John in Field

(no subject)

Changing jobs. Nervous, as I am crap at dealing with change. But I've turned in my two weeks notice, so... I have committed myself to this course.

About to leave for a week in Denmark. Still rushing around doing all the things you have to do before trips. At least I can set my iPhone to airplane mode and just use the free wifi when I find it to check my email. While I'm hoping to relax as much as humanly possible when on a trip with family this vacation, I'd prefer to not be completely incommunicado when in the midst of so many things.
butterfly, cactus

FIC: Distress (Supernatural)

Title: Distress
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Gen
Characters: John Winchester, girl!Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester
Rating: Teen and up (mentions of canon-typical violence)
Summary: When John mentions cutting Samantha's hair, he's unprepared for the tantrum that follows. But since he's got a Rougarou to kill, he's leaving Dean to deal with her.

Distress on AO3
butterfly, cactus

(no subject)

So I've been writing a lot of SPN lately (Destiel, mostly. Some canonish up to nine, some canonish up to five, some AUs...). Of course, if you went to my AO3 you would see one (1) SPN fic posted. This is because even though I have over half a dozen freaking fics in progress, NONE OF THEM are anywhere near being done, and, in fact, the only one I've bloody managed to finish is the one I wrote in a roughly twenty-four hour period, start to finish, for Pi Day.

 Grr.
butterfly, cactus

Hello again LJ

So I'm trying to be present on both here and on Tumblr (bamfinacuddlyjumper there). We'll see how it goes; I get overwhelmed by social media pretty easily.

Went through and curated my F-List; I didn't delete people but I did delete some communities in hopes of making it easier to see the friends posts that are, after all, the reason I'm back here.
butterfly, cactus

WIP Sentence Meme

Ganked from lareinenoire

***

John was too busy grabbing the fire extinguisher to immediately answer; one of the benefits of living with Sherlock, for a very loose definition of “benefit,” was the array of safety equipment John had insisted on purchasing and installing around the flat.

In the silence that followed, he could have heard a pin drop. If dwarrow had pins, which they probably didn’t, not being, as far as
Bilbo could tell, a pin-having sort of race.


People want pizzazz and possessions, darling, not dry facts and EMF readings.


Now, though, he’d become obsessed with the idea of touch, of leaving traces of himself on John... of his skin cells, his hairs, fingerprints, his sweat... so that if someone investigated John they could deduce Sherlock from the physical evidence.


There is a tattoo of a bird on his arm.


Bond rolled his shoulders, shifting his back against the business class seat. "Just be glad we're on the inside of the plane."

He was sure his therapist would say something about grief and displacement and inappropriate coping mechanisms, but then, she’d likely have said running around London chasing criminals wasn’t a good idea either, so showed what she knew.


He looked rueful and a bit embarrassed, his eyes drifting back to Sherlock like a compass needle finding North.

It was the quiet of everyone realizing Jehovah’s Witnesses was about to drop by, so they were going to pretend to not be home.

butterfly, cactus

argh, Holmestice

So Holmestice signups just opened up.

And... I'm conflicted. I've signed up for Holmestice the last four rounds, and I've had a lot of fun doing it. (I've also become friends with nox_candida after doing a piece for her so yay!)

But I had to drop out of the last round due to what I've taken to calling The Summer of Overcommitment And Things, and currently my plate is looking... oh, the usual. Might be teaching a weekend class on bookbinding, had my abstract accepted into next year's Kzoo conference, need to get another one to submit to the Cultural Studies Association conference, got roped into a committee at work, and of course I've still got a million WIPs and owe fic to a couple of auction winners. (Sometimes I like listing all my obligations because then it almost looks like I have a life.)

And I've not managed to write anything in about a month, which is my longest dry spell in several years.

 But... but... HOLMESTICE.

I don't know if having a deadline would spur on writing or just desperation.  >_<
butterfly, cactus

FIC: The Ides (1/3)

Title: The Ides (1/3)
Author: Winter_of_our_Discontent (winter_hermit)
Beta: reluctantabandon
Characters/Pairings: Carlos/Cecil, Old Woman Josie, Erika(s), Khosheck
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Typical Night Vale weirdness, possible dub-con
Summary:

This last broadcast was odd, though. In the almost a year Carlos had lived here… which was hard to believe and not just because the sun had a tendency to set at the wrong time and sometimes Thursdays… skipped… (“Listeners, it’s like my mother used to say,” Cecil had once said. “Time flies. And so do badgers. So you’ll probably want to take an umbrella with you today.”) Cecil had never notbeen on the radio. Even when he’d clearly had a cold and his congestion had made an utter yet strangely adorable mess of all of his glottal consonants. Cecil was The Voice of Night Vale, and in this town that was more reliable than the sunrise, death, or taxes. Well, maybe not taxes. Even if this year he’d had to pay them in formaldehyde jars full of rats. (He was reasonably certain he hadn’t paid that way in previous years, but then, he wasn’t an accountant.)

A/N: Ah, Welcome to Night Vale, where tentacles are not-not canon. And my ship IS canon. Which is so weird.

The Ides (on AO3)