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Don't suppose I could eke some more comment fic out of people? I'm feeling flat and 'orrible right now and could do with a pick-me-up.
Teyla, team, John/Teyla, Teyla/Rodney, Teyla/Lorne, Teyla/Carson, Teyla/Zelenka, Liz/Ronon, Rodney/Ronon...?
You write me one and I'll write you a ficlet in return. Team or any friendship, most pairings (exceptions: Shep/Weir, Shep/McKay, Ronon/Teyla).
Y'know, given the number of slashers on my f-list, I'm kinda surprised that nobody's ever requested a slash ficlet of me during one of these challenges. Of course, I may be making the erroneous assumption that anyone would want a ficlet from me.
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Got my![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sga_santa challenge. This year's challenge seems even more Shep/McKay centered than last year. I'm almost beginning to think that someone should organise something along those lines for the non-Shep/McKay group - it's a little intimidating to look at the comm and realise that 9/10 requests are Shep/McKay and that you don't like them or don't want to write them.
Then again, I guess that's what ficathons like The Holiday Ficathon over atjohn_teyla are for!
/pimp
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Am tired and feeling stale and bleak and crappy and unNaNo-esque. So comment, people!
Teyla, team, John/Teyla, Teyla/Rodney, Teyla/Lorne, Teyla/Carson, Teyla/Zelenka, Liz/Ronon, Rodney/Ronon...?
You write me one and I'll write you a ficlet in return. Team or any friendship, most pairings (exceptions: Shep/Weir, Shep/McKay, Ronon/Teyla).
Y'know, given the number of slashers on my f-list, I'm kinda surprised that nobody's ever requested a slash ficlet of me during one of these challenges. Of course, I may be making the erroneous assumption that anyone would want a ficlet from me.
--
Got my
sga_santa challenge. This year's challenge seems even more Shep/McKay centered than last year. I'm almost beginning to think that someone should organise something along those lines for the non-Shep/McKay group - it's a little intimidating to look at the comm and realise that 9/10 requests are Shep/McKay and that you don't like them or don't want to write them.Then again, I guess that's what ficathons like The Holiday Ficathon over at
john_teyla are for!/pimp
--
Am tired and feeling stale and bleak and crappy and unNaNo-esque. So comment, people!
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Heh. At least your NaNo is Emo'ing. My NaNo's turned into NaNoNoShow.
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So, come on. Dare! ^_~
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The door slides open behind her but she doesn't turn around. Her fingers tighten around the metal chain as a hand lands on her shoulder.
“You did the right thing.”
Her sigh prompts John to move closer and she lets her head fall back against him. He can't resist brushing his lips against hair as he slides his arms around her waist.
“He was so young.” His arms tighten around her.
“He was a soldier. He knew what he was getting into.”
“No soldier should die in vain.”
His puff of breath warms her, chasing away the cold that has gripped her for the days. “You're right about that. But it happens. A hell of a lot more than it should.”
She had risked being recaptured to see if he was still alive, but even at a distance she could see that his injuries were severe. The decision to take the dog tags had been impulsive, based on a slim hope that a grieving mother, sister or lover would find some shred of comfort in having them in their possession. But in her hands, they only serve to intensify her guilt.
His arms fall as she turns to face him. “I should have stayed behind with him instead of running ahead, I could have helped -”
“Then you'd both be dead. You're not the one who shot him, you're not the reason you guys were captured in the first place. The plan was textbook stuff. You guys were unlucky, that's all. It's not your fault.”
She searches his face for any hint of the emotions that she is feeling; guilt, blame, disappointment. She sees none. He returns her gaze defiantly until her eyes drift to her now open hand between them. Slowly, she hands him the dog tags.
“You did the right thing Teyla,” he whispers as his fingers brush her jaw. She watches as he slips the tags into his pocket before closing her eyes and nodding briefly. He lowers his head to meet hers and they stand together in solemn remembrance of their fallen soldier.
Probably not the kind of thing that's going help lift your mood, but as I'm feeling much the same this is the best I can do. Hope you feel better soon.
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sorry Tie...I'm not the best at this stuff...hope your mood got better!
we need more of your works out here for people like me! LOL
Camy
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Thank you! *hugs* Hope you feel better soon, too!
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The amount of Shep/McKay freaked me out, because I was really worried I'd get one of those. And god knows that I can't write Shep/McKay. But I actually got prompts I'm sort of happy with.
Feeling the same way about Nano!
*hugs*
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Although, I never worry about getting Shep/McKay - mostly because I indicate what I can't write and if they try to make me write it...well, the recipient will not be a happy camper come Christmas!
Incidentally, how do you write Liz/Kolya as anything other than enemies!sex? Because my brain goes borderline breaky just trying to process them as enemies in a power-struggle.
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Oh...dear. Liz/Kolya? Basically by ignoring all canon-ness and going AU. It comes with really loving Kolya ('cause I do). I can really sympathize with him being forced to invade Atlantis and don't really see how he's any worse than the rest of the Genii. I see Liz/Kolya as this very long-term thing, where they're not together, but building all these layers of understanding each other. I don't think that Liz could ever sympathize with Kolya after "Common Ground", but heh... in my AU mind, I'd like them to realize that there are some similarites between Liz & Kolya , and Kolya & John.
I have a couple of long, cracktastic AU plotbunnies for Liz/Kolya, and they really all revolve a long-term situation where they have to depend on learning to trust each other.
What it really comes down to is how much crack you're on.Comment fic coming!
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At the cusp of the forest, she see him—alone, fallen near a tree. Leaves are littered upon his rigid body, making him appear to be a part of the dense forest and the dying plant life. Teyla walks cautiously, fingering the shovel. To hope he is alive would be foolish.
She kneels on the grass, examining him. A knife is clutched in his right hand, and at first she thinks it is rusted. When she looks closer, she recognizes Wraith blood. A silence hums through her ears, deafening; soon, she can recall the music from his wedding. The drums, the harp, the minister’s joyful voice singing a hymn. She remembers as though it had been yesterday; her eyes close, she finds a hint of peace. A breeze whistles through the trees, echoing as nothing else- in the forest, the field, the abandoned village still in sight- makes a sound.
Teyla opens her eyes, and her vision floods with sunlight. She must begin.
Leaning the shovel against the tree’s trunk, she grabs the body from under its armpits and drags it into the forest. The trees are dense, but she knows her way well; only minutes later, she reaches a small clearing. Teyla leaves the body for a moment, returning with the shovel. Her eyes catch sight of a small pond only a few yards from the body.
The work is hard—though, she had not expected it to be easy, not in any way. Now damp with water, the ground is softened, and the shovel bites through the rocks and dirt clumps. The sun disappears under the treetops as she finishes. Teyla places the shovel by the side of the grave and looks to the sky. She reaches to take off the hat, now unnecessary in the chilly night air.
He waits by the tree, eyes closed, hair messy from battle, blood staining his clothes. Teyla knows she does not have long; the Athosians need her, their leader. She grips him under the arms once again, and lowers him into the hole. As hard as she tries, his body still falls gracelessly, and he lies in an awkward position. It is not the honorable warrior funeral she had imagined, but it is Athosian way to bury the dead near their battle.
Slowly, she replaces the dirt, quietly singing an ancient hymn as his body becomes less and less visible. The final shovelful of dirt is tossed as she reaches the end of the song.
Her head bows at his grave as she whispers a prayer.
“Goodbye, my brother,” she says, and turns from the spot, leaving the forest and him behind.
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