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[sticky post] About Me

Semi-Friends Only

Warning: I love unabashedly and fully
- I probably love a character you dislike -
Haters leave your hate at the door or don't come in.
The "About Me" PartCollapse )

That inevitable list of fandoms and ships:

Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Dawn, Faith, Tara, Anya, Spike, Ford, Willow, Buffy
Dawn/Spike (friendship)

Angel the Series
Cordy, Fred, Wesley, Lilah, Illyria, Spike

The Vampire Diaries
Elena, Caroline, Jeremy, Anna, Katherine, Rebekah,Katherine

Sydney, Spydaddy, Sark
Jack/his face

Merlin, Morgan

Dance Academy
Abby, Kat, Christian

Doctor Who
10, 11, Amelia Pond, Rory Pond, River Song, Martha, Clara, Tardis

Gossip Girl
Jenny, Blair

Rachel, Kurt, Burt, Puck, Quinn, Santana
Rachel/Kurt (friendship)

Game of Thrones
Arya, Sansa, Dani

Hart of Dixie
Lemon, Zoe, Levon, Wade


Dean, Jo, Bela, Anna, Ruby
Dean/his Grim Reaper

Jade, Cat, Beck, Tori

Wizards of Waverly Place
Alex Russo

Twin Peaks
Audrey Horne

Isabel, Maria, Kyle, Michael, Tess, alt!Tess, future!Max

Kate, Cassidy, Juliet, Sayid, Shannon, Jack, Sawyer, Ben, Jin
Jack/Ana Lucia

Once Upon a Time
Regina, Ruby, Emma, Pan, Belle, Hook

Veronica Mars
Veronica, Mac, Weevil, Logan

Boy Meets World
Rachel, Angela, Topanga, Shawn, Eric

Teen Wolf
Allison, Lydia, Danny, Isaac

Lost Girl
Kenzi, Tamsin

Crossover/AU ships
Dawn Summers/Kim Sunggyu
Dawn Summers/Allison Argent
Dawn Summers/Bella Swan
Dawn Summers/Clary Fray
Faith Lehane/Ruby 2.0
Buffy Summers/Obi Wan Kenobi

The Long-Suffering Wives Club
Fei, Spike, Woohyun, Dean Winchester

The Very-Confused Husbands Club
Jia, Buffy, Sunggyu, Castiel

The Korean Dramas I Have Seen:
Boys Over Flowers
Goong (Princess Hours)
City Hunter
Coffee Prince

You're Beautiful
Lie to Me
Flower Boy Next Door
The Heirs

The Ultimate Fic List
(divided by fandom)
all the fic (for the most part)Collapse )
it started as a whim and turned into an obsessionCollapse )

[fic] harder than you, softer than me

fic: harder than you, softer than me [ao3]
fandom: MCU - Guardians of the Galaxy
pairing: Gamora/Nebula
summary: background character study of the sisters
word count: ~1100
disclaimer: I know nothing of the comics canon (yet!) so please forgive me if this is a huge bastardization. MCU canon only for the time being.
a/n: for about an hour yesterday I thought that scorpiod1 needed a pinch-hitter over at the Low Key Summer Fic Exchange and by the time upupa_epops had caught up with me to let me know that this was not, indeed, the case - I had already expressed to a room full of twelve year olds that I had murder in my heart (which they found hilarious) and had written about 75% of this fic. So! Here is fic. For scorp. And also (kinda) for snickfic (because I owe you like a million Sif things and hopefully this will make up for it), or at least cross-posted to eljay early for the sake of snick because of love and a million other reasons.

Thanos chooses his children well, the ones that look upon the burning corpses of their families that they loved (he only ever chooses children who were loved) and raise their eyes with new fire lurking behind their tears. He takes the ones that look in the face of his destruction, watch their world crumble around their ears, and refuse to crumble along, that grow strong in the face of their own pain.

He should never have brought together into his heart the souls that hate him most, that only are strong because of their hatred for him. All his darkness seemed capable of creating was more darkness.

And he was a master of it, Gamora thought as she stood in front of her sister and gloried in the state of her ability to maim.

It took years of Thanos' training before Gamora was able to acknowledge that the horrific beauty that comes from pain and destruction.

I told you it was an acquired taste, he whispered in her ear - always inches away from her waking consciousness.

It took being ripped apart and being pieced back together - becoming the monster that he created for himself in his dreams, beautiful and deadly to the last - before she realized there was never an option for her but to become a part of that dreadful beauty of chaos. Even without the interferrance of Thanos, there was something in her very nature that seemed to lean into destruction, draw strength from it.

Yet still she was resentful of it all. Pretended that Thanos' world was a glove that she could someday shake off.

Until Thanos gave her Nebula.

He described them as playmates and though the two had never learned to play (or had long ago forgotten) and though they were much too old for playing (or never were young enough), Thanos always chose his words carefully. For a time, Gamora threw herself into the world Thanos built her to rule.

With a sister at her side, it became a game.

Bood. Death. Destruction. Pain.

She rolled around in it for the sake of Nebula's smile; sometimes a flash of light in the darkness and othertimes more the beginnings of a growl than anything resembling mirth.

Nebula found mirth in the places Thanos allowed her to live and Gamora followed her willingly, a tiredness deep in her fragmented bones yearned for laughter and peace. And so she took it when it was given to her with only the barest traces of guilt lingering around her frayed senses; too sharp to shut out the world and too raw to acknowledge her inner coflict.

Thanos kept his children seperate from each other - he was jealous of their affections, wanted to wrap them wholly up within himsef and be their whole world.

But one thing they all knew was that Gamora was his favorite.

Nebula didn't wonder why after meeting the dark-haired woman with burning eyes.

She was the only one that he hadn't been able to fully break.

Nebula gloried in dragging her sister after her into the heady rush of death, began to seek out that brief moment of dismay in Gamora's eyes when she turned her blood-spattered body to her in supplication. That split second of doubt made the darkness in Gamora all the more violent in its beauty, all the more shocking in its action.

Made all other actions jarring in their crudeness.

Gamora believed herself made from her bones to her wires to be destruction. Nebula watched her dance across the stars and couldnt help but come to the same soul-shattering conclusion.

It was the moment that the one fell in love with the other that finally broke them.

Gamora would later say rather ruefully that if Thanos had known what would happen when he brought them together he was either a willful contributor to his own downfall (in which case she could no longer say with certainty that she had ever known him at all) or was hoping for a rather more positive outcome.

Love came upon Nebula slowly, like the very beginnings of a forest fire. Small to begin, but impossible to catch in the act of growing, before suddenly everything is burning and there’s nowhere left to turn. One minute she was teasing her sister and the next her heart was beating in time to Gamora’s moods.

Love came upon Gamora like oil heated over an open stove, one minute cool and thick and the next crackling and snapping, trying restlessly to leap out of its confines.

Thanos grew his children in a factory, gathered them up in their darkest hour and ripped them to shreds as if he could somehow find a formulae for the perfect creature.

Nebula was the first one to realize he had seriously gotten her all wrong, had put all the pieces back together incorrectly.

A child of Thanos should be pure intent, pure chaos, pure destruction.

Love was not part of the deal. Being a child of Thanos means that lines are simple, there is no love or heartache or loss anymore. It burns all away and all that is left is action and reaction.

Nebula was not ready for love, for her heart to beat, to feel pain once again.

(She had known enough pain to last a thousand lifetimes and she was not ready to start feeling it all suck away at her again.)

Nebula affection for her sister and she threw it into the fire, stomping upon its delicate remains and shaping it into hate within her heart like armor.

Even more a daughter of Thanos than ever before.

(Which is possibly what he had hoped for all along.)

Gamora turned to her sister with her dark eyes and felt a deep, intrinsic desire to wrap her long arms around her and press her warmth deep into her sister’s cold, dark heart.

Even less a daughter of Thanos than she had ever been.

(Which couldn’t possibly had been what he’d hoped for.)

(One dark, heady night they pressed against each other - no longer as sisters but just as shapes in the dark - and tried to reform the other into the thing that they needed. Gamora lingering with her fingers trying to press into Nebula’s body a tiny part of her warmth. Nebula biting and scratching just a little too hard, trying to stir up anger and aggression in Gamora’s heart.)

Out of love, Nebula’s heart hardened against the universe and she strove even more to destroy.

Out of love, Gamora’s heart turned her chaos onto the darkness, bringing pain to those who would cause it.

(Out of familial, intimate lust, two sisters drove each other back and forth across the universe, hearts wounded and always bleeding, never once forgiving, never once forgetting.)

[fic] finding a balance

fic: finding a balance
rating: PG
characters: Tara/Buffy (Anya, Giles, Joyce, Dawn, OFC, OMC)
word count: 900
summary: au set in season 4 - with Willow, Oz, Cordy, Xander, Angel, and Giles gone - Buffy has to find a way to start college and not die
for: aaronlisa, who wanted Buffy, picking up the pieces, college, and AU in femslash_minis round 108

Willow goes to Oxford (because of course she does) and Oz follows her (because that’s where genius couples who are genius go to be geniuses together).

Xander goes on a roadtrip to find himself (because of course he does) and he ends up finding a girl with fake blonde hair and fake nails and a fake tan whose name is either Bitsy or Betty and he’s in love and now they live in Los Vegas together (her mother says he’ll be home by December, but the wedding photos look so … intimate… Buffy doesn’t think he’ll be coming up for air before next March at the latest).

Cordelia goes to Los Angeles to be a famous actress – and she probably will be (because wouldn’t that be just perfect).

Giles takes Olivia on a tour of the Western seaboard and sends postcards occasionally (with entirely unhelpful and unsubtle hints that she should finish reading the stack of books he left behind as a summer-crash-course in Slayers, as if she hasn’t been living it for the past three years) but doesn’t make it back in time to help her move into the dorms the way he said he would.

Angel leaves with a whirl of his coat (probably) because he’s being noble and sacrificial or something (because of course he is) (she’s seriously considering dating a drummer in a band this fall because she hears drummers are notoriously shallow and simple and generally bad news and that sounds like something she can handle right now) (she can’t).

And so Buffy Summers starts college alone.

The first week, a group of vampires fake her death and steal all her stuff (which mostly just pisses her off). The second week, Dawn gets kidnapped by a gang of slug demons and her mom refuses to pay for the dry-cleaning bill, since Buffy was supposed to be watching Dawn that night anyway. The third week, she figures out that her roommate is a demon and in the ensuing aftermath, gets a single and feels even more alone, but less grouchy. The fifth week, Xander’s pet demon Anya breezes back into town, buys the local Magic Shop and starts sending Buffy daily updates about the underworld dealings. The eighth week, one of Anya’s old flames shows up in town and turns out to be an ex-Watcher-in-Training, now rogue-vigilante. Which mostly just means that Buffy finally has someone to help her with patrolling in the evenings. And while Sam (Samantha – but don’t you dare call her that) doesn’t really get on with Giles, she laughs at Buffy’s jokes and holds her own in a fight (buys donuts and never eats the last jelly-filled-one), so Buffy isn’t complaining.

In the eighth week of the first semester Buffy receives a care package from Oz and Willow in England and starts crying in the middle of the third floor of the library on the east side of campus. Because Anya isn’t Willow and Sam isn’t Willow and Xander still isn’t back and drummers are somehow really hard to woo when you are a Slayer and a freshman and midterms are kicking her ass so she cries goddamnit.

And a girl with large brown eyes and soft blonde hair sits down next to her with a crooked smile and a latte, “I think you’re freaking everyone out.”

“Yeah well, they can mind their own business.”

“It’s just that it’s midterms for everyone and once one person starts crying up here, it catches like smallpox and the next thing you know…”

Just then a girl across the room gives out a little shriek before running towards the exit, her face in her hands and the unmistakable sound of sobbing coming from her blurred form.

Buffy watches with wide-eyed horror. “Oh my god,” she takes the latte and slurps down on it, though she really shouldn’t have coffee this late, “I just cursed the third floor.”

The girl laughs softly, “Well, it had to be someone, right?”

“I’m Buffy by the way, generally a curse-breaker and not a curse-creator.”

“Tara. Nice to meet you.”

“Thanks for the latte.”

“You owe me.”

Later, in the Silence, Buffy reaches out her hand in the dark and finds Tara’s fits into her own as if they were made for each other. They beat back the demons and Buffy screams because it’s what she was born to do and Tara fights the monsters back because it’s what she has chosen to do.

And in the aftermath of that scream, when they kiss for the first time, Buffy feels for the first time as though she really could be the princess in the fairy tale, instead of always coming home covered in slime – not much a knight, but always a bit of a warrior.

“An Amazon,” Tara will tease her over a history textbook, their legs intertwined on the bed while Sam plays with a kitten on the floor in the corner. “A warrior princess. You can be both you know?”

It’s a novel concept, but Tara is helping her carve out a way to find a balance.

(Eventually Tara finds them a drummer – he’s misplaced his band after they all turned into something icky and mostly dead and it’s a good thing Buffy doesn’t want him as a rebound guy anymore because he’s kinda gay, but he does take up being research-guy with relish.

And only sometimes eats the last jelly donut.)

{{I think I want to live in this au ...}}

[meme] writing is the worst 22/30

Day Twenty-two: Have you ever participated in a fest or a Big Bang? If so, write about your favorite experience in relation to one. If not, are there any you’ve thought about doing? And if not, why not?

I've participated in one Big Bang (or like, successfully completed one) and ended up creating the single best piece of fiction of my fic writing life. I am torn between someday hoping to surpass it and knowing intimately that there will never be anything like it to come upon me again. It took me and I am grateful that it happened. It also spawned one my most deadly and infinitely perfect friendships.

Currently signed up for other big bangs and have a somewhat-solid idea for at least one of them.

My one complaint with my Big Bang project(s) is that - I write in a very specific niche that interests 10% of my teeny, weeny flist. Which means that the larger projects I take on generally end up with very few readers and like... negative responses. What I have planned for journeystory definitely is going to get like 10 hits in the grad scheme of things*. I prefer character studies and gen fics (femmeslash) and generally don't write about popular fandom pairings. (Veronica Mars and The 100 are basically the exceptions that prove the rule.)

As such, probably my favorite project so far was Night on Fic Mountain and I'm hoping to participate in Yuletide this year. The idea of small fandoms getting together and sharing the love really appeals to me.

I also have assignments for summertime fic exchange and A Low Key Summer Exchange due this weekend and I am the definition of ill-prepared. Thank the goddess English Camp is next weekend and not in two days, because if I had to work a full day with a 150+ kids on the same day things were due I'd probably lose what's left of my struggling immune system.

* feel free to ask me about this - I'm working on a very weird apocalyptic Buffy&Dawn AU that is going to be magnificent if I can pull it off - but will probably not get any love #aboutme


[fic] shall i play the hunted? (2/13)

fic: shall i play the hunted?
fandom: the 100
characters: Clarke, Abbie, Bravenlarke, Flarke, Octavia/Lincoln, Finn, Anya, ensemble
word count: ~1400
summary: in the stories, red riding hood was seduced by a wolf and saved by a huntsman. there’s never been a case of stars and girls with eyes as sharp as knives. this isn’t your grandmother’s tale (or maybe it always was)

a/n: thanks to the always perfect arsenic_lies, this fic has it's own playlist (with cover-art by me!)
The first thing she thinks when the monitors come online and the hundred are spread out before her, a stream of information on computer screens with numbers and silent photos and facts, is Clarke better fucking remember to take those pills, because she can see it right there in black and white on the screen in front of her.

Clarke is responding differently to the Ground than the rest of them are.

She digs four perfect half-moons into her palm and wipes away the blood on her dark pants before continuing on.

So nothing has really changed, then.

Only absolutely everything has.

(She can feel it on the back of her neck, her hair rising at every motion and her senses slowly bleeding in to each other; she can feel that scent in her skin like an itch and that light flickering overhead is producing a strong, sweet taste on her tongue.

He thought she wanted to get pregnant when they were so young because she was so excited to be a mother. She couldn’t tell him – he guessed later, she figures – that it was a survival instinct. The four months between her mother’s… death and Clarke’s conception were the longest of her life.

You needed a pack, he says at one point. She storms out and doesn’t return for a couple of days, losing herself in blood and the hustle of the clinic. When she skulks back through the door without an apology, she can almost love him more for not asking for one.

She apologizes to the blue eyes that stare at her out of a body far too fragile to be carrying such a weight. It’s a silent prayer, less an apology than a confession.

Being a parent helps her see there’s really no way to separate the two. We are all of us always seeking an ear to hear the confession that slows our steps.

She hears them long before they make their presence known.

Hears them in her skin the way it tingles as if it is on fire every step she places onto the ground. Ground that does not belong to her. (Whether she belongs to it or not seems to make no difference.) Walking feels like quicksand. Like she’s already been buried alive and there’s nowhere to go but still her legs move against the weight on instinct. She’s not supposed to be there, she should turn back, and so she presses on.

She screams with the rest when the spear pierces the boy’s chest.

Because that’s what a girl would do. Scream in horror.

A girl wouldn’t hear the spear get tossed into the air and caught in a routine movement (the thrower changing his grip, she suspects, that half a second between it being at his side to at his shoulder), the creak of muscle that contracts and extends, the soft whistle of air as the spear flies through the air. A real girl wouldn’t be so caught up in anticipation, listening with awe to the controlled, practiced movements of a warrior, trapped in the scent emanating through the trees of his adrenaline and pride, that she wouldn’t give warning.

(Her scream of horror is a gasp of wonder choking her.)

A real girl would scream for her friend and be surprised by an invisible attack.

It’s easy to pretend to be a real girl these days.

Abby got into one fight as a teen, with skinny little Richie Reyes. They had been circling each other for years it seemed, never actually butting heads more out of a mutual beneficial need to survive than any other reason.

It was bound to happen.

Abby still carried a scar from Rich’s sharp teeth on her ribcage and rumor has it that her shoulder has never been the same since their incident pulled it out of its socket.

Five minutes of scratching and clawing and biting like the world was ending and they were dragging each other into the abyss. And then it was over. And no one ever spoke of it again, except in whispers.

(No one speaks of it… no one knows… that for three frozen minutes before the blood began to run their lips and teeth and tongues played a very different game; just as painful, just as harsh, .)

Turning around in the mess hall and seeing Richie’s eyes, yet full of an alarming sense of innocence, staring out from another girl’s face was like coming up for air seconds before drowning. She had to hold her body back from embracing the girl right there, an echo of her own past.

Clarke may be gone and her blood may be pumping in her ears so loud she can’t even hear the dull roar of the Ark’s engines anymore, but suddenly her body felt a certain amount of peace.

Fighting the whole world is exhausting. Feeling that nervous energy bouncing around, seeing a threat around every corner, giving into that battle for your peace of mind merely allows the threat to win without ever showing its face.

Looking into Raven Reyes’ eyes, Abby felt the peace that comes from finally being confronted with the enemy.

Finally understanding exactly what is at stake.

She’s driven half mad with a strange desire to drag her teeth down his long throat. She is no longer certain if the longing is to draw blood or to stop his breath. She is no longer certain if those two things are completely separate needs after all. Blood and desire.

She can feel him beating behind her. His heartbeat steady. It is the rhythm by which she walks. Keeping pace with his steadiness.

She hears his words and they come to her through a fog. There are things that are so much more important now than words. The scent of his sweat clinging to his skin. The thin breath he hisses in when she bends over to adjust her shoelace. The way his steadiness is echoed in the trees, in the wind, in the very air around her.

The way he is the only one that feels like a part of the wildness that is clinging to her – lingering fingertips of longing twirling through her hair and tugging at her feet.

She thinks she could run through him the way the forest beckons her to run across its solid earth and in the end she’d be the one to fall to her knees.

Only one of is afraid, words are turning sour on her tongue these days. She talks so much more now than she ever had reason to. Each word feels like destruction.

Especially when they aren’t true.

Everyone is afraid.

She is terrified.

Ironically, not of the creature that is stalking them through the trees. Not of the testosterone building up around her as one male after another asserts their desire for her presence, or for dominance, or for the safety that comes from the momentary high of feeling superior. Not of the shadows lurking behind each tree.

She knows so much more than them.

And that’s what terrifies her.

No one notices that her flinch is just a second too late. No one seems to notice that she spun towards the creature bounding out of the shadows a second too soon.

No one saw her hold herself back, saw her hands clench, saw her eyes go dark and black when the creature appeared.

No one saw her wipe blood off her hands from where long fingernails had curved four perfect moons into her palm.

She apes the boy with the long hair who smells human – all metal and cold and musty, unused. She plants her feet on the ground to the drumming of the heart of the boy with wildness clinging to his hair. She shies away from the boy who breathes her name on his lips with ease, he knows too much, he will sense a difference in her.

She shrieks in terror at a monster and it hides her tears of frustration.

Oh how she longs to tear something apart with her bare hands. Oh how she is envious of a kill. Oh how she bristles at the weapons that keep him – her echo – from falling into the trenches with her.

Oh how she cries to think that he will always be standing there, just there, clinging to the metal of their birth while she rolls in the mud at his feet; the mud that calls out to the blood in her veins.

She thinks lingeringly of her teeth on his throat, his blood on her tongue, his hands bruising her skin. I could drag you down, she thinks.

And so she doesn't.

Only one of them is afraid.
Wouldn’t he laugh to know that the scared one is her.

[fic] alone, for now
fic: alone, for now
pairing: faith/fred(/illyria)
setting: au post-nfa in a war-zone LA
recipient: aaronlisa requested The Hyperion, tequila, just the girls on their own

written for femslash_minis round 107

Movies always end right in the moment before the real work begins. The credits roll when you feel satisfied that everything is either at its most tragic, or right in the moment when tragedy feels impossible.

But if there is one thing that Fred Burkle – sometimes inhabited by a hell-god – knows deep in her bones (that are still hers… mostly), it’s that the movies are wrong.

And most fairy tales.

And nearly every book she’s ever read.

(Even those super scientific ones that she held onto in her mind like a security blanket when she was covered in dirt and hiding in a cave in Pylea.)

(Even those failed her.)

Coming into the aftermath of LA being destroyed there’s a very different sort of unravelling in her chest than the patchwork denial that kept everything working properly as they sped away from Sunnydale.

“I’ve lived through too many apocalypses.”

There’s nothing really sarcastic or bitter about the comment, just a tired sort of longing.
There’s no one to hear, anyway.

You are supposed to speed away from the smoky remains, not come back and pick your way through them.

When she was small her mother adopted a kitten on a whim. Faith had always suspected the small thing had belonged to a family and home before her mother plucked it away and dropped it in her lap. In those days, they moved around a lot; a dirty motel room here, a bare mattress on the floor there. It was less an organized sense of moving about with possessions in hand and more the honest vagrancy of addicts. They went where the drugs were and Faith slept where she was safe from being trampled, with that dirty kitten clutched to her chest. She learned that corners weren’t always the safest because when you don’t have any balance, clutching at walls to lead you to the door also lead down to the floor and right onto her head. No, cupboards were safe. Linen closets. Small spaces with something that protected her head. Spaces where her mother couldn’t find her at two in the morning and drag her out with her manic smile and too-bright eyes and a demand for a song or a dance. Faith knew at three that she was no good at singing or dancing. She knew because she had been dragged in front of adults whose desire for entertainment turned to annoyance or hostility too quickly. She knew because when she disappointed her mother in those moments she nearly always forgot, but there was a chance that in the morning she’d remember and maybe deny her food or a bath or a toilet until Faith cried. It was easier, sleeping in a hallway closet or in an empty bathtub, with her kitten held tightly to her chest. Except it kept running away. It would squirm out of her hands and run back to wherever her mother had picked it up. Within a few days it would be dropped back in her hands, her mother never letting go of the fact that it belonged to her, and needed to be hunted down every three days. After three to four months, the kitten disappeared and her mother didn’t go fetch it. She had finally forgot, but it was the longest that Faith had ever seen her stick to something, running out into the world every three or four days to fetch a skinny kitten that didn’t want to be found.

Trudging through the wreckage towards what she hoped would be a welcoming party, Faith wasn’t quite sure if she felt more like that damn cat – running back to what was familiar, to a place that felt like home – or like her mother, desperately seeking something that was only going to slip out from between her fingers once more.

When Fred woke up she was Fred and that felt very new and fresh for some intoxicating reason. She took a deep breath that was quickly caught in her chest, too full of smoke and dust for her to inhale the way she longed to.

She felt a nagging sensation at the back of her brain, like she was supposed to be fighting something there, but all she felt was emptiness.

She made her way back home without a thought. And ignored the emptiness in her mind, the glaring gaps of memory.

(Ignored the aching in her chest, like a fresh wound still bleeding, still throbbing.)

The Hyperion feels remarkably untouched in a city laid to waste.

Faith would question it if she wasn’t so tired. It was relatively quiet on the streets right now; but the scanty news reports suggested that the bulk of the demons were moving south. She only came here first because He taught her to always retrace her steps, start at the beginning and work forward until she came to an answer.

He also taught her how to murder with a smile on her lips and no remorse in her heart, but her court-appointed therapist assured her that she could keep the good and throw away the bad. And so she had.

The Hyperion is nearly silent and Faith tries to ignore the small drop of her heart as she picks her way carefully through the debris. Okay, so she was expecting troops and a war council, or at least a skinny kid with a crossbow and an idiot with spiked hair.

She makes her way into the office and sits down behind the desk wearily, putting her feet up on the desk, as if daring the owner to come in and shout at her. She has no idea where to go from here. Basic necessities like food and a toilet and a shower are going to become an issue soon, and now that she’s here she’s not entirely sure what to do next.

She closes her eyes for only a moment – but it very well could have been hours – and when she opens them again a tiny woman is sitting on the desk in front of her cross-legged, a bottle of tequila in her hands and dark shadows under her eyes.

“Well hello there,” she says and her voice has a touch of an accent in it, one that calls to mind sweet tea and open air.

“I know you,” Faith grabs the bottle out of her hands and takes a long swallow. “Didn’t expect to see you alive, of all people.”

She shrugs and keeps her wide eyes on Faith, “Where is everyone?”

Faith feels a desperate, shallow laugh rising in her chest, “I was hoping you could tell me. I’ve only just arrived.”

Fred’s face falls, “Oh.”

“You’re alone? How long?”

Fred cocks her head to the side, as if listening for something, “Alone for the moment I guess. And I don’t know for how long. I just woke up this morning and seem to be… missing some minor details in my memory.”

“Minor details?”

“Well the skyline is gone, for instance, and the last thing I remember LA was more than just a pile of dirt.” She takes the bottle out of Faith’s hands and takes a long swallow from the bottle, shuddering and grimacing as she hands it back.

Faith tilts the bottle towards her, “Cheers.”

All the stories are wrong, the bad guy wins sometimes and sometimes the city gets burned down to the base and you drink a bottle of tequila after the world ends sometimes.

Because after everything is lost and nothing is left standing, someone has to wake up and keep going.

Fred wanted very strongly to be an artist when she was a child. First it was the violin and then it was oil paintings and then it was the stage. That was before she went on a field trip to the planetarium and she looked up at the stars through a telescope for the first time. After that, her heart belonged to science. There was a beauty to it, an artistry in the expanse of the universe that she could read in numbers and charts better than she could ever express her wonder with words or her clumsy hands.

She’s never looked back and wished for that again, for a connection to the world beyond her numbers and her science. But there’s something about waking up again when everything has ended and sharing a bottle of liquor with a stranger from a distant memory that can’t be captured quite as well with numbers.

They are alone much longer than she expects them to. (She loses short spans of time, an hour here, an afternoon there, and Faith never drops her gaze from her eyes when she doesn’t ask the questions she knows she ought.) They rebuild here and there, they sweep away the dust and wipe away the blood. They seek solutions in books and in numbers. And eventually she knows that they’ll find someone else and it won’t be just them on an island anymore.


But for now the world is dead and it is only the two of them and so when she presses her lips to Faith’s one night it feels as natural as breathing and as necessary.

She’ll find a solution in her numbers.
Or she’ll find a solution with her fists.
Or someone will arrive with a solution for them and it’ll be alright again.

But there will be no record of it all. No pages for someone to pour over later. No way for her to give over a neat little package history of what it was like, living on the edge of the end of the world.

“I like it better this way, anyway.”

“No one writes stories about what happens after the ending…”

“That’s because it’s just for us. For the survivors.”

“Just us, alone.”

“Anyway, what words would you use?”

What she’ll tell them later is about the dirt and the sweat and the tears. About the hordes of lesser demons that tore through and kept them from leaving. About the nights when she was sure Faith wouldn’t return from her search for food or supplies or patrol. About the day it rained and the generators went out and they found a stock room full of candles. About the day they finally decided to start keeping track of days. About the day she stopped thinking about being found because they were sure everything else was gone. About the pile of makeshift weapons they created. About the empty bottle of tequila that they put on display as a symbol of… something they were never able to pinpoint.

What she won’t tell them is about the first time they kissed. About the way Faith’s lips tasted on her tongue, sweet and dry. About the way they learned to move around each other. About the nights tangled up in each other because there was no tomorrow and they had already forgotten about yesterday. About sitting side by side and feeling comfort flow between them with every touch. About each moment that they were together and something was new until it wasn’t new and it just was and that’s how it is now. What she won’t tell them – should they ever come (though she is beginning to doubt they ever existed at all) – is how it wasn’t easy or comforting all the time, how they fought, how they scratched at each other like wild cats, how they hurt each other because there was no one there to see, how they bandaged up their wounds without hostility, how they sunk into each other like quicksand.

When the world ends, you make a new one.

The stories don’t tell you how, because there are no words for it anyway.

If there were words for it, it wouldn’t be an ending, not really.

[wildcard] low key summer fic exchange

My wildcard requests are simple: Dawn/crossover lesbianism

Currently I ship:
Dawn/Allison Argent Teen Wolf
Dawn/Clary Fray The Mortal Instruments
Dawn/Elena Gilbert Vampire Diaries
Dawn/Amy Pond(/Clara Oswald) Doctor Who
Dawn/Caroline Forbes Vampire Diaries
Dawn/Annie Edison Community
Dawn/Cha Eunsang Heirs
Dawn/Ginny Weasley Harry Potter
Dawn/Susan Pevensie Narnia
Dawn/Lady Sif MCU

I don't care how it's done: bring a lady into the Buffyverse and see how they operate; throw Dawn into an alternate canon and watch her shine; take both ladies out of their universe and create an AU; write vague, dreamy fluff or angst with no determinate setting. Doesn't matter to me! Anything that is character-driven or character-centric and deals with Dawn and I'll probably be happy.

Also if you are looking at this list and thinking but Kelsey you have forgotten the most obvious Dawn-crossover-ship FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WRITE IT. I'm totally open to most crossovers, most of the time. Generally all it takes is someone poking me and whispering but have you considered her? and I'm lost. Completely, utterly lost forever.


[fic] do's and don'ts at community college

fic: rule number one - don't fall in love with a girl who is more you than you
fandom: community/btvs
pairing: annie/dawn
word count:1754
disclaimer: fml dawn is my queer queen okay? let's see how many girls she can kiss this week (aka this is all doris' fault. do not recommend.)
summary: she's just like you... only a little less rachel berry and a little more thora birch

Annie Edison always has the right answer.
Annie Edison always is the first to raise her hand.
Annie Edison always keeps her books neat and her pencils sharpened.
Annie Edison absolutely never has ink stains on her fingers or mascara smudged under her eyes or a run in her stockings.

Annie Edison has done one thing right in her life and that's being a student at Community College.

(She doesn't count High School as getting it right.)

(Abed says everyone gets a training level and while his metaphors are usually about television and not about video games she nods along to this as they brush their teeth side by side in the matching pj's Troy sent them in this month's care package because she firmly believes in being properly trained for any undertaking.)

Annie Edison is a model student (and she is not going to be sad that this is her greatest achievement, she is not) and every hair is in place and her earrings match her shoes match her necklace match her panties because she dresses for the part (goddamnit).

Which is why it is absolutely reprehensible that the girl with scribbled-upon sneakers and smudged mascara and oversized t-shirt snapping her gum while reading a paperback with her legs propped up on her desk should have gotten the highest grade on the pop quiz in Applied Linguistics 120.

(“There’s a hole in her jeans. And I don’t even think it was intentional,” is Britta’s comment and Annie thanks her with a smile.
“I’ve never heard her talk,” Shirley says with her arm around Annie’s shoulder in the bathroom after class, “Maybe she cheated!”
“It seems like her oversized t-shirts and holey jeans are neither ironic nor a symptom of true poverty, which suggests she is just neglectful about her appearance, which has never happened her before,” Abed says mostly to his notebook. He keeps tallies on most of the students of interest at the school.
And a girl who surpasses Annie Edison in Applied Linguistics 120 is definitely a student of interest.)

Three weeks into the semester the girl with long brown hair that gently (but not at all attractively) curls at the ends suddenly loses the baggy t-shirts and dirty jeans and replaces them with a wardrobe of cute leggings and mini-skirts and flowy tops and a shoe collection that Annie does not, definitely does not, notice NOR covet.

That would be silly.

She also interrupts Annie’s correct answer to a very, very tough question in gibberish. (With her legs still on her desk and her mouth still full of gum and a paperback still in her hands and no notes or highlighters or even a textbook to be seen.)

“Well, I’m pretty sure if the professor wanted us to all speak in gibberish, he would have asked,” Annie bites out without deigning to turn her head in the girl’s direction.
(In her periphery she can see the girl put her feet on the floor and rest her elbows on her knees, the paperback held in one hand with her forefinger keeping her place.)
“Forgive me, of course answering the question about Archaic Latin by using Archaic Latin was rather silly, wasn’t it?”

(Annie does not, definitely does not, linger outside the Linguistics office with her ear to the door, unsuccessfully eavesdropping on the girl helping the professors with their research into ancient languages Annie is 99.999% positive the girl with the really nice shoes who used to wear baggy t-shirts just made up to get attention.)

(Annie does not, definitely does not, linger outside Abed’s door that night begging him to teach her Arabic refusing to take no for an answer and falling asleep propped up against his door and does not (surely not) have a text from Jeff in the morning warning that if she falls asleep in the hallway again he’s not coming over to rescue Abed and she’ll just have to stay there, he’s not coming all the way down there to carry her to bed again and a text from Troy saying that she’ll always be the smartest girl he knows even if she only speaks English and some conversational Spanish and a few bad words in Italian and a basket of muffins waiting for her in the library from Shirley.)

“Hey do you know anything about this?”
The girl is standing next to her and its rather unsettling because Annie has never really focused on her standing and she’s much taller than she expected.
“I’m sorry, what?” she says as coldly as she can (after clearing her throat not at all nervously first).
“I’ve seen you in my Statistics class, right? Well I’m falling behind because,” she shrugs. “Anyway, you seem to have a real knack for numbers. Mind if I … I don’t know. Study buddies? I’ll supply you in coffee and baked treats?”
“We have Applied Linguistics together,” Annie says not at all coldly and mostly just confusedly.
“Yeah,” the long-legged girl with really pretty hair that used to cover them up in ragged jeans and baggy band tees and who always reads paperbacks in class but still knows all the answers plops down next to Annie in Shirley’s spot in the library because Annie is alone and defenseless and leans into her like they are old friends. “And you’re like… the only one who seems to have a clue what’s going on in that class. But we’re also in Stats. You probably didn’t notice ‘cause I sit way in the back and am sometimes asleep because hello math is so not funny unless terodactlyes are involved, right?”
Annie just stares back stupefied.
“My name’s Dawn, by the way. You’re Annie, right?”
“So… you need my help?”
“Seriously math is the bane of my existence. You’d be doing me a huge favor.”
“Um. Sure. How about at my apartment around seven?”
“I’ll bring pizza if you bring your brain.”
“ . . . “
“That sounded way less creepy in my head.”

(When she leaves, Abed remarks, “She’s just like you. Only a little less Rachel Berry and a little more Thora Birch from American Beauty. You know?” He then stares at her suspiciously. “You aren’t going to be performing any musical numbers in the living room are you, because that’s strictly against the apartment rules unless in cases of zombie apocalypse or Jeff coming out of the closet.”)

(Abed did not, definitely did not come home to find Annie straddling the untidy girl with really great shoes on the couch, her hands wrapped up in that long brown hair and pulling a little harder than she’d ever like and that bottom lip between her teeth.)

“Hope you don’t mind anchovies.”
“Um. Gross?”
Dawn laughs and opens the box, “Don’t worry, I only had them put it on my half. I got you plain cheese because I figured that was safest.”
Studying with Dawn is an exercise in futility because she doesn’t sit still – ever – and gets pizza sauce on her notes and falls over her own feet every time she tries to balance herself down the narrow hallway to the bathroom. She’s wearing old jeans and a Def Leppard t-shirt that is so stretched out it hangs off one of her narrow shoulders (not at all attractively).
“Um.” Annie nearly works up the courage to ask but then just leans back in her chair and smiles uncomfortably because personal questions lead to personal revelations lead to a person sitting across from her at the table instead of a nemesis and a nemesis is so much easier to hate than a girl who can’t stop smiling and is so endearingly terrible at math and apparently has zero control over her limbs at any given moment.
“Um?” Dawn’s eyes twinkle and Annie finds herself smiling back (but not at all affectionately).
“It’s just… the … clothes?”
Dawn looks down, “Guh my roommate… there was some sort of accident or something and my wardrobe got caught in the crossfire so everything is in the wash or at the cleaners and I had to borrow his stuff. Again.”
“His stuff? Again?”
Dawn rolls her eyes and pulls her feet up onto her chair, hugging her knees to her chest, “My sister’s boyfriend actually. Here babysitting me. Or vise versa. I don’t know.” She shrugs and takes a swig of soda from the can in front of her, “I was rushed her to start semester and so I had to wear his old stuff for the first few weeks. I don’t even know where he’s been hiding all this stuff. Probably has had it all for forever.”
“Where’s your sister?”
“Hell if I know. Maybe Rome. She moves around a lot… for… um… her job.”
Annie nods like she understands, “It must have cost a fortune to ship all those shoes back over from Europe.”
Dawn’s nose wrinkles up as she smiles mischieviously, “Most of them aren’t even mine. She felt so guilty for sending me out here, she let me take stuff from her closet.”
“I wish I had a sister I could guilt-trip shoes out of.”
“Nah,” Dawn twirls her way to the couch and plops down on it, her feet (devoid of socks and with mismatched painted toes, as if she started a pedicure and changed her mind halfway through… three times) slung over the back, “ ‘Cause then you have a sister who has something to feel guilty for.”

Afterwards, Annie will insist that she was seduced. All those legs and talk of guilt – she just wanted that impish smile back. (They will all smile and not suggest that’s what she wanted all along.)

“The thing about perfection,” Dawn muses to herself while playing with Annie’s fingers, bringing her back to wakefulness from a small doze, “is that nothing else can ever quite measure up... I’d rather not measure up and be free to fall down than be too afraid to move.”

Annie Edison sometimes sleeps in past her alarm.
Annie Edison sometimes burns the pancakes (especially when her girlfriend kisses her on the back of the neck and wraps her arms around her waist).
Annie Edison sometimes gets distracted and doesn’t finish her homework two days ahead of schedule anymore.
Annie Edison sometimes stays awake to see the sunrise and is surprised by it.

Annie Edison is learning how to achieve perfection in new and slightly messy ways.

(But her panties still match her earrings because let’s face it, she’s not a heathen.)

A Low Key Summer Exchange
a multifandom gift exchange with a wild card

Sign-ups: July 17th - August 1st
Assignments due: September 1st
Reveals: September 8th

Come write all the lovely things!

NFM: a day late and a love letter short

In my defense, I am so exhausted I may fall over dead. Here's an update for you:

Firstly, I got two (OMG TWO) of the most amazing gifts for Night on Fic Mountain (seriously everyone go over there if you haven't trolled the archives for delicious things):

judy is a punk               Royal Tenenbaums; Margot(/Richie)  | 4350
Everywhere Margot sees her own name, the word "genius" follows. Margot has a sizeable IQ, an impressive vocabulary, and is versed in three languages but the word genius will be infinitely puzzling.
Probably one of the most delightful character studies I have ever read. My author is a perfect human being who managed to create the most wonderful piece about Margot and her relationship with her family, while weaving in enough of a genuine amount of shippiness that felt in-canon and so very, very true. Just a delightful piece that I will carry with me for a very long time.

Intensity and Steadiness           Anne of Green Gables; Anne and Diana  | 3049
Real friendship isn't only about the intensity of wanting to see each other every day, wanting to tell that person everything; it's also about the times when even if you don't see each other every day, talk to each other every day, even years, when you find time to see each other everything falls back together and it's like you were never really apart.
Just omg I can't with how precious this piece is. Anne and Diana and love and friendship. Just perfect. Absolutely lovely. Everyone should go read it.

I was so blessed by this exchange.

And mine:

rumor has it             Anne of Green Gables; Anne/Gilbert  | 4042
Modern Setting/ High School Anne Shirley's life filtered through the rumors you may or may not have heard about her
Exactly what it says it is. And I'm quite proud of it, honestly.

Also I won Mod's Choice icon in slayerstillness' Challenge 26 with this icon:

And here are the alternates (not all of these were submitted, but I don't really feel like doing the whole post where I tell you which I gave to the challenge and which are alternates or whatever.... so here's just a big pile of icons yay) .... (with some limited commentary)

The point of this challenge was to produce five icons from the same image.

06220202   06220207   06220220   06220223   06220225

06220229   06220244   06220247   06220249

Can we coo about this moment for just a hot minute? Look at our babies being so happy and alive and hugging each other! For as tactile they both seem to be, the physical interactions between the Summers sisters are always so restrained and deliberate. They are so careful with each other and you can see that in Dawn's arm - in the way Buffy's hair blocks her face from our view. Just one of the happiest moments of the series!

06220252   06220253   06220254   06220257   06220259   06220301

Dawn should be worshipped amen. I think I really screwed myself by not working on this set a bit longer and submitting this. I love how just... delightfully on the edge she looks in this moment. Right on the cusp of something. "Potential" is such a good episode for Michelle in general.

06221206   06221218   06220155   06220159

CAN WE JUST UGH OVER THIS MOMENT. Gorgeous, gorgeous girl. The screencap just didn't give me much to play with and I abandoned it early because it is too dark. The second one - the way the light catches her face - is perfect and exactly why I love the cap so much. But there isn't much I felt I could do with it.

06221228   06221232   06221234   06221236   06221252

06221259   06220100   06220105   06220153   06220146

Probably in my top five moments of the series in total. Dawn walking away from Buffy without saying goodbye and looking so determined, her hair swaying and her stride long and sure. And when Buffy turns, she's smiling with so much pride and love. It's just the most delightful moment of all moments. I get teary-eyed just thinking about it. Like with a lot of BtVS, the moment is just a wee bit too dark to get the vibrancy of the emotional moment to come through. No matter, I love having these on hand. It's an important moment to me and I will never not love it.

Also I've been writing porn (apparently)::

they'll never write a story about us | community | annie/abed
give me the child | btvs | spike/dawn | warnings: underage
swallow me whole | gossip girl | jack/georgie
almost lost you | gossip girl | blair/jenny(/the unsuspecting public)

[fic] delusions of grandeur

fic: delusions of grandeur
fandom: the 100
pairing: braven
summary: bellamy really wants to perform fellatio
word count: 590
recipient: upupa_epops (very late bday present my darling, ilu)
a/n: porn is the worst

Despite what the hundred might think Bellamy Blake did not have delusions of grandeur. He knew his place in the world and what he could do about it.

In his mind, there was a difference between what you had the power to do and what was impossible.

It’s just that there wasn’t much he thought he couldn’t change. Here. On Earth. Here, he was a Leader and a Rebel and a Shooter.

He had always been a brother and that in itself was the most impossible thing he had ever done.

Everything else was just child’s play.

(Everything else was just circumstantial.
Okay, so he was the King now. So he was such an easy choice.)

Everything that is, except Raven Reyes.

There were certain things about Raven Reyes that were impossible.

He counted them out to himself to pass the time.

The way her thighs gripped his waist.
The way her face softened when she thought no one was looking.
The way she bit down on her lower lip, as if he couldn’t see, to stop herself from self-exposure.
The way she kept coming back night after night, her eyes full of fire – daring him to stop her.
The way the outline of her neck and jaw drove him crazy.
The way she walked away.

Every time.

This list was really just a distraction.

Because it wasn’t like any other girl in the world couldn’t do these things. They weren’t impossible, they were just Raven.

All the pieces of Raven that she allowed him to see, that never added up to a real person.

She was a shadow, a ghost.
A warrior in the daylight and soft panting in his ear in the dark.

She wasn’t impossible.

She was just so damn elusive.

Bellamy Blake did not have delusions of grandeur.
He was, however, developing a disturbing need to feel her thighs shaking on either side of his head as he tasted her.

Which is ridiculous, really.

Except when she catches her breath in his ear and there’s a slight moan, ragged and wanting underneath, and he can almost tell what it would be like. Her fingers tied up in his hair, pulling just a little too hard.

She’d laugh, he thinks one night just after she pulls her shirt over her head and stares up at him defiantly. Probably after he nipped her in the thigh a little too lightly and right as she arches her hips up to remind him that she’s waiting. She’d probably laugh. Low and throaty. Looking down at him or with her eyes closed.

She’d laugh and he’d feel it rumble beneath his fingers and he’ll smile.

She was built for laughing, he thinks once as he watches her head bend down over a pile of bullets or bombs or a rag-tag assortment of wires, he can see it right there in the corner of her mouth.

She never laughs now. It’s not in the rules. That’s not the game they are playing.

Tonight, last night, it is just skin on skin, frenzied and not at all rough in the ways he thinks she’d like it to be. Never at all soft in the ways he’d like to show her it could be.

And never, ever, have they laughed.

(But he thinks, sometimes when his hands glide up her thighs and she doesn’t stop his lips from lingering on that soft spot behind her ear that causes her pulse to leap, that maybe he could make her laugh.

And it’s the most impossible thing he’s ever wanted.)
fic: what's so dangerous about a look in the dark?
fandom: the 100
characters: raven(/bellamy), clarke, octavia, (finn)
rating/warnings: pg13
(hinting at child abuse/neglect)

word count: 877
prompt: raven/bellamy. i am giving you the entire story. you have already leafed through my pages. you have seen the whole show. your approval is not my concern. by youcallitwinter at fluffyfrolicker's all shall bow: multi-fandom women comment ficathon
a/n: sorry not sorry

like mother like daughter, right?Collapse )

[fic] shall i play the hunted? (1/13)

fic: shall i play the hunted?
fandom: the 100
characters:Clarke, Bravenlarke, Flarke, Octavia/Lincoln, Finn, Abbie, Anya, ensemble
word count: ~1200
summary: in the stories, red riding hood was seduced by a wolf and saved by a huntsman. there’s never been a case of stars and girls with eyes as sharp as knives. this isn’t your grandmother’s tale (or maybe it always was)

a/n: going to plan on a chapter to coincide with each episode for now and depending on how this works/what canon does in the next two weeks, it may go longer. too soon to say.

When Clarke woke up in the drop ship her first thought should have been damn I don’t have my pills, but she never really took her mother’s fairy tales at their word.

She probably should have.

(They were tucked into her boot and she took them on instinct because she didn’t know how to live any other way. No woman in her family ever had. She took them with her eyes closed and without any water to wash them down. They were small enough to hide, small enough to lose if she thought about it – or rather, forgot to think about it.

She never wondered why other women didn’t need them.

She forgot to consider the fact that she was back on Earth and things worked different down here.)

While in her holding cell, Abbie was allowed to visit Clarke every day to administer special vitamins to counteract a genetic deficiency.

Alone in a cell with only her thoughts and the Earth swirling in the distance, she finally had the chance to consider just how odd that was.

Mom, a genetic deficiency would have been weeded out generations ago on the Ark.

It’s just a vitamin, Clarke.

There are restrictions on everything up here, mom. Why would this one thing be any different?

I told you, your great-great-something grandmother brought enough on board to last the number of generations that she presumed would need them. It’s only to last us until we get back home.

Why even let us procreate, mom? Shouldn’t I be impossible?

Kids like the Blake girl are impossible. We are just ignored anomalies.

What she forgot was that on the Ark, one small pill a day was enough to keep her normal.

On Earth, it was a whole different ballgame.

She just never thought she’d ever be on Earth and once she was, all the stories her mother had ever told her disappeared into the black hole of fear she carried in her chest like a totem.

She smelled the deer before they all saw it.

It smelled of fresh, living sinew and meat and fur. She could practically feel the soft down of its coat under her fingers before it appeared in her vision.

Her direction had changed a while back, but no one noticed. She was prowling, stalking something. All thoughts of the supplies and the mission were overshadowed with a deep and feral need. When she finally saw the peaceful beast, a deep moan or growl got caught in her throat and she felt almost as though she would choke on it.

She turned to the Space Walker for a cue and spread her lips into a thin smile to match his bright one.

She didn’t need to look at the deer to know what it was doing, to feel it’s every movement on her skin, to taste the grass it ate in her mouth, wrapping around her tongue like a caress. What she needed was to focus on the person beside her, form her movements in a mirror image of his.

You are human. You are human. You are human, she chanted to herself as she let them lead her back on the path towards their goal, the forest around her seeming to chant along with her.

There was nothing else she could be, really.

Weren’t they all human?

Once, in the days when things were simple and her very life wasn’t on the line every moment, she heard her parents arguing.

All parents argue, she guesses.

All couples on the Ark argue.

It’s too small and too cramped of quarters not to notice.

There’s nowhere for the strain of marital bliss to go.

(Romance has been dead for generations anyway.
Romance will never be dead and Clarke guesses that’s why there’s so many extra-marital affairs in the end.

Dreams always wither and die in the light of day.
Reality will never disappoint you.)

This argument stuck in her mind, like a magnet to metal.

It was something ridiculous. Maybe about laundry or someone working too late. Something negligible. Something that shouldn’t have been a fight but was because sometimes the arguments you choose are the ones that mean the least so that you can say something worth meaning.

In the space between a sob and a screech her mother’s voice rang out loud and clear, You stopped seeing me as human since that night. Why won’t you just walk away?

Clarke spent the night with Boyd watching old films with his father and giggling because that’s what ten year olds do when their parents need a night to themselves. In the morning, their small quarters carried in them a strange musky scent and there were deep gashes on her father’s arms that he kept covered for a few weeks.

And her mother took two pills that morning with a wistful smile, her cheeks more rosy than normal and her limbs moved like liquid instead of her usual controlled, sharpness.

She felt herself drifting away from her mother after that, or maybe before, maybe always or maybe only recently.

There was a comfort in her father’s ease that was missing from her mother’s controlled motions.

He said – wistfully almost – that they were so much alike, his strong, clear-eyed women. (She was a woman to her father long before she was a girl and shortly after she was a baby. He didn’t believe in children. He believed in promise, in what could be, in acting as though the future was already upon him.)

You should tell her. His voice a whisper above her head as she slept, a plea, a wish, a request.

And then the soft touch of a thin finger brushing back a strand of her hair.

Not yet.

Fathers, in Clarke’s estimable opinion, were bright smiles and warm arms and a gentle ear.
Mothers, she decided at too young an age to change her mind, were secrets and control and hiding.

Remember to take your pills said the note wedged into her sock with a packet of small yellow pills.

So she did. At first.

No one could say she had ever been anything other than a good daughter.

No one could say that she had ever been anything other than good.

It smells different than I …

Different than you thought it would?

He was all swagger and freckles and smirks and bright eyes and he smelled as though he was home. (They all smelled out of place. Like canned air being let out to dry. The whole lot of them made her feel sick to her stomach and restless. Like she could run for days and days.) He smelled as though she could take his hand and run with him until the sun set and the stars came out and keep going.

His scent tasted more wild than the trees, more fragile than the flowers the girls were collecting in garlands about their heads.

Yeah, was all she said.

And it was too much.

Because with him near and her back against a tree, she forgot for a moment what she was entirely.

Control. Secrets. Hiding.

Like mother like daughter, I guess.

a/n: I can't believe I'm actually doing this. In hindsight, I probably should have just made this my heroinebang, but I'm a needy writer and am desperate for comments on this idea. 

[fic] sorry for wanting so much

fic: sorry for wanting so much (ao3)
fandom: the 100
ship: bellarke (aka: my leader ship), bellFlarke leadership implied
word count: ~1,000
prompt: (from happyg_rl) I can't remember if you make me feel or if you were the one to make me numb
a/n: I haven't ventured far into bellarke fandom, but it looks like a lot of "bellamy feels protective and clarke gets hurt again" ... this is not that obviously. #endgame

Your parents don't tell you how to survive when the world is on your shoulders.

They just place it there gently, over time, as if you won't notice the weight.

As if you won't feel it just between your shoulder blades, urging you forward and always whispering you to stop.

Stop moving, stop feeling, stop thinking, stop worrying, let it go.

Clarke remembers that glance in the woods. At the beginning of everything. The day they set their boundaries. (The day she set the boundaries.) (The day they realized without speaking that they were all working together.) She replays it in her head like a totem.

She doesn't have anything from the Ark. Just memories.

She stops lamenting that somewhere along the way. Stops mourning her friend - the last one who remembered who she was before they called her princess. (He carried too much of her in his eyes. She thanks the trees that he's not there sometimes. She feels ugly for doing so.

She can't abide the idea of having that reflection staring back at her every day.)

Now she has them. A family of sorts. As fucked up as families can get.

The kind that fight in the woods and then glance back at each other to affirm that what really happened just happened.

(They look at each other sometimes. And it's always about her. She understands. She doesn't recognize the words coming out of her mouth as her own anymore. Except they are more her than ever. And that's all she has anymore. So it's enough.)

(Even if nothing will ever feel like enough again.)

No one has a brother.

And it shows.

So he does what he was made for. He shows them how.

She can feel herself being pulled towards darkness.

Or maybe it's the other way around.

She can feel herself sprinting towards the darkness.

It catches in her throat like a toxin and there's no cure for it. There's only day after day of trudging along. (And stolen glances for her and between them and sometimes she's there and sometimes she's absent.)

It's strange when she falls and he doesn't catch her.

But only one of them can play the hero.

And she never said that it was allowed.

So sure. He'll be the one on the outside if that's what it takes. He'll trudge through the muck and the grime and keep them all steady as long as she's not on the ground. As long as there's someone there to catch her then his heart won't end end up lying in mud beside her.

(Except she's always in sight.
Except it's almost like instinct to reach for her.
Except his muscles scream in protest when she isn't near.)

Except nothing because it's war and that's all there is now.

Her mother told her a story once about a princess and a dragon. Of course the knight rescued the princess. That's how these stories always work.

She wishes she could ask what happens when the princess is responsible for a kingdom full of people and there is no dragon, just a dark knight and a prince who sit at her left and at her right and keep her from spinning out of control.

She wants to ask if she's wishing for too much.

(She wants to ask what happens when there is only the night and that's enough.)

There's no asking mother for bedtime stories anymore.

He thinks maybe they are in one. That the dirt under his fingernails will get washed away in a hundred years and all that will be remembered is ... a boy probably. A man maybe.

(The two of them he thinks.
They were never really in this alone.)

Everyone has a totem.

She has a glance in the woods. An acknowledgement that they aren't alone, the two of them.

He has a simple phrase to repeat to himself.

I need you. I need you. I need you.

(She says it one night on top of him, her hand covering his lips. And he does what he's told because he's a good soldier. And she lets him brush the hair away from her face and cup her cheeks gently, ever so gently. And he doesn't wipe away her tears because that's not who they've ever been.

Her riding him into darkness.

Him letting another catch her when she falls.

Her crying into his palms even as she bites back a moan.

Him never holding on as tight as he'd like.)

Sometimes she seems too young to be there and he feels desperately ancient, trying to keep up, wanting to slow her down, to throw her over his shoulder and tickle her beneath the ribs just like he used to with Octavia. Wanting to throw her into a lake and hear her scream with laughter because she never laughs enough.

Sometimes she imagines their lives on the Ark. A dashing guard and a princess. She imagines lively nights with her parents at dinner and his bashful smile as he ducks his head to leave, always too tall, too large for the spaces she occupies. She imagines their one child, with impossible freckles and wild hair.

But she's carrying too much weight to pick her up just yet. She'll crumble any pedestal he tries to erect.

But he's the right size for Earth. He couldn't have lasted long on the Ark, especially in her world.

Sometimes he feels reckless and wants to shield her.

Sometimes she feels reckless and wants to damage him.

So they damage each other.

And let others pick up the pieces.

(Or not. It's not like they weren't broken before.)

She hopes to find a library someday. Untouched by the damages of the Earth. She wants to search through the pages and find them there. She admits this to him in a moment of weakness, their shoulders touching, a breeze gently teasing her hair. A story of a king and a queen who challenged each other, who went into a war they couldn't win, who made bad choices with their backs against a wall, who worked together and maybe kind of hated each other a lot of the time.

"There must be a success rate for people like us," is all she really says. But it feels like a confession or a plea.

He smiles his crooked smile, "Princess there's never been people like us."

And it sounds like the most desperate wish of them all.

[fic] breathing for mine
title: breathing for mine (ao3)
pairing: slayer!Drusilla/OFC (Watcher)
rating: pg
written for: Marta
prompt: (blend) slayer!Drusilla/OFC* (the Sight, fringes of society, Watchers) // OC historical slayer / her slightly younger Watcher (newbie Watcher, jaded Slayer, blood)
warnings: references to Drusilla's torture by Angelus, references to Watcher corruption, references to insanity
words: 1617


September 2014


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