The white whale. Supernatural, Castiel-centric future fic, assuming an alternate ending to season 8. PG-13ish with some graphic violence. Warning for past character death.
Dean and Sam left no children behind. Not even illegitimate, undiscovered ones: Castiel knows this, because he searched every inch of their checkered pasts, long ago. He doesn't know what he hoped to find. It simply would have been something else to visit, instead of a grave: a broad-shouldered man or a freckled woman, someone with the habit of opening beer bottles on countertops, someone who laughed easily and took pleasure in leftover meatloaf. Sometimes when he watches them, these far-flung Winchesters and Campbells, he wonders what on earth he is looking for: comfort, or purpose.
...Sometimes, Castiel thinks what he is really looking for, is punishment.
Kalendae. Doctor/Rose, TARDIS, Donna, Amy, everyone, PG-ish, still very AU. This is the end. (Previous parts: one, two, three, and at A03 here)
"Back to earth," says Donna. They are sitting on two loungers by an enormous zero-gravity pool complex, owned by Lunar Suites Incorporated. It's almost eleven-thirty in the morning. Donna's informed him- strictly speaking, quite accurately- that it's noon somewhere. He agrees, says that her grasp of space-time is rapidly improving, and she tells him to stop thinking for the love of God. She hands him a daiquiri the size of a punch bowl, and puts on her sunglasses. "I mean it. I can hear those creaky wheels turning in your head." He takes a sip of his drink. It tastes like nuclear fruit and bottled sunshine and illegal Lunorian hyper-spirits.
Sorry, everyone. The last part of Kalendae is coming, I promise. I've got a paper draft due at the end of the week and I'm scrambling, so forgive me.
In other news, I spent spring break watching Supernatural from the beginning- why God why I know it's a show of pain but aren't they all these days- and wondering just what the fuck I think I'm doing. Grant Application Season is over and now we're in Grant Notification Waiting Season, the worst and most bullshit of the seasons. If we put my worrying and my existential blah into a battery, it'd get us to the moon.
Thank God yesterday was Easter and I had an excuse to bake ham and pie and rolls and eat copious amounts of everything and sit on the floor zoned out watching Wreck-It Ralph. Eating my feelings? Yes, with Cool-Whip.
Kalendae. Doctor/Rose, Susan, TARDIS, Sarah Jane, Martha, everyone, PG-ish, AU. Oh God, it's just getting longer, isn't it.
It's everything, really. Plums taste brighter and sweeter, spring rain permeates his very soul. Jam is a revelation. He lies down in flowerbeds and buries his face affectionately in the scruffy coats of alien dogs and scratches every itch until pleasurable agony shoots through him, scalp to fingertips. He's on overload. He finally knows how candles feel, rockets, yule logs. Everything that burns and burns and becomes something else when the burning's done.
Kalendae. Doctor/Rose, Susan, TARDIS, Sarah Jane, everyone, PG-ish, AU.
"You could ask her again," says Rose. She is sitting across from him in a chair, with her feet on the coffee table. It doesn't matter, it's not as if she's ever tracked dirt in. It's impossible. He wonders, though, how she manages not to slide directly through the chair, being an insubstantial projection and all. "Doctor, are you listening?" He wasn't. It seems he is a rambling sort of man this go-round.
"My apologies," he says, and tilts his teacup at her. "Go on."
Kalendae. Doctor/Rose, Susan, TARDIS, Sarah Jane, everyone, PG-ish, and mildly- okay, fairly- AU. For mylittlepwny, AU muse beyond compare. This is a story in which a great many things change, while certain important things remain the same.
He wonders who would have taken the time to program independent reactions of this sophistication. So he asks her. She looks at him and then looks down at her feet, and says it's a good thing his shoes didn't leave a scuff on hers, because she's not sure it would ever come out. So apparently, his autopilot is a complex hard-light simulacrum with high-security topics that are code-designated as strictly off-limit, or his autopilot simply has things she'd prefer not to discuss.
He lies awake in an empty bed and recites the facts. They're not comforting. He was slow when he ought to have been quick. He was quick when he ought to have been slow. True knowledge consists in knowing, he thinks. That I know nothing.
The Homecoming Dance Ficathon is still going strong- so if you'd like to jump in with a prompt or do a little writing yourself, please stop by. There are lots of amazing ideas in the air. In the meantime, here are the filled prompts so far- lots of funny, with dashes of occasional heartbreak and a light sprinkling of myth. Please check out these authors and give them some love!
It occurs to him that the first time had been only illuminated by flashes of lightning, shadows hiding them both from each other. He said he'd do it better, the next time.
Down, down past thrones and castles and stones, past cobbled houses and cobbled streets, deep in the twisted woods and wicked branches, there lives a witch.
Moonlight touches his cheek, and she hears laughter and music downstairs. He could be handsome, if he wasn't bloodied and battered, life leaking out through his breaths.
She is lovelier than he remembers; that's the thing about time--it softens the focus on so many optical snapshots, the photos fade and age with too much time, and anyway, he shot them with a lesser model, the aperture less accurate, the flash too weak.
Either she's going to kill him or he's gonna die. Either way he starts wishing, just a little, that he actually had gone into accounting like he always tells his Nana.
She’s curling around one of his arms and her fingers are tangled with his. In any other coat, the lining would be bursting at the seams trying to contain fifteen slim fingers but instead they fit perfectly, just like always.
he's radiating heat, but that's normal - that's what he's always done, and although his hugs have always been distant, there is something kenzi needs in the way he holds her, in the heat he provides.
She did not smile, and for the first time he noticed the dark roots of her hair. The small scar above her left eyebrow. “I’m not just looking for facts, Dr. Smith,” she said. “I’m looking for the truth.”
When he finally rescues her out of the cold, white, tile-walled room, she’s so frighteningly light in his arms. She trembles against him, and it scares him that he can’t tell whether it’s from the fear or from the cold.
She was chained to an enormous slab of rock, rising from the sea as if it was a monument to the gods, and she wondered, again, how she could have expected anything differently when he offered to show her the famed Grecian Isles.
"There is this picture of a penguin," says Castiel, seemingly ignoring Dean's initial remark. For a minute Castiel is lost in his own laughter again, pointing at the screen that neither of them can actually see.
The thing with LJ is, she's not very good with setting up boundaries. Which is all ЖЖ's fault, of course. The only good thing about having a domineering, successful twin sister is that you can blame her for everything.
He gets that look again, the one he so often wears around her, like-- how crazy is she, or how much is she fucking with me, and what the fuck are humans, anyway.
They meet at a hotel bar. One of a million dimly-lit, nondescript places with dark leather sofas and darker wood and bored bartenders serving their fiftieth martini and a handful of worn-looking people looking to trade up.
He stands and offers his hand over the counter. She shakes it firmly, and he laughs. "Be careful what you wish for," he tells her. "Because you just might get it."
I KNOW WHERE EVERYONE IS TONIGHT THEY'RE ON TUMBLR TALKING ABOUT HOW MUCH THEY MISS LJ WELL LET'S DO THIS
I OFFICIALLY INVITE YOU AND EVERYONE YOU KNOW TO A MULTIFANDOM COMMENT FICATHON, RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW. We're talking Doctor Who, Sherlock, Elementary, Harry Potter, Avengers, Marvel and DC, Justified, Star Trek, Veronica Mars, Secret Diary of a Billie Piper's Perfect Face, any Vampire show currently airing or having aired ever, anything you're watching that I forgot, anything I'm watching that you forgot, IDK and IDGAF, if you want it, ask for it. Leave your prompts as comments. Yes you may cheat and prompt yourself and fill it. You are safe here.
Prompters: please put a short header (one line is fine) with fandom, pairing, rating, or whatever, bolded at the top of your request.
Writers: when filling a prompt, please copy/paste the original header or create a bolded header of your own. I know we don't have real comment headers anymore because lj is a fucknut but it's our fucknut and we love it.
Everyone play nice, unless the prompt specifically tells you to play nasty. Then get it. Anyone can fill a prompt even if it's already been written. Anon is fine if that's what you need bb. Is there anything I forgot? Oh well tell me later. ILU NOW GO
Letters. Terminator:TSCC, John/Cameron, PGish. This is a sequel of sorts to Dancers, a John/Cameron fic that I wrote ages and ages ago. I still miss them. If I were being fair, I would warn for character death, but this is time travel. We can pretend it never happens.
"Your handwriting is supposed to say something about you," Harper says, awkwardly. Making small talk, the last impulse of idiots and those about to jump.
Okay, I did it, I have a fandom tumblr. I don't know what to do with it. Pretend I am your ancient grandpa and I have spent the last decade playing records on vinyl and driving a car without auto locks. Tell me how to turn this thing on.
As my own postgraduate march soldiers on, I have been thinking about the educational backgrounds of the Hogwarts staff. From my admittedly small sample group of Dumbledore, Snape, and Trelawney, it appears the route to becoming a secondary-school educator in the wizarding world goes something like:
1. Graduate from Hogwarts at the tender age of seventeen. 2. ??? 3. Kill somebody more impressive than you are/ make a terrible mistake/ spill some fairly major metaphorical prophetic beans. 4. Profit.
Is there a magical graduate school, or is it all job training, like the Aurors? And for God's sake, can somebody get these people a few pedagogy courses? I love them all and I cry at the endings, but really.
The quarrymen. Written for challenge #97 at then_theres_us. Ten/Rose. There will always be music, wherever she goes.
She puts her hand against his chest, the double drumbeat. She's obviously thinking about it. Polyrhythmic. Faster than hers, and infinitely slower. Some songs only have three verses.
What is ACTA? ACTA is the Anti-Counterfeiting Trade Agreement. A new intellectual property enforcement treaty being negotiated by the United States, the European Community, Switzerland, and Japan, with Australia, the Republic of Korea, New Zealand, Mexico, Jordan, Morocco, Singapore, the United Arab Emirates, and Canada recently announcing that they will join in as well.
Why should you care about ACTA? Initial reports indicate that the treaty will have a very broad scope and will involve new tools targeting “Internet distribution and information technology.”
What is the goal of ACTA? Reportedly the goal is to create new legal standards of intellectual property enforcement, as well as increased international cooperation, an example of which would be an increase in information sharing between signatory countries’ law enforcement agencies.
Read the authentic version of the ACTA text as of 15 April 2011, as finalized by participating countries here: ACTA Finalized Text
Follow the history of the treaty’s formation here: ACTA history
Read letters from U.S. Senator Ron Wyden wherein he challenges the constitutionality of ACTA: Letter 1 | Letter 2 | Read the Administration’s Response to Wyden’s First Letter here: Response
Watch a short informative video on ACTA: ACTA Video
Non finito. Short fic taking place in season two of Veronica Mars, featuring a lot of rambling Logan brain. Apologies for his cussing. It's been years and continents, but I missed them.
She's standing behind him. Logan doesn't turn around. He can feel her eyes on his back, crawling up his spine, taking stock. Greedy for the details, even details she's already dumped for other details. Encyclopedia Mars.
For the first time, somebody has asked to make a podfic out of one of my works! It's pretty amazing and I'm excited to say that it's now finished and ready for listening. The fic is a Remus/Sirius story from back in 2005, wow.
Title: Charmbreaker. Rating: PG-ish Note: Based on a challenge for remus_reads, #31: Remus is forced to leave school after the Prank. Summary: Sirius writes, too. These letters Remus does not read, but also does not throw away.
(Podfic. It sounds so... biological. As an aside, is this something you guys would enjoy, generally? Are there any things of mine you'd like to see turned into podfic?)
It's been like fifty degrees this whole week. I'm not complaining. Just observing that there is now a slim chance I am going to be able to rock this mildly ironic holiday sweater, seeing as how it's warmer than a Wookie hide. I shall have to comfort myself with pie. "The same thing we do every night, Pinky."
Our holiday schedule is extra-complicated this year, so in this moment of calm, I want to thank you, my friends, for a wonderful year- all the support and kindness you demonstrated, all the fun you shared, for all the little moments and the bigger ones. No matter what you're celebrating- even if you're just celebrating a hot bath and the last of your houseguests leaving- I hope that you are happy and healthy, and I hope that you know you're loved and appreciated.
exhausted
anxious
goofy
cranky
bouncy