you don't know what to do? i know what to do ... later.
I hate my ISP sort of a lot right now. Apparently we 'exceeded the peak hour data cap' (which, do not even get me STARTED, and also? I just doubled that fucker a month ago and have been downloading LESS since, I give. the fuck. up.) which apparently also means though i SET and LEFT the computer on ALL BLOODY NIGHT to download letters from pegasus, it told me it had completed all 349mb of the download... and then it turns out the file is only six minutes long (ie, the computer lied that the download was completed when it wasn't - it takes a notion to do this quite often and few things piss me off more). Not. Happy. i wanna see. especially since i can't watch bsg yet and i need some shiny new sf damnit and there is nothing but nothing airing on the telly here.
So, while I'm waiting for the measley three tabs I've opened to try to load, I will try and do the drabbles from the weekend for people.
*`*
The Lissie: B/E. Pleaseee. It's been so long since our bracketted days. [this was very difficult without such a talented and clever partner to bounce off. missyou.]
gestalt
His voice is scratchy, more overuse than disuse (never disuse, not his Bono (barring catastrophe, that is, of course, and there's a duck of the head, an instinctive warding-off of that ill-thought)) but the vivid glee translates easily all the same with his sweeping gestures, broad hands talking even more animatedly as if to make up for it. He stills for a brief second as Edge touches a finger lightly to his forearm, silent communication an intimacy that veers as close as they dare in this moment to a more traditional kiss. There'll be things for mouths to do later.
*`*
Chris: F/K, cabin, blizzard. [you get a double because i couldn't get anything otherwise. no 'fence to anyone else.]
all that's holy and some that's not
If Ray were still in the way of going to Church every Sunday, like his mom wanted (and he's not, and he ain't gonna be, leastaways not until they have some slightly more sensible things to say about how he chooses to live his life), anyway, if he were? He'd be down on his knees bright sharp and early next week to say a hearty Thank You Lord for the fact they'd got the last of the insulation nailed in - the roof, too - and, most importantly, the firewood in before the blizzard came swooping down out of the Arctic at them. It's cold enough in the cabin, warming up now, though, which puts a hectic flush hovering atop his cheekbones as he burrows into the blankets, watching Fraser. Gotta be ten times colder and twice as shiver-through-your-timbers (and he'd checked with Fraser, so take that, Frannie, he was right after all) out there. He definitely doesn't envy those musk ox, nope, not one bit. He can still say a silent prayer now, though, hearing snow whisper across the roof and hiss at the window. He'll save getting on his knees til Fraser's done messing with that fire, though.
*`*
For Amy: I would beg for some lovely baby A/E
unspoken
The nudge of shoulder to shoulder is perfectly companiable, warm in the chilling autumn afternoon, even if the expression - half-hidden, because they're both too young to be able to do more than dissemble badly when it comes to this - is not quite so easy. "You've got no idea what you're talking about, do you, Adam?" Another friendly prod, elbow to the ribs this time, changing the subject, though none but them would ever know it. "Gig this, and fret that. You've no more clue than the rest of us." Edge licks his lips, almost (unwillingly) nervously, tasting yesterday.
*`*
For Meg (and, actually, Kate): WW, pairing of your choice [placeholder. i'll aim for another when i've actually seen some, too, okay?]
they signed the declaration of independence here.
It's hot for the east coast in May, surprisingly so. The sun refuses to hide, the people milling about doing their best to court sunstroke, dehydration or both. With security personnel they clutter up the parking lot, waiting to get inside, wearing their politics on their t-shirts. There's some men they've come to see. A shiny silver pin glints on a backpack, glare washing out the top line until all that can be read is the legend "for President". She's tired, worn down. And her friend crouches in the scrap of shade and explains, "you start by fixing a roof."
*`*
last and certainly not least, for Kat: McShep. NOW, BITCH. [she capslocks out of love. and because i maybe a little bit was instrumental in making her read stuff she mightn't normally. MWAH. er, this one is more like a ficlet (strictly speaking, it's a triplequadruple drabble, or, "cheating", because i'm weak and extremely bad at these voices and had NO other ideas. heh.]
uniformity of numbers
Rodney's favourite thing about the BDUs is not the way they hang off Sheppard's shoulders, or the far-too-inviting glimpse of lower back they give when the Major sits back on his heels to examine something close to the ground, leaning in for a better view as his trousers slide down and his shirt rides up. Frankly, he - and anyone else on Atlantis who's interested - can see Major Sheppard's boxers any time they care to, as the man is not exactly known for his cover-up approach to dressing. It's not even way those same trousers don't crease, even when they're caught up tight around a thigh holster. It's the flame retardant cloth. Admittedly, it's not as sophisticated as it could be (and will be, if he has his way, and SGC are damned well going to listen to him, besides which, the botanists seem to have found some truly interesting ancient variants on flaxes which promise some interesting results, and isn't that a first for that bevy of intellectual lightweights), but since 'horrible fiery death' is pretty much right up there with drowning (and, when you think of it a certain way, he's done that twice already so probably he's due a different elemental imminent doom any day now as it is) on Rodney McKay's Top Ten Worst Ways to Kick It, he's pretty grateful for that extra ounce of protection. The puddle jumpers are already equipped with internal fire extinguishers (he and Zelenka checked), so he’s covered there, at least.
Rodney's least favourite part of the Atlantis Expeditionary Uniforms, however, is definitely the boots. Not only do they lack proper heel and arch support, not only do they take forever to break in (and God and all His Master Sergeants save you if you lose them, wreck them or (on one notable occasion) trade them for food), but they take forever to lace on and off. In his darker moments, trousers caught around his knees and hopping undignifiedly to save himself from falling and cracking his exceedingly valuable skull, Rodney wonders why they even bother with Don't Ask, Don't Tell when they have Don't Even Think You'll Be Getting Naked Anytime Soon, Har-de-har-har combat boots. When he grumbles as much aloud, John actually does stumble over his own laces laughing. It's not the most poetic vengeance, but it'll do. Besides, that lands him conveniently on the bed, anyway.
Liz-let, i'm real sorry but I'm gonna have to get to yours later... i was intending to go to bed early and it's SO not happening. heh.
**For those of you who've developed a pain in their childhood memories lately, fear not. There is no actual Sesame St fic in there. I'm just sayin', well, today's post was brought to you by the letter R and the number 16. Hopefully. :D
So, while I'm waiting for the measley three tabs I've opened to try to load, I will try and do the drabbles from the weekend for people.
*`*
The Lissie: B/E. Pleaseee. It's been so long since our bracketted days. [this was very difficult without such a talented and clever partner to bounce off. missyou.]
gestalt
His voice is scratchy, more overuse than disuse (never disuse, not his Bono (barring catastrophe, that is, of course, and there's a duck of the head, an instinctive warding-off of that ill-thought)) but the vivid glee translates easily all the same with his sweeping gestures, broad hands talking even more animatedly as if to make up for it. He stills for a brief second as Edge touches a finger lightly to his forearm, silent communication an intimacy that veers as close as they dare in this moment to a more traditional kiss. There'll be things for mouths to do later.
*`*
Chris: F/K, cabin, blizzard. [you get a double because i couldn't get anything otherwise. no 'fence to anyone else.]
all that's holy and some that's not
If Ray were still in the way of going to Church every Sunday, like his mom wanted (and he's not, and he ain't gonna be, leastaways not until they have some slightly more sensible things to say about how he chooses to live his life), anyway, if he were? He'd be down on his knees bright sharp and early next week to say a hearty Thank You Lord for the fact they'd got the last of the insulation nailed in - the roof, too - and, most importantly, the firewood in before the blizzard came swooping down out of the Arctic at them. It's cold enough in the cabin, warming up now, though, which puts a hectic flush hovering atop his cheekbones as he burrows into the blankets, watching Fraser. Gotta be ten times colder and twice as shiver-through-your-timbers (and he'd checked with Fraser, so take that, Frannie, he was right after all) out there. He definitely doesn't envy those musk ox, nope, not one bit. He can still say a silent prayer now, though, hearing snow whisper across the roof and hiss at the window. He'll save getting on his knees til Fraser's done messing with that fire, though.
*`*
For Amy: I would beg for some lovely baby A/E
unspoken
The nudge of shoulder to shoulder is perfectly companiable, warm in the chilling autumn afternoon, even if the expression - half-hidden, because they're both too young to be able to do more than dissemble badly when it comes to this - is not quite so easy. "You've got no idea what you're talking about, do you, Adam?" Another friendly prod, elbow to the ribs this time, changing the subject, though none but them would ever know it. "Gig this, and fret that. You've no more clue than the rest of us." Edge licks his lips, almost (unwillingly) nervously, tasting yesterday.
*`*
For Meg (and, actually, Kate): WW, pairing of your choice [placeholder. i'll aim for another when i've actually seen some, too, okay?]
they signed the declaration of independence here.
It's hot for the east coast in May, surprisingly so. The sun refuses to hide, the people milling about doing their best to court sunstroke, dehydration or both. With security personnel they clutter up the parking lot, waiting to get inside, wearing their politics on their t-shirts. There's some men they've come to see. A shiny silver pin glints on a backpack, glare washing out the top line until all that can be read is the legend "for President". She's tired, worn down. And her friend crouches in the scrap of shade and explains, "you start by fixing a roof."
*`*
last and certainly not least, for Kat: McShep. NOW, BITCH. [she capslocks out of love. and because i maybe a little bit was instrumental in making her read stuff she mightn't normally. MWAH. er, this one is more like a ficlet (strictly speaking, it's a triplequadruple drabble, or, "cheating", because i'm weak and extremely bad at these voices and had NO other ideas. heh.]
uniformity of numbers
Rodney's favourite thing about the BDUs is not the way they hang off Sheppard's shoulders, or the far-too-inviting glimpse of lower back they give when the Major sits back on his heels to examine something close to the ground, leaning in for a better view as his trousers slide down and his shirt rides up. Frankly, he - and anyone else on Atlantis who's interested - can see Major Sheppard's boxers any time they care to, as the man is not exactly known for his cover-up approach to dressing. It's not even way those same trousers don't crease, even when they're caught up tight around a thigh holster. It's the flame retardant cloth. Admittedly, it's not as sophisticated as it could be (and will be, if he has his way, and SGC are damned well going to listen to him, besides which, the botanists seem to have found some truly interesting ancient variants on flaxes which promise some interesting results, and isn't that a first for that bevy of intellectual lightweights), but since 'horrible fiery death' is pretty much right up there with drowning (and, when you think of it a certain way, he's done that twice already so probably he's due a different elemental imminent doom any day now as it is) on Rodney McKay's Top Ten Worst Ways to Kick It, he's pretty grateful for that extra ounce of protection. The puddle jumpers are already equipped with internal fire extinguishers (he and Zelenka checked), so he’s covered there, at least.
Rodney's least favourite part of the Atlantis Expeditionary Uniforms, however, is definitely the boots. Not only do they lack proper heel and arch support, not only do they take forever to break in (and God and all His Master Sergeants save you if you lose them, wreck them or (on one notable occasion) trade them for food), but they take forever to lace on and off. In his darker moments, trousers caught around his knees and hopping undignifiedly to save himself from falling and cracking his exceedingly valuable skull, Rodney wonders why they even bother with Don't Ask, Don't Tell when they have Don't Even Think You'll Be Getting Naked Anytime Soon, Har-de-har-har combat boots. When he grumbles as much aloud, John actually does stumble over his own laces laughing. It's not the most poetic vengeance, but it'll do. Besides, that lands him conveniently on the bed, anyway.
Liz-let, i'm real sorry but I'm gonna have to get to yours later... i was intending to go to bed early and it's SO not happening. heh.
**For those of you who've developed a pain in their childhood memories lately, fear not. There is no actual Sesame St fic in there. I'm just sayin', well, today's post was brought to you by the letter R and the number 16. Hopefully. :D