the comment fic debt
wow...not careful and look how much fic I owe! *eep* *grabs beer*
remember this meme? (yeah, you didn't right? It's from May, I'm a slacker of the HIGHEST order. (that would be 1, because slackers don't like to count very high))
Here's the fic!
irony_rocks wanted Morgana/Arthur, and their first kiss.
"It's a pagan festival," Morgana complained through the screen in her bedchamber. "I can't believe Uther's even letting the people celebrate it. He'll probably have them all hanged, or drawn and quartered or something equally barbaric."
"And Arthur?" she continued as she straightened her gown and shuddered in disgust. "He's a prat. A high and mighty prat who will mock me for the rest of my days because I taste of garlic or something else childish."
Emerging from the screen in a stunning blue gown, cut low to emphasize her breasts, she moved to the mirror and ran a brush through her heavy dark hair.
"He might even pretend to like it," her eyes narrowed at the thought. "He'll go around pretending to have changed his ways, spouting nonsense and poetry about how is every wish is to please me and cater to my every whim. Which he should. In fact, I'd even endorse it if I didnt' know that the whole thing will be a colossal joke to him the entire time and he'll be laughing inside when I finally submit and realize that I've fallen victim to a enormous prank."
"Then it'll be all the worse because I'll be exposed and vulnerable to whatever cruelty he inflicts upon me," she paused and made a face at the thought. "Barbarian. Ingrate. Lout. Louse. Great blond idiot who can't find his own sword with both hands and Merlin holding up a torch for lighting."
The hand on her shoulder startled her, but the voice behind her ear made her jump. "Beltane was sacred to my mother," Arthur reminded her gravely. "My father celebrates it to honor her memory and the very act of giving live that killed her."
Stunned silent, Morgana looked at the floor instead of into his eyes.
"If my father had remarried, he would lead the rites symbolically. Since he did not, that sacred and most awesome responsibility rests solely with you and I. If you're not available or do not wish to sully yourself with the pagan ritual, I'm sure a lady could be found in a neighboring kingdom."
Angered out of her embarrassment, Morgana's eyes came up to meet his, gleaming with cold disdain. "You'd like that wouldn't you? Some flouncy wisp of a girl with pale pink lips ready to give in to your charms and the stink of armor, horse sweat and damp leather--"
"There is only one set of lips I've been thinking about."
"Truly?" she spat, laughing bitterly. "Who's? Lady Eleanor? Lady Katherine? Surely not that little girl Isabel--"
At first, she wasn't sure what the feeling was that kept her from speaking. The pressure against her lips was both warm and firm, and she melted into it like wax wrapped around a wick. It only took a moment, their eyes met as the soft sound of their breath faded into the air.
"Just one," he promised before turning sharply and leaving her to her thoughts.
soapbox_solo38 something Sparky-ish about trees - green leaves in the spring, climbing them, tree houses
"Wrists," John repeated as Elizabeth stared at him, one eyebrow raised.
"Wrists?" she wondered as she started to smile. "How would that work?"
Smiling up at the great tree above them, John held up his arm, fingers wrapped around his wrist. "If the branch is smaller than your wrist, it probably can't hold your weight."
"And you followed this rule?" Elizabeth asked with suspicion, raising her own arms above her and noting that her wrists were much smaller than his.
He chuckled and grabbed her wrist instead of his own. His hands were warm and strong around her skin. "I probably followed the rule of your wrist, instead of mine."
Sighing happily, she shook her head. "You didn't know me."
"How do you know?" he asked playfully dragging himself to his feet. "I see it," he explained, reaching down an arm to her. "Up there, about six meters."
Elizabeth groaned as she stood, pretending the ground had a much greater hold over her than it did. "Really?"
"Yeah," he winked at her. "See the two big branches? How they fork? It's perfect. We just need to get the stuff from the jumper."
Following him with arms folded, she shook her head. "Stuff? You brought tree house 'stuff' in the jumper on our one lunch off together."
"Do you really want me to build a tree house with Rodney?" John yelled from inside the jumper. "It'll have a shield and a cloaking device. Ronon would want to put targeting platforms, Teyla would use it for hunting." He stuck his head out of the jumper. "Help me Lizzie-wan Kenobi, you're my only hope."
She pursed her lips, tapping her foot on the ground. "I get to hammer."
"Done."
"You won't make me watch another Star Wars movie until next week?"
"Fair enough," he shrugged. "We have Indiana Jones. That one's easy."
"One more thing?" she insisted as he hefted the bag full of equipment onto his shoulder.
"Oh?"
"Come closer," she suggested with a curl of her finger. "Right here."
Kissing him shut him right up.
trialia Adama/Roslin - fluffy if possible
"Damnit," Laura sighed and hurled the silky camisole to the floor.
The sound startled him from his book, without looking up Bill asked, "did it do something wrong?"
"There's a hole," she glared down at the item of clothing. "Most money I've ever paid for something no one really saw," Laura continued, poking at it with her foot as if it were something she was going to have to scrape up. "You see, I bought it on a rare shopping trip in the capital. The saleswoman was ever so lovely, and attentive and convincing and I'd just realized how much time the Secretary of Education spends flitting around the Twelve Colonies with only one suitcase and it really wasn't going to take up much space in my suitcase."
"And you liked the color?" he added, eyes still down in his book.
"I did," she sighed again and crossed her arms over her bra. "It's the soft kind of pink that would be white except it's being brushed by dawn, or the fading light of a fire, or an old photograph--"
Bill nodded, turning the page as he spoke, "and it's soft?"
"Incredibly so," Laura's glare faded into a mournful look. "Silk, real silk from te expensive stores feels like nothing else. Wears like nothing else, at least, until you only own three suits and your other camisole gives up the ghost only six months after the apocalypse."
"I could lend you one," his baritone voice rumbled over the crackling over another turned page.
"No, no," she sighed, lifting the forgiven piece of clothing from the floor. "Beige doesn't go with my blue suit and the neckline's all wrong."
"Where's the hole? Along the seam?"
"No it's down by the hem, right in the middle of the fabric," she said. Laura sank down on the edge of his rack, shaking her head. "There must have been a flaw. That or I've washed it so many times it just started to go out." She was staring at the silk, running it over her hands and feeling it catch on the rough skin. Her hands had used to be so smooth, once upon a time before the world came to an end.
Larger, rougher skinned, but infinitely gentle hands wrapped around hers. Taking the camisole from her hands, he studied it for a moment and then slipped it over her head. The hole fell on her stomach, just below the edge of her ribcage. The pale skin of her stomach shone through even in the weak light.
"I like it," Bill decided, caressing the spot with his thumb. "Adds contrast."
"It was the last nice thing," Laura sighed again, standing up and buttoning up her blouse over the traitorous camisole. "I'm being silly, aren't I?"
Bill set down the book he had just picked up and looked at her with a serene smile. "You should have seen the funeral I had for my favorite pair of socks."
Pondering this for a moment, she smiled warmly. Then Laura's eyebrows tightened and she threw the jacket she was just about to put on at him.
Catching it deftly, Bill set it down and picked up his book.
"All your socks look the same," she reminded him. "They're all exactly the same. You can't possibly have a favorite."
"Our first Colonial Day," he told her, turning the page of his book and continued to read. "I wore my black dress socks. I held you in my arms, danced with you and you smiled at me as if the weight of the world was off of our shoulders. When those socks wore out, I was felt like I'd lost a memory of something very precious to me."
"You remember your socks," she berated him, insinuating herself between him and the desk. "I kissed you out on the lawn and what you remembered was your socks."
"First kiss I've ever had that got down to my feet."
remember this meme? (yeah, you didn't right? It's from May, I'm a slacker of the HIGHEST order. (that would be 1, because slackers don't like to count very high))
Here's the fic!
irony_rocks wanted Morgana/Arthur, and their first kiss.
"It's a pagan festival," Morgana complained through the screen in her bedchamber. "I can't believe Uther's even letting the people celebrate it. He'll probably have them all hanged, or drawn and quartered or something equally barbaric."
"And Arthur?" she continued as she straightened her gown and shuddered in disgust. "He's a prat. A high and mighty prat who will mock me for the rest of my days because I taste of garlic or something else childish."
Emerging from the screen in a stunning blue gown, cut low to emphasize her breasts, she moved to the mirror and ran a brush through her heavy dark hair.
"He might even pretend to like it," her eyes narrowed at the thought. "He'll go around pretending to have changed his ways, spouting nonsense and poetry about how is every wish is to please me and cater to my every whim. Which he should. In fact, I'd even endorse it if I didnt' know that the whole thing will be a colossal joke to him the entire time and he'll be laughing inside when I finally submit and realize that I've fallen victim to a enormous prank."
"Then it'll be all the worse because I'll be exposed and vulnerable to whatever cruelty he inflicts upon me," she paused and made a face at the thought. "Barbarian. Ingrate. Lout. Louse. Great blond idiot who can't find his own sword with both hands and Merlin holding up a torch for lighting."
The hand on her shoulder startled her, but the voice behind her ear made her jump. "Beltane was sacred to my mother," Arthur reminded her gravely. "My father celebrates it to honor her memory and the very act of giving live that killed her."
Stunned silent, Morgana looked at the floor instead of into his eyes.
"If my father had remarried, he would lead the rites symbolically. Since he did not, that sacred and most awesome responsibility rests solely with you and I. If you're not available or do not wish to sully yourself with the pagan ritual, I'm sure a lady could be found in a neighboring kingdom."
Angered out of her embarrassment, Morgana's eyes came up to meet his, gleaming with cold disdain. "You'd like that wouldn't you? Some flouncy wisp of a girl with pale pink lips ready to give in to your charms and the stink of armor, horse sweat and damp leather--"
"There is only one set of lips I've been thinking about."
"Truly?" she spat, laughing bitterly. "Who's? Lady Eleanor? Lady Katherine? Surely not that little girl Isabel--"
At first, she wasn't sure what the feeling was that kept her from speaking. The pressure against her lips was both warm and firm, and she melted into it like wax wrapped around a wick. It only took a moment, their eyes met as the soft sound of their breath faded into the air.
"Just one," he promised before turning sharply and leaving her to her thoughts.
soapbox_solo38 something Sparky-ish about trees - green leaves in the spring, climbing them, tree houses
"Wrists," John repeated as Elizabeth stared at him, one eyebrow raised.
"Wrists?" she wondered as she started to smile. "How would that work?"
Smiling up at the great tree above them, John held up his arm, fingers wrapped around his wrist. "If the branch is smaller than your wrist, it probably can't hold your weight."
"And you followed this rule?" Elizabeth asked with suspicion, raising her own arms above her and noting that her wrists were much smaller than his.
He chuckled and grabbed her wrist instead of his own. His hands were warm and strong around her skin. "I probably followed the rule of your wrist, instead of mine."
Sighing happily, she shook her head. "You didn't know me."
"How do you know?" he asked playfully dragging himself to his feet. "I see it," he explained, reaching down an arm to her. "Up there, about six meters."
Elizabeth groaned as she stood, pretending the ground had a much greater hold over her than it did. "Really?"
"Yeah," he winked at her. "See the two big branches? How they fork? It's perfect. We just need to get the stuff from the jumper."
Following him with arms folded, she shook her head. "Stuff? You brought tree house 'stuff' in the jumper on our one lunch off together."
"Do you really want me to build a tree house with Rodney?" John yelled from inside the jumper. "It'll have a shield and a cloaking device. Ronon would want to put targeting platforms, Teyla would use it for hunting." He stuck his head out of the jumper. "Help me Lizzie-wan Kenobi, you're my only hope."
She pursed her lips, tapping her foot on the ground. "I get to hammer."
"Done."
"You won't make me watch another Star Wars movie until next week?"
"Fair enough," he shrugged. "We have Indiana Jones. That one's easy."
"One more thing?" she insisted as he hefted the bag full of equipment onto his shoulder.
"Oh?"
"Come closer," she suggested with a curl of her finger. "Right here."
Kissing him shut him right up.
trialia Adama/Roslin - fluffy if possible
"Damnit," Laura sighed and hurled the silky camisole to the floor.
The sound startled him from his book, without looking up Bill asked, "did it do something wrong?"
"There's a hole," she glared down at the item of clothing. "Most money I've ever paid for something no one really saw," Laura continued, poking at it with her foot as if it were something she was going to have to scrape up. "You see, I bought it on a rare shopping trip in the capital. The saleswoman was ever so lovely, and attentive and convincing and I'd just realized how much time the Secretary of Education spends flitting around the Twelve Colonies with only one suitcase and it really wasn't going to take up much space in my suitcase."
"And you liked the color?" he added, eyes still down in his book.
"I did," she sighed again and crossed her arms over her bra. "It's the soft kind of pink that would be white except it's being brushed by dawn, or the fading light of a fire, or an old photograph--"
Bill nodded, turning the page as he spoke, "and it's soft?"
"Incredibly so," Laura's glare faded into a mournful look. "Silk, real silk from te expensive stores feels like nothing else. Wears like nothing else, at least, until you only own three suits and your other camisole gives up the ghost only six months after the apocalypse."
"I could lend you one," his baritone voice rumbled over the crackling over another turned page.
"No, no," she sighed, lifting the forgiven piece of clothing from the floor. "Beige doesn't go with my blue suit and the neckline's all wrong."
"Where's the hole? Along the seam?"
"No it's down by the hem, right in the middle of the fabric," she said. Laura sank down on the edge of his rack, shaking her head. "There must have been a flaw. That or I've washed it so many times it just started to go out." She was staring at the silk, running it over her hands and feeling it catch on the rough skin. Her hands had used to be so smooth, once upon a time before the world came to an end.
Larger, rougher skinned, but infinitely gentle hands wrapped around hers. Taking the camisole from her hands, he studied it for a moment and then slipped it over her head. The hole fell on her stomach, just below the edge of her ribcage. The pale skin of her stomach shone through even in the weak light.
"I like it," Bill decided, caressing the spot with his thumb. "Adds contrast."
"It was the last nice thing," Laura sighed again, standing up and buttoning up her blouse over the traitorous camisole. "I'm being silly, aren't I?"
Bill set down the book he had just picked up and looked at her with a serene smile. "You should have seen the funeral I had for my favorite pair of socks."
Pondering this for a moment, she smiled warmly. Then Laura's eyebrows tightened and she threw the jacket she was just about to put on at him.
Catching it deftly, Bill set it down and picked up his book.
"All your socks look the same," she reminded him. "They're all exactly the same. You can't possibly have a favorite."
"Our first Colonial Day," he told her, turning the page of his book and continued to read. "I wore my black dress socks. I held you in my arms, danced with you and you smiled at me as if the weight of the world was off of our shoulders. When those socks wore out, I was felt like I'd lost a memory of something very precious to me."
"You remember your socks," she berated him, insinuating herself between him and the desk. "I kissed you out on the lawn and what you remembered was your socks."
"First kiss I've ever had that got down to my feet."