Martini's Olive

Sunday Slashchat Comin' Up!

melissima — Sun, 21 Oct 2018 19:16:16 GMT

Come relax and play with us!
We're chatting in the Garage at BTN today, October 21, between 12 and 2 pm Pacific time, 3 and 5 pm Eastern Time, 9 pm to 11 pm UTC+2. (Let me know if you need help figuring out when this is in your time zone!)
You can use the new flash-based version, or the new link to the old java client to log in.
See you there!
"

Scene objectives and the decision wheel

melissima — Mon, 19 Mar 2018 19:28:27 GMT

A philosophy of fiction that I like very much holds that characters get one of two outcomes from a scene,
governed by the following two questions:

Question 1: What is the characters' objective in this scene? This is an objective that will be resolved by the end of the scene. It is a baby step toward the overarching goal of the story.

Question 2: Will the characters achieve the objective successfully? OR did they fail to achieve the objective?

Question 3: What are the consequences of that success or failure? Even when things do go the way your characters hope, it's your job as a writer to make sure that success earns them more trouble, at least until the climax. After all, trouble is what creates tension!

Sometimes I over think the answers to these questions. Even though I'm mostly a pantser, I do want my plots to be sufficiently complex and logical. Anything too obvious is boring. So I like to add a little chance into the process. Behold, the wheel of character consequences!

So the way to use this is:
Step 1: Ask yourself question 1, note your answer.
Step 2: Ask yourself question 2 and spin the wheel. Record the result, either YES, But... or NO And...
Step 3: This is the MOST IMPORTANT step. DO NOT SKIP!! Replace those ellipses up there with your answer to Question 3. You may notice that there is no option on the wheel for answers like, "No, but..." or "Yes! Yay!" This is because, of course, those options would destroy the tension in the story, break your promises to the reader, or both. There is also no response for MAYBE or PARTIALLY. This is because the stronger emotions associated with clear victory or devastating failure make it more likely that readers will be moved by the events in the scene. It does not eliminate the possibility of ambiguity or pyrrhic victory; It just means that those more confusing realizations should come a beat or two later than the realization of success or failure.

Fic: Killing Kenneth Webster

melissima — Fri, 01 Jan 2016 05:25:22 GMT

Title: Killing Kenneth Webster
A Gift For: Sailorhathor for Yuletide 2014
Fandom: Miracles, Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Paul Callan (Miracles) / Dean Winchester (Supernatural), Alva Keel (Miracles), Evie Santos (Miracles), Bobby Singer (Supernatural), Sam Winchester (Supernatural)
Rating: FRAO
Length: 2,364
Summary: Since that day in the ICU, he'd dreamed it a thousand times.

A late night call from Boston PD sent Alva, Evie and Paul out into a snow storm. A nineteen-year-old girl had been found slumped in her family's porch swing, snow collecting in her hair.

Paul swallowed bile and raised the camera. They needed detailed images for Alva's hemography file. A shocking slash marred her smooth, dusky forearm; and a stream of glistening blood coated her fingers, dripped into the fresh, sparkling snow below. The words were there, sunk into the drift of pristine flakes: GOD IS NOWHERE. In her other hand rested a bloody shard of glass.

The hairs on the back of Paul's neck lifted, even as his mind shrank away from the evidence before him. Had he misread his own message? It had flashed before his eyes with disturbing frequency since the accident, but now he couldn't conjure the image clearly. He shuddered, sucked in a long breath, willed his body to release the surge of adrenaline. He needed to stay cool if the cops were going to trust him enough to tell him what he needed to know. He decided to proceed as if this girl's message was actually different from his own. Chad believed the God is Nowhere people were Tommy's Darkness - a force for evil that needed to be eliminated. Had someone else taken up the task?

The officers lifted the crime scene tape and ushered them into the house. Evie passed him on her way to question the family, wide-eyed and pale. A little girl, no more than nine or ten, sobbed inconsolably somewhere nearby. Paul wanted to twist and look at the others around him, see if they heard the cries or not. He followed Alva as distantly as he dared, knowing that he couldn't hide his thoughts from his employer.

"The glass came from in here," the uniform told him, gesturing for them to enter the girl's bedroom. Boy band members grinned or brooded from their respected posters covering the walls. Everything seemed pretty ordinary, the picture frames and mirror intact. Typical teenage detritus lightly cluttered the desk and dresser: CD cases, nail polish bottles, a few scattered candy wrappers. Her cell phone had already been bagged, so he risked picking it up and looking at the history. There were texts and calls from a few hours earlier, but nothing seemed suspicious.

Alva's voice suddenly carried from the other side of the room. He thanked the cops for calling them, assured them that this case was not related to his research on the other instances of hemography. "All of the witnesses in the previous cases were victims of accidents. They died later, victimized by a psychopath fascinated with the phenomenon. I assure you, when you've finished your forensic analysis you'll find an explanation-- Perhaps another person with an unhealthy interest in the paranormal."

Paul covered the smirk that wanted to crawl across his face by turning to photograph the phone showing the call history. It amazed him that Alva could say all of that with such conviction in his face, not a trace of acknowledgement that most people thought Alva's own interest was less than healthy.

When he looked up, Alva speared him with his gaze, subtly indicating a broken window on the far wall. Then he strode away, not looking back. Paul edged closer and discovered that the snow had been carefully brushed away, revealing fragments of a yellowish, waxy-looking substance scattered across the sill. He took some photographs of that too, before following his team out to the car.

"Keel, I don't think this is - I don't think she's like the others," Paul said as he slid into the passenger seat and buckled his seatbelt.

"Oh, she isn't," Alva said, and Paul was shaken to realize that Alva's hands were vibrating slightly where they rested on the steering wheel. "Stay clear of this one until you hear from me, both of you, I want to consult with some old friends."

Evie snorted.

"Call it a second opinion, if you wish," was all he said on the drive back to SQ.

#

As it turned out, in this case Alva's idea of "old friends" was more like a car full of rednecks with guns. A lot of guns.

"Paul, Evie, this is my friend Bobby Singer, one of the best paranormal investigators in the country."

Bobby touched the brim of his trucker cap. "Present company excluded, of course," he gestured at the two young men who had unfolded themselves from the car and were now glowering at nothing in particular. "This is Dean and Sam Winchester--"

"John's sons! The last time I saw him you must have been what, in high school? How is your father?"

Clearly, Bobby shared plenty of history with Keel. He shifted his weight, nothing more, but Alva shrank in on himself. "What happened?"

Dean and Sam had shown nothing up to this point. Now their stoic expressions wavered.

"He went the way hunters do," Bobby said, his voice rough with emotion Dean and Sam are their father's sons, I trust them with my life."

Dean and Sam were all grim business at first, going over the crime scene as if nothing said to them could be trusted. They presented themselves to BPD as FBI.

Paul pulled Alva aside as soon as he heard that. "Keel, we can't just let them--"

"We need their help, Paul."

"But--"

"The forces we are dealing with in this case, you've never seen their equal. Trust me. Please."

The Winchesters proposed splitting the day between investigation and research. When they found the fragments on the windowsill, it settled any doubt for Dean, Sam, and Bobby.

"Demons," Dean said. "Keel, can your team handle weapons?"

Alva grimaced, even as Evie pulled out her handgun and checked it. He laid a hand on her arm. "Why don't we head back to the office and work on research, let the experts handle the ... hands-on aspects, shall we say?"

#

When Bobby, Dean and Sam made it back to SQ smelling of fear and brimstone, The SQ team snapped into action with first aid kits. "The Demon drove her to suicide, there was no indication she was anything but the girl next door before last Tuesday."

"How did they reach her?" Alva asked.

"The only new element we can find is a substitute teacher named Victor Lee who showed up at her high school last Wednesday."

"Nothing strange from the school?" he helped Bobby to a seat and began cleaning blood off his swollen fingers.

"Everybody there said the girl had taken an interest in Lee. A crush."

"It was a small-time demon," Dean growled, "But motivated. Forced me to kill the vessel, so God knows where it is now."

Paul found himself frustrated to have been shielded. For all Keel's talk of seeking the truth, he wanted to find it in a book.

Paul cleaned and stitched a nasty cut over Dean's eyebrow.

"Watch it there, nurse," Dean said, smirk firmly in place, "my face is my--Ow!"

"This might sting a little," Paul retorted, smirking right back.

"You know how to get a guy's attention," said Dean.

"Is that what I was doing? I thought we were working."

"Demon's vanquished, work's over 'til we turn up something new. Might wanna locate Mr. Chips."

After that Dean was overcome abruptly by a drugged sleep.

#

Paul busied himself chasing the victim's phone records. One number appeared on the records only in the previous week, and the name on the phone company account. "Evie, can you run this phone number for me? I don't get anything on this Victor Lee before a week ago Tuesday."

Evie came back in less than ten minutes with a post-it note and a worried expression. "Lee registered a name change early last week. He used to be Hector Selgado."

"Kenneth Webster," Paul hissed, horrible images flashing before his eyes of the iron, the hospital, the driving compulsion he had felt there to finish what Chad started.

"Are you all right, Paul?" Evie asked, She reached out to guide him to a seat. "Let me get you some water."

"I'm fine, Evelyn." Paul snapped. He softened his tone despite the horrible images still crowding his attention. "Just ... get me Webster's address when you can, alright? I wanna go check on him."

It took about half an hour for everyone to relax out of alert mode, and by then the adrenaline draining out of their systems made them loose and sleepy.

Bobby sprawled in Alva's desk chair, bandages swathing one hand and the opposite shoulder. "Yer boss here, he was paler than a jug of milk in a snow storm when John dug up the bones, but even he had to admit the ghost never gave nobody any more trouble --"

Paul slipped out the door, unnoticed.

#

He pulled into the driveway at the address from Evie's post-it, and as he shut the car off he realized he had no memory of the drive here, save a million images of himself and Kenneth Webster beginning with the pillow and the hospital bed and moving through depths of violence and murder that Paul would not have believed existed back before he joined SQ, before he met Chad, before the nightmares--every one of them vivid with the blood lust from which he woke nauseated and full of self loathing. That part of him wanted to pull the car back into the street and drive until he hit ocean or a concrete abutment, anything to beat back the other part of himself - the part flooded with adrenaline at the thought of finally, finally ending Kenneth Webster.

#

Paul felt as if he were watching himself from above, slamming the car door, walking up the driveway. he pounded on the door, and his heart nearly seized when the door opened, revealing the stoic face of Kenneth Webster. He'd expected to feel fear, but what he actually felt shocked him, as the moment stretched. Tears streamed down his face as some part of him recoiled, hid deep inside his head. His mind emptied of all words, filling instead with images of violence: beginning with his old nightmare of suffocating Kenneth in his hospital bed. It descended from there into everything from gunshots to Chad's iron blows to a red fog that hid all but his own blood-slicked fists and the sickening crunch of small bones.

#

A gruff voice pierced the bloody fog in Paul's mind. "Enough! Paul! It's enough, man."

Vice-like arms pulled him away from Kenneth's limp form.He whipped around to find Dean Winchester, staring wide-eyed at a spot above his left eye where a blood spatter was beginning to dry and itch. He resisted the urge to swipe at it. "What are you doing here, Dean?"

"Keeping you from doing something stupid, man. You don't wanna go there, trust me."

He wanted to argue, to shove Dean away and go back to making sure that the evil Kenneth had embraced could never act again. But that part of him that had hidden, that pure, childlike core deep inside was consumed by horror. He relented, swaying slightly on his feet. "He knew the girl from the porch swing."

In that moment Webster surged to his feet behind Paul, his voice twisted by hatred. "She was a destined vessel, she could not be suffered to live."

He let loose an unearthly growl and crashed into Paul, causing his legs to buckle under him, exploding in pain. His head struck some piece of furniture as he fell, causing his vision to disintegrate into sparks.

He had just enough time to see Dean draw a weapon and shoot Kenneth Webster between the eyes, before everything greyed out.

#

He wasn't sure how they got to the impala; Dean must've half carried him after pulling him away from the bloody corpse. They checked in to a motel that looked like something on the other side of a time machine, and Dean pulled him into the tiny shower, putting his own back to the wall and pulling Paul against him, silently washing away blood and god knows what else from his skin and hair.

Paul breathed steam and willed himself to absorb the heat and safety Dean offered. When Dean offered finally offered him the soap, clearly expecting him to pull away in modesty, he took a deep breath, turned around and pulled him down for a kiss. He washed Dean in return, wishing he could imagine all the ugliness of the world around them swirling and sliding down the drain. He couldn't wash away the image of Kenneth's lifeless eyes, or the horrifying fantasies he'd been living with ever since he'd learned of the awful quest to destroy the God is Nowhere people. He breathed again, pushing down his wish for a perfect, peaceful world, and focused instead on the good man in front of him - his clean, freckled skin, his plush mouth and tender eyes far too sweet for someone so jaded any other time. He stood for a long moment staring into them, but his gratitude would not be reduced to words. Instead he focused on pouring it out through his mouth on Dean's, his fingertips sliding over heated skin.

Dean clung to him under the hot spray, tried to prevent him from kneeling, but Paul insisted. He took Dean's small groan as an invitation to worship. His eyes locked on Dean's, Paul forgot everything but the salty slide of flesh on his tongue, thigh muscles tensing under his hands, the slight shiver that ran through Dean's solid frame by way of warning before he spilled slick and bitter down his throat. Paul slumped against his legs, suddenly exhausted.

Dean cursed and pulled him up, wrangling them both out of the shower and propping Paul against the door to dry him off efficiently, wicked eyes promising more as he discarded the towels and led them both to bed. Even more than before, Paul lost himself. Dean pinned him to the pillows and overwhelmed his senses, mouth and hands seemingly everywhere at once. When he was spent, amazingly, he slept, dreamlessly and, for once, without fear.

Fic: S.T.A.R. Light, S.T.A.R. Bright

melissima — Fri, 01 Jan 2016 03:42:48 GMT

Title: S.T.A.R. Light, S.T.A.R. Bright
A Gift For: peacefulboo for Yuletide 2014
Fandom: The Flash
Characters/Pairings: Caitlin SnowIris WestBarry AllenCisco RamonHarrison WellsEddie Thawne
Rating: FRC
Length: 1358 Words
Summary: The S.T.A.R. Labs crew celebrates the new year.

"It's New Year's Eve! Let's get out of here for a while," Barry said, bumping Caitlin's shoulder with his own.

"I don't have time, Dr. Wells wants these numbers by--" the world blurred sickeningly around her, and then snapped into focus again, but the lab had been replaced by the coffee shop. She managed not to yelp, barely. Tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, she arranged her face in what she hoped was a convincing glare. "Three pm today," she finished. "Barry," she continued sotto voce, "Do we need to have a talk about consent?"

"Want me to get you an Uber back to the lab?"

His smirk made her wish she had a sofa pillow to whack him with. She settled for a poke in his ribs, instead.
"I promise I'll ask first, next time."

"Fancy meeting you two here," Iris said. She and Eddie were just stepping into the coffee line when his cell phone and Barry's chirped. "Come on, Allen."

Iris smiled brightly and kissed Eddie, but as soon as the two men were gone, her expression sobered.

Caitlin laid a hand on her arm, "It's early, he might still be free for whatever you had planned."

Iris schooled her expression, but Caitlin could tell it took effort. "I just wanted us to have one night to ourselves, you know?"

#

"This popcorn is evil, Caitlin. What have you done to me?"

"Sriracha is amazing on everything, but I swear it was created for popcorn."

She and Iris'd finished two rounds of cosmos while watching Love Actually, and had chosen While You Were Sleeping as the second movie in their New Year Chick Flick Marathon. It had been so long since she had a friend outside Star Labs. Iris had always been Barry's friend, but tonight she seemed content in Caitlin's company.

Caitlin picked up her phone on the second ring. "Barry?"

"Caitlin, sorry, I--"

"Barry,"

"I just remembered you hadn't finished with your numbers when--"

"Barry!" she interrupted, "Wells gave me until end of day on the 3rd since you got called in by the department."
"Oh! Good! I promise I'm all yours again as soon as -- Eddie, I already bagged the cell phone, it's in my--yeah. Thanks. Sorry, Caitlin I didn't want to--"

Caitlin covered the phone with her hand, and asked Iris,"How come he's the one who sounds tipsy?"

Iris shook her head fondly. "He's been like that all our lives," she said, "One conversation at a time, Barry!" she yelled.

"Iris? Hey Eddie, Iris is there!" Barry said. Caitlin passed her the phone. Barry must've put Eddie on, because Iris stepped away and dropped her voice below audible.

When she came back, her expression was happier. "Thanks for keeping me company tonight," Iris said.

"Not as good as a hot date, I know," Caitlin shrugged, "but pretty good."

"I don't know why we haven't done this before, but we are SO doing it again," Iris said.

Caitlin nodded and smiled, got up to refill the popcorn bowl.

#

"What is it?" Barry said, causing Cisco and Dr. Wells to turn away from the monitor they were studying. "Sorry to tear you away from work, Mr. Allen, but sensors on our end indicate there may be metahuman involvement with your current case. I thought you'd want to see these readings right away. The radiation is moderate, not dangerous unless you're exposed for a long time, but it's tightly focused on your victim's thoracic area,"

"Dude, it's like the guy has a lump of dying plutonium in his chest," Cisco said.

"How did you pick this up off my monitors," Barry asked, "I'm not even wearing my suit! "

Cisco beamed. "I tagged you with a microdot when you bent over to tie your shoe earlier."

"Little shit!" Barry smiled, shoved Cisco and sidestepped when he swung around to shove back.

"Payback for the kick me sign you flashed on to my back yesterday," Cisco said.

"Gentlemen, I think it's time Barry got back to work, don't you?"

Cisco grumbled as he turned back to his workstation, but a message popped up on his monitor:

"Microdot *that* guy! Or at least put a bell on him."

"Definitely," Cisco said, even though Barry was long gone.

#

"Good afternoon," Wells told them when they'd gathered in their work area at Star Labs. "Thank you for coming in on a holiday."

"Got something urgent, Dr. Wells?" Barry asked. He looked far too chipper for someone who'd worked all night.

Caitlin fought not to flinch when a projector started up, piercing her brain with rays of bright light. Maybe Cosmos hadn't been such a great idea.

"As a matter of fact, I do. You and Cisco were discussing the use of microdots on your civillian clothes yesterday," he gestured to the screen, where the team's encounters with metahumans. "We have the technology to monitor each other, protect each other, in this new world. I think it's time we did that."

He showed them several images of clothes, jewelry, phones, and watches that had trackers and sensors attached. "Figure out where we should put your sensors for the maximum coverage. The protection only helps if it's with you at the time of an attack."

"Dr. Wells?" Caitlin made herself speak up in spite of the awkwardness she felt. "What if we have . . .personal time, that we don't want monitored?"

"That's why the sensor is attached to an accessory you can remove for bathing or other private activities," he smiled. "This is not an exercise in surveillance, I just want to keep an eye on my team, that's all.

#

Barry picked his watch, Cisco his hoodie. Dr. Welles unsurprisingly chose his power wheelchair, joking that if he went anywhere without that, he certainly didn't want them to hear about it. He went back to his office as soon as Cisco attached it.

Barry took off when his sensor was in place too, claiming a family holiday dinner with Joe and Iris.

That left Caitlin agonizing over her choice of sensor location while she watched Cisco install his own. A year ago, the choice would have been obvious -- her engagement ring. But today, looking at the new year spreading out before her, she was sure there would come a day when she wouldn't always wear it.

Ronnie had told her outright, one day over sushi when it became clear that their jobs had become more dangerous than they bargained for: "If anything ever happens to me, don't -- don't just waste away being sad. You gotta find someone else to love you if that happens, Cait, because you're amazing and you deserve that. Promise me."

She'd outright refused. She still didn't want to think about dating, about looking at some stranger and saying stuff to him she'd only ever said to Ronnie. But she didn't want to be a weirdo about it, either.

A nerf dart bounced off her chest. "No mopey face. Did you pick something yet?"

"No, I--"

"Good, because I already put one on your present," He produced a square-ish box wrapped in the comics pages.

"You got me a . . . wait, that's creepy. You put a sensor on my present?"

"What. ever. It's a sensor, not a camera. Open it."

The charm bracelet inside was nothing she would ever have bought for herself, but it was lovely, in silver and semi-precious stones. There were several stars, a lightning bolt, and a trophy-shaped charm that said, "World's best sister." Caitlin didn't have to look to know that was where Cisco had hidden the sensor. She looked up, speechless, to find he had already turned back to his workstation.

She hooked her arm around his neck roughly and smooched his cheek. "Your present is coming from Amazon in two days."

"Slacker," he said without looking up.

"Not my fault! you're the one who upped the ante."

Cisco chuckled evilly.

She slipped back to her own desk and grabbed the nerf gun she kept there. "Happy new year, sucka!" she cried, pelting him with pellets even as she danced away, giggling.

"Oh, it's on," Cisco crowed, all work forgotten.

Seeking a Beta Reader for The Expanse

melissima — Mon, 28 Dec 2015 03:58:11 GMT

Hey I’m watching, and really liking, the new Syfy (ugh that spelling) show The Expanse. In fact I’m writing fanfic, but I need a beta reader. So far all the fic are short, but longer stories may be forthcoming. Any takers?

Dear Yulegoat,

melissima — Sun, 26 Oct 2014 17:31:20 GMT

Thank you so very much for writing a story for me. It's the greatest gift I can imagine, and you are providing me with the holiday experience that means the most to me these days just by offering your time and creativity.

I am easy to please, so take these prompts and run with them, my dear goat! If none of my ideas sparks your muse into action, feel free to write something for the fandom that *does.* Part of the fun of an exchange is to see how someone else responds to the worlds and characters I love.

Almost Human - This show got killed too soon! Take us further into the future, especially in Dorian's POV. Let Dorian catalog (and try to make sense of) John's love life over a period of years, or leap forward to his retirement party and write Dorian's speech just before the first toast. Bonus points if Dorian isn't headed for the scrap heap; musings on Asimov's three laws of robotics, AI rights, or the nature of consciousness, especially if paired with a sappy "happily ever grumpy" on a retirement colony with John is involved. I'm not really a John/Dorian shipper, but if that's what inspires you, go for it.

Grimm - I would be very happy to receive casefic featuring Rosalee and the Melifer (bee wesen). Barring that, how about sending Rosalee to collect medicinal plants/materials? Story-wise that could look like an unexpected run-in with some aggressive wesen in the woods, an accidental-substance-induced mystical encounter with Aunt Marie (gotta love a badass librarian!) or a character study told in a series of flashbacks instigated by the scent of the plants she harvests. Whichever tack you take, please give me Rosalee with some iron in her spine, alongside her nurturing nature. I adore her relationship with Monroe, too, so romance/sexytimes are happy-making.

Forever - We've seen quite a bit of WWII-era flashback featuring Henry, Abigail, and Abe. Show me a different moment in time - how did the Morgans pass the "idyllic" 1950s, the turbulent 60s? How many times did they have to move, and what surprising places did they call home? When did Abe learn Henry's secret, and how?

Happiest of Yuletides, dear writer! May your snack pile always be full, your wordcount high, and your inspiration bright.

<3 Mel

Happy Birthday Emmademarais!

melissima — Sun, 19 Oct 2014 03:58:09 GMT

Happy Birthday emmademarais!

Welcome to your Barbecue birthday party!

Since it's still warm and sunny where we are this year, we're having a laid-back, lick-your-fingers delicious back yard grill-fest.

Here's the cake:

And the living decorations:

There's lots of goodies on the grill:

and the sundae bar:

Of course no barbecue would be complete without beverages:

Help us celebrate this special day!

post delicious picspam.

wax poetic with a haiku,

Or try your hand at microfic.

Enjoy the party!

melissima — Sun, 10 Aug 2014 21:53:22 GMT

Happy Birthday t_vo0810!

Welcome to your party, T!

Here's the cake:

Come join the fun!

Post your favorite pics from Numb3rs to celebrate the show that brought us together with the birthday girl! I know she also loves Glee, Rizzoli and Isles, the L word, Criminal Minds and Teen Wolf, too, so post away for whichever of her fandoms you like! The more decorations, the merrier the party.

It's Emma's Birthday Party!

melissima — Sun, 20 Oct 2013 20:45:22 GMT

Happy Birthday emmademarais!

Welcome to your party!

Here's the cake:

And the living decorations:

There's lots of goodies on the buffet

And of course champagne and sparkling cider

Help us celebrate this special day!

Comment with a fandom, and I'll reply with a screencap for you to caption, your personal invitation to play:

post delicious picspam.

wax poetic with a haiku,

Or try your hand at microfic.

Enjoy the party!

Homework Help! Yes, i want you to do my homework for me...

melissima — Thu, 09 May 2013 21:50:58 GMT

...because it's about fanfic!

I have a class about women murderers in popular culture.

Yes, it's fantastic. :) I have watched Bound, Set it Off, Basic Instinct, Fatal Attraction, Freeway, etc for this class, and analyzed them. WAY too much fun to then wind up with a grade for it.

What I need, dear flist - is fic recs.

Please link me to fanfic that turns female canon characters who don't kill people on their shows into murderers.

Any fandom will do, but it helps if it's something I know - so ideally Whedonverse, CM, Star Trek, X Men, Avengers, Numb3rs, Criminal Minds, Bones, Blood Ties, Supernatural, Person of Interest, Revenge, Torchwood, White Collar, Glee, The Unit, Grimm, Once Upon A Time Miracles etc.

Having said that, if the fandom isn't listed above, try me. Can't hurt.

The only real requirements are:
1 that the character who kills is female
2 she's not a murderer in canon (cops and agents etc. who kill bad guys in canon can work, if they go evil in the fic),
3 she successfully murders someone, and the victim is an adult.

For extra credit:

a) give me slash fic that features a female canon love interest who becomes a murderer.
b) give me fic that makes a femme fatale out of someone who is so totally not the type in canon.

Anybody who contributes a fic that gets used in the paper will be eligible for a picspam on the subject of your choice from me. Thanks so much in advance for your recs!

What's a "Life" on Wheels? Two Articles = 1 Rant

melissima — Tue, 15 Jan 2013 22:18:12 GMT

So, today's New York Times is grappling with the idea that sports should be available to kids with disabilities. Um, duh?

It just goes to show that even in the US, where access is a matter of Federal law, people don't really understand inclusion. They still see people with disabilities (pwd) as "special" people, exception-based achievers, instead of as normal folks who do all the same things their peers do.

This is a very damaging attitude, both for the individual pwd and for society at large. As long as we see a successful athlete (or student, or actor, or writer, etc etc etc.) with a disability as an anomaly, an inspiration, whatever, we are blinded to the truth of life with disability - the truth that a person is not defined by what they can't do, or even by some herculean effort to "beat the odds."

A person is defined by what they do and make and work for, regardless of the logistical minutiae. A pwd does and makes and works, every bit as much as an able-bodied person does. All pwd achieve. (yes, even that person, hypothetical or not. I can counter whatever argument anyone is about to make, so if you're thinking it go ahead, just be forewarned.) That's what inclusion is for - to make opportunities available to pwd, so they can achieve fairly.

My friends, I can hear you. "Duh, Mel!" you say, because you are intelligent and have met at least one disabled person in your lives without going on about what an "inspiration" he or she is. I know you have, because you are my friends. But out there in the world there are still people who can insist with a straight face that Dr. Steven Hawking's identity is distributed among his devices, PAs, and assistants. One "anthropologist" even got paid by Wired magazine to say it.

Dr. Hawking is arguably the most successful pwd on the planet, yet somebody can publish that he is not an identity without his computer. What's next? Oscar Pistorius is not human without his prostheses? The assertion that an individual's humanity can be assigned to the devices and people helping him or her is a natural outgrowth of the assumption that needing help in the first place makes one less whole, less human.

We need to change the narrative of pwd success. We need to look at prostheses and wheelchairs and speech aids and personal assistants the same way we look at, say, airplanes. Flying is an achievement, to be sure, but after the Wright brothers did it, people assumed it could be done. If we see an airplane as a means for a flightless body to fly, we don't assign the identity of the pilot to the plane. We don't call the pilot a marvel or a miracle or an inspiration. We call him or her a pilot.

Dr. Hawking is not a cyborg, or a collective. He's a person. The kids in the NYT article are athletes. Period.

2013 Fic Master List

melissima — Wed, 02 Jan 2013 00:54:07 GMT

Woo Hoo 2013! Here's hoping the new year kicks the old year's tail!

While we wait for that, here's this year's Master List:

MEL'S FIC MASTER LIST

Rated using the Fan Rated Rating System. Characters whose names are linked with a / are romantically or sexually involved in the fic.

2013

Memoriam John Doe FRT John Doe, Digger, Jamie, Frank FRT written for gryphon2k at yuletide

2012

'Tis The Season Blood Ties Vicki Nelson, Henry Fitzroy FRT written for miggy at yuletide

Red Velvet Numb3rs Billy Cooper/Charlie Eppes FRT

A Recipe for Nostalgia Numb3rs Billy Cooper/Charlie Eppes FRE

Feint & Worry XMFC Charles Xavier, Erik Lensherr FRT written for nevaehs written at secret_mutant 2012

2011

Thunderstruck Numb3rs Don Eppes/Billy Cooper FRM written for emmademarais at numb3rs_newyear

Miracles Do Not, in Fact, Break the Laws of Nature X Men First Class Erik Lehnsherr Gen FRT

2010

Board Game Blackout Castle Gen FRT written for austen at yuletide

Hot and Cold Numb3rs Don Eppes/Charlie Eppes FRAO written for cpwatcher at numb3rs_newyear

With emmademarais, posted at deuxplumes:

Homecoming Numb3rs Charlie Eppes/Amita Ramanujan/Seth Marlowe FRM

With t_vo0810, posted at deuxplumes:

Brother Mine part 1, part 2, part 3 with awesome art by mustangcandi Numb3rs Don Eppes, Charlie Eppes, Gary Walker, Terry Lake, David Sinclair, Billy Cooper, Oswald Kittner, Marshall Penfield, OCs AU Gen FRT

2009
Frozen Assets Warehouse 13 Claudia Donovan Gen FRC written for minkhollow at yuletide
No Ordinary Birthday Numb3rs Don Eppes/Charlie Eppes FRAO
Nightmare Numb3rs Don Eppes/Charlie Eppes FRAO
Heritage: The Good Girl Remix (Drabble) Torchwood Toshiko Sato and Jack Harkness Gen FRC
Anchor: The Heavy Remix (Drabble) Numb3rs Billy Cooper/Don Eppes FRM
Nothing Hurts Like Your Mouth: The Hungry Remix (Drabble) Numb3rs Don Eppes/Charlie Eppes FRT
Movie Night Bones Gen FRC
Setback (Drabble) Numb3rs Megan Reeves and Billy Cooper Gen FRT remixed 08/11 for numb3rs100's Summer Remix Challenge by sororcula
Division of Labor Numb3rs David Sinclair/Claudia Gomez FRT
All About the Chemistry Bones Jack Hodgins/Angela Montenegro FRT

With emmademarais, posted at deuxplumes:

Fire and Flame Numb3rs Ian Edgerton/Nikki Betancourt FRT

2008

Spin the Bottle Numb3rs/Nikki & Nora Crossover Megan Reeves/Nora Delaney FRT
Therapy (Drabble) Numb3rs Megan Reeves Gen FRC
Melt (Drabble) Numb3rs Megan Reeves and Alex Trowbridge Gen FRC
Ploy (Drabble) Numb3rs Billy Cooper/Charlie Eppes FRT
Hollywood Undercover (Drabble) Numb3rs Billy Cooper/Don Eppes FRT
Brother's Keeper (Drabble) Numb3rs Don Eppes and Charlie Eppes Gen FRC

With emmademarais, posted at deuxplumes:

Crackers in Bed (Drabble) Numb3rs Officer Hottie(Officer Morris of Ep 1x13 'Manhunt')/Billy Cooper FRT
Not Just Another FBI Girlfriend (Drabble) Numb3rs Don Eppes/Charlie Eppes FRAO

2007

Sleepless (Drabble) Numb3rs Billy Cooper/Charlie Eppes FRT Remixed 10/09 once by sour_louise and again by emmademarais
Vanishing Act Numb3rs Officer Hottie(Officer Morris of Ep 1x13 'Manhunt')/Charlie Eppes FRAO
Strike A Pose (Drabble) Numb3rs Billy Cooper/Don Eppes FRM
Woman Hunt (Drabble) Numb3rs Officer Hottie/ Charlie FRC Remixed 06/09 by jestana
Gum Fight (Drabble) Numb3rs Billy Cooper/Don Eppes FRAO
Light Heat and Breath phase 1 Numb3rs Charlie Eppes/Amita Ramanujan FRAO

2006

The Effects of Candlelight (Drabble) Numb3rs Charlie Eppes/Amita Ramanujan FRT
Snake Handler (Drabble) Numb3rs x Criminal Minds Crossover Megan Reeves, Don Eppes, Penelope Garcia FRT
Completed Comment Porn with ECSW asemic Numb3rs Billy Cooper/Charlie Eppes FRAO
Any Other Friday (Drabble) Numb3rs Don Eppes/Charlie Eppes FRAO
Binary Star Numb3rs Charlie Eppes, Amita Ramanujan FRC

Other:

Unfinished excerpt from "Neon" Numb3rs Ian Edgerton/Charlie Eppes/Don Eppes FRAO
Salt in the Wound WIP comment porn with WCSW emmademarais. NUMB3RS x Supernatural Crossover eventually Don Eppes/Dean Winchester and Charlie Eppes/Sam Winchester with prior Don Eppes/Billy Cooper FRAO
WIP comment porn for The Unit Mack Gerhardt/Bob Brown FRAO with Mistress penguingal

Son of "In Lieu of a Fic Meme," 2013

melissima — Tue, 01 Jan 2013 22:02:40 GMT

Well, here's to 2013! I don't feel like I accomplished the goals I set for 2012

…BUT, I did achieve lots of cool stuff that I'm proud of.

1. I got into an exclusive private school that I was scared to even apply to.
2. I survived my first semester at said school.
3. I took three writing classes, and wrote the assignments for them, mostly with a minimum of panic and flail.
4. I got involved with student government for the first time in my whole life.
5. I went to three readings, three parties, a dance, and a recital.
6. When I saw a dean at my school making well-intentioned but serious mistakes around students with disabilities, I spoke up, even though I shook in my boots when I did it. Said dean, to their credit, heard what I said and changed their approach.

For 2013, the goals I have are pretty simple:

1. Write and post/submit frequently (this is the "throw stories around like confetti" goal of years past.)
2. Get some help solidifying my time management skills
3. Continue to advocate for students with disabilities
4. Add some movement to my weekly routines

What about you, flist? Got goals?

John Doe Fic: Memoriam

melissima — Tue, 01 Jan 2013 21:56:35 GMT

Title: Memoriam
A Gift For: gryphon2k written for yuletide, who asked for the aftermath of Karen Kowalski's death.
Characters/Pairings: John Doe, Digger, Jamie, Frank
Rating: PG for mention of character death
Length: 1050 words
Summary: Everyone handles loss differently, but everyone must handle it. John Doe and his friends each remember Karen Kowalski in their own way.

John spent a few days finding the right artist, and convincing her he wasn't a creep or a con man. Once that was done, he had to convince her he knew what he was doing.

"I want it seen, but not from a main thoroughfare. I want people to have to go there on purpose. And I want Karen's story with it, all over the internet. Especially wherever the best graffiti gets talked about."

"You'll get more buzz on a main street," she emailed back. She didn't have a name online, aside from a string of seemingly random numbers.

"It'll also get painted over in an hour," he shot back.

"You have a point."

"So you'll do it?"

"It's your penny."

He spent a few more days deciding on a location – he'd thought of Los Angeles or New York, but she suggested London. Apparently the scene there "goes mad for a good story." He didn't care what they went mad for, as long as they remembered Karen.

*

Digger adopted one of those poor kids from Africa off the late-night TV infomercials right after she died.

It wasn't enough, though, sending a check once a month. So he volunteered to teach a bunch of foster kids rough carpentry at Habitat For Humanity. That felt right, spending time with a bunch of teenagers and building houses for deserving folks at the same time.

But then the kids started showing up at the bar in the mornings, trying to bum cigarettes and offering to bus tables, saving up for their eighteenth birthday slash forced moving out day. Cursing inwardly, he took on a couple as gophers and sent the rest to John for crash courses in Internet stock trading. One of the girls, Kayla, told him she wanted to go into law enforcement, so he introduced her to Jamie. A couple months later, he sent Jamie an excellent bottle of Chardonnay when the whole gang showed up crowing over Kayla's acceptance letter to the School of Criminal Justice at Sacramento State, with a fat scholarship package on the side.

The quietest kid, Brandon, kept a raggedy sketchbook in a backpack, and started taking it out once in a while where Digger could see. He drew pretty well, and Digger wound up helping him get a busker's permit and a better set of sketching tools. He wouldn't get rich, but he would eat if he worked hard and stayed clean.

By way of thanks, Brandon sketched the whole Habitat for Humanity crew, with Digger in the middle. He framed it and hung it over the booth the kids liked to pile into after a work session, and every time they came in, they kidded him about it.

*

The whole tragedy took a while to sink in for Jamie. By the time Digger brought Kayla to her office, though, she couldn't kid herself anymore that Karen's death was just another homicide she could push through. She enjoyed helping with college applications and scholarship essays, and it felt good to realize that there were still people in the world with dreams. But Kayla really didn't need much from her, just a little encouragement and somebody to bounce things off of before she sent them.

When that was done, she looked into the charity work sponsored by the department, but it all smacked of telemarketing and corporate fundraising. Unwilling to let it go, she researched a ridiculous number of volunteer opportunities, discovering a world of rules, requirements and red tape to deal with before anyone could accept the copious amount of free time she could scrape together between cases. She was about to resign herself to the precinct charity phone pool when Kayla's social worker called to tell her about a boy who could use help applying for EMT training, and an older woman working mall security while dreaming of a career in the FBI – both of them good, hard-working people who just happened to be alone in the world.

*

Frank never thought much about art, but his kids took lots of painting classes at a youth center. He went over one day, hoping that looking at their pictures would make it easier to breathe around the guilt and helplessness. When he walked in to the youth center, he was appalled at the crusty paint, the shaggy brushes, the teacher scraping the images off thrift store canvases and painting them white just so the kids would have something to work with.

A quick email to the precinct started a collection; a few weeks later he got to deliver easels, paints, brushes and lots of other stuff. His kids beamed, and for the first time since he'd failed Karen, he beamed right back.

*

John stepped out of the tube station and turned a slow circle, looking for the record store the artist gave him for a landmark. Once he'd spotted it, he headed down the alley and around back, up the staircase and onto the roof of a bike shop. ("Strange, I know" her email had read, "but it really is the best vantage point.") Off to the east an anemic British sunrise was melting into full daylight, but to the north was the mural. It stood at least two stories tall and spanned the width of several storefronts, the red and yellow flowers glowed against the grey London cityscape. A smattering of people stopped to look at it while he watched, and he found himself smiling when a pointing toddler pulled her mother to a halt in front of it, only to be lifted into her arms for a cuddle before they moved on.

His cell phone rang: Jamie.

"Where are you? Karen's painting's all over the news."

"Really?" He said, turning to climb back down to street level.

"Apparently, a copy of the painting turned up today in London. Except it's huge, painted on a building ten stories tall."

"Wow." He hailed a taxi, feeling warm despite the chilly morning air.

"Okay, fine," Jamie groused, "play dumb. But some of us know what's going on here, John. Those buildings have owners. Is somebody going to keep repainting the murals whenever they disappear?"

"Something like that," he admitted, chuckling. "Bye, Jamie."

He opened a text message to the artist. "How about New York next and then Tokyo?"

Fic: Feint & Worry

melissima — Tue, 01 Jan 2013 07:33:49 GMT

Title: Feint & Worry
A Gift For: nevaehs written for secret_mutant, who asked for fighting and for Charles to not be too goody goody.
Characters/Pairings: Charles, Erik
Rating: PG for fighting and blood
Length: 550 words
Summary: Before they leave for Russia, Charles proposes a bit of training in hand-to-hand combat to Erik.

Charles eyed Erik opposite him, raising his hands in fists. "Ready?"

“Are you sure about this?” Erik grinned nervously, shifting from foot to foot in the basement's improvised boxing ring. “I still think we should use the gloves.”

“Shaw’s lackeys aren’t likely to put boxing gloves on before they attack, are they?” Charles replied, beginning to dance around him, shadowboxing.

“It’s training. It won’t do any good if I hurt you before we even leave for Russia.”

“We may be training but we don’t have time to be overly cautious. Why couldn’t you have been this concerned when we were up on the satellite dish with Sean?”

“You knew Sean would— I mean I wasn’t—”

Charles’ hands balled into tighter fists. “You agreed to spar with me. Are you ready?”

“Fine," Erik caved. "Keep your guard up, I’m not going to…”

“Oh be serious!” Charles barked, bobbing first left then right ahead of Erik’s swings. “You’re broadcasting louder than a radio station! I can tell your next move the instant you decide on it.”

“It’s harder than you’d expect, to move without thinking about it.” He tried to fake left and then throw a right hook, but again Charles easily dodged, turning a feint into a sharp jab to Erik’s kidney. “Oof.”

“Shaw’s telepath will beat you before you lay a finger on her, and walk away smirking.”

“Charles, I just can't—”

An image formed in Charles’ mind of himself, clearly from Erik’s viewpoint. He was curled in on himself and groaning as if he'd been punched hard in the stomach. A wave of sick regret washed through him, flavored with the bitter self loathing that nearly always accompanied Erik’s thoughts. He’d been sure Charles would fold with a single punch, as if that's all it would take. As Erik's thoughts receded, his own indignation replaced them.

“You don’t think I can take a punch? Is that it? That I'm some sort of soft academic who needs protecting? Obviously you haven’t spent time in a British pub while the matches are on,” he huffed, “football and fighting are like…like tea and milk. I’ve—” Charles’ hands moved like lightning, his fist connecting with Erik's nose and whipping his head around.

Erik staggered and slipped down the ropes to the floor, stunned.

“Oh God! Erik I— here let me help you.”

Charles pulled him into a more upright sitting position as blood dripped from his face onto his sweatshirt.

“Well. That was…” Erik muttered, blinking in surprise.

“Sorry, sorry. Tilt your head up slightly and apply pressure just…” Charles’ guided Erik's hand to his nose, making sure he was present enough to understand, “…there. I’ll get you some ice.”

“Charles?”

“Yes?” A new image formed of himself wearing boxing gloves and and being cheered by his audience. Also, Erik was laughing. “What?”

“I don't think we need more sparring," he said with a congratulatory gesture. “Once my nose stops bleeding, we can switch to my remedial anti-telepathy, Professor.”

It's EmmaDeMarais' Birthday Party!

melissima — Sun, 21 Oct 2012 20:57:34 GMT

Happy Birthday emmademarais!

Welcome to your very own Heroes and Villains party!

Here's the cake:

If that gives you a hint, there are black hats and white hats around here, acting as living decorations, so be sure to enjoy all the best of dark:

and bright:

There's lots of goodies on the buffet

And of course champagne and sparkling cider

Help us celebrate this special day!

Happy Birthday EmmaDeMarais!!!

melissima — Thu, 18 Oct 2012 15:44:36 GMT

Have a great day, my dear, and many happy returns!

In deference to the Birthday Girl's schedule, the customary LJ party will be held on Sunday Octoberr 21st right here at my LJ.

Happy Birthday T_vo0810

melissima — Fri, 10 Aug 2012 21:34:19 GMT

Happy Birthday t_vo0810!

Welcome to your very own Museum Gala!

Let's choose a gown and get you to hair and make-up!

Kurt can't resist ethnic drama, of course:

Garcia suggests you never miss a chance to get your steampunk on:

El, ever the queen of elegance, has found a gala-perfect gown:

Take your time, it's your night to make a dramatic entrance! The reception spread is pretty epic.

And of course don't forget to have some bubbly (or cider.)

And of course, cake!

After you've mingled a while, join your hosts,

For a tour of the galleries, curated especially to delight and arouse you.

Come help us celebrate my dear brain twin's special day!

Comment (perhaps with a picture of your own elegant ensemble?) and I'll reply with a screencap for you to caption, your personal invitation to play:

Create a picspam gallery.

wax poetic with a haiku,

Or host a virtual "reading" of microfic in honor of the birthday girl.

However you decide to join in, be sure to have a slice of cake and chat with lots of artistically elegant people.

Fic: A Recipe For Nostalgia

melissima — Tue, 07 Aug 2012 04:25:41 GMT

Title: A Recipe For Nostalgia
Fandom: Numb3rs
Pairing/Characters: Billy/Charlie
Rating: G
Summary: Billy's birthday sweets are a bit unusual.
Word Count: 300
Spoilers: Manhunt
Disclaimer: Not mine, only playing, I'll put them back when I'm done.

At the sound of Charlie greeting David and Colby as he made his way across the bullpen, Billy brushed cookie crumbs off his hands and face, then stood.

"Oh good, you got them!" Charlie gestured at the open pastry box.

"Shh!" Billy laid a finger across Charlie's lips before extracting a snickerdoodle from the box and offering a bite in exchange for silence. "I don't mind sharing with you," he breathed, "but I can't be held accountable if the rest of these knuckleheads get their paws on 'em…there might be bloodshed. I haven't had - I don't know how Alyssa did it, they're almost exactly like Mom's."

Charlie chuckled in spite of the spicy-sweet cookie melting on his tongue. He let a wicked smirk play across his lips, drawling, "Oh ye of little faith!" He hid the cookies in a mostly-empty file drawer and pulled Billy with him toward the open conference room where a huge box from Alyssa's lay, circled by dozens of milling agents under Don's cheerful eye.

Billy halted just long enough to wordlessly squeeze his shoulder, eyes smoldering with promises of sexy thanks later on.

"Here's the man of the hour!" crowed Don, offering a cake knife to Billy. The icing in front of him read "Happy Birthday Agent Cooper!"

Billy slapped Don's back heartily and took his place to begin slicing up the cake. "Would ya look at that! Plenty for everybody! Who wants a corner?"

*

Charlie watched Billy trade easy banter with Don and share cake and camaraderie with their coworkers, reveling in the love and gratitude that lit Billy's gaze each time it turned his way. It was easy to share his gregarious lover now, the spark in blue eyes proving that before long he would have Billy all to himself.

Fic: Red Velvet

melissima — Wed, 11 Jul 2012 19:26:42 GMT

Title: Red Velvet
Fandom: Numb3rs
Pairing/Characters: Billy/Charlie
Rating: PG
Summary: Charlie's birthday celebration begins at midnight.
Word Count: 300
Spoilers: Manhunt
Disclaimer: Not mine, only playing, I'll put them back when I'm done.

Charlie wandered into the kitchen looking for calories. His after-dinner math session had turned into a binge; now it was midnight and his body was definitely out of gas.

ESPN chattered from the inglenook. He poked his head in and found Billy crashed on the sofa barefoot, shirt open, one arm slung over his face. "Happy Birthday, Professor," he rumbled, without moving a single visible freckle. "Dessert's in the fridge."

Charlie stepped happily to the refrigerator, but frowned at the burgundy "Alyssa's Bakery" box. He trudged back to Billy, stomach still rumbling. "You forgot."

"I did not forget it's your birthday. Your dad is making the big cake, like always."

"I know, but I don't like red v—"

"Did you look in the box?"

"I talk to Alyssa sometimes too, you know," Charlie countered. "She caters department parties. She only uses that color box when it's red velvet cake inside—"

"And you don't like food coloring, even if it's all natural and made from beets," Billy finished, mimicking his delivery exactly.

"Cake shouldn't have vegetables in it," they said in unison.

Billy rolled to his feet and pulled Charlie into the kitchen. "Are you always this whiny on your birthday, or is the math not cooperating?" He kissed Charlie's curls before retrieving the box and extracting a thickly-frosted cupcake.

"See?" he said, peeling the wrapper and halving the cake to show the cocoa color. "No red, just velvet." He held the cake for Charlie to bite, then kissed him deeply, chasing the rich cream cheese flavor.

"Not entirely accurate," Charlie murmured. He pinched off a bite of cupcake and smeared it down Billy's chest. "She supplied the velvet," he agreed, ducking to lick at the cake, frosting, and salty skin, "but I've got my favorite red right here."

Five things on my desk right now...

melissima — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 01:06:30 GMT

Ganked from luninosity Here...

a smallish red teardrop-shaped vase filled with crochet hooks

Candied Ginger Body Butter from the Body Shop, which was a gift from t_vo0810 on her trip to visit me in January

the neck-ribbon from my Lindt dark chocolate bunny, which was an Easter gift from emmademarais that got eaten all up, except for the foil and ribbon. The ribbon is brown and sproingy and fun to play with. Plus it still smells like chocolate.

my latest uber-cheap ebay headphones, which are awesome because they are BRIGHT ORANGE. I could find them in the middle of the night by just the light of my wheelchair control box, if I wanted.

a tiny jewelry box shaped like a sea turtle, which was a gift from my old boss. It has a smudge of white paint on one flipper from when I was painting leaves all over the top of my desk once and didn't move it far enough away to be safe from my prodigious ability to make a mess with paint.

What's on YOUR desk right now, flist?

Watching an occasional Glee episode has its rewards...

melissima — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 04:08:50 GMT

I did not think there could be anything better than Bomer on Glee...

Fantastic song choice, great choreography that shows Quinn is still getting used to the chair, and of course ARTIE. /swoon/

Now, I know I'm a dirty old woman for saying this, but that little "come here" hand gesture he gives Quinn toward the end? Guh. It goes through me like a shiver every time I see it. Idk why, it just does.

STOP SOPA

melissima — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 19:59:43 GMT

Tell your congresspeople to keep the internet free of this horrible bill's corporate censorship

What He Said!

melissima — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 18:59:07 GMT

Don't call me an inspiration. Inspiration carries a kind of responsibility with it, as if I'm living for the purpose of making you feel something. I'm not. I'm just...living.

The following video embodies this truth.

In case the embedded video doesn't work: Jeff Harris' Self Portraits

Fic: 'Tis The Season

melissima — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 22:28:20 GMT

Title: 'Tis The Season
Characters: Vicki Nelson, Henry Fitzroy
Rating: FRE
Spoilers: Blood Ties TV Series, Blood books by Tanya Huff
Summary: After the events of the TV series and the books, Vicki and Henry find an unusual way to visit one another - a yearly house swap.

Author Notes: SPOILER FOR THE BOOK SERIES (highlight to read)

As in canon, Vamp-Vicki and Henry can't physically be in the same place without causing major bloodshed, so they use a little creative house-swapping to stay in touch. This is set slightly in the future and after Mike Celluci has died a mortal death but not a natural one. I played fast and loose with her choice of territory, but I hope you enjoy this anyway! Thanks for reading!

Toronto, January 2015

It hurts less every time she comes back. She still won’t patronize the coffee shop where she finally guessed Mike’s middle name, winning the dinner bet that turned into their first almost-date. She won’t set foot in the hotel where she first watched him die.

But this isn’t Mike’s city anymore. He protected Portland for a decade after she finally agreed to let him settle there, just far enough from the edge of the Seattle territory to keep its vampire out of her business. Things had been good until a stupid standoff with a meth lab courier turned into an explosion and put Mike beyond her reach in a blink, made Portland somewhere she didn’t care to see, ever again.

Instead she prowls New Orleans bars and tourist traps, scooping up bail skippers for money and the city’s displaced generation for everything else she needs. Well, almost everything. She looks out Henry’s heavily-insulated picture window at Toronto in its glittering nightgown and remembers the club where Henry tracked her with gleeful eyes after she resisted his power, the skate park where he first tasted her blood. He’s taken in strays since they parted, from the knots of homeless teenagers who hang around outside the comic shop to the sleek gray cat grooming her paws on the windowsill. The tag on her collar says “Queen Victoria.”

NOLA, January 2015

He’s long past fashionably late, but The Krewe of Rex Masquerade Ball is no place for hunting, feeding - there’s plenty of privacy, but New Orleans' old money is far too incestuously small to risk the faintest whiff of rumor. So, he invited someone interesting to come up, knowing Vicki will be furious when she picks up the scent. He opens her liquor cabinet, looking for something to offer his “guest.” he pours a generous portion of sugarcane rum for Tracey and slides his fingers into her long auburn hair.

She purrs. “Won’t you join me, hon? It’s no fun drinking alone.”

“You aren’t,” he murmurs, matching her sultry tone even as he tips her head to the side. “I promise.”

His phone vibrates in the triplet pattern assigned to Vicki and he lets it sit, pushing Tracey back across the wide white bed. Her luscious curves might have entranced him, if not for the lingering scent of Vicki’s lean, tawny body rising faintly from the pillows to taunt him.

Toronto

Dropping her phone back into her bag, she eschews the red silk dressing gown he’s left draped invitingly over a corner of the bed, pulling on a pair of jeans and hoodie from her own luggage. Sitting on the bed to pull on her boots, she remembers promising herself she’d pack bedding, or buy some, the last time they swapped territories for the season. The feline scent of Henry sleeping floods her senses, driving her away from the sumptuous bed to a leather chaise in the corner he keeps for posing models on.

NOLA

He sends Tracey away smiling with a few words and a night-black stare, before showering and dressing carefully in his white tuxedo and sleek snow leopard mask. They’ll tease him for his tardiness, but as long as he does arrive with a fat donation he’ll be forgiven.

He picks up the phone to pocket it, only belatedly remembering to check the message. It rings in his hand and he rushes out, letting the noise of traffic and tourists give him an excuse to hang up before he folds himself into the dark envelope of the hired car. He doesn’t wish to move in this rarefied circle anymore; he’d rather walk Vicki’s hunting ground, both predator and protector of the wards and their denizens. As the car moves silkily over the bustling streets he opens her text message and smiles ruefully at the blank lines he finds there.

Toronto

She resists the temptation of turning her earlier trip down memory lane into an actual tour of past haunts. Her instincts, always beyond sharp now, are a razor's edge against her skin while she hunts - a chill, deadly potential that steers her away from Henry’s clubs and restaurants. She winds up in a newish sports bar (she’s surprised to see that it’s aimed at fantasy football instead of hockey) and finds herself trading banter with a pair of painfully young beat cops, both sandy-haired boys with aggressively repaired teeth: Andy and Pete. The blonde bartender they’d been chatting up before sloshes beer over the rim of Vicki’s glass. The boys are jovially competitive until she chooses Pete, just so Andy can stop trying so hard; he’s a little bit too puppy-dog for her taste.

NOLA

This much white is a little blinding after the winter dark streets of Marigny, but he puts on a charming smile and picks up a flute of champagne.

“Henry, you cad,” chides his hostess as she leans in to air kiss, her rich floral perfume an effervescent mask over the scent of her skin, the icy snow queen costume an elegant counterpoint to the hot song of her blood. “Half the court’s convinced you’re a figment of my imagination.”

“I could be, Suzanne,” he teases, letting his cheek press hers just long enough to make her heart rate leap, “but my check is very real.”

She shoves at him in consternation, but the gauche mention of money is as much part of his disguise as his mask, and he lets her sail around the ballroom introducing him, playing the scandalous comic-book millionaire for all her stuffy relatives. It’s the least he can do for this formidable woman, whose contacts helped him wrest Vicki’s apartment/office building from both probate and an oily developer’s clutches. He enjoys the game of verbal cat and mouse, even enjoys appearing to freeze and stumble a bit, speared by the sugar coated icepick of her wit, before recovering admirably.

Toronto

She makes her way back to the penthouse well before dawn, and pulls on soft boxers and a tank - not her ratty gray set but black rayon with just a hint of sheen. She tests the touchscreen TV in the corner - she could answer from the bed if Henry calls.

She slips between his sheets, feeling the sun threaten and hum from behind the horizon. She doesn’t look at the screen.

The cat deigns to join her on the bed, and she could almost be lulled to sleep by her warm velvet paws and steady purring.

The screen chimes. “Homesick already?” She looks up through her hair to find him toeing off slick white shoes, his tie and shirt studs already loose.

“Two Victorias for the price of one, what a bargain.”

“You would have a bargain penthouse instead of a basement.”

He gestures at her spare but spacious apartment with it’s own view “You don’t live on the ground floor yourself these days, Ms. Nelson.”

“Touché,” she allows herself to toy with the collar of the dressing gown. “Good party?”

“Good enough. Everything there okay?”

She watches his hands loose the rest of the studs. “Okay enough.”

“Vicki?”

She finally lets herself meet his eyes. “Okay enough.”

“Talk to me until you fall asleep?” he asks, his eyes soft and serious.

“Sure,” She finds the dressing gown has made its way to her lap and shakes it out, lets it settle around her shoulders light as a breath. “So I met these two puppy cops tonight…”

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Dear Yulegoat,

Happy Birthday Emmademarais!

Happy Birthday emmademarais!

Welcome to your Barbecue birthday party!Since it's still warm and sunny where we are this year, we're having a laid-back, lick-your-fingers delicious back yard grill-fest.Here's the cake:And the living decorations:

Happy Birthday t_vo0810!

Welcome to your party, T!Here's the cake: Come join the fun!

It's Emma's Birthday Party!

Happy Birthday emmademarais!

Welcome to your party!Here's the cake: And the living decorations:There's lots of goodies on the buffetAnd of course champagne and sparkling ciderHelp us celebrate this special day!

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It's EmmaDeMarais' Birthday Party!

Happy Birthday emmademarais!

Happy Birthday EmmaDeMarais!!!

Have a great day, my dear, and many happy returns!

Happy Birthday T_vo0810

Happy Birthday t_vo0810!

However you decide to join in, be sure to have a slice of cake and chat with lots of artistically elegant people.

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Welcome to your Barbecue birthday party!

Since it's still warm and sunny where we are this year, we're having a laid-back, lick-your-fingers delicious back yard grill-fest.

Here's the cake:

And the living decorations:

Welcome to your party, T!

Here's the cake:

Come join the fun!

Welcome to your party!

Here's the cake:

And the living decorations:

There's lots of goodies on the buffet

And of course champagne and sparkling cider

Help us celebrate this special day!