messy slate

Girl in the War : First Draft, Years One-Five

Fri, 21 Aug 2009 11:35:55 GMT

Okay, so I've been working on this AU fic... It's a "What would HP be like if Harry had been born a girl?". I know, I know! But the idea wouldn't leave me alone... and I've written up to book five... The whole thing has reached the 80k mark, and I've a feeling that it will double in size before I'm finished. It's not ready to be posted, but I'm going to put the links to the first draft years up here. I'd appreciate it if anyone who reads these would leave a comment at my LJ or sent me a message through FFnet - even if you just want to mock me for writing Girl!Harry. I know how stupid it is (though I've become rather fond of my Rose Alice Potter...).

If you need to know more before you devote yourself, Years One-Four is around 40k words. This story will end with Draco/Rose, but they won't be getting together until sometime in book 7 (I don't plan for them to be together in 6th year, but who knows?). In the meantime, Rose dates George Weasley and Cedric Diggory. The only person I plan to kill off in these stories is Dumbledore - yes, Cedric and Sirius live! Year One isn't much different from canon, but things start to change in Year Two. Hermione and Ginny are Rose's best friends, the Weasley twins adore her, Sirius is over-protective, and Rose grew up with Aunt Petunia treating her like a Barbie doll.

Year Five is 42k all on its own. (!)

Year One | Year Two | Year Three | Year Four | Year Five Part 1 | Year Five Part 2 |

Outed.

Sun, 09 Nov 2008 06:38:21 GMT

My boyfriend found out yesterday that I'm reading and writing Slash. He was horrified.

Heh.

National Novel Writing Month

Tue, 28 Oct 2008 05:36:55 GMT

As the rest of the country frets about elections (Obama, baby), and the horrifying downward spiral of the economy (I'm thousands of dollars poorer than I was at the start of the year), I've decided to make a go at utterly ignoring all else this November, and fix my eyes on my word processor.

I'm going to make a serious go of NaNoWriMo this year. I've waffled in previous years (flunked out at 12,000 words my first try, and haven't even gotten off the ground in more recent years). But I have a story that I think I could ride for 50,000 words.

It's fan fiction, which I'm a little wary of using for NaNo, but I'm not in the mood for attempting original fiction again. It's also slash (you heard that right) of the Harry/Draco variety, post-DH, and involves a lot of post-war teenagers trying to put their lives back together. I like what I have so far, which is the other problem, as the rules of NaNo dictate that you can't have anything prior to November first. On the other hand, I don't care much for the 'rules' and I won't be participating directly through the site. The support of fellow writers would be nice, but it's hardly necessary. Mostly I just want to get the story out, and I will endeavor to have the 50,000 words in addition to the 10,000 I already have written. And NaNo is as good an excuse as any to write like a madman.

So here's hoping that by the end of November I will have a novel-length fic to share with you all, we'll be looking forward to an Obama presidency, the economy will have miraculously fixed itself, and my mutual funds will be earning me so much money that I can dedicate the rest of my days to writing fiction (fan and otherwise).

Cross your fingers, lovelings, and vote for hope.

You know what's fun...

Fri, 26 Sep 2008 06:43:10 GMT

... It's fun to get fixated on a new ship and then re-reading the HP books for subtext.

So much fun!

In this case, my new favorite ship is Harry/Draco (which so works!). I'm really loving the H/D corner of HP fandom. They're a fun bunch. And, doubly neat, is that I've never read slash until recently, and there's a crapload of finished novel-length stories to get all involved in.

My shiny new art website

Mon, 15 Sep 2008 08:13:54 GMT

I finally got my art website up! True, it's not finished by any means, and I don't have all of my fan fiction stories up yet (though the HP ones are there, not including New Life, which I'm not sure if I'm going to put up at all). I have a lot of work left to do... mostly getting some of my photography projects up there, and my fan art, and some freebie Photoshop brush packs... but they'll get there!

Go visit it. Make me happy.

Jane of Some : Art by Rachel.

New Layout, Header, and DW fangirling

Sun, 04 May 2008 05:22:23 GMT

New layout! Fun and springtime-y along with a new header (made from SwearToShakeItUp scrap packs.)

And now onto spoilers for The Poison Sky.

First of all, Doctor Who = sacred time. My evil biting cat does not understand this.

Second of all, I don't think I say it enough. I LOVE DONNA. (I think I love Donna more than I love Rose. I know. I know!) I love that she was terrified to go out into the Sontaran's ship and she went anyway. I love that I felt her fear. Catherine Tate is amazing.

Third, ROSE. How did she find the TARDIS frequency? What was she calling about?

Sky on fire effect? Freaking neat. Scary, but neat.

Donna's grandpa? So wonderful. Is he the first elder family figure that has encouraged the companion to go? Jackie begged Rose to stay at one point (maybe more than) and Martha's family didn't know until they were caught up in events. So yes, I think so. Anyway, I love that he's supportive of her choices. That he loves her enough to let her go and all that.

I'm not going to speculate on cloning or Red Wolves or Gallifrey or lost planets. There's too much to say, and I'm not really in the mood... However... they did show the Doctor's Hand-In-A-Jar several times during the flight to wherever. Was the TARDIS picking up on Gallifreyan DNA? Or does it have something to do with Jack? Anywho...

And now onto next weeks episode.

.... hm.

I really hope she's not Rose's daughter. I'm one of the number who didn't believe that Rose and the Doctor were getting it on in the TARDIS, cause... I dunno. It's weird. I don't buy it. I think they were in love, and happily in love, and they were happy together, but that's as far as it went.

So I hope Lil Miss Kung Fu is the result of a former dalliance (one of those kids mentioned in Fear Her. "I was a Dad once.") I hope I don't hate her guts. She's adorable though. And I did like the glimpse of Buffy-style fighting. So long as she's a little bit snarky I think I'll like her.

But really. If she's Rose's daughter I'm gonna feel a little weird about it. I'll try to be thrilled, but if Russell is going to have a hard time winning ME (a rabid Rose/Ten OTP shipper) over, then I can only imagine that wouldn't go down well in the fandom with other parties.

DW: The Sontaran Stratagem (SPOILERS)

Fri, 02 May 2008 11:47:44 GMT

Here be notes I made as I watched... Fangirly nonsense, not really fit for consumption.

The Doctor is letting Donna pilot the TARDIS? Awesome. :)

Holy fuck. "I'll have a salute." I fucking LOVE Donna. She'll tear into ANYBODY. No mercy, this one.

Rose would have been, chipper smile, "I'm Rose, by the way. Hello!" Which would have been just as unsettling and would have brought a different (dopey) smile from the Doctor instead of the amused smirk that Donna elicits.

Is it just me or... well... the dude in the tank of green goo... and the rumors of Gallifrey being the watch word for this season... it makes me think of the looms that the Gallifreyans were 'created'/'born' from. I have, of course, never seen canon evidence of this, and only read about it in fan fiction... but still. Eh. I'm probably way off.

EEEEE. Oh lord. I so love how Donna fucks with the Doctor. I really, really do. But he was so sweet about it. "So many places I wanted to take you..." and then he goes into recounting the fabulousness that is just a sure fire way for him to keep his companions sticking around, weaving the wonders of time and space, dangling them like carrots. And now Donna knows that. She's got his effing number. Heh. "Dumbo." (But really, "You saved me in SO many ways..." That was really nice. And true. And just plain sweet.)

Russell seems to be real big on the Dangers of Technology.

Heh. The Doctor correcting the genius kid's grammar. I like. Gimme some more of that.

The Doctor has incredible racquet ball prowess. What aim! It's very nearly swoon-worthy, but I'm more inclined towards the two handed sonic screwdriver pointing myself. For some reason that's really hot in an I'll-get-this sort of way.

Two Martha's? *sighs* I like Martha, but really. Do we need two of them? And I hope this cloning thing (Oh god. Is Rose a clone?) turns out to be something important, because otherwise it seems kind of unnecessary. They could have hypnotized her more strongly than they did all the grunts at the factory or something equally plausible.

What is with these dead lock seals? It seems like every two-bit villain knows that this is the Doctor's weakness. No fair. (Necessary plot device, but still.)

Why doesn't Donna grab a rock or a flower pot and break the window of the car? I know they hold pretty strong, but really it can't be that hard to break a car window. And why doesn't the sonic screwdriver have a shatter glass setting? Even if it was just a pulse of ultra sonic sound or something... You'd think that'd come standard. (But maybe that's only for Laser Screwdrivers. Heh.)

The Time War was mentioned again. And the Sontarans were apparently 'banned' from doing battle in it. Seems kind of a weird thing to do. How do you stop someone from entering a war? Did the Time Lords just say, no thanks, we've got our hands full here, run along home now? Did the Daleks scoff and turn their eyestalks to more interesting foe? I mean, really. How did they stop them? Do the Sontarans not have time travel technology? (For that matter, do the Daleks have time travel technology? I mean, TARDIS's can't be the only means to travel through space and time. There was a Time Agency, after all, and it seemed piddly humans ran that shady operation...)

More and more hints that this is going to be a season of Bringing Back Gallifrey... ech. I don't really want that. I have no love for Gallifrey. I'm cool with the Doctor being all Last of His Kind-y. And why wouldn't the Face of Boe have mentioned this nugget? He's Jack, right? And Jack is gonna live forever, so he'd know... I suppose "You Are Not Alone" is enough of a hint, and just that the phrase was an anagram for Prof. Yana wasn't really good enough for me at the time, but did Jack have to be so freaking vague?

The Sontar-huh! war dance is kinda weird... and that genius kid creeps me out.

And it's over in typical two-parter fashion. The Doctor stands alone. Helpless. Confused. His companion is having another distressing moment (Really though, Donna is having quite a rough time out with the Doc. I mean, Pompeii? Wow. That was rough. The Ood was disheartening, though it ended well.) I'm sorta glad I waited all week to watch this, as I only have a couple days until the next part airs. Yay. :)

Torchwood: Exit Wounds

Sun, 06 Apr 2008 00:02:47 GMT

Spoilers below the cut.

*wails* I can't believe they killed off Tosh AND Owen! Nooooo...

And Torchwood made me effing cry. Those bastards.

First when Tosh said, "Because you're breaking my heart!" Because that wasn't what I expected her to say at all, and because that was the moment when I started to buy the Tosh/Owen relationship. It never seemed like it would work until that point, because Owen can be such a bastard, and Tosh is a such an emotional pushover. But in that moment I saw how it could work in the happily-ever-after sense.

And then when Jack and Gwen were putting away Tosh and Owen's things (his lab coat! Her glasses! Guh!) and Ianto was putting in their date of death's in their files... *wails again*

I also saw just exactly why Gwen needs Rhys. He tells her that she's a hero, and that she can do it, and he does it in a completely different way than Jack does it (because he gets Gwen to suck it up and move too). Rhys is gentle and loving about it, while Jack is more... military: "You WILL do as I say, and you WILL do it NOW." Gwen needs a cheerleader, and Rhys is so wonderfully willing to be that for her.

Wasn't too impressed with Jack's brother. (I liked that Captain John Hart 'turned' good-- but I soo soo like him as a bad guy. He's deliciously evil.) Or that Jack added another 2,000 years to his life under the Cardiff dirt in 15 episode minutes.

But dude, how awkward would it be around TWCardiff if John stuck around? It's already like the Captain Jack Appreciation League, though I'm not sure WHO is president of the club... Maybe Rhys will get a job? Martha sticks around to be medic full time? John could be their techie if he weren't so deranged... Ah, new characters to torture next season.

Still... I mourn for Tosh and Owen today. I see why they did it. Owen can't keep doing the dead man routine, and Tosh... well, the poor girl has lost enough. Let her die with the man she loves.

I did totally, totally love the part when they brought up Tosh in the Doctor Who episode (Aliens of London, or World War Three... I'm not sure which one she was in), and how she was covering for Owen because he was hung over and unreachable. Space pig! Made of awesome, that.

And now I'm off to watch Doctor Who! Season Four! Donna!

Who's excited?

Doctor Who: Pick Me Up

Fri, 28 Mar 2008 06:58:30 GMT

Title: Pick Me Up
Author: astridfire
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Rose, GitF
Pairing: Ten/Rose
Word Count: 1,700
Summary: Historical crushes at a party in 18th Century Venice. A sweet bit of fluff.

A/N: Happy!Who fic, for the prompt: Casanova. 'Bella regazza' means beautiful girl in Italian (so says the internet). The info on black clusters comes from a Star Trek Wiki (because I can’t make heads or tails of real astronomical information).

-----
The Doctor was beginning to regret this trip.

He'd taken Rose to Venice in the 18th century to see and taste and smell the Carnevale, a city wide masquerade party. An excuse for the locals to drink and be more than a little merry before Lent was upon them. The TARDIS had provided an elaborate period gown for Rose, complete with a tiny feathered eye mask. The Doctor, as usual, had not dressed for the occasion.

She had been gone from his side for less than three minutes, but when he'd found her again she was already seemingly deep in conversation with some Italian dandy.

"Doctor, this is Giacomo Casanova," she said in that low sultry voice she used when wanting to make a point.

"Ah, hello!" The Doctor looked between them, as he was being mostly ignored by the pair, and felt a growl begin to grow in his throat. Rose was smiling that smile. And not at him.

"Please, bella regazza, call me Giac," the cad said, kissing her knuckles.

"Giac," Rose repeated with a laugh, her smile growing impossibly wider, tongue poking between her teeth.

The Doctor cleared his throat loudly before the growl could become an indignant roar. That was his smile!

Casanova's lips lingered on Rose's hand, and she did not pull away, so the Doctor did it for her. His fingers closed around her wrist, and as politely as was possible in such an impolite situation, pulled her hand away from the offending Italian's lips, and twined his fingers with hers.

There. That was better.

"So, Giac," the Doctor said, in his most dismissive tone. "What brings you to--"

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" Rose interrupted. The Doctor looked at her in surprise and then gulped. Oh, he'd made her angry. What had he done now?

Rose told Casanova that she'd be back in a moment, and pulled the Doctor away from the party, out into a hall. He followed her slowly, the walk of a man towards the gallows.

"What are you doing?" she asked, piercing him with a glare.

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean! That, in there!"

"He was slobbering all over you! He was about to start licking your fingers. I was being helpful."

Rose just looked at him. "No, licking is your thing. He was being charming."

"That's what he does, Rose," the Doctor said patiently. "He's the most famous womanizer in your history, and--"

"And he was kissing my hand."

"You're going to be taken in by that? A-- a-- historical crush!"

"Well, why not? You know, it's nice to be noticed once in awhile. For someone to tell me I'm beautiful and all that," she said.

"He's a cad! And you're just being taken in by all the mystique! Just because he's Casanova! Any other bloke and you have--"

Rose jabbed her finger into his chest. "Look you--” She stopped, and breathed angrily through her nose. "Historical crush,” she muttered, “Why I-- I've got three words for you, Doctor. Madame de-bloody-Pompadour." And she turned on her heel and stalked back towards the party.

The Doctor resisted the urge to tell her that was actually four words, and watched her go with a sigh. And now that was coming back to haunt him, was it? He ran his hands over his face and followed after her.

Just in time to see Giacomo Casanova offer Rose his arm and lead her to the dance floor.

The Doctor leaned against the wall, folded his arms over his chest and told himself that he was not pouting. Time Lords did not pout. He was keeping an eye on her, that's all. Never mind that she wasn't in danger, exactly, and never mind that Rose was capable of dealing with far worse than some slimy 18th century playboy, never mind that if she'd been capable of deflecting the advances of one Captain Jack Harkness that seeing through the likes of Casanova would be a walk in the park. Never mind all that.

He was concerned. Mildly concerned. And maybe, just maybe, more than a little jealous. And put out. Definitely put out.

He was suddenly distracted by the sound of familiar laughter ringing over the orchestra.

It was Rose. She was nearly doubled over, clutching her stomach, and while this made the Doctor frown, because what on Earth could Casanova have said to make her laugh like that, he was cheered because the great Casanova, seducer of women, was looking decidedly vexed.

Time for him to cut in.

He cut through the crowd, and tapped the other man on the shoulder. "May I?"

Casanova, still looking a bit bewildered, handed Rose off to the Doctor. She was helpless with laughter, and the Doctor couldn't help but laugh a bit with her as he took her into his arms.

"What's got you in such a state then?"

"He-- he--" she hiccupped. "He said--" She buried her face in his shoulder and took deep breaths. "He asked if it hurt."

"What? What's hurt? Are you hurt?"

"No!" she said, and bit her lip to keep from doubling over again. "He asked if it hurt when I fell from heaven."

The Doctor let out a bark of laughter, and reveled in the feeling of Rose pressed against him, shaking with laughter.

"Ah, see? That's the problem with time travel. Witnessing the birth of clichés."

"It is a hell of a line," she said, much more calmly.

The Doctor began to lead them in a slow waltz, not caring that the tempo of the music wasn't quite right for it. Rose's hand was in his, and her cheek was resting in the vicinity of his shoulder, and he could smell her shampoo.

"I've got to say, yours was much better," she said.

"My what?"

"Your line."

"I've never used a line in my life. Not ever. Never. Don't need 'em."

"Oh, yeah?" she said, looking up and stopping their dance. She held his hand and recited, "I can feel it. The turn of the Earth. The ground beneath our feet is spinning at a thousand miles an hour, and the entire planet is hurtling 'round the sun at sixty-seven thousand miles an hour. And I can feel it. We're falling through space, you and me. Clinging to the skin of this tiny world, and if we let go... Now, forget me, Rose Tyler."

The Doctor scratched the back of his neck. "Ah." He could see how that was some sort of line... especially with Rose's delivery. Low and sultry with her big brown eyes piercing his.

Rose shrugged with feigned nonchalance. "Worked on me, anyway."

He pulled her back into dancing position, and held her close. "I'm glad."

Rose bit her lip, as though she was debating something, and then said, "So come on Doctor. What else have you got? Seduce me with some of that technobabble." Rose looked up at him, nervous and hopeful, through her eyelashes.

The Doctor swallowed. His mouth had gone strangely dry. "Well, I--" He cleared his throat. Rose had issued a challenge, and he couldn't very well leave it alone. Inspiration dawned. "Rose? Have I ever taken you to see a black cluster? There's an absolutely gorgeous one on the edge of the Vico galaxy. All purple and blue stardust."

She looked slightly crestfallen, but covered it up with a smile. "No. We off then?"

The Doctor hummed a negative and went on, his hand at her waist pulling her in closer.

"A black cluster is created when numerous protostars, which are basically newborn stars, with gases hardly out of their gravitational collapse phase and nuclear fusion at their core has just begun-- Well, you've seen one! On Alaxis VI? That second tiny sun? Pink?" Rose nodded, a delighted smile beginning to bloom on her face.

"Anyway," the Doctor continued, getting into his stride, "a black cluster is what happens when a bunch of these newborn stars collapse in on themselves within close proximity to the others. Now the space around the black cluster absorbs energy in massive amounts. We're talking debilitating. Very dangerous to ordinary spacecraft. Lots of spatial phenomenon. Gravitational wavefronts, harmonic amplification effects--"

Rose raised herself onto her toes and pressed her lips to his. The Doctor happily kissed her back.

Rose, being in sole possession of her body and not on the verge of time-vortex related death, was an excellent kisser. The Doctor raised a hand to curve around her neck, holding her in place, because now that she was kissing him so excellently, and was so completely herself, he was not willing to let her stop.

Though eventually Rose required air to breathe, and they broke apart. The Doctor rested his forehead against hers and said, "I hadn't even gotten to the magnetascopic interference."

Rose laughed, and kissed him again.

"Rose Tyler with a science fetish," he teased. "Who knew?"

She blushed. "Don't tell anyone, yeah? Our little secret?"

"Course not! Cause now I know, and you know that I know, and we both know, and I won't be letting anyone else know that."

She raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying that you want to keep me all to yourself?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Rose."

She made a happy noise, and hugged him tightly. The Doctor hugged back, and kissed her neck, loving that he could give into that urge now, and breathed her in. She was lovely, his Rose, all soft and pink and yellow, and smelling of flowers.

"Tell me more about these black clusters, Doctor," she said, her breath warm on cheek.

"I don't know that I should," he said. "If I tell you any more about how frankly amazing black clusters are, I fear that we may cause a riot. It's an awful lot of technobabble, Rose, and I don't know that you'll be able to contain yourself."

She giggled. "Then take me back to the TARDIS and tell me more about black clusters and this harmonic amplification effect..."

He grinned. "Oh, I think I like it when you talk science-y too." She laughed.

He kissed her once more, briefly, and led her away from the party, waving cheerfully at Giacomo Casanova as they left. There was a science lesson to be had on the TARDIS, and Rose looked to be a very willing student.

Science and seduction. The universe and Rose. Four of his favorite things.

------

Queen of the WIP

Mon, 24 Mar 2008 05:17:57 GMT

I have literally dozens of Word files for fics that lie unfinished and neglected on my computer. Some have their own individual files, and I have a couple that I call "Bits & Pieces" for when I get a bolt from the blue with just a line or a bit of dialogue or a scene that I'd like to set; less than drabbles, those are.

So here's a piece from my more substantial Harry Potter WIP I currently have sitting on my computer:

A Hundred Thousand Miles to Heal: Harry, Hermione

A day had passed.

Wizards and witches across Great Britain gathered in pubs, packed Diagon Alley, paraded down the streets of Hogsmeade; they toasted to the Chosen One, The Boy Who Lived to Do It Again, and the glorious demise of Lord Voldemort. They reveled with butterbeer, firewhiskey, and Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes Wildfire Whiz-Bangs. The Ministry organized grand galas and award presentation ceremonies.

And while the world celebrated, their savior and his best friend huddled together in the Gryffindor common room. Their eyes were rimmed red, tears had left streaks on their cheeks, and it seemed as if they hadn’t slept since it had happened.

It had been thirty-two hours, by Hermione’s reckoning, since Ron had been killed, and thirty-two hours and thirty seconds since Voldemort had been reduced to ash. Harry had supplied the killing curse. Hermione had supplied the incendio.

Attacked By a Wrackspurt: Harry/Luna

Luna Lovegood was an unusual girl in many ways, (many, many ways) however, she was much like other girls in that after a night of too much drinking and dancing she would awake with a spitting headache and achy limbs. She stretched her arms over her head and wiggled her toes under the sheet, and squinted her eyes against the glare of the sun through the open window.

“Oh, no,” she muttered to herself. “No, no, no.”

She promptly pulled a pillow over her face in firm denial of the sunlight assaulting her fragile brain. An exhale and inhale of breath later, and the cruelties of morning breath made themselves known.

“Ugh.”

The pillow was thrown aside and Luna resigned herself to wakefulness.

Cautious squinting eyes became aware of the fact that she was not alone.

Interesting.

Luna propped her chin up on one hand and looked at the man in her bed. His mouth was opened slightly, and he was snoring. His black hair was messier than usual, his eyes closed, long lashes curled delicately on his cheek. The sheet was pooled round his waist, and he was completely naked beneath it. Luna knew this because she had peeked.

She could not remember how Harry Potter had wound up naked in her bed, or how she had wound up naked in there with him.

She supposed a Wrackspurt must have attacked her last night at Fred and George’s party.

Oh Why, Oh Why Do I Hate Paris?: Draco/Ginny

A tall, elegant man with pale blond hair entered the train car. Ginny’s eyes were drawn to him in the way a mouse catches sight of a hungry cat. She slunk down in her seat, and hoped, prayed to all the Gods above that he wouldn’t notice her. This was not what she needed right now. This, certainly, was not something she deserved. She was dealing with quite enough already, thank you very much.

Draco Malfoy’s grey eyes swept over the occupants of the train car. They lingered on the pretty muggle girls for a moment, but then, like the cat senses the tiniest of movements from their prey, snapped to Ginny and held.

He smiled. Ginny felt he looked rather feral, and frowned deeply. She moved her suitcase from the floor to the seat next to her. The universal sign for, “Keep on moving, buster.” Malfoy, as expected, ignored the hint.

“Weasel.”

“Ferret.”

“Budge up, would you?”

“You’re not sitting next to me!”

Draco rolled his eyes, and hefted her suitcase up onto the overhead bin. He sprawled elegantly beside her. Ginny scowled. Draco smirked.

“Arse.”

“I can see you haven’t changed much since school. Just as pleasant and even tempered as ever.”

“Oh, shut it.”

Ginny turned to the window to avoid him, but his reflection was plainly visible in the glass. She watched him smile charmingly at the girls next to them. One smiled back, as the other three giggled.

When he turned back to Ginny, he was met with her scowl.

“What? You’re certainly not paying me any attention. I’ve got to get it somewhere.”

Ginny lowered her voice, and said, “Oh right, like you’re really interested in a bunch of—“

“Really pretty girls?” he suggested, though it showed in his eyes that he knew exactly what she was going to say.

“Oh, I see. Anywhere you can get it, eh?”

“That’s right, Weasley.”

“Purebloods not putting out for you any longer?”

“You tell me.”

“You’re disgusting.”

Draco smirked, pleased with her deduction.

“And no, you’re right about Pansy and that lot. Turned out they were just interested in me for my money. Can you imagine?” He flashed that charming smile her way, and Ginny had to admit that he was rather handsome. The absolute git.

“A crushing blow to your monstrous ego, I’m sure.”

“Not really. I’ve discovered that I get laid just as often poor as I did when I was filthy rich. If not more so.”

“Oh, really?”

“Mmm hm. I think it’s the whole tortured, starving artist thing that makes them drop their knickers.”

“You’re an artist?”

“Well, that’s what I tell them. Like a charm, I swear.” He snapped his fingers.

“You’re disgusting.”

“So you keep telling me.”

Heist!: Harry/Luna

“I think we should go to the bank. Go down to a vault, just to look at the place from a different perspective. I know we’ve both been there a hundred times, but it might be useful.”

“That’s an excellent idea, Harry,” Luna said, grabbing her handbag and striding purposefully to the door.

“Wait! Not now!”

“Why ever not?”

Harry had no reason why not, other than he hoped with all his heart that someone would miraculously show up and say, “Harry! Wait! I know a way you can get that horcrux without being tossed into Azkaban!” His face must have communicated his thoughts, because Luna looked at him sadly and said, “There’s no other way.”

He nodded dejectedly, and wondered if he should give some serious thought to becoming an Animagus… for jailbreak purposes.

Luna looped her arm through his and led him outside. She tilted her face up into the sunshine, and smiled happily at him. Something in his gut twisted.

“Look at it this way, Harry: we’re acquiring quite a skill here. It could be useful in the future.”

“Perhaps we should work our way up to Gringotts,” he said, only half-joking. “Maybe we should practice breaking into other places first.”

“Perhaps,” Luna said. “But it is much more stimulating this way, is it not?”

Harry groaned. Stimulating. Luna would take to this daunting task like a Ravenclaw on the verge of acquiring new knowledge: ruthlessly and right now, please.

Keeping Count: James/Lily

“Hey, Evans!”

Lily stopped dead, raised her eyes to the ceiling, and silently asked the powers that be to grant her patience in infinite quantities. “Yes, Potter?”

James skidded to a stop in front of her, his red and gold tie swinging wide, arms flung out for balance. He was utterly ridiculous. Lily scowled, and crossed her arms across her chest. “Hogsmeade weekend coming up. Got a date?”

It would have been pitiable if he weren’t so annoying. “One hundred and twenty seven,” she said, shaking her head.

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve asked me out one hundred and twenty seven times now, and I always say no. Why do you keep asking?”

“I like you Evans,” he said, turning on his ‘charm’ smile. Lily looked away. “I figure one of these times I’ll catch you at a weak moment, and I don’t want to miss it.”

“I will never be that weak, Potter.”

He shrugged and chucked her under the chin. “I’m willing to keep on testing that theory, Lil.”

Lily slapped his hand away. “Don’t call me Lil.”

He turned smartly on his heel and called back, “Frankly, I find the fact that you’ve been counting rather encouraging.” She scowled at his back.

“I like keeping track of your more embarrassing moments,” she said.

“Who’s embarrassed, Evans?” James turned around, and steepled his fingers. “And for the record, it’s a hundred and twenty six. On Tuesday it was actually Sirius asking you.”

“What?”

“Polyjuice, my dear.”

“Well, that explains why I found you vaguely attractive on Tuesday. I nearly said yes.” This was an outright lie. He was especially obnoxious on Tuesday. “Try that trick with Remus next time. I’ll definitely say yes.” Another lie.

James’s jaw ticked. “Excuse me Evans, I need to go hex my best friend.”

Lily gave him a sarcastic little finger wave, and turned to walk in the opposite direction down the hall.

Four steps later, a hand latched onto her elbow and whirled her around. “What?!”

His hazel eyes were hard. “Do you like Remus?”

She rolled her eyes. “No.”

“Sirius?”

“No, James.” It was one thing to verbally abuse James Potter, but it was quite another to give the boy a reason to fight with his friends. She nearly felt guilty.

“Peter?”

“No.”

He inhaled deeply, and his eyes went back to being soft. “Well, good. I’d hate to see you pining away after someone who knows you’re off limits. Heartache isn’t any fun, you know.”

Lily sighed. Was this a new tactic? Guilt her into going out with him? “Will you give me back my arm, please?”

Untitled: Draco/Ginny

She was pretty sure that it was lust. He had a pretty face with a pretty body, and while his manner was cold and sometimes cruel, it only added to his overall appeal. She consciously released herself from any expectations. This was what it was, and she didn’t want to suffer any disappointment.

She sat in her bed, the sheet pulled up to cover her breasts, and watched him as he collected his clothes. He found his discarded boxer shorts first, which were slipped over his lean hips. They disappeared beneath the silk with a regretful twist to her mouth. His pinstriped dress pants came next, and she sighed aloud.

“Look, I’ll see you later. All right?”

“Sure.”

He was uncomfortable. She couldn’t exactly blame him, and she didn’t intend to make this easier.

His shirt hung off his shoulders, unbuttoned and wrinkled. Ginny recalled kissing her way down that slice of flat stomach.

“Where’s my tie?”

Ginny sighed and turned to the bedpost where the green striped tie was knotted. His eyes followed hers, and he chuckled uncomfortably. “Right.” She made no move to help, so he was forced to come near to her again. His fingers worked the knot, but it had been made sloppily last night. Ginny watched his face, smirking slightly at how falsely focused he was on his damn tie. The strip of silk, which had felt so exquisite against her skin last night, slipped free from the post. He moved away as if he couldn’t get away fast enough.

Ginny sighed. “Your shoes are in the hall.”

“Thanks.”

Buttons were quickly buttoned, his shirt was tucked into his pants, and he eyed himself in the mirror, smoothing his pale blond hair down. “Ready for your walk of shame, Draco?”

His shoulders fell, and finally his eyes rested on her. “I’m not ashamed.”

“Okay.” There was a wry twist to her lips.

“I’m not.”

He walked to her, steps graceful and smooth. He was graceful all over. He looped the tie round her neck and pulled her to him for a kiss, and smirked against her lips. “I will see you later.”

She smiled in return, but sincerely doubted it.

Smoking with Snakes: Hermione/Severus

With a snick of the lighter, the cigarette was lit. He took a long drag and exhaled slowly.

"Professor, should you be smoking in here?" Hermione asked.

His eyes slid slowly over to her, and he drawled, "No."

"You should set a better example for the students."

"Don't smoke," he said sarcastically to the class, and took another long drag. "Now, please do as I say, and let me enjoy my damn cigarette."

Hermione sighed loudly.

“Something wrong, Miss Granger?”

“Not at all, Professor.”

He sneered at her, and expelled smoke through his nose. Hermione’s nose wrinkled. There was no way that was pleasant.

Snape went back to his lecture, gesturing with his cigarette when applicable.

The Curse of the Cassandra: Hermione, Luna

The spell was simple. Elegant. It was slightly on this side of Dark, but nevertheless, excellent for the prank.

Luna Lovegood sat cross-legged on the floor of the Restricted Section with a fat leather book in her lap. She set a leaf of parchment on the ground beside her and set her quill to copy the page that outlined the theory, casting, and expected results of the spell. It was a curse, really, but the effects would only last one week. If it seemed necessary to lengthen the prank time (and she supposed that it would be necessary given the target) then she would want to be prepared.

Ravenclaws were always well prepared.

The large mullioned windows at the end of the aisle skewered Luna’s view of the night sky, but she could make out tiny pinpricks of light in the dark. The scratching of the quill stopped, and the instrument fell with a tiny clatter onto the wooden floor. Luna picked up the copy and read through the spell once more and allowed the particulars of this masterful prank to naturally fall into place in her mind.

Hermione Granger, close-minded friend and debunker of Luna’s supposed myths, was in for an interesting week.

Luna smiled a wicked smile and blew on the parchment to dry the ink.

Things Draco Can't Have: Draco/Ginny

Draco Malfoy had always wanted things he could not have.

When he was six, he had wanted a dragon, but his mother and father had firmly denied him that pleasure, citing that dragons were far too dangerous for a six year old, and needlessly illegal.

When he was ten, his parents fought long and hard over which magical school their son would attend. His father wanted Draco to go to Durmstrang, his mother preferred Hogwarts. Draco wished for Beauxbatons.

When he was eleven, he wanted nothing more than to be friends with the great (and terrible) Harry Potter. Draco had really been looking forward to it, the Howler that his father would have sent would have been so loud (Draco was still rather angry for the no dragon incident).

When the great poncy git had flatly rejected his offer of friendship, Draco found a new thing to want: everything Potter had twice over: the seeker position on the Slytherin Quidditch team, a better broom, high class friends, respect and admiration from his peers that he had earned, better hair, better clothes, prettier girls to swoon over him, better grades. He had it all, but yearned for more.

Then something came along that fit nicely into both categories: Ginny Weasley.

Two Gryffs & a Puff: Sirius/OC

Kate Middleton, novice Healer of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, was unaware of the tears slipping down her cheeks as she watched a man through a one way mirror. He was handsome, with black hair, and a body that Kate had occasionally fantasized about in her Hogwarts days. There wasn’t much to fancy about the man now though. Sirius Black was curled in on himself on the edge of the holding cell’s bed. His arms were wrapped tightly around his midsection, and Kate knew it was because sobbing for as long and as hard as he had been had made his stomach hurt. He’d already dry heaved twice since she began her examination.

A door opened behind her, but Kate paid the newcomer no attention, until he called her name. “Healer Middleton.”

“Mr. Crouch.”

“How is the prisoner?”

“I’ve just been observing. He’s been crying, and laughing, and sobbing.”

“Sobbing over the demise of his Master, no doubt,” Crouch said disdainfully, looking over the report Kate had written so far regarding Sirius Black’s mental and physical health.

Kate shook her head. “It’s not that kind of crying.” Crouch made a noncommittal noise, which Kate took to mean he was no longer paying her any attention.

She sighed, and thought over the events of this truly terrible and only mildly wonderful day. Lord Voldemort was no more, but the same could be said of Kate’s best friend and her husband. To make it all worse, according to the authorities, the man on the other side of the glass was the one responsible for it. Not to mention the death of thirteen Muggles and Peter Pettigrew. Kate felt empty at this moment, having spent most of the day grieving for Lily and James alone, until she had been called in to assess the health of Sirius Black before he was transferred to Azkaban Prison. As a novice, Kate tended to get the worst assignments, but this, she felt, was just cruel.

As she had watched and catalogued Sirius’s actions for the past hour, her emotions had ranged from absolute rage, to pity, and all the way down to doubt.

He was caught red-handed, Kate, she reminded herself. He never once denied it to the MLE officers. Not once. They said he laughed when he killed Peter.

In the room opposite, Sirius’s sobs of grief (and she was sure it was grief and not something more sinister) turned into harsh coughing once more. If she was right, then Kate knew exactly how Sirius was feeling.

One Hundred Eighty: Draco/OC, Hermione

Draco steeled himself, and knocked on her office door.

“Come in!” she called. He entered, and she looked up from her desk and frowned at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I need a lawyer.”

“Oh,” she said. “For what? What did you do?”

“Nothing, Granger. I’ve turned over a new leaf, remember? I believe you had some part in that.”

Hermione sat back in her seat and regarded him. “It’s Weasley now. What do you need a lawyer for?”

Draco handed over the letter from the Muggle Relations Office, and seated himself in one of the chairs in front of her desk.

Hermione scanned the parchment quickly, her eyes widening. “You’re—“

“Yes.”

She covered her mouth with a hand, and set the letter down carefully. He raised an eyebrow at her and said, “Go ahead and laugh. It’s nearly poetic, this irony, isn’t it?”

She snorted, and grinned at him. “I’m sorry. Look, Malfoy, I don’t really handle these kinds of cases. I’m sure there are people better suited to—“

“Do you really think I’d be here if I didn’t think you were the best?”

“No. But I don’t think I am.”

“I’m willing to pay. Handsomely. Double your usual rate.”

“Malfoy, I—“ She stopped and read the letter again. “You only have a year until your probation period is up. This will go through like cake then.”

“I don’t want to wait a year. I can’t.” He pulled a photograph out of his pocket and passed it over to Hermione. It was a picture of himself and Rose, taken only a few months ago. They’d been celebrating her birthday at a pub with her friends, and one of them had snapped the picture. Rose had been opening the present he’d gotten her, he was smiling, and she’d been making a stupid joke about what she thought the gift was (bath towels, if he remembered correctly).

“Why Malfoy,” Hermione said, surprised, “you’re smiling!”

“I do possess that ability,” he said dryly. “Look, Grang—Weas—“ he shut his eyes, “Hermione. I love this woman. I bought a flat, and filled it with Muggle appliances so I could invite her over to my place. I couldn’t take her to the manor, where she might run into a house elf or wonder why there aren’t any light switches. I got credit cards, and a mobile phone so I could take her out dinner and so she could phone whenever she wanted. I learned how to use a computer, and got an email address. I learned how to order takeout from the curry restaurant down the street. I hardly ever use magic anymore, because I’m with her all the time. I’ve practically become a Muggle for this woman.” Hermione was gaping at him.

He sighed helplessly and ran a hand through his hair. “Please help me. I love her, and I don’t want to lie to her anymore. I don’t want to ask her to marry me before she knows exactly what she’s getting into.”

She swallowed, and Draco knew he’d hit the mark. Granger knew how different the magical world was from the Muggle one, and she also knew what an enormous lie he’d been weaving, and how much of a shock the truth would be for Rose.

The Light & Tumble Journey: Hermione/Sirius

Right hand firmly clenched within Sirius’s left, Hermione trudged along beside him.

She’d seen pictures of Sirius, ones that were taken before thirteen years in Azkaban had taken their toll, but frankly they didn’t do the man justice. He was beautiful—in a rugged, sexy Auror sort of way. She couldn’t stop looking at him, and it wasn’t entirely because he was so pleasant to look at, but here beside her was Sirius! Harry’s godfather, the man who’d berated her for lacking the proper Gryffindor spirit, the man who’d gotten himself killed in a minor skirmish and left Harry without a family—again. She just… really wanted to hug him. And then smack him.

She was still dizzy and slightly nauseous from the trip through time, and cursed herself for not turning tail and running from Sirius into the Forbidden Forest. The more rational part of her mind said that it would have been useless anyhow. Sirius as Padfoot would have had absolutely no trouble tracking her through the forest, and she would be in this same position, though probably bound and unconscious.

She swayed and stumbled into Sirius, but regained her footing before he could comment.

Plan B was going awfully. Sure, she had arrived in the designated time period without causing herself irreparable damage or death, but the number one rule of time travel had already been broken: You must not be seen. And here the giant prat was, taking her off to see Dumbledore and Merlin only knew who else was wandering around the castle, free as the wind to see her. Hermione felt the urge to kick something.

Sirius began to whistle a tune, and Hermione hoped he knew that he was the target of her ire. Come to think of it…

Hermione had been practicing wandless magic prior to this mission, and while she could only cast Lumos wandlessly and nonverbally, others were beginning to come quite easily to her if she was able to call them out. There was one spell that she was nearly positive that would work to her advantage in this situation.

She took a deep breath, noting the distance to the castle, and the much shorter distance to the front gates, and closed her eyes. She inwardly directed her magic to the fingertips of her left hand, and when she felt that there was enough power to disable Sirius for the required amount of time, she tore her hand from his grasp, and shouted, “Levicorpus!”

He cried out in surprise as his ankle was wrenched up into the air, and in a magnificent stroke of luck he dropped both of their wands.

“You little bitch!”

Hermione dropped to her knees, feeling around in the grass for her wand, and gave a triumphant ‘ah ha!’ when her fingers closed around it. “Sorry, Sirius,” she muttered, not caring one whit that his precious ego had been bruised. She found his wand, and hurled it as far away as possible, just in case he could wandlessly summon it. Distance would make it more difficult. This action earned her yet another, though far less attractive, nickname.

“I really am sorry about this,” she said again, and pointed her wand between his eyes.

“No!” he yelled, but it was too late for that.

“Obliviate,” Hermione muttered, and followed it up with, “Liberacorpus.”

With any luck, he wouldn’t remember finding her in the forest. Sirius mumbled something incomprehensible into the grass, but Hermione didn’t spare him a second glance, and she tore off towards the gates. As soon as she cleared them, she Disapparated with a loud crack.

(No italics, cause I don't code as I write...) Lordy, and I left so so many out. The smuttier ones... or the outright crap ones. I never finish anything.... :(

Doctor Who: Fascination, Nine/Rose, G

Tue, 18 Mar 2008 23:24:41 GMT

Fandom: Doctor Who
Author: astridfire
Title: Fascination
Rating: G
Pairing: Nine, Rose
Word Count: 300

There's a Happy!Who fic-a-thon going on over at Time & Chips. I'm using said prompts to jumpstart my inner Who writer. I just know it's in me somewhere.

prompt - Casanova

-----

Fascination began when he took her hand, and told her that he can feel the turn of the Earth. That together they're hurtling through space at sixty-seven thousand miles an hour, clinging to the skin of a tiny planet, and if they let go...

She couldn't breathe.

Could feel nothing but his hand around her own. Cool and a little strange.

Her skin prickled. Her stomach turned to ice. Her whole being trembled.

She was fixed.

One point. That distant look on his face, like he really could feel it. Holding on for dear life, like an out of control carnival ride. Dropping and spinning, and so very dizzy.

She can almost imagine it. Almost.

That if gravity suddenly released it's hold on her she'd be thrown off. Tumbling through the atmosphere, out into space, at a speed that would surely kill her.

Then he drops her hand, and tells her to forget him.

Forget?

He must be mad.

A part of her wants to crawl like a scared child under her pink comforter. Hide herself away from the utter strangeness that he's shown her. But a larger part, the part that makes her run back when she hears the grinding of the rotors, wants to crawl into his skin, under that leather jacket, so she can know.

She wants to feel that. The turn of the Earth, hurtling through space, sixty-seven thousand miles an hour. She wants to know how it feels when you let go.

Forget?

Never.

The turn of the Earth.

If it's a line, it's a very good one.

She feels almost like she's been seduced, because there's a pull there. Something that makes her run toward that air rending noise. Something that makes her very sorry that she let him drop her hand.

Wishes

Fri, 29 Feb 2008 21:34:39 GMT

I really want to write some Doctor Who Ten/Rose fic.... but....

I've seen all the new season episodes (thank you YouTube! BBC America still hasn't aired The Voyage of the Damned, and they have the absolute gall to call S3 episodes 'new'... ugh.) but I still feel like I don't know enough about the Whoverse to write a fic.

I mean, there's years and years, and eight other Doctors that I don't know anything about... I've tried watching some of the older episodes, but I just can't get into them. I'm all about a show being about the characters first, plot second, and the old episodes don't do anything for me in that regard. I feel like character stuff is only subtext there, and that just doesn't work for me.

It's why I don't watch Law & Order, or... other shows like that... see! I don't even know any!

Also, I found out today that there are Doctor Who books! With Rose! I kinda want to read them... I don't want to spend the money on them, but I want to read them. And a comic book series, and... lots of money sucking things that I really don't need, and probably won't want to own after I've sucked them dry.

Oh, maybe I should just go hunt around for that new episode of Torchwood that the Brits got a couple days ago... With Dead/Alive Owen being his awesome self... the little jackass.

Is it shameful that I enjoy Torchwood so much? (Can't be nearly as shameful as the fact that I'm going to watch season 2 of Robin Hood when it airs.... oh, bad British television... how I love you. With your adorable little accents and your quirky but sexy actors... It's so infuriating.) I can't help it though... Jack's so pretty, and I'm still trying to puzzle out his 'relationships' with Ianto and whatever is going on with Gwen... it's probably my oh-so-limited-21st-century views on sex getting in the way... but I can't help it. It's just strange.

I get why Jack's all like he is with everybody. If he acted like the Doctor about relationships he's going to have a very, very lonely, very, very long life. And why would he want to wait for Gwen when Ianto is right there... I mean, the two of them are only going to live for so long, and... well, strike while the iron is still hot and eye-candy-able, and all that.

So maybe I do get it... Gwen is kind of a replacement Rose (all down to earth, loveable, brave, and mouthy) and Ianto... well, Ianto is Ianto and I love him dearly.

Also.... so can't wait for Captain John Hart to come back... That man is just.... *shivers* I missed Spike.

Writing Meme

Wed, 27 Feb 2008 10:38:49 GMT

Got the questions from orange_crushed who got them from someplace else... I thought this might be fun, and as I haven't written anything today (rewatching Doctor Who - the Rose years - has stolen my life) I thought I'd give this a go, just to keep my fingers limber.

Ideas. Where the hell do they come from? Can you make those little fuckers show up?

Sometimes I get ideas when I'm reading other people's stories, and I think, oh but what if Character X did THIS instead! And if I get anything from that it goes in my Bits and Pieces Word document, to be pulled out and examined at a later date. Mostly those little drabble things just convalesce.

But failing that, I get excellent ideas when I'm in the shower. You know, when you're in that brain-dead place while you're washing your hair? Yes, right then, a brilliant idea will come to me, and I'll worry over it as the soap bubbles go down the drain, and then later I'll struggle to remember exactly what I thought of... It's hardly an efficient process, but I'm hoping that the better ideas stick with me, and the less than stellar ones get washed down the drain with all the bubbles.

Wild horse-bunnies. When a story just gets pulled right out of you. Do you get them?

Only a few times, and they were absolutely brilliant... it was like there was some bit of my brain that had already done all the work, and was just shouting the words to type. I loved it... I want more 'wild horse-bunnies'. They're fun.

Of course, I have to sit on them for a few days, just to make sure I wasn't caught in some fit of lunacy, and the little one shot that could isn't actually as fabulous as I thought it was.

Writer's block. Have you been scourged?

Yes... *shudders* And that is why Everything in Disarray will never ever be finished. Because it has no ending, and no words will come for the middle if I don't have an ending.

But other than the anomaly that is EiD, I usually get stuck in the middle of a story. The beginning is cake, the lead up to the action is icing, and the ending is like little sugar spun flowers just waiting to be put in place, but the middle... oh, the middle. The middle wants to suck my soul. The middle doesn't even get a baking analogy. It trips me up every single time, and I have no idea what to do to stop it.

Clean up duty. Do you like editing?

Eh. I don't mind it. I don't use a beta reader. (For shame, yadda yadda... writing is a solo process for me, and I don't have any friends in cyberspace that I'd be willing to share the experience with, and none of my RL friends know of my fan fiction vice.)

Also, I can't turn off my internal editor while writing, so I wind up taking care of most of what would be wrong while I'm writing. It makes writing a very slow process. Oh, that I could get that little English major's voice to shut the fuck up...

The ending. Is it hard for you to find the ending?

Not usually. Sometimes it's hard to accept the RIGHT ending. I like the happy endings, but sometimes they just aren't right for a story... And that's no fun to find out too late. Especially when all you have to look forward to are a load of reviews begging for a sequel that isn't coming, and if you've been leading people with a novel length... well, they're just not going to be happy with you, are they?

Though, you know you did your job right when people are pissed at you. It means you made them CARE, and then you skillfully snatched the rug out from under them. Heh.

The title. Where do you get yours? Do you have yours when you start the story?

I have to have the title early on. It helps me focus a story... like it's already finished and waiting somewhere, and all I need to do is get it out.

I'm good at working out what the title for a story should be before I even start writing it. Titles are very important... almost as important as a good summary... I'll get them from anywhere though. Titles from songs are rare... Mostly they just come to me. I can't explain it.

Plot. If you plot out your stories first, raise your hand.

For longer stories, yes. Always. I've recently discovered how freaking useful Excel can be for this purpose, and now I don't have endless notebooks pages of scattered notes!

I need to know how a story is going to play out before I put thousands of words of effort into it. I don't like it when my plots get away from me. While it can be entertaining to watch the characters write themselves, it also makes me loose the tone that I was going for in the beginning, and when I lose that I lose all interest in the story. Why? Because that means I need a hell of a rewrite, and that's annoying. If I don't do something right the first time, I'm not likely to go back and correct it. And that annoys me, because it means that I've wasted a lot of time on something that isn't going to get finished.

POV. How do you choose your POV for a scene? For a story?

Um... I think that goes along with plotting for me. I don't generally mess around with lots of different POV's in the same story. When I get an idea, I already have a character in mind.

Sex. Do you like writing sex?

Not really. I've tried. Really I have, but I feel like the sex scenes I've written are stilted and... ech. I don't know. I think I have a smut-hurdle in my mind somewhere, and once I get over it I'll be much better at it, but I'm not sure that's true.

I think I'm just bad at it. I'm really terrible with flowery prose, and I think that would make at least a little bit of difference.

Challenges. Do you like them? Do they inspire you?

Most of the time they just confuse me. I did a few for a 100 fic Psych challenge, but those were one word prompts, and not the convoluted ones where you have to use seventeen random objects in a story. Maybe I could write something crack-ficcy off a Challenge, but they don't do anything for me inspiration wise.

The Light & Tumble Journey - Coming Soon!

Thu, 21 Feb 2008 07:01:39 GMT

I've been working on a new story lately which I'm wicked excited about. It's a Time Turner fic, and I know those are horribly cliche, but I don't care. I LOVE Time Turner fics. Mine's a bit different from the usual fare, and I hope it will be received well by all. As it's Hermione/Sirius, I don't think that will be much of a problem. It also looks like it's going to be wicked long... I love it....

I've also been working on what was meant to be a Hermione/Bill PWP oneshot, but that thing has taken on a life of it's own and gained a pesky plot. It's completely filthy, and frankly I'm a little afraid of my brain at the moment, but that's on the horizon too.

I've got quite a few new stories started, and I hope that I'll finish SOMETHING eventually so that I can get some review love. I'm still wallowing in guilt over my two unfinished fics, so I need something to perk me up.

The Quest for the Perfect Blue Sweater

Sun, 09 Dec 2007 02:15:29 GMT

I have been searching for the Perfect Blue Sweater for two (count em, two!) years now. Seasons go by, and the perfect blue sweater is nowhere to be found. The color is always wrong: too bright, too green, too navy. Or the style was off: v-neck, cabled, thick yarn, too short, too boxy... the list goes on. Or something near to perfection would appear, and it would be too expensive, or made from wool (it smells when washed).

The Perfect Blue Sweater must be these things, I said to myself:
-It must be relatively inexpensive. I don't like spending a lot of money on clothes. Makes me feel guilty.
-It must be machine washable. I don't do Dry Clean Only.
-It must be a perfect shade of blue, neither too dark nor too light.
-It must be timeless in style. No unnecessary frills. Then it would only be the perfect blue sweater for this winter, and that's just useless.
-I must LOVE it.

Today, thanks to my fabulous friend Jenny who pushed me into trying it on, and Ann Taylor Loft, I found the Perfect Blue Sweater. It's jewel toned blue (cobalt) and it's nearly the same style as my favorite (but too small) green sweater. I put it on and immediately decided that all my clothing should be in that color (looks like I'm done with green for awhile) because it makes my hair look more chocolate-y, and even makes my pale, pale skin look good.

I can't wait to wear it.

Psych: Cheat

Sun, 21 Oct 2007 17:15:42 GMT

Title: Cheat
Rating: T
Pairing: Shules-y
Genre: Angst, Drama
Spoilers:
Word Count: 700
Summary: Pre-relationship. A cheating husband, and our favorite couple.

Psych Prompt Table

This one is very read-between-the-lines. Though I hated Hemingway, I think this is a little Hills Like White Elephants in that way.
-----

#9: Cheat

“So that guy I saw you with last night…”

Tall, dark, absolute scum, who held her hand, bought her a cherry sno-cone (she likes mango), and took her for a walk on the beach.

“Yes, Shawn?” She’s impatient, irritated.

“Are you serious about him?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Well, that’s technically exactly what it is. Business.”

“What are you talking about?”

“His wife asked me to find out if he’s cheating.”

There are a million ways he could have phrased that better. Something that sounded less hostile, for example.

He hears her breath catch, watches her soft features go stony. She swallows, blinks twice at her computer screen.

“He’s married.”

“I’m sorry, Juliet.” He has to clear his throat. So sorry.

She won’t look him in the eye, and frankly, he’s having trouble looking at her right now too.

She grabs her purse, pushes past him, and he watches her disappear into the women’s restroom.

He feels like a shit.

She comes out of the restroom five minutes later (the longest five of his life) her eyes a little red, but otherwise, she’s flawless.

“Shawn… thanks for telling me.” Her voice is only a little shaky, and he can’t believe she’s thanking him. “We only went out twice, but…”

He nods, wishes he’d told her differently… been gentler.

“You liked him.”

“I was starting to.”

Juliet looks at the floor, and he stares at a point on her shoulder. That hurt more than he thought it would.

“I’m going down to the firing range.”

“Yeah… shooting paper is better than…” Well, he’s not sure what she’d do.

“Punching him right in that smarmy little mouth? Yeah, I thought so.”

His grin is weak, and hers weaker.

“Wanna come?”

“To the firing range? Sure.”

Her shots are erratic, and she’s hardly touching the center zone. He knows she’s a better shot than this.

She doesn’t speak for at least ten minutes. She’s stewing, and then, “I feel—so—stupid!” She punctuates her words with gunfire.

“Jules, it’s not—“

“That bastard.” She takes out the clip, and removes her safety glasses. “I have never been the ‘other’ woman. I am not that kind of girl.”

She’s more his Jules now, and not so much wounded Juliet, so he feels okay with saying, “You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have checked him for tan-lines.”

“He fakes and bakes.”

“He paid in cash… called me at random times from his cell phone…”

“You weren’t looking for it, Jules. You were just looking for a nice guy.”

He wishes she hadn’t looked so far.

“God, Shawn… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be putting all this on you. You of all people…”

She looks even more distressed now than she did earlier. It makes his throat tighten.

“Jules, it’s—“ fine. Not fine.

“It’s not fine. I just don’t do inter-office—“

She has to stop. “I—I know, and yeah, I’m…” There isn’t a word to say how disappointed he is. “I just hope that someday you’ll change your mind.” That cost a lot for him to admit, especially without a flirty quip. He feels the weight of it churning in his gut.

She’s quiet, fiddling with her shirt collar.

“Look, Jules, this doesn’t change anything. It’s not as if you didn’t know. I’m still going to walk through that door everyday and flirt with you. I’m still going to try to wear you down, I mean, you can only resist this smile for so long…” It’s weak, and she knows it too.

Silence reigns, and he sorta wishes she’d take her gun and put him out of his misery. “Okay, I’m gonna go before I embarrass myself beyond… this. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah. Totally.”

He hates awkward with Jules.

“Shawn, keep trying. It’s a great smile.”

That hurts too, for some reason.

“Couldn’t stop if I tried.”

He’s a besotted idiot, and while he’s absolutely certain that he loves Juliet O’Hara, he’s not sure how much longer he can take being like this with her. He has needs, and flirting isn’t exactly meeting them. Her excuses and protests too are wearing thin, because in his mind, having a no office romance policy just isn’t a good enough reason. Not when it’s them. Not when they could be… whatever.

-----

Psych: Cabbage

Sun, 21 Oct 2007 17:05:41 GMT

Title: Cabbage
Rating: T or M for swearing
Pairing: Shawn/Juliet
Genre: Angsty in that emo way.
Spoilers: He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not
Word Count: 2000
Summary: Missing scenes for said episode. Starts right after, "I smell love."

Psych Prompt Table

A/N: This may seem a little OOC. I don’t know. I don’t think of Shawn as having a hell of a lot of depth (and I love him that way, don’t get me wrong), and this may test the boundaries of that introspectiveness that he may or may not possess. There’s a lot going on in his face during this episode, but I tried not to take it too far. I hope you like it.

This is all from Shawn’s POV. His inner dialogue is in italics, but it spills out sometimes into the regular type (is there a term for that?)

-----

"You and you are a one hundred percent perfect match from your personality questionnaires!" The speed-dating lady looked far more thrilled than she ought to have been. Inside, Shawn was pumping his fist, mentally preparing how best to use this new information.

"I smell love."

And just like that, the flirty, suggestive comments fled. There was ice in his veins, and heat in his cheeks, and he was glad that the lighting in the bar was dim. All he could do was laugh, forced and entirely without mirth, but she joined in. He had absolutely no idea what to say, but thankfully (probably because she was just as fucking weirded out as he was) Juliet gave him an out.

He headed for the restrooms, but changed course halfway there. He pushed open the front door of the restaurant, and walked down the block. He couldn't breathe. "Oh, God. Is this what a panic attack feels like?"

Shawn leaned against a building, and tipped his head back to stare up at a street light. He squinted, and it haloed prettily against the black sky, pulsing in time with the raging beat in his chest.

Love, love, love... The word ran through his head, round and round in circles, and all he could say was, "Shit."

He covered his mouth with his fingers. "Shit," he repeated.

He liked Juliet. She was becoming a friend. And he really wanted to sleep with her. Generally he never got past the wanting to sleep with a girl part, so just getting to the point where he enjoyed her company was enough of an accomplishment.

Stupid personality quizzes, he thought. How did we score that way?

Had she cheated?

No. Juliet wouldn't do something like that. If she had, she would have put more of an effort into flirting during their six minutes together. Cheating is something he would do. But he hadn't.

The test had been a short twenty-five questions. Some serious, some on the stupid side, but they were all worded in an amusing way, so he had answered honestly. Mostly on the off chance that he would match up with some hot girl, and yeah, he’d hoped for Juliet to be that match... but that hope had been mostly for flirting ammunition. But now? One hundred percent, and the word 'love' had been thrown into the mix, and he sure as hell wasn't going to pull that out of his arsenal.

Why did the speed-dating lady have to use the word 'love'? Shawn groaned, and beat his head against the brick wall.

Love was responsibility. Love was a permanent tie. Love was asking for trouble.

Shawn didn't like to think of himself as damaged, but his parent’s divorce had put a damper on the whole marriage with kids thing. He'd grown up with loud arguments followed by cool silences, and that wasn't something he wanted for himself. He'd also gotten to see first hand what divorce had done to his mother. He never wanted to experience that kind of pain. And because of all that, he hadn't had a relationship that lasted longer than a couple months since his junior year of high school. Rebecca Hamilton, drama geek. Over ten years ago. "Wow," he said aloud. "I am damaged."

He has to figure this out. He has to get back to that fun, flirty territory, because he knew that every time he saw Juliet from now on he’d be thinking, “I smell love.” It smelled like cabbage.

He paced to the curb and back again. This is easy, he thought. This is just another puzzle. Collect all the pieces and you’ll have an answer.

“Shawn!”

Gus was down the street at the restaurant’s entrance. Juliet and Lassiter filtered out to join him. “Crap,” Shawn muttered.

“Gus!” Shawn jogged towards them. Everything is fine.

“Where did you go?” Gus had an annoyed look on his face that told Shawn he was worried.

Shawn shrugged, ignoring Juliet and Lassie’s curious looks. “I heard something… turned out to be a stray cat.”

“We thought, maybe—“ started Juliet.

“That I’d been roofied, and you’d find me naked in a field tomorrow morning?” Shawn quipped. Before the ‘l’ word he would have thrown in something suggestive, but the smell of cabbage was stronger in front of the restaurant, and he was trying not to choke on it.

-----

It was just his luck that Mrs. McConnell in 2B had made sauerkraut. The smell filled up his apartment, and even with all the windows open the odor lingered.

Shawn lay flat on his back in his bed, staring at the lines made on the ceiling from the blinds and the streetlights below. There was a faint red, then green, then yellow glow from the stoplight. He counted the seconds the light stayed red.

The puzzle began with analyzing himself. Not something he liked to do, but here goes. Okay, so he can technically be called commitment-phobic. The idea of attaching himself to one person for the rest of his life (there’s a brick on my chest) was scary.

“I can’t do this,” he muttered, breathing through his mouth to block the smell.

Puzzle piece two: Juliet.

Pros: Hot (seriously hot), blonde (never been picky in that department, but her hair… yeah, my fingers already know they like it), he likes her perfume (something with lilacs), her smile is adorable, she would understand his crazy work hours (something Mom and Dad argued about constantly) and he gets hers, she gets his sense of humor (always important), she plays his word games (and wins!), and she calls him on his shit (and it’s impressive that she can be ahead of my own train of thought sometimes… oh no… am I becoming predictable?). He could go on forever about her good points (and stray into X-rated territory while doing it).

Cons: she’s a stickler for the rules (but that’s part of the challenge), she’s shown next to no interest in him romantically (daunting, but not insurmountable… romantically? Really?), she doesn’t know that he’s lying about the whole psychic thing (I can already imagine her yelling at me… something she’d probably do anyway, but if we were involved? Yikes), and she’s bossy.

Bossy? That’s all you’ve got, Spencer?

Puzzle piece three: trial run. He shut his eyes on the light show playing on his ceiling, and ran through a scenario.

They have a house. Maybe they’re married. She’s late coming home from work, and he’s lying in bed watching ESPN while waiting up for her. She kicks off her shoes, and lies next to him with her head on his shoulder.

He wonders if he’s the, “How was your day, honey?” type.

But he would mute the TV, and wrap his arms around her, and listen… Though it’s likely that they’ve seen each other at some point during the day. They work the same cases most of the time… so maybe they would have nothing to talk about. But no, he always has something to say, something to fill up the silence…

Imaginary Juliet takes over. (She’s even bossy here.) “I’m starving.”

“There’s pizza in the fridge.”

She wrinkles her nose. Adorable. “It’s a week old.”

“Mmm… crusty, dried out pepperoni, pineapple, and mold pizza. It’s calling your name.”

“Ech,” she says. “I’ll have to make something.”

He knows she’s tired. “I can make you some mac and cheese. You look like you need a long, hot soak in the tub…”

She hums a response.

He kisses her nose. “I could even join you…”

Her hum increases in pitch, and she leans up to kiss his mouth. “Okay. Bring in the mac and cheese.”

“Kinky, Jules.”

She laughs against his shoulder, and then she’s up and he’s watching her undress.

He stopped himself there, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. His ‘domestic’ scenario was going the way his normal Juliet-related fantasies went, but the brick on his chest didn’t feel as heavy.

Yeah, okay, Shawn thought. Not so bad. Do-able in fantasy land at least.

A fresh breeze blew in through the open window, carrying the clean scent of the ocean. He breathed deep.

-----

The bowling alley did not smell like cabbage, but it should have. (Stinky shoes, wax, French fries, and beer.)

Shawn decided then and there that his observational skills were definitely a curse. He caught a glimpse of blonde and bright red, and his stomach tightened. Nervous? That was new.

And even more alarming was jealousy. (A squeeze at the back of his neck, and ice instantly freezing his spine.)

He was not a jealous guy.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was making a complete ass of himself.

Bowling at a high level? Fifteen to twenty hours of practice a week? Lego sponsorship? He was even shocking himself with the lies that were falling from his mouth. She smiled though (seeing right through me). And then there was Kyle, and the word ‘rejection’ when his arm went around her shoulders, and Shawn was fully aware that he was ruining Juliet’s date, but he just couldn’t stop himself. There was a part of him (a small, small part) that was bitch-slapping the asshole who had taken control of his tongue.

Tight-tucks? What the fuck?

He walked away from Juliet and her moron of a date (asshole and bitch-slapper both agreed on that), kicking himself. He hasn’t embarrassed himself like that in front of a girl since high school.

Bitch-slapper was begging for him to get a beer. Or eight.

Gus stopped him, and that was when Shawn knew that this thing with Juliet was important, life changing in magnitude, because he usually told Gus everything, and he didn’t breathe a word about it.

-----

A few hours after Mr. Asshole had been shoved back into a box with Jealousy, he was having a pretty good night. He’d gotten the last word in a mini-argument with his dad (though he’s still freaked by his dad’s new beauty routine), and he’d just wrapped up a case. That was always a nice feeling. He was sitting with a blonde girl (with utterly nothing upstairs), and beginning to regret the move, when Jules snuck up on him.

She was not supposed to be there. Had she heard his speech? He’d gone on about love and perfect matches. Mr. Bitch-slap has become Mr. Embarrassed. Is she going to yell at him for ruining her date? She looked like she was having fun before he stuck his nose in…

She didn’t yell. She smiled, and apologized for getting rid of his ‘date.’ That made him feel vaguely guilty, so he asked her about her own. Mr. Masochistic was making a cameo.

The thought of a goodnight kiss and butterflies made his own stomach roil, but she wasn’t with Tight-tuck now. (I’m in so deep. Fuck.)

Why wasn’t he really psychic? He couldn’t read her at all. Bowling is a deal-breaker? (Is she serious?) Did she believe him earlier? (No.)

“I don’t take any stock in those profile matching thingys…”

He laughed and tried on a grin, but it wouldn’t stick. Of course, I was just fooling around. Of course, I copied. Of course. And, for fuck’s sake, I’m stuttering.

“I don’t want there to be any weirdness between us…”

He heard her loud and clear. “Let’s just be friends.”

It was only as she was walking away that he figured out she wasn’t feeling as cool as she’d been acting. “I’ll see you at work,” she said again. And that, just that, put them back on equal footing.

Breathe, he thought. That brick on his chest had increased in weight, and the smell of cabbage was nauseating.

-----

A/N: I don’t think I’ve ever used so many parentheses before. Reviews are golden.

Psych: Jitters

Fri, 05 Oct 2007 00:50:21 GMT

Title: Jitters
Rating: T for safety… I guess.
Pairing: Shules
Warnings: Spoilers for Rob a Bye Baby.
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Shawn, Juliet, a bridal expo, murder, and scary, scary questions. #82 Afraid
A/N: I’m a little iffy about this one… I like it, but I’m not sure if it quite works.

Psych Prompt Table

-----

There’s a dead model in a Vera Wang wedding gown at the Santa Barbara Bridal Expo. The pale fabric is stained with bright red blood, but it’s the sight of the intricate beading, lace insets, and long folds of creamy silk that make Juliet’s stomach turn.

Shawn is nearby, talking to one of the other models, but she’s pretty sure that he’s deviated from questions about the murder, because the model is saying something about the differences between silk and satin in a wedding gown, and Shawn is replying that he’d always imagined a summer wedding, outdoor ceremony, and didn’t the model think that Juliet would look particularly lovely in a creamy pink?

She takes deep measured breaths, and tells herself she will not freak out.

He’s paying her back for that afternoon they spent pretending to be married, when she jabbered endlessly on about what their imaginary wedding had been like. It was funny then, to watch his eyes go blank in boredom and incredulous annoyance, and he had deserved it for ‘proposing’ to her at a crowded café, but she’s not laughing now.

He’s done with the model, and is chatting with a man at a jewelry booth. He turns around to point at Juliet, and the silver wedding bands that the man was showing Shawn are replaced with gold ones. A strangled noise escapes from her throat, and she looks around to make sure no one else is aware of what Shawn is up to. They’re not. This show is solely for her benefit… or detriment.

If Gus was here, the joke wouldn’t have gone on for this long, and she might be able to breathe right now.

She glares at Shawn, and he sends her back a tiny, smug smile.

Jerk.

She pulls her attention back to the witness Lassiter is questioning, and makes a note about the dead model’s ex-boyfriend. Suspect number one, though Juliet is pretty sure one of the other models would wind up being the guilty party.

“I know who did it.”

His breath is warm in her ear and smells of chocolate. He must have scoped out the dessert section. She’d seen the chocolate fountain, and she was pretty sure they’d had slices of pineapple available for dipping.

She angles herself away from him, and raises an eyebrow to let him know she’s pissed about his earlier jokes. “Already? When did you have the time?”

“Somewhere between picking out the flowers for your bouquet, and finding a DJ who plays monster rock ballads.”

She hates her lips for finding that funny.

“All right. Who did it?”

“The red haired stick figure named Mary-Anne. She’s the one talking to McNabb. She’s got scratches on her wrist.”

“She’s wearing gloves.” They’re the opera length kind that Juliet has always liked. “How do you know?”

“Psychic, Jules.” He wraps his hands around her shoulders and says, “Now, get Lassie to bring her in for questioning. We need to look at honeymoon packages.”

She rolls her eyes (thinking, maybe Italy), and pulls away to tell Lassiter what Shawn has found. Mary-Anne confesses before her partner has even read her her rights.

“Wow, Shawn. That was good.”

“It’s a two bird, one stone sort of day.” He turns his back on the sobbing murderess, and locks eyes with Juliet. “Now, in all seriousness, are you a solitaire girl? Or maybe something with lots of baby diamonds on the sides?” He takes her left hand in his and considers it, like he’s imagining what would look best. It makes her breath catch, and her stomach clench.

“Okay, stop it,” she says, snatching her hand away. “You’re freaking me out.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly still looking for an answer to his ridiculous question.

“Fine,” she snaps. “Something simple. Gold.”

His eyes hold hers for a beat, and she sees something go soft in them.

“Wow. You really are freaked out.”

She gestures helplessly with her hands, indicating the frenzy that surrounds them. “It’s just… it’s all so…”

“Much. It’s too much.”

“Yes.” Thank God she doesn’t have to explain herself. Sometimes she loves the whole psychic thing.

He nods sagely, as if her statement had been something profound. “Eloping it is. Vegas? Elvis?”

“Shawn,” she says, three parts exasperated, amused, and terrified.

She’s never quite sure where she stands with him, or what he wants: if he’s just flirting, if he just wants to get her in bed, if he really wants to genuinely be with her. She’s not even sure what she wants from him most days: if she wants to push him away, or pull him closer. The safe thing to do has been to keep him at arms length, but he’s sneaky, and gets past most of those invisible lines that must-not-be-crossed with ease. His comments today have been made in jest, but there are serious questions in them, and she just doesn’t know how to answer.

He smiles at her, but there’s something different in it. Something she can’t read. He takes her left hand again, and his thumb brushes a thoughtful line down her ring finger. “Someday, Jules, maybe it won’t be too much.”

He leaves with a sad sort of grin. There’s a longing in his expression that she’s sure can’t be manufactured. She stands there for a moment, watching him go, wringing her hands together, one thumb following the same path that his had.

She wonders exactly what he was referring to: weddings, marriage, him, them, or all of it in one big scary package?

She shakes herself, and makes a beeline for the chocolate fountain, and if she happens to eat a few slices of that pineapple, then so be it.

-----

Psych: The Future and Iris

Fri, 05 Oct 2007 00:40:10 GMT

Title: The Future and Iris
Rating: PG
Pairing: Shules
Warnings: None
Word Count: 350
Summary: A brief glimpse of the future. #76 Baby.

A/N: I have a deep abhorrence for baby stories, so I thought I’d just get this one out of the way.

Psych Prompt Table

-----

It’s Friday night, and Juliet somehow got roped into baby-sitting Chief Vick’s daughter, so he’s headed over there with a slasher flick (and a present for Iris) to relive his high school years with his gorgeous girlfriend.

He’d liked that in high school… sneaking over to whatever house his current girlfriend was baby-sitting at, sometime after the brats were sure to be in bed, and making out on the couch until they heard the sound of a garage door opening, and then it was a mad dash to the back door so she wouldn’t get in trouble for having a boy over.

Juliet is wearing casual clothes, with her hair tied up, and a bright smile when she opens the door.

“Hey! You’re early.”

“Yeah, I just—“

She opens the door the rest of the way, revealing tiny Iris in pigtails perched on Juliet’s hip. The picture they present makes Shawn’s stomach drop. The two of them look so alike, with their blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and happy to see him smiles. It makes him think things… things that he’s sure shouldn’t be considered at this stage of their relationship. “Oh, wow.”

Iris holds out her hand, and makes a gurgling baby sound that Shawn decides means, “Hello.”

“She recognizes you.”

He recovers from the feeling that he’s seeing into his own future, kisses Juliet, and ruffles Iris’s hair.

“Course she does. I’m her Uncle Shawn, and the guy who’s going to introduce her to the wonders of pineapple.”

Juliet laughs and shakes her head. “I think she’s a little young for pineapple. No teeth yet.”

“That’s what you think,” he says, holding out a small jar for Iris to inspect. “Pineapple baby food! It’s blended with pears, so it’s not pure, but… it was the best I could do.” Iris slaps her pudgy palm against the jar, and makes another one of those indecipherable baby noises.

Juliet’s expression says he just did a good thing… probably something that would get him lucky… Later though… definitely not on the Chief’s couch.

-----

Psych: Death on Sale

Thu, 04 Oct 2007 22:25:22 GMT

Title: Death on Sale (#90 Bomb)
Rating: T, for violence and mild language
Pairing: Shules-y
Warnings: Minor spoilers for just about everything, minor Shawn whumpage
Word Count: 1,600
Summary: Shawn vs. a bomb.

A/N: Kinda angsty, with minor Shawn whumpage, but it has a happy ending. I promise. There’s not a lot of Shules, but there’s enough.

Psych Prompt Table

-----

He’s watching the last moments of his life tick away, courtesy of a cheap alarm clock that the bastard of a bomb maker had probably gotten at Wal-Mart for $4.95.

Shawn is pretty sure he rates higher than $4.95, and a couple barrels of gasoline, all rigged to explode when those stupid red numbers read 0:00. He’s also pretty sure that he’s not going to die right away. He’s going to get to burn for a bit first. Maybe only about fifteen seconds before he passes out from the pain… his lungs are going to blister… he wishes he’d never watched whatever doctor show or CSI it was that informed him of how painful it was going to get in about… oh, eight minutes now.

Eight minutes.

He shifts his shoulders a bit (as much as he can manage) and tries again to yank an arm free of the duct tape that has him trapped in the cheap lawn chair (and what did that set the guy back? $5.50?). Bastard bomb maker, or BBM as he will hereafter be known, went a little overboard with the duct tape. Half of his forearms are wrapped with tape, anchoring them to the back legs of the chair, his ankles to the front legs, and his entire torso is wrapped mummy style. It’s a bit excessive. (Duct tape costs what? $2.99 a roll?)

He feels a tiny shift in his right arm, which is only evidenced by the fact that he just ripped a couple hairs out of it.

“Ow.”

That kind of pain is encouraging, so he strains harder. A few more twinges in his arm indicate that he may be getting somewhere. He throws his shoulder as hard as he can forward, and screams. That pain didn’t come from his arm… that was a muscle in his back protesting. Well, screw that. He does it again and his arm shifts against the metal. Yes! Progress.

He wishes it were hotter in here. Sweat might make the tape loosen, right? There’s a fine sheen of it on his forehead, but his forehead isn’t wrapped with tape, so that’s not helping, and dude, how pissed would he be if he had to rip his hair free of duct tape?

His movements are becoming more desperate, and there’s a little voice in his head saying, “Please, oh please, oh please,” that’s making the more rational part of his mind want to go a little crazy, but that stupid clock from Wal-Mart just clicked down to seven minutes, so crazy and desperate are probably called for.

He’s got to get out of here. It doesn’t end this way. It can’t. He has a case to wrap up (the big reveal was going to be so freaking awesome!), and he and Gus were supposed to go see the Dodgers this weekend, and he hasn’t told his Dad about the sweet new pipes he’s putting on his motorcycle, and he hasn’t kissed Jules yet, and he definitely needs to annoy Lassie at least one more time, and he needs to tell Chief Vick how great she is…

God, do they even know he’s gone? He should have been at the police department two hours ago… Have they found the mess he left behind in the Psych office? He remembers papers flying off Gus’s desk, and knocking the lamp off his own, and he probably left some blood behind when he got his head slammed against the edge of the coffee table. If he gets out of this, he’s really going to enjoy sticking it to the jerk who left him here.

The upper part of his forearm can wiggle against the chair now, but his wrist is still stuck. He shifts and strains and struggles against the chair, and he’s aware that the noises coming from the back of his throat make him sound like a sissy little girl, but he really doesn’t care. There’s a weird sort of squelching feeling, and his wrist is fully wiggle-able too.

Five minutes to live… where did six go?

He wrenches his arm free, screaming at the pain. He’s never had a high threshold for it, and even with how freaked out he is, it still hurts when the tape peels away from his skin and the inside of his wrist drags against the rough metal edge of the chair. But now he has his arm back, and maybe he’ll be getting out of here alive.

He leans forward as far as the tape wrapping his torso will allow, and can only see the toes of his sneakers. But he doesn’t need to see that far, just needs to be able to feel for the end of the tape. His fingers find the sticky uneven edge, and he pulls. There’s clearly a reason why duct tape can be used to fix just about everything, because it’s not peeling away from itself very easily. He works about an inch free, and then… then it’s easy. It takes thirty precious seconds to free his right foot, and slightly longer for the left because his arm just doesn’t want to reach that far.

Three minutes.

He stands, sort of, hunching really, with one arm and his torso still attached to the stupid chair, and hobbles quickly to the door. It’s locked, naturally, from the outside, and there’s nothing at all that he can use to pick the lock with. He pats his pockets (the two that he can reach anyway) and finds nothing. The door is steel, the walls of the room concrete, windowless, and a single bare bulb hangs from the ceiling.

He’s sort of screwed… and after all that wiggling.

Shawn throws himself at the door, wailing, “Let me out of here!” and beating his fist against it. The noise echoes around the empty room, but there’s no answering call from outside. He knows he’s losing it, but the little desperate voice has taken over, and he’s screaming for help. “God, help me! Somebody help me!”

He’s never been good with fear, but anger is something he’s friendly with, and he knows trying to bash the side of the lawn chair into the door when he’s still attached to it isn’t really going to help anything, and it will probably only make things worse, but he’s mid-motion when he thinks this is probably a bad idea.

The right legs hit the door with a clang, and send a wave of agony through his back and left shoulder. Muscles and tendons, and God knows what else, aren’t meant to be shoved like that. He bounces off the door, crashing to the floor in a heap of chair, tape, and his own pissed off limbs.

He catches a look at the clock. Two minutes.

“Damn it.”

He’s pretty sure he’s going to cry. He takes a deep breath that’s a lot thicker and shakier than he’s used to, and tries to get himself to a point where he can stand again, but with one hand and a back that’s just not in the mood to attempt that sort of complicated twist, it takes awhile.

When he’s up, he tries the door handle again, just in case some miracle occurred while he was crumpled on the floor. No such luck.

Shawn squeezes his eyes shut and rests his forehead against the door. He’s going to die.

He’s not ready. His dad, Gus, Jules… so many things he needs to do and say before he’d be close to ready.

Tell his dad that despite everything, he’s glad that Henry Spencer was his father. He’s grateful for that, even.

Tell Gus that he couldn’t have asked for a better best friend, and that he’s sorry for all the selfish shit he’s pulled on him over the years.

Tell Juliet that he loves her.

He turns from the door and sits down, facing the confabulation of wires, barrels, and that damned alarm clock that spell the end for Shawn Spencer.

He wipes the tears away from his eyes and sniffs. He’s not going to go out sobbing. Hell no. The clock still reads two minutes.

He finds the edge of the tape covering his chest, and starts to idly pull it away, thinking about water skiing in Colorado, All Star baseball games, teaching those cute Thai girls choice English phrases, rafting in Costa Rica, sailing off Newport Beach, sneaking around Graceland at night, Mardi Gras, cruise ships, surfing…

One minute.

Civil War reenactments, comic book characters, spelling bees, legal consulting, dinosaurs, American Duos, astrological forecasts, urban legends, poker tournaments, speed dating, bounty hunting…

Maybe he has lived a full life. His chest is half free, but it doesn’t really matter.

Thirty-six, thirty-five…

He shuts his eyes and counts.

At ten to the end, he screws his face up and digs his chin into his shoulder. At five his free arm is crossed over his body, back of his hand squishing his nose.

He wonders how much this is going to hurt.

Three, two… there’s a click.

Shawn sucks in a breath, and braces himself.

There’s a moment where everything seems to go white behind his eyelids, and the silence is profound.

Something is… wrong. He starts counting forwards. One, two, three, four… Nothing’s happening.

He opens his eyes, wondering if he just counted down too fast. The cheap ass Wal-Mart clock reads 0:00. He drops his hand, and cocks his head at the strange sight before him.

Is it possible? Gus had always joked that Shawn led a charmed life, but this… was… off the charts.

A grin starts to pull at the corners of his mouth. Was the bomb a dud?

Laughter bubbles up his throat. “No freaking way.”

-----

Psych: Bounce

Tue, 02 Oct 2007 02:10:20 GMT

Title: Bounce
Fandom: Psych
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Shawn/Juliet
Spoilers: None, but set sometime after Bounty Hunters.
Word Count: 1100
Summary: Shules and an amazing mattress. #96: Bounce

Psych Prompt Table

A/N: I wanted to get Shawn and Juliet kicked out a mattress showroom, but it didn’t work out that way. Ah well. Maybe another time.

-----

Detective Juliet O'Hara had always been a good girl. A smart girl. A sensible girl. And as such she knew trouble when she saw it.

Shawn Spencer was trouble with a capital 'T'. Shawn Spencer with his boyish good looks, and his boyish charm, and his boyish... well. He was boyish and attractive all over, and when he was acting like a kid on a prophetic sugar high, Juliet was able to forget that he was Trouble. Of course, then Shawn would remind her that he wasn't a boy at all, and he would drag his eyes over her face (and probably over the rest of her, though she'd never caught him at it) and he would throw her a wink, and a meaningful smirk, and Juliet would remember... Shawn Spencer was Trouble.

Juliet O’Hara, like most good girls, had a weakness for trouble. Especially the kind with a capital ‘T’.

So when a murder went down in Timbuktu Mattress Furniture Store, Juliet knew that Shawn would somehow goad her into bed with him.

While his ‘vision’ did involve a lot of jumping from mattress to mattress (something Juliet suspected he just couldn’t resist doing… and it did look like fun) it left him ‘psychically exhausted’ and splayed out over one of the showroom pieces. He was across the room from the victim, and silent for at least ten minutes when Juliet decided to check on him. It occurred to her as she approached that she was probably playing right into his hands.

“This is really comfortable,” he said drowsily.

“I can’t believe you’re taking a nap in a crime scene.”

He shrugged, and sighed deeply. “Seriously, Jules. I have to get this bed. It’s so much better than mine.”

“Maybe you can get a discount… you know, because of the blood spatter.”

He sat up suddenly, looking around in horror. “I’ve been sleeping in blood? And no one told me?”

Juliet smiled.

“Oh, very funny, Jules.” He grabbed her arm, pulling her down onto the mattress.

“Shawn!”

“No, just feel how comfortable it is.”

He had not yet released her arm, and Juliet was weak, so she rolled her eyes and lay down beside him.

“Wow,” she said, sinking into the mattress that clearly came down from heaven to bless mere mortals with a delicious place to sleep. “This is nice.”

“See? Like a cloud… a fluffy cocoon of… something fluffy.”

“Not very bouncy though…”

He let out a low laugh, and smiled wickedly at her. “I’ll bet I can make it bouncy enough.”

“I don’t know. I think this is one of those wine glass ones, you know, where the glass doesn’t tip over. It’s not going to bounce.”

Shawn propped himself up on one elbow, looked down at her, and then frowned as he glanced around the showroom. “No,” he said to himself, “there’s too many people around for that.”

“Too many people around for what?”

“Oh, come on, Jules. I know where you’re going with that bouncy thing. You’re a bad girl, aren’t you? Shame on you for hiding it all this time.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m a good girl, Shawn Spencer.”

“Oooh, even better.”

Juliet rolled her eyes. “I was just saying that there’s nothing wrong with a little bounce.”

“Is this one of your deal-breaker things? Bowling, inner-spring mattress, tall, dark, and swarthy… any other hoops I should know about?”

“Swarthy?”

“That is a word, right?”

“It’s a word. Who’s swarthy?”

“Lou Diamond Phillips.”

“Oh. Not all the guys I’ve dated looked like that.”

“Hmm. Did any of them have a certain casual, boy-next-door charm?”

Her lips twitched. “Maybe one.”

“Exception to the rule, eh? And how long did you date that one?”

“Six minutes.”

His grin was slow, infectious, and she was suddenly very aware of their proximity.

“I liked that date,” he said.

She bit her lip on a smile.

“Jules, I really want…” He looked up, and scowled at the forensics people on the other side of the showroom. “It really sucks that there are too many people in here.” He climbed off the bed, and held his hand out to her. “I’m having a vision. Come with me.”

“You are not,” she said, but put her hand in his anyway.

“And how would you know? Do the spirits talk to you? No.”

He walked to the back of the store, peered around a door, and said, “Yes, the vibrations are definitely stronger in here.”

Shawn put his fingers to his temple, and walked to a corner of the storeroom. “Yes… it’s here.”

Against her better sense, she followed him. “What’s here?”

He moved quickly, reaching out to tug her waist until she was standing close.

“No one,” he whispered secretively. “We’re alone.”

“Shawn…”

“The spirits are telling me this is right. It’s time.”

“There’s a dead man in the next room, and now is the right time?”

“You should always make the best of a bad situation, Jules.”

She’s pretty sure that making out with Shawn in a dark corner of a storeroom while next door her boss and her boss’s boss are looking at a bloody corpse was taking that particular platitude a bit far, but it didn’t stop her from leaning into his hand when he cupped her cheek.

“And who’s to say that Mr. Lambitri wouldn’t be thrilled for us?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“Oh, definitely.”

Her eyelids drifted closed, his breath ghosted across her face, and for one moment his lips faintly touched hers.

A high tinkling beeping broke the moment, and Juliet pulled away, licking her lips to catch that taste of him (something sweet, and mint). She stepped back, and watched annoyance play over Shawn’s face as he pulled out his ringing cell phone.

He sighed, and muttered, “Put your damn phone on vibrate, Shawn.”

Juliet smirked at him. “I think the spirits are trying to tell us something.”

“Ha ha,” he said, flipping open his phone. “Gus, you have terrible timing.”

“I’m just going to go back…” she said.

“Oh, Jules…” he protested, and hung his head for a moment. “Okay. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Yeah.” She smiled. “I promise.”

His smile was bright and thankful. “Good. Okay. Gus! What do you need, buddy?”

His voice followed her as she entered the showroom, and she resolved that she would be the one to kiss him later.

-----

Icons!

Sun, 30 Sep 2007 10:43:53 GMT

2 Office
11 Psych
13 Pride and Prejudice
19 Veronica Mars

01.02.03.04.

05.06.07.08.

09.10.11.12.

13.14.15.16.

17.18.19.20.

21.22.23.24.

25.26.27.28.

29.30.31.32.

33.34.35.36.

37.38.39.40.

41.42.43.44.

45.

Comment, Credit, and all that crap. :)

Psych: Choke

Wed, 26 Sep 2007 18:48:58 GMT

Title: Choke
Fandom: Psych
Rating: PG
Pairing: Shawn/Juliet
Spoilers: He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not...
Word Count: 150

Summary: Prompt #56: Choke. Juliet takes Shawn bowling, and he doesn't live up to his own hype. Date fic.

Psych Prompt Table

-----

“Well, if you can’t bowl, then…”

“Is that really a deal-breaker?”

“It depends.”

Seven gutter balls, and two splits later…

“Lego sponsorship, huh?”

“Oh, come on. I’m using a twenty-five pound ball, I don’t have my special Michael Jackson bowling glove, or my lucky bowling shoes…”

Juliet raised an eyebrow and smirked at him.

“Okay, so I lied!”

“You don’t just lie, Spencer, you lie big,” she laughed.

“I don’t do anything half-way, Jules.”

She bowled another strike. Shawn pouted.

“You know… I could teach you.”

“And hand myself over to the O’Hara taskmaster? I don’t think so.”

“I’m not that bad.”

“Oh, Jules. You are, and I adore that about you, but I think our time would be better spent—“

She pressed herself against his back. “You just need to work on your stance…”

“Okay, quickly changing my opinion on the O’Hara taskmaster.”

Psych: Playing Games

Wed, 26 Sep 2007 18:42:41 GMT

Title: Playing Games
Fandom: Psych
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Shawn/Juliet
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 450

Summary: Prompt #38 Touch, Juliet strikes back.

Psych Prompt Table

-----

Juliet is leaning against his desk for a change, fighting to keep a smile off her face, and fully enjoying playing Shawn’s game. His palms are flat on the desk on either side of her hips, and his lips brush her ear as he says… well, he’s saying something. She’s not sure what, and frankly doesn’t care.

He’s been playing this game for months. She’ll hand him a case file, and his hand will linger. He’ll read over her shoulder, and she can imagine the heat radiating off of him. He’ll whisper psychic visions in her ear. Grab her shoulders and claim the spirits made him do it. It’s all shockingly subtle, coming from Shawn, and she’s found herself wishing lately that he wouldn’t be so gentle about it.

So today she found a legitimate reason to come down to the Psych office, leaned her hip against his desk, and hoped she was sending the right signals. Shawn picked them up admirably; hope sparking in his eyes as he trapped her between himself and the desk.

He pulls back, maybe waiting for a response to whatever he was saying in her ear, she’ll never know.

She bites her lip, feeling the drag of her teeth over her bottom lip acutely. Shawn watches.

He’s so close, crowded into her personal space, but he’s not actually touching her. How much can they withstand? Surely not much more. She thinks his thumb just brushed her hip. Yes, definitely a thumb. Her eyes drift shut.

His hands, daring today, creep up her sides, under her suit jacket, and settle around her waist.

“Shawn…” her voice has a definite tremor in it.

“Detective?”

He’s bracing himself for another shoot down, but that’s not going to happen today. Her hands move to his chest (hard and warm beneath blue cotton), one finger curls around a fastened button, and she tugs.

“Jules?”

“Shut up, Shawn.”

Her lips meet his halfway; he’s clearly stunned, because it takes him a moment to kiss her back. But then he groans into her mouth, and he’s pulling her flush against him. It’s so much better than she thought it could be, and he’s an amazing kisser. It’s the buzzing she gets when he’s near, multiplied by about a hundred. The tingles radiate from his lips, and his arm around her waist, and from his hand brushing her cheek. He pulls the chopstick from her hair, and she hears it bounce off the desk and clatter to the floor. Her hair falls out of it’s elegant twist, and his fingers sift through the wavy strands.

He breaks away from her mouth to breathe, trailing his lips across her cheek, and she hears him say, “Didn’t see this coming.”

She’s a little breathless when she replies, “No? Some psychic you are.”

He laughs in her ear, and then he’s trying to kiss her again, but it’s not quite working because they’re both smiling too widely.

Psych: Friends are for...

Sat, 22 Sep 2007 20:30:20 GMT

Title: Friends are for...
Fandom: Psych
Rating: PG13
Pairing: pre-Shules
Spoilers: Scary Sherry
Word Count: 800

Summary: Missing scene from Scary Sherry from Juliet's POV. For 100_situations, prompt #7: Friends.

Psych Prompt Table

-----

No one has ever tried to kill her before, much less in a situation like this. The candles. Naked Barbie dolls hanging from the ceiling with string. The axe… the shiny, shiny axe that soon might be stained with her own blood.

She hesitates, doesn’t really want to hurt Alice, because she’s obviously in pain from losing her friend, and doesn’t know how to deal with it like a normal person, so Alice gets off a few swings and a monologue.

The adrenaline is pumping, her mind is racing, and that last swing of the axe came too close for comfort, and she doesn’t want to end up like Scary Sherry, and Shawn called probably to warn her, and she hopes he’s bringing back up… And suddenly she doesn’t give a shit about Alice’s pain, because she doesn’t deserve to die this way, and from somewhere downstairs she thinks she hears Shawn and Gus arguing, and she definitely can’t let either of them be involved in trying to neutralize the axe wielding co-ed. So a couple swings later, she finds her in, thumbs Alice in the eye (a dirty move, but effective) and wrestles the axe away.

She’s only vaguely aware of the words coming out of her mouth, and Lassiter with his gun on Alice, and then Shawn is in front of her, looking at her like she’s the crazy person, and he’s gently pulling the axe from her hands… right, Alice is down, she doesn’t need it anymore.

She takes deep breaths, Lassiter slaps handcuffs on Alice, and Shawn is there pulling her close, and she realizes that she is shaking and can’t quite breathe.

“It’s okay, Jules. It’s all okay now,” he’s saying, and brushing his fingers through her hair.

She goes through the motions of the arrest, fills out the paper work, gives her statement, and through it all keeps her face indifferent, puts a lid on her emotions, because she won’t, she can’t, let anyone see just how affected she is by this. It isn’t until later, when she’s getting ready to leave the police station, that she realizes that Shawn has been waiting for her.

“I thought you might want a ride home.”

“It’s been hours. Have you been waiting all this time?”

He shrugs like its no big deal, but it is, and she feels her carefully constructed semblance of control fall around her feet, and then she’s crying, and thank God for Shawn, because he knows that she needs to have this breakdown outside, preferably where no one she works with can see her. And when it’s dark around them, and her face is buried in his t-shirt, she lets go.

“She tried to kill me! Like we were in a horror movie, and I was the stupid blonde who gets killed in the first five minutes, and everyone is saying, ‘Don’t go in there Juliet!’ but she does anyway… and god, did you see those Barbie dolls? And all the candles? Where does anyone even get that many candles? That must have taken her hours! Hours and hours she spent thinking about how she was going to chop me up with that axe… God, she must have maxxed out her credit card.”

His chest shakes under her face, and she realizes that he’s trying not to laugh. And it is sort of funny, the whole night is, in a scary, ridiculous way, so she laughs too, and then the laughs are sobs, and Shawn is holding her tight.

“Want to come to the Psych office? Gus and I are having a sleep-over.”

“A what?”

“Well, though it pains me to admit it, Gus and I don’t deal well with scary… nightmares, you know. We’re going to watch Die Hard, and wish we were as cool as Bruce Willis. I call it action movie therapy.”

It sounds like the best thing she’s heard all day, and she doesn’t have to be at work until tomorrow afternoon, so she agrees.

Later, when the horrors of the day are dulled by cartons of Chinese food lying empty on the coffee table, and Shawn and Gus’s smart-ass comments about the movie have faded away to tired silence, and she’s curled into the couch cushions with a blanket that smells like Shawn’s laundry detergent, Juliet reflects that she’s very lucky to have befriended these two.

Shawn catches her glancing over at him, and wordlessly offers her the Tupperware of sliced pineapple.

“Thank you,” she tells him, and lets her eyes say ‘thank you’ for more than just the fruit.

He shoots her a rueful half-smile, and replies, “That’s what friends are for.”