Drawing Blanks

Trek.

2009-05-27T05:21:23Z

Trek Fic. for the prompt, on the spectacular st_xi_kink
* Kirk/Chekov or Kirk/Pike - Young hustler!Kirk, pre-movie or academy days. Combines his thrill/danger seeing tendencies with his sluttiness/self-destructive tendencies by occasionally dabbling in playing the role of rough trade. Bonus points for involving Capt. Pike (either as a participant or in catching Kirk in the act) or terrifically underage Chekov (with protective!Kirk insisting "does your mother know you're here?" on escorting him home. Which ends up being the academy)

It's anon on the meme, but I like it, so I'm posting it here.

It's not that he's, you know, suicidal. He learned a long time ago (red Corvette when he was eleven) that he doesn't really want to die. But if you aren't close to death, if you aren't flirting with it, if you aren't inviting it in and fucking it and letting it go, you aren't alive.

At least, that's what Jim Kirk would tell you.

So he's gotten pretty good at finding the most possible danger from any given situation, making it part of himself and then pushing it away. It reminds him he's alive, and it's fantastic and it's brilliant and he's not like his father (didn't mother tell him that enough?) because he's alive, he's alive, he's alive.

The first time he gets hired as a prostitute, it's a complete accident. This beautiful Malon woman (yeah, he was surprised, too, but hey-- she made that shade of skin work for her) had picked him up in a bar he wasn’t old enough to be in, and had taken him back to her hotel near the spacedocks, and had tied him to the headboard. She proceeded to drag three painful orgasms out of him, got herself off (he knew he was just a sex toy by this point, see?) twice that again. When she finally untied him five hours after they got back to her room, she asked what his usual rates were, and he balked and stumbled and muttered, and she laughed and said it was worth it. She threw five hundred credits on the bed, walked into the shower, and told him to be gone by the time she got out. He was.

After that, well…

It wasn't any less dangerous than jumping off cliffs, or getting into fights he knows he can't win, so he figures that it wasn't all that bad of a plan.

Well, it was a pretty bad plan because getting arrested for prostitution in Iowa is just fucking pathetic, and so he blows the arresting officer (thank god he was human and not one of those robo-cop things) and gets off with a warning. He doesn't want it to get back to the neighbors, not so they'll talk behind mother's back (again). So he only sells himself out-of-state, preferably far out of state.

Which is how he's come to be here, leaning on this low wall in San Francisco, waiting for the Cadets to get out of classes. Ah, there it is-- he knew this new set couldn't be complete prudes, because there's a gaunt, beautiful boy looking at him, and Jim only takes a moment to look back before flicking his wrist to follow and leading the cadet back towards his building. Jim slows just enough that he could catch up if he wanted to, and he does, so Jim steps a half pace quicker. He gets back to his dark room, swirls them into it, kicks shut the door and kisses this-- kid.

Huh, well that's weird. But, fuck, as far as first times go, you know Jim Kirk's pretty damn spectacular. And fuck, he might give him a discount (not that he ever really cares how much money he makes) because of the way the kid's breath catches in his throat and slips out in space between a sob and a moan. The kid (who Jim mentally dubs Breathy) hesitantly reaches up and clutches at Jims ripped, barely there shirt and Jim finds him self more turned on that he really ought to be. But fuck it, it's not like this is legal, if Breahy's a bit underage, no one will tell.

He certainly won't.

Breathy swallows hard enough Jim can hear it as well as feel it in the kiss, and reaches for the hem of Kirk's shirt. Jim, grinning, helps it off, and steps backward in the near-dark towards the bed.

"How do you want me," he says, but he's careful to not make it to threatening. He doesn’t want to freak the kid, but shit, if he fucks as sweetly as he kisses-- hesitant passion, innocent lust-- Jim's more than willing to do whatever necessary.

Breathy's breath catches, and it does that fantastic sob-moan again, and Jim thinks he might die he's so turned on.

"On you're back," comes the response, and there's a hint of an accent, and shit, that just makes it better, "I'm going to ride you."

Jim grins. That, he can do well, so he stretches back onto his bed and he knows the moonlight is slanting through the windows and turning his skin to silver. Jim palms his cock before slanting his hips in a way that incites another sob-moan and sliding his tight jeans down his legs. He languidly starts fisting his dick, playing with his foreskin in the moonlight, judging his next move by the gasps sighs and moans coming from the darker shadow.

"Do you have lubricant?" asks Breathy. Indicating it's prominent location next to the door, Jim watches shadows ripple as Breathy strips in an awkward, endearing fashion and starts to roughly prep himself. It doesn't look remotely pleasurable, and Breathy's erection wilts because of it: Jim can't stand it, and slips out of the bed to take Breathy's hands in his own.

He kisses his way up the inside of Breathy's thigh, and nuzzles at the dick resting in lightly musty hair as he quickly lubes his fingers and slowly, beautifully begins stretching the kid. Breathy clearly didn't know how this was supposed to work, because even the reasonably quick pace Jim was stretching him at didn't correlate with how fucking turned on Breathy is getting, and Jim grins, because at least Breathy knew he was a born bottom (not that Jim understands that-- he never understood how you could prefer one sort of sex over another. There were so many possibilities, and that's even with just humans!).

Breathy gasps as Jim tilts his fingers to hit his prostate, and now he's shoving Kirk backwards, dragging him up onto the bed, and Jim never would have guessed that Breathy would be this pushy but he goes with it because the sounds that Breathy was making when it was just Jim's fingers up his ass were brilliant enough, how much the better when it's his dick? Shit, he's ready for the kid: that sentence didn't make sense.

The kid, it appears, is ready for him too, and he pushes him flat on his back and straddles his waist and grabs Jim's cock and sinks back on it like so much tight heat. This time it's Jim's turn to let out a sobbing, choking moan as he watches the play of muscles in his stomach and thighs under thin skin. Even with his face in concealing shadow, Breathy's beautiful enough to get a priest to jerk off, and Jim Kirk is no priest so he reaches up to play with Breathy's nipples and drag blunt nails down Breathy's back and edge his hips ever so slightly so that his cock brushes Breathy's prostate on every push.

The stimulus is too much for Breathy because he's tilting back his head and leaning back and his entire pale, delectable throat is exposed in silvering moonlight and he's coming and Jim swears that the semen spattering across the thin chest in front of him is liquid platinum.

It nearly takes an act of God to get Jim to not flip the kid onto his back and pound into him until he's drawn more platinum, but in the last moment he remembers what he's doing here, and in a show of will-power he knows he's never lacked (ask any of his step-fathers, hell, ask his mother), he stills and watches Breathy pant over him.

Breathy moans and rolls to his side. Jim's dick slips free of Breathy's tight ass and Jim nearly sobs for the loss. His reaction, apparently, is not lost on the cadet, because he hears a faint "oh" and then feels wet heat enveloping his cock. Shit, the kid's actually taking him down his throat, and if that sob-moan sounded good, shit, it feels fucking brilliant. Mindful of Breathy's virginal (not so much any more!, Kirk thinks with a mental smirk) he doesn’t thrust into the hot mouth, but lets Breathy swirl his tongue around the head and then drag burning lips down the underside to lap at Kirk's balls. This is what does it, and Jim barely has time to choke out a warning before he's coming.

Breathy flops forward onto the bed next to Jim, facing the wall. He's out practically before Jim can roll over. Sweet kid, he thinks, but not to street-smart-- If I were an actual hustler I'd be off with his money by now.

Jim levers himself up and heads for the shower.

---

James Tiberius Kirk always knows the exact second the sun comes up, because his windows have an Eastern exposure. On this particular day, the moment the sun comes up is also the moment James Tiberius Kirk has one of the more sickening realizations of his life. Because the sun coming up has put full light on his bed, and the cadet lying in it. Cadet is a rather strong word. Kid. No, no-- child.

Sitting straight upright from the chair he'd been dozing in, Jim wrenches on his clothes.

"Wait just a fucking minute." Jim says, and this kid must be the worlds' lightest sleeper, because he sits straight up and looks around frantically.

"What!" Breathy (he should really figure out his name) squeaks.

"Oh, fuck. How old are you?"

"I am n-nineteen," he stutters, and despite how much Jim wants to believe him, he really can't. Damnit-- his will power was supposed to be better than this!

"Fuck. You're like, twelve."

"I'm fifteen!" he says, and then turns a really attractive (damnit! Jailbait! Really, really, really jailbait--) shade of pink. "Umv, I mean, nineteen."

"Does your mother know you're here?" Jim asks, and he suddenly feels every one of his own nineteen years. This kid-- he's so young. There really isn't an excuse for this, not even in Jim's book. And he has a lot of excuses.

Breathy straightens up and suddenly Kirk could believe he was nineteen, because the universe shouldn't be so horrid as to put that look of loss on the face of someone so young. "My mother… my family -- they are all dead." He noticeably fakes a smile. "I am Starfleet Cadet, now!"

Jim knocks his head back against the door behind him. God, god, god, this kid-- beautiful, and he's just deflowered a fucking virgin, and that's kind of okay, but this kid--

"Here. Let-- I'll buy you breakfast, and I'll take you back to Starfleet."

"Oh, no, you don'--"

"Listen, kid. Just-- do this, okay?"

A look passes between them, and Breathy nods and straightens and says aye.

Jim leads him out the door, kicking it shut behind him. He's done with the room-- he'll head back home for a while before doing something else stupid-- but fucked if he cares about checking out. There's a pile of credits worth the value of the building in the dresser, but he doesn't care. Getting back to Iowa with only his face and his fists will be like fighting a Romulan, so he figures it's a decent enough plan.

"So, kid. What's your name?"

"I am Chekov. Pavel Andreievich Chekov."

"Well, Pavel Andreievich Chekov, I'm James Tiberius Kirk…"

Twenty One

2009-04-06T11:39:36Z

Title: Twenty One
Fandom: Torchwood (Doctor Who)
Author: me, of course
Summary: Jack Harkness doesn't always understand the twenty-first century.

Jack Harkness has had a long time to figure out the cultural differences between the twenty-first century and home. It's the little things that trip him up most, he finds. He can deal without data-recall memory stacks, he can work without x-ray and infra-red contacts. The real issue is the language.

He knows early Earth English even without nanocybronic (or TARDIS translation circuit) help. It was one of the most important languages in the Universe, due to the second American Empire in the mid twenty-ninth century, and you never knew when some EMP would blow all of languages out of the tiny chips in your brain. Communication wasn't what was bringing him down. It was the… little things, the subtleties. The hugely different subtext and connotations of words.

When Ianto first introduced himself as Jack's lover, Jack very nearly passed out. Lovers! He wasn't ready for that level of commitment! Ianto would die, and Jack would not, and lovers--! But Ianto didn't seem to think anything of it, and Jack realized with abrupt horror (and relief) that "lovers" didn't mean forever-always-until-the-universe's-heat-death, it meant that they were past the stage when sex needed to be impersonal.

Not to mention he'd nearly smacked Gwen when she'd called him "bi". Twenty-first century, he'd reminded himself. Although, even in the human race, just two wasn't really right. And it wasn't about both blokes and birds (as Owen had put it), it was about pleasure, and fulfillment, and not being alone, even if just for a little while. Gwen had ranted for a while about --was called John, now, wasn't he?-- little poodle comment, and while poodles, maybe not, still, he'd been more than passing tempted by more than one of the aliens he was supposed to be detaining. It'd just been so long since he'd had anything prehensile inside him, it was making him mad. But if Gwen couldn't handle the innocent thought of poodles, how would she, or any of them, react to finding him with a Fl'Prarthian? And it's not like humans hadn't come up with that tentacle kink long before the general populace had access to sentient tentacled aliens.

Sometimes he wondered if there were better people out there, better people to run Torchwood. He was an Agent, he knew history better than nearly anyone else in the universe, he knew who was supposed to run Torchwood. Ianto Jones, Gwen Cooper, Owen Harper, Toshiko Sato. And the man they always referred to as "the Captain" in official notes. But he knew that as they got further and further into the first decade, the Captain was mentioned less and less. Maybe he would finally figure out how to die? More likely, he'd give up on one world, one time. The temptation of leaving linear living behind! But--

He loved them. This team he'd found and founded. They might not be the best, but they weren't the worst, either. The twenty-first century is when everything changes, and they're ready. They might even be ready without him.

And he might even be ready to go home to the stars.

I love finding new fandoms.

2009-02-01T21:20:09Z

Ocean's Eleven.
Firstly: why is this such a small fandom?
Secondly: how have I not seen the amazing potential in this movie before?
Thirdly: why has it taken me this long to write something this short?

Here:

Kings and Queens
Rusty has always had a weakness for Kings full of Queens.

Kings and Queens:

Charlemagne, Pallas, Helen, David, Alexander.

King of Hearts, Queen of Spades, Queen of Hearts, King of Spades, King of Clubs.

Rusty had always had a weakness for Kings full of Queens, and he didn't think it was just the teenager in him snickering about pegging. He'd met all these cards

(Danny, smiling, flirting, holding court; Tess, starting wars and finishing them; Isabel, launching a thousand ships; Saul, bringing down the greatest with planning and pebbles; Rueben, conquering the known world),

and he'd loved all these cards,

(Danny, twisting the sheets between his fingers; Tess, beaming up at him from Danny's side; Isabel, looking sideways over coffee and biscotti; Saul, teaching him how to stack a deck; Rueben, giving him his first job),

and he'd lost all these cards

(Danny, in his last glance up while being lead away; Tess, crying after Danny's trial; Isabel, telling him he was a thief; Saul, to Cooperstown and Rolaids; Rueben, to a ridiculous house in a ridiculous town),

so Rusty shuffled the deck three times, finding the cards he needed, and dealt four nines and the Ace of Diamonds to Danny.

And when the job is over, and he drops off Tess and Danny at the airport, Rusty finds the nearest casino, a cheap, badly lit, ugly casino, and sits down to a game of five card stud to make himself a bit of extra cash that he doesn't need, and nearly cries when he's dealt kings full of queens.

I still can't decide if this is poetry or prose

2008-12-18T06:03:16Z

Well.
Writing.
I do that.

Even post it sometimes. And even though this is a mainly fic-y 'journal, I'm putting this up. I mean, every time I try to write fic, I start reading someone else's, and then have to stop, because mine isn't as good. But this! This poetical prose thing, I like it. It's kind of cliché, but I'm mostly alright with that.

Well, read and review.

I Never Wrote You This (You Miss Me Too Much)

Wait, God, I can't even take it no more, Everything is heavy but nothing has weight. I know it's a story, added to some literary shore across a sea of words, but this is too late.

You aren't reading this, but you know what I'd say, because I didn't even leave you this ageless cliché, no final note in which I'd fail to allay your worries that you weren't good enough to keep me here. Because, fuck, look around. You can't get nearer than six feet with out digging through ground.

But I can't even take it no more, all these things we've been through together, and it's a good thing you aren't a selfish bastard, because I don't know what I'd do if you left me alone.

And hey, would you mind telling my family that it wasn't enough love because when push came to shove I didn't push back, and I'm not looking down from above, because I don't believe in all that.

But I can't even take it no more, I'm Theseus, Ariadne left on the Litoran Shore, but there's no god coming or you to pour just a little bit more wine into the cup that's still empty.

And I'm Pyramus, you're Thisbee, when you've escaped from the beast to meet me, I'm gone already, but maybe you're not, bceause you're not going to meet me, if it's that far to journey, are you? Good.

And now you know how Iphigenia felt, before the dagger at her breast and her last blood spilt, some rejection of fate, take back the cards dealt, but you've been left all alone, and the dealer isn't around.

Hey, honey, try not to dwell on this as long as you live, and don't wake up gasping with only one wish to return to that moment and make me pay for making your life turn out this way.

Because I can't even take it no more.

Lifting Away

2008-09-19T06:56:57Z

She always had trouble telling the difference between flying and falling.

I realize I don't post in here, and I feel foolish. It's not that I don't write, I do. It's just that my writing rarely gets past the plot arcing stage, so while I have an elaborate diagram of the plot, and several key scenes, and characters, I never really get past that. I need to get over myself and just write.

I really need to be more chill.

For the longest time, I was a one-fandom-girl. Not to say that I only read one thing, no, not at all. It was more of serial monogamy when it came to fandom, I suppose. I would read Muse RPS, and then lots of Potterverse stuff, then read endless Pirates fic, and then Whovian fic. And I realize, that I'm silly. I should embrace fandom as it comes, and all the fandoms I'm fit to participate in.

I also realize that I love crossovers.

Mostly, though, I realize that I miss fandom when I leave for teh RL, and that I should come back more.

Huh. I kinda miss it.

2007-09-26T04:48:13Z

I logged in as my fandom account for the first time today. I miss it... I went on a rampage, and I read all of ebony_star's fics, so that was chill....

And now I'm wandering around my bookmarks, looking at things.

's kinda fun. I hope I get more time, and come back to this....

RL is getting way too much

2007-08-25T03:02:14Z

Damnit.

I've been in fandom for about three years, and never has RL made me not have enough time for it. Never. However, that evil time has come, and I can't even keep up with what few fics I actually read.

So. I'm lame. And my comments will be sporatic at best.

But RL is treating be better than normally, as much of my formerly free time is spent with a certain significant other. So that's great, but... I dunno, I'm going to miss fandom quite a bit.

I'm not breaking down, I'm breaking out.

--jacqueline

james_cedar @ 2007-08-18T12:33:00

2007-08-18T19:37:58Z

It kinda seems like I don't really post much. And I don't, but you can blame that on r'ife, on me reading and lurking rather than writing, and on me writing for this fest I'm in. Which is kinda scary. But, you know, I'll deal.

And all that rot.

I'm thinking of posting another round of recs, but I don't really have a lot to offer right now. I've been so slagged busy that I have basically only been keeping up with ebonystar's fics and a few HP wips that send me the updates. Which is shiny, but I'm kinda going into withdrawl.

Whatever.

/rant, anyway.

james_cedar @ 2007-07-21T08:27:00

2007-07-21T15:29:16Z

Some asshole put spoilers on my flist. Goddamnit. I mean, I may have already read the book, but still, jerk, not okay.

So. Be wary of your friends pages. And OMG! DH is amazing!

Whee!

2007-07-19T17:15:29Z

I'm having sooo much fun. Just joined my first fest as this me, so I'm excited.

So. Right. I'm excited. And I think I can do a good job.

Whee. That was my pimping post.

But I have a little peice, drabble length, that I have to type, so it shall be here soon.

I swear to the gods.

Inspiration! At last!

2007-07-15T06:51:46Z

Okay. First off, this:

My Harry Potter Spoiler of Doom is:
Severus Snape joins a Beatles tribute band, as John Lennon in a submarine
Get your Harry Potter Spoiler of Doom

and secondly, the most wonderful jellydot has inspired me to write and rec and all sorts of fun things. So.

I know its just not done but I am a slut for a good bit of violence. Hence me rec'ing Miranda Fairgold's A Second Chance at Life, and it's sequel, Changes in a Time of War. Shippy? No. Violent? Oh, yes. Well writen? Yes. The first two chapters are a little hurried, but I swear to the gods, it's amazing. Also, I must confess, it is on FFN. But it really is good.

Next, is one of my all time favorite authors, who is sooooooo bril with the darkfic. This is one of the most briliant peices I've ever read. Mostly, Amanuensis (or, amanuensis1) is the most amazing person EVER. And I know her stuff is rec'd left and right, but it is entirely valid. So go to her site, and READ EVERYTHING. NOW.

Okay. Are you back now? Good. Here is a distressingly WIP fic which makes up for that factor by being AMAZING. charlie_d_blue writes this amazing peice of fic. If you ever feel the need for a detailed, dark, beautiful AU, go to this fic, and fall in love. It's not fluffy in the least, and only read it if you have a bit to think and wish and love and fly, but there is nothing less than briliance it the writing.

james_cedar @ 2007-07-05T12:11:00

2007-07-05T19:26:21Z

So. Right. I have this character study on Pansy.... And I don't really know if it's going to work out, but here it is.

Unbeta'd, because, seriously, its a drabble, although I have gone over it a bit, so anything mistake-wise is so totally mine. So. If you would read? And drop a review?

info:
Word cound: 700
Character(s): Pansy Parkinson
Pairing(s): HPDM (minor)
Type: Character study, drabble
Warnings: Self-harm, suicide, character death

Pansy had known from the second she saw him at her parents’ party, that she loved this boy. It was immediate. It was instantaneous. And she was almost angry with herself for loving him so quickly, and so easily, and so strongly, that she knew she would follow him to the ends of the earth. And she hated herself for it. But she never managed to hate him.

He didn’t notice her. But, somehow, she could accept that.

Time went on, as time seems to do, and she had crushes on other boys, and even other girls, but she never forgot that first look of Draco Malfoy with his hair shining in the sun as he whirled on Terry Boot for saying something innocuous. Because that was her Draco: silvered hair and grey eyes, up-turned nose and thin lips, all sass and brass and swagger.

She didn’t really understand her desire to be simply used by him. The very thought of such was so contrary to her nature that she didn’t really understand what her feelings were until he asked her to the Yule Ball the day of the dance. She had of course already had a date with a perfectly respectable sixth year boy –dense as a plank, but she could have used that—but the moment he asked, she had said yes. And then she was disgusted with herself, incensed with herself, but she didn’t manage to be angry with him.

He asked her to fawn over him, because he (as had she) had seen the looks the Potter boy was giving him, and she had agreed, not because of the blackmail she was threatened with, but because finding a diamond in quartz would be too little for him. She didn’t understand herself, this sick devotion to him, but whenever she would look into his eyes and see that she had made his path even the smallest bit easier, and she would know that this is what she wanted to do.

She had seen the way that the mad Lestrange woman had looked at the Dark Lord, and she knew she looked like that when ever she caught his eye. And she knew he thought her in love with him,, and perhaps she was, but not in the way that the other girls in her dorm were in love, or the way that her mother and her lover were in love. This was something different, for she had come to think of Draco as someone who wasn’t actually human, a figure of her imaginings that was so colored by her dreams that she didn’t actually see him anymore.

The day he disappeared was the worst day of her life, including her branding, including her parents’ divorce, including Dark Lord’s wrath.

But when she found him curled around the Potter boy in the Come-and-Go Room, discussing how they could change the world if only someone would listen, she didn’t jump in brandishing her wand demanding an explanation, she told Draco, and Potter, that she would make sure that none of the general population would bother them the next day, though she couldn’t say anything about Potter’s posse, or Blaise, who had always been too smart for his own damn good.

Potter seemed about to ask, but then Draco whispered in his ear, and Potter lay back, and let the matter lie. And when they emerged the next day, no one bothered them on whit, for all the school could talk about was Parkinson’s confession to Professor McGonagall about who had stolen the catnip, and the innuendos that had accompanied said confession.

When Potter died, thirteen years later, it was Pansy’s shoulder Draco cried on, and it was Pansy who gave him the dagger that slit his wrists in two quick, clean strokes. She didn’t speak to anyone for six months.

Eventually, though, she came out of the Mannor where she had hidden herself away, and took everything she knew about how Draco wanted the world to be, and made it that way.

But she didn’t really ever move on, so when she was about sixty, she found that she couldn’t really go on, she found the dagger that had saved Draco, and followed him on, hoping beyond anything reasonable, that he would use her there.

Random blah.

2007-06-03T20:38:54Z

So. Random blah has arrived.

Saw PotC: AWE. Kinda fantastic. But wow, it so should have been Elizabeth taking the Pearl, not Hector Barbossa.

And I'm all inspired-like to find some good PotC fic. Yep. So, yeah. I'm not sure what I'd ship though.....

Maybe Jack/Will? Or (oh! oh!) Jack/Will/Elizabeth. That sounds like so much fun! Maybe I should write that.... But (my) Jack isn't really bouncing up and down about it, although Nica and Zach are....

Well, we'll see.

Right. That was kinda nonsensical.

Well, whatever.

meet the muses

2007-05-31T01:36:50Z

Alright, baby, meet the muses:

First, there's Zach. He's a bitch of a muse, and is my creative spark, having me think of deliciously evil things to do to my beloved characters. He is responcible for most snark, and for most violence, whether in an actual battelfield way, or in a equally fun bedroom-y way. He's also really hot, doesn't always really agree with Nica and Jack, because, with out them, there would never be any plot. Just PWPs, and senseless violence, which can be fun, but not all the time.

Then, there's Nica. She's sweet, and is responcible for concepts: people, places, plots devices. I can sit and plan with Nica for hours, and we get along just fine. She's a big fan of the surreal, but never seems to know where to stop or start. With only Nica, I would simply daydream, and never write anything. Also, I might be commited, because I know some of hte things that Nica's come up with so well any pshrink would think I live there.

Finally, there's Jack (which can get confusing, because most people call me that. But WE never have any issues with it), who is really just me, but with out all those pesky inhibitions. You know, the id, no super ego messing me up. He gets me to write, and keeps me writing. He puts together concepts, layers charcters, and basicaly puts Zach and Nica together. He puts Nica's ideas and Zach's flair together, and adds in some flowery language to help out.

Yep. Thats about it. So yeah.

Jacqueline: Out

The First is the Best, neh?

2007-05-30T05:43:31Z

Well. This is my rather awkward first post. I'm sure I could write something so devastatingly witty it would blow your mind, but I'm rather lacking devastating wit, right about now. I'll leave that to Zach, my muse for evil. And yes, my three muses have names.

So. A bit about me, yes?

My name is Jack, Jacqueline if you want to get technical, and I'm going to SCCC in Seattle, WA, US.

I'm here for the fandom of Harry Potter, and I'll go for pretty much any pairing as long as its dark-ish, well characterized and well-written. Okay, I'll read some really bad shit when I'm in the mood, but I'll only go back to something if its good.

I'm working on my own potter-fics, an original piece, and I'm going so slow on them I'm far more centered on beta-ing right now, so I'm totally up for it if you email me.

I'm not new to the fandom, but everything else was really just preparing for this ident, which I'm planning on keeping for a while.

Er, yeah. That's about it.

Jack: out.