quigonejinn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
quigonejinn) wrote2006-05-02 10:18 am
quigonejinn) wrote2006-05-02 10:18 am
Entry tags:
i think i've started hallucinating LJ entries.
A mess of things that I don't like enough to polish properly or expand/integrate into something worthwhile, but like enough so that I can't just hide them in the desk drawer.
The last two snippets are taken almost directly from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
randomalia's Kennedy meta, thrown into the chunky language blender, and made into sludge.
It was more complicated finding a substitute for Hornblower than Bush thought it would be.
Five years. A quarter of a lifetime in the Navy, and he was still looking.
Part of it was that Bush almost never knew wanted a substitute. Part of it was that those times when he did know that he was looking for a substitute, when he would look at a woman and be able to sense that she wasn't tall enough or dark-haired enough to suit, he had been drinking for the better part of the night, and he never remembered much of what he did when he was that drunk -- he remembered the blondes from when he was sober or a bar wench who had once winked at him in Plymouth. A memorable redhead from Cape Town, the memory of whom made the passage of the Lydia more pleasant than it would otherwise would have been, but he had them when he was at two sheets to the wind, not three. He never quite remembered having the skinniest, tallest girl in the place.
The narrow room. The candle on the dresser, all the rest blown out if it was a nice enough place to give a girl more than a candle when they went upstairs. Bush was not particular, and he would sit on the edge of a cot or a chair or even lean against a wall and watch the girl, after he'd lifted the shift off her shoulders, make a slow, complete turn at some distance from him.
"Go back," he would say and give her a little push to emphasize the point because she would want to get this cold bit over as quickly as possible and get to bed herself.
The words would be slurred because he had to have been drinking to get to this point, but he was clear on it. While he never remembered the fact that he did the same thing each time, the need underneath was the same, so the result was the same.
"Lift your arms up over your head, and do it slower. You can hurry later."
If he had been capable of it, Bush would have asked her to pretend that she enjoyed the turning, the slow walk over to him -- the glimpse of a back, a bony shoulder, a glance downwards to avoid stepping on her shift that was, with the darkness and his drunkenness, a reasonable approximation of Hornblower looking down for a moment as he did when he was coming out of one of his tempers and was making himself be, if not pleasant, then reasonable.
Later, if she moaned underneath him, Bush could map it onto what Hornblower might sound like if he was being taken from behind; if she fidgeted and tried to move, that was Hornblower and his inability to ever rest. If she lay still, Bush would gasp and feel as though someone had rolled a hot musketball down his spine because he knew, very well, the way that Hornblower had of holding himeslf utterly still at moments when he was abut to fly apart with nervouness and anxiety and worry. He knew the set of Hornblower's shoulders, the stiffness with which he moved during those times; it made him dizzy just to think of fucking Hornblower when he was like that, of bending him over and being able to bury himself in it.
If he were less drunk, if he were able remember these times in anything like detail, it would have been a great shame -- the lengths he went to in order to pretend that his captain was before him, naked, half willing, half not in the way that he was whenever he had to be coaxed into something. Pretending at one emotion while feeling another.
It made Bush hoarse every time he saw it, and afterwards, he could only remember glimpses. The vague sense that this was familiar, overlaid with the fact that he did, in fact, see some of this each day of his life.
The memory of taking the shift off her shoulders. The memory of her hands at his neck, picking a little at the neckcloth before he told her to stop becaue he had no intention of letting her undress him. Once, when he had been to Hornblower's house, Hornblower's palm had brushed over Bush's shoulders, then over his chest while helping him into his coat. Bush had not thought anything of it then, though he had been embarrassed that Hornblower had done it.
Now, there was a flush of heat when the girl touched him, more if she made a particular noise and shifted her hips -- she sounded like Hornblower did when he was angry at himself and did not think that anyone was listening. They were both making noise in the throat, biting them without air, and the comparison would rise up sometimes when he was standing at the quarterdeck, watching Hornblower. He had to be on guard against the comparison.
It was, in all truth, a lonely, difficult, dangerous business. Even if he had been able to remember more than the barest glimpses of it, even if he had been aware of what was happening to him, Bush had no expectation that it would ever change. He had no conception that it ever could, and in the meantime, Gerard continued his joke that Bush could always be counted on to find the ugliest, most sullen creature in the room, in the dark, with his eyes shut and two -- no, three -- pints of rum in him.
Hornblower understood that it was possible to have a man much as one had a woman. The mechanics had even explained to him as a midshipman on the Renown by a grinning Bracegirdle, but Hornblower had not imagined that, in reality, it would be like this: still, quiet, orderly, on the white sheets of a clean bed in the morning. He had seen Bush fresh from fucking, had even overheard him once, in Kingston, moaning loud enough to be heard through walls as he took his shore leave, and it had not seemed anything like this.
There was very little pain. Bush had finished shaving a little while before; he had dressed to the waist for it. Hornblower came up behind him, looked a little in the mirror the way that Bush angled his head so the straight razor would lie against his throat, a little down at the curve of back, the fine muscles, the scars from the Renown, and the curve of his back underneath the top of the trousers.
Bush saw him looking; there was no-where either of them had to be until some hours yet, and when he was done shaving and had washed the lather from his face and rolled up his shaving kit and dried his hands, all in good order, they went back to the bed, and Bush he put Hornblower on his side -- Hornblower had thought that perhaps one did it on one's back or one's stomach, but Bush had pushed him over onto his hip, and there was Bush's mouth at the back of his neck. There was Bush's hand at his hip, and now, he had one leg pulled up a little and was almost lying on his stomach with his face in his arms, trying not to moan. There was Bush's nose bumping the small of his back; there was something slick on Bush's hand, and now, there was a finger in him.
Hornblower moaned, moaned some more when Bush licked the small of his back. A little more finger, another lick, and eventually, Bush took his fingers away from Hornblower entirely and put his mouth where they had been -- tongue, originally not all that warm, but the whole area warming with breath and a little looser than it would have been otherwise since his fingers had been there. Hornblower moaned into the pillows, had to hold onto the headboard as though he were, in fact, being fucked, and he came into the sheets without Bush having touched his cock. When he had recovered, he rolled over, reached out to return the favor in some sort of coin, but Bush waved him off. All Bush needed, after listening to Hornblower moan like that, tight on his mouth, was to open his trousers and have a few strokes while looking at him.
The idea had been for Bush to have him as he would have had a woman; the idea had been that this, all of it, was only to be a temporary arrangement.
Hornblower did not receive command of the Lydia untli seven months after the deaths of the children, and it turned out to be, unsurprisingly, seven solid months of misery: he was on half-pay, on shore. Mrs. Mason came to live with them for two months after the funeral, and there were all the bills associated with the funeral that Maria must not know about. For a number of aternoons, too, Hornblower came home and found Maria gone, which was rather gratifying at the time because it meant that he could get a moment of quiet to himself away from her smothering devotion -- and then he made the mistake of mentioning it to her, praising her at supper for her spirit in going out again, and he had to watch as Maria's face first flushed red, then drained white.
It turned out that she had been sneaking off to visit the children in the cemetary, and no matter what Hornblower said, he could not convince her to continue going.
Years later, Hornblower would still remember the silence that followed.
Bush was not fond of provisioning in non-English ports. Even if they were friendly and even if Hornblower handled most of the actual negotations for obtaining water and biscuit and meat, there were always the fine details that had to be fought out over the side of the boat in another language, with strange things and stranger people, gestures, and he infinitely preferred thi sort of provisioning: the desert island. The work crew filling barrels at the spring, the marines with their muskets in case anyone should run.
He had very little appreciation of land vistas, having been born by the sea and growing up in a wartime service, but he could appreciate this: Gerard hailed him from the bottom of the hill, and Bush went, but not before looking one more time at these hills and rock and sea mist at the bottom of the world.
The Lydia and the Pacific were waiting.
Kennedy understands that war is dangerous, that the Navy is a hard mistress and that he will probably die in her service. He has had it rubbed in his face too many times not to have learned it, whereas Hornblower has more difficulty with the idea, possibly becaue of his infernal luck.
Bush knows, though. There was a moment on Samana when they looked at each other, then turned as a single body back towards the battery tower where Hornblower was going to be laying the charge, and they had another, less conscious, on the deck of the Renown before Hornblower arrived: Bush had been slashed across the back and was trying to rise despite legs that would no longer give him any strength, and Kennedy was gripping his midsection. Neither could see the other very clearly, but Bush has a vague memory of knowing that Kennedy had just been shot and was likely going to die, and when they were in the infirmary and some of the bandages started to come off Bush's back, Kennedy saw the great scar, the one that ran from shoulder almost to the hip.
Several of the newer scars crossed it. One even crossed it, came back again, and turned half of Bush's back a pink, feverish color. Kennedy could see the stitches from where he lay.
"From the last time I was in these waters," Bush says, almost apologetically as he puts a shirt on for the first time in a week. "'98 with the Conqueror."
Bush is a decade or so older. Kennedy remembers learning this on the deck of the Renown after Sawyer had been declared unfit and they were standing together, and Kennedy takes one last look at the pattern of scars and new wounds on Bush' back before closing his eyes. He is tired, exhausted from his wound and the heat and the flies that lie on him, closer than even his sweat.
At the victualling yards in Plymouth, over the doors, there had been carved ox heads and crossed foul anchors. By the time that he came to Kingston, Kennedy had a better idea what sort of food the Navy actually consumed, as well as the signs by which she acquired it.
Kennedy finds, to his surprise, that he has a great deal in common with Bush. They both like seamanship better than navigation, for example. They are both inclined to take the job of training midshipmen outside their lessons very seriously, and Bush is also more inclined to showing a sense of humor than Hornblower.
If Kennedy talks about women, for example, that old sailing standby, always appropriate for discussion and story-telling and time-filling, Hornblower will blush and look down at the wardroom table. Clear his throat uncomfortably, change the subject even though Kennedy knows that Hornblower was as ready as he was on the cobblestones with coin in hand when they set foot in a port. In fact, Hornblower might even make a comment on the fact that the wind was freshening from the west or something equally inane. Bush would have a story, a rejoinder. Likely false, probably entirely fabricated since Kennedy was convinced that no woman could actually have three breasts, much less charge for the rarity, but nevertheless --
It had been a long time since Kennedy had a friend aboard ship besides Hornblower, and it was surprisingly pleasant.
The last two snippets are taken almost directly from
randomalia's Kennedy meta, thrown into the chunky language blender, and made into sludge.It was more complicated finding a substitute for Hornblower than Bush thought it would be.
Five years. A quarter of a lifetime in the Navy, and he was still looking.
Part of it was that Bush almost never knew wanted a substitute. Part of it was that those times when he did know that he was looking for a substitute, when he would look at a woman and be able to sense that she wasn't tall enough or dark-haired enough to suit, he had been drinking for the better part of the night, and he never remembered much of what he did when he was that drunk -- he remembered the blondes from when he was sober or a bar wench who had once winked at him in Plymouth. A memorable redhead from Cape Town, the memory of whom made the passage of the Lydia more pleasant than it would otherwise would have been, but he had them when he was at two sheets to the wind, not three. He never quite remembered having the skinniest, tallest girl in the place.
The narrow room. The candle on the dresser, all the rest blown out if it was a nice enough place to give a girl more than a candle when they went upstairs. Bush was not particular, and he would sit on the edge of a cot or a chair or even lean against a wall and watch the girl, after he'd lifted the shift off her shoulders, make a slow, complete turn at some distance from him.
"Go back," he would say and give her a little push to emphasize the point because she would want to get this cold bit over as quickly as possible and get to bed herself.
The words would be slurred because he had to have been drinking to get to this point, but he was clear on it. While he never remembered the fact that he did the same thing each time, the need underneath was the same, so the result was the same.
"Lift your arms up over your head, and do it slower. You can hurry later."
If he had been capable of it, Bush would have asked her to pretend that she enjoyed the turning, the slow walk over to him -- the glimpse of a back, a bony shoulder, a glance downwards to avoid stepping on her shift that was, with the darkness and his drunkenness, a reasonable approximation of Hornblower looking down for a moment as he did when he was coming out of one of his tempers and was making himself be, if not pleasant, then reasonable.
Later, if she moaned underneath him, Bush could map it onto what Hornblower might sound like if he was being taken from behind; if she fidgeted and tried to move, that was Hornblower and his inability to ever rest. If she lay still, Bush would gasp and feel as though someone had rolled a hot musketball down his spine because he knew, very well, the way that Hornblower had of holding himeslf utterly still at moments when he was abut to fly apart with nervouness and anxiety and worry. He knew the set of Hornblower's shoulders, the stiffness with which he moved during those times; it made him dizzy just to think of fucking Hornblower when he was like that, of bending him over and being able to bury himself in it.
If he were less drunk, if he were able remember these times in anything like detail, it would have been a great shame -- the lengths he went to in order to pretend that his captain was before him, naked, half willing, half not in the way that he was whenever he had to be coaxed into something. Pretending at one emotion while feeling another.
It made Bush hoarse every time he saw it, and afterwards, he could only remember glimpses. The vague sense that this was familiar, overlaid with the fact that he did, in fact, see some of this each day of his life.
The memory of taking the shift off her shoulders. The memory of her hands at his neck, picking a little at the neckcloth before he told her to stop becaue he had no intention of letting her undress him. Once, when he had been to Hornblower's house, Hornblower's palm had brushed over Bush's shoulders, then over his chest while helping him into his coat. Bush had not thought anything of it then, though he had been embarrassed that Hornblower had done it.
Now, there was a flush of heat when the girl touched him, more if she made a particular noise and shifted her hips -- she sounded like Hornblower did when he was angry at himself and did not think that anyone was listening. They were both making noise in the throat, biting them without air, and the comparison would rise up sometimes when he was standing at the quarterdeck, watching Hornblower. He had to be on guard against the comparison.
It was, in all truth, a lonely, difficult, dangerous business. Even if he had been able to remember more than the barest glimpses of it, even if he had been aware of what was happening to him, Bush had no expectation that it would ever change. He had no conception that it ever could, and in the meantime, Gerard continued his joke that Bush could always be counted on to find the ugliest, most sullen creature in the room, in the dark, with his eyes shut and two -- no, three -- pints of rum in him.
Hornblower understood that it was possible to have a man much as one had a woman. The mechanics had even explained to him as a midshipman on the Renown by a grinning Bracegirdle, but Hornblower had not imagined that, in reality, it would be like this: still, quiet, orderly, on the white sheets of a clean bed in the morning. He had seen Bush fresh from fucking, had even overheard him once, in Kingston, moaning loud enough to be heard through walls as he took his shore leave, and it had not seemed anything like this.
There was very little pain. Bush had finished shaving a little while before; he had dressed to the waist for it. Hornblower came up behind him, looked a little in the mirror the way that Bush angled his head so the straight razor would lie against his throat, a little down at the curve of back, the fine muscles, the scars from the Renown, and the curve of his back underneath the top of the trousers.
Bush saw him looking; there was no-where either of them had to be until some hours yet, and when he was done shaving and had washed the lather from his face and rolled up his shaving kit and dried his hands, all in good order, they went back to the bed, and Bush he put Hornblower on his side -- Hornblower had thought that perhaps one did it on one's back or one's stomach, but Bush had pushed him over onto his hip, and there was Bush's mouth at the back of his neck. There was Bush's hand at his hip, and now, he had one leg pulled up a little and was almost lying on his stomach with his face in his arms, trying not to moan. There was Bush's nose bumping the small of his back; there was something slick on Bush's hand, and now, there was a finger in him.
Hornblower moaned, moaned some more when Bush licked the small of his back. A little more finger, another lick, and eventually, Bush took his fingers away from Hornblower entirely and put his mouth where they had been -- tongue, originally not all that warm, but the whole area warming with breath and a little looser than it would have been otherwise since his fingers had been there. Hornblower moaned into the pillows, had to hold onto the headboard as though he were, in fact, being fucked, and he came into the sheets without Bush having touched his cock. When he had recovered, he rolled over, reached out to return the favor in some sort of coin, but Bush waved him off. All Bush needed, after listening to Hornblower moan like that, tight on his mouth, was to open his trousers and have a few strokes while looking at him.
The idea had been for Bush to have him as he would have had a woman; the idea had been that this, all of it, was only to be a temporary arrangement.
Hornblower did not receive command of the Lydia untli seven months after the deaths of the children, and it turned out to be, unsurprisingly, seven solid months of misery: he was on half-pay, on shore. Mrs. Mason came to live with them for two months after the funeral, and there were all the bills associated with the funeral that Maria must not know about. For a number of aternoons, too, Hornblower came home and found Maria gone, which was rather gratifying at the time because it meant that he could get a moment of quiet to himself away from her smothering devotion -- and then he made the mistake of mentioning it to her, praising her at supper for her spirit in going out again, and he had to watch as Maria's face first flushed red, then drained white.
It turned out that she had been sneaking off to visit the children in the cemetary, and no matter what Hornblower said, he could not convince her to continue going.
Years later, Hornblower would still remember the silence that followed.
Bush was not fond of provisioning in non-English ports. Even if they were friendly and even if Hornblower handled most of the actual negotations for obtaining water and biscuit and meat, there were always the fine details that had to be fought out over the side of the boat in another language, with strange things and stranger people, gestures, and he infinitely preferred thi sort of provisioning: the desert island. The work crew filling barrels at the spring, the marines with their muskets in case anyone should run.
He had very little appreciation of land vistas, having been born by the sea and growing up in a wartime service, but he could appreciate this: Gerard hailed him from the bottom of the hill, and Bush went, but not before looking one more time at these hills and rock and sea mist at the bottom of the world.
The Lydia and the Pacific were waiting.
Kennedy understands that war is dangerous, that the Navy is a hard mistress and that he will probably die in her service. He has had it rubbed in his face too many times not to have learned it, whereas Hornblower has more difficulty with the idea, possibly becaue of his infernal luck.
Bush knows, though. There was a moment on Samana when they looked at each other, then turned as a single body back towards the battery tower where Hornblower was going to be laying the charge, and they had another, less conscious, on the deck of the Renown before Hornblower arrived: Bush had been slashed across the back and was trying to rise despite legs that would no longer give him any strength, and Kennedy was gripping his midsection. Neither could see the other very clearly, but Bush has a vague memory of knowing that Kennedy had just been shot and was likely going to die, and when they were in the infirmary and some of the bandages started to come off Bush's back, Kennedy saw the great scar, the one that ran from shoulder almost to the hip.
Several of the newer scars crossed it. One even crossed it, came back again, and turned half of Bush's back a pink, feverish color. Kennedy could see the stitches from where he lay.
"From the last time I was in these waters," Bush says, almost apologetically as he puts a shirt on for the first time in a week. "'98 with the Conqueror."
Bush is a decade or so older. Kennedy remembers learning this on the deck of the Renown after Sawyer had been declared unfit and they were standing together, and Kennedy takes one last look at the pattern of scars and new wounds on Bush' back before closing his eyes. He is tired, exhausted from his wound and the heat and the flies that lie on him, closer than even his sweat.
At the victualling yards in Plymouth, over the doors, there had been carved ox heads and crossed foul anchors. By the time that he came to Kingston, Kennedy had a better idea what sort of food the Navy actually consumed, as well as the signs by which she acquired it.
Kennedy finds, to his surprise, that he has a great deal in common with Bush. They both like seamanship better than navigation, for example. They are both inclined to take the job of training midshipmen outside their lessons very seriously, and Bush is also more inclined to showing a sense of humor than Hornblower.
If Kennedy talks about women, for example, that old sailing standby, always appropriate for discussion and story-telling and time-filling, Hornblower will blush and look down at the wardroom table. Clear his throat uncomfortably, change the subject even though Kennedy knows that Hornblower was as ready as he was on the cobblestones with coin in hand when they set foot in a port. In fact, Hornblower might even make a comment on the fact that the wind was freshening from the west or something equally inane. Bush would have a story, a rejoinder. Likely false, probably entirely fabricated since Kennedy was convinced that no woman could actually have three breasts, much less charge for the rarity, but nevertheless --
It had been a long time since Kennedy had a friend aboard ship besides Hornblower, and it was surprisingly pleasant.
no subject
no subject
<333 you, though.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
And number 2!
OMG RIMMINGAnd I always love anything with Kennedy. Hee.
no subject
I'm glad you liked #1 despite my h8eration in it It was giving me fits because fo the Bush characterization -- it's angstlicious and all, but he feels weak in it, you know?
no subject
Wyndmir
no subject
And. Er. Thanks for following along on Rhod's Crazy Writer Freakface Tour. I wish I could help you with the FF recs, but the only one I've got is for Stella Belli's FF7 fic. I don't know if that's what your sister is looking for, but.
no subject
Poor Bush fucking his Captain only when very, very drunk – “I had to; I was drunk”. Squee at the rimming porn. Then the Maria bit – just a terrible moment of grief. Bush <3. I do love your/randomalia Kennedy. That last bit with Bush and the three breasted woman ::giggle:: but have you removed some of the Kennedy mince?
no subject
Best excuse. Ever. And yeah. I'm still trying to find my Kennedy voice, dammit. It's hard as fuck to get the right mix of mince and, um, unminced meat. XD
Thanks for the kind comments.
no subject
no subject
cryjoin the circuswrite Prowse/Bush. Um. Unless that's an encouragement.These all made for such great snapshots, even if you didn't intend for them to be so.
By the time that he came to Kingston, Kennedy had a better idea what sort of food the Navy actually consumed, as well as the signs by which she acquired it.
OMG. Love the way you put that, the turn of phrase, and the earlier description of his condition, and the bit 'closer than sweat'. Yes. <3333
dfkjgdf oh my god no -_-
Re: dfkjgdf oh my god no -_-
You know, I might be cracked out in the head, but there seems to me to be similarities between Kennedy and Kenobi, in personality. No, really! And you write the best Obi-Wan ever, so I'm perfectly sure you could nail Kennedy too.
Re: dfkjgdf oh my god no -_-
And damn the timeframe difficulties. I do want to write Bush and Kennedy, but I feel like I've already given the big available timeframes a shot -- the prison, the time on the ship post-Samana, etc.
*sighs, waits for your brilliant brain to tell her what else there is to write about* :D
whut is your icon from pls?
There's some interesting spaces for Bush and Kennedy, I think. Anytime during the voyage, particularly when Hornblower is on watch. I really like that moment where Bush suggests that Kennedy gets some rest, and Kennedy says he'll share the watch with him, instead. Also that bit where Hornblower goes off to lay the charges and sometimes after he leaves Bush and Kennedy decide and go after him. That's such an important moment. They really do find themselves in agreement and company a fair bit. I loooove when Kennedy laughs at Bush's joke about the overheated metal, and Bush has that tiny smile? Omg. What would the sleeping arrangements have been in Renown, anyway?
There's also so many AU options that make me drool. Not fix-its, but I wonder what it would be like if Kennedy survived but the last two movies played out exactly the same, with Bush and Hornblower and Maria? *__*
We should do a fic swap sometime bebe. In the meantime, hope your work is going well?
OH AND. (Sorry for such a long rambly comment.) I watched the PMG miss marple today and the part where Dickie hugged George *___* I blame Hornblower fandom for making me think Bush and young gentlemen is so hot, even when it's completely different characters.
in which i reveal myself to be the biggest fangirl/HTML incompetent of all time.
It's plebey, but I can't help it. I can't also help the FILTHY, FILTHY young captain Pellew/baby Bush that's just swarming over me. I can't find it now in this demented early morning state that I'm in, but I swear to God there's a cap somewhere where Lindsay has McGann shoved up against the wall, is standing right behind him, and has McGann's tilted back by the hair.
And Dickie omg omg omg. I love him in that movie so much. He just breaks my heart. That last shot of him sitting with the wife and the kid-that-is-not-his, and OMG.
I am in the home stretch
of panic. 6.5 hours left on thie 48 hour takehome and I AM DONE. DONE. I MAY HAVE FAILED SEVERAL CLASSES THAT I CARE V. DEEPLY ABOUT BUT I. WILL. BE. DONE.I really just need an icon that says THAT IS VERY GAY, or something.
Having said that, my brain goes straight to the bad, hot, wrong place with this (excuse my dodgy cap). Especially when he makes that little sound because George is on his foot and it sounds like sex. I know, I know, it's meant to be awkward and touching and familial. Um.
By now you are probably close to being done (like Bush over a barrel)? YAYZ.
i am done like Bush over a barrel after Sunday
And your mind is truly filthy. :D Truly, truly filthy. And wonderful.
We really should do the fic swap. I'm basically free from now until, um. September, really. So tell me a date that works for you. :D
Re: i am done like Bush over a barrel after Sunday
I totally owe you fic already. I have one line (the last line) and no idea what the rest is yet. :D
Is it back to study or to work (or back to the future; wherein fandom is the crazy doc) in September?
Re: i am done like Bush over a barrel after Sunday
And ahahah. You do not owe me a single goddamn word of fic. But we should do a fic swap. When is a good date for you? :D :D :D
omfg
And I need to go make a McGann icon.
After next week is good for me. :D
no subject
This LJ should basically be retitled "Screeching Fangirl, Crouching Dork" or something.
And hurray. ^__________^ randomaliaficomg.
no subject
And ahah, yes. House of Flying Screencaps. :>
<33333
no subject
(I would make a somewhat clever asement to go with this, but alas, my brain. I have had a little less than five hours of sleep for two nights running. Brain squish!)
no subject
I think I just died. Either that or got the idea for a truly terrifying fic.
no subject
Dude. That fic. Oh my God. *covers eyes* The jowls! The jowls!
no subject
It's official. I now feel sick.
no subject
no subject
no subject
'Specially liked number one, brick-in-the-face aspect or not! And number two. Gah, and now being tempted with Horatio/Bush pron, when MUST finish threesome fic BEFORE DO ANYTHING ELSE. (Are you listening muse? No more starting other stories until WIPs are finished. *tries to stay firm*)
Did I mention I love these? *g*
no subject
no subject
(And are you writing any more porn any time soon? *hopes lots*)
no subject
And I am working on more porn. XD I've been turning a couple of pieces of filthybadwrong smut over and over in my head, including the pair to the rimming bit in this where it's HH that's uh. Doing the act. That should be done by the end of the week, but the big thing is this terrible, terrible AU of an AU quasi-incestual porn -- yes, incest. In HH fandom. XD
no subject
And am ready GUHing at your upcoming porn *snickers* Am officially a dirty whore as of NOW. If you ever want any opinions/betay things/general help, just yell by the by - always happy to help a fellow Pron-spreader ;-)