Flaw's Revenge

flawsrevenge @ 2009-11-10T15:44:00

2009-11-10T21:53:38Z

Just spent the last week mainlining Burn Notice. Where has this show been all my life? I love it soooo so much right now. Almost more than the HAT from White Collar. And? I totally ship Michael/Fiona. I'm not sure I've been more invested in a ship in my life. They are LOVE. And in addition to that, BRUCE CAMPBELL. Oh man. This show just rocks my world.

flawsrevenge @ 2009-10-26T16:05:00

2009-10-26T21:08:27Z

WHITE COLLAR

soooooooooooooooooooo pretty!!!! the HAT!!!!!!!!!!!

That is all.

flawsrevenge @ 2009-07-12T08:47:00

2009-07-12T13:50:53Z

Happy birthday, lomer! I really value your support and comments, and admire you for your hard work and talent (although I don't always comment to tell you so). I hope you have a lovely lovely day!

Writing. I does it. Well, sort of.

2009-06-21T12:08:24Z

Sooo...Charmed, anyone? Yeah, I didn't really think so. But there's a new story, up here, if anyone wanted to take a peak.

Also, I have (mostly) finished the next part of the Heritage series, and I'm looking for someone to take a look. It's supposed to end here, and it's less cliffhanger-rific than the last bit, so...it just might. I am finally coming around to acceptance of the fact that my WIPs may stay WIPs forever. I am writing less and less these days, which saddens me, but without the drive, what's a girl to do?

flawsrevenge @ 2009-06-11T08:25:00

2009-06-11T13:28:19Z

Happy early birthday, wrldpossibility! I'm going to be gone for the actual day, so *throws confetti* now. Hope you have a great one!

flawsrevenge @ 2009-05-19T13:23:00

2009-05-19T18:26:35Z

burntcircles! It's your birthday! Happy birthday! I can't believe it's been a year already. Well, I'm happy to write you fic if you want, even though I haven't written in ages I would do it for you :-) (any fic, any fandom (provided I'm semi-familiar with it), you name it). Hope you have a great day!

flawsrevenge @ 2009-04-10T12:45:00

2009-04-10T17:48:50Z

"What do you want?"

"I want a peaceful soul."

"And what do you need?"

"I need a bigger gun."

---

I used to watch Life and write these things down. I used to watch Life, when no one was watching Life, and I used to write these things down. I haven't had a reason to write anything down for a while. I have to watch the season finale yet, but I think, I think I will be writing things down.

Oh show. Where have you been?

fic: Life as we know it

2009-02-20T20:46:12Z

Title: Life as we know it
Author: flawsrevenge
Fandom: Prison Break! (Has it been a while? I think it has...)
Rating: Meh. Nothing violent or gruesome here. Just a PG.
Characters: Lincoln, mentions of others.
Word Count: A bit over 400.
Spoilers: For the current season, sort of, but I started this way back when, so let's say...up to 4.5?
Disclaimer: Prison Break, all its characters, stories, secrets, and whatnots, none of them belong to me.

Michael runs their little meetings, keeps everyone under control with that iron voice of his. He could have been a guard instead of an inmate. But then, Linc knows that already, knows that his little brother is meant for anything and everything other than a life spent either in jail or on the run. He’s meant for this sort of shit: for planning and leading foolhardy missions that Linc doesn’t doubt for a second will work out, for strategy and tactics and he can see the gears turning from his spot at the table. And maybe someday soon he’ll be meant for family and kids. Linc looks at Sara, thinks, I could be an uncle.

And he’s listening, and retaining, but he’s also thinking about LJ and how he had to leave him behind again. First with his mom, then with Jane, and now with Sofia and was there something there? Could there be?

Maybe. But only if this time he goes to get his boy and LJ isn’t being hunted down or missing because he’s been kidnapped. He hopes this finishes and he goes home and has a reason to breathe for once, a reason to celebrate instead of the constant steady ache living in his gut.

At the table, he sees Michael, and feels sorrow and pride, mixed together like a bad night out. He sees Bellick and feels indifference, he sees Sucre and feels grateful, and he sees Mahone, and feels a little less, you killed my father, and a little more, you lost your son.

As goddamn sympathetic as he is, he wonders how a jury ever convicted him of anything.

And this is their little band of merry men, their next last chance in a string of last chances going back longer than he really wants to remember, than he really can remember, unless he sits down and puts his back into it, and that’d be enough to make him sob, anyway, because this is what we’ve come to; this is what we are now.

Michael’s still going on, and he tunes back in, turns his brain back to that, because any more of this and he’s on the next stolen plane back to nothing approaching normal, but maybe something more live for the moment and less fight to live. He tunes back in because if they just keep going, maybe he’ll have something like living and normal. Maybe if they keep going, he can have it all. Maybe they all can.

fic: Chase this Light

2008-11-26T23:09:28Z

Title: Chase this Light
Fandom: Life
Characters: Charlie, mentions of other main characters
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1000 ish
Summary: Snippets in prison, only vaguely connected in an extended (double) metaphor sort of way, and maybe not even finished yet, and thus cross-posted no where.
Notes and Disclaimer: The title is from Jimmy, the intense love affair with light is all from the show.

The first bone that broke was a shock, a sudden flash behind the eyes and an overpowering sense of utter agony. It was his arm, twisted up and behind like he might have done once to a perp, a restraining technique. He couldn’t move as they pummeled his chest and his face, and fading out, he began to think it was his mother, waking him for school.

Come on, Charlie, wake up.

She was there, behind his eyelids and in his mind. The only place she could reach him now. The only place his father would let her reach him. He smiled as they hit him, smiled as he felt ribs break, too, and his nose. He was smiling when the darkness finally took him.

***

The first days in jail, the blur of bars and cold steel, he spent in a state of shock and anger, a red haze over everything until it all fell away from him and there was nothing left but a steady hum in the back of his mind and a light dying in his eyes. He saw other criminals, men he might as well have put away, men he might as well now be, for anyone looking in. The handcuffs went on, and the verdict came with them.

This is what you are now. This is all you’re ever going to know again.

When they called lights out at night, he couldn’t even tell the difference.

***

The courtroom had been a circus. He’d been convicted by everyone before the judge had even called the court to order. But it wasn’t even the jury that really made much of a difference to him. He could have done some jail time, he could have done anything as long as he had his family and friends.

But Jennifer hadn’t been able to meet his eyes and the looks from his father had been condemning.

You did this. You killed your friends. You killed a child.

Protests had all died so quickly in the back of his throat, and his lips had been left for little but grimaces. In those days, smiles were beyond him, beyond everyone.

They all stopped mattering eventually. They wouldn’t reach him except for divorce papers and incriminations, so he stopped letting them reach him at all. More bones broke, more bruises formed, but it barely pinged his radar. He fought back, broke a few bones of his own, and spent most of his time in solitary. When the book cart came by, he chose Zen because the words flowed in a hypnotic rhythm, and when he thought at all, he used Zen like a whitewash.

He cleaned out Jennifer’s face, and Bobby’s face, and his father’s. Nothing would touch him, not anymore.

His mother’s death reached him and he wasn’t surprised. He thought, his father did this, and he did this. His life did this. He cleaned out her face, too, and let her fade away to black.

***

He got along pretty well with the medical staff. The nurses, the doctors, they all knew him, recognized him when he came in. Their hands were quick and efficient, but gentle. He never talked back to them, never taunted them or lunged for them. Common decency goes a long way, even for a convicted murder.

He got along less well with the guards, because his moral compass went to jail with him, but it turned out that not all compasses did. Their hands were quick and efficient, too, but gentle was out of the picture. At least they understood loyalty. He couldn’t say the same for the people he’d known on the outside.

He didn’t get along with the other inmates at all. Cop or criminal was apparently entirely in the eye of the beholder. Their hands were meant to bruise and break, to hurt. It didn’t take long for his hands to mean the same.

Constance came and touched him, and it had been so long it took a while, years, to figure it out. The inmates touched him with rage, the guards with authority, the doctors with impersonality. Constance touched his hand and it was compassion and faith, it was doors opening that had rusted shut for years, and he had to squint his eyes against the trickle of light that came pouring in.

***

Ted, when he came into the cell, was so nervous Charlie thought he was going to either have a heart attack or a panic attack or just plain piss his pants. He took odds in his head as he stuck out his hand to shake.

You can do this. You remember decency, even if it doesn’t remember you.

Ted smiled, and it was chagrined. Ted laughed, and it was forced. But Ted still smelled a little like the outside, a little like sunshine. Not everything there had been swallowed up and shelved away. Charlie liked that about Ted.

***

The courtroom, this time, was quiet. No media circus, just a shuffling of papers and a few pitying looks. No one came, not his dead mother, or his deadbeat father. Not his ex-partner or his ex-wife. They handed him musty clothes and a tarnished wedding ring, a watch long since run out of time. Constance brought him a suit, and sunglasses when he asked. Changing from orange to gray, he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, and he saw scars and shadows, twelve years of darkness tattooed onto his soul.

You can beat this. You can take it all back.

He slipped on the sunglasses, and straightened his tie, and walked out the gates. The light, when it hit his face on the outside, was blinding.

fic: It's a Wonderful Life

2008-09-07T15:38:53Z

Title: It's a Wonderful Life
Fandom: Life
Characters: Charlie, Jennifer, OCs
Rating: PG
Word Count: I really don't know. Probably less than 1000.
Summary: That would be telling. See title...sort of.
Notes and Disclaimer: Not mine, but because of Charlie I'm only interested in gingers. No, seriously. Also, I would kill for those DVDs just about now PBeeslysweater or however you spell that... Oh! And I have no idea how certain things work, so if the ending isn't entirely logistically believable, then...oh well.

“This is your son,” the nurse said, as she handed him a blue blanket wrapped around a wriggling bundle of tiny limbs and scrunched up features and a tuft of ginger hair.

“He’s beautiful,” he said, and Jennifer nodded as he sat on the edge of the bed next to her.

“He’s ours,” she whispered in awe, and they stared down at their new child together.

“You’re flying!” he exclaimed as he raised his son above his head and swung him around in a circle. He could feel Andy’s ribs against his hands, his rapid heartbeat as he giggled in delight.

“If he gets sick you’re cleaning him up!” Jennifer yelled from the kitchen where she was preparing peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwiches, no crust. Andy’s favorite.

Charlie paused for a moment, stared up at curious eyes that stared back down at him. He winked and swung Andy around again. He would have to take that risk.

Samantha was next, and she was blonde like her mother but she screamed just like her older brother when they had to change her, or bathe her.

Andy and Sam got on just fine in mud puddles and piles of leaves. Of course, Charlie was always there to make more mud, or more piles.

Charlie passed his examinations and got promoted to detective, and they bought a bigger house with some land so that each of the kids can have their own room and maybe some pets one day. Secretly, Charlie liked that it was closer to the country and they could stable a horse for Jennifer when the time came.

Jennifer and Charlie ran along either side of a blue bike, freshly lacking training wheels, as Andy gripped the handle bars with whitened knuckles and pedaled furiously. Sam pumped little legs behind them, trying to keep up, wanting it to be her turn. It would be her turn soon enough, just a few more years.

“You can do it, sport!” Charlie yelled.

“You’ll be just fine, Andy,” Jennifer said, and let go of her side of the bike, so it was just father and son racing down the empty street.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

Andy nodded with determination, and Charlie let go as he wobbled a little, then righted himself and pedaled on. Jennifer caught up to Charlie with Sam on her hip, and they held hands as they watched him go.

Samantha took up ballet, and Rachel was her teacher when she was in the lowest levels. Sam and Rachel got along well because Rachel often babysat for the younger children, so having her as an instructor was ideal. It meant Sam never cried about having to go to practice instead of playing Transformers with Andy.

They went as a family to see her first recital and Charlie took pictures of his little girl prancing around the stage in a bright pink tutu. At the end, he swooped her up in his arms and told her what a good job she’d done, and she laughed when he tickled her sides and kissed her forehead.

Afterwards, they all went out for ice cream sundaes together, with Uncle Bobby and Rachel and the rest of their families, too, and no one stopped smiling the entire night.

Middle school was rough on both children, because that’s just the way middle school is. So Andy came home with bruises and Charlie had to talk to him about fighting, and Sam came home with tears and Jennifer had to talk to her about the finer science of getting along with other girls.

On those days, Charlie wanted to scoop both of them up and hold them tightly and protect them forever, but he knew they had to learn, and grow. If Jennifer had to hold him back from taking on the world for his children a few times, well, then it was only what good fathers do, and no one would really blame him for that anyway.

Andy graduated high school near the top of his class, and everyone came over after the ceremony to celebrate with a grill out and an enormous cake. Later, he would leave for college and an engineering degree, because he’d never quite gotten over building bridges in the mud, and eventually Sam would follow and get into dental school. Something about having braces had remarkably only made her more curious about teeth instead of giving her nightmares about dental drills.

Charlie and Jennifer would sit in their empty house after they were gone, and hold hands and talk about how proud they were, and how happy their lives had been.

“Hey, con! Up and at ‘em!” The banging on the door to his isolated cell woke him, and he sat up with a groan to watch breakfast be deposited through the slot.

He stared at congealed…something…and reached up to rub at his eyes and the rough feeling of his face. When he was able to focus, he looked down at his bed, and the divorce papers he’d been using as a pillow.

fic: Barefoot

2008-09-06T16:29:28Z

So! I am successfully relocated but still have no permanent internet connection or really permanent anything. The life of a nomad, how sweet it is... I have seen and enjoyed the new episodes of Prison Break, and I intend to try my best to keep caught up on all the fannish goodness. Or to get caught up. One of those. Too many shows, too little time to waste in internet cafes. *sigh*

In the meantime, here is a little ficlet from Life.

Title: Barefoot
Fandom: Life
Characters: Charlie, Ted
Rating: PG
Word Count: 800 I think
Summary: See icon.
Disclaimer and Notes: Not mine, but I loved him first. (Am I going to get beaten up for saying that? Fangirls are scary.)

It’s cold out, but he’s barefoot. He likes the feel of smooth cool tile on his feet. He likes the feel of clean and largely untrodden. He likes that he can leave this room, and walk outside or get on a plane and go far far away. No one will stop him, no will stick a baton in his gut or a knife in his back. Not here.

He curls his toes, then stretches them wide. A few are crooked--broken and never set quite right--but it still feels nice to grip the floor, to feel space between his toes, freedom to move. He rolls to the balls of his feet and back again, gentle rock and easy movement.

He can hear Ted move in the house, can hear the water softener and the soothing hum of temperature control. It’s peaceful, in his big house with no furniture. It’s quiet and it’s relaxed. At night there will be crickets, and sometimes owls and coyote. Natural sounds instead of hundreds of snoring men, or screaming men, or shouted insults. Instead of dead quiet and stifled noise, uneasy echoes of his own movements in his isolated cell. He doesn’t know which was worse but he has to close his eyes to black it all out and push it away again.

“Charlie?”

He cracks open one eye. It’s Ted come up behind him, hand outstretched but not quite touching.

“Charlie? Are you alright? I made smoothies.”

Charlie closes his eye again and rocks a little more, then presses the soles of his feet down flat and soaks up the chill, feels it up to his knees, little goose bumps all over his skin.

“Not just now, Ted,” he says. “I’m having a moment.”

“Oh,” Ted says, and clears his throat a little. “A moment.”

“Yes, Ted,” Charlie says. “A single moment, here, where I can absorb and acknowledge the tranquility of my environment.”

“Okay,” Ted says. “Well, ah, in case after your moment you’re hungry, I’ll put yours in the fridge.”

“Thank you, Ted.”

“Anytime,” Ted says and stands beside him, faces the same direction, the view that overlooks the patio and the pool, and the arid land beyond it on the hill. Charlie doesn’t have to open his eyes to see Ted mirror his stance, or to see the view in front of him. It’s wide open space and plenty of room to breathe, the details aren’t what’s most important.

He shifts from side to side, feels the bones in his ankles pop and slide, the same in his knees. There’d been days he’d thought they’d never work again, but here he is, standing, and able. He could run over that dry land, dodge around the cacti, if he wanted, feel his muscles stretch and contract, pulling him along and forward to some new place, to any place at all.

He pictures it, with his eyes closed and his head tilted back. He can hear Ted breathing next to him, a little impatient and a little frustrated and a little exasperated. He smiles, and Ted finally huffs a bit and moves off. He’ll go back and read his newspapers and dream his big dreams and usually get a full night’s sleep.

Charlie pictures flying over the ground, legs pumping, body straining, imagines himself soaring past rivers and lakes and through valleys and over mountains. All the bones in his spine relax, here, with his eyes closed where he can’t see the past twelve years of his life. Here, he is the earth beneath him and the air around him. He is joy and life, and definitely not condemnation and deceit. He is the blood in his veins and the wind in his lungs, and bones and tendons and muscles under his skin. He is not bruises and breaks, or scars and crooked toes. He is--

The blender starts up, abruptly, and Charlie startles enough to open his eyes.

“I’m adding mango to the smoothies, Charlie,” Ted calls from the kitchen when the blender shuts off.

Charlie stares at the glass doors in front of him, feels the twinge in his side from where he’d gotten shanked so bad, feels the aches all over his body, and the chill in his feet. He stretches and curls his toes again, and shakes himself out as he smiles and heads off for mango smoothies, and maybe some socks.

fic: Change and Growth

2008-06-28T21:03:43Z

Title: Change and Growth
Fandom: Jericho
Rating: PG
Characters: Heather (hints of Heather/Jake and Heather/Beck)
Word Count: almost 500
Spoilers: Season 2, Episode 1 (which I haven't seen since it came out, so it's possible this is a bit off, but, hey, fic is fic)
Disclaimer: Not mine, but it's not really anyone's after tonight so...
Summary: Birthday (belated) fic for wrldpossibility, who asked for Heck fic. So here we have Heather, meeting Beck, returning to Jericho, and being Heather. Hope this fits the bill!

He isn’t Jake.

When they first meet, it runs through her head that he has nice eyes, and good presence. He fills the room and she wants to like him right away. She wants to question him, and challenge him, and yes, follow him. She wants him to be the real deal.

It also runs through her head that he isn’t Jake. But then again, Jake isn’t Jake anymore. He’s not the man she met on a school bus, and he’s not the man she kissed on the street. The battle with New Bern has changed him, losing his father has changed him, and Emily has changed him.

She thinks they look good together, and she wouldn’t be much of a best friend if she wasn’t happy that they found each other again while she was away. She’s sad, but she’s moving on. The world has changed too much for her not to learn how to adapt as well.

The world, her world, has become a shadow of what it once was. Even with the power back on here in town, the world out there is still a kicked dog, lying in the corner and licking its wounds, snapping at anyone who tries to get to close.

Beck could lose a hand. Hell, she tries to take off a couple fingers herself, and she knows Jake is looking at his jugular like fresh meat. This world they live in now, it is angry and defensive, it is hunkered down and bleeding out. It’s suspicious, and scared, and everything she always tried to guard her students against. Now, when she sees them, if she sees them, they’ve got their hands gripped tightly by their parents’ hands, they’ve got a darkness in their eyes that they don’t even really understand. She knows what it looks like because she doesn’t go a day without seeing it in the eyes of everyone on the street, in the eyes of her friends, and in her own eyes in the mirror.

And yes, Beck’s got it too. He’s got it, and he’s got something else. It takes her a while to figure it out, because even though the lights came back on it’s still been awhile since she’s noticed it. He’s got idealism, and tenaciousness, and duty to more than a man in front of seal, whichever seal that might be, and hope. He’s got hope.

So when they first meet, she thinks of all those things, but mostly, she starts to think about change and growth. This could be good for Jericho, she thinks. This could be good for New Bern, good for Kansas. He could be good for them, and maybe he could be good for her, too.

flawsrevenge @ 2008-06-28T15:02:00

2008-06-28T20:08:52Z

This morning they decided that 7am on a Saturday would be a good day to replace some siding, so when it became apparent I would not be getting any more sleep, I got myself up and went and saw "Wanted." YES. That's my reaction right there. Let's say it again. YES. I have been starving for a good two hours of nerdy hero character and gratuitous violence and sci-fi-ish wonderfulness. It was like what I wanted out of "Jumper" except that it didn't turn out to suck like "Jumper." It turned out to be MADE OF AWESOME. *happy sigh* I may have to see it again. I laughed, I gasped, I cringed. It is funny as all hell, seriously. YES. I love James McAvoy. I love Angelina (and especially Angelina's TATTOOS). I love.

Also, I am not dead, and I am writing, although slowly. Very, very slowly.

flawsrevenge @ 2008-06-13T17:49:00

2008-06-13T22:56:10Z

Happy Birthday, wrldpossibility! You've been so supportive as I dip my toes into Prison Break fandom, and you've also given me countless hours of wonderful things to read (I'm still behind, but I'm working on it. ;-) ) I hope you have a most wonderful day. Of course, I don't have a present, because I am slow and easily distracted by shiny pretty things, but the same offer is open to you that I've offered to others before: any fic you want (PB, Jericho, Life, SPN, DA, whatever...), I'll do my very best to deliver.

fic: At this altar

2008-05-31T00:04:42Z

Title: At this altar
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Sara
Word Count: 600 or so
Rating: yeah...um...the point of this challenge was NC-17, and um...NC-17 implied? does that count?
Warning: see rating, also, excessive schmoop
Notes: Written for the challenge "Let's get it on" at pbhiatus_fic , and for burntcircles , as a birthday request.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.

It’s just a hand, with a slow rub up a silky smooth expanse of skin. She watches with interest, eyes locked on long fingers, on fine bones and narrow wrist, dark against pale white, darker still when flesh gives way to blue ink, to man’s pattern instead of God’s. He follows with lips, kissing all the places he’s kissed already with his fingertips, lashes down and studied, like he studies everything. She wonders if he’s taking her apart in his mind, bone and muscle and blood and spirit. She knows he sees it all, but it doesn’t make her nervous, or even slightly self-conscious. She reaches a hand down, cups his chin and strokes a thumb over his cheek. He glances up at her and smiles, still kissing closer and closer, higher and higher up her thigh.

“You’re beautiful,” she says.

He hums against her skin, low notes that vibrate down into her nerves and up her spine. She can feel music in it all the way up in her brain. He pulls his lips back just enough, “I think that’s my line,” he murmurs and they brush against her, and his hand has gone higher still, and rests there, just there. He leaves it as he pulls himself up towards her, so that their eyes are close, their lips closer still. He kisses her lips as gently as he kissed her skin, reverently, mouth moving like he’s saying a prayer and his fingers find the rhythm of it below on her body.

She holds his head in both hands and deepens the kiss, makes little noises in the back of her throat to encourage him. His dexterity is enough to make her swoon, but she resists the fall; she isn’t finished with him yet. Not yet, not ever. She lets go of his head and sweeps her hands down, nails brushing his sides in a slow tickle. He shudders and leaves off what he was doing between her legs to brace himself with both arms above her.

“Hey,” she says, and smiles up at him. “I thought you were busy.”

His focus on her is intense, and she feels precious, and desired, and beloved. “You distracted me,” he says. “You’re always distracting me.”

“I do what I can,” she says, and curls her fingers over the waistband of his shorts, the only clothing left between the two of them. “What are these still doing here?” she asks, and pushes at them until he finally helps, sits up and tosses them away and stares down at her, stares like he will never see enough. “Come on,” she whispers. “Come here.”

He settles back over her gently, and there is nothing between them. She never wants anything to come between them again, not space or time or prisons or even clothes. She pulls at his back, pulling him closer, pulling him in to her in every way she can. He puts his arms around her, holding on as tightly as she is, maybe more so. They hold still with their mouths open against each other, just breathing each other in. She can feel his heart beat against her chest, can feel her own race to keep up.

“I missed you,” he whispers. “I love you.”

He’s too close to focus on, but she can still see him, still knows what he looks like, what the look in his eyes is right now. She knows every part of him. She cants her hips and wraps her legs around him, wraps her arms around him, holding on just like he is holding on, worshipping his body just like he is worshipping hers.

“I’m here now,” she says.

flawsrevenge @ 2008-05-19T15:24:00

2008-05-19T20:27:45Z

Happy Birthday, burntcircles! I don't have any pictures or fic for you (sorry :-( ), but I hope you have a lovely day! If you do want a present, you need only ask and I will do my best, whatever it is.

flawsrevenge @ 2008-05-15T20:52:00

2008-05-16T01:57:15Z

Because apparently I am masochistic, I watched the SPN finale. And I knew better. Now I'm going to go have a good cry. Damn you, show.

ETA: Buffy the Vampire Slayer much?

flawsrevenge @ 2008-05-12T11:54:00

2008-05-12T17:02:32Z

I still haven't watched all of last week's SPN... I caught little bits and pieces and wow, I don't even have a desire to watch it. Or this week's episode. I'm pretty unspoiled except for the trailer, but that's enough to make me consider waiting until fourth season to catch this episode. Except that the details will be all over online. Seriously, I just don't really...care? After first season when they were in the car and got hit by the semi, there was that terrifying fear of never knowing what would happen because it wasn't even certain that they would have a second season, and then it was still new enough that they could feasibly kill off a character...and they did. Now? They're coming back, and the prospect of the heartache of a summer full of angst is almost too much for me.

Oh first season, you were so bright and shiny and I miss you so much.

Also, spn/sw part 1 (episode 1?) is finally a complete rough draft (just under 10k words) and it makes me happy to scroll up and down the pages and watch the words fly by. Now to start in on part 2...and think of a title... Supernaturwars? Starnatural?

flawsrevenge @ 2008-04-29T00:50:00

2008-04-29T06:02:50Z

4800 words and they haven't even made it into space. I want to get a Word Counter like they use for NaNoWriMo, but I don't know what to set my goal as... Can I have one that goes from 0 to 'indeterminate'?

I'm terrified I'm going to desert this like I have all my other WIPs. Maybe if I don't post anything until it's completely done? But I'm not sure I'm patient enough for that. Anyone have any advice for finishing stories? Besides, 'suck it up and do it'?

Also, I'm spending quite a bit of time thinking about Michael and Sara lately. When I first heard the good news, it hit me in the sense of 'what a mess the PTB have made' but as time goes by I find myself anticipating more and more the reunion. I am like wine or cheese, folks, my appreciation/excitement gets greater with time. Especially since I have reviewed the angsty scenes from Season 3 where he's all crying and freaking out. I love those scenes. I pray that Season 4 will be equally lovable...more so. I want more so, damn it.

Finally, anyone remember the Fox series "Get Real" (Anne Hathaway, Eric Christian Olsen, etc.) and have any idea if/where I can get my hands/eyes on it? I am all nostalgic and needy...

flawsrevenge @ 2008-04-24T00:21:00

2008-04-24T05:24:50Z

1600 words of SPN/SW and counting. And I am having just too much fun. Anybody out there into both Supernatural and Star Wars that might consider betaing eventually? Also, anybody out there know if there are any SPN/SW icons or anything of the like? Sam and Dean having a lightsaber fight would be AWESOME. Right? Right?

fic: Pier at Midnight

2008-04-20T18:19:50Z

Title: Pier at Midnight
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Sara
Word Count: a bit under 400
Rating: PG probably, for kissing and groping and mushy stuff.
Warning: Big chunk of text; no paragraph breaks.
Notes: Written for the challenge "There's no place like home" at pbhiatus_fic.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.

It’s a windy night, with thunder and lightning in the distance. The spray from the waves hits their faces and feels like rain, but it isn’t raining yet. They’re waiting for it, standing on the wooden planks in shorts and bare feet, holding their sandals in their hands. They have no raincoat, no umbrella, and even with the cool Michigan water in the air they feel warm and sweaty from racing down the pier. It’s humid and when they breathe in they can feel the individual droplets of the water on their tongues. They’re breathless, and laughing, and holding hands or touching faces or brushing arms. They’re trying to keep quiet so the security guards don’t come down with their flashlights and tell them to leave since they’re not supposed to be there. They listen to the thunder trying to sneak up behind them, and catch the flashes of lightning in each other’s eyes. He kisses her, quickly, when it’s dark and the rain starts to fall. Soon they’re both drenched and laughing harder because it’s a downpour and they can barely hear over the rain drops hitting the planks and the waves hitting the beach and the pillars of the pier below. They press together and mouth words against each other’s lips and skin, and lap up rain water and lake water and the faint lingering salt from their sweat. Her hair is a waterfall, and he brushes his hand under it, letting streams of water and hair rush through his fingers. She traces the patterns on his arms with her fingertips, moving the stream of rain water in her wake. A particularly loud crash of thunder makes them jump, and they grasp onto each other with their free hands. They laugh again, and then hug tightly, and she lays her head against his chest where she can hear his heart beating. He strokes his fingers down her back and she shivers, but not because she’s wet or cold. She tips her head back and they kiss again. They let their lips linger and she closes her eyes against the rush of rain down her upturned face, but she can still see him there, behind her eyelids. They pull away slowly, smiling, then race back down the pier.

fic: Suspension (of Belief)

2008-04-15T03:08:41Z

Title: Suspension (of Belief)
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: Gen, R for violence and um...apocalypse?
Characters: Dean, Sam
Word Count: ~850, written in an hour! Yay for writing exercises!
Notes: Kind of gory/graphic, and...abstract? I hope not too much so, but I can't always tell.
Summary: Seven snippets, and I don't want to spoil it, so basically, bad things happen.

The first time, they made him say it.

“Mine’s the one that matters.”

They forced him down onto his knees, shoved cold hard metal up against his forehead and demanded it.

He was only too happy to oblige.

It was all blood and violence when he closed his eyes.

They’re on the way to a hunt. It’s a poltergeist in Nebraska. Sam’s reading a map with a penlight stuck between his teeth. Pulls it out to turn and look at him.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He slows down for a curve, punches the gas halfway through and they coast out in a rush of centrifugal forces. He feels like his skin is falling away in the spin, but they only go faster.

“I just though, you might be tired. After all that.”

“No. No, I’m fine.”

The second time, he didn’t wait for them. No need. He wasn’t in the business of saving people. He was in his own business now.

“Mine’s the one that matters.”

The only one.

They set burning matches against his skin and let them burn out.

“You want to stop and grab some dinner?” Sam.

He shrugs his shoulders and the jacket feels tight, chafes a bit. They could use a stop. “Whatever you want.”

“I could really go for some pie. Let’s stop and get some pie.” Sam’s got that tone, slightly whining, slightly cajoling, just a shade too high. The little brother voice.

“Sure. I always like pie.”

Sam nods and it’s serious. Serious business, pie. “Pull off at the next exit.”

They drive for what seems like forever.

Maybe it is.

The third time, boredom set in. They weren’t looking for anything anymore. He gave it all away, and they kicked his knees out from behind.

His voice came out in a red shower. He painted them with it.

“Mine’s the one that matters.”

It went black after.

“Where’d you go?”

“What?”

“You went away.”

“I’m right here.” He smoothes his hands down the steering wheel, familiar against his skin.

Sam shakes his head. “No, for a moment there, you were somewhere else.”

“Huh.” He brushes a hand against his mouth, and it comes away red. “Did we get pie?”

“You don’t remember?”

The fourth time, he pleaded with them. Or tried to, but he only had one thing to say.

“Mine’s the one that matters.”

They held his hand out straight in front of him and brought the hammer down. Then the other one. When they let him go, he stared down at mangled flesh and broken bone.

They grabbed his chin and forced him to look at them, but they faded away.

Sam’s driving now. He’s a little nervous, always is, ever since he first handed Sam the wheel with a smile and a Hail Mary.

But Sam’s cool, and calm, and the road is smooth.

“Did you sleep at all?”

He rubs his eyes with the back of his wrist, his hand feels like he must have slept on it, trapped against the window and his skull.

“Yeah, a little. I think.”

“Good, we’re almost there.”

The fifth time, they held the poker up to his face and laughed. They had rotten teeth and black, vacant eyes. He thought maybe he knew them, them and all of them like them.

He opened his mouth, and everything spilled out.

“Mine’s the one that matters.”

They stuck the knife in his belly and the poker in his eye. He washed out in a flash of light and color and the slick slide of blood down his chest.

Sam’s talking but he doesn’t open his eyes. He must have really slept this time.

“I was thinking, maybe instead of the poltergeist we should head north.”

“Why?” he mumbles.

“Maybe we should stop and see Bobby and Ellen, maybe Jo. We could look up old friends.”

“Nah, we were just there. Let’s do this job, first.”

Sam’s quiet for a while, but eventually he gives in.

“Okay, but after this. I really want to see them.”

The sixth time, he lay slumped over on the floor. They poked and prodded and taunted and jeered, but he couldn’t get anything out at all.

The world behind them was on fire; he could feel the heat. He heard the screams, but maybe they were his. He didn’t know.

“You awake?”

He didn’t know. Maybe.

“Because it’s just up the road.”

“What is?”

“You know.”

“The hunt?”

“No, not the hunt. Something better.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Sam chuckles, and he smiles. Or thinks he does.

The seventh time, they didn’t do anything. They didn’t need to. There was nothing left.

Mine’s the one that matters.

“You gave me everything, Dean.”

The car isn’t moving anymore.

“You chose me, and that means so much. It really does.”

Maybe they’re not even in the car. He can’t tell.

“The whole world, Dean. And you chose me.” He’s using the little brother voice again, and it sounds like it’s full of awe.

He smiles for sure this time.

fic: Happy Anniversary

2008-04-03T02:35:57Z

Title: Happy Anniversary
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Henry Pope, Judy Pope
Word Count: a bit over 600
Rating: PG-13 for a bit of language
Notes: Written for the challenge "Flashforward Fever" at pbhiatus_fic.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.

Retirement doesn’t settle as easy on his shoulders as Judy would like. But she’s always been supportive, so she never says anything overtly. He thinks she’d probably say something about how it was his choice, more or less, about how they could finally take some time to live stress free and relaxed, to finally be married after years of devotion to his job instead of his wife. But she doesn’t say anything, and he reads the newspapers and looks online for job postings, first for something comparable, and then, after a few polite rejection letters and a few outright denials, something completely different.

He could do any sort of administrative work really, or business management or local politics. He ran a prison for Pete’s sake, through heat waves and riots and corrupt guards and dead guards and Lincoln Burrows. Anything after that should be a cakewalk. Anything after the shit storm that ended his career should be a stroll in the park, with ample time for holding hands with Judy. Sitting around the house and growing old isn’t really his style, but he’s willing to give up hectic and time consuming for something manageable. Judy will agree once she sees it happen, he’s sure of it. So he watches the listings, and updates his resume, and keeps himself up to date on the world, on local issues and the economy. He’s looking for his opening, and he has no doubt that eventually he’ll find it. That’s how he finds out.

It isn’t entirely unexpected. Headline news comes back around on a cycle like bell bottom jeans and teased hair. Michael Scofield made headline news quite a bit back when he broke out of Fox River and went on the lam. A second breakout is definitely news worthy stuff.

They show all the old pictures, even some of the video footage where he’s reaching out to Dr. Tancredi, and he sits and watches it, finger frozen on the buttons of the remote. He’d like to turn the channel, to turn it off, or even to put it on mute, but it’s the same old train wreck that he never could look away from.

They don’t have much about it this time around, just a bit of leaked information out of Panama. What Scofield was doing imprisoned down there is a bit beyond him, beyond them all really, since apparently there hadn’t yet been any sort of hearing, but facts is facts, and now he’s out again, and it’s so much like Fox River and yet so different that his head is spinning.

He sits back in his lazy boy, clutching the remote and remembering Scofield standing in his living room. He remembers letting him go, and he thinks, four walls, a bit of barbed wire, and a few armed guards couldn’t keep him, and neither could he, not even when Scofield gave him the gun. He’s an escape artist Houdini himself would praise. The most dangerous and well guarded prison wasn’t going to hold him. Hell, he’d even bet that Michael was working on the Black Taj Mahal down there; that he had some other big wig completely under his thumb without them even knowing it.

Judy opens the door and comes in with groceries while he’s still glued to his chair. The news has moved on to recycling milk jugs and rescuing kittens even though his eyes are still seeing flashing lights, and his ears are still hearing the alarms blare over the yard. He lets go of the remote and the lines are imprinted on his skin from clutching it so tightly, but he stands up, and goes to help his wife.

fic: Dead and Gone

2008-03-25T17:55:00Z

It's Jericho Day! Again! But never again...*sobs*

In honor of our last day, here is some angsty fic.

Title: Dead and Gone
Fandom: Jericho...duh.
Rating: PG, should be rated A for angst
Characters: Jake, Emily, brief mentions of others
Word Count: almost 500
Spoilers: Takes place during "Four Horsemen," references to "Pilot" and "The Day Before" and "Vox Populi" and Jake's time working for J&R. Lines in italics taken directly from episodes.
Disclaimer: Not mine, but it's not really anyone's after tonight so...
Summary: Jake, thinking about Emily. Angst.

Emily was angry, and grieving, and Jake knew it, but he went to her anyway. He used to be the one she turned to, he used to be a lot of things to her. Not anymore.

“He’s gone, and I’m here with you. You were supposed to be the one that was dead. Not him.”

He let the words wash over him and settle on his shoulders, in his skin. She wasn’t just talking about Roger. She was talking about her brother. And she was right. He agreed with her. He’d gone to Afghanistan, and to Iraq, and anywhere else that would have him, trying to forget it all. But it hadn’t worked, and in a lot of ways, it’d only gotten worse. He had more reasons than Emily now to wish that he was the one who hadn’t made it.

At the top of that list was a little girl, staring back at him from a black memory. Another mistake in a seemingly endless line of mistakes. Another one of those things he couldn’t take back, no matter how hard he tried. When he looked into Emily’s eyes some days, he saw other eyes staring back at him, full of accusations and blame. Tragedies he had caused, irreparable sorrow and grief.

And even in San Diego, when he’d hid out in a small apartment and tried to leave it all behind him, it’d always come back around.

“…there’s no way I can hire you if you are unable to clear this up.”

Telling interviewers he couldn’t talk about it for confidentiality reasons was one thing, but not the real thing holding him back. He couldn’t talk about it. At all.

Going back to Jericho had been an exercise in torture. All the people he’d known wanted to know. Stanley, Eric, his father, the woman he’d loved once and still did, couldn’t help but love...

“Seriously, where have you been?”

It was easier to lie to them than to risk them ever finding out.

But he was different now, changed in ways indescribable. Deep gashes in his soul that left a visible mark on the outside. Everyone who looked could see it. His mother stared and couldn’t look away, his brother couldn’t figure out what he was looking at, his father waited to see what would come of it, and Emily…

Emily couldn’t see. Wouldn’t see. In some ways, he was glad.

Later, he would find Roger for her in a distorted line of sound on a tape, lost in a field outside of Kansas City but still alive, and she would look past him like he wasn’t even there. Despite that, she would be in his arms, for a dance to a song he remembered intensely. How could he possibly forget? And afterwards, she would run into another man’s arms, into Roger’s arms, and when he melted away she wouldn’t even notice.

flawsrevenge @ 2008-03-12T23:09:00

2008-03-13T04:18:03Z

I started writing something tonight, and I don't know what it is. It's stream of consciousness, but I don't know whose and it's irking me so I'm saving it under wtf and leaving it at that. I also finally got around to updating my Four Brothers fic which makes me feel both accomplished and depressed, because it will just. not. die.

In other news, there was Jericho, and the world was good...

Almost every day since DB Sweeney got back I've been screaming for Jake to shoot him in the head, and now Stanley's done it instead. I'm glad because it needed to be done, and sad because Stanley? So not cut out for that kind of shit, and the throwing up afterwards was so realistic (I would assume) and heartbreaking. And Stanley signing at Bonnie? Yeah, I wept. Oh man show, the things you do to me.

I can't believe there are only two more episodes. I will cry some more if they don't get the pick up. I will sob like a little girl and there will be no consoling me. But in the meantime? I feel like this season has finally hit its stride, and I forgive it for the opener because I really did not want civilization to come back, but now that we might be getting revolution and everyone's all shooting guns and running around in the fields and everything? Perfect. That is the part I adore. Crazy people surviving and taking care of each other and yeah...