our seasons of joy and mockery
felicia hardy (with a side of johnny storm)
969 words - pg. sort of.
for shelightsupwell.

( the holiday season makes misanthropes of us all. )

and we made an ill-matched symmetry.
Charlotte Charles/Jeff Winger (Pushing Daises/Community crossover)
2643 words - pg
for ineffort. And I have no idea how it turned out to be this long either.

( and the squares began to become circles. )

Oh look, this is me getting memey in lieu of actually talking about anything. I missed these days (not by much, but enough to count). Plus this could be fun.

First ten to comment get a short fic of their choosing (as long as I know who the characters you want are and feel capable of writing them). In exchange, you have to post something similar (offering fics or sketches or what have you) in your journal.

It may not be spectacular, but I can write these while I'm at work and I promise that they will at the very least be interesting. For a given value of interesting.

Claimed so far:

1. Community (free for all) - austen
2. Laura Roslin & Kara Thrace (gen) - gramercy
3. Jeff Winger/Charlotte Charles - ineffort
4. Felicia Hardy (with a side of Johnny Storm) - shelightsupwell
5. Richard Cypher/Jodi Sawyer - pulltheripchord
6. Alice & Rosalie - pseudicide
7. Old!Skool Whomas - whatwedo

I started out rewriting a fairytale. It wasn't/isn't going how I want, so I'll come back to it, because I want to continue it. I just need time. Instead, I wrote this (and I ate some mac & cheese, but really this is in competition to be cooler).

gonna to be rockstars

( saving the world, one film reference at a time )

NaNo starts tomorrow and in my madness I'm doing it.

For those who might be interested in reading it as I plan on posting my madness (oh what funtimes it'll be...I also have the piece that I'm basing it off of, up there as well), everything is located at bodiesburnup because Bodies Burn Up, is the title of it.

(Why? Because of the riff, "our hearts get bigger, but our bodies burn up". It'll make sense I promise. Go on. Click it.)

And now, back to my Overzee panels.

i wrote post-deathly hallows fic. yes i know. i did it anyways. this is just the first one, but i can't post the other two as i sobbed so hard while writing them, they're going up later.

missed the sun (for orlanstamos)

YOUR BOY IS LIKE A MEMORY
WITH SOME SENSE OF TOUCH AND A MELODY
YOUR GIRL SHE'S A RENEGADE
A HURRICANE THAT KEEPS YOU THERE, SAFE

( in our darkest hour )

I like pickmeups. And this one does it. Help me, help you.

First Kiss (or....Last Kiss) Meme
You give me two characters, and I'll tell you how their first kiss or because I like to change things, their last kiss went. Fandoms I'll write for are...well, nearly anything. I take challenges very well. It's more a matter of what won't I write. And even that gets done eventually [eyes that waiting NHL slash].

cracks and lines
written for orlanstamos, because hell is not just a sauna (and neither is finals week). also, andy came back, which makes us all very happy. noisy headvoices.

And we've lost the people we could've loved in you
What you know you have or what you think you want
It's never perfect
It's bound to melt your heart
One way or another
( numbers are things for people who don't need words )

Not anything written from suggestion (though those will come), but last night I was given, Arthur Miller inspired smut. Sort of.


We grip at our hands
We hold just a little tight
After the bombs
After the bombs subside
( then we'll go dancing... )

It is in the darkest hours, those just before dawn, before waking, that the dreams he would rather not ask for come.

These are the dreams he always remembers. These are the dreams of things he’s not quite certain he’s forgotten.

How she laughed, her face pressed up against the smooth glass of a window, scrunched and wrinkled, that time she had him stand in the park at night with his eyes closed and promise not to open them. A memory of her in wings, looking like a street corner angel, dreams of how her hair smelled and how she would clench and unclench her fists when angry. The appendix scar that she referred to in a funny way, how she had funny names for everything. Socks on her hands, the long silver and green earrings.

Hundreds of blurred images in dreams.

The alarm beeps, quieter at first, then louder and louder, a throbbing interruption in his ear and for a long while he isn’t sure if it is him beeping, ready to explode or something else. Whatever it is, it evaporates the instant he slams his palm against the clock, and for a moment he just lays there.

A slow, soft brush of a hand across his cheek. A gentle kiss. His heart accelerates, and he slowly opens an eye, peering the direction of the touches. It’s her, staring at him, half-clad in a too big shirt and socks that don’t match, but he’s certain they never did.

“I’m already gone,” she says, smiling at him and brushing the hair from his eyes.

And she’s right.

The start of something probably a lot bigger. Because I like to play with older things.


( boring, brown shoes )

It slips off the tongue, a fallacy, a half true; the fiction that is her identity, a new name for a place that no longer exists. A world that has risen from the ashes of the old world, the new age that has dawned. It’s a new skin, a cloak that protects her and reeks of old, of the dead, and she can smell it on her, that death and decay, but now it doesn’t matter.

For now she lies.

It drips off her tongue and it’s amazing how easy that first time is. How little effort it takes to break free, to forget when she can simply ignore the memories (there are no artifacts to stare her in the face, to remind her). A deep breath, a collected smile, simple, almost sweet, as if it remembers what it was like before the rain burned and sizzled on the pavement and the earth was dead.

“What’s your name?”

A very simple question.

She smiles, turns her face away for a moment, almost coyly, a flicker of a put upon blush on her face as she tucks a hair behind her ear and bites her lip. She looks up again, and the fateful word just flies out of her mouth and it amazes even her.

“Eve. My name is Eve.”

No. It’s not. My name is Laura. It’s always been Laura, it was my grandmother’s name; I don’t know who this Eve is.

He smiles, satisfied, and the rain continues to sizzle on the broken earth, poison to everything it touches, a danger to them all.

“Well, Eve, you’re in luck. I’m Adam.”