...and possibly, checking posting limits on Dreamwidth. They are, btw, quite high.

WIP Amnesty

Like a Metaphor, SPN, Dean/Castiel, Castiel/other; bent reality, the opposite of evil, and ocean with no memory.

Running on Empty SGA, John/Rodney, others, the vampire AU. I hate myself for not finishing this.

That Which You Call, SPN, Dean, Sam, Ruby, Castiel, Uriel; this was totally going to be Revenge on a Roadtrip. Totally did not happen.

The Storyteller, SGA, John Sheppard; no idea, really, but it seems neat.
Title: That Which You Call
Author: Seperis
Codes: Dean, Sam, Ruby, Castiel, Uriel
Rating: R

author notes )

wip: that which you call )

Title: The Storyteller
Author: Seperis
Codes: John Sheppard, etc.
Rating: PG-13

author notes )

wip: the storyteller )
WIP Amnesty. This is the SGA Vampire AU. Yes, this hurts me, too.

Title: Running on Empty
Author: seperis
Codes: McKay, Sheppard/McKay
Rating: NC-17

author notes )

wip: running on empty )
So every day is WiP Amnesty Day. Or so I tell myself. I have come to the (mostly) reluctant conclusion that I will never finish these, and that two will let me test the post limits in dreamwidth.

I kind of want to create a tag in honor, called ghosts of failures past. But eh.

Title: Like a Metaphor
Author:Seperis
Codes: Dean, Castiel, Dean/Castiel, Dean/Other
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: through 4.10 season four
Summary: This is Dean's myth.

ETA: Holy God, 42,000 words posted in one entry. It's like Christmas.

author notes )

wip: like a metaphor )
Ten Minutes of My Life I Will Never Get Back

1.) The thing that Child was watching on Sci-fi that was really gross and involved--hand to God--the stupidest abominable snowman ever, considering a.) there was no snow, and b.) your terror was muted by disgust on how bad his breath was. I actually think he was supposed to be Evil Bigfoot, but Child named him Abominable (in what I think is was dramatic irony), and it stuck. Child herniated self on floor during a death scene. It was deeply moving. On the floor. Rolling. While laughing.

2.) My mother looked at me with red rimmed eyes on Sunday.

Mom: People keep inviting me to guilds! What does that mean? Why can't I stop playing? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME? Also, how do you do x and y?"

Me: ....why do your hands look like claws?

Oh yeah. She's hooked.

3.) Sister is shopping for GirlFetus' baby clothes. It's not terribly interesting to anyone but me. I just can't get over how tiny everything is.

4.) Father quit smoking. He is not threatening to mix cyanide in his water anymore.

5.) Write twenty three thousand words of cracked out FBI Undercover Rentboy porn. I mean--you know. There's this moment where you give up on realism--and my standards were fairly low, so we're talking X-Files level realism here that I walked away from--and you just don't care.

God knows when I'm going to finish; I just got to the part where there's redecorating.

what I'm doing with my time )
Okay, thought. The reason that, no matter how much Supernatural attracts me, writing horror gives me nightmares. Case in point--Las Cruces, picked at random, which just had to have a massacre attached to it, and I scared myself writing about a tiny little choirboy who spends three days buring the nine dead from the attack. Over and over again.

Seriously. Does this sort of thing happen to Stephen King? I think not.

*****

Sam had hated Las Cruces, the ghosts that wandered voiceless and harmless over the streets at night: murdered girls with burned holes for eyes and red lips spread in welcoming smiles over slashed throats, boys who sing in high, clear voices in Spanish-accented Latin dressed blood-drenched robes. It'd been too late by then for the internet, but the libraries had given them the story, and Dean had spent a futile three days trying to find nine crosses that had vanished into history long before he was born.

He eyes Sheppard as he steps onto the dusty street with curious look around, turning slightly like he's making way for something, but either he doesn't have Sam's sensitivity or he's better at controlling himself than any psychic Dean's ever met.

"Nice town," Sheppard says with a raised eyebrow, coming up to lean against the side of the car. Behind him, Ronon and Teyla are just getting out, looking with wide, thoughtful eyes around them.

"It's safe." It is, though Dean's not sure why. Fort Bliss and the Rio Grande that drowned more people than the population of this city once housed to the west and south, a folklore massacre with the single boy that is forever burying his dead with nine white crosses that vanish come morning. Dean dug ten feet down and found nothing but rock. "Just ignore the--stuff." He indicates the empty streets with a flicker of his fingers. "It won't hurt you."

The air tastes faintly of salt and sand, the slow encroachment of the Chihuahuan Desert from the south, reaching thin fingers into the fertile Rio Grande watershed. With a shrug, he leads them toward city hall, a common stopping place for travelers on their way north. "It's pretty dead here," and he can almost *feel* Sheppard's ironic look, "a few ghosts, but they're harmless. There's a kid--"

"Burying his dead," Sheppard says, too softly. Dean stops, glancing at the sun still well above the horizon, then at Sheppard, eyes fixed on ground that's long settled from Dean's gravedigging efforts, a lowering mound coated in thick yellow-green Johnson grass, insects buzzing around Indian paintbrush and golden-brown ferns, heads dipping toward the ground.

"It's somewhere different every time," Dean says as Ronon and Teyla come up behind Sheppard, exchanging a look that he's pretty sure would piss Sheppard off if he could see it. "He doesn't do anything. Just--well, that's pretty much it. Come on."

Sheppard nods, controlling an incipient freak-out by dint of reaching for his gun, and Dean hides his smile, crossing the street and the overgrowth of the front lawn in front of City Hall. When he looks back, Sheppard's staring straight ahead, but the look on his face tells Dean he's listening to something--singing, maybe, the low chant of a Mexican priest, or just the high, frightened sounds of nine people who died screaming, leaving a single boy behind to honor the dead. "Sheppard."

*****

This is going to be The Ring all over again, isn't it?
Okay, it's been a while. Perhaps even ten months. In my defense, I have been very contrite that I did not, you know, keep going. Okay, maybe not so much a defense there. But look! Fic!

The Rain Gods, 4/x
by jenn
Codes: McKay, Sheppard/McKay
Summary: Waking up is when it starts.

Earlier parts here because I am getting used to using tags.

in which outdoor activities are a must, and Rodney gets tired of his underwear being molested )
In my continuing efforts to loathe all pollen and things that fly in the air and cause some people who will not be named to spend a lot of time with a pile of pillows behind their backs to help them breathe--look! More Rescue!Rodney! Kind of like the Rescue Rangers but less in animation and more in the subtext. Of course, I have never looked for subtext in Rescue Rangers, so really, what do I know?

No, please don't tell me about the subtext in Rescue Rangers. Really.

Continued from yesterday, here.

The One in Which Someone Should Have Mentioned To Someone That Maybe Atlantis' Last Run-in With Kolya May Have Fucked Them Up a Little Bit In Regard to Missing Sheppards )
Welcome to the crack zone. I never realized mid-season cliffhangers actually lead to breaks in sanity. I like it. Also, I had to stay home, what with the lack of breathing my allergies suddenly upgraded to and other sundry annoyances of existence, so honestly? This is totally my joy. My next trick is to sell Lorne to the Ori for beans.

Following Entanglement Theory, because seriously, this totally had to happen at some point.

Or, The One Where Rodney Realizes No One Read the First Season Mission Reports Closely Enough )
I really haven't stretched my really juvenile humor muscles in a while. Just go with it.

To [livejournal.com profile] amireal and [livejournal.com profile] svmadelyn, for petting.

ETA: God, sorry. Spoilers for The Return Part 1.

so earth's not quite what they expected )
Mar. 21st, 2006 11:23 pm

hmmm

Jenn: Okay, see, I turned in my remix on time
Jenn: But I can't stop *editing* the fucker.
Jenn: And so the version there is goinng ot end up *so freaking differnet* from the one on my site if this doesn't end.
[livejournal.com profile] justabi: It'll be like two for the price of one.
[livejournal.com profile] justabi: Or, you could just stop.
Jenn: You say that like I can.
Jenn: well, I did close it.
Jenn: That is something.
Jenn: I just keep seeing comma splices and places Rodney could start his own religion.

You know, there has to be something I could be working on right now that isn't, you know, rekilling the dead horse.

Like this.

panama, or things that happen when one can't take over the plane )
The Rain Gods, 1/x
Author: jenn (jenn@thegateway.net)
Spoilers: none specific
Codes: McKay, Sheppard/McKay
Rating: not yet rated
Summary: Waking up is when it starts.

in which time flies when you're not conscious, part 1 )
For those who aren't aware of the mighty jackalope.



Taken from The Jackalope.

*****

It turns out that John suffers from a traumatic childhood hunting memory. Rodney expounds on the psychological connotations of carrying childhood phobias into adulthood, but he's got no leg to stand on when John drags out his claustrophobia and waves it like a big flag of unreasonable neuroses. Point taken. Stupid point, but taken.

"And you can obviously do it," John says reasonably, completely unbloodied a few feet away, eyes fixed on the horizon, sitting far too straight to be natural. The smell has to be getting to him; the greenish cast to his skin isn't fading, and Rodney pretends hard that he doesn't care. "I'm impressed."

Rodney stares at the partially disassembled carcass with narrowed eyes. "Right. Here's a thought. Find us shelter? Unless al fresco eating and sleeping are your thing. They so aren't mine." It doubles as an excuse to send John out of sight. And this--this is going to take a while and this can only get messier. Rodney's hands are only just remembering how this goes.

John straightens, looking at him, then quickly away. "Yes." The enthusiasm is almost cute, in a way that Rodney will be damned if he'll ever admit aloud. "Shelter."

"Fire."

"Also good," John says encouragingly, regaining color at a remarkable rate. Slinging his gun over his shoulder, he gets to his feet, one hand going casually to a tree to cover for the fact he's swaying on his feet. Rodney knows better than to even try to comment on it. "I'll be back. Carry on." With a salute so crisp that the air cracks with it, John wanders off at a quick pace toward a copse of trees a very convenient distance away.

"Find water!" Rodney shouts, as much for survival purposes as the fact that, oh God, he's going to need a bath after this. "Something in cool and refreshing!"

"Will do," drifts back, and Rodney stares down at the carcass blankly. If they had salt, they could store the remainder somewhere--there's no way both of them can eat all of this, and Rodney's experience with drying meat is two decades old. Of course, if they had a puddlejumper, they could go home, the really, really long way, so really, why the hell is he thinking about salt for if he's wishing for things? The Daedalus showing up unexpectedly--*that* would be useful.

Sitting back on his heels, Rodney frowns. "I really, really hate the outdoors."

*****

John's still green and picks at dinner with a marked lack of enthusiasm, but Rodney remembers this reaction from his mother and restrains himself from calling John a total girl because, well, he's still armed.

There is something to be said for dinner you dressed and cooked yourself--not something he's looking forward to doing on a daily basis or anything, but still. He's finding a kind of sad longing for vegetables, though, even the pentagon shaped ones that kept giving him flashbacks to seeing the Exorcist in sixth grade. Salt. Pepper. Maybe even something in garlic and bay leaves.

This, Rodney thinks dismally, can only lead to depression and possible severe indigestion. "Eat."

John narrow-eyes him from the other side of the fire. The jackalope rib is barely touched. "I'm not that hungry."

Rodney waves his own stripped jackalope rib. "You didn't eat breakfast, you threw up lunch, and I know for a fact that you skipped dinner last night. So don't *even*. I'm so not nursing you through starvation and then being left here *alone* to be consumed by giant antlered rabbits. It's just not happening. Eat."

"I'm sure you'll be fine." But John picks up the rib, nibbling half-heartedly, then setting it back down with a 'happy now?' expression that makes Rodney want to throw the stripped bones at him. "You know--"

Rodney doesn't like the way he says that. "Is this about the Daedalus picking us up tomorrow?"

John's hands flatten on his knees. "They don’t know where we are."

"They'll ask the priestesses."

"Who might not tell."

And Atlantis isn't known for its torture techniques. Rodney stares at the fire hard. "They'll tell."

John nods slowly, eyes flickering to the trees swaying above them. "There aren't any caves. Tomorrow, we'll look for something better." John pulls his knees up, toeing the rib aside. "Temporarily."

Rodney makes himself nod. "Temporarily."

*****

Edited to fix the jackalope picture. Stupid non-posting picture.
Aug. 31st, 2005 11:57 pm

rageful

*speechless with rage*

SHE'S SENDING ME VICIOUS TOYING EMAIL I CANNOT ANSWER!

*****

"Five. I was five."

Rodney closes his eyes against the edge of desperation bleeding through the toneless voice. "Five. That's when your father took you up in a jet. That's when you knew you wanted to fly."

John's head in his lap turns, dark eyes as unreadable as blank glass. He's lost weight again--Rodney hadn't known the chair could do that, because God knew, they got enough to eat, but John's worn down to bone and thin skin, angular beneath the loose cotton-like clothes they'd been given when their uniforms gave out. Pared down, and somehow, it makes him look weirdly younger, dangerously fragile.

A little shake rocks him, and Rodney braces his hands on John's shoulders until it passes. A few seconds, and John evens out again. It takes longer every night. If John's not a junkie for them already, he will be soon. "I don't remember my mother."

Rodney hadn't ever thought to ask about her. Fuck. "She was like you. Smart. Sharp." Carefully, he touches John again. Body memory, he thinks, when John doesn't jerk away instantly. "Brilliant."

"Homicidal." Thinning lips twist, and John tries to pull away. He could, easily, but Rodney tightens his fingers.

"No. You're not."

He is, an unsheathed knife, a gun with a broken safety. Rodney hadn't known how to hate like this--the Wraith were the manifestations of the boogeymen of childhood closets and nightmares, but even that paled to the here and now of watching them take John and then bring him back a little less.

The sheer, unending nausea of watching John pulled to pieces in front of his eyes; knowing that John comes back every day knowing there's something forever missing. He keeps his touch gentle, and John relaxes back into him, eyes closing with a sigh, going boneless. Not asleep--he doesn’t sleep without whatever they give him to counteract whatever the fuck else they give him to get him in that chair--but almost, almost at peace.

"Rodney." John's voice is soft, echoes of an amused drawl from a lifetime ago, when that and a smile could light up a room, no ATA gene required. When he could take Rodney's breath with just a look. "I remember your name, you know."

Rodney smiles, and his hands move on their own, brushing across dark hair gently, just feeling him here. "Yeah?"

"Even--" John shivers again, and Rodney reaches for the blanket, pulling it up around the too-thin body, tucking it securely. They've fallen asleep like this, John's arm, like now, wrapped tightly around his thigh, like Rodney might vanish if he doesn't. Waking up with those fingers twisted in the front of his shirt, face buried against his side. Rodney can't remember a time he wasn't able to touch John. "Even when I forget mine."

Rodney forces himself to breathe, stroking the dark hair back. "I'll remember for us both."

*****

I will mpreg every character you ever loved Harlenquin romance style, I swear.
Aug. 31st, 2005 11:17 pm

hopeful

I have never asked anything for purely selfish reasons from my friendslist. At least, never openly, I just implied.

This is *serious*.

I still can't send out email, but can receive it, which is kind of like being a roach motel, and wow, gross.

So I need a favor.

Just email [livejournal.com profile] svmadelyn at svmadelyn@livejournal.com and tell her that I am a dim shadow of my sparkly self if she does not come online *right now* to entertain me.

So far, three have been sent, and she mocks me. I'd hate to resort to desperate measures to get her attention.

I do things like this, left unsupervised.

*****

They held him down the first time.

Rodney doesn't remember anything about that day before that, coming conscious on some horror-movie version of a medical bed, eyes opening on almost-silent grunts, dragged from unconsciousness by something he can't even name. John was strapped down to another bed and convulsing under the attentions of three white-clad bodies.

Spine a painful arch from the thin mattress, mouth gagged, eyes rolled back, and God, Rodney remembers thinking. God. He was *screaming*.

They held him down and shot him up, watching him seizing with detached curiosity, then took him away, to that room, to the chair, strapped him in, made him their living, breathing key, their way to activate a fortress and take over a world.

Rodney doesn’t remember anything until they brought him back, dumping him on the cool floor of their cell, still shaking with involuntary reaction. Rodney remembers pulling him to the cot and stretching him out, John's fingers tangled in the sheet beneath his cheek, saying the same thing over and over.

His name, hissed sharply between clenched teeth. His rank. His serial number.

Neither of them slept that night.
I started this for [livejournal.com profile] taraljc forever ago and then forgot it for some reason. It was supposed to be, I think, Clark/Chloe, Pete/Chloe and eventually pre-Clark/Lex, but well. Yeah.

In Which I Have No Idea Why I Stopped

sv - three sides )
I posted this a millenia ago in my diary at diaryland as a WiP. As diaryland is gone forever, and it's still a forever-wip, what the hell.

In Which I Could Not Get Pete Laid. Sorry Pete.

sv - the strawberry spring )
This is more along the lines of a cut scene from Don't Blink (Or You'll Miss It). I ended up never using it for anything, but I did have it half-imagined, before I realized that I had no idea where it was going to go.

In Which I Got Confused and Stopped.

qaf - the cut bit from don't blink )
Third WiP.

It was a Christmasy thing last year. It passed, thank God.

In Which I Realize That This Is Just Wrong and Move Away Quickly.

qaf - the one with the cookies )
And another one.

This is sort of because of [livejournal.com profile] josselin. Cause we were chatting and then this came up, and I still have no idea how that happened.

In Which It Started Light and Then Wanted to Degenerate to Scary Melodrama, So I Stopped.

I'm seeing a theme here.

qaf - the thing with two of them )
In honor of WiP Amnesty Weekend, cleaning out Ye Old WiP Folder. This is possibly the most disturbing place in my computer.

Have I posted this? I don't think so. Well, that I can find.

In Which I Wanted to Do Light, Then Justin Got Weird, and I Stopped, Because It Was Supposed to Be Porn, Dammit.

qaf - threesome pornfic )
I'm giving it three more days. I'm so bored with myself it's ridiculous. And it's not even dramatic moodiness. It's boring moodiness.

Head clearing in progress. Snippet. Courtesy of suggestions by [livejournal.com profile] theantimodel and [livejournal.com profile] svmadelyn.

now and then )
Who knew the most stressing part of my day would be choosing a camp for Child?

Dear God. There are so *many*. And I--and by that, I mean, Child--want to attend them all. I wish for adult camps now. I'd like a day of swimming, horseback riding, crafts, and antics galore.

Dammit. Someone should invent this. Though the fees are somewhat unreal in some cases. I'm curious if they feed the children off of platinum plates with lobster dinners or something. Or maybe it's the fact this is one of those ten billion things I know absolutely nothing about. The coolest camps so far are the ones sponsored by the Children's Museum, but damned if I can figure out a way to get him downtown still make it to work. God knows, mandatory overtime alone is going to cause some problems.

*sighs* Stupid interesting camps.

Child is collecting various icky wildlife and scaring me badly. There are *so many ways* that I can detail why a snail in the house creeps me out, especially one that unexpectedly sticks to surfaces my face is close to, and I didn't see until I was almost eye to eye with the little bastard.

Child has been mimicking my scream for about an hour now. And snails defecate while clinging to the top of their clear plastic habitats. I may never be able to eat again.

The Living Rock Hermit crabs don't scare me. Possibly because I spend a lot of time not wondering where the escaped one got to.

I'm absolutely charmed by WiP Amnesty Day, to the point of active joy. All the pretty snippets! Nothing pleases me more than watching Pru panic over AIM. And I love her very, very much. So this was twice as much fun.

One more guilt free bit of WiPness. I have no idea if anyone even remembers this one, it's so old. But here we go.

The first two parts are here and here. For the curious, this story is the shining, single reason I no longer allow myself to write linear. It always, always goes bad.

something like forgetting, the snippets of doom )
WiP Day. The guilt-free way to declare a story mostly-dead. Um. Kind of.

This is what [livejournal.com profile] rageprufrock and I did between starting This, Too and sort of mostly kind of finishing This, Too

rainfic, pru and jenn, circa 2003 )
There are so many really *cool* ways to spend your birthday, but I chose laying in bed with a romance novel and cinnamon schnapps and coffee up until a few minutes ago. And frozen Patio enchiladas. Horrifyingly addictive badfood.

Also, I added more to How It's Gonna Be.

In all fairness, I actually have written a lot on it, but unfortunately, I went non-linear, which was a bad idea and I knew it, even though it seemed like a good idea at the time. I write straight through. Skipping a scene assures that scene will not be written, and so forth. I kept thinking I'd write *up* to that scene, then be comfortable posting, but that didn't happen. Oh well.

Anyway. The melodramatic adventure continues apace. For those who have completely forgotten....

cliff notes )

Caught up?

Right. Onward, then.

how it's gonna be, more )
Okay, considerably less wired. *g*

I need a favor. A big favor.

incomplete grocery stores )
Kind of short, sorry about that. Kind of long in the coming, but see, weird pairings do things to me.

Anyway. Um. Part something of the story that just keeps going. For the curious, we're at one hundred pages. Please don't remind me of this or I will start panicking.

Snail power! Or something. Hmm.

how it's gonna be, next part )
[livejournal.com profile] velena is crack. Writing-crack. Wonderful, *addictive* writing-crack.

Dedicated to [livejournal.com profile] righteoustmk for Daphnecons, to make us smile hugely and be very, very inspired. *huge, massive hugs*

foray 2 )
[livejournal.com profile] velena and I play. She's *such* a sweetie. *hugs*

foray 1 )
I honestly at this point have to wonder what the hell I think I'm doing.

Less melodrama. More drugs. They make everything better. I should apply this to my life. I swear, I'd be much happier, if less well-adjusted.

...yep, that's right, more )
Yesterday ended up being--very weird. On a variety of levels.

Went to work, wrote out appointment letters, found out two of my coworkers watch QaF. Discussion ensued. Kind of shocky. Scared all the guys into hiding. Quite funny.

Gathering of some of the LJ QaF contingent on AIM last night, which was incredibly fun.

AU snippet by [livejournal.com profile] josselin and a continuation by [livejournal.com profile] soundczech The premise? What would have happened if Brian had walked in on Emmett and Justin.

I always keep my promises. Snail power!

I really should have thought through this snail as mascot thing more carefully.

the melodrama goes on! )
And this is where I had to go take my antibiotics. And fell asleep.

and...more stuff )
My only excuse is that this entire general-exhaustion thing has left me completely unable to do anything that requires actual movement other than my fingers. And shame is really, really outdated. Retro, even.

the melodrama continues! )
One--so far, I'm not dead. Dizzy and inordinately tired and unable to sleep, but other than that? Dandy.

Two--Sanity's really, *really* overrated.

insomnia and google collide )
*****

Finally. MELODRAMA!

melodramatic planning! )
You all get why I don't often make icons now, right?



Well, I gave it a week and my nose is still doing revolting things I won't discuss, the congestion won't end, and nausea's added for reasons I won't go into for any reason short of imminent death, and only messy death. Headache on fourth day straight Four fifteen appointment. Yay me.

So of course, after taking enough sudafed to cause poisoning in small experimental rodents, I spent time this morning in socks, ugly polyester pajama bottoms and wrote.

Slowly, the snail pounds through the snow and molasses wilderness.

and the story continues )
And whatever the hell this is continues. Mostly.

qaf, next )
Withdrawal set in when my ISP went down for HOURS. I cannot even begin to describe the blank, unending void of my existence when life as I knew it was snuffed out....

Say it with me.

You really need to get out more, chica.

I will! You know, when I have my Saturdays free again. Apparently, and this is just speculation, bosses sort of frown upon their employees coming in Saturday morning in less than relatively good condition. Strange, strange people.

QaF

For amusement value, those four or five who are reading this little, idiotic, won't-fucking-get-to-the-point story that refuses to do anything....

I. Hate. This. Story. The sheer amount of melodrama I'm contemplating scares me badly. But in a fiendishly evil way, not a run for cover way, because well, I just looked at the line up for fall, and there are three, count 'em, three shows I want to watch. That's just sad.

But anyway.

For those interested, because I always forget to memory these things, all earlier parts can be found here.

It moves like a snail. The runt snail. The snail so slow the other snails mock him. All the time.

and more Qafness, 5 )
I didn't have internet access all day. Who can honestly be surprised?
and more qafness, 3 )
I'm playing with an idea. A glimmer of an idea, if you will. A glimmery-glimmer that's--never mind. Love to Jaymalea and MHC and Bethy, per contractional obligation. Usual and continuity critique much appreciated.

qafness )
[livejournal.com profile] slodwick made an AMAZING picture for The Yard, and--yeah. Wow.

*still looking* That's just--perfect.

The Yard, part 5 )

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