alpha-minded and other dimensional

At a Crawl

2009-11-12T18:22:25Z

Lol, sleeplessness! Why must you vex me so?

Title: At a Crawl
Fandom: Firefly
Pairing: Simon/River
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don’t own ’em, making no profit off ’em, etc.
Word Count: 347

Summary: “Say the sickness turned my brain.” Arching in, lips quirked conspiratorially, and there’s the frothy-light brush of her uncombed hair against his cheek.

Notes: Written belatedly for the Vagina Fest. Prompt: memories.

Link: At a Crawl

baking biscuits

2009-11-12T13:39:54Z

Glee time! Episode 9: Wheels.

It fucking pisses me off that Rachel automatically gets handed everything. Tina got to sing the Maria solo in West Side Story once and instead of working her through it, Will turned right back around to giving everything to Rachel and yes, she is the best, but no one's going to get better if they don't stretch themselves. Also, Finn sucks.

And Will having the gall to be all, "Oh noes, we don't have time to rearrange a song for Mercedes!" OMFG BITE ME SO HARD.

Rachel's smugness is not endearing. You ain't Greg House, girl. Step off.

Kurt makes me giggle and squee and act like a femmy little teenage boy. It's contagious.

And why the FUCK do they need a goddamn bus? There aren't many of them. Rent a van, lameass. The camaraderie will increase in close quarters. And Will, Sue is so much more awesome than you with her fat-check writing boosters, so suck on that.

Puck's WTF look at "we had a bake sale!" makes my life. And Quinn is making it very hard for me to like her, by leading on Finn since he's not really the father and taking advantage of his meatheadedness and guilting him into finding a job and what the hell is she doing in the meantime? Become a phone sex operator or something, write a blog, do a porn (omg, there's got to be fic where Finn hits up brokestraightguys.com on the sly).

I love Kurt's skull scarf. I've been trying to find one in forest green (I saw them for sale in Pohang a few months back, but didn't buy one; serious self-kicking going on now).

AHAHAHA! And Will goes, "I can't believe how insensitive you're all being" like he's not being just as douchey by catering to the spoiled whiny girl all the damn freaking time! LULZ!

ARTIE!!!! EEEE!

These kids need to learn how to lip-sync. But that's nothing new. Just really annoying.

First Finn, now Artie. What's up with Will coming out of the shadows and spying on his male students?

Why not let Kurt audition? Seriously? Because doesn't it make sense to have auditions? Lord.

OMFG, Puck being sweet and giving his money. Quinn is so pretty. And petty. She's forgiven for being under stress, but only to an extent.

So if Kurt's dad's a mechanic, how can Kurt afford all those designer duds? Entrepreneur? Owner of a chain? I do like Daddy Kurt. "You sing like a girl. In a good way." So supportive.

Again, why not let Kurt audition in the first place instead of just brushing him off and denying him the chance? ARRGH!

Kurt wheeling around with crossed legs and making his little speech FTW.

I'm amused by Figgins's pronunciation of Quinn's last name.

Love Finn snapping for Quinn to stop attacking him. You go, boy. It's about damn time you stood up for yourself in some capacity.

Brittany cheating off Becky's math papers is kind of horrible. They're really going out of their way to characterize her as the dumb one, since it's not like she been given any other character traits up till now.

Why is Will at Cheerios tryouts?

Finn/Puck wheelchair smackdown! There needs to be porn!

Where's Emma been? Still honeymooning? I don't mind much, really.

"I still have the use of my penis." Oh, Artie. That's all that counts. But Tina kisses girls and likes it.

Kurt warming up with his little labels and star stickers! Awww!

He and his dad have very similar eyes.

Can't Papa Kurt hire Finn? Since he's such a great wheelchair-fixer? Though Rachel seems like the kind of devious bint to sabotage her own chair just to have him repair it.

People don't like you because you're an egotistical twit, Rachel.

Lookit Puck pimping out those cupcakes!

Again. Why is Will watching Sue?

"I bully everybody, Will! That's how I roll!" Yes, ma'am!

Awwwww, Kuuuuuuurt! *hugs him forever*

Defying Gravity. OMG. Love him, especially on "too long I've been afraid of losing love I guess I've lost," and I totally expected a significant camera pan to Finn, but no, it was only to Rachel huffing and puffing and ruining the moment

I hatehatehate how Rachel inhales so crazily to demonstrate her enthusiasm. And her eyebrows have lives of their own.

However, I love Quinn apologizing to Puck. And not taking his money. And...Puck storing it in his pants.

Lol Rachel. "My dads are gay. *narrows eyes significantly*" I think I might have loved her for a second there.

Lord, $1200? How many cupcakes did they sell and for how much?

OMFG, Sue has a sister? And a human side? And really nice eye makeup in this scene. And Jane Lynch needs to do audiobooks.

LOL at Artie comparing everything about Tina to her stutter. Since it's one thing we know about her. And now that she's confessed it isn't real, she's character-less and their love can never be!

Definitely a gripping ep, and I'm interested and concerned about how the storylines for Becky and Sue's sister are going to pan out

Keeping Up Appearances

2009-11-11T16:29:28Z

This is a bizarre thing for me. It's Harry Potter fic, which I've never posted before (not counting that unfortunate crossover with Kill Bill, which was years ago and only because I was bored out of my mind) and it's written in a relatively straightforward style. Third-person limited, past tense, verbs almost unfailingly accompanied by nouns, the works. I'll have to crank out some good old-fashioned stream-of-consciousness before too long.

It's also far, far past the word limit for the Porn Battle. That part is less surprising.

Title: Keeping Up Appearances
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Pansy/Parvati
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Don’t own ’em, making no profit off ’em, etc.
Word Count: 3,032

Summary: The closest they normally came to speaking was during attendance, when Parkinson and Patil uttered consecutive “here”s, same as in Potions.

Notes: Written for the Femslash Porn Battle. Prompt: easy.

Parvati never understood how Hermione could wake up two hours before breakfast and spend the extra time reading. She woke up at the same time herself, but it was to take a long shower, style her hair, apply makeup, and plan an outfit for the day. Normally Hermione’s attention remained riveted to her book, but one morning when Parvati cried, “I have nothing to wear!” to no one in particular, Hermione had turned a page and furrowed her brow and said, “You do realize we have uniforms, don’t you?”

After fastening her braid, Parvati hadn’t deigned to reply beyond a long-suffering, “Never mind.” She was acutely aware of the school’s dress policy, but that made getting dressed even more challenging and was definitely no excuse for a lackluster appearance. Hogwarts’s uniforms were charmed against modification, and altering them by sewing or cutting only resulted in confiscation of the offensive article and a detention. Parvati still regretted that they had found that out the hard way. Lavender’s idea of turning a blouse into a halter had been pretty kicky and she had looked forward to borrowing it.

Hogwarts, Parvati knew, was a prestigious institution and attending was an honor. She wasn’t coasting, she was grateful, she was positive her mother’s lecturing had ensured she would never forget the privilege. But one of the most agonizing things about boarding school was the lack of opportunities for sartorial creativity. And Parvati had been looking for alternatives since first laying eyes on the blandness she was expected to assume for the next seven years. Her mother had explained uniforms were there for a reason, so students weren’t so preoccupied with their looks that they neglected their studies. Some girls—like Hermione, who would probably wear a barrel as long as it allowed her to fit behind a desk—had shrugged and gone with that logic. Padma, disappointingly, hadn’t batted an eye. Parvati still failed to see why being intelligent had to mean you were dowdy as well.

She and Lavender had started taking liberties early on, seeing how much they could get away with, practicing beauty charms on each other—because one of the other agonizing things about boarding school was the lack of opportunities for regular haircuts unless you wanted a basic few-inches-shorter job from the infirmary—with success rates that increased with practice. So far, they’d managed to sneak by with things like subtle makeup, wearing stockings instead of socks sometimes, or leaving a few buttons on their blouses undone. Parvati would charm Lavender’s hair into curls, or Lavender would comb Parvati’s over her shoulders until it fell in a long black sheet, all the while complaining that it was a wasted effort. Most of the boys were too daft to notice subtlety or too nervous to mention it, and most of the other Gryffindor girls took only a moderate interest in appearance, aside from a few second years who were always clamoring for makeovers.

It was gratifying to know they weren’t the only ones testing the boundaries of the dress code, that some of the Slytherins had gone a few steps further—always a Slytherin impulse, Lavender scoffed once, hitching her skirt a little higher. Parvati’s school skirt was standard length. She didn’t fold down the waist like Pansy Parkinson, who went catwalking down the halls with the prim plaid cloth swinging well above her knees and managed to look much taller than she actually was. She wore her robes in class and between those would shuck them off and fold it casually over one arm, letting the whole world see what small changes she had slipped into her outfit. Pansy was pretty in a strange way, with her fine hair, assertive eyes, and small smug nose. Parvati would catch herself watching her often, in spite of Lavender’s disdain, and for the longest time assumed it was because she admired Pansy’s fashion sense. But somewhere in there, between the frustrating male population and Pansy’s stylish iconoclasm, her thoughts turned from admiring the skirt to wanting to take it off.

It took Parvati herself quite a while to figure this out, but she eventually pegged chorus as most incriminating setting. A large percentage of the student body behaved as if Quidditch was the only extracurricular activity at Hogwarts, and when Parvati had joined chorus in her first year she had half-expected to be the only one in it. The group was small at best, but in a way it was refreshing to have at least one activity that wasn’t separated by school years. Between housing, classes, and most meals, mingling seemed like it was frowned upon so often.

Also, it was arranged so that Parvati was in the last row while Pansy was off to one side and in the front, which made it easy for Parvati to watch her without Pansy noticing.

She hadn’t expected to find it so intriguing. The closest they normally came to speaking was during attendance, when Parkinson and Patil uttered consecutive “here”s, same as in Potions. In Potions, though, Parvati’s attention tended to be monopolized either by her work or by Lavender, and Pansy normally sat behind her anyway. Singing, on the other hand, didn’t require that.

Sometimes she would wander into an empty classroom to run through scales and whatever pieces they were working on. She and Pansy were in different sections, but she wondered if Pansy knew she watched her. Each day, she would see Pansy concentrating on the music and nothing else, always very serious and precise. Clearly, she practiced on her own as well.

“Um,” said Parvati, plucking up the courage to do more than mutely open her mouth after one practice. “I’m not so sure about the bit we went over last—the Greek one by Diantha the Dulcet? I’d like to work on the harmonizing some with an alto. D’you maybe want to go over it later?”

Pansy just shrugged slightly. “Yeah, okay.”

It went relatively well. Uneventful, but not disastrous, which was what Parvati had been afraid of. Pansy was pure-blooded, but she didn’t go on about how they should sing the Dark Lord’s praises or how Gryffindors should know better than to approach Slytherins. She wasn’t some evil elitist snob, just another girl who happened to come from a lofty family and, Parvati’s subconscious helpfully reminded her, to wear short skirts. Also, she was of the opinion that the two of them sounded decent together.

Pansy apparently did as well, since she tossed an, “I’m free Thursday afternoon,” over her shoulder as she left, which Parvati interpreted as a request for another practice session.

Thursday went smoothly, as did the next Monday, and the Wednesday of the same week. Tuesday culminated in the two of them quizzing each other on musical terminology. Pansy was wearing heels this time, Parvati had on black tights, and she couldn’t help congratulating herself on the choice; Lavender had told her opaque was more fashion-forward this season than sheer.

Arpeggios and appoggiaturas passed through the discussion at a leisurely pace, with Pansy working her way into every definition that crossed Parvati’s mind. Legato: the languid motion as she stretched her arms over her head, revealing a slim white line of stomach, and crossed her legs. Tutta forza: the way she strutted and didn’t care what others thought. Maestoso: the imperious turn of her head and the way her hair fell like a veil. The mnemonics seemed nothing but natural and it never occurred to her to question that.

Parvati was thrown for another loop when she was flipping through the new Witch Weekly back in the dormitory and realized she was paying closer attention to the models than anything else. She did, however, check her horoscope, which advocated self-confidence and warned against overindulging in uncooked vegetables. Nothing about unanticipated shifts in sexual preference. Frowning, she rummaged through her bag for her Divination charts.

She was finishing her homework when Lavender bounded onto the couch beside her and noticed the abandoned magazine. “Oh, my God, I just finished this. Have you seen the photo of Gareth Shanahan?”

“Of who?”

Parvati considered confiding in Lavender. They’d shared everything, more or less, aside from a few times when one had spitefully frizzed the other’s hair and not said a word about it. Lavender would be supportive, she always was, unless she thought Parvati had bungled a slice of gossip. Lavender would stand by her and make bisexuality seem so chic it would probably start a trend. She imagined Lavender defending her, unfazed by opposition: Well, with boys like these, who wouldn’t go for girls instead? What, are you jealous they’d rather be with each other instead of you? Sod off, you know you can’t blame them. And, since Lavender could turn anything into an opportunity for reinvention, there would be the usual barrages of clothes and cosmetics, and nothing between them would change. All right, let’s get you made up so no girl can resist you—how about that brown-haired Ravenclaw fourth-year, d’you think she’s cute? It wouldn’t take much, just a few words and a little clarification. She tried it out in her head. Lavvie, I think I might like girls.

“Gareth Shanahan, you twit.” Parvati blinked. “Lead guitarist for the Corbies?” Lavender persisted, sounding mildly exasperated.

“What the bloody hell is a corby?” No, I mean, I think I like them.

“No clue. He’s hot, though, isn’t he?” Lavender grinned and began flipping through the pages, while Parvati wondered if she should fix a thermos of tea for later. Good for the vocal cords, and maybe Pansy would want some as well, which meant they would drink from the same cup, and why in the world was that suddenly such an intoxicating possibility? Her deliberation was halted by a demanding jab to her arm and Lavender’s accusing gaze.

“Are you even listening to me? I said, he moves so his shirt falls open a bit if you watch long enough and—”

“Gotta go, Lavvie, I’ll have a look later.” Parvati gave what she hoped was an apologetic smile. Pansy was probably never apologetic, she deduced, but that just made pleasing her doubly beneficial and all the more reason to try offering tea. She resolved to take some sweetener as well, in case Pansy wanted some.

“Where’re you off to?”

“Going round to Pansy’s soon; we haven’t gone over the new assignment yet.” I like girls, maybe, and am about to make tea and take it with me on the off chance Pansy Parkinson decides she wants to wet her perfectly smudge-proof-lipsticked lips.

Lavender lifted her finger warningly. “If you don’t care about Gareth, I’m cutting his picture out of your copy so I don’t have to ruin mine.”

“Go for it.” Is it smudge-proof?

“I’ll put him by my mirror,” Lavender continued in a singsong voice, “so he’ll be smiling at me first thing in the morning, and you’re not allowed to be jealous.”

All things considered, I highly doubt that’s going to be a problem. “Right, whatever. See you later!” No, she couldn’t tell Lavender, not yet. She had to be sure this Pansy ridiculousness was the real thing and not just some flash of desperation. It could just be overactive hormones and the lack of any decent male specimens that was doing it. As she tucked the tea into her shoulder bag, Parvati resolved to look through all her old magazines to see if there was anything in them about repression. That and exactly what it meant when you caught yourself imagining the best way to test the properties of a female classmate’s lipstick.

“I am so tired,” Pansy proclaimed once when they met, only ten minutes in.

“Caffeine?” Parvati proffered the tea and congratulated herself on keeping a neutral expression when Pansy took a few sips.

“Come on,” announced Pansy, hopping up abruptly. “It’s too damn late to focus on anything anyway. I’ll show you the dress robes I’ve got. Everyone else is too insipid to appreciate them properly. Except Blaise; he can name a designer pretty much at a glance. Makes you wonder, yeah?” she said, slanting a glance and a smile Parvati’s way.

Parvati followed her up a capriciously zigzagging staircase without question, replaying that look in here mind again and again. “So,” she said, only half joking, “you won’t get drummed out of your House for affiliating with a Gryffindor?” Inviting guests back from different Houses wasn’t generally done, and she courteously covered her ears when Pansy uttered the Slytherin password.

Pansy sniffed and stepped into a common room that was, Parvati gratefully noted, empty aside from a few gangly first years engrossed in a game of Exploding Snap. “There’s a difference between having standards and being fascist. My father would be furious if he found out I was letting other people make my choices for me.” Parvati had heard about Pansy’s father and how he had made some ominous choices of his own, but she didn’t mention that.

“My mum takes me to Italy on holidays, so I find most things there,” she went on, and Parvati could picture it, Pansy wearing angular sunglasses and a devastatingly expensive slip of a dress, looking like a magazine cover. Pansy, who had dark eyes and brows and contrastingly blond hair, lighter than Lavender’s. Hers was more bronze, burnished and bright. Pansy’s was anemically pale and gleamed like white gold.

“’s pretty,” she murmured, too preoccupied to pretend she was looking at the robes and not the glint of lamplight off Pansy’s hair.

She was reassuring herself that the staring wasn’t horribly obvious when Pansy locked the door with an arch of her brows and a flick of her wand and said, “Right, now let’s get to it.”

Parvati stared, and then she laughed. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve got a crush, haven’t you?”

Parvati couldn’t speak.

“I can tell, Parvati,” Pansy over-enunciated, hands planted on her hips “I’ve been crushed on before. Only thing is, I don’t mind so much this time. You’re a lot more interesting to be around than I’d have thought.”

“That’s a compliment?” Parvati’s brain suddenly felt too small for her head, every thought rattling around like a marble swirling along the rim of an enormous bowl. And she couldn’t be sure she was hearing right, because it couldn’t be so simple, not with another girl. Not with a Slytherin.

“It is.”

Pansy didn’t hold back a thing. She giggled and groaned and kicked her heels against the mattress when Parvati’s fingers tripped over her ribs through the cloth of her blouse, feeling how wet the heat of her mouth was, trying not to think of how her parents would probably disown her in a heartbeat if they ever knew about what she was doing.

“Is it weird?” Pansy mumbled into her cheek, voice all jumbled up and as close to tentative as she’d ever sounded.

Nothing to lose by lying, Parvati shifted her shoulders and confessed, “Dunno, not like I’ve ever done anything like this.”

“Same.” She hooked her fingers into the blackness of Parvati’s belt and drew her in again, one more time, before it was time for dinner and propriety and Parvati went dancing down the halls without thinking twice about who might be watching or wondering.

They went up to Pansy’s room another time for a snack, which led to the inevitable. Pansy complimented her necklace, and Parvati felt a heatedness in her face that wouldn’t bank for hours. She knew her clothes weren’t expensive, but she could make anything look like it was. Classmates had told her so often enough for her to take it as the truth. In spite of her otherwise polished appearance, Pansy kept her nails short and plain; Parvati remembered a hushed, giggle-punctuated conversation with Lavvie, and Lavvie saying her sister had told her one way to tell a lesbian was by the nails. At the time, Parvati had thought immediately of Hermione.

“It was supposed to be Pandora,” Pansy was murmuring, twisted under the sheet, shirt half-undone, “but my mum said everyone would call me Pansy and my idiot father thought that was the better of the two.”

Outside the next day, it was windy and Parvati watched as Pansy’s skirt flew up and the other girl smoothed it down, still looking composed. They met, and Pansy hadn’t changed out of her school clothes, but her blouse was untucked and the bottom buttons unfastened, tie tight and hanging free. Parvati had on a tank top under her robes, her hair falling free over it like a cloak, her mind imagining Pansy’s light fingers plucking the straps of it aside. Lavender asked what she was getting all done up for and she hadn’t answered other than with a grin. It was in their usual empty classroom room and Pansy’s nipples were small and tight under her gauzy top, which made Parvati’s stomach convulse like the last time she’d accepted a sweet from a Weasley, only much more pleasant.

They ended up kissing after comparing notes on how the boys they’d been with came up short. For her part, Parvati was pretty sure what sex was supposed to be like and even more sure that boys had no clue. More to it than just the clumsy scrabbling fingers, anyway.

Parvati had her hands pressed on either side of Pansy’s spine, keeping her close where they curled on a makeshift mattress of commingled cloaks, stroking the way she stroked Padma’s cat at home. “I don’t guess that matters so much nowadays, right? No one says you have to get married to make something of yourself, you know.”

“Sort of like to say fuck it all and just apply for some study-abroad program,” Pansy admitted. “Keep my distance. Sign with a modeling agency, maybe, if I wasn’t built like a damn gnome.”

She hadn’t ever thought about someone like Pansy having aspirations outside the Ministry. It made her wonder what other things might be hidden away. “So tell me. What do you want?”

Pansy looked up at her. “Sing me a song.”

“Easy as that?”

“Easy as that.”

Rations

2009-11-08T17:13:58Z

This one went over the word limit. Oops.

Title: Rations
Fandom: Firefly
Pairing: River/Kaylee
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don’t own ’em, making no profit off ’em, etc.
Word Count: 961

Summary: River loses her voice and they lack honey for her tea. There’s at least some peppermint powder, better than nothing, and she writes and taps and pantomimes out responses to everything, and together it all means she’s about as coherent as usual.

Notes: Written for the Femslash Porn Battle. Prompt: mechanical help.

Dalucia ain’t a friendly moon. The sand swirls all over the place and Kaylee meanders through the shabby downtown area with a cherry-printed scarf knotted across the lower half of her face to block off the worst of it. It’s hard to haggle over the sound of the wind howling and without the advantage of a smile on her side, but she manages. Mal swore the stormy season would be over by the time they landed, and Kaylee don’t generally mind the captain not knowing everything—makes him more human-like, when he makes mistakes just like anyone else. She gets back on the ship and stows her things away before anyone else returns. Dalucia’s far enough off the beaten path that everyone’s been allowed out and about this time.

There’s a cost to it. River loses her voice and they lack honey for her tea. There’s at least some peppermint powder, better than nothing, and she writes and taps and pantomimes out responses to everything, and together it all means she’s about as coherent as usual. Simon says being cooped up on Serenity so long can’t be doing her immune system any favors. Jayne says she’s a sight more pleasant now that she isn’t talking crazy. That’s an argument no one’s ready to be having, but Kaylee takes River’s wrist in her hand and draws her out of the common area just in case it happens anyway.

“Got you something. Think you’ll like it.”

She takes it out once she’s finished smoothing off the grit that’s accumulated, slipping off clothes and shaking them out over the trash chute; her own first, then River’s, leaving her standing pale and nearly naked on the bunk floor, unconcerned and distant-eyed like she’s calculating some equation Kaylee can’t discern. She dresses in castoffs and whatever her brother managed to grab with him on the way out of civilized life, bras meant for a little girl and dresses meant for someone with no shape whatsoever. Kaylee doesn’t feel too bad about it most of the time, since River doesn’t seem to mind, but it still ain’t right, a girl her age not having many things of her own. “Was either this or a pretty blue skirt I saw, but I figured you wouldn’t mind not having it on account of you’ve got skirts already. It was real nice, though, had little—,”

River smiles and traces the Chinese characters for Gui Xian, the turtle, into the dust with one pointed foot.

“—yeah, little turtles on it. Have to ration what you buy, though. Save up for special occasions and make the best choice you can.”

There’s one hand at the nape of her neck, then River’s mouth pursing a cool little kiss there before she’s got Kaylee’s old blankets all wrinkled up by spreading herself out on top of them like she’s settled in for a spa session on some fancy resort world. Not concerned with anything, from the look of it. It’s tough enough to tell what goes through River’s head even when she’s got a voice to go with her thoughts, but Kaylee ain’t ever found that to be as creepifying as some.

“Anyhow, now’s the perfect time to try it out, since you can’t get loud on me.” River can shriek and cry out and moan like nothing else and she hopes nobody’s heard. Then again, River does that regularly enough for no one to assume it’s from going to bed with Kaylee, so that’s one positive spin to it. She cleans her hands off till they’re pink, can’t have her getting some other kind of sickness from whatever’s out there, then curls a finger under the band of River’s underwear.

Newly out of the packaging, new batteries to go with it just in case her old ones are gonna get petty and refuse to recharge this time, and River’s wriggling and flushed before Kaylee even gets her all the way undressed. So ready for anything Kaylee gives her, still something exciting and fresh for her, and that’s kinda sweet and kinda sad, too. Kaylee had her first kiss when she was all of eleven and River once said she’d never gotten so much as that before heading off to school, and everyone knows she’s not about to say what went on there.

Kiss her with messy lips and probe inside her with a finger or two where she’s tight everywhere and aching for it, that’s the best response Kaylee can give. River’s got the biggest eyes Kaylee’s ever seen on a human face when she flicks the thing on. She takes her time, ducking and licking at her ‘cause she likes the way just the lightest little touch is enough to make River tremble all over, feeling the hum of the vibrating toy against her tongue. Slowly working it in, easing real careful and not pushing any more than she has to, since River ain’t ever been with a man and ain’t likely to be any time soon so this is the best Kaylee can do short of sneaking a local onboard next time they’re planetfall someplace with a decent selection.

River goes to pushing her hips down to take the whole of it up inside herself, then, breathing too fast and making Kaylee let out a shocked little sound. Shaking and clenching up, pretty hair all tangled up on Kaylee’s pillow, and it don’t take long at all till she’s quivering like a leaf and gasping yes more than once up against Kaylee’s cheek.

“Whispering doesn’t require vocal cords,” says River, all soft-low and reassuring like that, petting a fingertip over Kaylee’s lower lip when her mouth drops open and smiling sweet as the honey they don’t have. “I’m rationing.”

Palinode

2009-11-06T12:52:53Z

Yeah. I went there.

Title: Palinode
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Sue/Terri
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don’t own ’em, making no profit off ’em, etc.
Word Count: 695
Notes: Written for the Femslash Porn Battle. Prompt: "two is better than one"
Link: Palinode

Only One Year

2009-11-05T18:20:24Z

There's a Femslash Porn Battle going on! Many thanks to aphrodite_mine for linking there, or else I might never have known about it. I need to get to bed, so just one contribution so far, but I've marked a bunch for future pondering.

Title: Only One Year
Fandom: Mean Girls
Pairing: Regina/Janis
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Don’t own ’em, making no profit off ’em, etc.
Word Count: 698
Notes: Prompt: trying again
Link: Only One Year

who's going to keep a watchful eye on me?

2009-11-02T03:49:37Z

"Down to brass tax."

Lulz. Eggcorns FTW.

Quick drabble before I head to work. This one is for karaokegal, who asked for:

It isn’t easy, putting things away and keeping them in order while the boss is in Baltimore. It’s actually hard as hell, running a department and being accountable for everything while not actually being an eccentric genius; he knows House wants him to say so, but Foreman isn’t having that. Instead, he has Wilson.

He comes with the territory. People tend to forget that Wilson is a genius in his own right. Everyone’s overshadowed and upstaged by House. Some people just like it that way.

Wilson would prefer it if two people weren’t being stupid at the same time, and he isn’t shy about saying so. Since he can only keep tabs on House for so long—something’s gone wrong at the airport, no departures proceeding due to inclement weather, and at first House isn’t picking up the phone—Foreman’s the lucky one who ends up with his every decision supervised and hen-pecked. Right up until House boards his flight, the team confirms his diagnosis of cerebral malaria, and everything falls back to the status quo.

When Wilson congratulates him for holding together, it’s on the tip of Foreman’s tongue to retort that he wishes he could say the same. Not everyone falls apart while House is off the grid. It also happens that there are some things not even House can track, and maybe that’s part of why he doesn’t answer Wilson with words at all. Job well done, time for stealing moments of sleep and misbehavior while he can.

The next day, there’s a familiar stream of vitriol coming from the conference room. There’s Cameron and Chase looking a little stricken, as if maybe they expected their noble leader to return a changed man. There’s Stacy, packing her belongings; and there's Wilson, lips tight and steps firm. Foreman thinks of the pattern of his duvet, caught up in fingers curled into white hooks of tension and teeth desperate to close on anything, and he sips his coffee with a very small smile.

I'm also *coughcough* killing two birds with one stone and using this as my Come As You're Not submission since it actually is something I wouldn't normally write. So smooth. That's me.

hell: not just for children

2009-10-17T17:43:26Z

One more belated drabble. This one goes out to swatkat24, who asked for:

“He called me glorious and I cried at how little he knew me.” It’s an indirect quotation from a novel, and one she utters without realizing the source. Her doctor furrows his brow in a manner that might express anything from sympathy to revulsion. Face folding like a bedsheet that’s been slept on too fitfully. Glinda’s face never shifts at all if she can help it.

“But he is, after all, your husband,” the doctor replies, with the placidity of one long accustomed to mending the mind with promises of prescriptions. “Surely he meant well.”

Glinda leaves with a stomach still sated from teatime petits fours and a powerful hunger from some deeper, tauntingly unreachable place. Fees paid and smiles all around.

Chuffrey waits with ruffs round his neck and rings round his fingers, accessories partially disappearing into the folds of regal rotundity. Wet grass lapping at ankles, soaking through fine-spun stockings, and the Glinda of now winces internally while the Glinda of before wouldn’t have been troubled in the least. Even scholarship girls at Shiz don’t know a thing about silkworm farming or inflation.

Once, at school, they had been taken by surprise when clouds overpowered the springtime sun and raindrops streamed down. Glinda had bemoaned the state of her hat. Elphaba had made strange little sobbing sounds, but never shed a tear.

She can pretend to be Elphaba on the days she doesn’t pretend to forget her.

write about it in your tiny notebook

2009-10-17T17:14:19Z

My list-keeping abilities are epic, but sometimes I misplace my lists.

Case in point: that time, um, a mere five months ago when I took drabble requests and then forgot about them. Better late than never, right? Also, these are all gonna be longer than one hundred words, I can tell you that right now.

Here be one for triedunture, who wanted:

This is the circular solution. Medicine is a bloody business and he’s meant to keep his mind clean, but his life transitions from the nuthouse back to the grindstone in the end anyway. As befits a recurring motif, his father turns up and tells him to do right, and House won’t give him what he wants even though it hurts to disobey.

Wilson makes waffles and the bite of autumn is in the air. House adds anise to the batter even though Kutner worriedly tells him it’s going to be too overpowering.

“Have you seen her?” The woman wears an olive-colored sweater that threatens to engulf her entirely. She isn’t Amber, at least. It's possible that this is an upgrade instead of a relapse after all.

House doesn’t answer. He knows better now. Dibala shares a bag of Cheetos with his father and Wilson snores gutturally on the other side of the bed, like an animal.

She laces her hands together and steps through the footboard, pausing only when she's standing waist-deep in his chest. The expensive mattress isn't so comfortable anymore. He would try to wake Wilson if he could move. “My daughter’s name is Remy,” the woman says, so quietly. “She was born today. Please tell me where she is.”

And one for euclase, who wanted:

There’s a scab under his right thumbnail, a small inverted steeple, darkred, where a tack from the bulletin board slipped and Neil hissed and sent the entire box of them scattering across the floor like an army of metallic ants. Neil bites nine of his fingernails down to nothingness and eyes the tenth with deliberation when the door clicks closed behind a puff of stale hallway air and Todd’s snow-dampened shape.

“Are you nervous at all?” The barest glance at him and the situation fully surmised. Todd wasn’t nearly as obtuse as some of the others thought he was, and it was a secret Neil enjoyed keeping to himself.

“Nah. Mitchell almost fell into the orchestra pit during our final dress rehearsal.” Todd was looking directly at him now, chill-reddened cheeks, dainty blue sprays of veins etched under his wrists, gloves discarded. Undivided attention. Neil inclined his body towards him, as if anyone were around to eavesdrop. “See, when final dress goes badly, it’s supposed to mean an amazing opening night. It’s going to be perfect.”

Lefou, I'm afraid I've been thinking...

2009-10-12T13:14:53Z

I need thoughts!

More than one person on my flist has expressed some frustration over writing these days. Namely, the fact that it's hard to be original.

Fair enough. We can only put our own spin on the same tired tropes so many times. Sometimes that's a fact it's hard to work past. Add onto that the seasons changing, the holidays approaching, school really getting underway, and any other stressful things that might be rearing their heads this time of year, and it can make for a lot or teeth-gnashing.

Which is lame, since writing shouldn't be a teeth-gnashing enterprise all the time and there are a lot of nifty ideas floating around out there that haven't been combined yet.

I'm wondering about the possibility of doing a ficathon, of sorts. Nonspecific to any fandom, just open to anyone who's interested in trying to write something a little off the beaten path.

Essentially, prompts would be collected from anyone and everyone, provided they consist of the following:

Something that's on the cliche side and something that isn't. The idea is for writers to do a mash-up of old safe ideas and things that are completely unexpected, however out of the blue they may seem. For example:

Supernatural: Sam and Dean are given a single-bed hotel room after being mistaken for a gay couple...and there's a buffalo stampede.

Criminal Minds: At long last, Morgan and Reid make sweet love for the first time...but there's a power outage and toothpaste gets mistaken for lube.

House, MD: House treats a beautiful, mysterious woman suffering from a terrible disease...only it all takes place in the land of Oz.

Stargate Atlantis: Sheppard and McKay have hot kinky sex...only it's all in a fic rated no higher than PG.

Yes, well, those were the first ones I thought of. Um.

Since creativity is paramount, there would be no limit on how many fics an individual could write. Authors could work the two elements together however they liked, turn out anything from hardcore crack to dead serious drama. And there would be lulz and plumbing of authorial depths and stuff.

I dunno. I'm trying to orchestrate a pick-me-up, and I'd love to succeed, but maybe I'm going about it all wrong. Thoughts?

chicks with pipes

2009-10-08T16:46:48Z

Girls rock. And belt and wail and get melismatic and occasionally yodel. This calls for a music post.

Florence and the Machine

Howl
A man who's pure of heart and says his prayers by night
May still become a wolf when the autumn moon is bright

Drumming Song
There's a drumming noise inside my head
That starts when you're around

I can't get enough of this girl's voice. She reminds me of Dawn from Faun Fables, who reminds me of Grace Slick from Jefferson Airplane. Songs are percussiony and raw and repeat-worthy.

Shakira
Octavo Dia

Es mas dificil ser rey sin corona
Que una persona mas normal
(It's more difficult to be a king without a crown
Who is a more normal person)

Say what you will about her, but bitch can sing songs. And she mentions Michael Jackson, Bill Clinton, and Tarzan in this one.

Vienna Teng
Grandmother Song

Oh, girl, you've never known war
When they come in the night and knock on the door
You can go from the high life to dirty poor
And lose everything you knew

Blue Caravan

He was a beautiful fiction
I invented to keep out the cold

I didn't get into Vienna Teng until a year or so ago, which is surprising considering how much I was into old-school Tori Amos. People tend to recommend other piano-pounding female singers to you when you mention Tori. What with them all being the same, y'know. I do find Vienna a lot more grounded, but not dull by any means, and I feel like her work speaks to me more at this point in my life.

Alela Diane
The Rifle

There were too many little brown shoes
Marching through

White as Diamonds

I've known mornings white as diamonds, silent from a night so cold
Such a stillness, calm as the owl glides
Our lives are buried in snow

Homegrown hodgepodge. Kind of bluegrass, kind of Irish, entirely addictive. Makes me miss living in small-town Ohio.

Krystal Meyers
Make Some Noise

We don’t need your rules
Don’t need a uniform
This is who we are
We won’t be ignored

For some reason, the video for this was being shown on Korean TV. I Googled it when the song got stuck in my head. Just try not to bounce.

Clannad
Skellig

Fourteen steps to nowhere
Out of solid stone
Don't lead us to the heavens
Or lead us to the sea

A history lesson and then some from one of the most enduring Celtic groups of all time (also how Enya got her start, being family and a former member of theirs).

Rasputina
High on Life

He smelled like propane and butterscotch
He kept his eyes on me 'cause he liked to watch me
Tore bedsheets to bandage him
He had been in a fight, but he did not win

Rock and Roll

Its been a long time, been a long time,
Been a long lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely time

That second one is indeed a Led Zeppelin cover, performed by cello-shredding, corset-wearing wenches.

Alanis Morissette
Not the Doctor

I don't want to be the glue that holds your pieces together
I dont want to be your idol
See, this pedestal is high and I'm afraid of heights
I dont want to be lived through

Classic raging-angsty-ohhellyeahsister stuff. Remember back when singers could vent with style? Those were the days.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Dull Life

Last on the village scene
Fall apart
Iron heart
More alive than you've ever been

Guitars! Good way to get the energy going.

Rykarda Parasol
Lullaby for Blacktail

Are strangers always so slithering wet?
Yes, if you don’t touch them

A lazy ballad-ish ditty wrapped up in a voice that alternates between glass-clear and hangover-husky and never once veers off the line.

Fisher
Mad Girl's Love Song

I close my eyes, the world drops dead
(I think I made you up inside my head)

Sylvia Plath's Mad Girl's Love Song, edited a bit and set to music. Starts off wistful and dreamy, then spirals into something much more intense. You really do get the sense that this girl isn't all there.

Heather Dale
Sedna

She offered them a name and otters they became
Keepers of her secrets in the ice

It's a song about an Inuit sea goddess whose father chopped her fingers off and thereby created various adorable marine animals! Eerie and excellent.

Um...let me know if you like stuff or if there are any issues downloading.

Prideful

2009-10-05T02:58:07Z

I've had the idea for this fic floating in the back of my mind forever--like, since late in S3, when it looked like Wilson was two seconds away from coming out of the closet every time he appeared. Those were the days.

Title: Prideful
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Don’t own ’em, making no profit off ’em, etc.
Word Count: 2,243
Summary: Wilson gets a little poetic justice and House gets a boa (or, the one where they go to Pride).

Notes: Takes place in S3, at some point after House Training. There actually is a lacrosse team called New Jersey Pride, which was just too good an opportunity to pass up.

“This is not a lacrosse game,” House growled.

Wilson shrugged, completely unapologetically. “My bad.”

House crossed his arms and sank further into the passenger’s seat with adolescent aplomb. “That’s just low, even for you.”

“I never actually said we were going to a game, you know.”

“Right, and no way was that my first thought when you sashayed into my office so nonchalantly.” House spread his hands in a parody of enthusiasm. “‘Oh, hey, House, hope you’re free for Jersey Pride on Sunday!’ After you conspicuously asked how long it had been since I’d seen a lacrosse game.”

Wilson had actually been rather proud of himself for pulling that off. House’s annoyance at being taken in just knocked the success level even higher. “Right, it was a completely transparent ploy. Your death-defying perceptiveness must be waning. Someone has to make sure you don’t get senile.” He opened the door and raised an eyebrow when House’s only response was to sulkily purse his lips and start unfolding each of the maps in the glove compartment and refolding them as egregiously as possible. Foreseeing as much, Wilson tended to store any maps of actual importance in the pocket behind the driver’s seat, safely out of the way on those occasions when House was both riding shotgun and sulking. “And I don’t sashay.”

“If there was ever a time to start, this is it,” House groused, dramatically heaving himself out of the car, apparently satisfied that Wilson’s meticulously neat maps were now scattered over the console. “If I’d known this was what your impressive collection of exes and hair products was leading up to…” he trailed off, eyeing a cluster of young men in fairy wings as they navigated their way out of the parking garage.

“You’re just pouting on principle because you didn’t figure this out before. It’s totally your thing and you know it. Lesbians, motorcycles, seeing how many arteries you can block in a single meal…”

“And yet, this still isn’t a lacrosse game,” House repeated stubbornly, glowering at the bright rainbow banner gracing the park entrance.

“Which is only a bunch of guys in shorts waving sticks and balls around. You’ll never notice the difference.” Without breaking stride, Wilson jerked his head towards the crowd of tents and venders. “Come on. I’ll get you a boa.”

Never one to snub Wilson’s wallet, House picked the most ostentatious one, an eye-watering creation that looked as if Big Bird’s entire extended family had been sacrificed for its construction. And naturally, as soon as the purchase was made, he immediately claimed it was too hot to wear, therefore the only possible solution was for Wilson to wear it for safekeeping. Wilson judiciously decided not to ask what, exactly, House planned on keeping it safe for. “If you just carry it, you’ll wad up the feathers,” House explained solicitously, fluffing the thing around his shoulders and not dissuaded in the least.

If this was all he had to endure before House grudgingly accepted the fact he’d been had, Wilson could withstand it without a hitch. Granted, it took a smack on the arm and a trio of passing drag queens before House apparently ceded to their superior grandiosity and stopped deliberately reaching out to dishevel the thing until Wilson was somewhere between glaring and sneezing. There was probably some clever catchphrase in there about House ruffling his feathers.

It took less than ten minutes of being ignored before House wasn’t bitching about the location anymore. Adolescent appreciation of lesbians and lollipops really did go a long way, and he spent an inordinate amount of time gaping at a 1969 Jaguar XKE that gleamed like a sleek black torpedo. Wilson thought it looked a lot like a Matchbox car he’d had as a kid and way too cramped to be comfortable in, but he couldn’t deny it was worth staring at. A few feet away, two elderly men leaning on canes decorated with rainbow-striped covers were doing the same, and God, that alone was more than worth it. Wilson’s lips twitched.

“Shut. Up,” House warned ominously.

Wilson shrugged as innocently as possible. “I didn’t even open my mouth. And come on, just imagine everyone’s faces if you—”

“Go around looking like the overgrown Munchkin who got bitch-slapped out of the Lollipop Guild?” House’s scowl was warped and contorted in the shining sweep of the hood. “Yes, that’s a brilliant idea.”

“Think of your patients and how reassuring they’ll find it. Or think of Cuddy and how not reassuring she’ll find it.”

House actually looked contemplative for a second. Nearby, a dark-haired girl scored a bulls-eye on a dartboard of Ann Coulter’s head and came perilously close to popping out of her tube top partway through her victory dance. Evidently, that was even more worthy of scrutiny than the car.

There weren’t actually any motorcycles, which House more than once seemed compelled to point out. And, at one point, upend a vial of glitter over Wilson’s head for seemingly the sole purpose of insisting he screeched, when actually he just protested very vocally that glitter didn’t ever get completely out of anything and he’d be wearing a wig before his hairbrush stopped sparkling.

Wilson collected leaflets and brochures in a complimentary HGTV tote bag, with House occasionally pitching in freebies. He only protested once that neither of them really needed five miniature Magic 8-Balls with the GLAAD logo stamped on them, but House maintained they’d be great entertainment for undiagnosed patients and for strategically losing near the top of the stairs.

They passed a group of girls wearing nothing but duct tape and plastic wrap, a vender selling utility kilts, and a crowd of muscular men wearing cowboy hats and little else who were advertising their calendar of tasteful nudes. One of them neatly parried House’s, “I didn’t know there was an uncut version of Brokeback Mountain,” with a glib, “It’s better uncut.” Which, unfairly, made Wilson nearly choke, because someone had to get flustered over a remark like that.

House, naturally, wasn’t fazed at all by casual vulgarity. “Still in the original packaging here. Tell it to the Jewish boy.” And he winked. Wilson’s eyes gamely had a go at overtaking the rest of his face, but the cowboy didn’t seem to mind.

“He’s vicious.” Uttered that way, it sounded like a good thing. “Look out for him.”

“Um. Right.” Wilson did his best to look casual from within the depths of the boa. “Duly noted.”

House took the end of the thing and led him off towards the food.

“Are you having a good time?” he asked later, watching with guarded fascination as House devoured a skewered corn dog as obscenely as possible.

“Horrible,” House said definitively, elbowing a glittery teenager out of the way and dropping onto a bench.

“No worse than taking your boss to a Robert Mapplethorpe exhibition, is it?” It really wasn’t any worse and he refused to feel bad about it.

House only looked guilty for a fraction of a second, and he covered it by finishing his corn dog to the unabashed appreciation of a few onlookers, but Wilson caught the quick flash of realization in his eyes and managed to keep down a laugh. “Not my fault you suck at dates.”

“At least I don’t suck fried food,” he retorted, resignedly letting House steal his own corn dog and tear into it.

House held out the skewer, all wide-eyed incorruptibility. “Hey, if I’d known you wanted to wrap your lips around my—”

“You know what?” Wilson grimaced and held up his hands, palms out. “I’ll get another one.”

“Letting me enjoy a meal is the least you can do after manipulating me into coming here and then forcing me to walk this much.”

“I’m wearing a flock of peacocks and watching you fellate my food. Yes, you definitely got the short end of the stick.”

House tilted his head contemplatively. “You know, that phrase originated from Roman bathhouses…”

“Getting a new one now, I mean it…” He started walking towards the vender like he was out to do battle.

“Is that how it’s always gonna be?” House yelled after him. “Leave for a new one and never look back?”

Wilson made with his over to the venders, thinking of saying, “Degenerative neurological condition. I’ve been trying to get him out and about before it’s too advanced for that to happen.” It wouldn’t be the first time he’d considered passing House off on some uncontrollable excuse.

“So tell me something,” House said conversationally once he returned. You’ve been frolicking around, drinking in the gayness for all you’re worth. As in, picking up pamphlets, which means you’re either thinking of planting them in someone’s locker or you’re not just here as a casual observer. Did you really bring me out here just to annoy me? If so, that’s kind of pitiful.”

Not about to deny frolicking and end up in the quagmire of another Sisyphean argument, Wilson just gazed significantly at the sky. “You drew conclusions about the connection between wives and hair products earlier, and Bonnie’s already told you how horrible I am in bed. It’s more fun when you don’t have all the answers spelled out for you, isn’t it?” Grinning.

“You’ve exhausted the female population, so now you’re branching out.”

“I’m not the one who got hit on by a cowboy.”

“You know, I don’t think I knew we had cowboys, let alone naughty ones…”

He rolled his eyes. “Quit guessing, House.”

“I can’t quit you.” Wilson had never seen anyone simper and pop a Vicodin at the same time before.

“Fine,” House said when Wilson didn’t talk. “Did you bring me here just to see if you could pull it off or was there another ulterior motive?” bluntly, eyes bright

“Stop trying throwing me at Cuddy,” he blurted out. “I’m not going to sleep with her. She’s all yours.”

“So that’s actually it. You’ve run out of tits, so you’re checking out…You’re gay. Knew it.”

“Not remotely,” Wilson said calmly, flicking a bright purple feather away from his nose.

“You’ve been reading brochures. No way you thought I wouldn’t notice that. Soooo,” House drew out the word for a few seconds, face screwed up in exaggerated concentration, “that mean you’re beating me over the head with gayness and really you aren’t gay at all; you’re just trying to screw with me. Figuratively speaking. Ooooor,” his eyebrows edged a little closer to his hairline. “is there something else you wanted to screw with? ‘Cause either you wanted me to notice and get ideas, when really there’s nothing to worry about, or there is and you’re trying to set up such an obvious situation it can’t possibly look like what it is.”

Wilson sniffed. “Coming out at Pride? That isn’t cliché at all.”

“You’d think I would think that, which is exactly why you would do it.”

Wilson shrugged sedately and bit into his food. Studied the crumpled foil in his hand.

“Beause if this is just your preemptive midlife crisis coming to a head, you can say so. If you’re gonna do it, do it with panache. It’s not the end of the world. I sucked a guy’s dick in Hungary once.” Wilson blinked and House narrowed his eyes, surveying some fascinating spot on the horizon before ducking his head and amending. “More than once. Not just in Hungary.” He looked carefully at Wilson, eyes strangely calm. “Both sides of the fence?”

He pressed his lips together, tried not to look down, tried not to relive therapy sessions. Not sure what to make of House’s awkward attempt to put him at ease. “Both sides of the fence.”

“Anyway,” House continued, not missing a beat, “the worst I can do is switch your Vertigo poster with a Queer as Folk one or put rainbow laces in your precious imported shoes. You’re really doing yourself a favor—making fun of all your homotastic mannerisms isn’t gonna be half as fun now.”

“Homo…tastic?”

“And come on, if you’re optimistic, this could be good for you. Your taste in men can’t be worse than your taste in women.”

“I don’t think the guy I’m interested in would appreciate that.” House’s face contorted all over again. “Marco. The pharmacist?”

“You’re kidding.” House sounded faintly horrified.

“Yeah,” Wilson agreed virtuously “He’s married. That would be wrong.”

“That would be so much more than wrong,” House muttered, clearly contemplating the combined powers of his enabler and his pharmacist in that light. “So, to steer you off that path, wanna do it?”

“Um.”

“Ha. You had to think about that, which means you do. Cool.”

Giddy, lightheaded, talking about whatever came into his mind. “I don’t have any real competition, so that’s something. That tends to be the case when a guy happens to be the king of mixed signals, hate humanity, give the implication he’d rather help you OD than actually talk about anything substantial, and is probably a horrible kisser anyway, even though he already walks funny, so at least...”

“Oh, reverse psychology; very creative. So now the unfortunate object of your affection has no choice but to prove you wrong.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think Marco’s into Hockney.”

“Whatever. Time to do something more manly now. I’ll come up with something; I’ve got connections, can brainstorm how to win over a pharmacist.” He leaned in fractionally. “We could see a play.”

Groundless

2009-10-04T04:30:19Z

Title: Groundless
Pairing: Mal/River
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Don’t own ’em, making no profit off ’em, etc.
Word Count: 1,166
Summary: The birds are in the bushes and the wolf is at the door. Takes place after the events in Serenity.

Notes: Written for the Fall Fandom Free-For-All in response to a prompt from darlas_mom: Mal and River hook up. Super-special awesome bonus points if it's done from Simon's POV while he's on the outside looking in.

Poem excepts are from Arthur Guiterman's "Everything in its Place."

All the cupboards in the galley are closed and orderly, but somewhere there are a few tins of tea biscuits that aren’t stale yet. Filching scraps from warehouses isn’t their normal fare, but they aren’t in any position to pick and choose normality anymore.

Murky lamplight casts dull pools here and there; it’s too late at night and too early in the morning for anyone in their right mind to be awake. Three of them are anyway, which is something Simon stubbornly refuses to psychoanalyze. Hands clawed, feet bare, mouth dropping agape, and nothing as simple as shortbread on his mind anymore.

The captain is stretched on the sofa with an arm over his eyes, half-drained bottle of something topaz-colored and pungent on the floor at his side. Loose limbs, tight jaw, looking as if he’d creak if he moved too suddenly, same as Serenity. The ship is plodding on as staunchly as ever, but there’s more rust streaking her joints and more cracks under the brightly painted designs Kaylee meticulously applied to the walls, as if being forced to masquerade as a Reaver ship was the final straw. The crew can’t afford much, can’t stop just anywhere, but she wears the name Serenity proud and bright, still painted on vividly as the day Inara did it. Mal won’t even consider covering it up. There aren’t many remnants of Inara left.

Just the fugitives now, along with a widow, a barely-tame animal, a hollowed-out captain, and a mechanic trying to buoy the rest of them up but buckling under their combined weight. The grease stayed on his hands for so long after the ship was set to approximate rights, no matter how much he scrubbed them; life like this, it leaves its mark on a person.

River isn’t visible at first except in contrast; dark hair, dark dress melding with the shadows, hands and face and the bare crescent of one knee standing in sharp white contrast. Mal mutters something and he hears his sister laugh, light and musical. She picks at the folds of her skirt, the dark-tanned plane of a palm that isn’t hers disappearing underneath it. “You’ve seen me.” They all have, there in that box, but no one’s ever mentioned that before.

This is what he spent years taking care of and protecting and trying to make whole again. River makes her own decisions now and if one of those ends with her being ordered off the ship, that’s only the price of autonomy. Never mind that there are still prices on their heads and things are tight on the ship as it is with no full-time pilot and Zoe more taciturn than ever. Simon can’t fathom what his function would be on the ship without her.

Robotic words, trembling voice, young and coaxing. “Warmth provides a pleasurable sensation.” The squeaking of couch cushions, springs. Simon stock-still where he’s shadowed on the threshold between the galley and the hall. Too dim to see much, too silent not to hear much.

Propriety dictates that it’s inappropriate to be watching, since even being a brotherly bulwark has its limits, but she could get hurt taking this gamble, or she could sense him there, can sense everything if she puts her mind to it. Seeing her taking risks like this, it’s disturbing because it’s too much like who she was—impulsive, intractable—and not the right milieu or situation for that kind of behavior. He supposes if given the opportunity she could say the same for him.

The lurid red wound from Miranda cinched into a small neat scar, one to match the mark on Kaylee’s stomach. He spends too many nights holding onto her tightly and trying to disappear, putting his mouth on her before he can speak and risk ruining everything. Smelling oil and metal under the citrus-sweet perfume that was a New Year’s gift from Inara and trying to ignore it. Doing his best to appropriate a way of living he wasn’t ever meant to understand, like adolescents from home who would scream themselves hoarse at Asphyxia concerts and buy shredded clothing, couture interpretations of poverty. He used to look down his nose at anyone that oblivious.

Their mother would probably look down her nose at both of them now, maybe slap a comb into River’s hand and haul him into the sitting room for a maternal interrogation. Visions picked whole from a life he doubts he’ll ever return to. He can’t remember what color the sitting room’s walls were.

“Every morning,” says River’s voice, “when you wake up, you have ten fingers on your hands and two eyes on your face. And you sit in bed and wonder why you can’t feel or see anything. But it’s all right. I can give you mine.” There are ten ragged-nailed fingers scooping into the drabness of his sister’s dress and Mal’s face is hidden by darkness. River, back bowed, clucking over him like the bony kitten they found once, bemusedly perched outside of a metro shuttle. She’d been seven and certain Simon could fix anything.

“Ain’t so much a matter of that,” starts Mal, scarcely audible at all, not sounding a thing like himself, and Simon can see River ducking down to silence him before she does it.

Humming something low and delicate, River’s murmuring merging with the sound of fabric being shifted over skin. “The skeleton is hiding in the closet as it should. The needle's in the haystack and the trees are in the wood.”

His hand closes over hers, swallowing the smallness of it easily. Like the matryoshka dolls Simon had come across her drawing all those months ago, fitting into each other perfectly. All but the littlest, the most resilient, the only one that can’t be opened. She doesn’t pull away.

Mal’s face is tucked against her temple, the bare curve of his spine looking more pronounced in this lighting than under the infirmary’s fluorescents.

“The worm is in the apple and the clam is on the shore.”

Breath stuttering, shoulders shuddering, River’s forehead gleaming placidly pale in the night, mouth parted for a kiss that doesn’t come. Simon steps back, too late. Graciously, she lets here eyes coast over him without acknowledgement.

“The birds are in the bushes and the wolf is at the door.”

Furtively, parenthetically, he remembers who she was, who she still is—his sister, graceful feet and bird-thin bones. He goes to bed hungry and doesn’t think anything of it.

--

“I started to teach myself Cree today. Dr. Loesser helped me find a data stick for it.” Simon jabbed a finger at her ribs, grinning when she shrieked. She was thirteen and he spoke the lexicon of her body fluently.

“Dr. Loesser’s an idiot. I highly doubt you can learn much of anything from him.”

“Because you’re a narcissist and you don’t think anyone else is worth my time,” River told him. “Can you speak Cree?”

Simon shrugged. “I could learn.”

Grit

2009-10-03T12:34:48Z

Title: Grit
Pairing: Simon/River, implied Simon/Kaylee
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Don’t own ’em, making no profit off ’em, etc.
Word Count: 1,360
Summary: Maybe safety is best defined by Jiangyin, bundled into a backwoods settlement that Feds don't care enough to acknowledge and even the locals don't dare to tread.

“We’ll be better now,” she promises, and Simon nods even though he knows better than to believe her.

He’s tired, wants to be filled with something other than fear, and sometimes when she’s in the infirmary she guides his fingers between hers and won’t let go. Swaying in place, spiderweb strands of hair brushing his arm.

“You need,” says River, a shadow falling over her eyes as she scrubs a plate. “Badly. And that has to come from me now.” Her wrists swirl beneath the soap-silvered water, voice and hands emerging wet. When she begins washing a knife, it doesn’t occur to Simon to take it from her. “Nowhere else you can go. We have to be everything now.”

The next time Serenity’s confiscated by Alliance, they run before their presence even has a chance to be suspected.

It's a thought that's crossed his mind in the past, now that he's a little less naive. The captain, during their first real conversation, informing him the safest place to be was on the move, and he'd believed it because he wanted to, never imagining that maybe it wasn't as true as it sounded at the time. Maybe safety is best defined by Jiangyin, bundled into a backwoods settlement that Feds don't care enough to acknowledge and even the locals don't dare to tread.

If he had the resources for it, he could graft new fingerprints onto her, but Corbin isn't that kind of town. Corbin is a second-rate handyman of a city with slate-gray skies and every aspect of life colored by steel production. With River’s help, Simon spins a CV for a man who doesn’t exist. He contacts the local medical facilities with queries of employment, shows up in person and charms his way through interviews, collected and professional and doing Osiris proud, and no one ever asks for references.

River turns to forgery in her spare time and, like anything worthy of receiving her concentration, excels at it. Kaylee’s expertise at scavenging and reutilizing spare parts was more contagious than Simon realized.

“I can’t give you a family, but I can give you yourself.” She looks so pleased with herself that all he can do is thank her.

This is your medical license. This is your identity card. This is your marriage certificate.

It’s springtime when she finishes constructing them both from the ground up. “May. Good time to be born, good exemplifier of possibility.” He wishes she’d chosen another name for herself.

There isn’t a scrap of them left, not the Tams anymore, not connected by blood at all. They have new profiles and new identities and keep to themselves in town. He practices medicine and she keeps her hands busy working through tasks that are too easy for her mind but routine enough to be soothing, and every minute of the day he wants there to be something else for them. Something less dingy than this place, something with sunlight and certainty and a house with a porch. A little more saving and then maybe they can book passage to a world with more space, assuming he's lucky enough to find a ship like Serenity again.

He never waves. It's time they learned to make it on their own, and there’s a chance the ship’s been tagged to alert the Feds if he attempts contact. He knows it’s unlikely that Mal wouldn’t just cut and run and disable any sort of Alliance interference, but he tells himself it’s for the best.

Memories ripple up regularly: Jayne calling them dead weight, Book calmly defining the nature of government, Mal saying that he came back because they were crew. There’s nothing keeping him from returning once again, but until that time comes the smartest, safest thing for them to do is disappear. The ship's been searched multiple times and sooner or later there would be too many connections between Serenity and the Tams and there'd be too much danger to risk having them onboard.

“It was only a matter of time,” murmurs River.

Something more. Something tucked out of the way. Something with clean air. On Osiris, everything was filtered and regulated to preserve the deserving, discerning members of the population.

He has dreams, more often than he admits to himself, where River winds her arms around him and smiles, bright-eyed and dreamy. “We’ll be a real family now.”

"You were supposed to be taking your medicine."

"I stopped."

Unfailingly, her eyes are utterly guileless and impossibly young and he wants to slip her more to kill the thing inside her. It always ends with his sister’s neck snapping in his hands and his father’s disembodied voice grimly demanding why he couldn’t take care of her, and he jolts out of sleep clammy-damp, rushing from the room as quietly as he can but almost always waking up River anyway. She still threads their hands together sometimes, clinging and crying and reassuring him she can be a good wife, better than a sister, do right by him and always love him and have children if she were whole enough to manage it.

It worries him that maybe he’s made her worse by letting her believe this instead of just keeping her on the ship, that a mundane life is worse for her than a life on the run. This is stamping on Hippocrates in an entirely new, disturbing way.

Industrial workers, unionized medical staff, patching up similar hurts day after day. Insular community, everything the workforce needs, always extruding steel from every chrome-plated pore; he can feel it in his bones and see it in River’s eyes. Technologically behind, since it’s an isolated blue-collar area, and it’s fortunate there are no retinal scans or anything of that caliber. River asks where Serenity is sometimes and he tells her it’s better living without that anymore, they have everything they need already.

She kisses his cheek. “Growing thicker skins. Hardening up.” Her throat works as she swallows her medicine.

The sunsets, when it’s clear enough to see them, are spectacular visions of chemical-streaked vividness. Mandarin is the primary spoken language and River scratches the mosquito bites on her legs even after Simon puts salve on them, same as when she was seven years old. Sometimes, he dreams of Kaylee and wakes up in a flurry of shivers. River speaks less on those days.

They get by. Serenity can’t come back for them now.

Three years later, she does.

An almost-unfamiliar name uttered in a too-familiar voice, and his stomach twists.

“You can’t call me by that name anymore.” He tries to say it jokingly, but that was never his forte with Kaylee.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the glint of metal on his own hand, sees Kaylee’s hand flying towards her mouth but coming to a halt halfway there. “You’re married?”

Simon can’t speak.

“No. I understand.” A smile, kind as can be, and he feels bile surging in his throat, wonders why he decided to take care of the shopping today of all days. “You’re happy here. Made the place your own. I’m glad.”

“Your sister?” Jayne sounds worn and wary, but his eyes are as searing as stars.

“She died.” And he can’t say anything more than that. If Mal had been there, he’s sure he wouldn’t have been able to say anything at all.

“How was your day?” River asks when he comes home, kissing his cheek and showing the book she’s piecing together. She’s leveled out, taken a job. Reconstruction, archivist for the library, painstaking but absorbing work that keeps her busy and lets her learn. It’s good for her, something she would never have been able to do on Serenity and never would have chosen to do before going away to school.

Once, he might have told her how badly it hurt to see Kaylee looking as if he’d slapped her, Jayne turning without uttering another sound. How the world rushed into a wall of foreboding gray in front of his eyes, and he ran until his lungs and eyes were burning.

Simon takes her hand and studies the floor panels. “It was fine.”

comin' from the woods

2009-10-02T02:34:47Z

Unexpectedly amazing combination of pizza toppings: onions, corn, sweet potatoes, and honey mustard.

Ohsnap, it's House-babble!

2009-09-23T21:45:15Z

I actually watched this one! At first I doubted I could be arsed to write anything of my own, but then I was feeling so crampy I actually broke down and took some pain meds that happen to contain both acetaminophen and caffeine, so I'm once again feeling peppy before dawn.

First things first, the stereotyping irked me, but it wasn't anything I didn't expect. Anything set in a mental institution is bound to get compared to One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, but House stealing a car (and omfg, enough with women being mysteriously charmed by House and trusting him to do stupid crap like this; then again, at least Lydia is closer to his age than most other chicks who end up crushing on him) and unwittingly making a delusional superhero swan dive out of a parking garage is not the same as him transforming into a large Native American man and smothering him, so there is that!

I loved that the staff didn't give into House because of his kooky-geniusy antics. He can pull that at PPTH because everyone's inured to him just being House, so it was great seeing him respond to an environment that didn't give him any ground.

Wilson only had thirty seconds of screen time, but RSL really worked it, didn't he? The voice-cracking and the angsty sighing and the sitting-at-home-alone-with-a-beer...ing. House's "you're my only friend" remark sort of amused me because it made him sound about three years old--Wilson won't give him what he wants, therefore House isn't inviting him to his birthday party, so nyah-nyah-nyah.

Others have mentioned this, but personally, I don't get how a cocktail party is meant to be therapeutic. Some people just aren't born minglers. That scene just bugged me. Not even gonna touch the talent show, but I will say it literally had me covering my ears (I didn't want to mute it in case I missed something important.)

Magic music box, whaaaaa?

This ep also gets major props for now veering into long angsty monologues about the roots of House's issues. Any soul-sharing relating to his parents, Stacy, Cuddy, or Wilson occurred strictly offscreen when the producers could have hit us over the head with it. House is more likely to be honest through his actions than through his words, as well we know.

I kind of wish House's stint in Mayfield had been drawn out for more than just the premiere...I'm worried that once he's back on his old stomping grounds, any of the progress and development we just saw is going to get flushed right back down the drain. I'll probably catch the next episode online and see how that goes.

Chuck Versus the Lessons [3/4]

2009-09-10T05:46:13Z

Title: Chuck Versus the Lessons [3/4]

Authors: nakeno and recrudescence

Pairing: Chuck/Casey

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: Don't own'em, don't get paid.

Word Count: 5,078

Summary: Because unless this is part of that seduction-skills class Casey failed a few times, he's getting legitimately manhandled and molested by the guy who's supposed to be guarding him with his life.

Link: Chuck Versus the Lessons [3/4]

Part 1

Part 2

ein minuten, bitte

2009-08-16T08:46:28Z

Hanne Hukkelberg is playing in DC September 13 and, if at all possible, I am so there.

Also, SPN folk, why is there no Sam/Pamela? (Samela? That's totally a portmanteau I can get behind.)

Ooh, or Jo/Pamela. John/Pamela. I really like Pamela, okay?

Chuck Versus the Lessons [2/4]

2009-08-15T03:36:38Z

Title: Chuck Versus the Lessons [2/4]
Authors: nakeno and recrudescence
Pairing: Chuck/Casey
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Don't own'em, don't get paid.
Word Count: 4,030

Summary: "Well, obviously I wanna do you." Since it wasn't obvious enough when he'd reached around and felt up his cock.

A wan smile. "Who doesn't?"

Casey snorts, "Walker."

Part 1
Part 2

Chuck Versus the Lessons; Part One

2009-08-12T23:53:48Z

Title: Chuck Versus the Lessons; Part One
Authors: recrudescence and nakeno
Pairing: Chuck/Casey
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't own'em, don't get paid.
Word Count: 3,463
Summary: There's a line. Bold and bright and veryvery visible. Asset. Job. Assignment. Nothing. More. Bad, sketchy film passing through: Chuck calling him 'buddy,' Chuck putting his hand on Casey's shoulder, Chuck contemplating him, Chuck inviting him to dinner with the family, Chuck looking at him and saying everything he hates about lying to them with those green-brown eyes...

Link: Chuck Versus the Lessons; Part One

THEY SAY THIS GUN CAN KILL ANYTHING

2009-08-12T12:27:23Z

Whoa. There's an Asian person in an episode of Supernatural. Only took two and a half seasons, amirite?

And she speaks. For all of...three lines.

Granted, she's also a hotel maid.

If this was Firefly, there would be fisticuffs. OMFG CROSSOVER. Simon and Sam can have a whine-off while their siblings shoot cans.

I'm waiting to see the boys tackle something out of Chinese mythology. Or Japanese. Something from that part of the globe. It isn't like there's any dearth of material. OMFG CROSSOVER!

Hi, I've been busy getting things in order for the next phase of my life! Whassup?

spank him with a skate and call him sally

2009-08-10T14:21:57Z

Can I just say that if I have to see one more Supernatural ep in which some unearthly hot person is cheeky and blase whilst staring down the barrel of a gun I will probably punch something?

More yoga, more yoga, more yoga...

you make me wanna try

2009-08-05T17:57:15Z

Thanks to Bill Clinton popping up and saving the day, North Korea has freed the two journalists they'd been holding. Rock on.

There was a cricket in class during fourth grade and instead of catching it and chucking it out the window, I squeaked like a mouse and dropped an upside-down basket on it. Such a badass teacher, that's me. I have cricket issues stemming back to this incident after a Girl Scout meeting when I got one in my hair. I had a lot of hair at the time.

I fly home on the 27th. Oh, my.

his father was a drinker

2009-08-03T12:50:15Z

I'm on an Academyfic kick, I think, River-wise. I've got this massive timeline mentally mapped out and I'm not sure whether it'll take over my soul if I try and write it down.

Also, I'm participating in dvd_commentary, which is...kind of exciting. There are a couple fics I really want to try and write commentaries for, though I'm not sure I'll be able to do them justice.

It's a strange sort of step for me, since I've never done a commentary for any of my own fic, let alone someone else's. I feel like I would just end up jabbering about daisies and tadpoles and weather vanes and how they relate to my interpretation of Character A's psyche, because sometimes it can be hard to put my thought processes into words instead of just...thoughts.

There's also the part where I don't know if it'd be worth the effort and, crikey, I know reading some of my stuff can be like wading through molasses in a full suit of armor, so why bog it down with even more words?

Still. Exciting!

Pertaining to Practice

2009-08-02T09:13:04Z

Title: Pertaining to Practice
Authors: nakeno and recrudescence
Fandom: Chuck
Pairing: Chuck/Casey
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: We do not own or profit from any of the source material.
Summary: Chuck really likes Casey's bed and Casey really likes doing laundry. There's got to be a happy medium somewhere.
Warning: It's pretty much solid smut?
Word Count: 2,932

Link: Pertaining to Practice