Icon Fic Meme
Ok, so this is another meme, but this time it came from the lovely novembersmith :)
Basically, she picked her six favourites from my icons, and I have written fic to accompany each of the icons. Now, they were meant to be short fics, but some of them, well, grew. There are two Merlin (one of which is also kind of Supernatural, but not crossover, you'll see), two Temeraire (oh yes, new fandom), one Doctor Who, and one original fic. I hope you enjoy them.
If you want to play yourself, let me know, and I'll pick six favourites from among your icons. If not, please comment anyway, you know how I <3 the comments!
Connotations - Merlin (Morgana and Uther) but also Supernatural (Dean and Bobby) GEN PG
The connotations of the words ‘You’re not my father’ are many.
It can stand for ‘I don’t have to listen to what you have to say’; hips cocked, already facing the door, face turned from the words you don’t want to hear. The person who could give you paternal advice is gone, and anyone else trying is just an insult to his memory. So you’d rather they didn’t try.
It can stand for ‘You can’t keep me here’; arms crossed over your chest, twisting out of his grip. He shouldn’t be holding you, because it makes you remember, and it’s just harder that way.
It can stand for ‘You don’t have the right’; there’s a hole in your life, and you want there to be a hole in your life, because there’s nothing and nobody that can make this better. You set a place at the table, keep the space warm, waiting for your father. Anyone else is trespassing.
It can stand for ‘You don’t have to love me’; your grief tore strips of skin from everyone in its reach, tanning their hides like so many belts or stirrup leathers. You fought, in screaming and in silence, all for nothing, because your father is gone. Who is this man, that he should love you, when you couldn’t keep him safe?
It can stand for ‘I choose you’; you came back, to the man who isn’t your father, so you didn’t have to come. You wanted to hear what he had to say, it’s a choice you made.
Worry - Merlin (Merlin and Arthur) GEN or SLASH, depending on the goggles PG
Arthur had been brought up to believe that a King was his Kingdom, that he was just an avatar of Camelot, and of Albion at large. In times of plenty, when the people loved the land, this was a gift. Arthur had been loved to the point of worship from the moment that his birth had been announced. However, there were times like the present, when being the avatar of Albion meant being loathed, resented, hungry, and at war.
The uprising had started in the north, and Lot had called for help in defending Orkney against the Picts. The islands had been friends of Albion for a generation, and Uther had marched north to engage them on their southern border, giving Lot time to lead the larger part of his army south by sea to rendezvous before the battle proper began.
Arthur had ridden north at the head of the army, had slept in cold tents on hard ground for the past three weeks, and he was exhausted. When Merlin came to wake him, he found him already awake, sitting with his head resting on the heel of his left hand, his right hand playing over the hilt of his sword. Arthur looked defeated, and for the first time in the march, Merlin allowed himself to be worried.
Merlin’s worry manifested itself in a surprising level of competence and enterprise. For the next few days, Arthur’s armour was clean and laid out before he woke up, his sword was flickering, brutally sharp, and his horse was the first to be ready in the morning. Merlin was exercising all his nerves into his work, which was all he could do, and it made him feel better. He doubted Arthur had noticed.
Arthur had noticed. Not the first day, he was far too tired, and just counted his blessings that Merlin had a good day when he needed one. The second day, he was a little surprised by the clinical efficiency, and very much in need of someone to shout at for some inconsequential mistake. By the third day he was feeling decidedly awkward with Merlin’s silence, because a silent Merlin was either worried, or hiding something. On the march of war, hiding something couldn’t be tolerated, and if Merlin was worried, well, what did that say about his faith in Arthur?
Merlin appeared, promptly, with dinner and wine, and none of it spilled, in Arthur’s tent.
“Ok Merlin, what’s going on?”
Merlin looked at his hands, fumbled a little as he put the dishes down, and turned his wide eyes on Arthur. Sadly for Merlin, and thankfully for Arthur, this look had ceased to be convincing about the time that Merlin tried to explain the flower in his neckerchief.
“You know what I mean, the being on time, doing everything before I ask you to. It’s unnerving.”
Merlin stepped on his toe as he moved back, and grunted indignantly. “I’m sorry, sire, would you rather that I did my job badly?”
Arthur, mouth full, snorted. “I’d be more used to it, yes. What are you worried about?”
Merlin looked as if he was about to argue, so Arthur held out his hand. “I know you, when you’re worried about something, you try to make everything else perfect. What is it that you’re worrying about?”
Arthur could see the moment that Merlin capitulated, his head fell almost imperceptibly, and his shoulders rounded a little, but it was enough.
“You’re taking so much on yourself, you’re tired and cold, you’re snappy because you’re worried, and you’re going to snap at me for saying that. I just want to make things easier. I can stop, if you’d rather.”
The last statement was rather petulant, but the rest had been low, gentle and hurried; nervous words. Arthur ate the rest of his dinner in silence, leaving a bit on the plate, and pushing it towards Merlin. He did the same thing with the cup of wine, and it glowed red and warm through both of their throats. When Merlin went to clear the table, Arthur looked at his wine flushed cheeks, and spoke to him quietly.
“I want you to sleep in here from now on. It’s freezing in the middle of the night.”
Facing away from each other, in the gathering dark, Merlin and Arthur wore matching smiles.
Le Morte D'Arthur - Temeraire (Laurence and Temeraire) GEN G
“Laurence, whose is that standard, the red one with the gold dragon?”
Roland and Dyer had the good grace to look abashed, as Temeraire’s clear voice rang through the covert, disturbing Laurence’s rest.
“Let me see it.”, was Laurence’s confused reply. “Which book is it that you were reading, Temeraire?”
Laurence held a hand out imperiously to Roland, who placed an illustrated copy of Le Morte D’Arthur into it. Laurence sighed heavily, bringing his empty hand up to his forehead. Despite the impressive and unprecedented use his French had received in recent months, Laurence still relied on Temeraire to translate complex passages, and did not look forward to the task of explaining something he had only read in translation.
Rightly reading Laurence’s tired expression, Temeraire quickly added, “You needn’t worry Laurence, only the title is in French, all the rest of the book is in English. Somewhat mollified, Laurence opened the book to the illustration, and found that he could have answered the question very easily in any case.
“That standard belonged to King Arthur. Legend says that Arthur and his knights ruled England during the dark ages, many centuries ago now.”
Temeraire looked thoughtful for a moment, before he asked Laurence, “If the King’s standard was a dragon, and dragons were living in Britain at the time, why are there no dragons in the book? Roland and Dyer have read it all to me, and there are no dragons mentioned at all.”
Laurence breathed deeply, to give himself time to think, and by the time he replied his voice sounded tired again. “Temeraire, dear, you know that people in Britain are frightened of dragons?” Temeraire snorted, but nodded his assent, and waved a foreleg to indicate that Laurence should continue. “Well, perhaps it is the case that people were afraid of dragons at the time that the book was written. The author himself may have been frightened of dragons, and so have left them out of the stories because he was too afraid to write their parts. He might have been worried that people wouldn’t read his book if there were dragons in it. I’m sure the dragons had as many adventures, and quite as noble, as King Arthur and his knights.”
Temeraire preened a little at the implicit compliment, and Laurence considered the subject well handled, turning to walk over to Iskierka’s clearing in search of Granby. As he gained the edge of the clearing, Temeraire asked another question, sealing the strategic victory on matters of principle; “This is another example of a time when people would be better off if they were taught not to be afraid of dragons, is it not, Laurence?”
Laurence laughed a little, bowing his head to Temeraire, “Yes, I believe you are right, my dear, only I fear that if we present this to the Corps as a fait accompli, we may only succeed in getting ourselves banished. We must approach the subject more cautiously, with those in authority.” All of this was said with a smile, though Laurence was shaking his head fondly as he spoke.
Temeraire resettled himself, holding out his foreleg to Laurence in invitation, and as a sign that he was willing to abide by Laurence’s rules in negotiating with humans, no matter that he could see no sense in them. As Laurence climbed into the crook of his arm, he added smugly, “So long as I am right, I will bear the wait.” Laurence rested his hand on Temeraire’s chest, and feeling the draconic heartbeat under his palm, he allowed the kindness of the tone to wash over him like sunshine.
I Miss the Sea - Temeraire (Laurence/Granby) SLASH 12
The walls of Danzig were holding well against the light French dragons, but the morale within them had dwindled since Lien’s arrival. The aviators were all miserable at being earthbound, Temeraire’s tail could barely keep from twitching at the proximity of such danger, and when she was awake, Iskierka was shrieking fury and spitting fire at being unable to fly.
Night fell again, swift and cold, without any semblance of safety with the Fleur-de-Nuit’s pale smoky eyes watching from the darkness of the French lines. Laurence climbed down from the walls, tucking his field glass into the pocket of his jacket, now sadly beyond all repair. He had barely had occasion to speak to Granby in all the confusion surrounding Iskierka’s hatching, and the flight to Danzig, and Temeraire’s rudeness weighed upon his mind. He walked towards the warmth of the kitchen wall, where Iskierka was curled up, snorting and snuffling faintly.
Laurence knelt beside the dark shape of a man, placing his hand on the man’s shoulder, and speaking in a low, private tone.
“John, is she asleep?”
Granby dragged the heels of his hands up to his eyes, one trailing over the hand that remained on his shoulder. His voice was rough, and slightly slow with the last of sleep.
“Will?”
“Your pardon, John, I did not mean to wake you.”
“No, I am well. I am well. What were you asking?”
Laurence dropped his hand from Granby’s shoulder, twisting in anticipation of the conversation, but now that he had woken Granby it could not be avoided.
“Is it safe to leave her, so that we might talk?”
Granby passed his hands over Iskierka’s hide, already hardening from sleeping on the rough stones of the courtyard, before he made his answer.
“She is warm, full and sleeping. If ever it is safe to leave her, it is now. Where would you have me?” The roughness was passing from Granby’s tone as he woke fully, and there was a smoothness to the question that only tightened the twisting in Laurence’s belly.
“Will you come with me to the walls?”
Granby only nodded his assent, and followed Laurence’s steps, steady and silent, to the western wall. The wind was coming in from the Baltic, and Laurence and Granby stood for some time looking at the British ships rising and falling under the moon. They were close enough to feel the heat of each others bodies in the cold air, but not touching. It was known, and unknown. Granby knew the way of the game by now, and it was Laurence’s move.
Sure enough, Laurence turned his back to the wall, and began to speak.
“Temeraire was wrong to speak as he did to you, when Iskierka hatched. I am sorry for it, John.”
“For heaven’s sake Will, you haven’t pulled me up here, days later, to tell me that!” Granby’s tone was exasperated, and he paced back and forth along the wall, dragging his knuckles over the rough stone. “I know exactly what Temeraire meant, and it is not your place to apologise for him. Will that be all?”
Laurence put out his hand, wrapping it around Granby’s forearm to stop his movement. Granby huffed out the breath he was holding, and took up his place beside Laurence, looking out over the ships.
“I miss the sea.” Laurence began, softly, so that Granby almost bent to catch it. “Not even my days at sea, but the Allegiance. We had such time, Temeraire and I, you and I. We were ready to fight Imperial China not to be separated. We have run out of time, John, we have no more time.”
Laurence had turned his face towards Granby, his hand still resting loosely on the rough fabric of his aviators’ jacket. “When we leave here, we must make for Scotland. You are no longer my First Lieutenant, nor Temeraire’s. Your place will be with Iskierka, who will lead her own formation, in time. We may not see each other from one year to the next.” Laurence’s chin had remained high throughout this speech, but he could not hold Granby’s eye as he added, “Temeraire was not alone in the thoughts he had. He knew, as you know, that I would not have expressed them unprompted, but there it is.”
Granby smiled to himself, taking advantage of Laurence’s downcast eyes to look as fondly as he wished at the man who was his Captain. If ever there had been a convoluted and downright confusing compliment, it would be this one. However, the message was clear, and the game had turned. It was now Granby’s move.
He turned Laurence’s face up with rough, rope burned hands, forcing Laurence to meet his eyes. “We can figure this out.” Laurence made to interrupt, and Granby laid a finger over his lips, the pad of it catching on dry, chapped skin. “This is our time, Will.” Granby removed his finger, and replaced it with his lips.
The kiss was tender, and the salt air sweeping in off the sea reminded them both of the dragon deck of the Allegiance. With a whispered “Will”, Granby brought his teeth down to Laurence’s neck, underneath his collar; where the burned brown skin turned white, he bruised it purple.
The two Captains kissed in the pale light, fully dressed, on the besieged walls of Danzig, until the sky turned pink.
Perception Filter - Doctor Who (Donna and Roger/Davenport) SLASH 12 for insevens
Donna wasn’t sure whether it was because she was a woman, or because she was with the Doctor, or if the TARDIS had been sneakily making her less visible, because yeah, perception filter, whatever one of those was, but nobody looked at her at all as she wandered around the hallways of the big house. Today, though, she had to admit, it had its advantages.
She’d been looking for the servants’ quarters, because the staff always knew what was going on, when she heard knocking from one of the rooms on her left. Peering round the door, she’d seen two boys climbing through the window from the roof outside. One of them was a servant, clear from the respect with which he treated the carpets and walls as he climbed, while the other was the boy whose house they were in. Judging by the tramping of his boots, he’d never had to clean a carpet in his life. The boys were laughing, a soft, intimate sound that seemed to pass from one mouth to the other, only its echoes making it out into the room. Both were out of breath, more than could be accounted for by the climb up the roof, flushed cheeked and bruised lipped in their disarray.
The slighter boy, the servant, had set to straightening his master’s collars and tie, and was being severely hampered in his attempts by raised eyebrows and roaming hands.
“I say Roger, would you stop that, we really must be getting back.” The disapproval in the tone would have been convincing if it hadn’t been warmed through by the lust and laughter growling underneath it.
“Oh come on James, five more minutes. You know we won’t be missed when there are all those people here. Mother looks like making one of her frightful weekends of it, and I’ll be expected to look entertained for the rest of the day.”
James looked exaggeratedly affronted, and backed out of Roger’s reach, folding his arms. “What is it you think I do when I’m not here ‘entertaining’ you? Honestly, as if I were a man of leisure. What if cook calls for me? You’ll have me sent away, and it will serve you right.” The bickering was established, steady and familiar, and Donna felt it like a pain under her ribs, the lack of this casual closeness.
Roger swept James into his arms, ignoring his quiet but violent protests. “Then I shall make a kept man of you. Set you up in a little house somewhere, slip away to visit you, it shall be our next great adventure.” By this time, James’ protests were half hearted at most, and he sagged against the shoulder nearest his head with a gentle sigh. Roger drew his fingers along the line of James’ jaw, drawing him up to his lips. The kiss was slow, full of everything that they could never have, and Donna was struck by the limits that had been set on people so much in love.
James and Roger were still kissing, lazily, breathing the air of each other, when she slipped away from the doorway. Whenever Donna caught sight of either boy for the rest of the day, she dipped her head to hide the smile that rose at the thought of them, breaking the rules. She’d definitely been with the Doctor too long when she started to think of people being people as fantastic.
The Dance - original (Ishtar) GEN 12
The Persians were massing on the plains, watering their horses from the Euphrates; the ring and glint of weaponry left the hot, still air smelling of leather, metal and flames.
Ishtar danced in the setting sun, following it from east to west around the walls of Babylon. She wore a military dress, the purple red of fresh cut liver, one breast bare, the dark aureole shining in the dusk. Her sandals were tied with wicked thongs, criss cross, up to her knees. She danced them a benediction.
The soldiers between the walls stared up at her, entranced. She held all the keys, could heat their blood to lust, and drive their lust to war. She was Ishtar, whose pleasure pain was the reward at the end of the battle. Her eyes burned, not with flames, nothing so gaudy, but with an intensity that could bring a man to orgasm untouched, or have him slit his throat with a silver knife.
The night before the battle, one figure watched the walls. She danced a spell between the eight gateways of the city, danced until her feet were bleeding and cast spells with her blood. It was old magic, blood, sweat and sex magic; she had built these walls.
As dawn rose, she danced the sister dance of the night before, welcoming the sun. She climbed down into the camps, and walked through the tents of the soldiers. Everyone touched her, like a talisman, as she made one circle between the walls. Each man touched her, and the women who had cut their hair and taken arms, and not one touch was sexual. This was her other power, the power of war, and it roiled strong around her as a flame.
The charge began, and Ishtar brought her hands up to her face, clasped like a child, excited by her new game. She watched them fight, fed from their passions, pushing the battle here and there, just a touch of the fingers, keeping Babylon strong.
In the twilight, after she had danced to the sun for their victory, she walked among the dying. The men she touched, their faces or hands, and they left their bodies with the gift of her blessing. The women she kissed, for she saw herself in their pain twisted faces, the perfection of passion, and in her kiss she gave them her grace.