this roadside scene

ot: fic requests/meme

calikalie — Sun, 10 Oct 2010 01:41:31 GMT

So, I'm not entirely sure anyone is really still paying attention to this little fic journal of mine since I don't post as regularly as I used to (or as much as I would like). However, I'm opening up the door for some fic requests by doing a little meme, because I want to get back into the swing of things and I have a bit of free time for part of this week.

fandom + character(s) and/or pairing(s) + lyrics or three words

Or, if you just want to throw me a random prompt, that's all good to. I keep a list of my character/pairing preferences here, but I'm occasionally willing to branch out every now and again. I just updated that list today to include some newer fandoms and ships. At the moment, I'm mostly asking for prompts of the following fandoms (in order of current preference): Doctor Who, Fringe, The Vampire Diaries, Chuck, Lost, Community, The Office. Even so, if there's a fandom not on that list that I've written before, I don't have an issue dipping back into that, but those are just the ones I'm mostly itching to write right now.

And feel free to leave me multiple prompts. Odds are, I probably won't get around to writing all of them, so I like to have a little variety to pick and choose from. :)

[doctor who] stop the clocks from turning

calikalie — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 20:41:18 GMT

A/N: Just rounding out the rest of what I had posted this past week at the Doctor Who series five ficathon. If you missed my last entry with the first two fics that I posted, you can read those here. It was nice to get back in the swing of things and writing more than I have been in ages.

stop the clocks from turning
doctor who. amy pond, eleven/amy. pg. 1130 words. spoilers up until "cold blood."
the first time he disappoints her she sits waiting, cold and alone. she stops believing in fairytales that day.

The first time he disappoints her she sits waiting, cold and alone.

She forgets how much time has passed. An hour, two hours, or five even. Honestly, when you’re seven years old, even thirty minutes seems limitless.

He said five. Five minutes, he promised.

But that’s what they always say, right? Five minutes is another empty promise handed to her with the absence of a silver platter.

Her hands balled together in fists, whether it was due to the cold or to hit him for making her wait for so long, she wasn’t sure then. He’ll come back, she thinks optimistically, shifting for the umpteenth time on her suitcase and she continued to stare at the shed he had broken with his impossible police box he claimed was a time machine (she always did have a soft spot for fairy tales and he appeared to be straight from them).

Sooner or later, the sun began to appear, bathing the yard in a glow that seemed to contradict what she was feeling.

Perhaps she had imagined it, she thought, tucking her hands under her chin like only an impatient child would. Time machines didn’t exist.

She stopped believing in fairy tales that day.

The second time he disappoints her, she should have known better.

It takes twelve years for him to correct his mistake and return to her.

Twelve years of no longer being Amelia Pond, the girl whose name felt lifted from storybooks, who was replaced by the hardened heart of Amy Pond, the girl who kept people at arm’s length with playful barbs and cynicism as an emotional defense.

“I grew up,” she said.

And she lied.

She never grew up, not really.

Her handmaid dolls that she had crafted at a young age of herself and the Doctor still had their place in her bedroom along with a number of pictures and drawings that showcased skills that progressed with age. She used them to craft her own adventures, to dream up stories of far away places and eras long gone. In them there was always the Doctor, the same raggedy Doctor who asked her to trust him, who held her hand as they stood of the precipice of something new and exciting and undoubtedly alien – so very like him and much unlike Leadworth.

Twenty minutes is a blip compared to twelve years.

But he leaves again, as usual.

She wonders if this was a habit of his, showing up in odd places and making promises of speedy returns.

Yes, she finally determined, leaves still rustling from the disturbance of his time machine disappearing into thin air, the Doctor was not new to this game.

When he comes back –

, her mind reasons (she was far too disenchanted to put complete faith in the Doctor, though she wanted to, though he seemed to want her to without little reason why) – she planned on finally taking a step inside his time machine.

It was her turn to leave, after all.

The third time he disappoints her it takes a while to remember the details.

For the longest time she could only remember the drying moisture on her cheeks and fleeting glimpses of another life she couldn’t quite place.

She catches him looking at her sometimes, his eyes older and wearier than she had ever seen them. On several occasions he turns away when their eyes meet, immediately busying himself with whatever was handy at the moment. On a few instances, he’d given her an oddly tightened grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes – this was the most unsettling of them all to her.

But once he dropped all pretense of pretend.

“Are you okay?” he asked her.

His voice had gone quiet, almost suspiciously so, she thinks. She could have sworn it was louder moments ago as he bandied about the TARDIS flipping various switches, bobs, and bits while he mused – aloud as he tends to do, whether anyone was listening or not – over potential travel plans.

She doesn’t answer – not at first.

He looks down at her hands (still fidgeting, he notices, her right thumb and middle finger rubbing absent-mindedly over a significant left digit).

A little red box starts to burn a hole in his jacket pocket. The gesture isn’t lost on him.

“Amelia,” he said, voice softer still.

That shakes her up.

Amelia. Not Pond, nor Amy. Amelia. Like a name in a fairytale, he told her once. He only ever called her by her proper name when he was cross, but there was a different tenor to his voice that she found difficult to register.

“I’m fine,” she said defensively, rolling her eyes as he continued to watch her carefully.

She stands up straight and walks over to him at the console, her face arranging itself into an exaggerated pout.

“You,” she slowly drawled, taking a finger and pushing his chest with mock accusation, “worry too much.”

He smiles – that same uneasy smile that took on multiple meanings – and tenderly cups her face with his hands.

“Maybe. But I am a doctor after all.”

Another roll of eyes and they found themselves hurtling through stars and planets and galaxies with not a single minute to be wasted.

All the time in the world couldn’t fix everything, though he often died trying.

When life on the TARDIS grew usually quiet, he would take her solar systems so visually grand he would open the doors wide while the two of them sat under the frame, legs dangling underneath them.

The first time they did this, she had asked how the TARDIS could fly while he was sitting here with her.

“Auto pilot function,” he said matter-of-factly, self-satisfied with his own simple ingenuity.

She raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Your time machine has auto pilot?”

“Of course it has auto pilot. Why wouldn’t it have auto pilot?”

Naturally

, she thinks. She should have been perfectly aware that time machines – or at least his – had the capability of being controlled by autopilot.

That’s the only time she asks.

She’s mostly content holding his hand tightly watching shooting stars breeze past her time after time. Her head rests comfortably on his shoulder and she knows it – he doesn’t disappoint her then.

She was seven years old and still sat on her suitcase waiting for the Doctor.

She never often waited for anything. Waiting was for those who didn’t have anything better to do and Amelia was always moving, never sitting still. She was a runner, after all.

A familiar sound is caught in the morning air and her spirits lift just as they had begun to fade out hours before.

I always come back.

Someone had to break the pattern sooner or later.

[doctor who] two ficlets

calikalie — Thu, 24 Jun 2010 17:18:24 GMT

A/N: It has been a long while, a very long while, since I've last posted any fic here. But luckily for me, I've been doing quite a bit of writing over the past week due largely in part to glassbomb's Doctor Who series five ficathon. I'm sporadically re-posting my fics that I've written for it over here for organizational purposes since I like to keep everything handy in one spot. I'm hoping that this has finally kicked my writing motivation into gear and I can write and post regularly like I used to. Nevertheless, enjoy!

hold a hand for cover
doctor who. amy pond, eleven/amy. g. 371 words. general series five.
there comes a point in which she becomes accustomed to one of his hands grasping hers with intent tightness and fleeting kisses on her forehead. the doctor is very tactile, she determines.

i.

There comes a point in which she becomes accustomed to one of his hands grasping hers with intent tightness and fleeting kisses on her forehead.

Her life prior had been mostly devoid of physical affection aside from the rare, stiff pat on the shoulder from her aunt or her job, but she considered that to be having a lark rather than indulging in proper affection.

(She supposed another psychiatrist could get their money’s worth analyzing all that, but she gave up on others trying to figure out the way her mind worked like a broken toy that needed to be fixed.)

It was somewhere between saving a starwhale and walking blind through a makeshift forest with malevolent stone angels that she grew used to the feeling of his hands – always busy, always flailing – somewhere against her.

“You’re in for a treat this time, Pond,” he said, his voice carrying the usual hints of excitement and adrenaline that he adopted whenever the TARDIS came to a landing.

He held out his hand for her and she takes hold of it instinctively, the two of them unable to stop a small outburst of laughter from escaping.

If this meant never having to grow up, she’ll take it. It was always more fun running away when there was someone to run alongside with.

ii.

He gently presses his forehead against hers while fingers began to slip between threads of her hair, a gesture so familiar that a slight smile starts to form at the corners of her lips.

Predictable

, she thinks, these odd little habits and quirks of his she stores away in a particular corner of her mind that she uses to piece together the mysteries of the Doctor. He remains an unsolvable puzzle to her no matter how many idiosyncrasies she deciphers, seemingly torn between a giddy child with a bundle of mad energy and a daft old man whose social skills deteriorated over the years.

But this – this she could always count on, the feeling of his forehead against hers like magnets pressed together that were far more difficult to pry apart than collide.

Only when he pulls away is she able to finally catch her breath.

nothing but the angles of my future
doctor who. eleven/amy. pg. 524 words. general series five.
he maps out constellations across her skin with her freckles. losing your head is such a common theme.

He maps out constellations across her skin with her freckles.

The Doctor is rarely bored, jumping from planet to planet, century to century with little time for breathing in between. The advantage of having a time machine is helpful when one wants to stave off boredom and avoid doing things in the proper –

slower

– order. But this, he finds, is his favorite game.

Her freckles are clusters of stars spread out along her cheeks, her nose, the back of her neck that’s only visible when on those occasions when it’s far too hot and she pulls her hair up for the sake of some relief, her back, her lower back and her legs, places he knows he shouldn’t look, but he’s always been curious of anything and everything.

Too curious.

“Has anyone ever told you curiosity killed the cat?” she asked after a while, exasperated and out breath from running – running keeps him on his feet, from remembering the reasons why he runs in the first place.

She was running too. Like minds, but not alike at all. Contradictions, the pair of them.

“Once,” he said. “From a cat, actually, or cat person to be more specific. It’s hard to take a cliché seriously when the person telling it lacks the ability to notice irony. Remind me to tell you the story later when we’re not running from a creature we can’t even see.”

Curiosity killed the cat, they said. But there were worse things than dying. That he knew well.

He grabs her hand and they take off running once more.

Together they lay on the clear floor of the main TARDIS console, drained and barely moving, too exhausted to find more comfortable settings.

She lets out a short burst of laughter in relief. She’ll never tire of this, that feeling of pure elation that comes with narrowly escaping death, the end of the world, or another catastrophe the Doctor made a habit of fixing.

“It’s never boring, though, is it?” he said, eyes gleaming as they always did when he managed to save the world.

Their hands still remained firmly grasped together.

That’s when he spots it, the assembly of stars trailing along the corner of her forehead unnoticeable, but not to him. There’s never a thing about her that he doesn’t end up noticing. His mind is always turning, always full to the brim with thoughts and ideas and things he never wants to forget so they continue to sit there.

He sees the Horologium, the pendulum clock, all sharp lines and swinging madly in his mind, forever ticking like a never-ending drumbeat, but not.

Appropriate

.

He brings his mouth to his forehead and kisses the stars.

She gives his hand a quick squeeze. She knows he does this enough that it never merits an explanation.

“Thank you,” he said. Quiet. Still – unlike the constant busyness of his life and mind.

Already he’s on another tangent, pondering over their next adventure and hundreds of little things that would make the average mind keel over from over-consumption.

It’s true what they say. Getting older does make you more forgetful.

[pushing daisies] these are not wrongs to right

calikalie — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 20:23:54 GMT

A/N: It's certainly been awhile since I've posted anything that I've written. I started writing this particular ficlet awhile back, but it didn't take me until last night to finish it and polish it up. This is just a short little thing to get me back into writing more regularly.

these are not wrongs to right
pushing daisies. ned (brief ned/chuck). g. 491 words. "the norwegians"/"window dressed to kill".
this was how it should have been before city morgues and crime scenes became something of a second home. he never did like complications and raising the dead inevitably brought complications into his life.

---

He couldn’t recall the taste of his own pies until now. Fresh fruit was never fresh fruit, only fruit that had once been ripe and living but were now rotting and sprouting patches of mold before he made them fresh again with the touch of his hands. Really though, he hadn’t savored the taste of a pie, any pie, since his mother had died.

And he liked it better that way.

He baked them, sure, but he never ate them.

Baking them was his niche, his way of pounding out lingering childhood issues with every rolling of dough and the occasional chopping of fruit. He had grown used to this process, of the dead fruit in the locked storage room in the back of the building, the way that peaches and pears and berries of indeterminable shapes and flavors would plump in his hand as they ripened back to edibility. It was a process – his process, one he had settled into comfortably for years, before his talent for waking dead things became a hurricane of complications and he never did like complications.

He remembered a point in his life in which he questioned his need to make pies (after all, the image of pies is synonymous with home and by extension his mother and by further extension, his father – complications again). Perhaps it was some sort of misguided attempt to feel closer to his mother, his way of dealing with emotions that he had long-since repressed or ones that he had difficulty with facing head on.

Truth be told, baking pies was the only thing he felt like he was good at, besides being able to wake the dead, which is a talent he wished he’d rather not possess.

Communicating with fruit drew fewer questions.

“This is weird,” Chuck said, her nose crinkling not even half way through the undertaking of trading out decomposing pie ingredients for unblemished new ones in the storage room.

She says “weird” in a tone that implies that neither of them were frequent observers to the strange and unexplainable.

Weird, maybe, in context of everything else, but he considered the rearranging of the storage room to be a restoring of a natural order. This was how it should have been before city morgues and crime scenes became something of a second home.

He takes a large bite out of one of the plump peaches sitting in a bowl nearby (peaches were his favorite, he had discovered, never bitter and always sweet).

“It’s how it should be.”

It takes a poor choice of words and a hypothetical pep talk from a socially inept taxidermist to realize that his attempts to be normal were largely abnormal.

He found it difficult to continuously resent something that despite often containing messy variables and brief bouts of heartache when it also gave him the one thing he couldn’t live without.

And that had to count for something, he thought.

[gossip girl] it decayed from the start

calikalie — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 23:05:18 GMT

A/N: Without a doubt, this is probably the longest fic I've written in a long time. So be warned. Also, I had written the majority of this last fall (hence why it takes place after an earlier episode from this season), but I only just recently went back and organized all of my recovered files from when my hard-drive was wiped clean back in December. It was originally meant to be a drabble/ficlet, but obviously spun out of control from there. I don't even know what prompted me to write this, but what can I say. It was a bit fun to write, to be honest, a lot raunchier and slightly darker than most of the fics I've written in the past. I hope you all enjoy, because I most likely won't be writing someone like this in the future (unless I get bitten by the writing bug again). :)

it decayed from the start
gossip girl. serena. chuck/serena (implied dan/serena, chuck/blair). r/nc-17. 3013 words. spoilers up to "the dark night". coda.
watching her come undone made him feel nostalgic of days long gone that he wished he could claim back; those days she wished never existed in the first place. she measured up her mistakes on a scale of sorts.

---

Every light had been turned on when the power came back; she couldn’t face the dark again, knowing that she’d likely see him right in front of her if she did. The curtains were kept pulled back, the city lights illuminating the room even more. She lay on the couch, her legs tucked under her. The gentle clinking of ice against glass as she swirled a drink in one hand filled the otherwise silent room – change be damned.

She never did cope with things well and she already exhausted her running away to boarding school option. Some days she liked to think she wasn’t the same girl that Dan had always believed was underneath her sunshine and puppies exterior. Now she didn’t care; the past was the past.

Her body straightened at the sound of the elevator doors. Too many minutes had passed for the source of the noise to be Dan, yet it was too early to be anyone else. She tipped her glass back and took a long drink. It burned her throat on the way down.

“You’re home early,” she said as Chuck had come into view out of the hallway. Words were slightly slurred, he noticed.

His lips curled into a smirk. “And you’re drunk.” Watching her come undone made him feel nostalgic of days long gone that he wished he could claim back; those days she wished never existed.

She raised her glass in a mock toast, special occasions and all that, flashes of the past year running through her head – dizziness took hold that had little to do with the alcohol, she feared. She poured herself another drink from the glass bottle on the table – scotch, his scotch; the first time he’d ever seen her take a drink of.

“Let me guess – Humphrey?” He removed his coat laid it over the bar counter before sitting down next to Serena on the sofa. If she was going to vomit, he made damn sure it wasn’t going to be all over his new dinner jacket. Or his genuine leather shoes that he slipped off shortly after he was rid of his coat.

Running her free hand through her hair, she nods in response to his question, never tangling into knots no matter how many times she did this.

He doesn’t say it, never thinks of saying it, but truth be told, he was hurting as much as she was that night. He was thankful to her for not taking the time to gloat as she usually did when it came to his issues with Blair (and his recently impotency). This wasn’t the time or place for a good gloat, storing away the moment for a later date when her heart didn’t feel as if it now lay in a thousand pieces, if not more.

Another drink, another tip of the glass.

“Reverting back to old ways, I see.” He picks up the half-empty bottle of liquor, taking note that a sizable volume was now missing.

She grimaces. That was how this whole thing started wasn’t it? Her past? It was the elephant in the room with Dan, ignored and occasionally forgotten, but so painfully there. “Fuck you, Chuck,” she spat out, tone of voice laced with bitterness and alcohol.

“You always were more fun inebriated.”

“And you were always more fun…wait…was there even a time?”

“Nice to see that alcohol still has the same effect on your wit. Besides, you know me, Sis. You know how much fun I could be.” He leans over closer to her, much too close, she thinks, and gently taps her on the arm,

She was sure she wasn’t quite drunk enough for that talk. Although, she partially blamed the scotch for the images of their past indiscretions in her head that didn’t sound so completely vile as it normally would on any other day. A minuscule part of her wished she could see Dan’s face then, realizing how she had fucked Chuck Bass on more than one occasion, semi-unashamedly during her pre-boarding school days. The image was almost amusing, really. The past was something she couldn’t change and he couldn’t deal

“You’re better off without him,” he said and some days she hates his uncanny ability to read people like a book. She let it pass tonight, hoping that what he was saying was true, even though she doubted that it was.

She didn’t want to think about Dan anymore, didn’t want to drink anymore of this disgusting shit that she never really liked in the first place – it was just there and available and she didn’t think her legs could carry her to the bar across the room, didn’t want to keep apologizing for things she didn’t have to apologize for. She never had to apologize for anything with Chuck, nor did he ever expect her to. She needed that now – someone without pretense or judgment or condemnation of her and that flighty thing she used to be.

Her hands took hold of his ridiculous purple printed ascot – she always meant to ask the reason for this particular choice of color when it came his wardrobe, but it tended to slip her mind. The drink now sat forgotten on the coffee table as she used his ascot to pull him in closer, far too close than what was deemed appropriate given their family situation. He didn’t pull away and she never hesitated as she kissed him, sparking memories of old and what once was.

She had been walking the thin “good girl” line for far too long, he thinks, twisting his fingers through her signature long, blonde locks.

The buttons of his waistcoat – matching, as always (he never quite felt like himself if his wardrobe wasn’t color coordinated in some way or form) – came undone as she began to move her hands further down from the ascot that used to be around his neck but now lay at the base of the sofa to his chest. The way she deftly dealt with the buttons in quick, succinct movements, a far cry her now mumbled speech, was not lost on him.

He only wished his own hands could be as dexterous when it came to removing the white Chanel belt Serena had used to adorn her dress with. The belt could be blamed for not being designed with moments such as these in mind; he was never one to attribute faults to him even when an acknowledgment was warranted.

“This thing is like a fucking chastity belt. I hate it.”

She muffled her distinct laughter into the crook of his neck as he finally succeeded in removing the offending garment, tossing it behind him like a piece of trash. The laughter catches in her throat as he starts to snake a hand underneath the skirt of her dress, between her thighs.

Her first instinct is to stop, to push him away before things get any further. It’s stupid and a mistake and wrong, but fuck, she needed this and every second of time rationalizing her behavior was a second lost when she could be getting off or a second gained of continued mourning over Dan, which she would have no more of tonight. She just wanted a moment to feel, to alleviate her frustration and pain, and Chuck had no boundaries – the one good thing she could always count on with Chuck was that he never judged her for being who she was, who she used to be.

She doesn’t stop, though, angling her legs in such a way to give him more room.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she said, words forming more slowly than usual in between pants of breath and moans as she lifts herself momentarily from the couch to allow Chuck to remove the thin, delicate piece of underwear she had been sporting underneath her dress – she had originally worn them for Dan, an unpleasant reminder of the events of earlier that evening. She let them drop to the floor, joining their belts and Chuck’s waistcoat and ascot.

“Funny, because your actions suggest otherwise.”

He had an almost uncanny way of being able to read people in the worst possible way and, in the moment, she almost hates himself for it, hates herself for the way her back arches and breathing hitches when he slips a couple of fingers inside of her.

She was sure there would be no quick release with Chuck. He had a habit of prolonging the moment, for milking it for all its worth.

“Bedroom. Chuck.” Her ability to coherently string a proper sentence together is called into question as the rhythm of his ministrations became quicker, more forceful.

A smirk plays on his lips and his movements stop, much to Serena’s discontent, she pulled on the belt loops of his pants roughly.

“What does it matter? The place is empty and probably will be so for several more hours, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

That was part of it, she answers to herself internally, but it was mostly due to the fact that this couch was chosen by her mother not for comfort, but for how well it color-coordinated and matched their new living space. She’s been in far worse places to be sure, but she wasn’t about to make this any worse.

She doesn’t bother with a rebuttal, simply standing up and pulling him to his feet by the collar of his shirt, which was strangely still buttoned. Her legs feel slightly wobbly, the after-effects of the alcohol she had consumed and sitting in the same spot for well over an hour and suddenly the hallway where their bedrooms lie at the end of seems like too long of a distance. They’ll make it, she thinks, continuing to pull him along, their lips becoming permanent attachments to each other, skillful hands running from the face to the back of the neck to the small of the back and even further downwards and back to the nape of the neck again, always a favorite of his, she determines.

They crash into a wall as they make their way down the hallway and her tiny laugh is once again put on display, something that he rarely heard while she was in his company. The two of them stay there for a moment, almost paralyzed in a metaphorical sense by the brief impact. He grabs a fistful of her blonde locks and tugs, doing something that Blair hated whenever he was with her, but judging by the groans that emitted from the back of her throat as soon as he did it, he didn’t think Serena minded.

Growing tired of the slow undressing pace, she begins to unbutton his shirt, wanting to feel the warmth of skin upon her own. She should feel guilty for this, she believes, for giving into Chuck’s weird pseudo-incest fantasies, for wanting this so much right now in the moment. In the morning she supposes that she’ll be able to blame it on the alcohol and a temporary lapse in judgment (or sanity, rather) as she did with most of her pre-boarding school predilections.

The two of them make it into her bedroom after being pinned to the wall for several moments, sans shirt, pants, and any undergarments that remained. Her dress still remained however; he was content with lifting up her skirt and letting it gather at her waist rather than waste precious time with buttons and zippers and clasps and whatever the fuck they usually added to clothes to make them seem less accessible to people like Chuck.

She pushed him onto the bed, bare back hitting the soft duvet cover with a light plop. Moving above him, she placed her knees on both sides of his body, a hand reaching down to grab hold of him, twisting and pumping slowly.

His head lulls to the side and suddenly he forgets where exactly he was, forgetting that Blair didn’t leave with him that night, but instead left with that frigid, goody-goody lord with that stupid accent. He forgets that Serena is with him instead, in her bed, jerking him off, thighs rubbing against him providing warmth and delicious friction. His hips thrust upwards, up and down, up and down, creating a steady rhythm, a pace of what’s to come and he could no longer take it.

He reluctantly grabbed hold of her hand with his, stopping her movements. “God. Just stop teasing, S.”

She smiled that small, lazy smile of hers, relishing in the fact that she rendered him frustrated – they did like to push each other’s buttons after all; this was just taking their games of “tit for tat” one step further.

“Condom, Chuck,” she says, voice slightly hoarse and worn and she feels almost disappointed with herself for letting things get this far before remembering. This wasn’t something she usually forgot; too many horror stories from those in their social circle, too many e-blasts on Gossip Girl taught her this.

“Getting a little sloppy there,” he says, reaching over to her nightstand pulling out a condom from the bottom of the drawer. The fact that Chuck knew where she kept them in her room was a sobering thought; one that almost made her quit what she doing.

She kept them there just in case, hoping she and Dan could someway, somehow make things work, the way things used to be before little white lies and psychotic bitches like Georgina Sparks came back to the city like a hurricane, leaving a path of destruction in her wake. Those times were good, she remembers, but unattainable now, with elevator doors feeling like the closing of that chapter in their lives. She was substituting Dan in her bed with Chuck now, she realized. She’ll probably regret this in the morning, but she pushes the thought at the back of her mind, only wishing how that Chuck would stop taking his damn time rolling on the condom as she sat on top of him, waiting for the moment he slides into, fucking her to the point where she doesn’t remember the sad look in Dan’s eyes in the elevator as they said their goodbyes, doesn’t remember the way he continued to lay cruel barb after barb about her notorious past.

Pushing thoughts of Dan, of Blair, of anything else of consequence, she guides herself onto him as soon as Chuck finishes with the practical details.

The two of them groan in unison as she shifts her body up and down, heat coursing through them both. He puts his hands on her hips (tan, a nice contrast to the paleness of Blair’s skin) to steady her and be belatedly wished she had removed her dress long ago, wanting to palm her breasts – god, her breasts, he whines, making a high pitched sound at the back of his throat – as she continued to take him in lazy, slow strokes.

The pace proves to leisurely for him and his hand drifts to her thighs, hooking her legs around him and rolls over where their positions were now reversed. He picks up speed, diving into her faster, rougher, deeper.

She clings to him, hands gripping his shoulders firmly. “Fuck.” Her hips grind against his, feeling the full weight of his body pressing into her with quick thrusts. She moans, not bothering to control the volume of her voice as there was no need with the place empty except for the two of them.

His head finds a place into the crook of her neck, pushing him further into her with each thrust. The way she held onto him tightly, the sounds of pleasure she emits, and the sheer wetness and warmth of her body were driving him closer and closer to the edge. His fingers reach between them, rubbing his thumb over her clit as they continued to play their game, meeting each other thrust for thrust.

“Oh god,” she whimpers at touch of his fingers reaching sensitive places. It was all she needed for release, feeling her body seize and toes curl and breathing more shallow, clutching him to her tighter. She lay breathless on the bed, chest rising and falling as her heartbeat began to slow to its usual pace.

He finds his release not long after, tugging on her golden hair roughly, mimicking the actions of their lower halves – rough and hard. He crushed his lips to hers, muffling the moans and grunts coming from his mouth as he comes into her. The rhythm of his thrusts slows to a stop and he gently pushes himself off of her and rolled over to the side.

All that could be heard in the room was the steady panting of breath. He’s the first to break the silence – it doesn’t surprise her.

“I think you may have solved my…blockage problems,” he says, touching his index finger to her check in a strangely affectionate gesture.

She doesn’t say a word. The ramifications of what she, they, had done finally bringing themselves to light moments after release. Serena had a scale she used to judge her mistakes by – she’s learned the hard way that the more they hurt Blair, the greater the mistake she had made. Time will only tell if she had hit new lows with this.

He takes note of her silence. “I won’t tell Blair. Or Humphrey, if that’s what you’re worried about, although it would be worth it just to see the look on his face.” There he was again, affectionate gestures gone and his familiar arrogant little smirk playing once again on his face.

“Don’t,” she whispers, just wanting him now to leave, to leave her alone in her self-destructive self-loathing – my god, the longer she lived with Chuck, the more traits of his she began to absorb.

It was a mistake.

Running off to boarding school to leave her mistakes and worries behind was no longer an option this time.

[misc/requests] two ficlets

calikalie — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 19:02:47 GMT

A/N: My first fic post of the new year! A couple of days ago, I posted a fic meme on my personal journal for my flist to take advantage of and, thankfully, several of them did. I've been writing quite a bit over the past week or so, so don't be surprised if I post some more in the near future. . In the meantime, I hope you enjoy and feedback is always welcome :) Also, I will say that it was nice to write for a couple of fandoms that I've either never written for or very rarely write. It's fun to branch out every now and again.

how the hinges move - battlestar galactica - helo/athena (g) - "sometimes a great notion"

She felt more human around him.

She wasn’t this mechanical thing, enlisted to carry out a mission back on a planet no one called home anymore, supposed to stick to the plan. The plan never did allow for room for feelings and the attachments that came along with them.

With him, she didn’t have to pretend, forced to put on a reassuring smile for show at whoever pissed her off that week or laugh at someone’s really awful jokes in the rec room because, hell, that’s what everyone else did, while mockingly chiding them simultaneously. With him she could rage, she could cry, she could grin as wide as this face would let her, she could be honest – more honest than she had to be, even with the second glances full of suspicion and doubt from the rest of the crew slowly withered away day by day.

The glances were still there, of course. Some things just couldn’t be helped; some wounds and prejudices ran too deep to ever fully heal themselves. She saw it many a time with the slightest touch they made.

He was too selfless to ever pay them any attention, to let affect him personally. It was part of the reason she fell in love with him in the first place.

She felt more human around him, like nothing else existed other than here and now and them.

After awhile, when hopes of Earth become a pipe dream, and everything seems much darker, more obsolete than before, it was the only thing left she could hold onto.

silver linings and all - doctor who - jack/martha (g) "journey's end"

It was easy to recognize one of Jack’s hugs. They always lasted a little too long and were, on more than one occasion that she could recall, a little too tight. That was his nature – the overfriendliness, the inappropriate flirting and innuendos and the widespread grin that felt nearly contagious.

And really, she wouldn’t have him any other way.

He breaks away from Donna, finally, a bit shell-shocked yet amused (she thinks to herself that his ego may have been raised to never-before-seen highs thanks to that gesture; to him, no one could ever resist throwing themselves at him – it was just something that naturally occurred and well, he never complained) and heads straight for her, arms outstretched. She throws her arms around him, letting out small unintelligible noises of glee, which couldn’t be helped, not in the midst of this exhilaration.

She feels her feet lift, a few stray strands of hair coming undone from her neat bun, and the floor of the TARDIS disappear and all that she can think was that they did it, this little band of fighters saving the universe just one more time. Bonds were easier to form when you’ve been to the end of everything and back again. They were always a little tighter, longer lasting.

The two of them were a testament to that.

[misc/requests] various drabbles

calikalie — Sun, 16 Nov 2008 01:58:38 GMT

A/N: A short while back I did the kiss drabble meme that had been circulating at the time at my personal journal. I figured I would put them all here for archiving purposes. I don't have all of them up, but when I finish them, they'll eventually go here. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy and feedback is always welcome :) And, of course, I just now realize that every pairing in this post features a character named "Chuck." Hee. Go figure.

hearts wrapped in blankets - pushing daisies - ned/chuck (g)

They were never strangers to the weird and unexplainable. This is how things were, how they always would be. The unconventional was inevitable when you made a living off of magically waking the dead with the tips of your fingers.

Yet things like killer swarms of bees, murderous acrobats, and death by scratch-and-sniff always produced surprising reactions from both of them long after they had been desensitized to the sight of dead bodies. Occasionally he’ll believe something to be wrong, throwing a glance in her direction, hands in pockets, to gauge her reaction.

“Is this too much?” he asks one day when their latest case takes them aboard a cruise ship (things always did come full circle with them, symmetrical).

She grins, her face alight with an almost childlike wonder that makes him feel nine-years-old again. “It’s not too much for you, so it’s not too much for me.”

He pulls his hands out of his pockets and holds them together tightly behind his back, a gesture he often did when he wanted to reach out and hold the hands that belonged to her, but he never could. She holds her hands together in a tight ball of interwoven fingers and brings them up to her mouth, kissing the top. He understands the meaning.

They learn to make do with by-proxy gestures and their own contraptions. They never felt like it was never enough.

but the wrong words will strand you - chuck - chuck/sarah (pg)

He was still learning that whole spy thing.

It was either that or learn to live in a constant state of fear and anxiety, cowering in corners, staying in the car, and finding a decent hiding spot safe from guns and other assorted weaponry that made him shriek like a little girl on more than one occasion.

But he found himself hiding now – baby steps, you know. It wasn’t easy trying to pull Bryce Larkin heroics out of thin air. Small, cramped closets were strange places to attempt to pull said heroics.

They had a history of making the best out of confined spaces and the threat of looming danger. It was no surprise to either of them that this time wouldn’t be anything different.

She begins to tug at the collar of his jacket, torn between scolding him for not staying in the car yet again and kissing him. She went for the latter, not caring that it would complicate an already complex situation. Sorting out personal feelings was not a special skill that she possessed.

The air inside the closet felt sticky and hot, as if the small cracks around the door were the only source of air they had at all. She kissed him with as much reckless abandon as she had the first time, when they were on the verge of being blown sky high by a human bomb.

They were both still learning that whole relationship thing.

we grew under a bad sun - gossip girl - chuck/blair (pg-13)

He grabs a hold of her firmly, no form of pretense at all; he never did like to waste time with pointless pleasantries and exhaustive foreplay. What Chuck Bass wants, Chuck Bass always got.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed at him as she felt the fabric of her brand new dress traveling up her thighs. He cut off her next barb that he was sure she had rehearsed well enough before with a kiss, his hand on the small of her back pushing two of them closer together. She stopped protesting.

This was a mistake, she knew. Another one. God knows they had made enough of them together, although neither had too much pride to admit it. She chalked this one up to an accident this time and well, accidents do happen. Self-destructive, nonsensical, completely fucked accidents.

“Just…stop talking,” he growled, biting her lower lip as she arched her body into his.

They always did like each other better when they were silent.

get your epitaph right - gossip girl - chuck/serena (pg-13)

The city was theirs, they liked to joke, but sometimes they meant it.

She had a penchant for drinking too much and dancing on bar tops, all blonde and long legs, grinning widely as she bathed in the attention from male patrons. Her mother was always out – on dates, at boring charity functions, on vacation in Europe, anywhere but home – and this was her rebellion.

He had a penchant for sitting in the back of the room with a drink in his hand as he watched her act out her need for attention while her best friend tried to coax her back to sobriety.

“Did I ever tell you how creepy you look sitting in a corner booth by yourself, staring,” she says one night, words a drink or two away from being indiscernibly slurred speech.

He had grown used to never taking her drunken words to heart, knowing full well they’d be forgotten in the morning after a long sleep. “Never.” A smirk played on his lips, fingers reaching out to twist a few strands of her hair.

She cringed at first; no amount of alcohol in the world could stop the insides of her stomach from tying into knots at the feel of Chuck’s fingers in her hair, on her skin, but she let him continue on, reclining back in the limo and throwing her legs over his lap. Streetlights and the florescent glow of dazzling skyscrapers flooded threw the tinted windows. The illuminations she would always remember, drunken nights she would not.

The city could only grant them so much.

[the office us] a dozen times before we get there

calikalie — Wed, 01 Oct 2008 01:12:43 GMT

A/N: This originally started out as a small little thing and grew beyond my usual limit. You know how these things go. Besides, I have to say that it was nice to write something a bit longer than what I tend to post. After last week's season premiere of The Office, I couldn't resist trying my hand at some fic, especially since it has been over a year since I last wrote for that fandom. And with they're being no new episode this week and my schoolwork all completed for the week, this was how I choose to spend my time. I hope you enjoy!

a dozen times before we get there
the office us. pam, jim/pam. pg. 1800 words. spoilers for "weight loss"
(or five seminal moments jim and pam shared in a parking lot) She recognizes a pattern – seminal moments tend to happen unexpectedly in parking lots. She wasn't quite sure what this said subconsciously about her or her relationships, but she was sure they'd be back again someday. Patterns were difficult to break, after all.

---

She recognizes a pattern – seminal moments tend to happen unexpectedly in parking lots, permanent fixtures always playing witness to the comings and goings of people that never stayed there for long.

She wasn’t quite sure what this said subconsciously about her or her relationships, but the ring now sitting comfortably on her finger and his hands refusing to let go of a single part of her prevented her from giving it too much thought.

Yet she couldn’t help it.

01.

For the first few months of starting her new job as a receptionist of a small paper company branch, she was often the second one to arrive at the office. She would have been the first had it not been for the strange salesman named Dwight who held onto both keys for safe-keeping and once received a complaint from a client for supposedly calling his personal cell phone at 4 a.m. (she had already gotten enough of a grasp on his personality to question how he obtained the number in the first place).

After awhile, she started to wait in her car (this was before Roy had insisted she trade her car in so they could buy a set of jet skis), watching the numbers on her digital clock get higher and higher until they eventually reached the dreaded 9 a.m. She didn’t like to have to deal with certain people in the office any longer than she was obligated to, but she was already able to attribute faces to names to their vehicles of choice.

She was taken aback one day when she spotted a red car in the parking lot as she pulled in one morning. It was not Dwight’s Trans Am, which stuck out like a sore thumb in the corner with its’ ‘80s look and hood adornment. This car was different and it upset the normal routine of her life, a prelude of things to come. She wasn’t sure where to park then, feeling as if she had been transported to a different time and place.

It took her longer than she would admit out loud to remember Michael’s warning to not haze “the new guy” starting the next day. Although, she supposed the warning was thrown in there so no one else in the office would top whatever he was planning – no one ever did. She was also half-suspecting some kind of orientation of sorts to make him feel welcome. Poor guy had no idea what he was about to walk into, she had thought.

She catches him inside at the security guard’s desk introducing himself. His name was Jim – lanky, tall, and far too happy for his own good Jim. The guard does all but roll his eyes, which he rebuffs with an “alright then” and an amusing quizzical face he threw in her direction. She found it difficult then to choke back a snort of laughter as she stepped inside the elevator, the new guy not too far behind.

“Is he always like that?” he asked as soon as the elevator doors closed.

He’s cute, she noticed, almost immediately feeling guilty for her lapse in thought. She rationalized the harmlessness of her comment. It wouldn’t amount to anything anyway.

“Pretty much. Once you spend more time around here then you’ll get it. He’s the least of your worries.”

“Thanks for the warning.” He flashed a grin.

They stood in silence, waiting for the elevator to reach the right floor, waiting for the other to introduce themselves or say something first. He was the one to bite. He was always the first one to realize the things it took her ages to catch onto.

02.

And it took her ages to learn that he had been in love with her from the first day they had met. This revelation comes in a parking lot, no less.

It’s not as if the thought had never crossed her mind before. Occasionally he would smile too wide or send a glance her way that felt as if it had loaded meanings behind it. It wasn’t something she cared to dwell on then even though it may have brought a small smile inside that she quickly turned neutral.

But she wasn’t smiling. Once again, she was taken aback by Jim upsetting the comfortable patterns of her life – it was starting to become a habit.

“What are you doing? What do you expect me to say to that?”

It only took one line for her to completely sober up, but things like “I’m in love with you” often did that while knocking you off your feet at the same time.

He was ruining it, messing up her safe and comfortable life, messing up their dynamic. Everything felt a mess. And things like “no” and words like “misinterpret” seemed like a good way to pause this speeding train they were on that was headed to a strange new direction.

She wanted to reach out and hold his hand upon the arrival of a few stray tears, a gesture that seemed innocent enough in the past, but not quite the same anymore. She didn’t, more out of fear that he would pull away if she did rather than her own feelings of guilt.

“Not your fault. I’m sorry I misinterpreted our friendship.”

Instead she let him walk away.

She started playing absentmindedly with her engagement ring, as the sound of his footsteps behind her grew smaller. The parking lot seemed empty now, darker, despite the presence of more cars than usual and the bright streetlights.

03.

It was dark on the parking lot again and so many things had changed.

The only difference was that it was colder, the wind sharply nipping at their faces, and both walls were up as opposed to only one.

She never thought it would be easy to slip back into their old dynamic, smiles and pranks and comfort, but oh how she had wanted it to be. She wanted to go back to how the way things were, before confessions in parking lots became a defining moment that altered everything.

But she saw him pull away this time – she was just another social acquaintance who worked in the same small office. And the wall she put up in response felt stronger, even though she wished he’d let her break both of them down.

“We’re friends. We’ll always be friends.”

She wished she hadn’t said the words, if only to have never witnessed the visible hurt in his eyes when she said them.

It would take awhile for these wounds to completely heal, for the walls to come tumbling down on the shores of a lake. Parking lots couldn’t hold its negative connotations forever.

04.

They shared their first mutual “I love you’s” in the parking lot outside of her not-quite-so-new-anymore apartment.

It had been easy – almost too easy – to make the transition from friends to more than that. It took them both by surprise; perhaps everyone had it wrong. Maybe love wasn’t supposed to this difficult and complicated thing. Maybe it can be easy. Or maybe they were inhuman and therefore defied the unwritten rules of relationships, he had joked.

(They filed that information away to share with Dwight at a later date when their secret was out; secrets didn’t stay secret for long when you knew someone like Michael Scott.)

They had talked, though. Some things couldn’t stay avoided forever. She had had enough of passive behavior in the past – she was a new person, after all.

He leaned down to kiss her. She couldn’t keep a smile in check from beneath his lips. It was beginning to manifest as a pattern.

Every kiss felt like the first one – or second, if one wanted to get technical, as he often did in this case – like every inch of her skin was being shocked slightly by an electric current, thoughts full of exclamation points and hypothetical keyboard smashing (sitting in front of a computer for 40 hours a week allowed her such comparisons).

It’s a night of firsts, she later categorized. It made sense to draw on their other firsts.

“Hey. Stay.”

She wasn’t usually a forward person; they had both known this. Her eyes were widened in surprise. She wasn’t embarrassed, nor did she regret it – she was tired of regrets.

He was gently leaning against his car, balancing, as if it was the only thing around to keep him steady from falling over.

“You sure?”

She nodded – no hesitation.

It seemed like she had been constantly changing her mental list of happiest moments in her life that she started constructing around kindergarten. It was his fault. She couldn’t remember feeling quite this elated before.

05.

Oh, it took over a year, but this one finally beat it.

Even after he had slipped the ring on her finger, despite the torrential rainfall now engulfing them both, she found it difficult to let him go. He would be the last to complain. Instead he pulled her in tighter, the warmth of their bodies off-setting the cold downpour.

“I told you it would kick your ass,” he said as they were finally able to peel their lips apart from each other.

Her face pulled into a mock contemplative expression. “I don’t know. I mean, it was kind of anticlimactic what with all of the talk and the waiting leading up it and we are in front of a gas station.”

He playfully fought back with his own sarcastic banter. “So you’re saying I should have completed this proposal with fireworks and Ferris wheels and cheap amusement park food, right?”

“Well, you know, that’s what Andy did and his judgment about romantic proposals is vastly superior. He probably learned that at Cornell too.”

“It’s too bad you missed your chance then, Beesly. He could have brought along his a cappella group as background music as he got down on one knee. What a missed opportunity that was.”

She was biting her lower lip, trying to hold back her laughter.

“Yeah, it’s too bad” were the only words she was able to get out before they both succumbed to their chuckling.

Her arms wrapped around his neck again, the rain was still pouring thick and fast, but they hardly gave it any thought at all.

The parking lot was virtually empty; people were taking refuge within their own cars as they sit at the pump or rushing into the convenience store to avoid the gusts of wind and rainfall. They were the only static figures to brave the weather.

Parking lots were almost second homes, places to return to time and again; she was sure they’d be back again someday. It was their pattern, after all.

[twilight rpf] take a bow, play the part

calikalie — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 23:45:37 GMT

A/N: And so continues today's trend of writing things that I generally either don't care for or feel uncomfortable writing. Today has obviously been a really weird day. I hate oxymoronassoc for being an enabler and forcing me to write RPF. She can DIAF, as far as I'm concerned. This may very well be the first and last time I write RPF for everyone's enjoyment (or mockery - either way), so enjoy.

take a bow, play the part
twilight rpf. robert pattinson/kristen stewart (yeah, i know). entertainment weekly photoshoot. pg. 717 words.
she understood the whole method actor thing, although she had playfully rolled her eyes at the journal and was taken aback by his piano skills. But the mind reading? Well, that was taking the role a bit too far for her liking. They like to push the boundaries between fact and fiction.

----

“This is fucking ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath, not realizing that her inner thoughts had manifested themselves out loud until she heard Robert’s drawling laugh next to her.

If it had come from anybody else, she would have felt guilty or embarrassed. But it wasn’t – and she certainly wasn’t. The fake plastic apple currently in her hand felt like it could use a nice throw in his direction. It wouldn’t hurt, even without his fictional persona’s hard as rock skin.

“You’re not going to throw that at me, are you?” he said, his eyes gleaming down at her in apparent amusement.

She understood the whole method actor thing, although she had playfully rolled her eyes at the journal and was taken aback by his piano skills. But the mind reading? Well, that was taking the role a bit too far for her liking.

“It’s tempting.”

She continued to roll the apple in her hand, knowing full well that she probably wouldn’t ever throw it; she only liked to tease him as much as he liked to do the same with her. It was a game they played that confounded a lot of people. As she leaned her head back and looked up at him, her slight annoyance at the ridiculousness of the photoshoot the two of them were stuck in disappearing. Instead, she choked back some of her own laughter this time. She wanted to tell him that his hair looked as if something had died on top of his head and stayed there, but she thought better of it.

This wasn’t dazzling – nowhere near it. Weren’t professional photographers supposed to make you look infinitely more attractive than you really were, not worse?

Robert smirked and gave the smallest of nods as if to say, “I know. It’s shit, isn’t it?”

He wrapped his arms around her, contrary to the photographer’s directions, who had wanted them to stand face to face, Kristen holding the apple in Rob’s direction. She should have been irritated. This was blatantly in public, not in the comforts of their trailers, nor did they have the excuse of being in character while on set. Her eyes threw him a quick warning; her lips were pursed and painted red. She should have known better that it would only make him grip her tighter.

The movement caused the director to yell out an exclamation of approval. Her face remained straight and apathetic as she listened to Robert’s half-assed method actor excuse. “Nice work,” she said, her right hand grasping his back more firmly than her left was holding the apple.

“I try,” he whispered hoarsely, throwing her a crooked grin and a wink. “Maybe now you won’t complain about how absurd all of this is, although I think I have more right to complain that you do.” He cocks his head up, gesturing to his hot mess of a hairstyle. “I thought I was supposed to be the inhumanly attractive one in this relationship.”

Her heart skipped a couple of beats at the sound of the word “relationship.” She quickly found herself lucky that Rob hadn’t assimilated that particular character trait from Edward. Damn lucky, as far as she was concerned.

“Judging by your legions of stalkers, you wouldn’t know it. Look on the bright side, Rob, if the pictures turn out as bad as I’m imagining they will, the Twi-Moms may have to find someone else to fantasize about.”

He laughed louder than before, her concentration on the task at hand almost breaking. “Don’t get my hopes up, Kristen.”

She leaned her head back, trying extra hard to not break face and smile. “You never know,” she pushed. “Keep dressing like the dirty vagabond that you have been lately and you could drive them all away by the time the premiere comes around.”

“I may take you up on that advice.” He straightened up and cleared his throat. She recognized his serious business face immediately upon arrival. “Now let’s see how far we can push the “in character” excuse for this thing.”

Neither of them complained when a PA began to drag out a huge fan and the photographer asked for a wind-blown kiss in typical Harlequin romance fashion. They had been braving the cheese for far too long anyway. </div>

[gossip girl] summer was painted on our skin

calikalie — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 21:44:06 GMT

A/N: I've been writing quite a bit of fic lately, so the odds are this will probably not be the last time you've heard from me this week. This was originally written for the Multi-Fandom-Request-A-Fic-Meme. I'm not into this ship at all (and I apologize to a few people for the following fic - you know who you are and I plan on making it up later with rpf or whatever later), but I like challenges, so I thought I'd give it a shot.

summer was painted on our skin
gossip girl. nate/serena (implied dan/serena, nate/blair, nate/vanessa, chuck/blair). post-1x18. pg. 328 words.
they were both on the mend now, fragile hearts that once felt sturdy and unbreakable were cracking, showing wear and tear. Complicated things felt easier during the summertime.

----

There was a time when they both walked around with full hearts, feeling invincible – and faintly numb. Prior indiscretions of pot and alcohol were bad habits in retrospect, yet neither could figure out which was worse: feeling nothing at all or feeling so much that it was painful.

They were both on the mend now, fragile hearts that once felt sturdy and unbreakable were cracking, showing wear and tear. These were the consequences of letting their guards down and others holding their hearts in possession for a while, temporary replacements until they grew tired of pendants on sleeves and life in Brooklyn.

She was still hurting, the wedding only a few weeks gone, although she put on a front for Blair, who was facing a form of heartbreak all her own. “I am so over Chuck Bass,” Blair had said, her nose crinkled slightly in mock disgust. Serena had been quick with the disbelief. “I am! God. You know, you should really follow my lead more often.”

Serena had grown used to following in Blair’s footsteps, both for better or worse. She wasn’t sure which was the case this time around.

But this wasn’t like the time when she danced atop a bar for his attention, gold chiffon twirling and clutching a full bottle of champagne. She repeats it like a mantra when he finally kisses her without the excuse of drunken behavior to fall back on. It falters as his arm reaches around to the small of her back and gently pulls her in closer.

She and Nate had re-connected that summer, bonding through their mutual visits across the bridge and the friendship they had before situations became complicated and everything went to shit. Summer was easier; their relationship felt easier.

They can feel it – pieces picking themselves up off of the floor, trying to fit back into their original place like a puzzle, the mending of broken hearts. And it feels right this time.</div>

[twilight] memories like embers keep us warm

calikalie — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 19:07:18 GMT

A/N: I originally wrote the majority of this prior to Breaking Dawn, but I added and edited a few details to fit the book. But don't worry, because that particular thing about the book that I loathe doesn't exist to me and thus, does not exist in my story and no mention of it is made. Also, twific! The Twilight fic community for people that like organization and tags.

memories like embers keep us warm
twilight. edward/bella. post-breaking dawn. pg. 665 words.
he brushed the tips of his fingers against her pale cheek, slowly, as if memorizing every inch of her skin. it was something he did often, as if he were afraid he would forget some important detail (he never did, he never could).

---

“This is different.”

He brushed the tips of his fingers against her pale cheek, slowly, as if memorizing every inch of her skin. It was something he did often, as if he were afraid he would forget some important detail (he never did, he never could). His lips pulled into a smile as her forehead creased out of confusion.

“Good different or bad different?” Her body pressed against his tighter and he no longer pulled away; she liked it better now that he didn’t pull away, carefully restrained movements and him acting as if she were made of glass no longer had its place.

For a moment, she thought she noticed slight sadness in his eyes, which seemed to have vanished upon second glance. She was ready to chalk it up to a trick of the light or her own imagination, but the tone of his voice suggested that the sadness remained, despite the wide smile the suggested otherwise.

“Both. Always both.” The grin turned wider. She muffled her laughter with his hand.

Human memories were growing dimmer with each passing day, but every so often he would spin a phrase that would ignite a memory, bright and livid as if it had only just happened. She knew that he did it for own benefit, but she knew that the selfish side of him she liked to pretend didn’t exist did it partially for his own as well.

She disentangled herself from his body and hitched the bed sheet up to her chin. “You miss it, don’t you?” If she could breathe, she would have sighed, a human instinct already forgotten, but the insecurities and self-doubt welling up inside of her refused to leave her system, old habits and all of that. “You miss me being human.”

The same sad look appeared once more, this time it lingered and an overactive imagination couldn’t be blamed. It was all the confirmation that she needed, guilt and fear wrapping around her like the binding of ropes.

“Bella.” The exasperation in his voice was thick. “I’d be lying if I said that there weren’t some things I didn’t miss. But you already know that.”

The topic was well-covered territory with them, descriptions of what he missed never needing to be said aloud. Such reminders didn’t need words.

She closed her eyes, her small hands moving out from under the sheets to gently hold both sides of his face. She had only gotten better with time and time was all that they had when they were no longer wasted on sleep and rest.

The dim memories of moments long past became clearer. The rush of blood to her cheeks whenever she felt embarrassed, the shades of pink and red igniting her skin, her heart dancing in rhythm every time he looked at her as if she was the only person left in the world, his world, the color of her eyes, so soft and warm. Things that she was sure that he missed, things that were too late to change back. It was a permanent change now, for better or for worse.

Her favorite crooked smile returned when she slowly opened her eyes, not quite the golden hue of his own, but getting closer.

“Like those things, yes, but I wouldn’t be able to do this.”

Their lips soon crushed together forcefully, her hands were still holding his face, an instinct, as if she were afraid that he would eventually pull away like she had grown used to in the past. But the past was past and he never did, only pulling her closer, fingertips making marks on her skin, bodies shifting into angles. She could get used to this, she thinks, one hand moving to grasp pieces of his hair, the heat between them reaching a boiling point.

All that survived was the pile of stones and rubble, two figures lying on the bed that remained intact, laughing and smiling, the rest of the world ceased to exist. </div>

[original fic] you're boring, baby, when you're straight

calikalie — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 20:42:32 GMT

Being bored during the summer is a funny thing. For instance, I've been writing quite a bit lately. So I wouldn't be surprised if you see more from me on the fic writing front lately (both fandom and original). This is my first time posting original fic here. I usually tend to just write original things for myself and not post them, but I figured I'd break that one rule of mine today while I'm feeling rather bored. Call it an experimentation, if you will.

you're boring, baby, when you're straight
original fic. 432 words. pg-13. title taken from the kills' "cheap and cheerful".
first kisses weren’t supposed to be with strangers. disney fairytales gave her unrealistic expectations about love, but at least she knew this much.

---

First kisses weren’t supposed to be with strangers.

Disney fairytales gave her unrealistic expectations about love, but at least she knew this much. Aside from that, she knew fuck all and she wasn’t sure why he decided to prolong the moment.

Here she was, not an inch of space between herself and a guy whose name she failed to catch over the loud thumping of music, and her mother had words about girls who behaved in public like this, shaking a finger of warning in her direction. The alcohol on his breath was painfully clear and god, he’s a smoker. Strike one.

She supposed his name carried two syllables. It looked like two – she never was all that good at reading lips. But two syllables could stand for a number of names and did she really even care all that much? With the way his body continued to press hers against the metal railing that marked off the dance floor and the hands that kept themselves busy, too busy, too fast, she did care. She wasn’t one of those girls.

She didn’t do spontaneous, no strings attached. And the fact that her first kiss would be attributed to this beanpole of a man whose name she couldn’t recall and who wore wayfarers inside of a dark and admittedly shady club on the edge of town pissed her off.

Her mother always did say she was a late bloomer in life. These little factoids of ‘when you grow up’ and ‘here are the things you should never do’ were shoved to the front of her thoughts harder than this guy was attempting to shove his tongue down her throat and now she was angry. Her mother found ways of irritating her without even having to be in the same room – a feat she was nearly jealous of.

That’s when she doesn’t care anymore.

Fingers rubbed the back of his neck and slowly, surely, she knew what she was doing. She felt his lips close to her ear; a useless gesture given nothing could be heard above the too loud bass and the over-played tune she’s heard far too often on the radio every morning. The movement of his hands suggested a sort of sad desperation and over-eagerness. Strike two.

Like she’d honestly care in the morning, she had decided. She’s a big girl after all. She didn’t believe in Disney princesses any more than she believed that Prince Charmings actually existed somewhere out there.

Her mother always did say that her standards were too high. It was an unfortunate crutch. </div>

[misc/requests] various drabbles

calikalie — Thu, 29 May 2008 23:32:52 GMT

I've completed about half of the fic drabble requests that I've received thus far. Hopefully I will finish up the others soon. If you missed it the first time around or would like to drop another request, feel free to do so at my last entry over here!

Harry Potter - Harry/Hermione - G - 235 words (minor spoilers for Deathly Hallows). For infiniteskies.

They kept a careful distance, barely speaking, never touching. Inside their hearts were breaking in the absence of their missing piece, the ever-lingering feeling that things weren’t okay, that they were never going to be okay for awhile.

He can tell that she’s cold, her hands balling into fists and the tips of her toes sticking out underneath the too-short blanket were nearly a pale shade of blue. Neither bothered to pull out their wands to heat themselves up – everything felt as cold as how they felt on the inside.

“I wish we were back home,” she said one night, her voice worn and weary. “At Hogwarts, I mean. Like we were supposed to be.” It was the first time in a week they had conjured a fire, the coldness beginning to de-thaw.

For a moment, he doesn’t say a word, although he agrees. He’d rather be anywhere but here, but especially there. He simply looks at her, his face starting to regain color. Healthier, more him, she determined, wanting to grab a hold of his hand, to feel the life coming back to him.

“Yeah. I miss it too.”

They missed how things used to be, when they were young and wide-eyed about their new world, before they had to grow up fast and shoulder the weight of the world. Home was Hogwarts and though he never said it, home was being together.

---
</div>
Gemma Doyle Trilogy - Gemma/Kartik - G - 120 Words (spoilers for The Sweet Far Thing). For infiniteskies.

It’s like a permanent hold, his name etched on her heart, even after the scars had finally started to heal. She’s certain that’s the worst part about it all.

She wished he was with her now, taking in the splendor of the New York skyline, her body swaying slightly with the motion of the ocean and she tries to reach out for his hand, only to realize that it was a futile response.

It was another escape this time – not to another world, she didn’t have the heart to go back, it was forever left there with him. And she’s certain that this is the worst part of it all, knowing that she’ll most likely never get it back.

---
</div>
Supernatural - Sam, Dean (gen) - G - 196 words (no explicit spoilers). For ogiraffe.

They’ve reckoned they’ve lost count on how many times the two of them have evaded figures of authority or narrowly escaped another arrest.

Dean still considered it a thrill, laughing boisterously as drove off in a hurry, tires screeching as they wheeled sharply around a corner. It wasn’t such a thrill when he could feel cold metal against his wrists and the hard seats of a police cruiser while being transferred to a holding cell.

There were only so many times one could pull a Houdini out of a cell, Sam would always say. “Sooner or later, they’re gonna catch up to us and you won’t be able to get yourself out of it,” he said, his face determinedly set.

His brother’s eyes never left the road, fingers wrapped tightly over the steering wheel. He puts on a veneer. “Don’t be such a wet blanket, Sammy. There’s no fun without the chase.”

The best of classic rock never drowned out the sounds of faint sirens from behind. Stepping harder on the gas pedal, the engine roared loudly. They exchanged quick glances, and Sam relented a quick smile.

A typical day at the office was never boring.
</div>

ot: master list

calikalie — Mon, 26 May 2008 00:57:02 GMT

I've decided to keep and organize a master list to go along with the tags. I realize that it's simple to just go back and look through the tags, but I like having everything in one neat-and-tidy list here as well. Forgive me and my OCD tendencies. Listed here is every fic that I have posted since creating this journal in August 2007. Most of the fic that I've written prior to that date, I'd like to forget ever existed, but some of which are archived in the tags.

Fics are organized first alphabetically by fandom and then from oldest to newest.

Battlestar Galactica

how the hinges move (helo/athena)
she felt more human around him.

Chuck

a different hue to your picture (chuck/sarah)
it was nice to feel normal, to not feel like you were living a false life, something not your own.

but the wrong words will strand you (chuck/sarah)
they were both still learning that whole relationship thing.

Doctor Who

all that's left is hesitations from your previous life (martha)
she saved the world, though.

silver linings and all (jack/martha)
bonds were easier to form when you’ve been to the end of everything and back again.

hold a hand for cover (eleven/amy)
there comes a point in which she becomes accustomed to one of his hands grasping hers with intent tightness and fleeting kisses on her forehead.

nothing but the angles of my future (eleven/amy)
he maps out constellations across her skin with her freckles.

stop the clocks from turning (eleven/amy)
the first time he disappoints her she sits waiting, cold and alone. she stops believing in fairy tales that day.

Gemma Doyle Trilogy

this was never in the cards (gemma/simon)
she, with the false-bottomed box of secrets, and him with his unapologetic brazenness. their movements were coordinated; each step fills her once more with that strange current she knew all too well when she was younger. a match, they said.

just a series of blurs (gemma/kartik)
she's certain that's the worst part about it all.

Gossip Girl

you were only waiting for this moment to arise (dan/serena)
it’s different from the first time where she only wore her heart on her sleeve and watched it crumble into a thousand pieces with a bottle of expensive champagne in her hand.

the grass is greener when you get to the finish line (dan/serena)
you don’t take your high school boyfriend with you to college, not unless he has an inexhaustible trust fund and can guarantee a future. advice from blair was usually, if not completely, misguided.

put it back the way it's supposed to be (nate/blair)
two smiles, hers a rarity, because she only ever smirks.

like drunks, we spin until we're sick (chuck/blair)
the butterflies had a hold on her and there were only so many times she could give nate a heart to wear on his sleeve only to make it shatter.

nothing here is set in stone (lily, serena)
she’s never been sure her mother knew the concept of forever.

they had a bad case of nostalgic blues (dan/serena)
and he realized early on that her grin could light up the darkest of places.

summer was painted on our skin (nate/serena)
they were both on the mend now, fragile hearts that once felt sturdy and unbreakable were cracking, showing wear and tear

we grew under a bad sun (chuck/blair)
they always did like each other better when they were silent.

get your epitaph right (chuck/serena)
the city was theirs, they liked to joke, but sometimes they meant it.

it decayed from the start (chuck/serena)
she measured up her mistakes on a scale of sorts.

Harry Potter

our days keep falling on a leap year (harry/hermione)
she had always been one to strive for her dreams, her wishes – this time would be different, she couldn’t succeed at everything.

they hang like ghosts (harry/hermione)
they missed how things used to be, when they were young and wide-eyed about their new world, before they had to grow up fast and shoulder the weight of the world.

Pushing Daisies

they say it fades if you let it (ned)
for all the holidays that he grew to loathe when he got older, and the holidays he thought were pointless and disliked from the start, Christmas was neither.

hearts wrapped in blankets (ned/chuck)
they learn to make do with by-proxy gestures and their own contraptions. they never felt like it was never enough.

these are not wrongs to right (ned)
communicating with fruit drew fewer questions.

Supernatural

strangers in an empty space (sam, ruby)
after a week or so, his visits with ruby start to blur together. the information is always the same (nothing new) and the sarcasm thick on her lips is beginning to wear him thin.

your boy is like a memory (sam)
he was 18, looking at his future, and didn’t want to see another monster, another demon, in it.

the chorus repeats itself (dean, sam)
a typical day at the office was never boring.

The O.C.

prints in a box until my memory stops (ryan/marissa)
the first Christmas, she was drunk and he was cleaning up all of her messes.

The Office

after that, the floodgates opened up (jim/pam)
the transition would have been considered jarring to some, but you didn’t notice at all.

a dozen times before we get there (jim/pam)
she recognizes a pattern – seminal moments tend to happen unexpectedly in parking lots.

Twilight

and so this hollow feeling grows and grows (edward, edward/bella)
he wonders if she made the right choice. every teardrop left a permanent stain on the shirt he would make a point of never wearing again.

the girl that makes him sad (jacob, jacob/bella)
he knows she made the wrong choice.

we'd all be under gravestones (rosalie)
in the entirety of her too short life, everything was already meticulously planned for her. her life was completely devoid of choices. she didn't regret it then; it was all she knew.

you think you're worth your weight in gold (edward/rosalie)
they were a pair of missed opportunities. what could have been, what may have been, and what seemingly never will be.

so pretend you don't feel the pull (rosalie, edward/rosalie)
she refused to walk tiptoes around him, to treat him like the prodigal son or brother that he was used to being treated.

life was on our tongues (edward/bella)
if he had a beating heart, this would be the moment where it would stop.

in those days, blood was still warm (edward/bella)
there were things that couldn’t be measured by how many times three words were spoken.

neither you or I woud ever know sunlight (edward/rosalie)
she locked up her thoughts years ago.

this is true, she said (edward/bella)
she’ll take the images with her beyond this life.

planes keep crashing, two by two (rosalie, edward/rosalie)
her mask of self-congratulation fell down, cracking at her feet and he could see inside her mind, for once not vain and shallow – simply desolate and cold with feelings of nostalgia seeping through.

on the slow path (edward/bella)
another laugh that makes her want to bottle up the sound and keep it for all eternity, but it was rather useless when she realized that she’d have all of him for all eternity.

forfeit the pride, it's not a crime (rosalie, edward/rosalie)
it bothered him sometimes, that neither of them could let go, to forget things that once were or what could have been – she had trouble the most.

we've made it through the storm this far (edward/bella)
“we could always go back, you know.” the echo of his laughter had died out and his face grew serious.

you're all his and i'm all yours (jacob/bella)
they were walking a thin line, a delicate balancing act on tight ropes, and clumsy people were not meant to endure tight ropes.

memories like embers keep us warm (edward/bella)
he brushed the tips of his fingers against her pale cheek, slowly, as if memorizing every inch of her skin. it was something he did often, as if he were afraid he would forget some important detail (he never did, he never could).

[RPF] take a bow, play the part (robert/kristen)
she understood the whole method actor thing, although she had playfully rolled her eyes at the journal and was taken aback by his piano skills. But the mind reading? Well, that was taking the role a bit too far for her liking.

Veronica Mars

we're the ones that made it (veronica, wallace)
she kept her boyfriends at arm's length, her friends attached to her hip.

hands are cold from holding to hopes (piz/veronica)
the old adage about nice guys requires a re-write.

Original Fic

you're boring, baby, when you're straight
first kisses weren’t supposed to be with strangers. disney fairytales gave her unrealistic expectations about love, but at least she knew this much.

[twilight] you're all his and i'm all yours

calikalie — Fri, 09 May 2008 22:20:06 GMT

A/N: For anythingbutgrey as a birthday treat. It's a testament to how much I love Elyssa that I write a Jacob/Bella fic for her. Even though it's not my ship of choice one bit and this will most likely be a one-time thing, I hope you all enjoy regardless :) I was originally going to do a multi-fandom fic, but I ended up liking this part surprisingly more than I did with the rest of it. So, about 75% of the fic was scrapped and I ended up expanding on this a little.

you're all his and i'm all yours
twilight. jacob/bella. post-eclipse. pg. 390 words.
they were walking a thin line, a delicate balancing act on tight ropes, and clumsy people were not meant to endure tight ropes.

---

He felt warm, always warm – she missed warm.

Staying away did her no good, she decided after a few moments. With each day every line in his face became more distinct, his grin a little wider, his arms slightly bigger, or his body a little warmer, memories became sweeter, but the thought of his face breaking at the sound of goodbyes has been playing on a vicious loop for weeks – that was something she would rather not remember and would never miss.

She had gotten used to the hardness and cold, but the warm reminded her of home and it killed her everyday she forced them apart. They were walking a thin line, a delicate balancing act on tight ropes, and clumsy people were not meant to endure tight ropes.

Choices were made, plans were set, and yet they became a distant memory belonging to someone else when she looked at him, fingers lacing and smiles widening. The aggressive veneer he usually adopted was forgotten, almost naked and vulnerable in the moment. He almost hated himself for it, more than he occasionally resented her, fleeting thoughts that only lasted for seconds.

“I’ve missed you.” His voice is a mess of hoarse whispers, choking back emotions that his face and gestures already betrayed long ago.

She didn’t need to say anything. He knew. They both knew.

It was difficult sticking to choices and making plans when you’re taking comfort in the heat radiating from his skin and threading your fingers through his hair while planting a quick succession of kisses.

He always knew Bella Swan was fickle.

“I could do without more goodbyes,” he said, harsh this time, rough. He didn’t care if words hurt this time. It was only a miniscule amount of how much she inadvertently hurt him.

She bit her lower lip to stop it from continuously shaking, her dramatic tendencies was something that he missed. .

“This is a mistake.” Her voice held hints of finality and completion.

Yet, she didn’t want to go, her feet firmly staying in place, ignoring her better judgment to run away – back to Edward, to back to her life, back to her family. Jacob would be better off without her casting everlasting shadows in his doorway.

Clean breaks weren’t always the easiest. She knew that better than anyone. </div>

[twilight] we've made it through the storm this far

calikalie — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 17:30:19 GMT

A/N: I started this fic roughly a couple of months ago and I finally decided while procrastinating on school work yesterday that I would polish it up and get it posted. Also, this would be considered my first contribution to twilightficmix. Music: The Hush Sound - Weeping Willow.

we've made it through the storm this far
twilight. edward/bella. post-eclipse. pg. 844 words.
“we could always go back, you know.” the echo of his laughter had died out and his face grew serious.

---

She didn’t like Alaska much, she had decided after a few short days.

The cool wind brushed against her cheeks unpleasantly while the sun that had begun to peek out from behind a few clouds seemed as if it were mocking her. What was the point of the sun showing its face at all if she couldn’t feel the warmth? She thrust her hands fiercely into the pockets of her parka, which wasn’t nearly thick enough as had been advertised, and threw him a dirty look with eyes narrowed just slightly.

He laughed. The sound startled her every time.

“We could always go back, you know.” The echo of his laughter had died out and his face grew serious.

She believes – knows, really – that she’s heard every variation of those words come out of his mouth at some point. It was irritating, to say the least, but it didn’t bother her like it once did. On him it was almost endearing. She knew he meant well.

He reaches out a hand; she quickly grasps it without thinking, like an instinct that never grows old. It was warmer inside.

They found a modest home just outside of Fairbanks. She refused to let him sign for anything larger than the one she shared in Forks with Charlie. A line had to be drawn somewhere, she supposed. This was home for the next few days, years, however long it took to curb that natural habit. Emmett and Jasper were currently running bets.

“You could still change your mind,” he said, the slight crooked smile that played upon his features keeping his tone light while his eyes said differently.

She responded with a roll of her eyes, much too flippant given the context of the situation at hand. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” A pause; his smile slowly falters and he looks down at his hands folded on top of the table where the two of them were now sitting.

“It’s up to you,” he says after awhile. The lightness was gone. “I’d be more than willing to turn back, go back home, if it’s what you want. It’s never too late for Dartmouth, you know.”

A lie. It was already too late. Two days too late. Four months too late. Almost two years too late. She made a choice, the one choice she couldn’t – wouldn’t – live without. Yet she kept her hands underneath the table so he couldn’t see them noticeably shaking. If she had one chance left, now was it, but she let it pass by, her shaking hands would subside. This was what she wanted. The nerves were only a fleeting feeling after all.

“I want you. I want this.” Her voice was firm; steady; holding a new confident quality.

He didn’t speak a word; in fact, she doubted he was even breathing.

If this were to be the last good thing in the world she felt as a human, then she would take it.

His cool lips traced gentle patterns on her face, neck, shoulders; he memorized the last blush on her cheeks, the rush of blood to her skin, the way her heart always seemed to skip several extra beats each time he did this. This was every bit his last human feeling as it was hers.

She noticed his hands uncharacteristically shaking slightly as one settled on the back of her neck. Part of her was just as scared as he was, although neither would admit to it. This wouldn’t be a small prick on the finger or even a swift wound from a gunshot. This wouldn’t be small. This wouldn’t be quick. But she would survive – she had been through worse, she had decided.

“I love you.”

Her voice barely carried above a whisper, but she knew he would catch it. A left hand touched his cheek and they came face to face, the feeling of her ring there never lost on him. It stood out against the warmth of her fingers.

She gave a reassuring smile, pushing aside the nerves and the fear she knew would be better served later. He couldn’t help but return one of his own; the hold she had on him indestructible. Seeing her happy, seeing her smile, was all he needed.

Their lips crushed together slowly – no urgency, no need to rush, no need to be careful. They would have three days to reflect on it. There would be no sleep for either of them after all, after this.

Fingers began to grasp, intertwine; they left the table and their fears behind. His lips reluctantly detached from hers and shifted to the corner of her mouth, her cheek, the underside of her chin…her neck. She felt her heart skip a beat – the last, for now. Her ears barely picked up a distinguishable “sorry” that would have made her roll her eyes at him for his guilt complex, but there wasn’t an inch of her that had been moving then.

Soon she detected a fire.

It burned for the three days.</div>

[gossip girl] they had a bad case of nostalgic blues

calikalie — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 23:52:37 GMT

A/N: This is for the amazing and wonderful Kendra (saint_renegade) who deserves about a thousand fics as far as I'm concerned, but she'll have to make due with just one :) Also, I originally wanted to write something Chris/Jal, but everything I churned out (and I started about five fics, mind you) ended up uber depressing and followed the current state of canon and you know I couldn't have that. But I hope this will do and I promise to finish up that moodtheme. ILU, Kendra, and a very Happy Birthday to you. Now go get drunk...legally!

they had a bad case of nostalgic blues
gossip girl. dan/serena. pg. 435 words. general spoilers.
And he realized early on that her grin could light up the darkest of places.

---

Birthdays were grand affairs, designed to showcase wealth and power and thrust a mostly willing socialite into a harsh limelight.

They didn’t do low-key. They didn’t do clowns, musical chairs, or a chocolate cake you pick up from the local grocery store. They did champagne, networking, and layer cakes filled with the kinds of chocolate that you never knew existed. This wasn’t for kids.

Her mother was planning something similar, she knew. It was her 21st after all, an excuse to not skim over the decadence. You only turn 21 once. And she came home for this.

She also came home for him. They hadn’t seen each other for weeks, voices remain vividly clear in cross-state telephone calls that never go un-welcomed. He came home for her.

“You know, being able to drink legally has sort of lost its excitement when you had your first glass of champagne when you were 14. Not to mention, there are still a few holidays that I can barely talk about, let alone remember.”

One of her hands traces the lines of his face, recalling the details, every little inch. He kisses her palm, Slowly. They’ve had time to be patient. College taught them this, among the usual subjects of academia. The child-like laugh that accompanied her words was something he missed the most. On anyone else it could be considered annoying, on her it was endearing.

“So, you’re saying you don’t want to spend the night completely drunk? Legally, of course.” He cocks his head. She knows when he’s joking.

And he realized early on that her grin could light up the darkest of places. “I want to remember this one.” Her hand inches closer to his chin and she gently pulls his face to hers for a kiss. It lingers. He’ll remember this one.

His fingers tangle in her hair, the feeling far from forgotten – he remembers this part quite well.

They preferred the low-key affairs, keeping to their own devices. She couldn’t make off with this one opportunity for her mother to make a show of things. To show that, despite another divorce, Lily Van Der Woodsen was still a force to be reckoned with.

But sometimes a party for two was the best way she could imagine crossing off another milestone. Even with the presence of alcohol, it would be rather difficult to forget this one, but she was far from that girl. That girl who showed up to dinners and parties already far-gone. That girl who drank martinis as if they were glasses of water.

She’ll remember this one, they smile. </div>

[gemma doyle trilogy] this was never in the cards

calikalie — Sat, 12 Jan 2008 22:16:30 GMT

A/N: I finished reading this series earlier this week and I have to wonder why no one ever writes for them. Seriously. There is just so much material to work with and despite them also being YA novels, I find them all of a lot more interesting and well-written than the Twilight series. But no one writes fic. So, I'm rectifying this immediately. I don't even know if anyone else has read these. All I remember is reading the first book years ago, but I didn't get the urge to finish reading the whole series until this week (shortly after the last one was released). I hope you all enjoy anyway :)

this was never in the cards
gemma doyle trilogy. gemma (gemma/simon, brief gemma/kartik). spoilers for "the sweet far thing". pg. 575. words.
she, with the false-bottomed box of secrets, and him with his unapologetic brazenness. their movements were coordinated; each step fills her once more with that strange current she knew all too well when she was younger. a match, they said.

---

A hand at the small of her back, pulling her closer, almost indecently closer, and she felt the currents of her youth sweeping her up. It’s been awhile, a long while, but she was lightheaded, after effects of childish indiscretions they hid with secret smiles and promises.

Blurs of color, soft and harsh, were something to behold, but she didn’t pay them any attention. She was never one for distractions, but never one to focus either. The hand on her back, the person in front of her would agree. She was a mystery.

They dance closer together, close enough to not provoke stares or whispered comments behind gloved hands. Times were changing, traditions falling into question, but gossip and scandal never went out of fashion.

To spin and spin, it went on forever. That would be fine with her. Better to spin, to keep moving, to not settle down. The spinning would do well by her, she believes, she was used to the constant movement and adrenaline.

His eyes were vaguely glassy, no doubt a perfect mirror of her own, they complemented one another. She, with the false-bottomed box of secrets, and him with his unapologetic brazenness. Their movements were coordinated; each step fills her once more with that strange current she knew all too well when she was younger. A match, they said.

The air is warmer, she imagines the glass windows beginning to fog and the emerald green elixir becomes more difficult to brush off. Silly girl, she hears a faint whisper and his lips are closed to form a smile. That current again. The yards of silk and velvet are a weight, pulling her down, leaving her with the idea that if she stops moving, stops spinning, they will only get heavier.

She keeps moving, has to keep moving. A part of her wants to never stop, but she doesn’t admit this out loud and there is barely a trace of it in her thoughts. It’s a long-forgotten instinct. The brooch she now wears goes unnoticed, only for her and no one else. Feather-light and adorned with pearls, it doesn’t feel like an inexplicable burden any longer. It’s a promise that she wears, past events chalked up to when I was young. Young, impulsive, and never stationary.

A chaste kiss on the cheek feels electric and magic couldn’t be blamed this time. The hand on her back remains a steadying force, the only thing that does. He could grasp the world in his hands if he wished to. She could bring the world to its knees if she wished to.

Always light-headed, the feeling persisted. Quick goodbyes and little white lies were all that they needed to stop the spinning; heading for the exits, leaving the bright whirl of silk and colors and drinks and small talk behind them.

The cool air was all she needed to wake up.

The brooch no longer belonged to her, the taste of absinthe only a vague memory, and the hand – she pushed the hand away some time ago, before the chill of New York wind ever touched her skin. She could never be rid of the dreams. If it wasn’t one, it was almost surely the other. She wasn’t sure, after everything, which she preferred.

She only knew that the dreams she held inside were a kind of magic that she didn’t have the heart, or the need, to conjure any longer.

[veronica mars] hands are cold from holding to hopes

calikalie — Thu, 10 Jan 2008 19:59:07 GMT

A/N: This was originally written back in November, around the time that the season three DVD was released and I fell back into my unpopular shipping phase. I even capped the entire DVD and planned on doing a picspam, but that sort of fell through when things like Gossip Girl began chipping away at my attention span. So, I'm dusting this one off and finally posting it. I do have a couple of Twilight-related fics that are unfinished and hopefully I'll be able to finish those up sometime. But for now, enjoy! I'm not expecting anyone to read or review, because I don't think I know anyone who likes them. Heh. I hope someone gives it a shot nonetheless.

hands are cold from holding to hopes
veronica mars. piz (piz/veronica). "un-american graffiti" through "the bitch is back". pg13. 1582 words.
the old adage about nice guys requires a re-write.

---

01.

Just friends. I get it.

He gets the meaning loud and clear. Oh, he gets it. He could have finished her words for her. It’s not the first time he has heard the same kind of speech from a girl.

You’ve been so sweet to me…

As if that will lessen the inevitable blow. Why yes, Stosh Piznarksi. Nice guys do indeed finish last after all. He was living proof of that.

But he went all in anyway. It couldn’t hurt. At worse there would be a few awkward exchanges, skirting each other in the food court, and gratuitous mocking from Wallace who would good-naturedly point out, “I told you so.”

He thought about just walking away, never acting on anything.

That was his usual way. Stand idly by and watch things as they pass.

He made up his mind the moment she pulled him aside onto the balcony, away from the party with the flirting guest and the cake with her ex-boyfriend’s face etched in the icing – he couldn’t escape him.

Staring at her moving lips, there was still time to turn back. But he went all in anyway.

He wouldn’t admit this to anyone, but he considered himself a romantic of sorts. He liked the unexpected surprises, the swooping of the camera that pans out to include the scenery, the music coming to a crescendo at that particular moment, and – naturally – the dramatic exit.

He loved it.

He also recognized this undoubtedly added to the list of reasons he compiled mentally on why he’s never been laid.

No one wants a guy who shares the same epic, fairytale romantic visions that you do.

Holding her face for what seemed to be the longest time, the large knot lying in the pit of his stomach was slowly unraveling. Relief.

Her lips made the smallest of movements against his own. Fighting the urge to kiss him like he was kissing her, but remembering the context of their forgotten conversation.

How the tides have turned.

He felt them. He couldn’t ignore it. Just like he couldn’t ignore her, no matter how hard he tried to erase her or how hard Wallace tried to push him to get out there, to move on and realize that she was only ever going to have eyes for one person.

A person that wasn’t him.

He vaguely wondered then if Wallace was more soft-spoken before meeting Veronica. The bluntness couldn’t have come naturally. But that was neither here nor there.

She was here. And he was here. That he did know. And life was suddenly good for a moment.

Truthfully, I don’t know how the night can get any better than that.

The old adage about nice guys requires a re-write.

02.

I thought it might be awkward. Me and you.

That was how it was supposed to be, wasn’t it?

Both of them are surprised by how easy the initial awkwardness passes.

The smiles were never strained, the laughter was never forced, the conversations never filled with “umms” and “ohs” to help fill the space.

It was a natural fit.

“You did a good thing today,” she says and he grins into his lap.

The gentle of vibrations of the moving car were making a comfortable rhythm. They were comfortable. It felt easy.

“Well, you know…” For once he’s at a loss of words. That part is new.

You’re a good guy.

But he liked it. And she liked him. Everything was comfortable.

The car slowed to a stop. Silence. Bright lights that illuminated the residence hall parking lot bathed them in a warm glow. The stretch of asphalt suddenly seems vast and endless.

He finally looks up. Her face is barely inches away from his. He continues to be rendered speechless.

A pair of small hands was pulling at his shirt, closing the space between until there was none left.

Mark this down as day number two that he will not forget anytime soon.

Because making out with you is supposed to be some life-changing experience.

This was becoming easier each time. As if they had been doing it all along. Their lips locking forming corresponding shapes that fit in place.

The sound of a car door finally opening and an engine dying filled their ears and they reluctantly broke apart.

She smiled in a way he had never seen before. He likes it. Just like how he likes everything else about her.

He could feel her hands loosen themselves from his shirt. It’s a seamless motion. Like the transition from friends to whatever the hell they were categorizing themselves as tonight.

The air drifting in from outside was warm. But they weren’t lacking warmth. They had it in spades. She slid out of the driver’s seat and tossed the concert lanyard she was still wearing over her neck on the dashboard.

“Let me guess,” she says with an air of bemusement and smugness. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those old-fashioned broads who bases their courting experience on how often their men open their doors for them.”

He plays along. “You caught me. What can I say? I’m anachronistic. Did I mention my chastity belt and my etiquette book on how to land the perfect guy through manners and grace?”

“Damn. And here I thought I had you finally figured out, Piznarski.” She likes to play games. He has noticed this.

03.

I don’t know what the groupie procedure is for this scenario, but I may have to throw my panties at you.

Things escalate – as they always do.

Again, it’s a natural progression. So much so that it’s nearly suspect.

The kisses come fast and frantic; a change of pace from the sweet and slow that characterized their relationship.

His arm is linked around her waist, her knees bumping against his own. He is leaning against a wall in his dorm room. She is pressing herself against him, standing on his feet to bring her up to height.

Tomorrow he would ask Wallace to help him cleverly devise a “This Room is Well-Occupied” system based on socks or hats or hair ties or whatever else was lying around.

Tell your roommate I came by hoping to kill time between classes getting to second base with someone.

“I’m never going to make a deadline for a show if you keep ambushing me,” he said, taking short pauses in between words, in between kisses.

“Are you really complaining?” Her face arranged itself to look mockingly disappointed. “Man, I guess this means I’m already past my peak, huh? I thought I had at least a few years left.”

He laughed and pulled her face in closer, his lips grazing momentarily on her ear.

“Not complaining. Musing would be the more accurate term in this case.”

A grin, a soft pull of clothing, and the bed doesn’t seem quite so far away as it did before.

04.

There’s no rollercoaster, but I think I can do without the adrenaline and nausea.

Mac was right, she thought, it does make you a little lazy. At least she could still do long division.

They could be content just sitting next to one another, watching a movie, listening to him strum on his guitar, just talking. It was nice.

Legs intertwined on the couch where they sat, and a couple of textbooks propped on knees and other body parts helped keep them busy aside from the spontaneous touches and brief kisses.

A few hours were theirs to kill.

This is the honeymoon period.

It usually goes downhill from there, they’ve learned, but the lack of angst, drama, and multiple skeletons in the closet (at least ones that wouldn’t crop up on a quickie background check – yes, Veronica will always be Veronica).

Sooner or later, everything comes to a head and the honeymoon has to take a sojourn.

And the rollercoaster starts up and arrives at a loop.

05.

Here’s what this good Catholic boy could never get straight.

A couple of her fingertips lightly brushed against the cuts and bruises on his face. The signs of healing were already beginning to show – for everyone.

He winced. His corresponding small smile was never forced.

Despite the fact that he had been used as a human punching bag, he still basked in every moment they spent together. It didn’t change anything.

Except for his resolve to invest in self-defense lessons. A few lucky hits here and there would not suffice in the long-term.

I mean, isn’t that just life on Earth all over again?

“Does that still hurt?” She responds to the flinches.

Soft kisses begin tracing outlines on the edges of his bruises. A temporary remedy that he doesn’t object to.

“Not at the moment.”

She continues. The ministrations are careful. She’s become accustomed to cleaning wounds and nursing injuries of varying degree. That was never lost on her. It was one of the many occupational hazards of being Veronica Mars.

A stillness in the atmosphere that they couldn’t quite pinpoint, the weight of events finally coming into view. Apologies came in unison, sheepish smiles soon after. He takes both of her hands in his, a genuine gesture never lost on her for once.

“Don’t do that, Veronica. You have nothing to apologize for.”

She always does, she thinks. Somehow, somewhere, she always has something to apologize for. Better make amends for them right here. He’s noticed she doesn’t deal them out easily. </div>

[gossip girl] nothing here is ever set in stone

calikalie — Sat, 05 Jan 2008 00:01:56 GMT

A/N: After last night's episode, I planned on writing a long piece of meta regarding one scene in particular that paints Serena very negatively in the fandom. But after reading so many posts on my flist that said exactly what I wanted to say far better than I ever could, I decided to write instead. So basically, this is my exercise in meta, in fic form. And also, my first fic post of the new year!

nothing here is ever set in stone
gossip girl. serena, lily, dan/serena. "school lies". pg. 560 words.
she’s never been sure her mother knew the concept of forever.

---

A part of her felt guilty, she knew.

Guilty and selfish, glimpses of the person she was slowly coming back to haunt her after a grace period. It wasn’t like that this time, it wasn’t for herself, she reasons within.

And I know we’re too young to talk about forever, but that’s what it feels like.

She’s never been sure her mother knew the concept of forever. Her past coming into light as a groupie, the multiple marriages and divorces, the blink-and-you-miss-them romances with this billionaire or this well-known figure in social circles that her children never caught the name of, didn’t care regardless. It always ends the same. Serena knew. Nothing guaranteed that this time would be different. History wasn’t in her mother’s favor.

They used to date, her mother and her boyfriend’s father, years ago, before her mother grew more interested in bottomless wallets and penthouse suites, something that happened where the details were lost on her. For all she knew, he was a fling, a future divorce waiting to happen.

In that moment, her mind was repeating no, not this one, not now on a loop, almost like a broken record, like her mother and her claims that she was doing it for them, for their future, for a change.

Change never occurred, situations playing on a loop again. Taking drinks to make it all go down easier, but it hardly ever does, even imitating a game of musical chairs where the chairs are substituted for superficial relationships. She took cues from her mother back then, when she was a different person.

She was almost pleading for a change with her mother, that’s what it was. A plea to, just once, just this one time, feel how her mother feels, to feel like their interests are being put forward first. Her mother always put herself ahead of them, opting for a night on the town with the latest flavor of the season instead of staying home, being a mother. Serena found artificial happiness within the crowd she spent time with, drinking, skipping classes more frequently than attending classes. Her brother shut himself away, no happiness at all, artificial or not.

Times were changing and everyone, her mother included, was changing right along with them. Chasing her own happiness was something that felt new and foreign, she wasn’t quite used to it. With Dan, it was hers, everything, her chance to have a sense of real happiness that was lost on her when she was younger. She was hoping her mother would take notice, would see Dan as a physical catalyst for that change.

It felt like forever, my god, like forever, with her arm cradling his head, a kiss on the forearm, on the head, comfortable. If that made her feel selfish and guilty inside, then so be it. Either way, if she had not said a thing, the weight of selfishness would be on her mother’s shoulders instead of her own, where it usually rests on these matters. Someone had to do it.

His words from earlier that day echoed through her head. You really are damned if you do, screwed if you don’t. A few months are all she needs, maybe a year. Her mother never stays in one place for too long, she never hinted that this time, this one, would be any different. </div>

[twilight] forfeit the pride, it's not a crime

calikalie — Mon, 31 Dec 2007 05:32:16 GMT

A/N: For thecullenforce. As promised, the second fic of the evening. This could also be the very last one of the year, if my New Year's Eve plans don't involve me relaxing at home, which I'm thinking they might not. Enjoy!

forfeit the pride, it's not a crime
twilight. rosalie, edward/rosalie. general spoilers. pg. 957 words.
it bothered him sometimes, that neither of them could let go, to forget things that once were or what could have been – she had trouble the most.

---

Her hands were cold. This wasn’t new or unexpected. It was a constant fact. She was always cold now, on the outside and occasionally on the inside. She held onto her human life so much, for so long, her human emotions and feelings remained almost completely intact. A paradox, she was.

The coldness had nothing to do with the usual temperature of her skin and the lack of warm blood flowing through her body. Snow was beginning to fall down, nearly blinding her surroundings in a thick haze of white, small flecks disappearing in her golden locks.

She rubbed her hands together, sitting on a small bench in the garden at the back of the house that houses flowers of every shade. Every inch now came in shades of gray and white. For some reason, this sight was more beautiful to her. She took more comfort in watching things die than watching them persevere, that was her, even though inside she was screaming “live!”

Her hands were cold and she had forgotten her gloves, her custom leather ones gifted to her by her parents when she was 17 – estate auctions came in useful when you outlived your entire family and couldn’t come forward to claim inheritance. A few things she picked up gradually from Edward. She loved those gloves, worn and weary these days, she refused to let Emmett buy her new ones.

Wind was beginning to pick up force, random pieces of her hair straying over her face, never obscuring her view, the amount of snowfall was worse. It was colder, but she could only feel it in her hands, rubbing together in a pointless attempt to gather heat – she would never feel heat.

She pulled her legs up on the bench, clutching them to her chest, chin resting on knees and she stared ahead. The blowing of the wind made up for the quietness of the garden atmosphere, absolute quiet terrified her, bringing her back to moments of lying in an alley, alone, too weak to scream, frozen in a state. She didn’t want to go back to that quietness, the moment everything changed.

A soft rustling and stirring of noise came from behind, her reflexes are quick, a precognition. She knows it’s him even before she finds her eyes narrowing pointedly in his direction. He disturbed her peace, her stillness.

“You’re cold.” He says everything as a statement, never a question. He knows things and her hands instinctively rub together once more, causing friction.

“No.” She lived to prove him wrong. To contradict him in any way that she possibly could. “My hands are cold.” She holds them out, palms facing up, skin as pale as the snow falling all around them. “I forgot my gloves.”

His footsteps drew closer; she could hear them, light and graceful. She turned her head back around to stare at the garden, the smug smile on his face bothering her greatly. His crooked grins did nothing for her the way they do for Bella. They only make her want to take a snap at him more often than she usually does - this was not uncommon, she wished to do so frequently.

Something small and delicate fell on her lap then. Her gloves. Her pretty, white leather gloves that fit her so perfectly, after all these years. She kept gazing at them silently, as if unsure of what she was seeing, but there was no mistaking them, or the person who dropped them onto her lap in the first place.

“You’re not going to put them on?” he asked, frustrated, a slight frown replacing the trademark grin. “So much for a gesture of apology.” It bothered him sometimes, that neither of them could let go, to forget things that once were or what could have been – she had trouble the most.

“You don’t do apologies.”

He moves, standing in front of her now, she continues to stare at the gloves and her hands that weren’t in them. If he had air in his lungs, he would sigh – loud, to catch her attention. Like her, inattention was something he never favored, even from her, something they resented one another for. They hated each other sometimes for the very traits that they themselves shared. Their relationship seemed like a paradox, illogical on the surface. Rosalie liked a challenge.

Bending down, he takes the gloves from her, his face expressionless. The snow falling was beginning to settle, leaving the ground pure with a fresh level of white. This was her favorite hour, the calm after the storm.

He reached for her hands, slowly, thinking that if he moves too quickly or suddenly, she’ll retaliate with a sarcastic barb or draw her barriers up once more. She does move and he feels relief, it’s new and foreign and not unwelcome to them both. Her hands are cold, he determines, picking them up gently, she stays still.

Her fingers slip into the fabric first, easily, as if she had only just taken them off for a quick moment, to feel the snow on skin. Inch by inch, her hand slid inside the glove, he held it firmly in his palms. Her face looked up finally, her expression unreadable, even to him, her mind a fortress. She was impenetrable, like Bella, and piqued his interest from time to time. He can’t help but feel chivalrous in the moment, despite the circumstances, despite who was involved, and wanted to kiss her hand softly, firmly.

The storm had only just settled down; he wasn’t in the mood for another, more disastrous than the one before.

“I’m sorry,” is all he says. And she wins again, a small smile and his hand in hers. </div>

[doctor who] all that's left is hesitations from your previous life

calikalie — Mon, 31 Dec 2007 02:00:24 GMT

A/N: For pinkbutterflies. Basically, there is no way all of the December requests will be done by tomorrow, but I'm only four fics behind, which is a vast improvement considering I have failed epically during each fic-a-thon or request thing that I have done prior to this. It helps that December marks the start of winter break, but that week-long span of finals killed me and I never recovered. I hope you all still enjoy anyway and I have another fic later tonight to post. On a final note: Martha Jones FTW. The end.

all that's left is hesitations from your previous life
doctor who. martha, ten/martha. post-"the last of the time lords". pg. 511 words.
she wanted to prove that she was better than the person than she was while traveling, being pushed aside, hardly ever thanked, and always compared with an absent predecessor.

---

The first week, she can’t let go of her mobile, always in one of her pockets or being held in her hands. She wants to give him a ring, for no reason whatsoever, if only to hear his voice, to hear him ramble in the completely nonsensical manner that he does.

It was her choice, to leave, to stop traveling and move on, to not waste any more time wishing in vain for him to appreciate her more or give her a kiss that had little to do with genetic transfers. She was doing this for herself; she reasons in her mind a fair few times, for her family, that’s what she tells him.

The truth is, she leaves not just for her family or even for herself. But more to prove a point, to prove that she didn’t need him, that she didn’t need the constant adrenaline rush and the threat of death to feel happy or whole. She wanted to prove that she was better than the person than she was while traveling, being pushed aside, hardly ever thanked, and always compared with an absent predecessor.

She saved the world, though.

Only a handful of people remember now, but she saved the world, without the Doctor, without anyone, while the world burned all around her. Being the only person to make it out of Japan alive was bound to have a lasting impact on anyone. It was the year that never was and she wished she could forget it. By leaving, she hoped the ability to forget; to block the memories from her mind would be easier.

But it only made things harder and pushed the nightmares into the forefront with visions of crumbling international landmarks, societies screaming, and complete devastation. South America was her worst memory.

After a month, she learns to expect that there will be no voice on the other line telling her she was needed, for him or another run from the edge of death to prevent another world from being destroyed. The nightmares are less frequent, she has become well acquainted with the meaning of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and what it means, but they still persist. She would be sectioned if she talked to somebody about it, and oh, by the way, I’ve met Shakespeare and traveled to the ends of the Earth.

She could hold out until Christmas. Alien attacks in London on Christmas were common these days and it would give her a worthy excuse to ring him up and send him running. No. She had a job here (she passed her exams with flying colors), she had a family, she had people that she loved and never hesitated to say they loved her in return.

In early September, her mobile finally rings and she hears a familiar, jovial voice.

“I’ve got a job for you, Martha Jones, if you’re not busy.”

It’s not him; it’s near enough for her. She and the Doctor were not the only ones who remembered.</div>

[twilight] on the slow path

calikalie — Fri, 28 Dec 2007 22:42:23 GMT

A/N: For obliviate. Yes, I let myself get behind again. It looks like some of these requests will be carrying over into January. We shall see. With that said, I hope you all enjoy. I may have been a bit too bust to reply to every single comment lately, but I do love reading all of the feedback that I have received thus far.

on the slow path
twilight. edward/bella. eclipse spoilers. pg. 635 words.
another laugh that makes her want to bottle up the sound and keep it for all eternity, but it was rather useless when she realized that she’d have all of him for all eternity.

---

Her breaths came in short, quick gasps, no doubt her heart also in a flurry of increasing adrenaline. For anyone else, this would be an abnormal reaction, but for her it was nearly instinct, a natural reaction. Eyes shining with glee, she gave a small laugh.

He was grinning above her, his smiles infectious and hypnotizing and cause her heart to melt, she knew that sounded cheesy, but it was how she felt. The heat running through her veins countered the coolness of his body gently – so light she thought she had been imagining it at first – pressing onto hers. It was a rare moment for his guard to be down.

One hand cupped her round face while the other fit neatly on her hip, casually, like it belonged there all along. Her own hands were attempting to feel his icy skin through the fabric of his shirt. The barrier wasn’t working for her.

In slow movements, her fingers worked their way to the buttons, lightly to keep him from noticing. He always did and it always caused him to freeze for a long moment and stop suddenly. She hated this part.

“You’re a tease, you know,” she said, her voice adopting a rasping quality, as he pulled away. “One of these days, I’m going to spontaneously combust and it’s going to be your fault.”

A laugh rings in her ears. She could see the love he held for her in his eyes, wishes and promises of forever, and she found it difficult to stay mad at him for long. With a single look, she was gone. That part she did love.

“If you’d rather I’d stop, I’ll gladly do so. I can’t have you combusting at random or else there would be no wedding.” Teasing again, his voice light and amused, a contrast with her frustrated tones.

On any other day, she would crinkle her nose at the mention of the word “wedding.” Lately, she has found herself looking forward to the impending date more than anything else, Alice once caught her trying on her wedding dress, admiring it in a full-length mirror on more than one occasion. Nothing and no one would be able to coerce her into removing the ring from her finger, it was a permanent feature.

She pouted playfully. “That would be worse. In fact, it would be worse than my dancing skills, which you know is horrific.”

He leans in and softly kisses the edge of her lips, her pout disappearing quickly. “Practice makes perfect, Bella. What do you expect us to do when we have our first dance after the wedding? Me lift you up and twirl around by myself?”

“If that’s what it takes.” Her voice was firm. “I’m not tripping over my clumsy feet on my wedding day.”

Another laugh that makes her want to bottle up the sound and keep it for all eternity, but it was rather useless when she realized that she’d have all of him for all eternity.

“I could teach you,” he suggested, his eyes alight with excitement. “The basics first, of course. I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you when you’ve got so much on your plate.”

While he was talking, her hands began running through his bronze-colored hair. She knew he wasn’t perfect (he never claimed to be), but moments like these felt very close to perfect. He was the only one, no one else.

“We’ll take it slow,” he promised, his expression holding hints of his guard beginning to crumble down, she always knew when it happened, when he was less careful. He always takes things slow.

His lips touched hers this time, fingers still twisting themselves in strands of hair. A hand moves down her hip, her leg, as slow as ever. Slow, always slow. </div>

[gossip girl] like drunks, we spin until we're sick

calikalie — Mon, 24 Dec 2007 18:54:47 GMT

A/N: For aliasagent. Considering tonight is Christmas Eve and we're hosting dinner this year with my extended family, this may be my last posted fic of the day (even though I only have two left to catch myself up on). If this is the case, then I wish you all a very safe and happy holidays.

like drunks, we spin until we're sick
gossip girl. chuck/blair (implied nate/blair). "roman holiday". pg. 415 words.
the butterflies had a hold on her and there were only so many times she could give nate a heart to wear on his sleeve only to make it shatter.

---

She missed him this Christmas, the thought of ever admitting this out loud made her want to choke, but she couldn’t help the feeling. He had disappeared without a word or a call on her cell. She wasn’t expecting him to, the timing rather suspicious.

Her subconscious had placed him on the growing list of the people in her life who up and left, who disappointed her. Her father, Serena, Chuck. What illustrious company he was in. They all returned though, her thoughts adopting a hint of optimism.

Not the same, the devil on her shoulder replied. They returned, but they were not the same. Her father returned with Roman and there was Serena, who didn’t feel like Serena anymore, despite the wide-eyes and big grins and friendship hugs. They always leave and come back, but never the same.

Eyes peered inside the window of a department store, stopping and staring. She was one of those people who irrationally despised window shoppers, walk in or keep moving. They were transfixed on a scarf, every little thing beginning to remind her of him.

The butterflies had a hold on her and there were only so many times she could give Nate a heart to wear on his sleeve only to make it shatter.

Christmas wasn’t a time for broken hearts and she couldn’t go back to the way that things were before, with her best friend back and having Nate wrapped around her fingers once more. She could do what everybody else did, leave to a far off place, preferably Europe, when life became too tough.

But she was Blair Waldorf. She didn’t follow in the steps of others and she didn’t publicly show signs of weakness. A single, fine thread of unrealistic optimism held everything together. But she was still angry, and confused, and pissed off; she couldn’t turn back the clocks and she couldn’t ignore him.

“When you come back, if you come back, don’t talk to me. Don’t even look at me and don’t you dare think about touching me.” Another unanswered message on his cell. She counted 13 by this point, her sanity being called into question.

He would have been pleased, a Waldorf coming undone. His Christmas was looking up, with his best friend sitting kicking back drinks with him by the beach, far away from her. One picture, one message, and he wished he could have seen her unravel, like the gift stuffed at the bottom of a suitcase. </div>

[twilight] planes keep crashing two by two

calikalie — Mon, 24 Dec 2007 17:36:56 GMT

A/N: For anythingbutgrey.

planes keep crashing two by two
twilight. rosalie, edward/rosalie. general spoilers. pg. 711 words.
her mask of self-congratulation fell down, cracking at her feet and he could see inside her mind, for once not vain and shallow – simply desolate and cold with feelings of nostalgia seeping through.

---

There are days in which he’s not so difficult, not really. She doesn’t like to admit it out loud, her pride on a higher scale of importance than his smugness.

She liked him better when he was alone, without his little human attachment, she doesn’t care to say the name. When she hears his music drifting through the halls, the clinking of metal and the clashing of attitudes and the matching of dark wits as they tune their vehicles; these were the times that she appreciated his company.

Whether he shared similar sentiments was a mystery to her. He kept things within his own head, yet dove without permission into the minds of others – he was a walking contradiction, double standards shining through unapologetically and unconsciously.

They bothered each other and pushed their buttons until they wouldn’t pop back into place, a game they always played in jest as well as out of anger. When he yells at her furiously, their faces close enough to touch, trading barb for barb, she thinks of grabbing hold of his chiseled cheeks and kissing him roughly, reaching a boiling point.

She feels the guilt consume her in the moment, it’s a new feeling, and she never feels guilty. He brings out the foreign emotions in her and she wants to hate him for it, but that was who he was and that was one of the things that intrigued her. It was a vicious, never-ending cycle that she could never be rid of it she tried, if only she made an effort to try at all.

One day, without reason, without thinking at all, she snaps. She folds like a piece of paper, their lips crashing together two by two, venting frustration that had been pent up for decades. They stopped yelling – for once, not for the last time. They had no time for miracle patch-ups.

He pulls away, lack of breath, although this wasn’t unusual, they were used to the absence of air in their lungs. “Are you insane?” His words were rich with something more than annoyance or indignation.

Her cool, slender fingers were still holding his face, keeping him in place with eyes focused solely on her. She liked attention better when it shined its spotlight on her; he grudgingly shared the feeling.

“I just wanted to know what it felt like, just this once. Don’t read into it, Edward. You’re nothing special, despite your prodigal status as the first son.” She held her chin up, her hands dropping to her sides, proud, her guilt slipping into a defensive barrier.

It did nothing to curb his anger, she could tell. “I don’t…” He begins to choke, so irate that words are no longer easily manageable. He wasn’t perfect, neither of them was and they never admitted to being.

She smirked, a stamp of victory. He wasn’t often speechless and it thrilled her inside that he rendered him so.

“Nothing? No insults or yelling or the crashing of furniture. You might be wizening up in your old age.” A small laugh, the sound ringing in his ears that he would never be rid of. He has caused her to seethe, to rage, to shout, to scream out loud and toss his old stereo system through a wall one day, yet never laugh.

Decades later and things continued to remain a mystery.

She didn’t live for regrets, a lifetime that was full of wishes that go on to be broken and daydreams pretending that it was 1933, before the fall. There was no Emmett then, at least not in her life, no Bella, no Forks. There was just her and the strange and attractive Cullen boy who never paid her the attention that her parents bred her to want and deserve.

In a different time, things could be different and she just wanted a small taste of what it could be like, to live according to her impulses.

Her mask of self-congratulation fell down, cracking at her feet and he could see inside her mind, for once not vain and shallow – simply desolate and cold with feelings of nostalgia seeping through. It changed then.

After that, there were days in which she wasn’t so difficult to live with. Not really. </div>