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Welcome to my El Jay Dreamwidth.

My website is where (very nearly all) my fiction lives.

Below are drabbles (stories of 100 words exactly), snippets (100-1000 words) and commentfic (things written for fun in comments) what have not been archived anywhere else (yet).

Star Trek (2009)

Originally posted at Journey to Drabble:

Prompt: McCoy, fatherhood

"You're where?" Joanna's eyes had grown enormous.

Leonard leaned closer to the terminal to whisper almost conspiratorially "In space."

"Where in space?"

"Really far away."

"How far away?"

"You know how long it takes to get to Atlanta in the flyer from your Neela's house in Adelaide?"

She nodded solemnly, dark curls bobbing. It scared him how quick she was growing. She was five now--but before he knew it, she'd be twenty five and he'd be a creaky old bastard, demanding grandchildren. He wasn't sure he was ready for any of that yet.

"It's gonna take us four whole days to get where we're going. And that's with us going so fast, you wouldn't even be able to see us."



"I don't want you to be far away, daddy."

McCoy swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. "I know, baby."

Prompt: Kirk/Gaila, sweet little lies

Everyone knows about Orion girls.

It's the stuff of legend. Boys too young to shave across the length and breadth of the Galaxy have awakened from dreams of expanses of green skin beneath their hands to find themselves alone, with laundry to do, since the first deep-space explorers came back with tales of lithe, passionate alien slave-girls.

Jim Kirk couldn't quite believe it when the new cadet class arrived from Orientation, and beneath a mop of fire-red curls an Orion girl smiled at him, batting her eyes from across the canteen. He'd choked on his lunch, and Leonard had thumped him hard on the back three times, asking if he needed the Heimlich or just a cold shower.

It didn't take much to find a place at her table, sliding his moulded plastic tray across the tan Formica as suavely as he could--until the momentum sent his apple rolling across the table onto the floor.

As she'd bent down to retrieve it, he'd got a glimpse of how flexible she was--how all those curves were put together to make up a whole that was more than the sum of their parts and he'd damn near forgot his own name.

Everyone knows, but Jim gains first-hand knowledge. And it's more than carnal, and a lifetime of experience packed into twenty minutes in a supply closet and he'll have bruises on the small of his back from where a metal shelf proved just sturdy enough. And he tells her that if he's not careful he could really fall for her.

"Really?" she says right before he cracks his head hard enough to see stars as she does this thing that he's pretty sure isn't even legal on at least 16 Federation member worlds with the tip of her tongue. "That is so weird."

"You mean you don't love me too?" he asks, crushed, and she rolls her eyes.

Everyone knows about Orion girls.

And Orion girls all know about Jim Kirk.

Prompt: Spock Prime and Sarek, upon this rock

Sarek barely registers the doorchime. Deep in meditation, it registers almost a full minute later. Extinguishing the flame, he rises slowly, padding barefoot across the floor of the Academy guest quarters.

As the door slides open, he finds an elder, perhaps seventy years his senior. His clothing is not of Vulcan, thought it is austere and well-made.

"Peace, and long life," the stranger says in a voice that his familiar.

"Live long and prosper," Sarek says by rote, his right hand making the salute almost without conscious thought. He steps aside, to allow the elder to enter.

"I am sorry--I believe we have not met."

"We have met. Many times."

"That is quite impossible. I have no recollection of you."

"Do you remember when your son first travelled into the Forge, for his ordeal?"

"Selek?" Sarek is confused. The young vulcan kinsman who had saved the life of his and Amanda's only son had been twenty years his junior. And bears little resemblance to the man before him.

"Yes. And no." The elder shows a disturbing lack of restraint as one corner his mouth lifted in a sad smile. Sarek wondered if he suffered from Bendii syndrome, to openly display so much on his heavily lined face.

"I grieve with thee," he finally said, laying his hand upon Sarek's.

With that touch, Sarek understands.

And two men--father and son, elder and junior--began to plan the future of their people, bound by their love of the same human schoolteacher, lost to them both before her time.

Prompt: Uhura, boundaries

Vulcans are touch telepaths.

Every Federation schoolkid knows this. They're taught it with their ABCs, 123s, and how to share milk and cookies after recess. Vulcans are touch telepaths, and you can't play with them like you do the other boys.

Uhura takes great care not to automatically offer her hand when they are introduced by the head of the linguistics department, but keeps her hands clasped loosely behind her back, inclining her head slightly instead.

She has attended his lecture courses for several weeks, but hasn't (yet) got up the courage to attend his office hours. It's not that she does not have questions. It's that she is too self-conscious, sure she will make some horrifying social gaffe and he'll look at her like something he's scraped off his shoe, and that will be that.

So she is surprised when, after the first chorale recital of the new term, he separates himself from the crowd in the company of an older woman in Vulcan-style robes. Her grey hair is elaborately coifed, and hides both the tips of her ears and the sweep of her brows, but she is clearly human as her smile is warm, and her dark eyes lively with humour. What's more, Spock's arm is tucked in hers, and he protects her from being buffeted by the crowd by his height and the broadness of his shoulders.

"Cadet Uhura, my son tells me your sense of perfect pitch has proved invaluable in in-class exercises."

Her eyes widen, as she glances between them, blinking rapidly.

"He has?" she says without thinking. "I mean... thank you, sir."

She is not the only one flustered, and she realises suddenly that his mother must have pulled him down towards the risers from the seating area. A slow green flush is creeping up his neck, and it cannot be from heat as the amphitheatre is cool by human standards--and probably cold by Vulcan.

"It is a simple statement of fact. I was not surprised to learn you performed, as I have noted on more than one occasion your ability to reproduce phonemes with a degree of accuracy that far surpasses most of the students who attend my lectures. A sense of perfect pitch is advantageous for both linguists, and singers."

"What he means to say is, your solo was lovely," she says, patting his hand affectionately.

"Thank you..." Mrs Sarek? What do you call the mother of one of your professors, and the wife of Vulcan's Ambassador to Earth? Uhura finally settles on "...Ma'am."

They drift away, swallowed by the crowd, and Nyota is once again surrounded by the giddy, smiling members of the chorale society, still high from the performance and the thunderous applause of the crowd.

Uhura was always careful never to touch him. Afraid he would find her human emotions distasteful, jarring.

Seeing him here with his mother, clearly as affectionate and doting as a Vulcan--half-Vulcan--could possibly be, Nyota realises maybe she is being too cautious.

Prompt: Uhura, Gaila, house rules

It was Gaila who started "The Rules".

"No singing in the shower until at least 07:00," she'd wailed from beneath her pillow, pulling her standard Academy issue red coverlet up so green toes poked out the other end of the bed.

"No leaving three days worth of clothes on the floor," Nyota declared as she kicked her way through a pile of discarded laundry.

"No coffee after 21:00," Nyota muttered as she yawned and marked her place in her textbook and asked the computer to lower the lights, while Gaila stayed at her desk, tapping her stylus against the glass mug.

"No blasting 22nd century goth-industrial techno. Ever."

"No using my comm for phone-sex with that transporter chief on Mercury Dry-dock."

"No stealing my stash of Belgian dark chocolate because it's raining and your don't want to mess up your hair walking over to the commissary."

"No yoga before dawn when I've been working Gamma shift."

"No creepy chorale ensemble guys who steal my fuck-me shoes."

"No creepy engineering students who steal my panties from the laundry basket."

"No hogging the comm during the Intergalactic Cup."

"No borrowing my favourite earrings, and losing them in a the back of a certain someone's flitter."

"No hitting on my brother."

"No hitting on my cousin."

"No hitting on me when you've had too many Cardassian Sunrises."

"No more bringing guys back to the room," Nyota said, dumping her sheets into the 'fresher, "and then having sex in my bed."

Yet somehow, even with The Rules firmly established after two and a half years, Jim Kirk hiding under her bed didn't come as a surprise.

"And no more Iowa farmboys," Nyota tried, waving an accusatory finger at Gaila, who only laughed and shrugged.

"Some rules were made to be broken."

Prompt: Uhura, discipline

Never let it be said that Nyota Uhura doesn't know how to have fun.

It's just that her idea of a good time rarely involves seedy spaceport bars on the edge of nowhere, where 90% of the clientele are on leave from deep-space missions and have one of two possible objectives: "get hammered" or "get hammered, and get laid".

Which is why, when the Enterprise pulls into Starbase 47, she elects to stay behind and the weekly poker game--having lost most of its participants to Shore Leave--turns into Uhura, Chapel, Gaila, Rand, Colt, and Dehner splitting two bottles of Scotty's Engine Room Hootch in the nearly deserted rec room on Deck 2.

By the wee small hours of the morning, Uhura has lost her favourite earrings to Christine, her Andorian silk shawl to Gaila, and a week's pay to Dehner.

"Seriously, best poker face ever," Uhura says slightly too loudly as Gaila helps her back to her quarters so she can catch a few hours sleep before Alpha shift. "We gotta get her to play the captain. She'd so totally kick his ass."

"Uh-huh," Gaila says, as Uhura has now made this observation multiple times. Once in the rec room, once in the sanitary cubical on Deck 4, and twice in the 'lift, having apparently forgot between Deck 4 and Dec 11.

"Oh good, you're here," Gaila says as the doors to Uhura's quarters swooosh open and she finds Commander Spock sitting placidly at the desk with a stack of padds. "You can take over."

"Spock, did you know Liz Dehner totally kicks ass at poker?" Nyota says as she winds her arms around his neck. "It's not just that whole Ice Queen thing, because actually, she really loosens up once you get her drinking."

"You are intoxicated," Spock observes as she begins swaying to only music she can hear.

"Just a little." Spock carefully walks her backwards to her bunk, and she sits down as the back of her calves hit the matters. "I wanna see her play Jim. Jim doesn't get his ass kicked nearly often enough."

"I routinely play chess with the captain, and his ratio of games won to games lost or abandoned would seem to contradict that statement." Spock unzips her boots, setting them in the storage cubicle built into the base of the bedframe.

"By a woman. Jim doesn't get his ass handed to him by women nearly often enough. Even Janice gives him a free pass on hitting on her, despite fraternisation regs."

As at that moment Spock was helping her out of her uniform tunic, he raised a brow.

"Considering our positions, I am not certain citing regulations regarding fraternisation boosts the effectiveness of your arguments."

"And okay, it's not just women," Uhura continues as he retrieves from the hook on the wall of the sanitary the oversized Starfleet Academy Chorale Ensemble Does it in 3/4 Time tee-shirt she usually elected to sleep in. "Chris says McCoy lets him get away with bloody murder, whenever he's down in Medical. And poor little Chekov just worships the ground he walks on."

She tugs the tee-shirt over her head, and it take two tries to get her arms through the correct openings before he carefully turns the shirt around so she would not strangle herself trying. "You and Hikaru are the only ones who give him shit. And me. But I always have. Did I tell you he tried to pick me up in a bar in Iowa?"

"On several occasions."

"What he needs is for people to stop... To not fall for any of his bullshit. That what Jim needs. I bet he's picking some Dilithium miner or cocktail waitress or commodore's daughter up in a bar right now. When he's supposed to be setting an example. You know, for kids like Chekov. Of how... not to be that guy."

"You will be gratified to know that the Captain showed great discipline and retired to his quarters after his shift ended, rather than joining Doctor McCoy and Mister Sulu on Starbase 157."

"Really?" Her smile is wide, the corners of her eyes crinkle. "Good for Jim!"

She reaches up and kisses him, and while he finds the odour of Mr Scott's illicit alcohol offensive, the slide of her tongue against the roof of his mouth does much to offset the discomfort.

"You know what?" she says as she begins divesting him of his uniform tunic.

"I do not."

"I think I'm hammered and I want to get laid."

Prompt: Pike/Number One, mission accomplished

"Okay, here's what's gonna happen," Phil Boyce said as the hypo hissed against his neck. "These little guys are going to start repairing the nerve damage at the cellular level. You might feel a little funny."

"That a technical term, Doc? Funny?"

"Yeah, smart-ass. Funny. The nanites work faster than any dermal regenerator. So first you'll get—"

"Shit!" He couldn't stop the word from escaping as sensation flooded his brain, making him squirm on the biobed.

"Pins and needles?"

"Jesus, Phil!"

"Don't be such a baby. Does it hurt?"

"Not... exactly..." Chris grit his teeth against the sensation the entire lower half of his body was on fire. "It's like bugs crawling all over me."

"Just think—in days gone by, people actually paid to take drugs that would simulate the experience you're now getting for free."

"You're a sadistic bastard."

"Nope, I'm a doctor. You can tell, because I'm wearing this labcoat." He fingered the silver Life Sciences pin affixed to his lapel. "I can't give you anything—not without blocking the nanites ability to do their job. Their heal rate is a hundred times faster than poly three. But blockers—even synthetic ones, will impair the neural interface. So you're gonna have to ride it out. Look at the bright side—you're getting more sensation back than you've had in weeks, right?"

"Christ. Yeah. And you think this'll work?"

"No, I shot you full of tiny robots on a whim. Now wipe the drool off your chin and put on a happy face. You've got a visitor."


Boyce stepped aside, revealing a tall dark-haired woman in command gold, captain's stripes on her sleeves.

"What are you doing here?"

"Good to see you too, Chris."

"I thought Yorktown was half-way to the Neutral Zone?"

"Last minute upgrades to our warp core intermix control computers. It seems the Enterprise chief engineer has very particular ideas which are spreading through the S.C.E.. Cait shouted down Nogura until he gave us an extra week in the Yards so she can finish the upgrades." She pulled a metal chair closer to his biobed, and sank down gracefully, one long black clad leg crossed over the other. "Why didn't you tell me today was the day?"

"I didn't want you to be disappointed, if it didn't work."

"Respectfully, Admiral," she somehow made his title sound downright dirty, "You're an idiot."

"So they tell me." Fire lanced through his legs, and he shifted on the bed. Her hand shot out to grip his as his back arched involuntarily.

"Do you need Phil?"

"No—no, it's fine. It's just... uncomfortable." He kept hold of her hand. "Distract me."

She raised a brow, and he almost choked on a laugh.

"It's amazing to me how that steel-trap mind of yours can go straight to the gutter at the slightest provocation."

She leaned closer, until her lips brushed his ear.

"I wouldn't exactly call it 'slight'."

"You know what I'm going to do, if this works?" he said softly, reaching up to cup her cheek.

Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, and he could feel her cheek hot beneath his hand.

"I'm taking you out dancing."

She laughed. "Really? Dancing?"


"You mean like a date."

"I mean exactly like a date. The kind where I show up with flowers, and you wear something slinky, and we paint the town red. Not go to bed 'til dawn. The whole nine yards."

"I don't know if I have anything slinky."

"Sure you do. The blue number, with the low-cut back that you wore at Reed's wedding reception."

"Chris, that was seven years ago. How do you remember that dress?"

"It was a very memorable dress," he assured her. "I couldn't take my eyes off you."

"You never danced with me, at Reed's wedding reception," she pointed out.

"Yeah, well, as we've established, I wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. But I plan on making up for lost time."

"And if this doesn't work?" she whispered, her thumb stroking the back of his hand rhythmically.

"You wear the dress anyway. And I still show up with flowers."

She leaned down and kissed him long and deep, to hell with Phil and whoever else might be watching.

"It's a date."


Originally posted at Porn Battle #7

Pigtails (prompt: remember)

In the bar after work her first day, Gibbs had asked Burley what the new ballistics expert's pigtails made him think of.

"Handles," Stan had said without hesitation, and Gibbs hadn't actually needed to slap Burley him upside the head. Realising what he's just said, and to whom, Stan had turned a shade of crimson Gibbs hadn't seen before or since. The half-empty pitcher of beer on the table hadn't been any excuse, but Gibbs let it slide, pretending he hadn't understood exactly what Stan meant.

But the image had burned into his brain in an instant, and nine birthday dinners later it hadn't gone away. It was still the dirty little thought he had alone in the dark, waking up in the wee hours inside the shell of his boat, his mouth sour with the after-effects of too much Jack, and the taste of sawdust in the back of his throat.

Even when Hollis was encroaching on his half of the bed while the birds sang outside and he woke up hard, it's not the woman ten feet away he thought of as he wrapped his hand around his cock while the bathroom mirror clouded with steam. He thinks of red, red lips, and comes all over his hand, breathing in the steam with short, panting breaths.

It's been ten years, and sometimes when he saunters into her lab, Caf-Pow in hand, and she grins at him impishly, it's still the first thing he thinks of. Even when he's pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek, behind his eyes for just a flash of a second, she's on her knees.

It's dirty, and it's wrong, and he should just cut that shit out, because it's Abby for Christ's sake. But Gibbs has a sneaking suspicion Abby hasn't changed her hairstyle in the past decade precisely because somehow, in that spooky kooky way of hers, she knows.

Which is why, every now and then, when he reaches out to tug on a pigtail and she smiles back at him not-so-chastely, he wonders how wrong it would actually be.

Originally posted at Porn Battle #7

Live Wire (prompt: energy)

There's a trap Gibbs refuses to fall into. It's too easy to think of her as young and innocent--even with the bawdy reminisces of fetish-loving boytoys and all-night raves. She's got a child's sense of wonder, but it's shining brightly in grown woman's body, with a grown woman's appetites, and the short skirts and the hair in plaits isn't about holding onto her youth.

Abby fizzes like a Fourth of July sparkler.

And when all the sparks have been thrown off, there's a red coal that smokes and can burn you far worse than the bright lights ever could and that's what he thinks of as he presses her back against the curved rib of an unfinished boat with the single bulb hanging from his basement ceiling throwing off harsh shadows. Her laughter against his neck is whiskey-soaked and not a little girl's laugh. Her long fingers hook through the beltloops of his rumpled grey slacks and pull his hips flush with hers and all her red lipstick is gone now. Probably on his neck and collar and there's a smudge on his thumb that she sucks clean, her tongue swirling around the digit before she let's his hand drift down to skim her collarbone.

Her shoulders are round beneath his palms. She thrums like a live wire along the length of him, grinding against him because she knows what she wants and she'll get it if she's not careful. And they're not. Caution's in the rear-view, moving away at speed and he doesn't give a damn anymore. He tastes bourbon on her tongue, and a laugh catches in her throat as he nudges her knees apart and grips her hips, lifting her so she's on her toes. Even with the boots. And he'll leave marks if he's not careful, and she likes that, so he just might.

She leaves marks of her own. But that's alright too.

Originally posted at Porn Battle #7

Rule 12 (prompt: dynamics)

McGee can't quite figure out why Rule 12 doesn't/didn't/wouldn't/hasn't applied to him and Abby.

At first he thought it was because, when they started seeing each other, he was still stationed out at Norfolk. He wasn't a part of the team yet, so Gibbs' Rules hadn't applied to him. Then he found out from Tony that as far as Gibbs was concerned, The Rules applied to everyone--whether they were on his team, or not.

Then he thought it was because Abby hadn't told Gibbs that they were actually officially dating. That had gone right out the window when Gibbs had asked him if he'd slept in the coffin, and Abby had cheerfully pointed out he'd done more than just sleep in the coffin. The doors of the lift had closed before he could have died of embarrassment right there in the squadroom, but later, over cheese fries and Caf-Pows in the canteen, the thought had struck him...

a) Gibbs had known about the coffin. Which implied he had been to Abby's place.

b) Gibbs was perfectly comfortable discussing Abby's sex life with her and her current partner.

c) Rule 12 may not in fact apply to Abby.

d) if Rule 12 did not apply to Abby, then it was conceivable that the reason Gibbs knew about the coffin was because Gibbs, too, had done more than sleep in the coffin.

This promptly broke McGee's brain, and he tried desperately to overwrite that sector with something harmless like the Numa Numa song, before it scarred him for life.

Originally posted for More Joy Day

Rule 27

Abby was sitting in front of her monitor when Gibbs entered, Caf-Pow in hand.

It was after midnight on a Friday, and the building was nearly empty. DiNozzo and Ziva had gone home, even Ducky and Palmer had left Autopsy. But music still blared out of the speakers in Abby's Lab.

"What have you got for me, Abbs?"

She twisted on her chair, twirling the end of one pigtail around her finger. "Major Mass Spec found traces of amorphous silicon dioxide, and I'm running it against the soil samples from the area where the body was found. That'll tell us if she was killed there, or just dumped."

"DiNozzo's still checking out the girlfriend's alibi. It can wait til morning. Why don't you head home?"

"I have my futon." She gestured vaguely towards the ballistics lab on the other side of the glass.

Gibbs put a finger to her lips, and pointedly stared down at her bare feet beneath her buttoned-up labcoat. Her toenails were painted with dark red varnish, and she wiggled her toes experimentally.

"Rule 27, Abbs," he said with a smile as he pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"Go home, McGee," he called over his shoulder as he walked out of the lab, hands in his pockets.

Abby pressed both hands to her mouth, stifling giggles. After 15 Mississippi's, the length of time it took Gibbs to get from the door of the lab to the elevator, Tim popped up behind the glass. His hair was sticking up from pulling on his tee-shirt over his head, and his shirt was mis-buttoned.

"How did he know I was in here?"

"He's Gibbs." Abby shrugged, and skipped over to him. Her red plaid trousers were in a pile on top her boots, the chains and buckles clinking against each other as she reached down into the pile to pull out her white cotton socks.

"What's Rule 27?" McGee asked as she waved happy warm feet at him.

"No sex in the lab."

Tim thought about that for a minute, two questions obviously warring with one another. In the end, he went with the one least likely to get him headslapped.

"What about mould sex?" he finally asked.

The Middleman

The Post-Plagiarist Conflagration

"Would you like to do the honours?" Lacey asked as she handed Wendy her lighter.

Pip's paintings were stacked haphazardly in the centre of the roof, the strong smell of gasoline wafting in the breeze, the entire scene illuminated by VIPER sign.

"I dunno, Lace. Canvas is expensive. I could probably paint over--"

"Nuh-uh. No way. This will be cathartic, in a I-can't-believe-that-scuzzball-ripped-me-off-and-then-tried-to-blackmail-me-by-threatening-to-kick-my-family-out-of-his-father's-building-and-I-can't-set-him-on-fire-so-this-is-the-next-best-thing-kind of way."

"Lacey's right, Wendy Watson," Noser said, laying a hand on her shoulder. "He took you for everything that you had."

"And kicked you out on your own," Lacey added.

"Am I happy? Am I satisfied?"

"There are plenty of ways that you can hurt a man and bring him to the ground," came a voice from the doorway.

"Yo, Wendy's Boss."

"Hello, Mr Noser. Lacey." The Middleman favoured Wendy's roommate with a warm smile. "I thought I might find you up here, Dubby."


"I deduced it was most likely you had removed the offending copies of your original artwork from the gallery's dumpster and would want to destroy them. I caught the distinctive smell of kerosene, mixed with Brut and tempera and just a hit of Pip's hair gel as I came into the hallway."

"So you came to stop us?"

"Hounds of Lucifer, no!" He held out a bag of marshmallows, and three Hershey bars. "I just thought... well, if you didn't mind..."

Wendy rolled her eyes. "Yes, you can roast marshmallows over the burning remains of Pip's copies of my work."

"Excellent!" The Middleman rubbed his hands together, his deep soulful eyes alight with childlike glee. "Can I ask you something?"

Wendy's eyes narrowed. "That... you know... thing from the gallery opening worn off?" she whispered, so Lacey and Noser couldn't hear. However, Lacey and Noser were busy getting marshmallows impaled on the end of the barbecue forks the Middleman had thoughtfully thought to provide along with the makings for s'mores.

"The effects are temporary, I assure you."

"Sure. Fire away."

"What did you paint, before you joined--"

Wendy coughed.

"--The Jolly Fats Weehawkin Temp Agency in the pursuit of emotionally satisfying short-term employment?"

She looked down at the lighter still clutched in her fingers. "Asian dudes in aeroplanes."


She flicked open the DC3 Zippo, and bent down to hold it to the corner of the gun-toting gorilla copy. The entire stack went up in flames, and Wendy held her hands out to warm them in the fire's glow.

"Yeah. I like my new period better."

Sarah Connor Chronicles


Derek wasn't sure what triggered it, but it was like a switch got flipped inside his head. One minute he was wrestling with Sarah for the last cold beer, and the next his was unable to focus on anything but the curve of her hip beneath his hand.

He let her go, made some joke, and went outside. The night air in the desert was cool, and the chains of the swings were creaking in the breeze.

He stared down at his hands, trying to remember the last time he'd touched a woman for the sake of just feeling skin on skin.

He ached with want, and had no intention of having. But the dull ache, the itch to touch and feel was sweet in and of itself. He hadn't in so long, it was like he'd forgot how to be human. And he knew that the memory of that bit of skin above her belt and below the frayed hem of her tee-shirt would end up like that damn picture Kyle had kept in his pocket if he wasn't careful. So much could and would and couldn't happen.

He felt eyes boring into his back, and turned to see the machine watching him from the kitchen window. He could hear voices through the screen door--Sarah telling John to get off the internet and go to bed. School night.

Simple Mom-stuff. From a woman who had taught her son how to clean and load guns along with his A-B-Cs. How to make pipe-bombs along with macaroni collages. He assumed there had been macaroni-collages. He hoped there had been, once. Kyle had made those. Spray-painted with flaking gold paint. It had been a life-time ago, but at the same time, somewhere in the valley, they were magnetted to a fridge. Or would be. Time displacement made his head hurt.

He wondered what Sarah Connor had been like, before her world had become his world. He couldn't imagine the Sarah Connor his baby brother would have known, 16 years ago. He only knew the tough-as-nails warrior commander avenging angel who burned grilled cheese sandwiches, and he almost believed would kill him if he lied to her again.

And, dammit, he was still thirsty.


Originally posted at [profile] ff_friday

right and wrong

She was pretty sure she was going to die.

Granted, she'd never actually heard of anyone dying of pleasure. But she was certain that if it were possible, she was doing it. Every stroke of his hands, his tongue, his everything, she felt herself tighten like a spring. Grasping handfuls of satin sheets, she arched her back, sure there would be nothing left of her once that spring snapped.

He kissed her, long and hard, five-o-clock shadow scratching her cheek as she breathed out in a sigh, limbs shaking and heart so loud in her ears she thought it might explode.

"So, you're the one with all the fancy schoolin' here--did I do anything wrong?" Mal's blue eyes, sleepy and half closed, still sparkled with mirth. "You can tell me--I won't be offended or anything.'"

"No. You did it right." Inara laughed at the fact that her heart was still beating. "You did it just right."

challenge: Money

"Money. This girl is worth a lot of money. I mean a lot. You kill me, there's nothing," Dobson said, leaning forward slightly, trying to look earnest despite the fact that his hands were duct-taped behind his back. "But if you help me out, you'll have enough to buy your own ship. A better one than this piece of crap."

Jayne bit back a laugh. He didn't want to be no captain of a lashî smuggling ship. That was too much work--and he'd have to find himself a crew, and that was all sorts of trouble he didn't want or need.

He liked where he was, truth be told. Even with the last two jobs being weak tea, he was still making more money on Serenity than he ever had, running with Marco's gang. And Zoe and Mal were decent to work with. He could always ignore Wash when the little man pissed him off, which was often, but not often enough to make him ready to pummel him. And he ain't never had a little sister like Kaylee, who was a half-decent cook, always had a smile on her face even when they were running on spent cells and like to die at any second, and was probably a nice bit of trim--even though he'd never thus far had the pleasure.

He wasn't all that happy about the fact that this sumbitch had put a bullet into Kaylee. That had, as Mal would say, an effect on the landscape. And if the preacher hadn't gotten to him first, Dobson wouldn't be in any position to be offering him anything right about now.

Fact was, he was comfortable here. He didn't want to have to go back to fighting his way up a whole new pecking order. But he sure as hell didn't want to have to be top dog either. He'd shot enough "leaders" clean through the heart in his day to know that you stood a much better chance of surviving if you're not the #1 guy. Hell, Mal had taken more than a few bullets since Jayne had signed on, and not to mention having to suck it up and let guttertrash like Badger act like his lord and master. Jayne wouldn't have hesitated for a second to gut the bastard right then and there, for backing off of a job he had set them on in the first place, and leaving them to twist.

But somebody had to make nice with the fences. Somebody had to plan all the jobs, and Jayne may want to wipe that superior smirk of Mal's face now and then--but the fact was, Mal was the captain on account of he was the best man for the job. Zoe was his lieutenant in everything but name, and that left Jayne with a lot of free time on his hands to do whatever the hell he wanted, so long as it didn't bring the law down on their heads.

"Does helping you out mean turning on the Captain?" he finally asked.

"Yes, it does."

Jayne nodded slowly, considering this.

He liked having his own room, and a seat at the table. Even when he got sent to his room like some ruttin' eight year old, and Mal playing daddy. It was better'n he'd had before. Might be the best he ever got.

His fist flew out, connecting with Lawrence's jaw with a solid and satisfying crack. He spun, and then pitched over onto his side, out like a light. Fresh blood welled from the cut over his eye, where the preacher had laid him out.

Jayne sheathed his knife, chuckling to himself as he stepped out the door and waved at the grim Shepherd Book, who was glaring at him still from where he stood outside his own quarters.

What would he do with his own ship, anyhow?


Originally posted at [profile] wednesday100

Challenge: alternative universes

Christmas at Chinon

If his brother were here, everything would be different.

Lionel had never wanted sons--he'd wanted heirs he could mould and shape in the fire, then purge the impurities in the forge.

He didn't want love--he wanted obedience, loyalty, and above all, complete worship from his successor.

He didn't want a son. He wanted a shadow.

Julian sobbed into his pillow, praying that none of the servants could hear him through the thick stone walls of the Smallville manor house.

Everything would be different if his brother were here.

But Alexander hadn't been here for a very long time.

Challenge: Clark uses his superpowers for a purpose other than rescue.


He rarely left Kansas.

For one, his mom would freak if he left for school one morning and suddenly around suppertime called from Ohio. Dad would probably just give him "The Lecture" (Clark had it memorised by now) then ask about his chores.

So, when he ran, he stayed inside state lines.

He waited for nightfall. Harder to be spotted after the sun went down. He zipped through endless wheat fields which rustled in his wake, tipped silver by moonlight, and laughed. Gloried in the rush of wind past his face--the roar in his ears.

It was like flying.

Challenge: Through the eyes of any Smallville character, describe their favourite person, place, or thing.

Favourite Things

The mug was cracked. She'd glued the handle back on when her dad had put it into the dishwasher crooked once. He'd offered to buy her another, but Chloe had just taken all the pieces and disappeared into her room with the superglue. The yellow Planet mug had been her sixth birthday present, grabbed at the airport as Gabe had been flying back from Gotham on his first post-divorce business trip. Her first birthday without her mother. Chipped here and there, she still drank her coffee out of it every morning.

Sometimes, a new thing couldn't replace an old one.

Challenge: A meeting in secret.

Boy's Club

It's not that they're excluding her, exactly. She would kick their asses if she knew about their "club", and no one is suicidal enough to purposely put her in a killing mood. So they meet at the diner instead of the Talon.

"I don't get what she sees in him." Chad picks at flaking black polish on his thumbnail.

Pete shrugs. "Dude--he's my best friend and I still don't get it."

"She deserves better." Mike glances at his watch to make sure there's time to get back to the medical centre before lunch is up. "You know?"

Heinrich sighs.

Challenge: two characters go shopping.

The Alley

"Chloe, I really don't think this is my kind--"

"Oooh! Check out the boots!"

"-I mean, some of these t-shirts--"

"Can you believe girls actually wear these?"

"--and did you see the size of the holes in that guy's ears?"

"Chad keeps talking about that--it's a little beyond the chick with the gun at the Claire's, though."

"There's a shopping centre we passed, with a Limited and I think they had a Borders--"

"Oh! Emily! They have Emily shirts!"


"And Lenore! C'mon, Lana--you gotta try on the PVC Catholic school-girl outfit."

"...help me..."

Challenge: Mothers

The first birthday Caroline had missed had been Chloe's nineth. She'd gotten a card a week later, postmarked the day after her birthday. Damning evidence, no doubt the result of a phone call from Gabe after Chloe had cried herself to sleep after cake and ice-cream.

The first chance for forgiveness Caroline had missed had slid by in a haze of painkillers. In a hospital room filled with the scent of wildflowers, Gabe had held her hand and told her her mother was away on business and couldn't be reached. Chloe had closed her eyes, nodded, and let her go.

Challenge: Smallville without the subtext

Weights and Measures
Food, phone calls, online access, bathroom breaks--everything measured.

No one believed Jodi hadn't fasted, stuck her fingers down her throat, or taken pills. But here, at least, people looked at her with pity--instead of fear.

They saw her--skin stretched over bones, flesh melted away by the "foreign substance" in her blood--and measured her by the freshman who came home twenty pounds lighter, hair falling out, rather than the boy who threw a car through the roof of his house. Or the man who set the school on fire with his thoughts.

She didn't mind being measured.

Last updated: 9 June 2009


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