And for all this I'm writing fic for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sharp_teeth instead
Nov. 4th, 2010 12:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elvenpirateladyMeme: Post a snippet of all the WIPs you can find on your computer.
Organised by fandom, varies between serious and utter crack.
The Feanorians come back as zombies when they die.
‘Raw meat,’ said Maitimo faintly, ‘that’s what he wants to eat.’
‘He always did love to hunt,’ said Pityo.
‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ said Tyelko, still lying spread-eagled on the floor.
‘Graaaaaaaagh,’ said Umbarto appreciatively, and shuffled back to his corner of the tent.
...
Fingon and his hawk, Maedhros, and Maedhros.
‘Sorry, Maitimo,’ said Tyelko innocently. ‘I didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers.’
If their parents found Tyelko throttled to death with his own bowstring, Maitimo thought savagely as he strode away, nobody could say he had not been provoked. Except that nobody was going to know about this. Ever.
...
Elves at summer camp, spinning off one of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
minviendha's ideas.
‘Sod off, Gil!’ Maeglin could have said much more regarding what Gil could do with himself instead of torturing him, but “foul and abusive language” was another casualty of the new rules and Fingon had probably installed microphones in all the cabins. Instead he did his best to give Gil the glare of imminent death through narrowed eyes that were still adjusting to the sudden brightness.
...
Growing Up Finwean: Lise and I turned Fingon into Edward from Growing Up Cullen and it all went downhill from there.
He frowns at the bookcase. Someone (Celegorm, most likely, in a juvenile attempt at revenge for his ridiculous game) has put all of his books out of order, and someone else (probably Maitimo, being very thoughtful, as if he doesn’t have enough to worry about) has tried to put them back in order. He appreciates the effort but Maitimo has forgotten that he is currently ordering his books by year of publication, not by title. As he begins to rearrange them in their proper order, a dread thought crosses his mind. He picks up A Tale of Two Cities and opens it gingerly...
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times beams back at him reassuringly, to his great relief. He didn’t think Celegorm would have enough time to replace his books with pornography hidden behind the familiar covers, but after he lent what he thought was Daniel Daronda to poor Mrs Naismith from the Neighbourhood Watch, he can’t be too careful. She was very kind about it – she hardly seemed to mind at all, the poor dear – but he was mortified. Not that he should have been surprised by Celegorm and Caranthir’s antics. He can only hope that they don’t gain influence over Irisse and Artanis, forced as they are to live under the same roof as such uncouth cousins. He can hardly believe that Maitimo came from the same stock.
...
Growing Up Finwean: The Boyfriend
‘It’s so nice to meet you at last,’ says Fingon, extending his hand. ‘I see you’ve already met Caranthir,’ in a tone that other people probably use to say, I see you’ve been mugged. ‘I’m Fingon.’
Celeborn looks Fingon up and down, shakes his hand firmly, and says clearly and utterly unmistakeably, ‘Teleporno.’
‘I – I should certainly hope not!’ Fingon says in shock. ‘This is a family home!’
Celeborn raises one eyebrow and one corner of his mouth very slightly. Galadriel sighs quietly. Fingon stares at him, the shock on his face slowly turning into very polite mortification.
And Caranthir swigs his beer and thinks that he could learn to like Galadriel’s weird boyfriend after all.
...
Feanor goes to confront Indis and runs into an unexpected issue.
‘I only just got home myself, you see,’ Indis continued. ‘I went for a good long run today in the hills, and I only just got back from the baths.’ She ran her long, slender fingers through her hair as she spoke. The long strands, usually the colour of sunlight, had turned dark from the damp and were sticking to her bare arms, which were shaded lightly golden. Her skin glistened. Feanor found it appalling. Proper upstanding wives of Noldor men did not glisten. His mother had never glistened. His mother had certainly not worn such indecently revealing clothes either. She had dressed in rich, fine cloth that she embroidered herself, not loose fluttery paper-thin white pieces of cloth that weren’t worn so much as draped across the body, leaving the arms and other parts of the body scandalously bare –
‘Are you feeling well, Feanaro?’ said Indis, looking concerned. ‘You were staring into space for quite a few moments.’
‘Fine,’ he managed, ‘I’m quite fine.’
...
Artanis is getting her foresight powers, and is freaking out about it. Angrod is an awesome older brother but doesn't really understand what she's going through.
‘You’re not wrong,’ he said angrily. He was going to have to have a serious talk with the servants about spreading gossip where his sister could hear it in her current delicate state. Nerwen was gazing into the distance absently; he squeezed her hands to bring her back to herself. ‘Ner, listen, whatever you hear, whatever anyone tells you, there is nothing wrong with you. You are extraordinary. But not wrong.’
‘I never used to think so,’ she said. ‘But then I saw those things… they came so slowly at first; I can barely remember when they started. I thought I imagined them all… then they came more often, two or three at a time. I woke up every morning wondering if one would come today, if I’d be alone when it happened. If I felt one coming I’d try to get away, but some of them come so fast… a door closing, someone setting their cup down, Mother tossing her hair, the smell of lavender… anything causes them to come racing up out of my stomach. I try not to say them, and it hurts, like taking a mouthful of tea that’s too hot. They burn my mouth but I can’t let them out and hurt anyone else, I just can’t. And now they come almost all the time and what if they don’t stop, Ang? What if they never stop?’
...
In Nargothrond, Huan is not the only one listening to Luthien. (Finduilas would probably read a lot of Agatha Christie and Nancy Drew books if she had access to them.)
The fresh air does help, but probably not the way Celegorm intended. With a clear head, Finduilas relieves the brief exchange, and she is sure that there was a voice coming from the room. The murmur changed tone so it couldn’t be from a machine, and it was too tuneful to come from a creaking pipe. Celegorm was quick to stop her looking any further, and he knew that suddenly being concerned about her health would make her go away (the last time he took her arm was when she’d drunk only a little too much wine at her uncle’s birthday and so she was only a little bit unsteady, and he pinched her, possibly without meaning to. She hasn’t let him touch her (not that he’s tried) since then.) So he distracted her and made her go away quickly, and he (probably, because you must make allowance for being a Feanorian) wouldn’t do that if it was just a locked and empty room.
And the doorknob wasn’t coated with dust, and Finduilas doesn’t know anyone, not even a Feanorian, who goes around zealously polishing doorknobs whether they’re in use or not.
Merlin has gone missing, presumed captured, Arthur has been locked up to stop him going to the rescue, and I'm not entirely sure what happened before this.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Rowan while Arthur tried to convey through glaring alone that he was the crown prince, dammit, and disobeying him was practically treason, ‘but we have strict orders not to let you through this door under any circumstances.’ Something about the way he said ‘door’ made Arthur stop inventing new ways to torture rebellious guards and look at him again. Rowan stared back, his expression bland, but Rory caught his eye and then looked pointedly at a grate set into the floor. Arthur edged away from the door and bent down to look at it. The lock on the grate was rusted through and it looked large enough for a thin person with enough incentive to lower themselves through it if they didn’t mind losing half the skin on their sides. But the air wafting up through it smelled dank and moist and suddenly, horribly familiar...
‘Oh,’ said Arthur, ‘oh no. No. Absolutely not.’
Some hours later a shuffling, dripping, slimy, filth-covered thing emerged from one of the drains that discharged Camelot’s sewer, looked at itself in the moonlight and shuddered with disgust, and waded into the river and across to the other side. Merlin had better be in utter, absolute, hopeless, fearing-for-his-immortal-soul danger.
...
In which the griffin carcass from that episode all the way back in season one is plundered for meat and shenanigans occur.
‘Try it, I insist,’ said Arthur, and Merlin cautiously took a bite from the pastry. He tasted onions in a pleasantly salt sauce, and some sort of meat. That made him pause. ‘Sir,’ he mumbled with his mouth full, ‘there isn’t anything... magical about this, is there?’
‘Nothing except the magic of cooking,’ said Arthur, ‘certainly no griffin in it. Nothing but the finest quality pigeon.’
‘Oh,’ said Merlin, swallowing with some effort. ‘Tastes like chicken.’
...
In a modern AU, Arthur and Merlin are growing old disgracefully together, and turn into the uncles at family gatherings that teach their younger relatives how to swear.
‘We tried to have a beard-growing competition once, remember?’ said Merlin. ‘You accused me of using magic.’
‘I maintain that no beard can become that thick and luxurious on its own,’ said Arthur.
‘Just because you never used to use any products–’
‘I’m not a girl, Merlin.’
‘Other men use product in their beards. You were walking around looking like you’d been interrupted in the middle of eating a bleached badger. The amount of food scraps that got caught in it…’
‘Yes, well,’ said Arthur, ‘I learned my lesson, didn’t I? You didn’t all have to plot together and each get me an electric razor for Christmas that year.’
‘We were desperate,’ said Merlin. ‘Besides, you haven’t had to buy a razor for ten years now, so we were really doing you a favour.’
AU about halfway between the Mirrorverse and Reality As We Know It: Kirk doesn't get on the Enterprise, a lot of our favourite characters die, and the universe changes again.
Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Excelsior. If he squints so his vision blurs, it almost looks right.
...
The crew watches that other famous scifi movie where a planet gets destroyed.
Bones thinks the damn film could have been disastrous for Starfleet if they used it to model their medical resources; as it is it’s negligent at best and the only reason he’d show it is for a seminar of how not to treat injured folk. For God’s sake, the woman is subjected to laser fire, biochemical torture, psychological torture, PTSD from having your damn planet blown away before your eyes because you didn’t give the right name and an unthinkable amount of infections and germs from that garbage compartment and no-one even thinks to wave a tricorder over Princess Leia when they get to safety? It’s a goddamn miracle the rebels didn’t implode from malpractice.
...
Winona fulfils a very personal (and at the same time, astonishingly common) thirst for revenge.
Nero is not going to hold the Federation hostage for a genocide that never happened, not while there’s a Kirk left in the universe.
...
T'Pring has an argument with her father about going to the Vulcan Science Academy and wins through logic and strategic use of hydrangeas.
‘Logic indicates that this is so. Why, then, would a child be deliberately placed in an environment that is not conducive to its development and expected to develop in the same manner as if it was placed in an environment suited to its needs?’
‘It would not, for that is not logical.’
‘Why, then, are women not taught the same subjects as men, and to an equal level?’
‘Explain your logic,’ said her father.
...
Gaila's in the Federation now, but her brain hasn't caught up yet.
Gaila finds it somewhat disturbing that even after five years in the Federation, she can still recite the oath of loyalty the Syndicate made her swear at a moment’s notice, or that she can look at an engine and know how to make it fly beautifully or how to sabotage it so subtly and slowly that it will fall out of the sky after six months, or how to overload it so it doesn’t last another hour. She worries herself when she spends time with men and knows the pheromones to produce to make them do what she wants in a matter of weeks, days or seconds, depending on the intensity, and the ones that will leave them dead before they hit the floor.
...
Gaila has a thing or two to say to the researchers who started this idea of Orion women enslaving men through pheromones. (Ie, I try to work out that Enterprize episode.)
Firstly because it’s only from the evidence of one crew who encountered them, even if the captain is now an Admiral; secondly because little to no research has been done (although it’s not like many Orions have been forthcoming about it, but Gaila volunteers for some pheromone research if they want it); thirdly because one incident has guided Starfleet policy about Orions and pheromone control ever since. And how convenient that the crew, who is mostly male, can say we couldn’t help it the evil sexy Orion women controlled us with their evil sexy body chemicals, it’s not our fault we couldn’t control ourselves. And how does the sex slavery system hold up after this? Do they think an Orion woman would supposedly pretend to be a slave a moment longer than she had to? If Orion women really control Orion men why is there still a sex slavery trade at all?
...
Gaila is related to plants and so finds the idea of giving someone flowers (severed genitals) utterly abhorrent. Uhura tries to understand, Spock tries to convince her that this is not an issue that is going to cause uproar in the wider world, and Kirk learns the hard way.
Gaila thought the custom to give someone you liked flowers was nothing short of barbaric. How would someone feel if she gave them a bunch of human cocks?
...
Gaila's in one of the escape pods from the Farragut, and happens to relive a traumatic childhood incident while she's waiting to be rescued.
Gaila is somewhere around eight years old, and skinny for her age, and she had no reason not to distrust the bridge of iron and wood that supported her on every other crossing of her life, and now she is dangling from a long limb of rusted metal with wooden splinters still clinging to it like meat shreds on a bone, listening to half of the bridge splash into the river some two hundred metres below.
Gaila is twenty-eight years and seven days old and ate what must have been half her weight in pancakes five hours ago, and she had no reason not to distrust the Farragut made of iron and plastic, even if its maiden voyage was fifteen years ago and it has never been beautiful, and now she is clinging to the control panel of her escape pod, watching part of the bridge collide with one of the Antares’ nascelles.
So in conclusion, I have a lot of things to be working on, and so I'll be back to haunting comment fic fests for a while.
Organised by fandom, varies between serious and utter crack.
The Feanorians come back as zombies when they die.
‘Raw meat,’ said Maitimo faintly, ‘that’s what he wants to eat.’
‘He always did love to hunt,’ said Pityo.
‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ said Tyelko, still lying spread-eagled on the floor.
‘Graaaaaaaagh,’ said Umbarto appreciatively, and shuffled back to his corner of the tent.
...
Fingon and his hawk, Maedhros, and Maedhros.
‘Sorry, Maitimo,’ said Tyelko innocently. ‘I didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers.’
If their parents found Tyelko throttled to death with his own bowstring, Maitimo thought savagely as he strode away, nobody could say he had not been provoked. Except that nobody was going to know about this. Ever.
...
Elves at summer camp, spinning off one of
minviendha's ideas.‘Sod off, Gil!’ Maeglin could have said much more regarding what Gil could do with himself instead of torturing him, but “foul and abusive language” was another casualty of the new rules and Fingon had probably installed microphones in all the cabins. Instead he did his best to give Gil the glare of imminent death through narrowed eyes that were still adjusting to the sudden brightness.
...
Growing Up Finwean: Lise and I turned Fingon into Edward from Growing Up Cullen and it all went downhill from there.
He frowns at the bookcase. Someone (Celegorm, most likely, in a juvenile attempt at revenge for his ridiculous game) has put all of his books out of order, and someone else (probably Maitimo, being very thoughtful, as if he doesn’t have enough to worry about) has tried to put them back in order. He appreciates the effort but Maitimo has forgotten that he is currently ordering his books by year of publication, not by title. As he begins to rearrange them in their proper order, a dread thought crosses his mind. He picks up A Tale of Two Cities and opens it gingerly...
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times beams back at him reassuringly, to his great relief. He didn’t think Celegorm would have enough time to replace his books with pornography hidden behind the familiar covers, but after he lent what he thought was Daniel Daronda to poor Mrs Naismith from the Neighbourhood Watch, he can’t be too careful. She was very kind about it – she hardly seemed to mind at all, the poor dear – but he was mortified. Not that he should have been surprised by Celegorm and Caranthir’s antics. He can only hope that they don’t gain influence over Irisse and Artanis, forced as they are to live under the same roof as such uncouth cousins. He can hardly believe that Maitimo came from the same stock.
...
Growing Up Finwean: The Boyfriend
‘It’s so nice to meet you at last,’ says Fingon, extending his hand. ‘I see you’ve already met Caranthir,’ in a tone that other people probably use to say, I see you’ve been mugged. ‘I’m Fingon.’
Celeborn looks Fingon up and down, shakes his hand firmly, and says clearly and utterly unmistakeably, ‘Teleporno.’
‘I – I should certainly hope not!’ Fingon says in shock. ‘This is a family home!’
Celeborn raises one eyebrow and one corner of his mouth very slightly. Galadriel sighs quietly. Fingon stares at him, the shock on his face slowly turning into very polite mortification.
And Caranthir swigs his beer and thinks that he could learn to like Galadriel’s weird boyfriend after all.
...
Feanor goes to confront Indis and runs into an unexpected issue.
‘I only just got home myself, you see,’ Indis continued. ‘I went for a good long run today in the hills, and I only just got back from the baths.’ She ran her long, slender fingers through her hair as she spoke. The long strands, usually the colour of sunlight, had turned dark from the damp and were sticking to her bare arms, which were shaded lightly golden. Her skin glistened. Feanor found it appalling. Proper upstanding wives of Noldor men did not glisten. His mother had never glistened. His mother had certainly not worn such indecently revealing clothes either. She had dressed in rich, fine cloth that she embroidered herself, not loose fluttery paper-thin white pieces of cloth that weren’t worn so much as draped across the body, leaving the arms and other parts of the body scandalously bare –
‘Are you feeling well, Feanaro?’ said Indis, looking concerned. ‘You were staring into space for quite a few moments.’
‘Fine,’ he managed, ‘I’m quite fine.’
...
Artanis is getting her foresight powers, and is freaking out about it. Angrod is an awesome older brother but doesn't really understand what she's going through.
‘You’re not wrong,’ he said angrily. He was going to have to have a serious talk with the servants about spreading gossip where his sister could hear it in her current delicate state. Nerwen was gazing into the distance absently; he squeezed her hands to bring her back to herself. ‘Ner, listen, whatever you hear, whatever anyone tells you, there is nothing wrong with you. You are extraordinary. But not wrong.’
‘I never used to think so,’ she said. ‘But then I saw those things… they came so slowly at first; I can barely remember when they started. I thought I imagined them all… then they came more often, two or three at a time. I woke up every morning wondering if one would come today, if I’d be alone when it happened. If I felt one coming I’d try to get away, but some of them come so fast… a door closing, someone setting their cup down, Mother tossing her hair, the smell of lavender… anything causes them to come racing up out of my stomach. I try not to say them, and it hurts, like taking a mouthful of tea that’s too hot. They burn my mouth but I can’t let them out and hurt anyone else, I just can’t. And now they come almost all the time and what if they don’t stop, Ang? What if they never stop?’
...
In Nargothrond, Huan is not the only one listening to Luthien. (Finduilas would probably read a lot of Agatha Christie and Nancy Drew books if she had access to them.)
The fresh air does help, but probably not the way Celegorm intended. With a clear head, Finduilas relieves the brief exchange, and she is sure that there was a voice coming from the room. The murmur changed tone so it couldn’t be from a machine, and it was too tuneful to come from a creaking pipe. Celegorm was quick to stop her looking any further, and he knew that suddenly being concerned about her health would make her go away (the last time he took her arm was when she’d drunk only a little too much wine at her uncle’s birthday and so she was only a little bit unsteady, and he pinched her, possibly without meaning to. She hasn’t let him touch her (not that he’s tried) since then.) So he distracted her and made her go away quickly, and he (probably, because you must make allowance for being a Feanorian) wouldn’t do that if it was just a locked and empty room.
And the doorknob wasn’t coated with dust, and Finduilas doesn’t know anyone, not even a Feanorian, who goes around zealously polishing doorknobs whether they’re in use or not.
Merlin has gone missing, presumed captured, Arthur has been locked up to stop him going to the rescue, and I'm not entirely sure what happened before this.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Rowan while Arthur tried to convey through glaring alone that he was the crown prince, dammit, and disobeying him was practically treason, ‘but we have strict orders not to let you through this door under any circumstances.’ Something about the way he said ‘door’ made Arthur stop inventing new ways to torture rebellious guards and look at him again. Rowan stared back, his expression bland, but Rory caught his eye and then looked pointedly at a grate set into the floor. Arthur edged away from the door and bent down to look at it. The lock on the grate was rusted through and it looked large enough for a thin person with enough incentive to lower themselves through it if they didn’t mind losing half the skin on their sides. But the air wafting up through it smelled dank and moist and suddenly, horribly familiar...
‘Oh,’ said Arthur, ‘oh no. No. Absolutely not.’
Some hours later a shuffling, dripping, slimy, filth-covered thing emerged from one of the drains that discharged Camelot’s sewer, looked at itself in the moonlight and shuddered with disgust, and waded into the river and across to the other side. Merlin had better be in utter, absolute, hopeless, fearing-for-his-immortal-soul danger.
...
In which the griffin carcass from that episode all the way back in season one is plundered for meat and shenanigans occur.
‘Try it, I insist,’ said Arthur, and Merlin cautiously took a bite from the pastry. He tasted onions in a pleasantly salt sauce, and some sort of meat. That made him pause. ‘Sir,’ he mumbled with his mouth full, ‘there isn’t anything... magical about this, is there?’
‘Nothing except the magic of cooking,’ said Arthur, ‘certainly no griffin in it. Nothing but the finest quality pigeon.’
‘Oh,’ said Merlin, swallowing with some effort. ‘Tastes like chicken.’
...
In a modern AU, Arthur and Merlin are growing old disgracefully together, and turn into the uncles at family gatherings that teach their younger relatives how to swear.
‘We tried to have a beard-growing competition once, remember?’ said Merlin. ‘You accused me of using magic.’
‘I maintain that no beard can become that thick and luxurious on its own,’ said Arthur.
‘Just because you never used to use any products–’
‘I’m not a girl, Merlin.’
‘Other men use product in their beards. You were walking around looking like you’d been interrupted in the middle of eating a bleached badger. The amount of food scraps that got caught in it…’
‘Yes, well,’ said Arthur, ‘I learned my lesson, didn’t I? You didn’t all have to plot together and each get me an electric razor for Christmas that year.’
‘We were desperate,’ said Merlin. ‘Besides, you haven’t had to buy a razor for ten years now, so we were really doing you a favour.’
AU about halfway between the Mirrorverse and Reality As We Know It: Kirk doesn't get on the Enterprise, a lot of our favourite characters die, and the universe changes again.
Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Excelsior. If he squints so his vision blurs, it almost looks right.
...
The crew watches that other famous scifi movie where a planet gets destroyed.
Bones thinks the damn film could have been disastrous for Starfleet if they used it to model their medical resources; as it is it’s negligent at best and the only reason he’d show it is for a seminar of how not to treat injured folk. For God’s sake, the woman is subjected to laser fire, biochemical torture, psychological torture, PTSD from having your damn planet blown away before your eyes because you didn’t give the right name and an unthinkable amount of infections and germs from that garbage compartment and no-one even thinks to wave a tricorder over Princess Leia when they get to safety? It’s a goddamn miracle the rebels didn’t implode from malpractice.
...
Winona fulfils a very personal (and at the same time, astonishingly common) thirst for revenge.
Nero is not going to hold the Federation hostage for a genocide that never happened, not while there’s a Kirk left in the universe.
...
T'Pring has an argument with her father about going to the Vulcan Science Academy and wins through logic and strategic use of hydrangeas.
‘Logic indicates that this is so. Why, then, would a child be deliberately placed in an environment that is not conducive to its development and expected to develop in the same manner as if it was placed in an environment suited to its needs?’
‘It would not, for that is not logical.’
‘Why, then, are women not taught the same subjects as men, and to an equal level?’
‘Explain your logic,’ said her father.
...
Gaila's in the Federation now, but her brain hasn't caught up yet.
Gaila finds it somewhat disturbing that even after five years in the Federation, she can still recite the oath of loyalty the Syndicate made her swear at a moment’s notice, or that she can look at an engine and know how to make it fly beautifully or how to sabotage it so subtly and slowly that it will fall out of the sky after six months, or how to overload it so it doesn’t last another hour. She worries herself when she spends time with men and knows the pheromones to produce to make them do what she wants in a matter of weeks, days or seconds, depending on the intensity, and the ones that will leave them dead before they hit the floor.
...
Gaila has a thing or two to say to the researchers who started this idea of Orion women enslaving men through pheromones. (Ie, I try to work out that Enterprize episode.)
Firstly because it’s only from the evidence of one crew who encountered them, even if the captain is now an Admiral; secondly because little to no research has been done (although it’s not like many Orions have been forthcoming about it, but Gaila volunteers for some pheromone research if they want it); thirdly because one incident has guided Starfleet policy about Orions and pheromone control ever since. And how convenient that the crew, who is mostly male, can say we couldn’t help it the evil sexy Orion women controlled us with their evil sexy body chemicals, it’s not our fault we couldn’t control ourselves. And how does the sex slavery system hold up after this? Do they think an Orion woman would supposedly pretend to be a slave a moment longer than she had to? If Orion women really control Orion men why is there still a sex slavery trade at all?
...
Gaila is related to plants and so finds the idea of giving someone flowers (severed genitals) utterly abhorrent. Uhura tries to understand, Spock tries to convince her that this is not an issue that is going to cause uproar in the wider world, and Kirk learns the hard way.
Gaila thought the custom to give someone you liked flowers was nothing short of barbaric. How would someone feel if she gave them a bunch of human cocks?
...
Gaila's in one of the escape pods from the Farragut, and happens to relive a traumatic childhood incident while she's waiting to be rescued.
Gaila is somewhere around eight years old, and skinny for her age, and she had no reason not to distrust the bridge of iron and wood that supported her on every other crossing of her life, and now she is dangling from a long limb of rusted metal with wooden splinters still clinging to it like meat shreds on a bone, listening to half of the bridge splash into the river some two hundred metres below.
Gaila is twenty-eight years and seven days old and ate what must have been half her weight in pancakes five hours ago, and she had no reason not to distrust the Farragut made of iron and plastic, even if its maiden voyage was fifteen years ago and it has never been beautiful, and now she is clinging to the control panel of her escape pod, watching part of the bridge collide with one of the Antares’ nascelles.
So in conclusion, I have a lot of things to be working on, and so I'll be back to haunting comment fic fests for a while.
