(no subject)

unbeta'd. Incomplete. Chunks missing all over the place.

Petting. Idly, casual affection that was more to do with the natural, mild hedonism of stroking the slight, pleasing roughness of denim than any kind of deliberate attempt to give comfort. Hands are not naturally still, they like to move and feel.

Orlando shifted and Elijah and Atti were forced to move with him. the static, comfortable feel vanished and sudden aches were felt. Atti could feel the numbness that orecedes pins and needles on one hand and Elijah sat up, pushed away from his comfortable niche on Orlando's shoulder. His eyes were wide and blinking slowly, trying to focus.

"I'm going to put the kettle on," Orlando said, standing up and stretching. His T-shirt rode up slightly, and Atti watched with almost aesthetic appreciation. "Do you want anything?" Said either to him or Elijah, who still looked half-asleep.

"Tea? Milk and one sugar," Elijah said.

Elijah leaned against Atti, curled around, head tucked in like he was already sleeping.

Snippet 2, Elijah/Viggo

His mouth was just there, in the exact position for a kiss.

When someone said half a line from a play he'd been in, he always felt the urge to finish it. He would sing along to half-heard songs in the radio, filling in the missing lines. he was aware of the positioning of bodies like a choreographer or a director is, alwyas trying to find the correct way for someone to stand to frame the scene.

When Elijah looked up, smiling, mouth slightly open, in exactly the same way that a million actors and actresses had stood on stage and screen, waiting for the kiss and their next line, Viggo felt the weight of that expectation pushing down on him.

He bent his head and kissed him.

Snippet 3

"Jailbait boy," Orlando hissed, teasing and not. "You look like you're twelve, tops."

Elijah looked up, wished that he didn't have to. "I don't," he emant to say. "I'm not," is what came out.

"I know that," Orlando said.

The men -boys- he went for always asked for ID before they bought him a drink, asked him put.

farscape snippet

farscape snippet

Crichton has always listened to the voices in his head. Not split personality, not total schizophrenia, but every time he wrote a paper, he could hear his mother, her voice like an echo in every sentence. His dad going through the pre-flight check.

He knows that Harvey is not him. Harvey is an alien consciousness, carved out onto his brain.

All this time, and he's started to think that what he really wants is someone that won't give up on him. Can't think of anyone like that here, not anymore.

Life in the UTs is starting to blur at the edges. He's losing his landmarks and one commerce planet blends into another. Space is calm and beautiful and freeing. Zhaan has her meditation, communing with the Goddess while Stark communes with her, but she can hear the song of her family too loudly to properly let go.

Moya sings of space and freedom, sings to her Pilot of beautiful emptiness and the joy of travel. Crichton looks at the stars and thinks.

wip snippets

He had never been able to hide himself well enough to be missed as a target and quite frankly, he wasn't agressive enough to make himself a dangerous one. He could be pleasant and charming; was, in fact, whenever he could be.

Obviously, someone had made a note in his file quite early on. "Good observational skills, but can be taken advantage of by superiors (see appendix for best approaches)". Like one of the NATO secretaries who would comiserate with him over being assigned to this boss or another. The job was good enough for him to put up with the unpleasantness.

His transfer to work under the cheif had been greeted with dismay, but not surprise. He suspected it was a favour to a friend, one of the mild internal bribes the office thrived on. He'd packed up his desk in a box, been sent on his way with a mixture of commiserations and congratulations, headed down to the office.

The Chief had been everything he'd expected. G had made an effort on his first day to blend in. No dresses, barely any make-up. Pointless in the long run, since it'd only be a day before he'd slip and add some pretty silk scarf to an outfit, or stress over a deadlien would prompt him to wear his nice crystal earrings.

Particularly pointless in this case, since the Cheif had already seen G's file. They'd even met when G was working for his last boss but one. So G was trying to avoid the sweaty hands already staining his dull, but useful, navy suit when the Major stormed into the office.

Utterly beautiful and G had a tendency to fall in love at first sight anyway.

He needed a protector, someone to hide behind when colleagues were as bad as enemies. He needed someone to protect him from his superiors.

He needed the Major. The Major disliked his dresses of course, hated the make-up and jewellery and hairstyles. But he forgave all of that so long as G did his job well. The Major was violent and prejudiced and G was considered unbelievabely lucky t have never been hit.

The Major had ordered him to brush up on his selfdefense