Tickety Boo, What?

Porn! gasp!

2005-12-20T09:34:06Z

Approximately forever ago (okay, this summer), cycnus and I chatporned at each other. This was the result.

Title: The Boys of Summer
Author: poisonivory
Pairing: Ted/Booster
Rating: NC-17
Notes: The whole thing started because I was telling cycnus about an art bunny I had for porny Ted and Booster in the laundry room of their rented beach house. (Yeah, I don't even know.) This happened. With a cheesy title and everything!

Ted and Booster have gotten into the habit of trudging up from the beach - their house is right off it - at the end of the day and going into the backyard, dumping the chairs in the shed and rinsing off accumulated sand in the outdoor shower, and then just tossing their trunks and towels in the dryer on the way into the house.

The laundry room is a little addition, as the house itself was built in the thirties. It leads into the kitchen, and from about waist height up it’s just windows, small panels that let the very golden late afternoon sunlight come streaming in. There's sand everywhere, of course, and the pipes are seventy-five years old and creaky as hell, and everything's very small and cramped, but it's quiet and Ted and Booster, despite their madcap fronts, do occasionally need to detox.

They stagger in, toss the suits and towels into the machine, and then just sort of stand there for a minute, enjoying the sun and the stillness of the little room and only just barely touching. Then Ted tilts his chin up and kisses Booster, slow and languid and casual. And they kiss for a while, the silence broken occasionally by little hmming noises and the odd mumbled joke, until Ted gets sick of the height difference and hoists himself up on the dryer, and Booster curves himself into the space between Ted's legs and the arch of Ted's spine.

Eventually Booster slides downwards, his lips and nose and hair skimming over Ted's chest and stomach, nestles into Ted's lap, and just...enjoys himself. Ted's spine is arched, his hands drifting aimlessly but tenderly through Booster's hair, and when his eyelids flutter open for brief instants he traces the cracks in the off-white ceiling paint. Little words like "please" and "love" and "yes" flutter downwards between the dust motes and soft breathless sounds and the creaks of the dryer as Ted's hips twitch.

After Ted comes, mewling and writhing against the sunwarmed metal, Booster unfolds himself and eases the crick in his neck before leaning into Ted like a comet arches into the gravity of a star. He finds his orbit between Ted's shoulder and the rough edge of Ted's jaw, and Ted's hand slips down, lab-scarred and battle-callused and the delicate fingers of an artist, wraps around Booster, and pulls him close. Booster keens into Ted's shoulder, nips gently at the cords as they stand out, and lets himself be held.

He comes with a shuddering sigh in Ted's hand, and a careful listener would catch that word "love" again, dropped in a rasping whisper like loose change in the street. There's no need to unfold just yet, not now for once, and the sun is a slip of crimson on the rim of the world when Ted turns the washing machine on and they go into the house.

Title: Jailhouse Rock
Author: cycnus
Pairing: Ted/Booster
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Then I requested Bialya jailcell!pr0n. This is how it came out in the IM, untouched by my clumsy hands.

I think, if there was going to be jailcell!pr0n, it'd be quick and desperate. The number of days scratched onto the wall in a weak attempt at keeping some control of the situation would be getting high and they would be beginning to snap at each other out of sheer frustration, then feel immediately bad because they're all they've got in the world.

They would, of course, have made and discarded countless plans for escape. Most of them were ridiculous, but they couldn't help feeling a little hopeful every time they came up with something and then feeling crushed every time they realize it won't work. That they're helpless in a way that superheroes just aren't.

The guard has just finished his rounds and is at the end of the cell block, deciding between writing up his report or slipping off for a drink. Booster saw him wearing the ring and is frustrated and angry at himself, that it's so close, but just not close enough. He collapses onto the cot. Ted stops scratching something onto the wall and drifts closer to Booster.

Booster looks up at Ted then, and Ted's heart just clenches in a way that has nothing to do with heart conditions. Before he can really think about it, he's leaning over Booster and just kissing him, grabbing Booster's shoulders and holding on while Booster kisses back. Then he breaks off and backs up, but only far enough to rest his forehead against Booster's.

They just sit like that for a few long moments, absorbing comfort from the other's presence. Then they move together. Hands move over bare skin, and Ted's unshaven chin is going to leave red marks on Booster's neck and collarbones. The only sound from between them is heavy breathing, although when Booster slips his hand under the band of Ted's shorts, he makes a high, abrupt sound in the back of his throat.

Ted reciprocates the action and they settle into a quick rhythm. Their kisses are dirty, open-mouthed, greedy now. They know how little time they have and their actions are filled with desperation. But Ted still runs his thumb gently over the nape of Booster's neck and Booster pulls them closer together and wraps his arm around Ted's shoulders.

Ted comes first, with his eyes squeezed shut. Then he pushes Booster down onto the cot and watches his face closely as he brings Booster up to and over the threshold. When Booster catches his breath, he shoves himself up and they clean themselves up as best they can. Then Ted goes back to scratching something onto the wall. Booster sits next to him and leans his head against Ted's hip. They still haven't said anything, but they don't need to.

Title: In Other Words
Author: poisonivory
Pairing: Kyle/Connor
Rating: NC-17
Notes: And finally, cycnus asked for Kyle/Connor. *smooshes them together*

It wasn't like Connor had never been in space. After all, the JLA Watchtower was hardly the shop around the corner, and it seemed like every other apocalypse required suiting up and jetting out into that endless black void. But his experience with it was rather limited, what with being a mere bowslinger and all, and he didn't really know what all a Green Lantern could get up to out there. Nor did he like to think about it, as fretting wasn't particularly good for his concentration at either meditation or pinning a mugger's gun hand to a wall with a single shot, especially as he sensed his purely platonic buddy wouldn't so much appreciate said fretting.

So when Kyle was gone - which was pretty often now that Hal was back, and he didn't want to hate his father's best friend for such a stupid reason as that - he blocked out all thoughts of Kyle out there, zipping around through unfathomable distances, with only a paper-thin shield of emerald light keeping his insides from imploding and floating eternally in frozen chunks from star to star.

Of course, that became a more difficult proposition when Kyle suddenly careened out of the sky and crashed in front of him like an inebriated green comet.

Connor peered anxiously into the small, faintly-smoking crater in the middle of Atlantic Street. Kyle, protected by the same faint green glow that kept his insides un-imploded, gave him a faint, half-broken smile.

"Green Lantern reporting another mission accomplished, sir," he croaked, and promptly blacked out.

If Connor's concern - all right, fear - for Kyle's welfare hadn't already put him in a titchy mood, lugging the other man's body 23 blocks to the brownstone would have done it all by its lonesome. Kyle had come to after Connor dumped copious amounts of water on his head, and a quick frisking had determined that there were no serious injuries from his crash-dummy landing. Now Kyle sat leaning against Connor's headboard, wet hair inky streaks across his furrowed brow, his dark eyes distant and haunted, and Connor didn't have the heart to lecture.

"What...what do you do up there, anyway?" he said instead, wrapping a bandage around Kyle's bleeding knuckles, which the drained ring hadn't been able to take care of.

"Oh, you know," Kyle said, sounding hollow. "Hero stuff."

"Uh-huh. You wanna translate?" Connor taped off the bandage, but didn't let go of Kyle's hand. It was a warm, heavy weight in his own, and a much-needed comfort in the face of Kyle's...whatever this was.

Kyle was silent for so long Connor would've thought he'd gone to sleep if he couldn't still see Kyle's eyes, sparks of green beneath dark heavy lashes. He turned Kyle's hand over in his own idly, tracing the fingers, the lines of the palm.

Finally Kyle turned back to Connor, and Connor didn't think he was a coward, but for some reason he quailed under Kyle's gaze. "I..." Kyle started, then glanced down at their entwined hands. Connor flushed and hoped his complexion would hide it. He tried to drop Kyle's hand, but Kyle's fingers suddenly closed around his, and he wondered how a man who didn't spend eight hours a night shooting arrows got such a vicelike grip.

"Connor, I think I'm..." Kyle stammered; then he lunged forward, and the mattress dipped beneath Connor, and then Kyle's mouth was on his.

Connor wasn't sure when he'd let go of Kyle's hand, but he was pretty sure that he had at some point, because that was definitely Kyle's hand on his shoulder pushing him back into the mattress, and that was definitely Kyle's hand sliding up under his shirt and tracing his ribs with a blunt thumb. He let out a little gasp and that was all Kyle needed to slip his tongue into Connor's mouth, to drown Connor in warm stuttering exhalations and the faint taste of Seven-Up. Connor reached out blindly for something to grab onto and found himself burying his hands in that wet, dark hair, fanning his fingertips over Kyle's winglike shoulderblades, scrambling for purchase in Kyle's vertebrae. Nothing got him close enough.

Then Kyle was moving his hips, and oh, and please, and that wasn't nearly close enough but it was so much better than before. Connor was hard, so hard it hurt and so fast, and a Kevlar jock and a costume constructed out of green light weren't enough to keep him from feeling Kyle's similar plight. There was a flash; then Kyle's costume was gone and he must've been in bed when the call came, because he was wearing nothing but boxers and Connor blessed the fact that he had taken off his gloves to play doctor, because otherwise he never would've learned that something as simple as bare skin beneath fingertips was enough to short-circuit what felt like half the synapses in his brain.

Kyle made a petulant noise into Connor's mouth and shoved Connor's shirt up. Regretfully, Connor broke the kiss in order to get the shirt over his head, but as Kyle immediately moved his attentions to one of Connor's nipples Connor decided that life was too short for regrets. He wriggled out of his tights with only a vague idea of where this was going, and even that was made fuzzy by this wonderful new concept of friction, lovely lovely friction, and as Kyle made his way back up Connor's chest and neck to his mouth Connor mumbled "Kyle, Kyle," and rocked up. He wanted to say something more, something about "yes" and "please" and "always," but Kyle reached down and squeezed and there went the other half of Connor's synapses.

"Con," and Kyle's voice was rough and guttural and scraped up the inside of Connor's spine, "can I...?"

"Yes," said Connor without even the slightest idea what he was saying yes to, but it didn't matter because this was Kyle and everything was yes for Kyle, would always be yes.

And Kyle was shoving his shorts down, and then Connor's, and oh, Connor's cock was right up against Kyle's, pressed against their stomachs, and Kyle thrust once, twice, and then he was groaning and trembling and coming all over Connor's hips.

He went limp above Connor, but Connor was still achingly hard, and as he rocked his hips upwards he realized Kyle was talking.

"...awful, the whole star system destroyed and I couldn't do anything..." Kyle buried his face in Connor's neck and the brush of his lips on Connor's throat was maddening, and Connor knew he should stop, should listen, should help him, but he couldn't stop bucking against Kyle, slick and hot and beautiful above him. And Kyle didn't seem to want him to stop, as his slipped a hand between them, wrapped it around Connor's cock, and stroked in time with Connor's thrusts.

"...just wanted to come home to you..." Kyle mumbled, as his breath tickled Connor's earlobe. "...just needed you, Con," and he ran his thumb over the head of Connor's cock, "love you," and Connor came like a shot.

Doodle dump!

2005-10-20T09:07:39Z

A whole bunch of DC Prep doodles. Because I'm a GEEK. (For those who don't know what DC Prep is, basically it's a really silly AU where Bruce Wayne, Ted Kord, Ollie Queen, and Lex Luthor were all roommates at prep school together. A boatload of other characters show up. It's really, really silly and includes a keytar. Because keytars make everything awesome.)

I finally got Sue's design to come out PURDY. YAY! The two headshots in the upper lefthand corner are "Enh," but the one all the way on the left? With the skirt and the sassy pose? It's Sue! *so much love* The one smack dab in the middle is Sue at her debutante ball - please to be ignoring the curls without the heavy inking, I decided I didn't like them. Also I still can't come up with a design I like for her dress. My brain keeps wanting to stick her in that monstrosity Debbie Reynolds wears at the end of Singin' in the Rain. (Seriously, gorgeous costumes throughout and they wrap her in cotton candy for the finale? What gives?)

Let's see, what else? That's a Bruce headshot on the right - still working on his stupid emo hair. Oh, Brucie. An early Ralph design down at the bottom (gettin' SMOOCHED!), and my cheapass film notes scattered around (please, my professor's senile and my TA doesn't give a damn. I'm not gonna take good notes).

I am not obsessed with drawing DC Prep!Booster. Why do you say such things? In case you didn't catch the five billion sketches from the last post, Booster is two years younger than the main cast of DC Prep, and on a football scholarship. Guess who gets to tutor him to help him keep his scholarship? If you guessed anyone but Ted, you clearly don't know me very well.

Anyway. Fifteen-year-old Booster is freckled AND dimpled. It's a pretty intense combination. If I attended the sister school (the girls (well, some of them) don't go to DC Prep itself, which is an all-boys school, they attend the nearby affiliated all-girls school), I would've been hopelessly in love with him. ~~I am a little bit even now.~~ What?

"Tutoring." RIGHT. I imagine this happens a lot. "That's a...great...trigonometric function...you just, um...applied, Booster...gosh, you smell good."

At one point Booster wears spanky pants and go-go boots and plays the tambourine. HAVE I PIQUED YOUR INTEREST YET?

Here we have some of our supporting cast. That's Carol Ferris at the top there - like Sue, she goes to the girls' school and has known our four main boys since they were all four years old. I'm still working on her design (as evidenced by its craptasticness).

Melody Case and Trixie Collins (middle row, first and second respectively) also attend the girls' school, although they've only been going since middle school or thereabouts. They're also half sisters in this, because, you know...they're identical (oh, comics). Melody is a senior, like Ted, and is turned on by his geeky ways, which makes him flattered and nervous, which makes him act even GEEKIER, so it's an interesting cycle. Trixie's a sophomore, like Booster, and is hopelessly in love with him. ~~Oh, Trix, I feel your pain.~~

Michelle shows up too! In a completely gratuitous plotline! (Oh, hell, who am I kidding, the whole damn CONCEPT is completely gratuitous.) Her design is identical to Booster, except GIRL. It creeps me the fuck out. So to prove to myself that I could draw something even CREEPIER, I doodled a little, um, "Theodora" down in the middle there. Oh, girl!Ted. You are...no. Just no.

Annnnnd that's Mercy Graves over on the bottom left there. She's Lex's family's chaffeur's daughter (did you get all that?) and one of the few people he'd consider a "friend," in his charmingly sociopathic way. Or, rather, he's promised her that he won't kill or enslave her when he takes over the world. That Lex, what a sweetheart. Mercy is rarely seen, since she lives in Smallville at Luthor Mansion or Castle or Fortress or whatever; she and Lex do write a lot of letters to each other, and she gives him the dirt on Clark and Lana and Pete and the gang. She basically ignores his bullshit, because she's awesome, and also she can beat him up. ~~Or tell his father about his crush on "that Kent boy."~~ WHAT?

Really, though, the two main girls in this are Sue and Dinah. This is Dinah, up there on the left. She doesn't go to the sister school; Ollie meets her when he's buying flowers for another girl in her mother's store, and is instantly smitten. Dinah...not so much. However, she does get incorporated into the gang pretty quickly, mostly so she can sass people. Yay Dinah!

Also included are some doodles for the Halloween story. "I think I'm going to be Robin Hood this year." "Ollie, you're Robin Hood EVERY year." Plus, the Scarlet Pimpernel! Because Bruce is a drama queen.

Dinah in formal wear, playing around with the short black hair that she should TECHNICALLY have. I like the long blonde hair better, though. There will be some wacky mistaken identity shenanigans revolving around the hair, though. I'm not COMPLETELY stupid.

Ralph! So goofy looking! I don't know why he's leaning like that - I think my notebook was at a weird angle. Ralph vies with Booster for Cutest Thing Ever in this, although that's less a dimples-and-freckles-and-cowlicks thing and more a Woobie In Love thing.

I did say the boys (at least, the central four) have known each other forever, right? Left to right we've got a smug Booster, Ted in his schoolboy shorts, a couple of group pictures (all you need to know about the first is that Lex is pinching a screaming Bruce. Because Lex is a JERK), and a Bruce hair experiment. In that second group picture, Ted is comforting Bruce, because Ted was a sweet (if somewhat hyperactive and noisy) child, and Bruce was (well, is) the emo-est thing under the sun. Ollie is hugging Lex, because he wubs his Lexie. Lex is plotting ways to kill Ollie. Same old, same old.

Sue! In a sailor suit-dress-thingy! And another thing I imagine happened fairly frequently, because Carol, who has always been quite close to Ted, wasn't really clear on the "not punching other children in the face, even when they're being incredibly obnoxious" thing as a child, and Ted, for his part, wasn't (well, isn't) really clear on the whole "not being incredibly obnoxious" thing. You can't really tell, but he has a black eye. Also, KNEESOCKS.

Hartley! He's Ted's geeky friend! They have a science club together. They're the only members. Also, I gave him a beard, mostly to annoy Ollie, who can't grow a proper one.

Let's see, what else is on this page? Well, mostly cropped out of the left is a list of plot ideas I have so far. It's insanely long. (You can probably still read "Crisis of Ted --> STUPID BOYS," which happens to be my favorite.) Top right is a rain-drenched and bedraggled Ted, which is part of a post-graduation epilogue; so is the emo Booster in an umbrella hat beneath him. Then we've got Ted being adorable, another attempt at a debutante ballgown for Sue, and Ollie serenading Dinah with his guitar skillz. (And that is definitely not a non-DC Prep-related naked handcuffed Booster on the bottom left, so I don't know why you're even suggesting it. Hmmph!)

Not DC Prep, obviously, because they're in costume, but AW! Snuggling!

*collapses*

Crack!doodle time, YAY!

2005-09-19T04:47:08Z

I don't think I ever posted this, did I? I doodled it while I was still a-nannying. And YES I know it's Kyle's old costume with his new mask, but...his old mask and new costume are STUPID. So there.

And how can you post Kyle without his boyfriend?

His design has since been slightly altered, but I have no good examples to post. Also the costume I totally pulled out of my ass. A real maverick, that's me!

That's Ollie, Arthur, Connor, and Ted, from right to left. Confused? Read this post (if you dare!). (And that note was to Bryna about something completely unrelated. I don't, alas, have glory like this on tape.)

DC Prep is the working title of a very stupid, very delightful AU that Victoria and Bryna and I came up with (and then we sucked Caroline into our world of CRAZY, so it's her fault too). The concept? Bruce Wayne, Oliver Queen, Ted Kord, and Lex Luthor as prep school roommates. Shenanigans ensue. This will eventually be some sort of illustrated story/comic/...THING, so I've been doodling the characters all over the place (as if I really need an excuse).

The boys! Poor Ollie can't grow a proper beard. He's only 17, after all. And that's a TERRIBLE Bruce, I do apologize.

Much better. Aww, Brucie. He's so emo. *pets*

Eventually Booster shows up as a football scholarship student. And guess who has to tutor him ~~and falls in love with him~~? ~~Mikey/Teddy = OTP!~~ Fifteen-year-old Booster has freckles AND dimples. It gives him an advantage on the football field. He blinds the opposing team with CUTENESS.

And the girls! Sue Dearborn goes to our boys' sister school, and is the fifth member of our little gang of lunatics. She'll have a debutante ball at some point. WILL A BOY NAMED RALPH BE THERE? PERHAPS! And Dinah goes to public school, but Ollie meets her while purchasing flowers for some other girl, in her mother's florist's shop. CUTENESS ABOUNDS. Also Ollie being stupid, because, well. He's Ollie.

I love DC Prep so. Just wait until they start their garage band!

Finally, I took NyQuil and stumbled upon Alba's parody of herself and...uh, this happened. I don't know. (It was drawn on one page, but my scanner is too small for my sketchbook, so I had to Frankenstein two scans together. I didn't do that very well. *shifty*)

Booooooooooooooostle

2005-06-11T05:28:26Z

Soooo...the Boostle has taken over my brain, yes? And I am working up to actually writing a fic of substantial length, but since I've never really written in comics fandom before and am inexplicably terrified by it, I have snippets instead. These may be terribly OOC and just all around sucktastic; concrit (for what little there is) is very much welcome, for those of you who know the fandom (or who don't, whatevs). So. Yes.

This one falls somewhere after Justice League: Classified um...4? I think? Or something. For those who haven't read it, basically Sue Dibny threatens to call Booster's wife (Gladys, a multi-millionaire 30 years older than him) and tell her that Ted and Booster are sleeping together if they don't stop talking about Sue's supposed pregnancy. This is CANON, folks. *glee* Also, MAX IS NOT EVIL. GRRR.

On reflection, perhaps throwing the baby shower had been taking it a step too far.

Booster was an intriguing shade of red at the moment, rounding out his primary colors scheme, and clearly quite perturbed. Max had never seen anyone actually physically tear their hair before. “No! She’ll kill me! She’ll have me drawn and quartered! She’ll…cut off my allowance!”

Sue gave him a Look, one of the best in her collection and Max thought for the umpteenth time that no one who wasn’t a supervillain should be able to pull off a Look like that. “I warned you.”

“She did,” Ralph agreed, nodding sagely and looking profoundly grateful that he had had nothing to do with the baby shower and thus was escaping the wrath of Tsunami Sue. “She warned you.”

Ted groaned. Sue shot him another Look – make that the umpteenth and one – but he didn’t see her, what with his head buried in his hands and all. “What if the media finds out?”

Hmmm. “Gay is very in right now…” Max mused, but Booster was nearly purple at this point and he figured it was probably best not to bring up the sudden idea he’d had for interlocking actions figures at this juncture.

“Gladys, hi! Sue Dibny. Yeah, the Elongated Man’s wife. Mmm-hmm. Mmm-hmm. You’re kidding! Mmm-hmm.”

“Whatsshesayingwhatsshesayingwhatsshesaying?” Booster hissed, but Sue swatted him away, flylike, and he returned to tearing his – frankly silly-looking, if Max was any judge, which he was pretty sure he was – hair.

“Mmm-hmm. Listen, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but…your husband and his friend Ted? Oh, no, they’re fine, they’re just…well, more than friends. Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

Booster let out a strangled squeak. Ted moaned in counterpoint. Max reflected that these were not the best noises for them to be making together, were they intent on disproving Sue’s point.

Sue’s eyes and mouth suddenly went perfectly round. “Oh. Oh.”

“What?” Ralph asked, but Sue swatted him away too. Booster and Ted stared at Sue, twin torture victims.

“Yes. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Well, it was nice talking to you. We definitely should. I will. Bye, now.” Sue hung up, then turned to her computer and, to all intents and purposes, began to check her email. Booster made a strangled noise.

“Well?” Ralph asked after a moment.

“Well what?”

“What did she say?” Ted asked, a vein in his neck throbbing interestingly.

“Oh. She said she already knew.”

Silence. Everyone took turns blinking.

“She…knew?” Booster asked finally, and for all his experience with metas Max hadn’t known that humans could turn that particular color.

“Yep. Known for years, she said, ever since the JLI. She doesn’t mind. In fact, she thinks it’s kinda hot.” Sue pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Which, I have to say…”

Ralph winced, which for Ralph amounted to pulling all his facial features halfway in. “Sue!”

Characteristically, Sue ignored him. “In fact, Ted, she said any time you want to stop by and join in…”

Ted followed Ralph’s lead on the facial features thing, which was impressive, as the Elongated Man he wasn’t; however, Max was pretty sure he was doing the same.

“She…knew?” Booster was still shaking his head incredulously. “How could she know? I didn’t know!” He frowned. “Ted, did you know?”

Ted shrugged. “I had no idea we were sleeping together.”

“It’s not very fair, is it?” Booster asked. The bounce seemed to have come back to him. “I mean, all these years we’ve been having an affair, and neither of us reaping the benefits!”

“And by benefits you mean…?”

“Benefits!”

“Ah.”

“This should be rectified.”

“Your plan?”

“Benefits.”

Booster’s bounce had spread to Ted, if the way he sprang out of the chair was any indication. “Lead on, married man.”

And before anyone could lift a finger, elongated or otherwise, they were out the door.

Sue, Ralph, and Max exchanged a three-way glance that probably wouldn’t have worked without Ralph’s stretchiness. “They’re not really going to…” Sue said.

“They wouldn’t just…decide…to…” Ralph said.

“I mean…”

“Just because Gladys…”

“And they had to know everyone already thought…”

Another three-way glance.

“Hmm.”

“Indeed.”

“Well,” Max said finally, “like I said, gay is very in right now…”

He’d have to have L-Ron look into those action figures after all.

And this one falls...pretty much any time that Booster's wearing the yummy skintight costume and not the stupid Armor of Manly Macho Testosterone Power, With BALLS. Because. His pants are REALLY SHINY. I would be in Ted's position ALL THE TIME.

“…Ted?”

“Mmm?”

“What are you doing?”

“…Um.”

“Are you…were you staring at my – “

“No! I was. Um. Checking my hair. Your pants are really shiny, you know th -“

“…You’re wearing your cowl.”

“Yes, well…um…oh my God!”

“What?”

“Is that a supervillain?”

“Where?”

“Over there! Behind that…ficus. Thingy.”

“…”

“I think he has a ray ass.”

“…”

“Gun! Ray gun.”

“…”

“You’d better get over there. And…stop him. Before he commits any sodomy.”

“…”

“Villainy. I said.”

“Ted…”

“Are you gonna stop him or what?”

“There’s no villain over there, Ted.”

“…There could be.”

“…”

“You go check. I’m just gonna…go to the bathroom.”

Also, a sketch! 'Tis not done. Booster's arms will be moved, and Ted will gain hands. Also, there's more to them than that, but the scanner couldn't fit it all. Because they're BIG men, you know? *eyebrow waggle* Okay, I'm done now.

Um...what?

2005-04-01T02:03:02Z

Yeah, I have no idea. I may be just the teensiest bit depressed. Tiny Holmesian ficlet of bizarre.

He does not understand.

It is strange. He usually understands everything. He’s fairly well known for it, as a matter of fact. Something changed, though, at Reichenbach; someone rewrote the script. Something happened that shouldn’t have, or something didn’t that should have, and the world has been strange ever since.

It seemed almost normal for a time. There was Watson, and there was Mycroft, and there were gaslights and cobbles and shag tobacco. And if he couldn’t quite remember the three years he’d spent roaming – he’d told Watson “hiding”; was that what it had been? – well, he was no longer young, and perhaps Watson had been right about the destructive effects of the cocaine upon the mind. He found he minded less than he would have supposed.

But the years have all fallen away now, and he keeps the obituaries in his breast pocket and does not eat. It doesn’t matter. He has been shot, stabbed, burned, drowned, exposed for seven weeks in the heart of the most barren desert on this lonely rock. It has done nothing. He has watched nations rise and fall; he has seen the sciences reborn and the most fantastic of inventions debut upon the public stage. He has seen enough of war to know that the man he was in 1914 was nothing but a fool. He has forgotten what sleep is like, or the taste of brandy, or the sound of his violin.

He misses Watson every day.

He should have died at Reichenbach and he did not; he has seen two centuries turn since. It is too much. He cannot think. He cannot deduce.

He does not understand.

More House fic, hooray!

2005-03-29T19:41:21Z

Yeah. Chase/Cameron action over at housefic. Check it out.

let's go below the surface, see what we can find

2005-03-26T04:22:14Z

So I signed up for Arnold/Helga over at 30_kisses, which is this sort of challengey thingy that gives you 30 themes and you have as long as you want to write 30 stories (or draw 30 pictures) of any length, connected or not, each corresponding to one of the themes, and each having something to do with kisses. Of course the minute I looked at the themes I saw one continuous 30-chapter story, so I'm doing them in chronological order and making them all related, but you don't have to. Here's the first theme - "look over here."

Kick Off Your Shoes

Chapter One - Keds</b>

It was an unspecial day, really. Grandma had been Custer that morning, but the doomed general had dropped a kiss on his cheek as he’d left for school. Eugene had fallen down a flight of stairs and Curly had crawled into the air vent and refused to come out until everyone sang “Pop Goes the Weasel” in French, which pretty much amounted to nothing new.

And now it was a beautiful Friday afternoon in May and they were clustered on the stoop, listening to Gerald spin one of his gloriously freakish tales. Rhonda and Nadine were twirling a rope for Helga, who, while not the epitome of grace, was good at all things physical, and they’d gone through the alphabet twice already.

Arnold watched the flash of tan rubber every time her white Keds left the pavement, as Gerald’s voice droned poetical above him, and Wondered About Helga. He’d spent so much time doing just that that he’d tended to give it respectful capitals. Right now he was Wondering why she’d stopped watching him. She’d always kept those unsettling eyes trained on him before, and he’d grown used to the warmth of her gaze on his neck, the prickling of his skin that told him she was somewhere around, just looking. It might have creeped him out, but the fact of the matter was that a boy with no parents and a houseful of crazy people didn’t get quite enough of people looking out for him, and so instead of being freaky it was strangely comforting to know that Helga was three rows behind and she certainly wasn’t looking at the blackboard.

But since last summer that pleasant prickle had grown more and more infrequent. Surreptitious glances to the back of the room had found Helga actually listening to the teacher, or taking notes, or answering questions in class—all odd occurrences. Arnold chalked it up to the fact that middle school was a lot more difficult than elementary, and Helga, who had always breezed through most subjects with a scornful air, might actually have to pay attention now…but there were other things, other reasons that lurked in the back of his mind. Things like awkward conversations held on empty streets that would not be paved over, confessions and nervous laughs and hands so hot they threatened to burn a hole through his own.

And it was too big for him, like naming the stars. So he’d found the perfect little cubbyhole in his mind where he could hide those things away, keep them locked up tight except for that moment right before he fell asleep, when they shimmered in front of him like will o’ wisps.

Everyone knew you should never follow will o’ wisps.

Arnold didn’t like change, didn’t like it one bit, and that was an excellent reason for his present dissatisfaction. It was so good he almost believed it himself.

But the why and the wherefore wasn’t so important right now. Nothing could really be important right now, not with the sun so pleasant on the back of his neck, and Gerald weaving a tale like an urban Arachnae, and the whole glorious weekend stretching out in front of them like a lazy cat, and summer so close. He watched the sunlight splash on Helga’s pigtails as she changed places with Nadine after tripping on “A,” and looked forward to the spray of freckles he knew she got in the summertime. So she wasn’t looking at him, his subliminal commands proving ineffectual, and hadn’t looked at him for nearly a year. This was perfect, here, right now. Or at least close enough to it that he almost didn’t mind.

Javid!

2005-03-25T20:58:12Z

Very short, very fluffy, very belated Javidness for Alicia. I blame B entirely for afraid-of-harmless-domestic-animals!David.

Puppy Love

“Arf! Arf!”

“Yipyipyipyipyipyip!”

“Woof.”

David ground his teeth and slid lower down on the bench he’d claimed. It was the first really warm day of spring, and he’d decided to take advantage of it by taking a book to the park. He thought back a year to when, as a senior in college, he swore he’d had his fill of reading and would never pick up a book again, but now after months of slogging away at the newspaper without a moment to breathe, he found himself itching for a good read. So he’d grabbed some Hunter S. Thompson and a simply enormous cup of iced coffee, and beaded out to the Park.

The problem was that apparently every dog owner in New York had had a similar idea, and now the whole of Central Park sounded – and smelled – like a kennel on uppers. Every time David managed to focus on his book, he’d get distracted by the shrill yip of a poodle in ludicrous booties, or a lumbering, somber bulldog releasing a solemn bass woof. And some of the dogs were entirely too inquisitive, and David was hard put to perfect the Death Glare For Indulgent Dog Owners Whose Pet Was Now Sniffing His Feet or Book With Far Too Much Interest. It wasn’t that he was scared of dogs, as his sister used to scornfully suggest when they were kids; he just didn’t like them.

He was just getting to the good part of his book when a frantic barking burst out startlingly close to his ear. Before he could react, a shaggy amber torpedo slammed into his side and sent him tumbling to the ground.

David lay there, the breath knocked out of him, too stunned to push the heavy, panting body off of him. He felt the hot, mildly stinky breath gusting against his cheek and waited patiently for sharp teeth to rip out his jugular.

Instead he felt a slobbery tongue lick his cheek and a soft, heavy weight fwump down onto his stomach. He opened a tentative eye. An enormous golden retriever was sitting on his stomach and laughing down at him. Great. He could see the coroner’s report now: “Death by Slobber.”

“Mmmrph,” he said eloquently. “Gerroff.” He gave the dog a week shove. The dog cocked its ears forward, thumped its fanned tail against David’s thigh, and didn’t budge.

“Monte! Hey, Monte!” Footsteps sounded near David’s ear; then, from somewhere above the sea of sandy fur, “Oh, God. I am so sorry.” A hand reached out and grabbed the dog by the scruff and hauled him off of David. “Monte, you ass. I’m sorry, he’d just really friendly. Are you all right?”

David scowled. “Oh, I’m just fine, I’m…”

The owner’s face hove into view, all cheekbones and floppy hair and concerned hazel eyes.

Oh, God.

“…fine,” David repeated, a trifle breathlessly. “I love dogs.”

Monte’s owner grinned. It was rather like sunrise. “Oh, good.” He held out a hand. “I really am sorry, though.”

David took the hand – warm and firm and slightly callused – and let himself be hauled to his feet. “Don’t worry about it.”

The other man didn’t let go of his hand and didn’t stop smiling. “Jack Kelly.”

“David Jacobs.” David caught a glimpse of Monte out of the corner of his eye; the dog was grinning and wagging his tail and looking very self-satisfied indeed. “Nice to meet you.”

Why yes, Monte is named after the Virginian's horse. It's Jack's favorite book. *pets*

WIP (otherwise known as W Never to Be Finished)

2005-03-24T01:26:46Z

I know it's no longer WIP Amnesty Indefinite Time Period, but I'm never going to finish this, so I thought I'd slap it up here. It's a bitter little Luke/Lorelai thing I came up with after "Say Something"; it's since been semi-Jossed, hence the non-finishing (also I'm lazy.)

She’s in his skin.

He thought it was the clothes, at first, and maybe he’s caught a little crazy from her because he washed everything he owns, even the stuff that he hates and he never wears, even the stuff that’s ripped or doesn’t fit. The shirts Jess left behind, the jeans he hasn’t worn since high school, the t-shirt from the cruise with Nicole that says “I Got Crabs at Big Dick’s,” it all goes into the machine. The things she bought him years back get washed three times and then thrown into a garbage bag, which gets thrown into a suitcase, which gets padlocked and crammed behind the shed.

But damn it, the whole apartment is full of her. So he airs it out; leaves the windows open for a whole twenty-four hours even though it’s freezing out and he needs three blankets just to get into a shivery sleep; even though the wind hisses down the stairs and the customers complain — at least, the ones that he has. They all point to their blue ribbons, pinned to their lapels, and whisper about the crowds flooding to lunch at the Dragonfly when they think he can’t hear. He’d throw out anyone in a ribbon, but that would leave Taylor, who he can’t even look at right now, and Rory, who wouldn’t come in anyway, and who he’d have to flee if she did.

His valiant suffering through the cold does no good. She’s still there, pervading the place, getting in through his pores. And he gets angry, so angry that he kicks the wall so many times that the molding breaks and he thinks a couple of his toes did too, so angry that he wishes Jess was there, just so that he’d have someone who always gives him a valid excuse to yell, so angry that Caesar and Lane have never been as quietly efficient as they have been these past few days. What right does she have to be there? She lied. She told him she was done, for good, before he even got a chance to say...anything, and he was left standing there like some kind of pathetic jackass.

And that was what he was to her, really. A pathetic jackass doormat. He’d known it for years, but he hadn’t let himself really think it until the wedding. He was there, and convenient, and she was lonely, and looking for someone who could take care of all her needs, and he’d basically been doing that already, everything but the sex, so it was the logical step. He’d thought there’d been magic and electricity and everything else Liz used to babble about when she was fourteen and heavily into romance novels, all of it crackling and fuzzing and fucking sonic booming in the air that night at the inn, at least before Kirk run by, all terrifying bare skinniness and frantic caterwauling. But it had turned out to be just another one of those things he had been wrong about.

And the television really does make a satisfying crash when he drops it out the window. Of course, when he’s sweeping it up he realizes that he’s out three hundred and fifty dollars, but it’s too late by then.

Yeah. Maudlin, but I did predict quite a bit of "So...Good Talk," so that's something.

More doodle spam!

2005-03-23T18:54:20Z

I got a-doodling while watching Patton in film class last night. War films always make me beat the crap out of characters. I wonder why...?

Ignore the wonkiness of Ash's arm and Ivory's hand, if you love me. (Hey, it was DARK!)

Heh. Ivory is all "I thought I'd lost you," and Ash is all "Dude, she's totally gonna kiss me!" *pets them*

Doodlage!

2005-03-22T05:45:01Z

Here's a girl I drew randomly in class today. I don't know who she is. She's a bit Ramona Quimby and a bit Amelie and a bit Raven from Demonology 101, but who knows?

Ophelia. And Hamlet. They're sexy and crazy and she's got thunderthighs. *so much love*

And as far as random ships with no basis in reality go, we have Jimmy Olsen and Supergirl. Because cuteness. *beams*

Ramiro. Nekkid and anatomically confusing (hey, I was drawing in the dark during film class!), for Caroline mostly. Eventually I'll do a real version of this and he'll be all beat up and sad and needing comfort. Hee.

Drew these on the train back from Boston a few weeks ago. I'm trying to make the girls' features look different, hence Aelora's full upper lip and Ivory's wide mouth and so on. Problem is Ivory has this wide mouth with relatively thin lips and I can't figure out a way to draw that on her kewpie face without making her look like a monkey. She also appears to have developed dimples. Oh, that cutesy little coke addict.

Drew this on the plane back from Florida; it's part of a stylized series of the Angels girls Jane Austen style (heavily influenced by this). These aren't so good, but hey, what do you expect on a moving plane?

And all three girls, drawn about a week ago in Classics class. They're cute. And drink a lot of tea.

And the triumph of the Austen sketches. I really adore the coloring on this. It was a lot of fun. Now I just need to figure out how to do the boys in this style and we're cooking with GAS.

This is how I passed those four hours waiting for my plane. I have no idea who she is, but she fascinates me. Clearly it's a complex murder mystery. The girl in the portrait is her ancestor, and that gem is a family heirloom. Those strange and exotic flowers are poisonous and their poison has been mixed into the snuff in that snuffbox. The poison is also part of the family's legacy, which explains the motif of the flowers in the decor of their ancestral home (as seen on the lamp). The myth of Diana and Actaeon, (poorly) depicted on the vase, is somehow related to this mystery. And I don't know why she's in drag, but I'm sure there's a thrilling reason for it. I'd really like to know the story behind all this; it sounds like it would make a great novel.

Beauty often seduces us on the road to truth. And triteness kicks us in the nads.

2005-03-01T21:13:40Z

I wrote House fic! Because I'm OBSESSED. *crazy manic eyes*

James remembers the precise moment when they left. Each of them. All of them. There’s constancies about leaving, he’s discovered; things like the click of suitcase latches and the honk of the taxi; the eyes darting like wild things and the way the jaw sets against his begging. At this point he’s tried every trick in the book and some he scrawled in the blank pages at the end of the book; cajoling, yelling, litigation, counseling, grabbing his brother’s cold and clammy hand and hissing silly words about blood and family. Nothing ever works. Nothing stops the leaving.

Work is no better. In the part of his brain that used to store batting scores and the intricacies of Green Lantern’s adventures he now keeps an ever-expanding list of his failures and their kidnappers. Eileen Samson, ovarian. George Reingold, lung. Steven Peters, melanoma. He remembers who sat with them, what they wore, whether they screamed and raged and railed or simply folded like flowers broken at the stem. Chrissy Bartholemew, breast. Her husband wore a rumpled blue suit and wept quietly. Her sister wore a yellow blouse and jeans and kicked the vending machine until the orderlies stopped her. They had been very close.

Sometimes he thinks to put in for a transfer, but this is what he signed up for.

And at home they’re always transferring without asking. He signs up and signs up but they keep taking his name off the list.

And now Gregg is slipping away from him, bit by bit, biting insult by insouciant cane twirl. He can see it in every comment intended to cut just a little bit too close to home, in every avoidance tactic the man runs through, in the flick of his wrist and the twitch of his Adam’s apple as he swallows another Vicodin dry. The drugs are stealing his friend from him, and Wilson’s not quite sure what he’ll do when Gregg goes and he’s really alone.

So he lies, and he gets better at it, until he knows right away that Gregg believes him and isn’t just humoring him, and somehow the more convincing he gets the worse he feels. He conspires to put the person he cares for most in the world through agony, and he neglects his department to watch the fallout. He cajoles and he yells and he’s this close to litigating, and still House is sliding between his fingers.

When James was 13 he had his heart broken for the first time, by a pretty freckled thing with yellow hair and lips stained pink from Italian ices. Johnny laughed at his youthful affaire d’amour, but he took pity on his youngest brother and scooped up a handful of sand.

“When I hold it like this, I can keep most of it,” he said, and James can still remember the way he squinted against the sun at his big brother, his idol, his god. “But when I close my fist too tight…” and the sand spilled in rivulets back to the beach. “You understand?”

James rolled his eyes. “God, you’re cheesy,” he said with a grin, and Johnny pushed him, and then Charlie asked them if they wanted to play volleyball before they were too geriatric to spike, and the lessons in loving were forgotten for the day. Maybe they were forgotten forever, because although it was 22 years ago and James can still remember every detail of what they all said and did, he’s never really learned the simple Hallmark lesson his brother tried to teach him, and it’s nine years too late to ask for it again.

So he lounges in Gregg’s office and fires back one-liners, or lurks in exam rooms with him watching General Hospital, or skulks around the conference room during rapid-fire whiteboard sessions. And he wears new ties to work and delivers prudent advice and buys the occasional birthday cane, even as he imagines what it’ll be like when Gregg finally does leave him. He’s got being left down pat by now, so it makes sense that it’s this last that’ll be the worst.

Really, though, there’s no point in anticipating. He remembers them all, but he never sees them coming; not until the taxi honks and the suitcase clicks and they’re walking out the door. Gregg’ll be a little slower, with the cane and all, but he’ll make it eventually.

Goodness, that poem is appropriate for Wilson, isn't it? *pets the woobie* Am I crazy, or was it on a TV show at some point?

Happy Valentine's Day!

2005-02-14T08:03:57Z

In honor of the Day o' Smooching, here's Ash and Ivory, done in ink and Prismacolors (which, as always look better in real life):

Ash and Ivory dress up for every holiday. Aelora thinks they're both headcases.

I love how surprised he looks. Except check his left hand. Mama didn't raise no fools. (Well, actually, Mama didn't raise no nothing, because *spoilerspoilerspoiler*. But still.)

Blush!

2005-02-07T22:34:04Z

Just a short little piece of Blush fluff for B, because she is without computer and sad. Thanks to Mondie for the prompt (I basically assaulted her on AIM and demanded a topic for this fic, and she very much rose to the occasion)! The (insanely fluffy) title is from a Jane Austen quote: "We are, to be sure, a miracle every way; but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past finding out" (Mansfield Park).

A Miracle Every Way

The palest ink is better than the best memory. -Chinese Proverb

Ryan tended to forget things. Little things, like signing the back of his checks or people’s names in the middle of introducing them. [Pick up milk.] Big things, like his social security number, or, if he was in a hurry in the morning (because he always forgot to set his alarm), his pants. [Dentist at 3.]

Because of this frustrating — “but lovable!” Ryan would add — trait of his, Matt had made a trip to Staples a weeks after moving in and purchased the largest pack of Post-Its he could find. [Jack’s birthday tomorrow — don’t mention the surprise party!] If there was something too important to leave to chance, he’d put it on a Post-It and slap it on Ryan’s forehead, where the yellow paper paled against stray golden hairs. Ryan, thankfully, slept like the dead, and never seemed to notice the unflattering ornaments until he stumbled into the bathroom an hour later and glanced at his reflection. The system worked so well that within three months Matt was back at Staples, stocking up again. [Wear sunscreen, paleface.]

It became a daily and oddly reassuring occurrence for Ryan to find a reminder, suggestion, or admonition in Mush’s scratchy hand, lovingly stuck to his face and crumpled with sleep. [Dinner with the team tonight — black tie!] He was so used to them that Matt started leaving them on days when there was nothing in particular to remember, things that were more general statements than reminders, or at least that were unlikely for Ryan to forget. [I love you.]

(Yes, the team is the Yankees. Yes, Blink is on it. I don't know what Mush does. Possibly just sits around looking pretty.)

WIPs!

2005-02-07T04:52:12Z

It's WIP Amnesty Something-or-Other, so I dusted off some old crap on the hard drive to if there was anything worth posting. This is only the stuff I'm (probably) not actually going to finish; the stuff I INTEND to finish is a much, much longer list. I'm nothing if not perverse.

(I will add, sulkily, that if I knew where my stupid Hey Arnold files were, there would be more stuff posted here. Like Helga and Arnold kissing on the stoop of the Sunset Arms in the snow. And bits of the next chapters of Home For Christmas and Always and The Queen's Treasure and, like, every single chapter of Before Woman. And Cinderhelga! Alas, the folder is all disappeared. And now to change the subject so as not to get too depressed...)

I have absolutely NO idea why I started writing this. I think it was in some way related to the Crackathon (which I really should get going again), but...yeah. I don't know. It's incredibly stupid, and I have no idea where I was going with it (although I think it was a rather PWP-y place), and...it's stupid. But I do like the opening line!

Well, the barn was painted.

David rubbed a hand vigorously through his curly hair and made a face as flakes of red paint powdered the front of his shirt like demonic dandruff. “Bleargh,” he announced eloquently.

Jack sighed and leaned dramatically against the wall. “You said it, brother,” he groaned. “If I never hear “Surrey With the Fringe on Top” again, it’ll be too soon.”

David wrinkled his nose mischievously. “I’d’ve thought you’d never get sick of Oklahoma, ‘Cowboy.’”

Jack laughed wryly at the old nickname. “All right, enough. I don’t call you “Mouth,” do I?”

“Nah.” David let out a frustrated breath of air. “Remind me not to volunteer for tech again just because Mush makes that stupid puppy face.” He yanked his paint-spattered tee shirt off and tugged at his undershirt. “I feel like I was mauled by Jesus.”

There was a funny sort of silence, and David felt rather than saw Jack’s eyes on him. He looked up from his paint-covered hands and arched an eyebrow questioningly.

Jack looked oddly flustered and his cheeks were pinker than usual, although that might’ve been the paint. “You’ve got paint on your nose,” he said, and his voice was a little raspy too.

It was a warm day, so David wasn’t quite sure why he was shivering.

Something in Jack’s gaze was a little too much to take in, so David changed the subject. “I’ve got paint everywhere,” he pointed out. “And I don’t really feel like walking back to my dorm looking like an extra in a slasher flick.”

"Slasher"! Demonic dandruff! Futurama quoting! Then I think they were gonna go have sex in a shower. Yeah, it had all the makings of a good fic without actually BEING good.

One paragraph of a Migulio fic that was gonna be all artsy and deep and shit before I got sick of it.

Tulio lives his life in gold. Rings and goblets and plates and crowns and endless piles of doubloons; battered and bent and caked with dirt, but gold all the same. He likes the way the sun glints off it; he likes the heavy hard coolness in his hands; he likes the things it gets him, like food and wine and women and men. But he’s no fool, and he knows gold is no kind of answer for emptiness, even as he’s scooping coins into his hand and singing his favorite song, while Miguel strums a cheery counterpoint.

Batfandom. Um. I pull this out and poke at it whenever I get depressed, along with various pieces of artwork expressing the same idea. It's supposed to be deliberately vague, but the fact that the thing is saved as "dead robins" on my computer ought to give you a clue.

“Hey.”

Damn. She should’ve known he’d be here. “Uh…hi.”

“Nice skirt.”

She rolls her eyes. “Ooh. First time I’ve heard that one. No, really.”

“Ouch.” But he’s laughing, at least as far as she can tell from the narrowing of the lenses and the way his stomach moves. He’s taller than Tim. “Snarky. And we haven’t even been properly introduced.”

“I know you, bird boy.” She sits down next to him, rubs her shoulder. An afterthought. It’s a ghost wound, anyway. “I’ve seen you before.”

A leer. “In your dreams, I suppose.”

She pauses. “Sometimes. Sometimes not. You’re around a lot more than you think.” Sidelong glance at him beneath her lashes, and she wishes he’d take off the mask and in the next breath wonders if he can. If she can.

He shakes his head and leans forward to let the dark heavy hair fall over his forehead. She can see the fairer roots and is confused, if not terribly surprised. It’s more surprising that she was allowed to remain blonde. “I know,” he says, and he sounds terribly young. “I can hear him talking to me.”

“You got me fired, you know.”

There’s still lavender bruises on his cheekbones, faint in this unwavering light. “You got you fired.”

“I reminded him of you.”

“Stupid of you, wasn’t it?”

“I was trying to save his life.”

“We all were.” He’s angry. “Are. Did. What do you think your boyfriend got into this game for?”

“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my…” Widower? Is there a word for it?

Yeah, I have NO idea where that one was going.

Anyway, that's the last of the WIPs I'm actually willing to unveil to the public eye. Gaze upon their unfinishedness, ye friendslist, and despair. Or something.

too much time has passed by to lament that we were deeply in love

2005-02-05T19:38:42Z

So this bunny popped into my head last night out of NOWHERE and was all "Cowboy Bebop post-series Spike/Faye angst muahaha WRITE ME!" And I did. And it's loopy and depressing, but I kinda like it.

Bear in mind that I've only seen the entire series once and that was a few months ago, and the factual details in here may not be terribly accurate. I also don't know if I've captured ANYONE'S voice properly, but we shall see, shan't we? Oh, and Ed and Jet are around, the circumstances of which are sort of flubbed, but shhhhhh because I love them. Yes.

Do NOT read this if you haven't seen the end of the series. I mean it. MASSIVE spoilers. DON'T DO IT.

Title is from the Emiliana Torrini song, "If You Go Away," which is the PERFECT Spike/Faye song and makes me cry. *sniffle*

Anyway, without further ado,

If You Might Have Kept Me

i.

He’s an unquiet ghost.

On some level that’s not surprising. He’d been an unquiet ghost before he — she can’t say “died.” Before he went away.

Jet’s told her things, and she’s done her homework. She’s got a pretty good idea. Not too good — he doesn’t like that. He’s like a cat with privacy and she tells him so. He laughs, the way he never did Before, and wafts through her hair because he knows it annoys her.

They tell her it’s just the breeze, but she doesn’t believe it.

ii.

Some nights she dreams of Julia. Oddly flat snapshots seen through one amber eye flicker like gunfire and roses litter the floor. She knows that these are not her dreams, but she doesn’t mind — after all, he doesn’t have a subconscious to dream with, and someone should remember the girl.

Other nights she gasps and moans and bucks against the mattress. Her fingers bury themselves in green hair and rangy thighs are hot between her own. She wakes, drenched and panting and alone, and gropes for her gun before remembering there’s no one to shoot. “You’re mean,” she breathes into the empty air, and “it’s better with a body, Johnny-Come-Lately.” It’s no use, and she can feel him smile against her, wicked and amused.

She should have killed him when she had the chance.

Less frequent are the still nights when he holds her and they don’t say a word. His lips move in a soundless paean against her hair, and he’s warm and skinny as ever and blessedly solid. It’s not bliss, but it’s as close as she’s ever come to it.

When she wakes she trembles for hours, and she knows from the way he hovers in the distance that he’s sorry. He’s explained and she understands, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

iii.

She’s got to remember to stop talking to him in public. Odd looks from strangers aren’t too much of a problem or even something terribly new to her, but once people see her doing it more than once they start to meddle. She wouldn’t mind jail, but the nuthouse is too much. The consequence is to stop talking as much in general, but she finds she rarely had anything to say before anyway.

iv.

Ed talks about him sometimes, when Faye visits, but Faye doesn’t think it’s the same. She knows it’s not precisely the same anyway — he’s a sick puppy but that’s too low even for him. Sometimes Faye wonders if Ed knows he’s de— what happened to him. Ed’s concept of time isn’t terribly linear — not that the Cryonic Woman has any right to cast stones — and “was” gets mixed up with “is,” but Ed’s got funny notions of Heaven and Faye thinks that if things aren’t the way Ed believes they are, they sure as hell ought to be.

v.

She’s given up trying to prove he’s there. “Look at that,” she’d say, as a wanted poster rustled in its own private breeze.

“The wind,” they say, and give her that look she’s starting to dread.

“There is no wind,” she insists. Sometimes she’s mad enough to wave her gun around as punctuation.

“The wind,” they say. And the conversation ends.

It’s not their fault. They didn’t know him. But hell, she didn’t either, not really.

But they didn’t love him, either, and maybe that’s the key.

vi.

She’s discovered that an invisible partner is great at the blackjack table. It’s twenty-one after twenty-one despite his reservations, and she knows she should quit like he keeps telling her, but she’s been hard up for too long to turn down money, and she’s not a cowgirl anymore.

The chips pile up and it almost doesn’t matter that the thrill is gone.

vii.

“I have to let you go,” she whispers, one night when dusk is falling purple around them.

No, he tells her, and she shivers at the brush against her neck.

She’s not going to cry. She’s never going to cry. “It’s not fair,” she protests, as if he doesn’t already know. Just because he lived in the past doesn’t mean she has to.

But he’s so lonely…

She doesn’t know enough about God to know what happened to him. What went wrong. If anything went wrong.

And she’s lonely too.

“I have to let you go,” she says again, and even she doesn’t believe it this time.

viii.

Her hair and clothes flutter. They tell her it’s just the breeze.

She doesn’t believe it.

Gilmore drabbles!

2005-02-02T09:17:11Z

Just a couple of very short drabble-y type things. Logan/Rory. I was just sort of playing around in the fandom, seeing if I could sort of capture it. I've discovered I don't really like writing in a fandom where you only have a week between the next installment, because two days after you write the damn thing it gets Jossed. I should wait until the season finale.

Anyway, I wrote both of these a while ago, before Christmas break. The first one's set during "You Jump, I Jump, Jack," when Logan brings Rory the lantern. The second one's set...hmm, I guess after "But Not As Cute As Pushkin." It's not really finished, but since it's AU now I don't think it ever will be (where "it's AU now" = "I'm terribly, terribly lazy"). So, yeah. Have at.

The Rules of the Game

“Logan?”

“Yeah?”

“You coming?”

“I’ll be right there.”

But he lingers. He’s not sure why he lingers, but he does. It’s partially that he doesn’t need them thinking he comes when they call, like a lost puppy. But there’s a reason he doesn’t want to leave balancing out the reason he doesn’t want to go, and he realizes he’s searching Rory’s face.

He’s not sure, precisely, what it is he’s searching for. Jealousy? Possessiveness? A helpless, “oh, no, Logan, please don’t go” look in those big blue eyes? He knows before he looks that he’s not going to get any of the three. She’s already proven herself immune to his considerable charms, and she’s damned determined to do this reporting bit with no help from anyone, and she’s obviously not afraid to be in the middle of the woods by herself, so there’s no reason she should have any reaction to his leaving. But he searches anyway.

And she just stares back at him, silently, and it unsettles him the way she can talk a mile a minute and get more words into a single breath than anyone he’s ever met, and in the next moment be as utterly silent and still as a Zen master. It’s now that he knows he should scoot, because he’s never been unsettled by anyone before, and even the mild confusion she brings to him is dangerous in its potential to throw off his game. So he half stands, and he grins in his most insouciant fashion, and he chews with his mouth open, just to show he doesn’t care.

“Keep the light, Ace, I won’t need it.” And still she gazes up at him with no emotion other than a slightly quirked bemusement, like she knows the game he’s playing and she’s amused that he’s trying it on her. It’s possibly the most frustrating thing Logan has ever come up across, and he suddenly wants to kiss her very badly, because it’s so rare that people frustrate him.

But he is nothing if not self-possessed. So he heads off, hoping she’s watching him, and wondering if there’s a twinge of interest in that gaze. He decides there is. Or if there isn’t, there will be. After all, he is Logan Huntzberger, ladies’ man and man-about-town, and no one resists his smirk and artfully tousled hair for long.

…It’s a nice lie, but the truth is he’s fallen, and kicking desperately for air. She made him linger. She made him search. She made him break his own steadfast rules.

He’s doomed.

Mistletoe

It’s barely more than a weed, Paris would say, and launch into a tirade about outdated symbolism and contrived excuses for frenzied groping in the supply closet at the office party.

But a kiss can be even deadlier, if you mean it, her mother would say, fluttering her eyelashes in her best Michelle Pfieffer impression.

Lane would have some anecdote about her mother going into conniptions at the sight of it; Sookie would giggle and try unsubtly to set someone up underneath it. Dean would — and Rory broke off that line of thought quickly, because it still hurt in the dull, unimportant way her wrist had hurt months after the crash.

But right at this precise moment it didn’t really seem to matter what any of those people would say. Because Rory Gilmore was standing under the mistletoe, and Logan Huntzberger was making his way towards her.

She’d wandered underneath the stupid thing quite by accident. She’d been on her way back from the bathroom, and her foot had slipped out of the pretty but entirely too big shoes she was wearing. Rory knew that she never should have bought the damn things if they didn’t fit, but after a half-hour search for her size she’d felt so bad for the frenzied clerk in the holiday season madness that she’d gotten them anyway. Of course, when she paused in the doorless doorway between the hall and the common room to put the shoe back on, she just happened to stop underneath the one sprig of mistletoe in the whole suite. Idly she found herself surprised that Finn hadn’t drenched the place in the plant — he seemed like the type to enjoy getting caught beneath it. Then again, he probably hadn’t done the decorating.

Somehow Logan had spotted her at that precise instant. He’d been standing by the punch bowl, talking to three or four very pretty girls, all of whom were obviously smitten, but when Rory’s eyes fell on him he was watching her intently. His eyes had flickered upwards, then back down to her, and he’d put down his drink — put down his drink, which in Huntzbergerese meant he meant business — and headed towards her, that infuriating smirk firmly in place.

She should flee. She could go back into the bathroom, or try and fight her way through the crowd to find Colin or Finn or Stephanie, the few people that she felt comfortable talking to here. Or, and this was probably the best option, she could always walk forward a few steps and talk to Logan, who was impossible but always good conversation, and who would no longer have an excuse to kiss and/or mock her incessantly if she just took the teeniest step forward, out from under the little red berries and into the party proper. Yes. That would be the best course of action.

She didn’t move.

And now Logan was standing in front of her and his hair was tousled in that annoyingly perfect way it always was, and he’d forgone his signature turtleneck in favor of a green shirt that probably cost more than three of Rory’s outfits, and she tried not to stare at the bit of tanned collarbone that was consequently revealed because really, who cared about collarbones anyway?

He smirked broader, but his eyes were searching and Rory wondered, briefly, if he was nervous, before dismissing the thought as the nonsense it was. In the four months of their acquaintance — Rory couldn’t quite say friendship, for a confusing and stomach-twisting reason — she’d learned enough to know that Logan Huntzberger did not experience nervousness. Well, maybe when jumping off seven stories of scaffolding, but that was an extreme situation.

“Well, Ace,” he said, and the nickname was growing on her against her will. “Looks like you’re in a bit of a fix.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said airily, but she wasn’t sure it came across as breeziness when she couldn’t stop staring at him.

He pointed upwards. “Mistletoe.”

Rory looked. “You don’t say.” When did she get to be so coy? She didn’t want Logan Huntzberger to kiss her.

She didn’t.

Really.

“You’re lucky I’m such a gentleman,” Logan said. Rory snorted. “I’ll ignore that. See, other guys might leave you standing here all night, but not me. Much too embarrassing.”

Rory raised an eyebrow. “Like you’ve ever been concerned about embarrassing me.”

“First time for everything,” Logan replied, but the smirk was gone, and he’d taken that step into her personal space that always made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, and he was leaning forward, with a look in his eyes like he was asking permission.

Rory took a breath, and tilted her face up slightly, and gave it.

She closed her eyes and felt the whisper of his breath across her face before their lips met, tentatively, timidly. A warm hand drifted lazily across her back, mostly bare in her strappy dress, and she made a soft noise and parted her lips slightly. Logan tasted like eggnog and peppermint and all things Christmas, and his hand trembled slightly, and Rory had the crazy thought that maybe this, too, was an extreme situation.

And then she had a hand on a surprisingly toned arm for a boy who’d never had to do a moment of manual labor in his life, and another on his chest, where his heartbeat thudded almost painfully against her palm, and his fingers were in her hair. His thumb moved across her cheek in a way that could only be described as affectionate, and he might — might — be nervous, but he was still the best kisser she’d ever kissed, better than Dean or Jess or, God help her, even Tristan, who up to now was the reigning champ and that was partially due to the element of surprise.

She loved mistletoe.

[Note: I'm not really a Trory shipper, despite what that last paragraph might suggest, although I think he's an interesting fellow and was very entertaining (and oh, the pretty of Chad Michael Murray). I'm also not a Rory/Jess shipper, even though Jess breaks my little heart and I like him lots. And we all know that I hate Dean, except when he's cool, which he hasn't been in years. Or, rather, Dean was okay although not very interesting, clingy!Dean was annoying, and asshole!adulterer!Dean sucks a monkey. The only Rory love interest who sucks more than him is Marty. Boring, boring Marty. Gag. Logan is the first Rory love interest to fascinate me. /ramble]

[Other Note: As you may have noticed, I loooooove mistletoe. It's the PG version of sex pollen!]

ducky!Blush

2005-01-31T06:38:03Z

So I finally finished B's prompt from, oh, several millenia ago. I'm not sure if it's in character, but...it's insanely fluffy, which either makes up for it or will send everyone who reads it into diabetic shock and then it won't be a problem that it's OOC because everyone qualified to determine that is comatose. /ramble

Thanks to second_batgirl for beta-ing. Title is from the Cole Porter song "I Love You," which is actually really applicable to the fic as a whole. Mmm, fluff.

The Old Melody

Kid Blink Ballatt was in a good mood. He’d sold all his papes early, and one kind-faced lady in a carriage had given him a dollar. A whole dollar. Plus, it was the first really warm day of spring, and he was with his favorite person in the whole world. Yes, this was a good day.

As he and Mush strolled luxuriously through the park, Blink pondered all the ways he could use his dollar.

“The biggest bag of candy you ever seen, Mushie, all for me and you. Or a fancy box seat down at Medda’s—”

“Nah, don’t waste it at Medda’s when she always lets us in for free,” Mush said. “Here, let’s sit by the lake.”

The boys flopped down on the cool, dew-damp grass and looked out over the water. It was a still sort of day, and the smooth surface of the tiny lake was broken only rarely by the breeze.

Blink turned his head so he could look at Mush with his good eye. The sunlight fell through the leaves above them, gilding dappled patterns on Mush’s skin, and every now and then a chance breeze ruffled his curls. This was where Blink’s happiness was, in the calm still moments with Mush and the quiet simplicity that was so rare after the strike. He watched a mother duck leading her brood into the water and smiled as the last one tumbled in with an ungainly splash.

“Wonder how much a new pair of shoes costs,” he mused aloud, leaning back on the heels of his hands.

“More’n a dollar,” Mush replied. “Two at least.”

Blink sighed. “You’ll haveta wait till I come into my fortune for your matchin’ laces, then.”

“Aw, Blinkie.” Mush nudged his shoulder and Blink nudged him back, feeling that odd heat that flared in his stomach more often than not when he touched Mush.

He bit his lip and tried to ignore it. “Or maybe I’ll take one of my girls out for a night on the town. Show her a good time, eh?”

Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Mush stiffen, but he couldn’t be sure—his peripheral vision wasn’t the best. Besides, he was distracted by the sight in front of him. One of the ducklings, a gawky-looking yellow one, had ducked underwater and seemed to be having difficulty righting itself. Blink laughed out loud as the little thing splashed and fluttered until its mother, looking long-suffering, paddled over, took the duckling’s tail in her beak, and yanked him back into the proper position. The duckling squawked feebly, but the mother was too busy scolding in her honking voice to listen to his protestations.

“Heh. Goofy little guy,” Blink said. “His ma reminds me of you, Mushie, always fussin’.” He rocked into Mush again, liking the heat of Mush’s bare arm against his own and the solid presence of his friend. But Mush didn’t give with him or nudge him back, just sat and stared straight ahead, jaw tight.

Blink cocked his head. “Mush?”

For a minute there was no answer at all; then Mush stood up with a curt “We should get back,” which wasn’t really an answer either.

Blink scrambled to his feet and followed Mush down the path, utterly perplexed. “Mush, what’s wrong?”

“Nothin’.”

“It ain’t nothin’.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Like hell!” Blink grabbed Mush’s shoulder and spun him around. “Talk to me, Mush. What’s the matter?”

Mush let out a long, low breath, as if he was trying to keep a hold of his temper. “I don’t want to be your mama duck.”

Blink stared at him for a minute. “That…that don’t make no sense, Mushie.”

“Don’t call me that!” Mush snapped.

Blink blinked. Mush had snapped. “…I always call you that, Mushi — Mush.”

“Well, maybe I never liked it!” Mush shouted, flinging his arms out. Blink had seen Mush mad before, but never like this, and it was usually because he’d done something stupid (and knowing him, it was the same situation now, but he couldn’t think of what he’d done).

“Did you ever think of that, Blink?” Mush demanded, and his face was flushed and scowling, the face that Blink had always thought so handsome, like an actor on the stage, or one of those old Greeks in the primer back when he used to go to school. “Do you ever think of what someone else wants? What I want?”

“’Course,” Blink replied, wounded. “I think about you alla time.”

“Don’t lie to me, Blink, I ain’t stupid. You think about three things—girls, food, and more girls.”

“That ain’t true.” Mush turned away and Blink grabbed him again. “You hear, Mush Meyers? That ain’t true.”

Mush glanced down to where Blink’s pale fingers stood out against the darker curve of Mush’s bicep.

“Let go of me.” But he didn’t struggle.

“No.”

“Dammit, Kid, let go!”

“No!” And Blink grabbed Mush’s other arm, and Mush looked like he was near tears, and Blink wasn’t having that, so he leaned forward and tilted his head and kissed his best friend, square on the mouth.

Mush tensed as he did so, and Blink was just thinking that, all right, perhaps it was an odd thing to do, but then Mush’s lips fell open a bit and the cords of muscle in his arms relaxed under Blink’s hands and he sighed, just a little.

Oh.

Blink pulled away and looked at Mush with newfound understanding. “Is…is that why you was mad?”

Mush’s cheeks flushed dark, and he looked at his feet. The tingle that always burned in Blink’s gut when Mush did something especially pretty roared, and his chest felt oddly tight.

“Oh.” Blink bit his lip. “Well, if that’s all...”

Mush gave him a questioning look. “If that’s all?”

Blink couldn’t seem to stop smiling. “You’re real dumb sometimes, you know that, Mushie? I told you I think about you alla time.”

A grin made its way across Mush’s face, slow and warm as sunrise. “Guess I am,” he said.

They looked at each other until their smiles became too bright to bear and Mush bent to pick up the jacket he’d shedded. “C’mon, we gotta hurry or the afternoon edition’ll run out.”

Despite his words, though, the boys took their time strolling down the lane under the verdant canopy of the trees. To the untrained eye nothing had changed; but there was a slight punch-drunk stagger to the walk, a darting glance here, a fumble of hands reaching for each other there, and two grins that threatened to outshine the sun.

“So whattya gonna spend your dollar on?”

“Ain’t you been listenin’, Mushie? I gotta plan. I gotta strategize…”

“You gotta screw loose, that’s what you got.”

“Ah, so’s your old lady.”

cinquain time!

2005-01-22T23:28:50Z

Okay, so since two people responded to the post on my private journal and that's quite enough for me, I'm starting a cinquain thread. To refresh your memories, a cinquain is a five-line poem; the first line has two syllables, the second has four, the third has six, the fourth has eight, and the last has two again. Like so:

This is
a cinquain. It's
a way for geeks to play
a pseudo-intellectual
snob game.

The next person writes a cinquain using the last two syllables of the previous one as the first two of their cinquain. Here it would be "snob game," which really sucks for the next person.

Anyway, I figure the easiest way to do this is for me to write a cinquain and then the first person who comes along writes one using the last line of mine, and then the next person works on theirs, and so on. There's no particular order, just first come, first serve. So yeah. Have fun.

Here's the first cinquain:

New York,
oddly asleep
tonight, croons to itself
beneath the lonely comfort of
deep snow.

The next person's cinquain should begin with "deep snow" (which, incidentally, can be punctuated and capitalized however you want. For example, "Deep? SNOW!" would be fine. Weird, but fine).

Yay! *pops the champagne cork*

[ETA: I decided to make it general instead of fandom-related. Just 'cause.]

And sometimes, my brain turns EVIL

2005-01-22T07:19:38Z

*cough*Jack/David/Sarahpleasedon'thateme*cough*

It wouldn't leave me ALONE! David and Sarah were TAUNTING me, with their arms all wrapped around each other in a BAD BAD WAY.

At least it's short.

Triumvirate

David

The first thing he sees isn’t the flashing eyes, or the grin like daybreak, or the too-skinny, boyish limbs with lavender bruises beneath faded cotton—though he spends ample time on each and every one of those things later.
The first thing he notices is the touching. A hug here, a nuzzle there; fingers on stomachs and cheeks and shoulders and backs and thighs and lips. And his head knows that this is odd, this is unusual, this is Not How Boys Behave. But Jack’s fingers are warm and callused and constantly pressing against his skin like the badwrong dreams pressing against his eyelids, and he sighs and goes along.
It feels like home.

Sarah

She wishes David’s eyes wouldn’t dart so when he introduces her. Their parents don’t notice, or pretend not to—it’s been going on so long she can’t tell the two apart anymore—and Les is asleep and too young besides, but a stranger in their place won’t understand. Can’t understand.
But then she sees the tenderness in David’s gaze and she realizes that his shiftiness isn’t just about her (a first, and a not entirely pleasant one). The Stranger smiles at her and it breaks over her in a wave, heat and roughness and longing, and something in her knows that they’ll have to make him understand. Somehow.

Jack

It isn’t until he kisses Sarah that he notices how the smell of David—ink and boyish sweat and nutmeg—hangs on her like a persistent ghost. In the thud of a heartbeat he feels David’s fingertips, pressing hot against his neck as Sarah sighs soft and pliant beneath him, and he knows.
The part of him that wailed through his Refuge nights is appalled and wants to flee. But he’s been living in his world for too long, and the shock is dulled by memories of his own…escapades.
So he slings an arm around each and saunters off, pressed on both sides by sweet faces and sweet bodies wrapped around cords of invisible steel. He wishes he knew the words for “thank you.”

This is not ChrisMos.

2005-01-20T09:28:13Z

And I certainly did not write it four and a half hours after I meant to be in bed, and certainly not for Alicia, who I miss terribly, and it is certainly not going to eventually be much, much longer, and include smooching. Not no way, not no how.

Christian’s still in his trailer.

David’s not quite sure what to do about that. If it were anyone else he’d play a small, harmless prank; they’d have a good laugh, punch each other on the shoulder, and be done with it. Boys being boys.

But Christian is sort of quiet and intense, and he’s some kind of serious actor instead of a gymnast who can kind of carry a tune, like most of the guys, and when he talks fast David can’t pick out more than every fifth word or so. And all of these things make him terribly hard to approach.

But hell, David’s no gymnast himself, and he’s not a singer or a dancer (really not a dancer) either. He got hired to act, and though he may not be Spielberg’s award-winning wunderkind, damn it, even he knows that he can’t act worth beans when he can’t even talk to the boy he’s sharing all his screen time with.

(And if there’s a reason for the ill communication besides the culture gap — something that has to do with the way David gets all hot beneath his skin when Christian’s hair falls into his eyes just so — well, he doesn’t care to think about it.)

So he stands with the tips of his sneakers touching the bottom step of Christian’s trailer, and he stares up at the impassive gray door while he wonders what to say. He’s shuffling back and forth almost without realizing it, and there’s starting to be a bit of a depression in the ground, and his sneakers are garnished with yellow dirt. At this rate he thinks he might be halfway to China before he comes up with the perfect opening lines, so he should just march up those steps and knock.

But maybe he’ll wait just a minute more.

I am on some SERIOUS crack, yo...

2005-01-20T06:28:04Z

So Jen and I were talking about newsies, and fairy tales, and, well...this happened. It's the cheapest writing job ever...I literally did "find --> replace" on a few words and that was it. I ROCK.

The Twelve Dancing Newsies

There was a publisher who had twelve beautiful newsies. They slept in twelve beds all in one room in one lodging-house; and when they went to bed, the doors were shut and locked up; but every morning their shoes were found to be quite worn through as if they had been danced in all night; and yet nobody could find out how it happened, or where they had been.

Then the publisher made it known to all the land, that if any person could discover the secret, and find out where it was that the newsies danced in the night, he should have the one he liked best for his husband, and should be publisher after his death; but whoever tried and did not succeed, after three days and nights, should be put to death.

A publisher's son soon came. He was well entertained, and in the evening was taken to the chamber next to the one where the newsies lay in their twelve beds. There he was to sit and watch where they went to dance; and, in order that nothing might pass without his hearing it, the door of his chamber was left open. But the publisher's son soon fell asleep; and when he awoke in the morning he found that the newsies had all been dancing, for the soles of their shoes were full of holes. The same thing happened the second and third night: so the publisher ordered his head to be cut off. After him came several others; but they had all the same luck, and all lost their lives in the same manner.

Now it chanced that a young scholar, who had just graduated from the university, passed through the country where this publisher printed: and as he was traveling through a wood, he met an old burlesque performer, who asked him where he was going. “I hardly know where I am going, or what I had better do,” said the scholar; “but I think I should like very well to find out where it is that the newsies dance, and then in time I might be a publisher.” “Well,” said the old singer, “that is no very hard task: only take care not to drink any of the wine which one of the newsies will bring to you in the evening; and as soon as he leaves you pretend to be fast asleep.”

Then she gave him a newsboy cap, and said, “As soon as you put that on you will become invisible, and you will then be able to follow the newsies wherever they go.” When the scholar heard all this good counsel, he determined to try his luck: so he went to the publisher, and said he was willing to undertake the task.

He was as well received as the others had been, and the publisher ordered a fine blue vest to be given him (because his eyes were blue); and when the evening came he was led to the outer chamber. Just as he was going to lie down, the eldest of the newsies brought him a cup of wine; but the scholar threw it all away secretly, taking care not to drink a drop. Then he laid himself down on his bed, and in a little while began to snore very loud as if he was fast asleep. When the twelve newsies heard this they laughed heartily; and the eldest said, “This fellow too might have done a wiser thing than lose his life in this way!” Then they rose up and opened their drawers and boxes, and took out all their fine clothes, and dressed themselves at the glass, and skipped about as if they were eager to begin dancing. But the youngest said, “I don't know how it is, while you are so happy I feel very uneasy; I am sure some mischance will befall us.” “You simpleton,” said the eldest, “you are always afraid; have you forgotten how many publishers' sons have already watched in vain? And as for this scholar, even if I had not given him his sleeping draught, he would have slept soundly enough.”

When they were all ready, they went and looked at the scholar; but he snored on, and did not stir hand or foot: so they thought they were quite safe; and the eldest went up to his own bed and clapped his hands, and the bed sank into the floor and a trap-door flew open. The scholar saw them going down through the trap-door one after another, the eldest leading the way; and thinking he had no time to lose, he jumped up, put on the cloak which the old singer had given him, and followed them; but in the middle of the stairs he bumped into the cowboy hat of the youngest newsie, and the newsie cried out to his selling companions, “All is not right; someone took hold of my cowboy hat.” “You silly creature!” said the eldest, “it is nothing but a nail in the wall.” Then down they all went, and at the bottom they found themselves in a most delightful grove of trees; and the leaves were all of silver, and glittered and sparkled beautifully. The scholar wished to take away some token of the place; so he broke off a little branch, and there came a loud noise from the tree. Then the youngest newsie said again, “I am sure all is not right--did not you hear that noise? That never happened before.” But the eldest said, “It is only the Brooklyn newsies, who are shouting for joy at our approach.”

Then they came to another grove of trees, where all the leaves were of gold; and afterwards to a third, where the leaves were all glittering diamonds. And the scholar broke a branch from each; and every time there was a loud noise, which made the youngest newsie tremble with fear; but the eldest still said, it was only the Brooklyn newsies, who were crying for joy. So they went on till they came to a great river; and at the side of the river there lay twelve little boats with twelve handsome Brooklyn newsies in them, who seemed to be waiting there for the newsies.

One of the newsies went into each boat, and the scholar stepped into the same boat with the youngest. As they were rowing over the lake, the Brooklyn newsie who was in the boat with the youngest newsie and the scholar said, “I do not know why it is, but though I am rowing with all my might we do not get on so fast as usual, and I am quite tired: the boat seems very heavy today.” “It is only the heat of the weather,” said the newsie: “I feel it very warm too.”

Across the river stood a fine illuminated bridge, from which came the merry music of harmonicas and tin can drums. There they all landed, and went onto the bridge, and each Brooklyn newsie danced with his newsie; and the scholar, who was all the time invisible, danced with them too; and when any of the newsies had a cup of wine set by him, he drank it all up, so that when the newsie put the cup to his mouth it was empty. At this, too, the youngest newsie was terribly frightened, but the eldest always silenced him. They danced on till three o'clock in the morning, and then all their shoes were worn out, so that they were obliged to leave off. The Brooklyn newsies rowed them back again over the lake (but this time the scholar placed himself in the boat with the eldest newsie, who played dice the whole way); and on the opposite shore they took leave of each other, the newsies promising to come again the next night.

When they came to the stairs, the scholar ran on before the newsies, and laid himself down; and as the twelve newsies slowly came up very much tired, they heard him snoring in his bed; so they said, “Now all is quite safe”; then they undressed themselves, put away their fine clothes, pulled off their shoes, and went to bed. In the morning the scholar said nothing about what had happened, but determined to see more of this strange adventure, and went again the second and third night; and every thing happened just as before; the newsies danced each time till their shoes were worn to pieces, and then returned home. However, on the third night the scholar carried away one of the golden cups as a token of where he had been.

As soon as the time came when he was to declare the secret, he was taken before the publisher with the three branches and the golden cup; and the twelve newsies stood listening behind the door to hear what he would say. And when the publisher asked him. “Where do my twelve newsies dance at night?” he answered, “With twelve Brooklyn newsies on a bridge under ground.” And then he told the publisher all that had happened, and showed him the three branches and the golden cup which he had brought with him. Then the publisher called for the newsies, and asked them whether what the scholar said was true: and when they saw that they were discovered, and that it was of no use to deny what had happened, they confessed it all. And the publisher asked the scholar which of them he would choose for his husband; and he answered, “I am very young, so I will have the youngest.” And they were married that very day, and the scholar was chosen to be the publisher's heir.