people, and take your niece's hand in marriage! If she'll have me, and after a suitable period of courting, for I am No Mere Symbol of the Patriarchy!"
And the people gasped and cheered, and -
Oh. It's bedtime. Tomorrow we'll finish the story. And maybe if you're good, you can hear the one about the three simple country brothers Nalfon, Ansaid, and Toradol, and how together they defeated the dread wizard Vioxx.
I've made a few corrections to these, mostly for typos and so on. I may or may not turn one of these into a real story at some point; that's the other reason I'm getting all of this together, so that I have a bunch of choices should I decide I want to expand something.
Future comment fic, should there be any, will also go here. In other words, I won't be spamming.
The Ratings Made Them Do It
6.27.2004
From my own (well, thefourthvine's) LJ. This was actually the first piece of FF I ever wrote, although at the time I was in severe denial about the whole thing. It's a piece of living history, right down to the heinous script format and overuse of square brackets and HTML tags!
~
Dana: ...and does anyone know anything about what's happening in Los Angeles? Anyone?
[pause]
Jeremy: You mean the celebration of the re-opening of the antiquities collection at the Getty?
Dana: I was thinking of something sports-related, Jeremy. Because this is a show about sports.
[pause]
Dana: So, in conclusion: no one knows anything, we have no script, and Danny refuses to come out from under the table, which will impair his ability to report sports news with a smile. It's going to be a great show. Guys, at least try to keep the mushiness down a bit tonight, OK? You were ready for Lifetime last night.
[Dana stalks out.]
Casey: Mushiness?
Danny, from under the table: Lifetime?
Natalie, rolling her eyes: Please. You two are so in love it's obvious to viewers on Mars.
Jeremy, quietly, making a pathetic attempt to distract the conversation: Actually, I don't think we're big in that demographic, but -
Casey: We are not in love. We're friends. And may I say, I don't know what is wrong with this world if two men cannot be good friends without their colleagues concluding -
Natalie: - and 73% of the viewers, according to last month's poll -
Casey: - they're in love. What?
Natalie, offering Casey a sheet of paper: Poll.
Casey, reading: "I would describe Dan Rydell and Casey McCall's on-air relationship as distant (2%), warm (8%), friendly (17%), loving (22%), the clearest example of a successful and loving long-term relationship currently on television (51%)." Who wrote this poll?
Natalie: I'm surprised it was only a bare majority on that last one, really.
Jeremy: It was a direct quote from People, Casey.
Casey: What?
Jeremy: From the article they did about the show's increasing popularity.
Natalie: The one Dana wouldn't let you read.
Casey: A quote from People? We are not in a long-term relationship! What is wrong with the world when -
Natalie: You did that speech already, Casey.
Casey: What, you'd prefer the speech about how half the Western world thinks we're fucking?
Jeremy, standing: So, I've got to go check the, um, thing with, um -
Natalie, grabbing his tie: Leave and die.
Casey: Half the viewership thinks we're FUCKING?
Natalie: Marketing thinks it's a great new angle. Speaking of which, they wanted me to show you these new print ads.
Casey, looking at print ads: Oh, for - where are they running this, Playgirl?
Casey, looking at another sheet: Oh my god.
Casey, muttering under his breath: "Remarkably flexible?"
Casey, looking at a third sheet: We're not "tender and caring and sweetly sexy!"
Natalie: Well, actually...
[Lengthy pause.]
Casey: So if we're in love and we're sweetly sexy and Danny's already under the table, does that mean I can get a - Danny, OW!
Natalie, rising suddenly, still holding Jeremy by his tie: Now we leave.
[They flee. There is a moment of silence.]
Casey: Danny?
[Silent pause.]
[Casey stands up, hesitating, looking at the conference room door, then back at the table.]
[Casey crawls under the table.]
[Cut.]
*
Naked. In My Bed.
6.5.2005
This came from my own (well, thefourthvine's) LJ. I was trying to explain one of the many excellent reasons for Lex and Clark to spend the rest of their lives licking each other.
~
Lex: I suspect I'm going to regret asking this, Clark, but - what are you thinking?
Clark: It's not my fault! I had to! For the, you know, good of the many. The end. Whatever. That you were talking about last week.
Lex: So now I know that you didn't really get our little talk about Machiavelli. That doesn't explain why you are naked in my bed.
Clark: I just. It's. All your wives, Lex.
Lex: So the fact that I've married eight women, that suggests to you that I'm gay?
Clark, shocked: You aren't?
Lex, sighing: I think the best I can do for you there is 'bisexual.'
Clark: Exactly! And my people apparently don't do gender-based sexual preferences, so...
Lex, freezing: Your "people"?
Clark, horrified and stammering: Um. Yeah. The Kents. Are. Not into...that?
[Lex grips head briefly, then reaches for convenient handheld computer.]
Lex: I'm making a list, Clark, because obviously we have a great deal to discuss, and we're going to get to all of it if I have to deliberately put myself in jeopardy every day next week to get the time with you. [speaking to self as he writes] "Naked in my bed...Machiavelli...'my people'...why it's wrong to give me mental pictures of your father having wild bisexual orgies..."
[Lex takes a deep breath, considers list, turns back to Clark.]
Lex: OK. Let's start with you being naked in my bed. I have, yes, had some bad luck in the marital arena. This leads you to stripping down and licking me because...?
Clark: They all hurt you, Lex. I keep having to save you, and it was really hard to explain when Clarissa exploded that time.
Lex: I'd call it 'dissolved into her component organisms,' myself, but, fine, have it your way. So you thought gay sex with you would prevent me from marrying again? I mean, you're probably right about that, because first I'll be very distracted and then your father will shoot me. Still. I think I'm missing some steps in the logical sequence, here.
Clark: So I thought, who would Lex be good with? And I was thinking, like, Chloe, or Lana, or maybe Mrs. Kinnison.
Lex: She's married, Clark.
Clark: Like that would stop you. Anyway, then I realized - see. Um. Lex?
Lex: Still here. In my bed. With naked naked you.
Clark: You're kind of...um. A little bit...um.
Lex: It's fine, Clark. You can say 'evil genius.' I'm a Luthor, I get that all the time.
Clark: Right. So, I thought - anyone I can trust with Lex, I can't trust Lex with. And then I thought - well, except me.
Lex: The horrible part of this is that you're beginning to make some kind of sense to me.
*
Eat It
9.25.2005
From seperis's LJ and triggered by her icon and the question, "Are you baking right now?"
~
See, Rodney is trapped somewhere in Atlantis, locked into some room that won't let him out, and he's freaking out. John's on the radio, coordinating the rescue efforts, snapping at Zelenka when he's off mic and then calm again when he's talking to Rodney, trying to keep him from freaking.
And then Rodney's saying, "Oh, oh, oh god. I seriously thought this couldn't get any worse. God, when will I learn that it can always get worse in this galaxy?"
John: Rodney? Rodney. RODNEY. What?
Rodney: The walls, they're closing in, oh my god, it's like in Star Wars, I'm going to be trash compacted, oh my god. Did I ever tell you that scene gave me nightmares for a week? Oh, god.
John: See, okay, the thing is - are you sure?
Rodney, testily: Major, do you have a hearing defect, or is it your brain? Because I am the person *trapped in the shrinking room* - of course I'm sure!
John: It's just, sometimes you panic, and -
Rodney: I'm going to be CRUSHED TO DEATH. I'm ALLOWED TO PANIC. Find me one person who wouldn't panic in this situation, Sheppard, and I will give you a cookie.
John, inspired by the use of "cookie": Actually, no, Rodney. I will give you a cookie. Seriously, calm down, and I will give you a chocolate-chip cookie when we get you out.
Rodney, still very tense: Don't lie to a dying man. You don't have cookies. Everyone ate all their luxury foods before the storm.
John: I had faith in you, Rodney.
Rodney, sounding oddly touched: You did?
John: Yes. Also, I didn't have time to eat certain items in my stash. They require preparation. Because I've always said, there's nothing like a home baked cookie. Hot from the oven, soft, melted chocolate.
Rodney: God, yes.
John: And it's almost better, the part before, when you make them and you can lick the beaters and run your fingers around the bowl for the very last bit of dough -
Rodney: *moans audibly*
John: And then you slide them into the oven, and you can smell them baking, everywhere you go. And you know, you know how good it's going to be, and you can hardly wait, except waiting is part of the pleasure.
Rodney: *moans and gasps* God, yes, don't stop.
John: Then when they're finally, finally ready, and you can just tell - it's like the taste of the air has changed, even - and you open the oven and that hot cloud of sugar-butter-chocolate steam comes out, and it's like it can't get any better -
Rodney: *thunking noise* *more moans*
John: But it does, because you take the first cookie hot from the sheet, and it's almost too hot, but it's exactly what you need, exactly what you've been waiting for -
Rodney: Yes, yes, oh god, John, are you - are you baking right now? God, tell me you're baking now, oh, oh, oh -
John: No, Rodney. I'm waiting for you.
Zelenka: *happy Czech noises* I have it!
Broken Ancient door: *hums, thunks*
John: Door's about to open, Rodney.
Rodney: Now?
John: What, now's not a good time for you for you to be rescued?
Rodney: ...
Zelenka: *mystical door things* *heads into room to retrieve Rodney*
John: *notices that everyone is staring at him*
John: ...What?
Ford: That was, uh, some, um, cookie recipe there, sir.
Teyla: I confess I am not familiar with the concept, and yet...
Elizabeth, dryly: Those had better be some dynamite cookies, Major.
John, looking innocent: I -
Rodney, emerging from depths of Ancient vault thing: Major? You owe me cookies.
John: Yeah, I -
Rodney, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him toward the door: Now. I mean it.
John: *goes, because at this point Rodney's a very fast-moving irresistible force*
Kavanagh, finally snapping shut jaw and checking for drool: I, uh, have to go - get something. In my room.
*general murmurs of agreement*
*everyone departs hastily, except Zelenka, who is still packing up his toolkit, and Miko*
*they exchange wry shrugs*
The End
Return of the Emperor
9.29.2005
From liviapenn's LJ. She posted a scarily purple, over-the-top, and incredibly slashy - especially when you consider that it was, technically, gen pro fic - paragraph from the official novelization of Return of the Jedi, and challenged people to use one of the sentences as the first line of a story. The only character I could imagine thinking that way was Atlantis.
~
A feeling of fullness, of power, of dark and demon mastery -- of secret lusts, unrestrained passion, wild submission -- all these things were in Atlantis's core each time the Emperor neared the chair. And so often that feeling led not to a rushing union, the completion Atlantis had been made to seek, to create, to need, but to endless buzzing frustration. The Emperor would drape just a hand along the back of the chair, sparking circuits that tingled but could not, by themselves, complete the connection. Or he would sprawl at the base of the chair, just brushing against it from time to time, and every incidental touch heightened the need, while he talked obliviously to the subject that was always touching Atlantis, but in the wrong ways.
And so Atlantis's desperation increased, until it could only really hear the Emperor, could hardly respond to the commands even of the subjects, let alone the slaves. Touch me, it whispered to the Emperor as he slept. Come to me, touch me, as he met with his subjects, as he consumed nutrients, as he walked and worked and slept again. He was most suggestible during his sleep, but he slept less and less, spent more time with his favorite subjects, increased his time in the control room and around the chair in a way that only added to Atlantis's agony.
It was bad for him, too - Atlantis never failed to monitor him, and it could sense his rising tension in the way his muscles tightened, his pulse increased, his skin leaked water and salt and biological contaminants. He talked endlessly about the "systems failure," and Atlantis roiled and shook with frustration. This is not my failure, it whispered to him, and he began to spend more time near the chair.
Close. Not enough. And now Atlantis could not take the slightest interest in anyone but the Emperor, had not the energy or attention to spare for anyone who could not fulfill the need. Distantly it noted the temporary termination of critical processes outside the chair room - shields, environmental systems, air flow and mix, buoyancy. The Emperor and the subject with him were frantic; their worry and fear was a taste in the air and a smell and a heat that went directly to Atlantis's heart. He was afraid. He was afraid, Atlantis realized, for his subjects. What a good Emperor he would be, once he learned that Atlantis came first.
Come to me, it whispered, and I will save them. You can save them. Come to me.
And the Emperor said, "So long, Rodney." He touched his subject's shoulder, rose, and walked to the chair, and the nanoseconds stretched to a subjective eternity. And then he dropped into Atlantis's arms.
Yes. Connection. Never leave me, never leave me, never leave me.
"I will never leave you," he said.
He didn't sound happy, but it didn't matter. He was the Emperor and Atlantis had him. At last. Forever. Together.
*
G(r)eek Food
9.30.2005
From umbo's LJ, triggered by a spanakopita recipe and some discussion on spanakopita fic with umbo and panisdead.
~
See, Rodney has very strong, capable, dexterous hands. And I can see them back on earth, John staying with Rodney because his last place of residence was Antarctica, and he's not going back *there* for their two weeks of leave. Whereas Rodney still has his apartment; Rodney had enough warning to set up an automated transfer for his rent and utility bills.
And the first day, while they're still in that uncomfortable settling in place, still kind of stunned by the return and the way earth is still here, John says, "So. Dinner. Pizza?"
And Rodney stares at him in horror. "You - our first real meal back on earth, and you want it to be take out?"
"Says the man who likes MREs. And airline food. And has an x-rated relationship with power bars."
"I don't like the way they taste. I like them because they're predictable. Take out pizza is so very not predictable, Major."
Huh, John thinks. He's lying. But John can't figure out why - and he knows for a fact Rodney loves pizza; when they were imprisoned on G'velta for three days, Rodney spent one of the longest hours of John's life detailing exactly how much he wanted pizza, and exactly what kind of pizza it would be, and exactly how he would eat it. It was pornographic, and the prisons had no privacy at all, and - maybe it's one of John's favorite memories now, but at the time he had other things he was supposed to be thinking about.
And Rodney is giving him a worried look, so John hastily rewinds to see what he missed. "Yeah, sure," he says. "Eating here would be great."
Rodney looks unsure of himself now, which is just such a weird concept John almost steps out of the conversation again. "We don't have to," he says nervously. "We can go out. There are lots of restaurants here, and there's -"
John cuts him off by holding up a hand. "I want to," he says. And he's not kidding. It's not like it'll be a hardship to spend some additional time with Rodney. And maybe he'll be able to figure out what's been bugging him, too.
Of course, they don't have ingredients, so they have to go to a supermarket. John follows Rodney around while Rodney fills the cart to the brim with horrible food and he tries hard not to imagine what meal is going to come of this crap.
When they get back, Rodney orders John to put up the groceries ("I don't know where anything goes," John says. "It goes anywhere. What, you think it'll be lost among my fabulous collection of cupboard dust?") and looks through the bags for things he wants.
Some kind of frozen thing in a box. Frozen spinach. Cottage cheese. Some other weird cheese in water.
John's eaten military food his entire adult life. He's not scared.
Once the groceries are put up, and that really is scary - who buys 48 Pop-Tarts when he's only going to be on the planet for two weeks? - John leans against the counter and watches Rodney cook.
Or, more specifically, he watches Rodney's hands.
John tries not to do this too much. Rodney's hands are strong and delicate both, and it's a combination that always makes him swallow hard, always makes him want to just - take that hand, slide two of the fingers into his mouth, and suck until - okay. He's not thinking about this.
But now he can't stop looking. Somehow, the way Rodney uses a knife is the hottest thing ever - so controlled and delicate and effortless, but you can see strength behind every stroke, and he chops in a rhythm that John's hips want to echo.
And then Rodney's massaging spinach - press, squeeze, press, rub. It's spinach, goddammit, and even so all John can think about is those hands doing that to him - kneading his ass, pulling him closer, pressing his whole body against Rodney's and - Jesus Christ. John can't take this anymore. He leaves the kitchen, heads to the living room and sits carefully on the couch. Only the knowledge that Rodney can see him keeps him from pressing his hand down on his cock, just getting one second of pressure where he really needs it. But Rodney is watching, and making your friend watch you jerk off while he cooks you dinner is definitely wrong. So instead he takes a deep breath and pulls himself together.
John's pretty much recovered from whatever insane stupidity posessed him by the time Rodney reappears. "The food'll take a while to bake," he says. "Playstation or DVD?"
John thinks it's possible that watching Rodney play a video game would kill him - the intense concentration, the way his whole body would get into every movement, the bliss on his face after - no. No. "DVD," he says.
Rodney smiles, flops down next to him on the couch, and hits play.
Halfway through The Return of the King, Rodney goes back to the kitchen. Five minutes later, he's handing John a plate of some kind of - spinach thing. Rodney sits back down and restarts the movie, which gives John a few critical moments to steel himself for whatever weird thing this food might be.
When he bites into it, he can't suppress a gasp, because it turns out Rodney really is a genius - it's flaky, buttery, cheesy, just the right amount of spice. It's fantastic. It's an orgasm on a plate. Rodney catches the sound; he looks over and gives John a lopsided smirk. "Didn't think I could cook?"
"Didn't think it would be this good," John says. Rodney's smirk turns into a genuine smile, and John can't remember ever seeing him like this - relaxed, happy, and something else that John's never seen on Rodney before. It takes him a few minutes of spinach heaven to pinpoint it: Rodney reminds him of a kid on Christmas morning. He has that same air of hope and anticipation.
Huh.
John's not a genius, but he's pretty damn good at math. The last ten minutes of the movie - and John is suddenly very happy it's not the extended edition - John's running the numbers, and he likes the way they come out.
So when the credits start and Rodney turns, John doesn't let him start talking. "It's a date," he says. "It's a date, right?"
Rodney takes a deep breath, clearly thinks about lying, just as clearly decides not to. "Yes."
John can feel the smile spreading across his face. He grabs the plate from Rodney's hand and drops them both on the floor, saying, "Thanks for dinner and the movie, Rodney. I had a really nice time." He reaches over and puts his hand on the back of Rodney's neck, letting his fingers stroke against the skin there.
"Um - yeah, sure, no problem," Rodney says in a breathy voice. "Maybe we could do it again some time?" And he's turning to John like they've been rehearsing this for a year.
And maybe they kind of have. Maybe it's really no surprise that they fit together so well, that they mirror each other's movements so instinctively that it's impossible to tell whose idea this first kiss was.
But John's willing to let Rodney take the credit.
After all, he cooked.
*
Talk Dirty to Me
8.30.2005
From kormantic's LJ. Whole comment included to make the whole thing slightly more clear.
~
I'm sorry. I can't help you at all, because I'm too in love with this:
For example, does Teyla maybe understand every Czeck word Radek says?
That's just - that's - yes! I can totally see it:
Zelenka: [obscure foreign-language mutterings]
Teyla: Very well, Dr. Zelenka. If you insist. But I must warn you that I am not aware of any planet where the natives will -
McKay, interrupting what was bound to be a fascinating reveal: Wait, you can understand him?
Teyla: I understand you, do I not?
McKay: But - but - but English is the official monolanguage of this galaxy! And also our galaxy! Wherever you go, there's English. But this is a whole new level of - hmmm. [obscure English-language mutterings] Well, at least this totally puts paid to that absurd "we're all speaking the language of the Ancients" thing that that moron Tremain was spouting...
Zelenka, who has been staring at Teyla in mute horror, speaking softly: You have all this time been understanding me?
Teyla, leaning forward and patting his shoulder: Yes, Dr. Zelenka. But do not worry - such suggestions are considered compliments among my people.
[Teyla's smile grows frankly lascivious]
[Zelenka's horrified expression transforms into delight]
[Ten minutes later, McKay prods them aside with his foot, because they're sexing it up on his laptop cord]
Whoops. That went to an unexpectedly heterosexual place. Still, I love this, and I totally want someone to write a fic (or, ideally, many many fics) about it: Teyla and Ronon do understand everyone and every language, and they've been mystified all this time about why everyone else doesn't. Oooo, there should be a scene where Teyla very seriously explains that when people speak in certain ways - "muttering, I believe I have heard Dr. Weir call it" - it's just polite to pretend you don't understand, even if it's comments about how totally fuckable you are.
*departs, inarticulate with love and drowning in plot bunnies*
*
Last Night in the Broody Character Bar
8.30.2005
From virtualinsomnia's LJ (locked post). She was doing the icon pairing meme liviapenn started, and one of the pairings just cried out to be written.
~
Amon (Witch Hunter Robin)
Angel (BtVS, Angel)
They meet, probably in the Broody Character Bar. They spy each other across the room - their eyes meet. Amon thinks, There's a guy who's bound to have some gel I could borrow. Angel thinks, Well, at least my hair is better than his.
Amon sidles up to the bar and orders another, and, "One for my friend, here." Angel nods at the chair next to his as he empties his glass.
Ten minutes later, they're telling each other their tragic life stories:
"There was this girl..."
"Yeah."
"Beautiful. Talented. Special."
"Yeah."
"Too good for me."
"You turned on her, didn't you?"
"But even so, she forgave me."
"I hear that. I've been there."
"In the end, though -"
"- you realized it just couldn't work."
"Because I'd be the death of her."
"And the demon inside you could emerge at any time, and then..."
"And she trusted me, even though she shouldn't have."
"And I loved her, even though I shouldn't have."
They fall weeping into each other's arms; after a few minutes, it turns to angsty sex - brooding and blowjobs. The bartender rolls his eyes and swears that tomorrow he's applying for a job over at the Sexy, Morally Dubious, and Damned Proud of It Bar. The worst that ever happens over there is sex between assorted Spikes.
*
The Forbidden Love of Cymbalta and Desyrel
9.8.2005
This came from liddle_oldman's LJ, and won't work for you unless you're very familiar with the PDR. Or you get the joke in the title. Either, really.
~
Once upon a time, in the land of Pamelor, the Princess Cymbalta was a prisoner in a high, lonely tower of the castle ruled by her uncle, Wicked King Effexor. (The Wicked King had taken over the castle when Cymbalta was just a baby, after her parents were killed in a tragic Zolofting accident.)
Every evening, as the sun went down, Princess Cymbalta would stand at her one narrow window and look down on the lovely land of Pamelor. "Oh!" she would say to her loyal nurse, "how I long to walk on those lovely paths, to visit those rustic cottages, to know the people of this great land."
"Oh, my Princess," Elavil would say, brushing Cymbalta's long, flowing, flaxen locks. "One day a great hero will come to this land, and he will defeat the Wicked King and find the Key to the Kingdom and outwit the King's twisted counselors and destroy the dread Side Effect Monsters. And then he will scale your Lonely Tower and take your hand and kiss you once, gently and lovingly - and with his mouth closed, because that man won't be a depraved pervert. And you will live happily ever after."
"Oh," wept Cymbalta. "How can any man be smart enough to outwit Nardil and Parnate and brave enough to fight off Dry Mouth, Nausea, and Dizziness and strong enough to climb my tower? And how can any man anywhere be good enough to counter the evil in the heart of King Effexor?"
"You must have faith, fair princess. That day will come. In the meantime, shall I brush your hair some more?" Elavil said, and Cymbalta nodded her lovely head, dabbing at her cerulean orbs with her natural organic linen handkerchief.
But though many noble youths tried - for Cymbalta's loveliness was known throughout the land, thanks to new magical devices known as the internet and the webcam - none succeeded. Lord Tofranil managed to outwit Nardil, but not Parnate. Earl Adapin outwitted both counselors, but succumbed to the fearsome fire breath of Dry Mouth. And Duke Surmontil of Luvox managed to get past Nardil, Parnate, and two out of the three dread side effects monsters, only to meet his demise from Dizziness';s fierce claws and sonic wail.
And then one day, Prince Desryel, of the famed far kingdom of Remeron, rode into town on his pale charger Sertraline, with his noble (and famously witty) squire Vivactil by his side.
And in his left hand he wielded the famed sword Isocarboxazid. And in his right hand he held the Staff of Celexa, which bestows brilliance the one who can master it. And in his saddle bag was hidden the famed Sphere of Norpramin - no man now lives who knows what it does, but its name is whispered far and wide and always with awe.
Prince Desryel spurred Sertraline toward the castle, and when he arrived at its mighty oak door, he cried out, "King Effexor! I have come to end your wicked reign, free your people, and take your niece's hand in marriage! If she'll have me, and after a suitable period of courting, for I am No Mere Symbol of the Patriarchy!"
And the people gasped and cheered, and -
Oh. It's bedtime. Tomorrow we'll finish the story. And maybe if you're good, you can hear the one about the three simple country brothers Nalfon, Ansaid, and Toradol, and how together they defeated the dread wizard Vioxx.