I have a lot of fics/ficlets half-finished/barely-begun on my computer, most of which will never see the light of day, so I'm following
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sandrine's example and bringing a few snippets into the light =P
Pretty open-ended fic, but written with GoT's Cat/Ned in mind
When they first told her of marriage they told her of fairytale romances, tales of love at first sight and handsome princes or brave knights in shining armour come to rescue the fair maiden. Later they whispered warnings of duty and shackles, of how to serve and obey.
No one told her of warm arms enfolding her on that first morning, or kisses to her jaw, just above her pulse. No one explained how it could be both duty and fairytale, both pleasure and pain. No one spoke of curling up against her husband’s side, their child in his arms or her belly.
They spoke of love and duty, but there was friendship and passion to be found as well.Spooks ficlet: Ros + her new hobby
“Is she...?”
Ros didn’t even begrudge him a word, just shot him a look worthy of Medusa and carried on knitting.*ahem* rather racy Ned/Catelyn fic, a slightly-non-canon-passionate start to their marriage. In which Cat's new husband is not as cold as she'd been led to believe...
He kisses the side of her breast, the underside, burns a fiery path up her décolletage. When he reaches the pendant that graves the top of her cleavage she tilts her head back with a throaty moan and he leaves his mark on the hollow of her throat too.
She dusts her fingers over his abdomen. “My lord?” she says hesitantly, breathlessly.
He catches her unoccupied hand with his own and presses a whisper of a kiss on her knuckles. “Ned,” he corrects softly.
She trails her fingertips over the waistband of his smallclothes. “Ned,” she concedes, and his deep moan answers her question. She slips her hand down further and he presses himself to her closer, his manhood hot and hard against her palm.Gen Spooks ficlet. I think I wrote it with either Lucas/Ros having to dress up for some operation, or Dimitri/Erin.
Contrary to popular belief, spying wasn’t half as glamorous in real life as it was in the movies. Gadgets were often cumbersome and heavy than sleek and the size (and weight) of a matchbox; many a night was spent in a freezing surveillance van; and more often than not the job involved endless trawling through ancient filing cabinets than high-speed pursuits in snazzy sports cars.
So when the opportunity to glam up finally arose, it was hardly surprising that most officers would jump at the chance to take part.Mostly-finished Ashes to Ashes AU S3 ending fic. Haven't posted it as a complete fic yet because there is something - can't figure out what - that really bugs me and it just generally seems really unfinished
It didn’t feel right. Apart from the gut-wrenching feeling that only increased every step she took away from him, this did not feel right.
Alex hesitated, her hand mere centimetres from opening the door that would take her to goodness knew where, but most vitally away from here. She had told herself she wouldn’t look back, because if she looked back she was lost, but suddenly her mind and her body seemed completely disconnected, and she broke the iron resolve to take a final glance back.
He hadn’t moved at all, not one inch from where she had left him, a lone figure in an empty street, with no one to turn to, to look after, to help him.
Her hand fell to her side. She couldn’t let him do this alone.
“Drake, get inside that bloody pub now....” he growled warningly, but it only made her more resolute. So she was ‘Drake’ again now, was she? She strode confidently back across the street, her stride becoming more determined with each step, until she drew up in front of him, a smug grin on her face.
“Not unless you’re coming too,” she said, revelling in how he narrowed his eyes and scowled at her.
“We’ve 'ad this talk before,” he replied. “I 'ave to stay here.”
“Then I’m staying with you,” she shrugged, as if it were the simplest thing in the whole world. And now that she considered it, it was; there was no way in hell she could leave him to soldier on alone in purgatory, not after everything they had gone through.
“Bolls-”
Oh, she knew he had something to say about that, would produce a spectacularly intimidating threat as to what he would do if she didn’t shift her arse back to the pub faster than Speedy Gonzalez in a Ferrari, but she wasn’t having any of it.
She cut him off and stepped closer, so they were almost nose-to-nose. “Unbreakable, Gene,” she reminded him softly. “Un-bloody-breakable.”
For several long moments, his eyes gave nothing away. Then, slowly, a flicker of understanding, then resignation, then hope.
She latched onto the latter.
“Besides,” she added, pulling back and smiling coyly. “I never did tell you if I’m a C-cup or a D-cup.”
His hands went to her waist as he pulled her back to him. “Don’t need yer ter tell me, Bollinger Knickers,” he smirked. “Reckon I’ll find out soon enough...”
“Perhaps...” she shrugged with faked aloofness. Then, suddenly, a thought struck her. “But only if you pay your tab.”
“Joy, oh bloody joy. I let you stay and the first thing you do is start nagging! I do not to pay that tab, Lady Bolls - copper’s perks.”
“Exactly!” she cried. “You’re a copper, ‘Gene’, you need to set an examp-”
“How many times?! Do. Not. Waggle. Your. Fingers. When. You. Say. My. Name!”It’s Christmas 1982, and time for the annual battle of the Fenchurch CIDs. Ashes to Ashes fic idea, but this is only some of the pub quiz questions, and a couple of the characters' responses.
Q: Which nation gave women the right to vote first?
A: New Zealand
Gene: Trust you to know that Bolls
Q: Who was the Roman goddess of love?
A: Venus
Ray: Song by Bananarama
Q: What country has not fought in a war since 1815?
A: Switzerland
Gene: (knocks the Swiss)
Q: How many years has Margaret Thatcher been Prime Minister for?
A: 4
Gene grumbling
Q: What is the meaning of Veni, Vidi, Vici?
Gene: I can’t speak English?
A: I came, I saw, I conquered
Q: What number do the roman numerals CD represent?
A: CD
Gene: ‘CID’ spelt wrong
Q: In Roman numerals, what is the number 0?
A: There isn’t one
Chris and Ray squabbling over it, Shaz gets it right
Q: Name the Seven Dwarves
A: Sleepy, Grumpy, Doc, Happy, Dopey, Sneezy, Bashful
Gene: My whole bloody department...
Q: Why is it not a good thing to be a male praying mantis?
A: After mating, the female bites the male’s head off.
Alex gets it,
Gene: Bit kinky there, Drake
Q: What is the common name for myocardial infarction?
A: Heart attack
Gene: Well go on then Bolls – you speak twat.
Ashes to Ashes ficlet, Gene and Alex's usual arguments...
“Just spout some of yer psychology bollocks-”
“It’s psychiatry!... No! Psychology, psychology, psychology. Damn it Gene; you’ve got me doing that now. Urgh! It’s psychology, okay? Psychology.”
“Just hurry up and spout the rubbish; we’ve got a murder to solve.”
Ashes to Ashes AU fic idea. Entering the Railway Arms takes her back to her old world, alive:
She could feel something compelling her backwards, reeling in her in. In a desperate attempt to stay, she scrabbled at the handle-less door in front of her, searching out some hand-hold, anything, to cling onto.
......
She caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall above her comatose self.
9:07
Downton Abbey, M/M early-days-of-marriage fic
He crept along the corridors on careful alert, flattening himself in a doorway at even the slightest noise. Sound carried horribly well through the halls, and he could not let himself be seen. If anyone should find him, skulking in the corridors, trying to put as much distance between where he ought to be, and where he was, he’d be for it.
A sudden crash made him jump and he ducked behind a potted plant, realising a moment too late that it had merely been the clock striking the hour. Taking a final furtive glance up and down the hallway, he straightened up and hurtled through one of the doors.
He pushed it close(d?) behind him and leant/leaned against it heavily.
“Really, Matthew-” came a voice from across the room. Matthew looked up to meet his wife’s gaze in the mirror of her dressing table “-there’s no need to be quite so clandestine. I’m sure the servants are well aware by now that we have no intention of keeping to our separate rooms. You did give Ellen quite the indication last week...”
Matthew chuckled. “Poor woman. I do hope she’ll recover from the shock.” He pushed off from the door and started towards Mary. “Evening, darling.”
She inclined her head without looking at him and continued her adjustments to her nightly toilette. “Evening.”
Guy/Marian AU 2.10 fic beginning. Still want to make this into a fully-fledged multi-chapter, but I thought I'd see what the reaction was first. May be my contribution to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
rhbigbang when it comes
“You came back.”
“If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die by your side.”
There’s no ‘if’ about it; he’s seen the numbers that surround the town, and he knows that for either of them to survive it would be tantamount to a miracle. It doesn’t stop him from turning his horse around and riding back into the castle, to her. It doesn’t stop him from hurtling up the steps, from bursting through the doors, and from seeking out her face in the crowd.
Between the two of them, real truth has been a rare thing. Here, now, when he knows their chances are survival are so slim, he will not taint their final moments with lies. He tells her truth about why he came back, and the look of pride mingling on her astounded face makes his decision to return completely worth it.
At some point after his cry of “To arms!” she has made her way up the stairs to join him. He notices her approach him, but it isn’t until he feels the pressure of her hand against his arm that he registers her presence. His head turns toward her of its own accord, and he feels her touch on his wrist more firmly as she tightens her grip briefly, as if to assure him that she is indeed there.
She is standing here, at his side, proud to be next to him. It is something he could only have dreamed of before, and now it is a tangible thing, a memory to behold and cherish until the end of his life, no matter how short that life is to be.
The triumphant cry of Prince John’s men as the courtyard is breached reaches their ears, and he swears he feels her clasp on his arm tighten that little bit more for a moment. She is frightened, even if she will not show it – even if she chose to stay behind and meet this fate. He wants to take her hand in his and reassure her that it will be okay, that he will protect her, but his sword is in this hand, and anyway what help would it do to give false hope? He knows – they both do – that all will not be well.
But if he is to die, he’ll be damned if he doesn’t make the most of his last minutes on earth. Because he knows for sure that he won’t see her in heaven.
He tilts his head towards her. “Marry me now,” he murmurs softly. “And make it the last thing we do. Let’s take that from them at least.”
Marian looks at him in shock, and for a moment he is frightened – frightened that even now she will reject him.
And then she smiles gently.
“Yes. I will marry you.”
---
It was a spur of the moment decision, but she knows she cannot go back on it now. She is engaged to Robin – she loves Robin – but if her consent will mean a man dies happy, then who is she to take that from him? He came back to be with her, after all.
His face is one of utter surprise, as if he had braced himself for her refusal again, but almost immediately it brightens. To think that such a simple acquiescence could bring such joy to a man...
He wastes no time after that, turning to face her, stowing his sword in its scabbard so as to take both her hands, and hurries through his vows, mindful every second of what little time remains.
“I, Guy of Gisborne, take you Marian to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, ‘til death do us part.”
His part over, he looks to her, silently praying that she will not back out now. She has her eyes closed, but whether that is due to his words, what she may or may not say next, or the fact that they can hear footsteps approaching
“Mar-”
“I, Marian of Knighton-” He looks her in the eye, met with a gaze so resolute and warm that even with the threat that looms over them he cannot help but smile at her. “-take you, Guy of Gisborne, to be my wedded husband.” The sound of clanking armour down the corridor, and she tears her eyes away from his to gaze out the door, swallowing down her nerves. Guy grips her hands tighter, and runs his thumb over the knuckles of her right hand. She turns back to him. “To have and to hold,” she continues, “from this day forward...”
Footsteps approaching.
“...for better or for worse...”
There is a slight edge to her voice, as if she is holding back tears.
“...for richer or for poorer...”
Swords being drawn.
“...in sickness and in health...”
Her eyes are darting between Guy and the outside corridor, just waiting for the guards to burst in.
“...to love and to cherish...”
The sound of running.
“...’til death do us part.”
He kisses her. It is neither forceful nor gentle, just lips firm on lips as he commits this moment to memory. They break apart, all too soon, and he draws his sword.
“Get down below,” he tells her, but she shakes her head.
“Not likely.”
“Marian, please,” he implores her.
“I’m the Nightwatchman, Guy,” she risks.
There is a pause, far too long for her liking, and far too long than they can afford at the moment. He takes a small step back and she cannot read the expression on his face. He wants to feel betrayed, that she has deceived and tricked him, made a fool out of him, lied to him, but there is no time. Perhaps when they are out of this mess – if they get out of this mess – but right now he’s blown his chances at using his status as a Black Knight to guarantee his safety, and he’s fighting for his life just as much as she is. The Nightwatchman can wait.
She bites her lower lip anxiously, heart hammering in tune to the approaching footsteps, and searches his face for something.
Then he nods at her, just once, and she knows it doesn’t matter anymore.
“Pass me a sword,” she calls down, and deftly catches the one thrown up to her by Will. She turns, standing side by side with her husband, and takes her stance.
The first of the guards turn the corner. The battle has begun.
Spooks post-9.01. Harry muses about two funerals
It seems that the whole of Whitehall has turned out for the funeral. Of course, only a select handful knows the truth about Nicholas Blake and Nightingale, but even they must show their faces for appearances sake.
Late but discrete, Harry slips into a pew at the back, and tugs off his gloves. Last time, he’d kept them on. Poured the glass of already poisoned whisky – the last drink of a man condemned – with a steady hand and a tumultuous heart, covered his eyes as he listened to the choking of a dying man, stepped over the body on his way out, and closed the door behind him. No trace left behind, no evidence.
He folds up the gloves and puts them in his pocket, a mark of respect for a man he doesn’t wish to honour.
They are singing now. Great Is Thy Faithfulness. Oh, how ironic.
A church full of people and TV coverage for a traitor and a murderer. Six mourners for the woman he killed. She deserved better.
Though the sentiment would have been lost on her, she deserved better. Even now, the fact that only six people came to say goodbye to Ros after everything she had given to the service – to the country – makes him angry. His knuckles turn white as he grips the hymn book tightly.
He tries to reason with himself. Ros knew the risks, knew there was every chance that the Service would kill her – for real this time. As did every other officer who had died under his command. It still doesn’t stop him from bearing the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. Ros, who had seemed so impenetrable, yet had so many fractures; Jo who had borne so much loss in so little time; Adam, who had been to the brink and back again more times than he cared to think about, and who left behind an orphaned son who would never get to tell his father when he made Rugby Blue.
They lost far too many already – he’d lost too many friends, too many colleagues – but their work wasn’t over yet. They all knew a fresh morning would again one day bring a new casualty, and there {....}
They gave their lives to the safety of their country, and what did they get in return? A Distinguished Service Order, if they were lucky. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough to justify {...}
Ros-fic, AU post 8.08. Ros/Andrew angst (yes, written back in the day when I still shipped those two... =P)
Death was warmer than she had expected. Not that she had ever thought fire would be particularly cold, but the fire was while she was dying. Death was something altogether different.
She was not religious, so she didn’t believe in Heaven or Hell. Perhaps she would have once, but Adam’s death, and Zaf’s and Jo’s had put paid to that. Even so, that didn’t stop her from comparing the flames....
She had died once before and lived through it, so death did not scare her any more. What terrified her was the needle she could feel piercing her arm.
She wasn’t scared of death anymore – she had died once and live though it, after all - but she was terrified of the needle she could feel piercing her arm.
“How is he?”
“Still critical, but stable.” Harry didn’t even have to ask who she meant; the unconscious mutterings of “Not leaving you” and the murmured “Andrew” every so often had
He's young; he hated War; how should he die
When cruel old campaigners win safe through?
But death replied: 'I choose him.' So he went
The Death Bed – Siegfried Sassoon
Now is not the time for Ros Myers to die.
Spooks post-S10 Harry/Ruth angst
He goes to the house they were going to live in, tries to do as she did and see himself there. It’s no good. For all that her descriptions of the green door and the peeling paint and the house in all its imperfect perfection match up to what he sees before him,
His team watch him out of the corner of his eyes,
There are tough decisions to be made, and someone needs to make them. When something goes wrong and all hell breaks loose, he’d rather it was he being made to face up to his actions than someone who still has something to lose.
Erin tries to speak to him about it, just the once. He knows what she’s going to say before she even begins, when she knocks on the door to his office for the first time and waits to be admitted, but he lets her get it out anyway. She says she’s worried about him – that they all are – and that wouldn’t he be better for some rest and time alone. He tells her
He wants to feel embittered, feels he ought to be, but
He’s heard the words whispered behind his back, the mutterings in the corridor as he passes. He sees the looks of pity as his story is passed from one new recruit to the next, getting more distorted as it crosses the lips of yet another fresh-faced, naive graduate, and still he does not care. Let them speculate, let them gossip, he thinks to himself. Let them have their little game while they still can, before they get sucked into this world of lies and treachery, of grief and loss.
Reason tells him he should leave and never look back, that he should get as far away from this place as he can. But reason has never been his strong point, nor has listening to his head when his heart is telling him otherwise, because right now the voice of reason in his world is lying cold in a grave, and he can’t bring himself to say give up the world that keeps her memory
Spooks snippet of an unwritted fic. Basically, Zoe and Will and their young daughter are approached by an unfamiliar member of Section D and Zoe's spy instincts kick in. I think the idea was that during the investigation into Harry in the S9/10 gap, they were worried that Zoe's false imprisonment was going to be found out, so she had to come home to retake her place in jail, and then she was going to appeal the verdict (7 years of her 10-year sentence would have been 'done' by then) and they could all be free. There's the plan....
They are taking a stroll along a beach when she first thinks they are being observed.
The sharp cry of pain from her daughter as she stumbles over a rock captures her attention, and she rushes over to soother the little girl’s cries. By the time the tears have subsided and Zoe looks back at the promenade, the figure positioned {subtely} towards the little family has vanished.
Harry/Ruth, slightly saucy, mostly angsty with a bit of Emotions (TM) thrown in
She never let him say them, those three small words. She never let him say them. Even now when he’d proved it a thousand-fold with Albany, denied it a thousand times in the inquiry, and when a thousand more moments had passed in which she would have said yes, always, she never let him say them. They were the words that, had he uttered them all those years ago, would have stopped her getting on the boat, would have ruined them both. The words that scared her more than.....
So he showed her instead.
He showed her last thing at night, and first thing in the morning, beginning and ending each day with the union of their lips.
He showed her as he wrapped his arms around her from behind and buried his face in the soft scent of her hair.
He showed her when he stopped her from tucking her hair behind her ear, staying her hand so that he could sweep the loose lock away from her face.
He showed her as he forged a path from her collarbone to her navel, kissing his way down the creamy expanse of her flesh/skin.
Catwin (Catelyn Stark/Tywin Lannister) post-RW AU. I WILL WRITE THIS FIC DAMNIT THEY ARE MY NEW OTP =P
The dress is more direwolf-grey than trout-silver, but if Tywin Lannister dares comment she’ll shrug delicately and feign ignorance. It’s his own fault for insisting she marry him in the Tully colours she’s not worn in over sixteen years, rather than as the Stark she has become, and she twists the silver ring she wears that Ned gave her when they were first wed.
But she will not think of Ned, not today, not when
The dress hangs loose on her body; too wide around her waist and her hips, and too ____ upon her shoulders. Like the rest of the gowns in her possession, it is new, hastily {fabricated} upon her arrival at Casterly Rock in a flurry of wool and silk and chattering seamstresses. Since this particular dress, the first to be commissioned, was made, she has become more slight of frame, so where it was made to fit snug about her, it now {hangs loose}.
Catelyn stares into the looking-glass, the figure reflected scarcely recognisable.
“We mustn’t let them see our tears. We will show them how strong Stark women are.
...
Whatever Tywin Lannister thinks, I am still a Stark. Tully may be my house, but Winterfell has been my home for the last sixteen years, and will remain to be for the rest of my days, no matter how crimson the cloak around my shoulders.”![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sleepy
nostalgic
nerdy
happy
creative
