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Saturday, April 3rd, 2004 12:08 pm
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*mulls* We need a drama queen amnesty day.
Let's try that capitalized. Drama Queen Amnesty Day.
Yes, that looks better.
Now what would that entail is the question. Though I'm all for mandatory caplocked posts and screeching about the existential unfairness of it all.
Things
Everyone is doing challenges. There are remixes due soon. I'm guessing that this means I should work on mine. I've done the 'narrowed it down' and then the 'oh god, this isn't happening to me' right into 'i'm going to put out a contract on Victoria, because I do *not* believe she didn't get some seriously evil glee out of this one'. Or I could be imagining that. Though I don't think I am.
And is it my imagination, or in the last six months, have there been like, a rash of people changing LJ names? Not that I'm against this or anything, because variety is the spice of life and all, but I'm doing the connect the person to the LJ to the AIM name to the YM name to the writing-pseudonym-in-this-fandom name to the webpage name game again. This is why I rarely ask for Real Names from people. Frankly, I'm not sure I'd be able to keep up.
I'm beyond words tempted to write B/J Vampire AU fic. It's like, this obsession of not-wanting-to-write mixed in with really, over the top dramatic bloody scenes that are pretty much Guess Jenn's Number One Kink here. I honestly think it's the influence of Te's Cliche Challenge, reminding me of all the cliches I've never gotten around to playing with.
I just have this vivid image of Justin and Michael holed up in the comic shop, waiting for dawn, all the windows and doors boarded up.
Like this.
You're never going see dawn.
Brian said that, four hours ago when you were pressed up against the remains of Babylon, half-broken, crumbling wall gouging your back with Brian's hand in your pants. Cold, so cold, you remember that, shivering at the touch like frozen metal in deep winter, burning across your skin like he'll leave fingerprints pressed into every inch he touches. You hate how you whimpered and twisted, hips pushing into his hand, eyes straight ahead and staring into hazel lightened almost to amber, you could drown there and never want to stop.
You could, you could see yourself, you *can* see yourself, toes brushing slick alley concrete and a rotting corpse that didn't seem anything near as real as Brian, who was always more vivid than anything alive could be, even more now.
"You want?" he said in your ear, and you can feel that pressure just beneath, that weird touch that's like pinpricks, reminds you of shooting up in Babylon's backroom at seventeen and stupid as shit, blissing out on the toilet and Brian finding you, though he'll never say he was looking, pulling you out and calling you a stupid cunt and throwing you on the floor. Taking you home to ride your high out, to ride him, and you think it'll feel like that, when he does it, when he pushes in, when he draws more than a thin line on your skin and then pulls away, licking the taste of your blood from his lips, vivid against his teeth, Christ, Brian--
Fucking tease, playing with you like a mouse, and you hated him for that. Arched against cold stone and begging for it with your whole body, crawl like a filthy little bitch to lick his boots, take me, take me, please, anything you want, everything you want, just don't let me go....
You were crazy. You still are. You have been, for longer than you ever guessed. You can taste him in your mouth, cold skin and the taste of dirt, metal-sharp blood, someone else he had tonight, someone that wasn't you.
"Justin?" Michael whispers, and you shudder at warm breath against the scratch on your neck and think that you hate him a little. You hate him because Brian was touching you like you always wanted, wanting you as much as you wanted him--he looked for you in this godforsaken city, hunted you down a hundred streets, drew you out, had you *right there* and then Michael, Christ, you fucking *ass*, standing there with a cross and that look of hurt surety, little martyr, oh look how fucking brave you are, fuck you, Michael....
And Brian was gone with a lick to your mouth and you were slumping on the dead body of a faceless man, pants loose at your hips, cock hard and aching, tasting him. You don't think you'll ever stop.
It's sweet.
"I'm fine."
You boarded up the windows when you got here, crept into the airless storeroom and blocked up the door. It's three hours until dawn and Michael's been this restless, faceless presence, meaningless, like the stale, fear-thick air, like the nameless, faceless people huddled around you that Michael brought, bodies warm against you, and you want to get *away*.
You sweat through your shivering and touch the scratch on your neck, and God, you'd do anything to feel cold again.
*****
*cocks head* Stupid? Not?
Let's try that capitalized. Drama Queen Amnesty Day.
Yes, that looks better.
Now what would that entail is the question. Though I'm all for mandatory caplocked posts and screeching about the existential unfairness of it all.
Things
Everyone is doing challenges. There are remixes due soon. I'm guessing that this means I should work on mine. I've done the 'narrowed it down' and then the 'oh god, this isn't happening to me' right into 'i'm going to put out a contract on Victoria, because I do *not* believe she didn't get some seriously evil glee out of this one'. Or I could be imagining that. Though I don't think I am.
And is it my imagination, or in the last six months, have there been like, a rash of people changing LJ names? Not that I'm against this or anything, because variety is the spice of life and all, but I'm doing the connect the person to the LJ to the AIM name to the YM name to the writing-pseudonym-in-this-fandom name to the webpage name game again. This is why I rarely ask for Real Names from people. Frankly, I'm not sure I'd be able to keep up.
I'm beyond words tempted to write B/J Vampire AU fic. It's like, this obsession of not-wanting-to-write mixed in with really, over the top dramatic bloody scenes that are pretty much Guess Jenn's Number One Kink here. I honestly think it's the influence of Te's Cliche Challenge, reminding me of all the cliches I've never gotten around to playing with.
I just have this vivid image of Justin and Michael holed up in the comic shop, waiting for dawn, all the windows and doors boarded up.
Like this.
You're never going see dawn.
Brian said that, four hours ago when you were pressed up against the remains of Babylon, half-broken, crumbling wall gouging your back with Brian's hand in your pants. Cold, so cold, you remember that, shivering at the touch like frozen metal in deep winter, burning across your skin like he'll leave fingerprints pressed into every inch he touches. You hate how you whimpered and twisted, hips pushing into his hand, eyes straight ahead and staring into hazel lightened almost to amber, you could drown there and never want to stop.
You could, you could see yourself, you *can* see yourself, toes brushing slick alley concrete and a rotting corpse that didn't seem anything near as real as Brian, who was always more vivid than anything alive could be, even more now.
"You want?" he said in your ear, and you can feel that pressure just beneath, that weird touch that's like pinpricks, reminds you of shooting up in Babylon's backroom at seventeen and stupid as shit, blissing out on the toilet and Brian finding you, though he'll never say he was looking, pulling you out and calling you a stupid cunt and throwing you on the floor. Taking you home to ride your high out, to ride him, and you think it'll feel like that, when he does it, when he pushes in, when he draws more than a thin line on your skin and then pulls away, licking the taste of your blood from his lips, vivid against his teeth, Christ, Brian--
Fucking tease, playing with you like a mouse, and you hated him for that. Arched against cold stone and begging for it with your whole body, crawl like a filthy little bitch to lick his boots, take me, take me, please, anything you want, everything you want, just don't let me go....
You were crazy. You still are. You have been, for longer than you ever guessed. You can taste him in your mouth, cold skin and the taste of dirt, metal-sharp blood, someone else he had tonight, someone that wasn't you.
"Justin?" Michael whispers, and you shudder at warm breath against the scratch on your neck and think that you hate him a little. You hate him because Brian was touching you like you always wanted, wanting you as much as you wanted him--he looked for you in this godforsaken city, hunted you down a hundred streets, drew you out, had you *right there* and then Michael, Christ, you fucking *ass*, standing there with a cross and that look of hurt surety, little martyr, oh look how fucking brave you are, fuck you, Michael....
And Brian was gone with a lick to your mouth and you were slumping on the dead body of a faceless man, pants loose at your hips, cock hard and aching, tasting him. You don't think you'll ever stop.
It's sweet.
"I'm fine."
You boarded up the windows when you got here, crept into the airless storeroom and blocked up the door. It's three hours until dawn and Michael's been this restless, faceless presence, meaningless, like the stale, fear-thick air, like the nameless, faceless people huddled around you that Michael brought, bodies warm against you, and you want to get *away*.
You sweat through your shivering and touch the scratch on your neck, and God, you'd do anything to feel cold again.
*****
*cocks head* Stupid? Not?
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From:This is so sad. I *finally* get an idea and it's this one! *g*
But pretty boys all bleeding in dirty alleys...
Oh yeah. It's good for me.
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From:*hopeful*
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From:*hopeful* Can I have an icon now?
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From:*mulls*
It just wouldn't feel the same in third, though. I don't know why.
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From:Sounds awful, doesn't it?
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From:this is great - creepy and intense, but you get the underlying longing that B/J is (to me at least)
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From:*pets Justin* There there. I'ts okay.
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From:(I of course just typed 'works for men'. *eyes fingers*)
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From:*eyes boys*
But pretty. Very, very pretty.
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From:How're those disks suiting you?
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From:Torture.
*mmmmmmmmm*
The pretty is *killing me*. Christ. You and Cooper are like *crack dealers*.
But in a good, life-affirming way, of course.
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From:"You're a bloodsucking creature of the night, Brian!"
*slinks away in shame*
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From:Man, that is going to *haunt me*.
Though really, comic relief never hurt anyone.
*g* Glad you like!
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From:B/J Vampire AU fic
When I first read this, I thought of vampire blowjobs *eg*. Well. Maybe we'll see some of that too. *g*
-Silverkyst
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From:Mmm.
Vampire blowjobs. I wonder how guys feel about Very Sharp Teeth down *there*?
*mulls*
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From:This would, of course, be a good thing.
(uses most appropriate icon)
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From:And thanks! *hugs* I'm glad you like!
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From:Ummm...
Yeah, it's hot too. And good on many descriptive levels, but right now, I'm just staring and going... "Damn."
I'm not sure how you made it work so well, but it does.
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From:Damn, girl. Way to take a ridiculous cliche and just make it *work*.
Hee! Did you read Te's list of Cliches? I was just staring at it, thinking, "I want to do *that* one and *that* one adn maybe *that* one."
Espeically The Aliens Made Us Do It. A classic. And canon in many, many fandoms.
*g*
*hugs*
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From:*interested*
Sex pollen?
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From:The problem is that it started out with Batman and Nightwing conversation, and then it stalled... Hmmm... I'll show you.
***
Looking around, Dick thinks it’s strange that he feels so at home here. He’s more comfortable on this space station than he is in Metropolis. It’s not home, home is Gotham’s baroque architecture; New York’s towering skyscrapers. It’s shadowed streets and buildings darkened by pollution.
It’s the newness, the sleek cleanness, of Metropolis that unnerves Dick. The Luthors have torn down the old slums and replaced them with soulless apartment buildings. The entire city feels as if it could be rebuilt overnight. The space station may be modern, but it doesn’t feel replaceable.
He walks down the hallway and knows which identical corner to turn. He’s only been here a few ties, but Bruce made sure he knew how to find and operate the communication system. He tunes it into Bruce’s frequency with stark efficiency.
“Batman,” Bruce answers, his voice crisp and clear.
“Nightwing here.” His fingers hover over the keys and there’s enough of Bruce’s own technology in this system that it feels familiar beneath his hands.
“Good.” Bruce punctuates his word with a soft grunt, which means that somewhere down there, Batman’s fighting with someone who is about to feel a lot of pain.
Dick almost feels sorry for them, but not enough to dull his sharp smile. “You said that Poison Ivy had attacked?”
There’s the hushed sound of fighting, the muffled thud of leather gloves impacting against flesh. “Apparently, she’s working with Brainiac.”
“Sounds like a match made in heaven, or the supervillain equivalent,” he says lightly. Bruce had given him instructions to get up here, but hadn’t told him any more than that. “What do you need me to do?”
“Stay there. Protect the station.” Bruce’s voice is firm and there was a time when Dick would have whined about that, made some crack about being so useful as he sat safe and far away from danger. There was a time when he would have been tempted to turn around now and track Batman down. Luckily, now he knows it’s better to wait for Bruce’s reasons. And then decide if it’s worth tracking him down.
In the background, he hears someone moan, then there’s a sharp slap, and then silence. It’s all too easy to picture the exact violence that would cause those sounds. “Ivy captured Flash. He’s locked in his room right now.”
He waits for a few seconds, but Bruce remains silent. “What happened?”
“We got to her greenhouse.” Of course, it’s always a greenhouse. “She’d already left. We found Flash unconscious and covered in pollen.”
“What does it do?”
There’s a small huff of air, Bruce’s equivalent of a frustrated sigh. “No idea. It’s being analysed by the station now.”
“So, I’m here to baby-sit the Flash?” Dick’s own sigh is, well, a sigh. Highly effective in communicating his lack of love for this idea.
“Exactly,” Bruce replies and most people wouldn’t have caught the change in his tone. Dick, on the other hand, has spent years around Bruce. He hears the extra depth, the extra note of warmth. But even Dick would heed to be observing Bruce carefully to have any idea what it meant.
But he can guess it’s not good. “Mind control?”
“Possibly,” Bruce says evenly, as if it’s just another alternative, and that explains the entire mission. This has nothing to do with actually helping track down Ivy. It has everything to do with making sure a potentially dangerous superhero isn’t left alone with a good variety of weapons.
***
Huh. I know I wrote more, but I haven't typed it up. I wonder what happened to those notes.
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From:I just have to say that I approve of this wholeheartedly *nod*nod*
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From:I will bribe you with incubus to keep it up. I have to write my Remix first, and figure out what I'm doing with incubus, but I will write it.
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From:I'm shocked at myself. Shocked. Yet it is fun. And this makes me happy.
I will bribe you with incubus to keep it up. I have to write my Remix first, and figure out what I'm doing with incubus, but I will write it.
I consider this a contract, sweetie. Just sayin'.
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From:Thanks!
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From:*happy place*
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From:Which Marmanel records as a defriending by the old name and a refriending by the new, so on a couple I wondered what the hell happened to the person until I discovered that I had the new name already friended myself and figured it out.
Yep. That's how I usually find out, days later, when I see this name pop up on my friendslist and I think--did I friend them? When? Then the ahh, okay, portion of the show occurs.
LJ--always an adventure.
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From:See, that's what I said! He's already a predator. He's all over the bodily fluid thing. He's a huge fan of eternal youth and all. And God knows, I can't prove he actually sleeps at night. So you know. He's halfway there already.
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