gaila: orions have more fun

A Picture is Worth 1000 Words: A Multifandom Comment Fic Meme

Have you seen a hot photo at Sex is Not the Enemy and you wish there were a fic to go with it? Is there a still from your favorite series that needs a story to accompany it? Do you have a vast stockpile of pictures of outer space that would make amazing back drops for a sci-fi story? Well, this is your place! You're invited to post an interesting picture prompt in the comments and to write stories for pictures that others have left.

The rules are simple:

1. For leaving prompts: Please post only one picture per comment. The picture is the only prompt you are leaving; please do not include fandoms, characters, plot ideas, etc. If your picture is potentially triggering or not safe for work, please post a link to it and include an appropriate warning/rating in the subject line.

2. For writing fills: Please include a title, fandom, and any relevant warnings/ratings in the subject line; also include characters or pairings if they fit. Your fill may be any length, and if it is too long for one comment, feel free to use multiple comment boxes or link to a posting on your journal.

3. You may leave up to five prompts, even if you do not intend to write any fills. You may leave one additional prompt for each fill you write.

4. Multiple fills for one prompt are welcome and encouraged!

5. Any fandom, character, pairing, or genre is welcome.

Have fun and pimp this around! I will continue updating the list of fills as new stories are posted.


The Abhorsen Chronicles
Pulled Under by ceitfianna - Sameth, PG

Blade Runner
But Then, Who Does by yeomanrand - Deckard, (past Deckard/Rachael), PG

Buffy
Deconstructed by crazedcrusader - Faith, PG

Firefly
Heaven is a Stranger Place (Than What You've Left Behind) by sardonicynic - Mal/Inara, PG

Fringe
A Hole in the World by yeomanrand - Olivia, PG (spoilers for end of season 3)

The Giver
Unknown But Remembered by jactrades - Lily, G

Harry Potter
To Be a Ribbon in Your Hair by ceitfianna - James/Lily, G

She'll Play Her Heart to a Drumbeat by dynastessa - Bellatrix Lestrange, PG

Different by igrockspock - Luna/Neville, PG

The Forest by lyras - various characters, G

So Close That Your Eyes Close As I Fall Asleep by eppic - Harry/Ron/Hermione, PG-13

Inception
De L'Eau by yeomanrand - Ariadne, PG

JC's Avatar
North and South by ashen_key - Trudy, G

Safety Net in a Chaotic World by ashen_key - Trudy, OC (deals with sexual assault)

Merlin
Untitled by eppic - Merlin, Morgana, PG

Lessons My Father Taught Me by eppic - Arthur, Uthur

In Ourselves and Our Stars by sour_idealist - Gwen/Morgana, PG

Narnia
Lamppost by thistlerose - Susan, G

Mnemosyne by yeomanrand - Lucy, G

Percy Jackson
He Extends an Olive Branch by crazedcrusader - Percy/Annabeth, PG

Pirates of the Carribbean
Destiny Never Likes the Wait by lyssie - Elizabeth/Calypso, light R

Primeval
Connor/Abby Friendship by aradne

Resident Evil
Wonderland is Off the Grid by yeomanrand - Alice, PG

Prac-Work by ashen_key - Angie, Jill, PG

Sherlock
Little Details by exiled_mind - Sherlock, Watson, Lestrade, PG-13

Not What Boys Do by igrockspock - Watson, PG

Stargate SG-1
Sunlit Honey by campylobacter - Sam/Vala PG

Star Trek XI
When JJ Came to Town by hellokatzchen - Pike, fictionalized JJ Abrams, G

Best Served Cold by igrockspock - McCoy/Chapel, PG

Forward This Generation Triumphantly by igrockspock - Gaila, OFCs, PG13

At the Top of the Stairs, Waiting by igrockspock - McCoy/Uhura, PG

Prior Preparation by igrockspock - Pike/Number One, G

Every Moment a Revolution by igrockspock - Amanda, Spock, Spock/Uhura, PG

A Velociraptor-Free Workplace by igrockspock - Kirk, Rand, PG

Repeat Offender by igrockspock - Jim Kirk, Winona Kirk, PG

Spermatophytes by jactrades - Kirk/Sulu, PG

No One Had These Problems in the Old Days by livelovehump - Kirk, Kirk/Prime, PG

Oh, Let Me Have Just a Bit of Peril? by thistlerose - Kirk, Sulu, and Aphrodite, light R

Adventurous by yeomanrand Winona Kirk, PG

Supernatural
Like A Prayer For Which No Words Exist by eppic - Dean/Castiel

Tangled
In a Language Only Hair Can Speak by charcoalfeather - Rapunzel/Eugene F., PG

Torchwood
Ordinary by igrockspock - Gwen/Rhys, baby Anwen, PG

Warehouse 13
Sing Your Song About Pie by minkhollow - Pete and Leena, PG (spoilers for season 3 premiere)

Green and Growing by minkhollow - Claudia, Steve, PG

X-Men: First Class
Like a Queen by ashen_key - Angel, PG-13



To post images, you will need two things: the "img src=" tag, and the location of the picture. To get the location of the picture, right click on it and choose "copy image location." Then go to the comment box, right click again, and click paste. The image's URL ought to appear in the comment box. Then type img src= in front of it, and enclose the whole thing in < >. Your final product will look like the example below, but with < > instead of [ ].

[img src=http://i203.photobucket.com/albums/aa294/belles890/sherlock_holmes_bbc.jpg]

If your picture is on your hard drive, you will need to upload it to the internet somewhere like photobucket or your LJ, then follow the instructions listed above.
Question Thread
Please comment here if you have any questions or concerns for the mod.
Re: Question Thread
Could NSFW prompts be linked to instead of posted directly? That way we who are at work can participate. :)
Wonderland is off the Grid, Resident Evil (Movies) Alice, PG
(Set between Apocalypse and Extinction)

Alice sits down in the middle of the desert, where she can watch the mountain for the first sign of the satellite she has to avoid. Has to, if she wants to stay out of Umbrella's eye.

The sun has scorched the earth around her, cracks forming semi-regular almost-pentagons fading off into the distance, a giant-sized jigsaw puzzle viewed from table-level.

She shifts her rifle on her shoulder, gaze catching on the fading sunlight just on the western horizon. No clouds here, no leftover filth in the air to redden the sky, just pale peach and almost blue, striations in the sky all the way up to almost night-dark at the point where she'd have to tip her head back on her neck to see.

She's grown accustomed to solitude, to the necessity of it, to protecting herself and protecting humanity from herself. She thinks of Spence, who brought about his own downfall; she thinks of Rain and JD and Kaplan and One, caught in the wrong place at the very wrong time; she tries not to think about what happened to Matt or wonder how Jill or Carlos are doing because thinking about the living will just bring her loneliness. And loneliness is a lure back to civilization -- or whatever's left of it.

She rises from the dirt, collecting a handful after dusting off her leggings, and sets out to the north, away from the satellite's path.

What made her stronger has also killed her.
Thrust of Grace 1/2, X-Men 2, OMC&OFC, PG or so
(A/N: Every time I see X2 I find my imagination pinged by the climax; this came out of that thought.)


It might just be the best day of Felipe's life. It's a warm morning, the breeze so sweet even the city air smells good, but maybe that's just Aditi, her fingers meshed with his, her long hair fluttering on the wind, her smile bright as they walk down this city street between glittering storefronts and smiling fellow pedestrians. Aditi points at a bookstore's sidewalk display of bright cards and art books, so they set off across the street; the whole world feels beautiful, and the most beautiful girl in it is holding Felipe's hand --

Someone groans, and Aditi gasps. Felipe turns towards the noise and sees a lady drop her shopping bags, clawing at her temples; he turns back to Aditi to suggest they head over to help the woman, and finds her kneeling on the macadam just as he feels her weight dragging on his hand. "Aditi!"

"Felipe," she gasps, pitching over onto her side, her fingers sliding from between his. He kneels beside her, trying to scoop her up -- they're in the middle of the crosswalk, the middle of the street -- but there's a screech of brakes and Felipe glances up to see a minivan turned sideways across the traffic, the driver writhing in her seat.

Aditi's writhing too, clutching her head, gasping in pain; all over the street people are convulsing on the ground with others standing over them or kneeling beside them in horrified dismay. A few feet from them a little boy rolls around screaming on the sidewalk as a fluffy dog whines and paws at his arm. "What's wrong? Aditi?"

Her tender mouth opens and closes, her wide eyes crimped shut; she doesn't actually speak, but Felipe hears her voice all the same, from everywhere and nowhere at once. Don't leave me. Don't leave me.

There isn't time to wonder about it; she gropes blindly for him and he catches her hand, threading their fingers again. "I won't," he promises, "I won't ever."

She smiles through a sob, squeezing his hand, catching his shirt in her flailing fist, and when he bends to kiss her he can feel it somehow, the pounding in her head and the light brush of his lips. He kisses her again and thinks of her smiling even though he can't see it, how good the touch of his mouth feels if it's the last thing she'll ever get to feel.

And then suddenly, as unexpectedly as it began, it stops. Aditi lies still and Felipe's heart clenches -- is she -- but then she takes a huge whooping breath and laughs, soft and wondering, and when she opens her dark eyes they glisten with tears. "Oh, I thought I was going to die," she breathes, and his heart hurts with relief, he pulls her up into his arms and kisses her fervently, crushing her to his chest, and she clings to him, kissing him back. All around them people whimper and laugh and weep, a fire roars in the distance and the breeze fills with smoke, but Aditi's all right, she's all right, and Felipe kisses her as if he might never have gotten to kiss her again.

Until a spike of pain drives through his head.
Fill: Best Served Cold - STXI, McCoy/Chapel
Christine Chapel stares warily at the boy sitting in the corner of sickbay. He is wearing a blue jumper with green stripes and swinging his feet back and forth in the air. This makes him look quite innocuous, but Chapel knows better. Children are never as sweet as they appear.

“Why me?” she asks McCoy, who recoils a little from the intensity of her glare.

“Because I have the captain's briefing in ten minutes, Lauritson broke her ankle, and Melendez is monitoring Paulsen's vitals.”

Christine huffs.

“Fine. But I know this is really because of the betting ring.”

If McCoy wanted to get revenge for her betting on whether Kirk, Spock, or McCoy would return from away missions with a torn uniform and a manly gash on their chest...well, exposing her to small children was a pretty good way to do it, she had to admit.

“For Chrissake Chapel, it's a boy, not a Denebian slime devil.”

“But I don't know what to do with it.”

“Not it, him. Children are people, Chapel, not animals. And why don't you take him to get some ice cream?”

“I hate you.”

McCoy smiled. It was a real, happy smile, like he was having fun and not just making fun of her. It was a very attractive smile, which made her hate him more.

“You say that at least once a day, Christine.”

She threw a stylus at his head and stepped out of his office as elegantly as she could. Cautiously, she approached the boy and pasted a smile onto her face.

“Let's go get some ice cream, okay?”
Fill: Forward This Generation Triumphantly - STXI, Gaila, OCs
“You didn't do it right,” Gaila tells her older sister Mila.

“Shh. It's not nice not to be grateful.” That's Lyara, her oldest sister.

“But purple isn't a Starfleet color. It's red. And there's barely any green, and Starfleet doesn't have green anyway. It should be gold.”

It's not fair. It's her present; they should have got it right.

Mila bends down on her knees and tucks one of Gaila's curls behind her ear. Nobody knows how Gaila got red hair like this, but it makes her special. She's worth more because of it, and she's going to go to Starfleet. Not because she has red hair, but because she's special in lots more ways than that. The masters don't know that yet though; they just know they can sell her for extra one day. But her sisters do know about Starfleet, and they were supposed to make a picture of it for her naming day, but they had gotten it wrong. It's a bad omen.

“I'm sorry, Gaila.” Mila really does look sad. “These colors were all we had. The goddess knows what we mean.”

“And look, the stars are gold,” Lyara says. “Just like the captains.”

“Like you'll be one day.”

Mila looks so happy now that it's scary. Gaila doesn't know as much as her sisters do, but she knows that leaving this planet and going to Starfleet will cost. She isn't scared that it will cost too much for her to go; she's scared that it will cost too much, but her sisters will pay it anyway. Slipping out of her sister's embrace, she scoots forward till she can put her chin on the windowsill right next to her present. A little forcefield buzzes against her nose, and Gaila smiles. Her sisters aren't supposed to know how to make forcefields, but they do. One day they'll teach her.

“Do you like it?” Mila asks. “I was worried that the glitter would blow away if the climate control unit ever came on again.”

Gaila nods and the forcefield flickers against her chin. The colors aren't exactly right, she likes the way they glitter in the starlight.

“Thank you,” she says. Even though she's little, she knows some place deep and dark that she is thanking her sisters for more than these little glittering stars. Things that she can't imagine, things that are awful, things they do willingly to keep her safe.

***


Eight years later, Gaila switches off the forcefield and sweeps the tiny pile of glitter into her waist pouch. The room is empty. She hasn't seen her sisters in days. With a single fluid motion, she pushes the broken climate control unit away from the heating duct and slips inside.

“Thank you,” she says to the silent air. She hopes her sisters can hear her.

Then, without looking back, she begins climbing toward freedom.


Edited at 2011-07-11 06:36 pm (UTC)
merlin; arthur pendragon and uther pendragon, lessons my father taught me
Once, when Arthur was very young, Uther took him to see the ocean. Arthur remembers it only vaguely, in wisps and fragments, but he remembers Uther lifting him up into his arms (a rare event, even then, when Arthur was small enough to be held) and walking to the very edge of the cliff, so Arthur could look down and see the waves crashing upon the rocks.

"A good king is like those rocks," Uther says, his voice a low rumble in Arthur's ear. "No matter how many times the waves crash, the rocks never move. A strong king is never moved, Arthur."

Arthur had tangled his fingers into the scratchy wool of Uther's cloak. He remembers wanting to turn his face away, remembers the spray of sea and the height of the cliff made him afraid, but he did not, because Uther had told him to look and even then, Arthur wanted to please his father.

Later, when he was older and no longer feared standing on the edges of cliffs and looking downwards, Gaius tells him of how water can erode stone, given enough time. Arthur thinks of his father, of the taste of salt in the air and his father's voice as he imparted advice to his son, and realizes, for the first time in his life, that Uther had been wrong about something.

He had rarely thought of those things, but now, here, with Merlin standing before him with his eyes shining gold and a plea for help on his lips, Arthur thinks of that, of his father's good intentions and how badly wrong they had gone.

"Arthur, please..."

"Come with me," Arthur says, grabbing Merlin's wrist and dragging him abruptly from his rooms. "And pull your hood up before someone sees you."

They run. They run hard, all the way to the stables, where Arthur shoves Merlin into the saddle (Gwaine's horse, the fastest horse in the stable, and Arthur is sure Gwaine will not begrudge the loss, all things considered) and it is only then that he realizes what he's doing.

It doesn't stop him.

"Ride far and far. And don't get yourself killed, idiot," he says, and Merlin smiles at him, in spite of the fear on his face.

And when Merlin is gone, Arthur goes to stand on the battlements, and look down over his kingdom and await his father's judgement. And while he does, he thinks of the sea.
Fill: At the Top of the Stairs, Waiting - STXI, McCoy/Uhura (1/2)
Uhura presses the cloth a little harder against the the bloody spot on McCoy's head and frowns. According to the tricorder, his vitals are stable, and she knows that head wounds bleed a lot. Still, it's hard to believe that so much bleeding for so long can be a good thing.

“Hey.” She shakes his shoulder gently, then a bit harder. “Wake up.”

McCoy's eyelids flicker.

“Wha' happened? Where are we?”

“'We're on a shuttle. Someone shot us, remember?” The shuttle had flown off course, its systems badly damaged, but there had been no sign of their attacker since the initial shot. “Sulu's up front, trying to get the navigational array online.”

“We got air?” McCoy asks sleepily.

“Yeah. Enough for a few more hours anyway. Is this kind of memory loss normal?”

She'd had this same conversation with McCoy at least twice in the past hour. McCoy doesn't answer her, so she shakes him again. When there's no response, she climbs over him, planting her knees on either side of his torso so that she can lean directly over his face. She'd be embarrassed if she weren't so scared.

Hey. I need you to tell me if this kind of memory loss is normal.”

McCoy's eyes flicker open.

“Jus' a concussion,” he says.

“I don't like the way your words are slurred.”

McCoy smiles faintly.

“Dammit woman, I'm a doctor. I know what I'm talking about.” That sounds more like him. She smiles, and he asks, “Why're you on top of me?”

“You wouldn't wake up.”

She looks away even though she doubts he can see her flush in the deep red emergency lights. Maybe it hadn't been a logical response, but it had seemed like the right thing to do. She moves back to her position on the floor and rests McCoy's head against her thigh. There's no medical necessity, she knows, but human touch is the only treatment she can provide right now.

“What should I do for you?” she asks.

“Jus' keep me awake.”

“Is there something in the med kit?”

McCoy shakes his head, then winces.

“Jus' ask me questions.”

“Okay. Name, rank, date of birth?”

McCoy snorts.

“Dammit, woman, I'm injured, not mentally handicapped.”

Uhura almost laughs at how irritated he looks but thinks better of it.

“Answer the question.”

“Leonard McCoy, Chief Medical Officer, U.S.S. Enterprise. May 13, 2227. That good enough for you? Now ask me something interesting.”

Little Details, PG-13, Sherlock (BBC), John/Sherlock
I could not help myself. I'm so sorry!

* * *

"Sherlock," John hissed. "You forgot to zip your trousers."

"Shit." Sherlock's eyebrows rose and his eyes flicked in Detective Inspector's direction before returning to meet John's. "Think Lestrade noticed?"

"Well, he is in the business of gathering evidence and making educated guesses about such things, Sherlock."

Sherlock huffed out a breath. "Well, if he were better at it then he wouldn't need me, so we're likely safe."

Lestrade simply rolled his eyes at the soft sound of the zip.

Edited at 2011-07-13 07:06 pm (UTC)
harry potter, harry/hermione/ron, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep
In the wake of the battle, no one wants to leave Hogwarts. There are not enough beds, but everyone makes do. Harry thinks briefly that he should leave Ron and Hermione to themselves, but Hermione twines her fingers through his and catches hold of Ron, and tugs them away. Harry has a brief sense memory of her turning on the spot, and the three of them Disapparating, only the time for that is long since passed.

"We should take a bath," she says, and she's right, because they're all three covered in blood and rubble and dirt, and because the Prefects' bathroom is still intact.

Whatever this is, this thing they have that they've never spoken of, it hangs in the air as Hermione slips out of her clothes and into the water. Ron is watching her, a flush climbing up his neck. Harry nudges him to stop him staring. Hermione is blushing, but she slips under the bubbles before Harry can say anything.

They're quiet. Some would think it's because they don't know what to say, but really, it's because they don't need to speak. They just know, in that quiet, intimate way they've cultivated since they were eleven years old.

"You have blood in your hair, Harry," Hermione says, and Ron is the one to reach over and card soapy fingers through tangled locks. Harry closes his eyes, exhales slowly, listening to the splash of water as Hermione slides closer, as Ron's lips brush his temple.

They tumble into bed together, in the Gryffindor boys old dormitory but no one else is in it and Hermione charms the door before she slips beneath the covers, into this tangle of bare skin and warm hands. There is a short but furious fight over who gets the middle (Ron elbows Harry in the ribs, and Hermione eventually seperates them, forces them to play rocks paper scissors for it. Ron loses.) but then they settle. Ron streches one long arm over Harry and Hermione both, and suddenly they are all aligned, a perfect fit.

"You better quit talking in your sleep, Harry," Ron mumbles, and Hermione breathes out a laugh. Harry's hand is at her throat, fingers resting on her pulse, while Ron's legs tangle through his. Sleep-blurred and exhausted, Harry can hardly tell where he ends and they begin, and it is this familiarity that finally lulls him to sleep.
Adventurous, Star Trek XI, Winona Kirk, PG-ish?
Contrary to popular opinion, Winona Kirk nee Emerson is not a daredevil or an adrenaline junkie.

She's come to the county fair because Sam and Jimmy begged her -- though they'd waited until she'd been home a night and a day, and she wonders, reluctantly, warily, how Frank managed that change of behavior -- and because it's been almost a year since she was last on Earth, her own life one long orbit to and from and always back to Sol.

Always.

Frank stayed back at the farmhouse; Sam's always got one hand on Jimmy no matter how sticky they are with corn dogs or cotton candy or potatoes cut lengthwise in quarter-inch slabs, battered and deep-fried and, she has to admit even as she's saying Mom-things about their lack of nutrition, absolutely delicious. Thick slices of earth, sweet on their own, sweeter with the ranch dressing they're slathered in. She joins her sons in licking her fingers clean.

Jimmy's nose is red by the time dusk falls, the skin on Winona's neck and shoulders also tight with too much sun. They're on their way back to the parking lot when both boys are captured by a wheel rising in the night -- a blur of white spinning to rival the moon.

She knows what the question will be even before they've turned to her, and glances for the ticket booth. She buys them enough for the one ride, and herself a cherry-flavored slush. Jimmy's just tall enough to ride, and he looks back at her soberly before following his brother into the queue.

Winona leans on the flimsy fence near the exit and waits for her boys to have their adventure, cherry flavor tart on her tongue and calculations for centripetal force running through her mind.
Unknown but remembered, The Giver, Lily, G
Lily finds the photograph in the archive within the Annex of the House of the Old.

The colors are all wrong, she thinks as she lifts the tattered sheet from the dusty file, and smiles at the thought.

There’s no reason that she can see for the image to exist at all. The details of the plants are too hazy for it to be a learning aide - besides there's no botanical name given. The file itself has a label, tidily written in a firm hand: Place - Elsewhere, Time - Before.

The Community now has a new definition for Before. There's the slight hesitation, always: "It happened a few years before... Before." Before he left the Community. No one mentions the name, ever, although it hasn't been designated Not-To-Be-Spoken.

There aren't many decrees from the Elders anymore.

The edges of the photograph have been worn away from more than time, she realizes, looking closer. Someone once looked at - held - touched this image often. Someone once valued it enough keep it, keep it safe for a future that didn't - wouldn't - couldn't see the possibilities in the faded colors.

The unknown and unknowable stories are always the ones that set her mind flickering about, like the fireflies she now dreams of.

Lily's Assignment may be Historian, her life's task to record the Not-My-Memories. (A lie, not merely imprecise language. They were all their memories now.) But that's not who she is.

She gently places the photograph aside. On the next Unscheduled Holiday she'll try to write the story of this photograph, and the someone who loved it.

Edited at 2011-07-19 01:38 am (UTC)
De L'Eau, Inception, Ariadne, G
Ariadne tries to remember dreaming. Just dreaming, not making the dreamscape form to her whims and her wills -- or, more accurately, her employers' whims and wills.

She can't remember the last time, not even sitting here in her own dream, watching her child-self swim laps in a tidily chlorinated indoor pool. She tries to remember if either Cobb, the elder or the younger, had tried to warn her about not being able to let go control to the soundtrack of the child splashing about. Confused, but not in danger.

At least she doesn't have to worry about her own constructs turning against her, or confusingly inappropriate kisses from Arthur as a defense mechanism. She belongs in her own mind.

She hopes.

She draws in another deep breath, trying to relax, release, to stop rendering, stop building--on any scale at all. She closes her eyes in the dreamscape, tries not to wonder if she's just exiting REM.

A droplet of water catches on her face; another strikes her arm. She opens her eyes, stretching out her arms to feel the water rising up from the pool, striking against her skin of its own volition and none of her design.

She laughs, and laughing, wakes.
Fill: Every Moment a Revolution - STXI, Amanda, Spock, Spock/Uhura (1/2)
Whenever Amanda can't find Spock, she knows he is staring at the picture in the hallway. It's odd; even as a baby, he had never been attracted to loud, brightly colored objects. Yet, the photograph had mesmerized him ever since she had hung it in the hallway two weeks ago.

“Spock, why do you like this photograph?” she asks on his third consecutive morning of staring.

“Who are these people, Mother?” he asks. She notes the deflection. It's something Spock does to avoid lying when he doesn't want to answer a question.

“They are your great- great- great- great... well, I don't know how many greats. But they are your ancestors, many years distant. This photo was taking in the twenty-first century, shortly after same-sex marriage became legal in Washington State.”

“Ah,” Spock says and resumes staring.

The photograph had been buried in the family archive for centuries until she had found it earlier this summer. One of the women was pale; the other dark. Each wore a sleeveless white dress; one carried a multi-colored bouquet while the other's was made of pink flowers. She had hung it up immediately when she returned home; she needed something bright and vibrant among the muted tones of her Vulcan house. Yet, for all its loud colors, there was a certain Vulcan harmony to its contrasting colors and neatly symmetrical background. “IDIC,” she would tell Sarek when he returned from his latest diplomatic mission and protested that it did not match their décor.

“Mother, why was same-sex marriage illegal?”

Amanda shrugs her shoulders, not that Spock can see that when he's staring so intently at the picture.

“That's a hard question,” she says. “People were prejudiced, I suppose.”

“Ah,” Spock says again.

“Aren't you going to ask why people were prejudiced?”

Spock has been pointing out illogical behavior, human and otherwise, almost since he first began to speak.

“No. People are often prejudiced against those who are different from them,” he says so matter-of-factly that it breaks her heart. He turns toward her and his eyes widen when he sees the expression on her face. “Please do not cry, Mother. The existence of this photograph demonstrates that with sufficient exposure, people will overcome their prejudices.”

He pauses for the small, deep breath he always takes before he asks for something that's important to him.

“Mother, I believe that Father will object to this photograph. The colors are too bright, and they do not match the remainder of our furnishings. Therefore, I propose that we hang it in my bedroom so that it will not disturb him.”

“Of course, Spock. How could I have overlooked such a logical compromise?”

“I do not know, Mother,” he says, touching two of his fingers to hers. She pretends not to notice how self-satisfied he looks.

When he leaves for the Academy ten years later, the photograph is one of the few things he takes from his room.

Mnemosyne, Narnia, Lucy, Incredibly short fill
Lucy remembers woods like these; the trees shadowy shapes in a world gone gray with fog and mourning.
When J.J. Came to Town | Star Trek XI | Pike, fictional J.J. Abrams | G
When Starfleet told Chris Pike a filmmaker wanted to meet with him, the captain was understandably uncertain. But orders were orders, so he invited this J.J. Abrams aboard the Enterprise.

J.J. was an young man full of enthusiasm and Chris found himself intrigued by what he wanted to do.

"Biographic fiction!" J.J. called it. "The story of James Tiberius Kirk's early life."

Chris had been a mentor of sorts to young Kirk and, according to the man, his inclusion was integral to the storytelling. So would he please, please agree to having his likeness portrayed?

What the hell? Chris thought. He signed on the dotted line with the caveat that he be given a private screening once the film was completed.

After J.J. disembarked, Chris mostly forgot about the meeting. There was just so much that went into running the Enterprise.



Sixteen months later, J.J. Abrams returned to the Enterprise with the completed film in hand. "Remember, some artistic license was taken," he warned ahead of time. Chris (and any crew also lending their likeness to the story) waved him off.

The lights dimmed and the film began.

A little over two hours later, the lights rose again. Most of the crew were smiling, chuckling or discussing various plot points. Not Chris Pike, though. No, Chris's head was thrown back as he let out loud belly laughs.

J.J. was understandably put out. (He'd worked hard on this film! The actors had all performed wonderfully! Critics gave it good reviews! What could be so funny? He had to know.) "Captain Pike, why--?"

"Jim Kirk-- captain of the Enterprise? Captain of my 'ship?" he choked out, his shoulder shaking. "Hilarious!" Chris wiped a few tears from the corner of his eye.

Frowning, J.J. turned and stalked out. He disembarked shortly after. Strangely enough (or perhaps not), Chris never heard from him again. The film did go on to do quite well across the quadrant, though. No one else saw it as the comedy Chris did but, honestly, with Number One and Spock as his first and second officers, he was used to it.
[harry potter] bellatrix lestrange - she'll play her heart to a drum beat - pg
[note: So, I kind of ended up taking a few lines from the song of this screencap out of context and playing with that and just the image of these glasses reverberating to a beat ... tl;dr this is what happened.]



The sound of her heart is a low and steady thumping in her breast. Beneath dirty skin and ragged clothing, it has a rhythm that reminds her of the War.

For nearly fifteen years, it's what Bellatrix Lestrange wakes to; and when the hours pass and she imagines it must be dark, it's what she falls asleep to.

(Well, that and the sounds of her lovely inmates' screams from either side of her.

The walls, after all, are solid but not soundproof.)

She stays curled in the corner of her dark, wet cell where it's most comfortable, and remembers how they almost had it all - her and the Dark Lord - oh, yes. All of the brilliant, great, amazing things they were within a hair's breadth from achieving. She yearns for it so much, it aches right there - right in her gut so she feels it whenever she inhales, but also where it's pressed into the flesh of her forearm where the Dark Mark has faded into the grime and filth.

Her reward will be great. She will be by his side once more; and she will taste the power and the blood, and the screams of those who would dare not cower before her Lord. She will drink it in like a sweet, rich wine that could fill her heart and quicken its' song.

This cell is her palace, her sacrifice, her gift to the Dark Lord; it is a token of her loyalty - her love - for him, and proof that she is faithful. Always faithful.

She smiles through cracked, dried lips.

And she waits.

Edited at 2011-07-15 12:00 am (UTC)
safety net in a chaotic world, JC's Avatar, Trudy, OC, M, deals with sexual assault
By the time that Trudy made it to the right stop, it was four in the morning. She'd been in other train stations at this time of day(/night/however you want to call it), but in uniform, with a rifle and several grenades, with her squad. This time she was alone except for the scattering of other passengers as she went from train to train (shift-workers, prostitutes, medics, and other peoples of the night), unarmed except for the knife strapped to her shin underneath her jeans and the other strapped to her lower arm underneath her jacket (she had licences for them, but even if she didn't, you were an idiot to walk around unarmed at this time). And instead of being on a patrol, or clearing out the place, she was on her way to her sister.

At four in the morning.

After Frankie, working part-time as a call-girl while she studied, had called her from a police station.

Given prostitution had been legal for over a hundred years, the possibilities as to why Frankie would be calling from there weren't at all nice. So if Trudy would have been scanning her surrounds anyway, with senses and instincts honed by her two-year stint in the Marine infantry, that call had made her more on edge than normal. She tried not to show it. She kept her breathing even, her hands still, and once she got off at the right stop, she took the escalator steps two at a time.

A later text from Frankie had said that she was on the second floor above ground, at the window end of that part of the arcade. Look for the yellow tulips, Frankie had written, because apparently even now she couldn't bear to use abbreviations.

Trudy saw the cops before the tulips. A group of five, sitting at two tables pushed together in front of the only café that was still open. Not cops doing anything much, Trudy noticed with a sharp relief, just drinking coffee and eating something that could be breakfast, could be dinner, could just be a bite of something because it's four in the freaking morning and their shift was over, part-way through, just starting, whatever. Beyond them, sitting front of a closed kiosk with vases of synthetic yellow tulips behind the mesh, was Frankie. Head bowed, shoulders hunched, cradling a cup of something. Probably coffee. Aside from Frankie, the cops, and the two people at the café, the place was pretty much deserted.

“Hey Frankie-Bell,” Trudy said once she was close enough, and Frankie looked up.

[rest of fic at AO3]
Fill: Ordinary -- Tochwood, Gwen Cooper, Rhys Williams, Anwen (mild spoilers for ep 4x01)
“Once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a beautiful woman who was locked in a palace high in the trees.”

Gwen spooned a bite of applesauce into Anwen's mouth, and the little girl watched her with large bright eyes.

“Applesauce, made from our own apples on our own apple tree,” Gwen said. She wouldn't have imagined it, not even five years ago, when she was PC Gwen Cooper and nothing ever happened to her. Anwen said nothing, but Gwen imagined how she would look two or three years from now, with soft brown curls and a child's sweet voice. “Finish the story, please, Mummy.”

“Well, this girl didn't much like being locked up, but she had a secret weapon no one knew about. And it wasn't even a closet full of guns and crossbows.”

Oops. She wasn't meant to have said that. She hoped Rhys is still in the bedroom, where he couldn't hear.

“No, no one would have even guessed it was a weapon. It was her hair.”

“Why do you tell stories about women who are locked up, Mummy?” she imagined Anwen asking. No, that wasn't right. That's not what little girls ask. “Why was she locked up, Mummy?” Gwen imagined instead. There, that's better.

“Well, the truth is, her mum locked up there. It was for her protection, see. She was on the run.”

“Just going to pop out to the garden for a bit, love.”

Gwen jumped; she hadn't heard Rhys come up behind her.

“You alright?”

Gwen nodded.

“Just startled a bit, I suppose.”

Really, this had to stop, jumping at every strange little sound as if it's the government come to take her away from her daughter. She peered around the corner, waiting for the front door to close behind her husband. Then she turned back to Anwen, smiling conspiratorially.

“Don't tell anyone, but actually, she was on the run from aliens. There were all kinds of aliens. Some of them did drugs and looked like fish, and some of them inhabited people's bodies, and some of them were like robots pretending to be people.”

She spoke a little faster, keeping her eye on the window to make sure Rhys was still in the garden. She fancied Anwen was watching her more intently now, longing to hear about the aliens just as much as her mum longed to tell about them.

“Mostly, she hid from the aliens, but every once in great while, she let down her long hair and a man climbed up it. He looked young and old at the same time, and he wore a great coat like he'd just come home from the war. Sometimes he came just to tell her about his long adventures in outer space – and they were long, because he couldn't die – but sometimes he and the woman climbed down from the forest and fought the aliens together.”

“Gwen!”

She jumped again. She hadn't heard the door open, hadn.'t been watching the window.

“I thought we'd agreed. No more stories like this.”

She looked at Anwen, whose eyes were still sparkling bright.

“Right,” she said. “I'd forgot we're ordinary.”


Edited at 2011-07-11 10:13 pm (UTC)