here is a tale of the trees in the wood

Icons!

Wed, 29 Nov 2006 03:02:21 GMT

So, I had the bright idea of making text icons using quotes from The Princess Diaries. These are from the fourth book, Princess in Waiting, but hopefully there will be more from the other books coming soon (I've already got all the ones from the fifth marked with those little Post-It flags). In the meantime, enjoy!

Previews:

01. 02. 03. 04. 05.
06. 07. 08. 09. 10.
11. 12. 13. 14. 15.
16. 17. 18. 19. 20.
21. 22. 23. 24. 25.
26.

Comment, credit, you guys all know the dance by now, I'm sure. Enjoy!

HP fic. I don't know either.

Mon, 30 Oct 2006 07:22:53 GMT

Title: I have no missionary zeal
Author: Twinkledru J.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: Rowling, Bloomsbury, Scholastic, etc; I'm making no money off of this.
Rating: Teen
Notes: Ginny Weasley/Draco Malfoy. Title is from Sarah Slean's "Playing Cards With Judas".

Ginny'd seen him crying when he first got found by the Order, during Christmas Break of her sixth year. Malfoy hadn't seen her, of course; one got to learn a few things about stealth growing up with six older brothers, didn't one? But she'd seen him, snot running down his nose and barely able to breathe, and while she supposed she ought have felt bad for him, she only went upstairs and laughed long and hard.

But then she'd started crying too, eventually (she still wasn't sure how; it just sort of came quite gradually from the laughing) so she guessed that was what the Muggles called karma.

Anyway, she'd come to visit him at Headquarters a few times since that first, usually when she was in London anyway, to see the Twins. Once she'd given him a Fanged Frisbee. Thought she'd die laughing that day.

Might've been a good opportunity for talking, and yeah, they did some of that. But neither of them were all that interested in it, and he'd not have known where to begin, anyhow, so she'd taken a bit of pity at last and just helped him do the one thing they could both manage.

He'd got leaner, harder. He was never really out of shape, but apparently time as a fugitive could do things for one's body in a way that Quidditch couldn't. Ginny wondered if there'd been much fighting, something else that would require him to get stronger, but she'd not asked him herself yet.

(The Order knew, presumably, but until she was of age she wouldn't. Though, she'd reflected a couple of times, if anyone besides the Order can get it out of him now, she can.)

"A few months on the run were good for you, you know," she said, and grinned when she felt his body stiffen beneath her. "You were quite spoiled before. Mummy's Little Darling, weren't you, pwecious ickle Dwaco?"

"You've got a mouth like those worthless twins, you know. Anyway, I was probably still eating more than you do at home, considering how far your Mum's got to stretch the food budget," he sneered after a moment, and Ginny could only laugh, because he talked like he were a big man, still, when everyone up to and including Voldemort knew him to be nothing like. She'd have been surprised he'd not managed to fit in a jab at Harry, except he couldn't, could he, since she'd kissed him. And, when he let her shove him up against the wall, she deepened it, ignoring the grunt he'd given as his head hit the brick round the fireplace.

They stayed like that for awhile, except for when his hands started to go under her shirt, which was when she caught them. If anything, he seemed to get even more into it then, as she was squeezing his wrists and forcing them back against the wall. "God, you're so easy, Malfoy." Ginny laughed as she said it, and he couldn't even contradict her, because he was already breathing hard. So was she, but not as much as him.

"I guess -- " he began, between kisses -- "I like -- " and he couldn't finish what she was sure would've been a really cutting insult, because she had kissed him harder this time. His tongue was in her mouth first, and she could hear him groaning a little.

She waited a little longer -- waited 'till he'd buried his fingers in her hair, loosening it from the bun she'd pulled it into and sending a few strands flying -- before she spoke again.

"You're just a regular slut, Draco, is what you are" she said. It was a whisper this time, kind of sweet-sounding except for the actual, y'know, words of it.

He didn't say anything, just groaned. He actually groaned, like people did always did in books and things -- like girls always did in books and things, but here she felt just alert, sharp, like everything was just a little more in focus than usual. More than anything, that was what made her feel slick down there, and warm. She didn't care much what he liked, but she knew she liked that.

Tactimordeo, she thought, and felt a warmth at her fingertips as the spell flashed. She heard his breath hitch as the sting spread through his skin from her fingers, and laughed into his mouth, not letting him pull away from her.

"You're really pretty like this, Draco," she whispered, noting the red spots on his wrists as she shifted her hands slightly, pinning his fully against the wall.

He didn't say anything. In fairness to him, she'd kissed him again, sliding her knee between his legs and making gentle contact with the hardness to be found there. But when she stopped kissing him, and rested her forehead against his, he kept his eyes closed, breathing hard.

She did the spell again, and grinned, because here, for once, were all the strings in her hands.

More fic!

Sun, 15 Oct 2006 05:29:00 GMT

Title: Saved from that eternal silence
Author: Twinkledru J.
Rating: Teen/Gen
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Disclaimer: Bruckheimer, Disney, et al.
Notes: For just_reed, as a make-up fic in sarkastic's Norrington ficathon. She wanted Sparrington, good James sarcasm/snark, Elizabeth's redemption. The Sparrington... er. You kind of have to really want to see it, but I hope she likes it anyway.

'Twas the ends of the earth which Tia Dalma dispatched them to, and to the ends of the earth he was persuaded at last (less by Elizabeth's words and more by nightmares which leave him chilled to the bone in day) to bring the heart, and 'tis the ends of the earth they find themselves at. It must be the same; James has never heard of anyone going this far before, in all the stories and sailor's tales. Anyway, he'd be hard-pressed to imagine there's much more to the world than these hard, half-finished edges where the wind screams and the sun, bright and frigid, is something different entirely from the article of the same name which they all have heretofore known.

Elizabeth and Will take it hardest of all of them -- though none of them is best pleased with the cold. But she is a gentlewoman, and half her life has been spent in the Caribbean, and if she stumbles, shivering, behind the rest, even in the furs purchased from their guide, one can hardly fault her for that. Certainly he cannot; the cold is hard on all of them, but at least a lifetime in the Navy has made him more than used to toil (the which she has scarcely known).

She confided in him what passed between her and Jack, and how she blames herself -- rightly so, of course, though he cannot fault her for choosing the course she did -- for the latter's death. Too, James has gathered from Will that he glimpsed the kiss, and it explains, certainly, why in the weeks they've been travelling, and still Will barely looks at her. Once, she stumbles, and Turner strides right over her crumpled form, with only a moment's hesitation. So James turns back and picks her up, and at the fire every night James puts an arm 'round her shoulders.

*

Perhaps it's only the fact that she's responsible for Jack's end which has endeared her to him, but James has been more tender to her these weeks than he has in some long while. Elizabeth's hardly sure what to make of it, and she's not quite bone-tired enough not to worry over it.

He expects nothing more from her, though. They huddle close together in the tent at night, she and James, but she's fairly certain this is done only out of necessity. That she'd just as happily cling to Will -- pah, she'd just as happily cling to Barbossa, at this point, except there's no warmth to him, being already dead -- is never even mentioned, though. He won't so much as look at her, so she never gets the chance to tell him.

*

There is a pool in the cave -- this is the first thing Elizabeth notices when they finally reach it on the twelfth day of walking across a frozen waste. She doesn't understand how it is that the water might still be liquid -- even alcohol freezes here, and making one's water in the morning is not a little problematic and uncomfortable.

Then she recalls their purpose here, and notices the soft blue glow coming from the water itself, and supposes expecting magical forces to obey the laws of nature is rather naive of her.

It may be that the woman comes from the water itself; that's what Elizabeth thinks it must be. But she appears so quickly that none of them are quite sure from whence she's come, if she's come from anywhere at all and hasn't just suddenly been.

*

There are no words exchanged, there need be none. The creature simply knows what they are here for, what they want, and they know what they must do. They know that one of them must offer something -- that was assumed from the very beginning, but only now, here, as the creature turns its black eyes on them, do they understand how very useless the gold they've brought is.

The rest of them are looking at one another, bewildered, but Elizabeth steps forward, and only as she is offering her left hand, and the heart with it, does James notice, and of course by then it is far too late.

*

She shudders at the woman's touch, and sees the flesh of her hand freeze, but it's so cold she hardly feels it -- at first.

Then there comes pain, of course; more pain than she thinks there ought to be. After all, cold makes one numb, doesn't it? She shouldn't feel anything -- but she does, oh, she does. Elizabeth realizes the voice that's screaming is hers, and she won't even let herself fall to the ground lest the woman try to pull her to her feet again.

There is something in the woman's face when she turns her head -- when the never-ending sun hits it just right, Elizabeth sees something else, she thinks. Perhaps she's only imagining it, though -- perhaps there's nothing to it --

*

Jack, when he appears -- in the same unsettling way the creature did -- seems none the worse for wear, though he's immediately complaining of the cold. Elizabeth is staring at the place where her hand was, though, and barely notices when Jack pulls her fur cloak over them both.

"Sparrow, for the love of... " James cannot finish his mumbled oath, pulling Elizabeth away from Jack and promptly putting his own coat over her shoulders. She's shaking, but the wound looks -- really, it looks as though there were no recent wound. It's long-healed, and he is grateful for that, at least, that there's no chance of infection.

"Are you all right, Elizabeth?" he asks. Rather pointless a question, of course, but he wants to keep her with them -- she seems to be distant, and he fears she may be drifting towards whatever world it is Jack and the creature came from -- and the sound of her name makes her look up at him, makes her see him.

"I've -- " She doesn't know what to say, he supposes. Which she can hardly be faulted for.

"She'll be all right," someone says, very close to his ear, and James realizes that Jack has joined them. The pirate takes the girl's empty forearm between his hands, and gazes at the place where her hand was. "I suppose we might call the debt even now, eh, Miss Swann?" he asks, and kisses the smooth scarring of her wrist.

She laughs, and that breaks something in the air, and sets them all to the long journey back.

*

Elizabeth can't quite bring herself to leave the ship once they reach the harbor. Will glances at her briefly -- she sees it, in the corner of her eye, but as soon as she looks at him he looks away again.

"I'm sorry, Will," she says. She touches him, then, since he will not do it himself, and he *does* look up.

She doesn't know what she was expecting -- from the look on his face, neither does he. Perhaps both of them were expecting some sort of magical resolution -- or absolution, at least -- but there is none; there is only the ghost-ache of her lost hand, and the warring anger and sorrow she beholds, writ plain and large, on his face.

"Elizabeth," he says, and there is something in his voice that speaks of his strangling.

*

James listens. The wind is such that even some twenty feet away, he can hear their soft voices, but anyway, there's not much to be heard at all.

Will can barely force out Elizabeth's name, and James understands -- they have both estimated her entirely wrongly. The only one who's had the full measure of her from the beginning is Jack. The difference is that James thinks he can bear the difference between what he saw and what she is, and he does not know if Will can.

"No, Will," Elizabeth says, before the other can go any further. Her remaining hand goes back to her side, and she does not even kiss him as she turns away. "I'm sorry," she says -- for this, at least, her voice is strong and clear -- and then she is walking away, walking back towards him.

"Is the honeymoon over, then?" Jack asks, having slipped up beside him, cat-ly silent. "Such a shame."

James snorts, pretending to ignore the light brush of Sparrow's fingers against his shoulder. "As I understand it, you'll be more than happy to play the Dragon and St George with her."

"Shan't deny that, of course, but that doesn't mean I can't mourn their ill-starred love, now, does it?" Jack asks. The sunset's light catches on something quick in his leering grin, but James doesn't let himself be troubled by it.

"Elizabeth?" he calls, and that is something that gets through to her, he's glad to see. She turns, and looks at him, and smiles.

*

"Good-bye, Will," she says, and kisses his cheek quickly, too quickly for him to do anything about it. She doesn't look at him as she turns back to Jack and James, ignoring the former's smirks and pretending she thinks naught of the latter's care.

"Well, gentlemen," she says, "and where are we bound for now?"

Guess what?

Sat, 14 Oct 2006 04:35:28 GMT

I made art! Like, I drew something, and scanned it in, and colored it in PS! And it doesn't suck!

I was going more for Elizabeth looking annoyed and Jack isn't quite over-the-top enough in his leering, but considering that this is the first time I've done anything better than stick figures, that the only thing I'm really not happy with is somewhat bland facial expressions is pretty damn good. Just have to practice more, obvs. *beams*

So yes. Not fabulous, but cute, I think, and again, considering that about a month ago I was pretty much just at stick figures, I'm pleased.

Ficathon story.

Mon, 02 Oct 2006 02:23:48 GMT

Title: The Same Birds
Author: Twinkledru J.
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Rating: Teen
Disclaimer: Disney, Bruckheimer, blah blah blah.
Notes: Written for sarkastic's Norrington ficathon. Specifically, for makeyourmusic, who requested Sparrington, rum, a post-film setting, and a happy ending. Elizabeth having insisted on being my POV character, the Sparrington is therefore not as explicit as I was hoping I could make it, but given how rusty my pr0n writing skills are lately, that may be more a blessing than anything else. &grin;

Jack has taken it into his head to lie on the deck and stare up at the stars, and that is where James finds him -- or, more properly, where James trips over him. Perched atop the hogshead as she is, the wind gentle in tendrils of hair that have come loose throughout the day (and the which she cannot bother to re-affix), Elizabeth anticipated the whole thing. Truly, too, she had intended to warn him, but the temptation was simply too great.

"My, my," is all Jack says, smirking, while Elizabeth howls with laughter and James, cursing, dusts himself off and straightens his wig. "Such language, James. Not very gentlemanly, is it?" Props himself up on his elbows, since Norrington is determined to ignore him and he consequently seems determined to make Norrington notice him. "Hardly fitting for one of His Majesty's agents."

"If you will be so good as to recall," Norrington finally says, "I am no one's agent but my own now, and I have at any rate spent several years not only at sea, but on your blasted Tortuga as well. What the devil are you doing down there, anyway, besides making a nuisance of yourself?" But it has been some time now, and there isn't any longer the stiffness or pain of it there once might have been. He's only teasing; he does that more now and really he looks quite good doing it, if she is pressed to admit it.

Jack laughs, and flops back on the deck again, narrowing his eyes as he stares at the stars, and looking for a story that she has never been able to read.

"I confess, good sir, I rather think that's all there is to it -- making a nuisance of himself, that is," Elizabeth says, leaning down long enough to swipe Jack's bottle. He gives a protesting swat at her dangling ankle, but for the greatest part seems too content to do much else, save to grumble something about how "*we've* changed so, haven't we, Milady Burn-the-Rum." She blushes, but knows that neither of them can see it, and if they can it will only be attributed to the drink in question.

James, leant back against the rail, is looking up as well, and she wonders if he might read it some of that story too. For herself, though, she contents herself with looking at them both -- certainly not an unpleasant task.

"A great deal has changed," she murmurs, thinking of Will's face as he watched from the dock as they sailed. She takes another drink of rum, a bigger one this time, and pulls her knees up to her chest.

"Are you drunk?" Norrington asks, leaning against the rail.

"No, indeed," Elizabeth protests, while simultaneously Jack says -- for himself, she expects -- "Yes, very much so."

"Go on, James," Elizabeth says, and nods to Jack. "I'm off to bed, but one of us must make sure he gets off alright himself, mustn't we?" She knows when she's wanted, and she also knows when she's not, and right now, she knows that she is most definitely not. Without so much as waiting for an answer, she is off, enjoying the way the rum she has already sucked down makes the ship's rolling seem so much more pronounced, and makes the wind feel so much better on her skin. She might almost fly, she thinks, but doesn't really contemplate it.

Not, of course, that she is drunk, merely -- in high spirits.

She falls against the rail to take a rest and have a look (because, though she cannot read the tales in the sky that Jack can, she almost thinks she can smell them in the air, and anyway she's not ready to leave the open air just yet for the closer stuff of a cabin), and that's when she sees that James has leant down over Jack. She smiles. Elizabeth knows for herself quite well the flavor of the latter on her own lips. Jack does not taste of death, not in the least -- only life -- life, and a good deal of rum.

Thinking of them, of the glimpses she's caught, she feels a certain warmth at the bottom of her belly, one which thence drips into her thighs. Hanging onto some mast or another for support, she looks back again, and smiles even at the indistinct shapes of them in the darkness.

Sun, 27 Aug 2006 02:40:19 GMT

Title: Five Dates Abigail Chase Regrets Going On
Author: Twinkledru J.
Fandom: Primarily National Treasure, with crossovers into The X-Files, James Bond, Indiana Jones and Arrested Development.
Rating: All
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Credit for the idea goes to roz_mcclure, as do belated birthday wishes, since the fic I wanted to write for her birthday isn't cooperating.

Diet Coke.

She can already smell drink on his breath. He's not drunk, she doesn't think, but he might be there before long. She's glad she drove.

"Sorry," he says, and she crosses her arms and gives him an almost-glare as he tells some weird friend that he's busy, and no, he can't get them a copy of that; they've only talked a couple of times.

"If you have friends who'd like to see some of our documents," she tells him, making her voice as frosty as possible, "they can come in

"Shit," he says. "I'm sorry, this is my partner; we're working on an important case. Mulder," he's already saying into the phone before she can even tell him it's okay. Which it's really not, but it's not as though she has much of a choice, is it?

Abigail's doubly glad she drove when he excuses himself and runs out of the restaurant, presumably on said 'important case', and yes, she's using airquotes there (though really, if anyone ought to be making excuses to ditch this 'date' -- again, airquotes -- it should be her). Only after he's gone does she realize that Mulder (she can hardly blame him for hating his first name, and she reminds herself that it oughtn't be used as another reason to hate him when he wasn't the one who chose it) has stuck her with the bill.

This is why she doesn't date FBI.

*

Vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred.

James -- which he insists on -- takes her out dancing. It's lovely, really. She's not nearly as out of practice at tangoing as she thought she was, and she gets to wear that red dress she doesn't get nearly enough excuses to wear.

It's lovely, anyway, until the place gets shot up by international terrorists.

There's a breathless kiss before they leap off the roof, and only the fact that he'd drop her keeps her from hitting him with her heels until he's out cold because she's so angry. That and the fact that both of her shoes have fallen off in the mess of it.

This is why she doesn't date spies, whether they're her government's or another's.

*

A Cosmopolitan and half a bottle of Riesling.

Michael seems so disturbingly normal when she meets him at Mount Vernon -- he's showing his son and niece around, and she finds the orchards relaxing -- that she's suspicious at once. On meeting him at the restaurant of the hotel where his family is staying, Abigail realizes she ought to trust her instincts.

Apparently she bears a striking resemblance to a girl Michael's twin sister had a brief -- but extremely torrid -- affair with in college. Which explains, albeit in a disturbing, rather Freudian way, the obscene comments Michael's older brother makes throughout dinner. They've only just managed to give GOB the slip when the date itself is cut short because he has to rush to the Supreme Court to help his father. That's when his previously-endearing chivalry becomes an annoyance, because of course he won't hear of her taking the Metro back herself.

There's a lot of shouting, quite a bit of alcohol, and she ends up being kissed by three members of the Bluth family, only one of them male, and none of them Michael.

That's why she starts to stay away from men involved in the city industry altogether. There's a reason for the comparison to sausage-making, after all.

*

Beer, and lots of it.

He's been taught not to argue with a lady -- he had a very old-fashioned upbringing, she understands -- and so she's doubly pleased with herself when she coaxes him into a debate about the value of Justin's Historiarum Philippicarum which nearly ends in bloodshed.

Indiana's believing Excalibur -- among other mythic relics -- is real is more a quirk than a real black mark against him, particularly with his smile, but it's when she's dragged into finding the damn thing that she has to dump him.

This is why she doesn't date other historians -- at least, not other historians who attract misadventures on the level of hers.

*

Mango lassis.

The best Indian in DC isn't exactly in DC, it's in Fairfax. But it's worth it, even at rush hour, and Ian was new in town. She thought it would be just the thing for a London boy, remembering the times she'd travelled to the city in the interest of supervising the installation of some on-loan object or other. She's always one of perhaps three non-Indians in the place, so it's authentic, and the spice level has always separated the men from the boys (Bill failed that test, which was strike one against him).

He was curious about what she did, and was happy to pick her up from work and let her navigate him out of town. But his questions seemed entirely organically sprung from the conversation, entirely natural and easy. He wasn't suspiciously curious; certainly, he wasn't curious enough that she's not shocked when she's yanked into the van and spins around to find herself looking at Ian.

The ease has a whole new level to it now, and it's no longer nearly as sexy. She's largely torn between 'infuriating' and 'terrifying', as a matter of fact.

"I did have a lovely evening," he tells her while they're heading for New York. There's not a trace of sorrow there, only that same ease. "I'd hate you to think it was only about this."

"Screw you," she says calmly, staring out the window, and doesn't acknowledge Riley's demands for an explanation.

"Sadly," he answers, "it doesn't look like it's going to get that far now, does it?"

She can't help laughing at that, in spite of herself.

That she doesn't date guys who've tried to kill her is obviously a given, but it was really stealing the Declaration that set her against him; neither will she date guys who don't take her job seriously.

Because it's not officially my new fandom until I write a cracktacular threesome in it.

Fri, 21 Jul 2006 00:42:56 GMT

Title: Orpheus Come
Author: Twinkledru J.
Fandom: DCU (Teen Titans)
Spoilers: Infinite Crisis/One Year Later
Pairing(s): Tim/Cassie/Kon
Rating: Teen
Disclaimer: Alas, not mine. The rights belong to DC comics and various persons therein, no money is being made off of this fannish endeavor, you all know the drill.

"Do you think it's gonna be like... " she asked one day, right before she went through the doors.

Tim looked at her, and managed a smile. "Like when her friends brought her back from the dead on Wendy?"

She grinned back, and neither of them actually said anything more.

They're all shaky after. Kon least of all, which is ironic; he seems the most at ease of any of them. She finally chalks it up to having had a good year and a half to rest.

Everything glares; everything glares and her brother is lurking in every mirror and laughing. She nearly breaks Tim's neck when they're sparring one day -- Kon has to pull her off and then, when he throws her against the wall, his hands go up to her wrists, pinning them -- only then does Ares's laughter fade. Then there are only Kon's grunts, and her own harsh breathing.

Cassie looks over, sees Tim staring at the two of them and breathing, hard, his hand outstretched towards them, and she wants to invite him but can't say the words. She's aware of his breathing, too, as Kon thrusts into her, and she's aware that it's become easier because her toes have left the ground, she's hovering, before everything stems up, up, and branches off and away.

There's nothing to temper any of them, and none of them want it, even; she stands between him and Tim because he clings to her, hard enough to even hurt her, and until he's used to his body again there's the danger he'll snap Tim in two. Tim doesn't seem to mind. For all the trouble he went to make the body he seems more in awe of what she's done, that she's brought back the soul.

Tim watches, watches them go about their lives from the shadows with a smile on his face or watches them fuck with nothing more painful than ordinary lust on it. Or he kisses her himself, and although she thought he was just in love with Kon, he doesn't seem at all unhappy to settle for her until they're all safer.

Sometimes they just watch movies, curled up on the couch in a haphazard tangle of limbs. Kon's first act is to do what he always threatened and force Cassie to watch Cherub. When she complains that everyone is miserable and she doesn't care what Cissie says, you can only take so much gritty dark angst before you need to strangle the hero, he snickers, and they both throw popcorn at Tim and make Gotham jokes about Cherub.

When Tim slips up and mentions the post-resurrection misery, he looks at her, and they look at Kon, and he just laughs, and that helps a lot.

Diana said she spent months, in her head, in the minutes Cassie and Ferdinand were being dragged off by the empousai -- months crawling, blind, through the caves, looking for them. Cassie thinks of this once, and can't help shuddering, and Tim, without asking, just squeezes her hand a little tighter as they stare at one another while Kon sleeps behind her.

They're all shaky -- giddy -- and she knows that she and Tim should be sick with themselves, ashamed, terrified that somehow they've fucked everything up, the way it was before the Crisis.

Somehow, though, neither of them -- not even Tim, always the voice of reason -- seem to be thinking of it.

It's him -- it's Kon -- for now, that's enough for both of them.

Sat, 01 Jul 2006 22:21:48 GMT

Written for the femslash_today fourth of July porn battle. Expect several other ficlets (only requirement is that the pieces be short enough to fit in a single comment, so ficlets) in this vein throughout the weekend.

Title: No
Author: Twinkledru J.
Rating: Adult
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Fox, all that good stuff. None of the rights are mine.
Pairing: Faith/Buffy
Notes: Circa S3, right around "Bad Girls".

They've just taken out a nest of vamps when Faith kind of attacks her.

With her mouth.

Buffy's startled. Well, that's one way of putting it. Another is that she's freaked. She shoves Faith away first, against the wall. A few things almost form in her mouth -- I have a boyfriend I'm not gay no offense but if I were gay you're not really my type -- and she doesn't say any of them. Just shoves Faith against the wall and grabs a handful of hair.

"No," Buffy growls, biting her neck, her shoulder, anything. One hand is on Faith's stomach, and Faith is writhing, groaning and laughing and rubbing herself against the thigh Buffy's got between her legs.

"No," Buffy says again, and bites again, bites any bit of skin she can find. Faith pays her no mind, just keeps rubbing against Buffy.

"God, you slut," Buffy finally manages.

"That's right, B, come on," Faith answers, laughing and hardly able to breathe. Which makes Buffy angrier and hotter, and she just tightens the fist buried in Faith's hair. Faith's head goes back, her breasts are in Buffy's face, and it only makes her angrier. She's shaking with it, and calls her slut, whore, bitch, monster, and Faith just groans all the louder.

"I said no," Buffy shouts at last, finally understanding, and she lets go and steps back and smiles.

Faith gives her a grin, but it's slippery and her eyes aren't in it. "I can make you," she says.

"You just tried," Buffy answers, and walks out of the crypt.

Some Narnia RPF, hurrah!

Tue, 20 Jun 2006 04:27:29 GMT

Title: Grief (the youngest of the three)
Author: Twinkledru J.
Rating: Adult
Fandom: RPF (The Chronicles of Narnia)
Disclaimer: So very totally not real. Never happened, and the odds that it ever will happen < .001%.
Pairing: Anna Popplewell/Liam Neeson, Anna/Liam/William Moseley implied.
Notes: My (slightly delayed) contribution to viola_dreamwalk's Behind Every Good Woman Rare Het challenge. Post-apocalyptic AU. Title from Rainer Maria Rilke's "Sonnets to Orpheus VIII".

With the North Sea frozen there's not all that much boating to be done -- only a little water to cross. Sometimes the ice isn't all that stable, but it's thick enough, and even when they're separated, the snow doesn't fall all that often, and it's not much of a task to find your way back.

Tonight's hotel is empty, or close enough that they haven't seen anyone yet. William and Anna go to scrounge what they can from the kitchen, and Liam looks for the furnace to see if it still works.

"We're lucky tonight," he says when they meet him in the lobby. "Heat and hot water."

"Yeah, looks like," William answers, grinning as he holds up his prickly prize. "We found pineapple."

"And champagne," Anna adds.

There'd been nobody in the kitchen, living or dead. They've taken what they can carry, but left enough to pretend that other people might come along.

Also lucky, she supposes, because the phones are out here, too, and none of the computers' Internet connections are working. That, too, makes it easier; they can pretend that maybe their people are all fine.

William just wants a shower tonight, but Anna has been twitchy in a way he recognizes even after the day's walking. He's not sure why he's got so attuned to their moods; it's only been a couple weeks' walking and he spent far longer with Anna to end up far more clueless during filming.

He leaves the door open, because they all like the steam that fills the room, and he's surprised when he hears Liam groan. First because he wouldn't be able to hear it over the water unless he were listening for it, and second because even tired as he is his dick takes notice.

Through the foggy glass of the shower door, he sees them clearly enough to see that Anna is lying on top of Liam, and tired though they may be there's a raw something to their movements.

She can't see anything from the window, nor anyone.

She doesn't look for very long, doesn't want to. Anyway, Liam pulls her onto the bed, so that she doesn't face the window anymore. She's dimly aware of the steam billowing out from the bathroom. No one can get warm most of the time, and William left the door open because she asked him to.

"You alright?" he asks her, as always, and she just smiles tonight and lets him kiss her cheek, the tip of his nose scraping against her eyelid.

"Yeah," she says.

Anna hasn't let her hair down yet, and Liam wonders if she's even aware that it's still up. He lets his right hand get tangled in it and pulls her face closer to his own. She rests her forehead against his, eyes closed and biting her own lip as she concentrates on guiding him into her.

The walking -- much of it in the wind -- has hardened all of them, but most of their skin is covered outside. The shape of her arse has changed a little, but the skin of it is still soft beneath his left hand.

She kisses him at last, and they swallow each other's grunts. For once the sound of the wind is lost.

William's hair is still wet when he pulls the covers up and the mattress shifts as he slips into bed with them.

"Hey, you," Anna says, and lifts her head enough to peer at him over Liam's shoulder.

William smiles. Liam's still awake enough to put an arm around him as well. Through the window, flakes have started to fling themselves from out of the blackness, and she falls asleep listening to the wind and their respective breaths.

Fic!

Sat, 10 Jun 2006 06:16:16 GMT

Title: Stood and Fell
Author: Twinkledru J.
Rating: Adult
Notes: Buffy/Giles. Just post-"Prophecy Girl". Title and summary from Kate Rusby's "The Lark".
Disclaimer: Totally Joss's, not mine.

Exams were finished up just a couple of days after the dance. They didn't really seem so bad after you'd died.

She came by the library to drop off her books at the end of the last day. Could've just left 'em and let the school work it out, but she figured she ought to say something. "Thanks for the great job getting me ready to die," maybe. Well, she didn't say it was perfect, but something.

"Hiya," Buffy said, and dropped them. Literally. The place could use a little noise, and the slams of her books falling out of her bag and onto the counter, even the floor, was just the ticket, she thought.

It was too quiet lately. Willow and Xander never said anything, God knew, and Angel was dead silent. Ha ha.

"Buffy," Giles said, and stooped to pick up one of the books that had fallen behind the counter. "Er, are you -- "

"Can we not talk about it?" she asked.

"Well," he stuttered, and pushed his glasses up on his nose, "o-of course not, if you don't want to, but -- "

"Good, 'cuz I don't want to." She bent down to pick up one of the books that had fallen on her side of the counter, and dropped it in front of him. "I'm probably gonna be spending the summer with my dad, so don't expect me to be hanging around here or anything."

"Oh!" he said, and seemed so *surprised* at that, like she'd reminded him that she came from a broken home or something. "Of course. Thank you, then, for telling me."

"Yeah," she said, already on her way out. "Whatever."

Finding his address hadn't been all that hard, and he hadn't seemed all that surprised when she showed up at said address, awkward and probably seeming like she wanted to talk. Not that she really did. It didn't take much work, either, to get it so they were both sitting on his couch, side by side, staring at the wall because she couldn't actually think of anything to say.

"You're my Watcher," she finally said. "Weren't you supposed to get me ready for that or something?

He didn't have an answer to that. Which was a first. But she guesses that dying and then coming back is a first too.

His breath was hot on her face as she settled into his lap. Facing him, her legs around his waist.

"Buffy," he whispered, and she was pretty sure that he was going to say something about how this was inappropriate or something. Except it wasn't. Well, no, it was, but it wasn't *wrong*. Slayer, Watcher, and somehow this was something, like what had happened in the Master's lair, that they could understand, even if no one else could and for that matter there weren't even any words for it.

He didn't say anything after that, though, not after she kissed the back of his cheek, the part that was almost his ear but not quite.

"'s okay, Giles," she answered finally, kind of hugging him. "I know what I'm doing."

Well, she did, kind of, in the physical way.

He helped her, a little. Covered her hands with his when she reached his pants -- he'd let her get his shirt on her own, but her hands shook when they reached his pants, although she would've sworn it was just the fact that she'd, you know, just died. That probably gave her a pretty damn good reason to be a little shaky.

Once they had all that out of the way, and he'd gone upstairs to grab the condoms -- took his sweet time, and she knew, from the way he avoided looking at her when he went upstairs in the first place, that he was giving her time to freak out and leave -- once they had it all out of the way, and her skirt was off and she was settled back in his lap again, there was an awkward moment, or there would've been, if she hadn't closed her eyes so he couldn't give her some kind of Meaningful Look.

"Buffy," he asked anyway, and she could tell from his voice that he wasn't gonna just trail off lustfully this time or something. "I *do* have a bed, if you'd be more comfortable -- "

"I'm fine."

Which she totally wasn't, but what, like a change of scenery was gonna make her okay, or something? Right, because there was any way in hell this could be romantic. Not.

"Buffy, have you ever -- "

"Yeah," she lied. She'd had some groping sessions before. Got her top off once. This was all Before Sunnydale, natch, before she became a complete loss to the non-freaks. But there'd been *something*, enough that she had some idea what was coming next.

Giles tried to make her comfortable, and if she weren't recently dead and thus carrying a certain amount of bitchiness she felt she was entitled to, she might have appreciated that. As it was, though, it mostly made her skin crawl, and she pushed him away, sitting beside him on the couch again.

Instead, he made her a cup of tea, and that was when she tried it again, coming up behind him while he was in the kitchen. It worked better this time, without anywhere to sit or lie down, and not much room to maneuver at all, in fact.

His hands covered hers again as she hung onto the counter, and it hurt a little, but not as much as she'd been prepared for. She guessed because she was hearing the reports from non-Slayers, and what with the higher threshold of pain and the having her life risked on a daily basis, and taken once already...

Shied away from that thought and concentrated instead on the feelings that began to ripple, a little bit, when one of Giles's hands left hers and slid under her top. She was grateful, when he kissed her throat, that he didn't bite, and then when his hand slid down between her thighs, she tried to remember what he'd taught her about not thinking of anything.

"Fuck, *Buffy*," he groaned, his breath hot against her neck, and that made her shake, that and his fingers on that spot that she'd hit herself sometimes, alone in bed.

"I'm okay," she managed, and wasn't even sure that Giles heard her, or that he wouldn't guess she was lying, except that he began to go faster. It didn't hurt as much now, though, and all she could focus on was the something like sunlight that was spreading through her.

Then there was too much of it, and she shook a little more, and she wondered if that was it.

He kept his arms around her, until she guessed he got that she was sending him signals, because he let go of her and pulled out of her. Buffy thought, briefly, that she ought to feel dirtier about the whole having had sex with the librarian thing, except he wasn't the librarian, he was her Watcher, and that wasn't the same at all.

"Buffy," he began, and then didn't say anything. She knew the feeling.

"Whatever," she said. Picked up her cup, poured the boiling water into it, and knelt beside the tv to flip through the channels.

He went upstairs to wash his face, eventually, and only then did she sit on the couch. Some documentary was on when she fell asleep, and her cup was still full, sitting on the floor.

When she woke up, she was in his bed, and she didn't fall asleep for a couple of hours after that. Buffy could tell he wasn't awake when he put an arm around her, and she could still recognize the whole human emotion thing enough to be glad of it, because that way he couldn't get hurt that she started crying. Thankfully, the crying jag only lasted, judging by the clock on his nightstand, about five minutes, and then she fell asleep again. Wouldn't even be a damp spot there in the morning, and if there was, she figured he'd just write it off as her being a drooler.

Giles showered first thing in the morning, so she took that as her chance to pull on her clothes and run out, and not stop running until she got home.

"Hey, kiddo," Dad said. Buffy dodged his hug as she went inside to grab her bag.

a wallpaper.

Mon, 05 Jun 2006 19:46:21 GMT

I try not to toot my own horn unnecessarily, but I think, in this instance, it needs to be done.

I give you what is, without hyperbole, the AWESOMEST THING I HAVE EVER CREATED.

1024 or 800

That's right.