Only an Afterthought, 2
Fandom: Sherlock/Inception
In which there is a secret history to explore.
Part I

( in which there is a secret history to explore )

...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.

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 )

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, 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 )

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 )

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.
justabi: It'll be like two for the price of one.
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 )

Started here.

( in which rodney thinks that moving the weapons was probably a bad idea )

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.

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 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 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 )

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 )

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 )

WiP Day. The guilt-free way to declare a story mostly-dead. Um. Kind of.

This is what 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 )

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 )

velena and I play. She's *such* a sweetie. *hugs*

( foray 1 )

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 josselin and a continuation by 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! )

Continuing on.

( and after melodrama! )

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! )

And whatever the hell this is continues. Mostly.

( qaf, next )

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 )