Lost Galaxy

Fic: Whispering Avarice

Sun, 15 Nov 2009 00:56:27 GMT

SGU snippet the fourth, which will finish off the semi-related one-shot series. Previous installments:

Forward Momentum (G)
Conversational Pacing (G)
Weight of Want (PG)

Title: Whispering Avarice
Spoilers: 1x07
Warnings: porn so note the rating
Pairing: Young/Rush
Rating: NC-17
Summary: From wanting to having and all the greed in between. aka Solaras felt Y/R needs more smut.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Stargate. No money was made through this endeavor. I’m just here to play.

Author’s Note: Umm…porn… and a little angst, but mostly porn. I think this is the last of this semi-related snippet series. Maybe I’ll come up with something resembling plot next time.

Whispering Avarice

The inside of Rush’s thighs were smooth, the hair soft, and slick with sweat against Young’s hips. His knees were sharp bone, pressing, shifting against the mattress, against Young’s waist and lower ribs. Against the outside of his thighs, Young felt the dig of Rush’s heels.

The fingers of Rush’s left hand rested jerkily on Young’s chest, a light jittery touch, while his right hand lay palm flat above Young’s knee, holding his weight. Rush, eyes closed, grit his teeth as if trying to keep anything from escaping. He was nothing like Emily.

Emily’s mouth would be open, gasping and moaning her delight and encouragement at every thrust. Above Young, Emily’s back would arch and undulate like a cord whipping in the wind. With Emily the pleasure was easy. She was easy to read, easy to know. Rush made him fight for it, work for it.

Young’s hands tightened around Rush’s hips, and his knees bent, altering the angle. Young pulled Rush down, taking over the rhythm, and thrust up hard. Rush sucked in a sharp breath that rattled through his throat. Young repeated the move and again, wrenching a low grunt out of the man above him. Rush curled over, his weight shifting to his left hand as he thrust back against Young’s movements.

Young slid a hand up from Rush’s hip, feeling the slickness of exertion dripping down Rush’s spine, curling it around Rush’s thin waist – thin, thin like they were all thinning from a rationed diet – thinning faster than some, faster than those who remembered to eat everyday.

Rolling, Young pulled Rush around with him, tumbling over and pushing Rush under him. Young grabbed those jittery, greedy hands and laced his fingers with them, pushing them to the mattress, stopping the constant grasping for pens, paper, markers, chalk, cigarettes, numbers, calculations, theories, Destiny, and thoughts so far beyond Young that it’s amazing Rush ever saw anything else.

Young thrust hard and fast into Rush, who in turn bucked up against him, back arching in a shuddering spasm. If Young could just thrust hard enough and break Rush open, split him right through to the skull, then maybe Young could see into that mind and understand, could know.

Rush’s fingers curled, short, ragged nails biting into the backs of Young’s hands. His eyes were sharp, narrowed slits, challenging, and Rush squeezed his legs around Young’s hips, pulling him in, but Young was wanting, greedy, and not in a giving mood. He thrust in and covered Rush’s mouth, tongue in deep, taking—and Rush moaned a hungry sound.

Young sat up and pulled Rush with him, one arm snaking around Rush’s back. He pulled him up with his mouth, his hands, his cock buried so deep, so tight—and Young moaned in echo. Rush sank into Young’s next thrust, and then up, grinding against Young’s stomach. No longer fighting, but gasping short, shuddery breaths that Young felt ghosting over his skin.

Spreading his knees, Young pushed Rush’s thigh’s farther apart, and slipped his hand between them. Rush’s head fell back, and Young licked along the exposed neck and jaw line, tongue rasping against the stubble there. He licked a path to Rush’s ear, sucked and bit at the lobe, and breathed—

“Come on, Rush,” in a voice that cracked with want.

Rush’s hands wrapped around Young’s back, sliding against slick skin…

“Come-”

… fingers finding no purchase…

“-on-”

… sighing a sound like breaking…

“Rush.”

… and Rush jerked against him, his arms trembling, his thighs shivering, his whole body seeming to vibrate, and Young continued to drive into him until Rush sagged bodily against him.

Rush threaded a hand into Young’s hair, clenching, and buried his face in Young’s shoulder. Young felt Rush’s lips against his collarbone, a drag of flesh on flesh, then his tongue, warm and wet, and finally his teeth, a sharp bite.

Young held Rush to him, down onto him, tightly as his body stiffened, as the pressure built and coiled low in his spine. He thrust shallowly as he started to shudder, and the pressure spilled out of him as sensation, a covetous, wanting pleasure, swept through him.

Young slumped into Rush. They were both sagging and slumping into each other, panting, breathing from and into each other. Young wanted the moment, to stay in the moment, to keep Rush in it. He wanted to keep Rush still and languid until sleep claimed him.

“Sleep,” Young whispered.

Rush’s fingers twitched, and Young held them still.

End

Thanks for stopping by,

Solaras

Fic: Weight of Want

Fri, 13 Nov 2009 19:01:07 GMT

Third SGU snippet.

Title: Weight of Want
Pairing: Young/Rush
Spoilers: Briefly for 1x07
Rating: PG
Summary: Rush is complicated, but Young isn't ignorant. There are things he understands.

Follows Forward Momentum and Conversational Pacing, but can stand alone.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Stargate. No money was made through this endeavor. I’m just here to play.

Author’s Note: I think there will be one more snippet to this little random series of mine. The image for the last scene came to me in class today. It was a very nice image, and that’s all I’m going to give away.

Weight of Want

Young tested his leg gingerly, easing his weight onto it and away from his good leg. He felt the pressure in his toes first, the way they pressed and flattened within his shoe; something he would normally take for granted. The pressure extended to his heel, tingled in his ankle, crawled up his calf, pooled in his knee, burned along his thigh, and finally settled in his hip: his muscles and joints awakening. Pain lingered dully, but manageably, underneath the stiffness. Young took a few turns around his room, from wall to wall, working out the kinks. Mornings were always the worst, but he was thankful to be moving around without the crutch, if somewhat slowly—

Emily—Telford’s gaze upon him, cutting through the borrowed body, to him. He should have gone slower. He just wanted, wanted so bad, wanted something to hold onto… wanted too many things.

Young took a deep breath, held it, and let it out. Now was not the time. Young allowed himself another breath, another moment, and then left his quarters.

“Colonel!” came the call before Young had gone more than a dozen steps.

“Yes, Dr. Volker,” Young replied, resigned to hearing the first request/demand/complaint of the day.

“About the ship exploration—” Volker began, trotting up to where Young had halted in the corridor.

“I’ve already told you,” Young said, holding up a hand to forestall the inevitable rambling babble, “I will discuss the power issues with Rush and get back to you. Other matters have taken precedence recently; I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Yes, sir, of course, but now that we know Destiny can recharge herself, we really should start looking at the scientific applications available to us.”

“If you can’t wait,” Young replied flatly, forcing his face into a blank mask, “you can always speak with Rush yourself.”

Volker’s mouth opened and closed fish-like, and his eyes widened and darted around the corridor, seeming to catch on anything that wasn’t Young’s waiting gaze. “No, no,” he said, tongue skimming over his lips, “that’s alright. He’ll just… and I’ll get… I’ll just be on my way now.”

Young nodded in dismissal, and Volker walked backward two steps before turning and scurrying away. Rush might be a pain in the ass, but he was a non-discriminating pain in the ass; the speaking to (or yelling as the case may be) Young might as well get over with.

Approaching Rush was best done quickly, like pulling off a band-aid, giving Rush no time to escape and Young no time to think better of the action. He was in the control room as Young expected: the one point of predictability about Rush.

Rush’s head was bent low over the console. He was always pushing in close to things now, ignoring boundaries, studying, observing, calculating. In training, instructors would talk about survival situations stripping away patterns of behavior held in check by civilization. Rush pressed a hand against his right eye, digging in with the heel of his palm. Young remembered the cool distance with which Rush would observe everyone on the Icarus base; distance afforded to him by society, by the tools of society, a fragile set of lenses in a flimsy frame.

Rush’s hand returned to the console. His fingers skittered over the controls, flitting here and there in a greedy motion. Young understood greed; he understood wanting what’s in hand now and what could be in hand next. He knew all about wanting too much.

Young breathed in the exhilaration of understanding something about Rush, holding in the want to keep the feeling. Rush was a greedy man, but so was Young, both of them consumed.

“Colonel?” Rush asked without turning.

Exhale.

Young knew—O, that way madness lies—what it is was to want.

“Dr. Rush.”

End for now…

Thanks for stopping by,

Solaras

Fic: Conversational Pacing

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 20:26:05 GMT

Another little snippet for SGU, following Forward Momentum.

Title: Conversational Pacing
Pairing: Young/Rush eventually
Rating: G (yeah, still G)
Summary: Rush is difficult, but Young is keeping pace.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything Stargate related. No money is being made through this endeavor. I’m just here to play.

Author’s Note: Typing with a band-aid on one finger is annoying.

Conversational Pacing

“Good morning, Dr. Rush,” Colonel Young remarked, lips curving into a smirk just this side of a smile as he set his bowl of nutritional-keep you alive-taste be damned-so eat it anyway-mush on the table across from where Rush was pushing his own ration around with a spoon. “You’re looking refreshed this morning.”

The spoon halted in its circulation as Rush’s fingers tensed, the flesh of his thumb and fingers whiting briefly against the press of the handle. Young waited as Rush’s gaze darted swiftly around the near empty room; Rush always chose to eat (if he ate) at the end of a meal shift. Young seated himself at the table and met Rush’s narrowed stare. “Sarcasm, Colonel?” Rush sneered. “Maybe, you should stick to doling out orders.”

“Orders don’t seem to compute with you, though,” Young began, one hand cupping his bowl, the other poised above it, elbow on the table, and spoon pointing down. His back and shoulders were curved, hunching over the table toward Rush, carving a space of intimacy with his body. “I believe,” Young continued in a low, secretive tone that pulled Rush in closer over the table, “that both TJ and I have told you to get more sleep.”

“And here I thought I was looking ‘refreshed,’ Colonel,” Rush replied, “and I’d appreciate—” the word sounded like a warning to Young, full of rumbling growl at the beginning and bitten off at the end—“if you would mind your own business.”

“On this ship, Doctor Rush, you are my business, so,” Young said, pointing his spoon at Rush, “no more working until you pass out. I need you able to function at any possible moment.”

“Don’t try to turn me into one of your toy soldiers,” Rush hissed, his own body curved over the table, pushing into Young’s space. “I’ll work as I see fit. I’m the one who’s going to figure this mess out, figure this ship out, and you should stay out of my way.” Rush pushed away from the table and turned sharply on his heel, walking away from Young, who watched him stalk out with his shoulders back, head high, quick long stride, seeming to take up more room than he rightly should: indignant.

Young dipped his spoon into his bowl, brought it to his lips, and rolled, more so than chewed, the food-like substance around in his mouth before swallowing. Everything was a fight with Rush, even getting the man to take care of himself. As rough, tactless, and difficult as the scientist could be, however, they needed him. Rush was right, about a lot of things, but mostly Young knew he was right that if anyone was going to gain any real understanding of Destiny, it would be Rush.

Pushing away his bowl, Young got a firm grip on his crutch and levered himself away from the table. He couldn’t out pace and catch up to Rush, but that didn’t matter. There was only one room on the ship Rush would be heading to, so Young took his time limping to the control room.

End for now…

Thanks for stopping by,

Solaras

Fic: Forward Momentum (SGU)

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 05:32:13 GMT

This is the last thing I need to be doing right now, but just a little short fanfiction, only a little snippet. I'll get right back to studying and grad school apps, I promise.

SGU: Fandom has made off with my brain again.

Title: Forward Momentum
Warnings: Pre-slash
Pairing: Young/Rush
Rating: G so very G that it hurts
Summary: Young moves foward, but Rush is staying still.
Series: Possibly

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Stargate. No money was made through this endeavor. I’m just here to play.

Author’s Note: I should not be writing fanfiction. There are so many other things I need to be doing…. Fandom eats my brain again. This is just a short one off that I think might become a series of related one-shots centered on Young and Rush, eventually leading to actual slashy goodness. I’m still getting a feel for the characters, but hopefully I’m in the ballpark.

Forward Momentum

A metallic clang echoed every other step Colonel Young took in his progression down Destiny’s corridors. The sound carried up and down the hall; Young would not be sneaking up on anyone soon, but every day his leg was doing better. He told himself that, made himself believe it. Too many larger burdens weighed heavily upon him, upon them all, to let himself be slowed down by his injury. Young kept moving. He had to keep moving forward; it’s all he could do: step—step-clang—step.

Rush was exactly where Young expected to find him: hunched over the (his) console; however, the Colonel hadn’t expected Eli to come scurrying over from the other side of the room with one hand waving a Kino about and the other pressing a finger over his lips. Young allowed Eli to usher him back into the hallway.

“Don’t wake him up!” Eli whispered frantically, “er, Colonel. I mean you could wake him up if you wanted to, but he just nodded off about fifteen minutes ago, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t sleep yesterday, possibly the day before. He’ll be pissy as hell that he fell asleep, when he wakes up, but ultimately he’ll be in a better mood for sleeping. And seeing as he lets me in there, well sometimes, it’d make my life that much better—”

“Eli, Eli,” Young halted the babble with a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “It’s alright,” he continued as Eli looked anxiously back at him, rolling the Kino between his hands. Looking past Eli, the Colonel could see that, while Rush was indeed seated at the console, the man slumped heavily in the seat. One hand, the arm bent at the elbow, supported Rush’s head, while the other hand seemed to have fallen limp, mid-work, on the console. His lips were parted in the carelessness of sleep, his jaw was dark with several days’ worth of stubbly growth, and his eyelids looked pale and thin above the purple shadows under them. Young could well believe that Rush had been avoiding sleep again. “There isn’t an emergency,” Young said quietly, “it can wait.”

“Oh, okay,” Eli said, anxiety visibly deflating as his shoulders loosened and his body dropped into a slouch that screamed civilian. “I’ll just go back to the math-boy thing then. I’m hoping to finish the calculations Rush asked for and escape before he wakes up.”

“You do that Eli,” Young said and turned away from the control room, moving forward down the corridor, always forward.

End… for now…

Thanks for stopping by,

Solaras

Fic:The Clues In Front Of Us - Chapter 10

Sat, 10 Jan 2009 03:19:15 GMT

And now for more Clues!
Thank to heatherhouse for kindly stepping in to Beta.

Title: The Clues In Front Of Us
Chapter 10
Pairing: Gordon/Bruce
Rating: Chapter: PG-13 Overall: Rish
Summary: Gotham's great mystery: Who is Batman? Gotham's other mystery: Bruce Wayne. Sometimes it just take a good cop to sort out the clues.
Crossposted: nowweretwo , darkknightfic

Chapter One                  Chapter Seven
Chapter Two                  Chapter Eight
Chapter Three               Chapter Nine
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six

Disclaimer: If I owned it, this wouldn’t be on the internet, and I’d be rich. Seriously though, all things in reference to Batman are not mine.

Author’s Notes: Happy (only slightly late) Holidays!

The Clues In Front Of Us

Chapter Ten:

Framed pictures of the Narrows’ Ferry decorated the walls of the Port View Diner. Blurry ferryboats sailed on gray waters beside crisp digital prints of the ferry slip, a jumbled nautical record captured in the history of photography. Gordon stared at a faded black and white of the dock, while absently stirring a pack of sugar into his coffee. A half finished cigarette lay smoldering in the ashtray at his elbow.

“Is this seat taken?” A long-fingered hand gestured to the seat across from Gordon, who had claimed a booth along the wall devoid of neighbors. Glancing away from the photographs, Gordon’s eyes followed the outstretched arm to Bruce’s face, down to the grey sweater and black slacks, and back up to the man’s face. Bruce, hair a little flat and damp around the ends, smirked. “Browsing the menu?”

“Seems a little rich,” Gordon said, quirking an eyebrow as Bruce slid onto the cushioned seat opposite him.

“Hmm,” Bruce hummed thoughtfully as he leaned an elbow on the table, hand cupping his chin. “Just means you savor longer.”

“That line actually work on anyone?” Gordon asked.

“You’d be surprised,” Bruce said, smirk stretching to a teasing smile, “at what I can make work.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Gordon said, shaking his head.

“And you’re encouraging.”

“Am I? Is that why you keep showing up?” Gordon asked, with more than a hint of derision. “Sorry,” Gordon said, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. Bruce dropped the smile. “It’s been a long day, a long bad day.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I didn’t plan to… well,” Bruce stammered, waving his free hand in an all-encompassing gesture, “at the garage.” Gordon found himself mollified by Bruce’s inability to discuss their situation with his usual suave air; finally, the man was typical in something. “Truly,” Bruce continued, “I only meant to help you in your new position, and well, garner a little good press for Wayne Enterprises; I wasn’t lying about that either.”

“So where does that leave us?” Gordon asked.

“Where do you want us?” Bruce countered.

Gordon let out a huff of air that almost counted as a laugh. He settled his glasses back on his nose and leveled his gaze on Bruce, who, to his credit, wasn’t smiling, smirking, or wearing any other masks that Gordon was accustomed to seeing. “It’s no secret,” Gordon began, “that I’m married with two kids, who I care the world about, and I’m a certifiable workaholic. If that’s not enough to scare you off, then you’re missing more marbles than I thought you were.”

“Just the kids?” Bruce asked, while taking a menu from the pile of folded laminations between the wall and the condiments holder.

“What?” Gordon asked, confusion throwing him off his rant. He watched Bruce idly flip open the flaps of the menu with one hand, still leaning heavily on the other.

“Do you just care the world about the kids?” Bruce clarified, but didn’t look up from the menu. He ran a finger down the entrée list. Gordon’s gazed flicked down to follow the movement, his investigative mind noticing the chipped manicure, and back to Bruce’s face. If possible, Bruce almost always looked people in the eye when he spoke. Suddenly, the urge to reach across the table and turn Bruce’s face to look at him gripped Gordon like a vise. Instead, Gordon reclaimed his cigarette from the ashtray and took in a lung full of smoke.

The waitress, Carla, came and smiled at Bruce, giving him a, ‘Hi, darling, what can I get for you?’ Bruce returned her smile with one of his boyish grins; charming her with the ease he did everyone. If she recognized him, or either of them, she didn’t show it. With his damp hair falling into his face and the grey sweater replacing the power suit, Bruce looked less like his billionaire media image. When Carla asked if Gordon needed anything else, his order already placed, he just shook his head and pulled another drag off his cigarette. Her eyes flicked between the two of them, and probably knowing her presence was halting the conversation, she slipped away towards the back. Gordon, giving in to his burning lungs, turned his head and exhaled slowly, smoke rising in fading swirls to the ceiling.

“I care about my wife,” he finally replied as Bruce refolded the menu. “I probably always will…but,” Gordon said, swallowing a lump in his throat. He didn’t know how to describe his sudden awareness of the distance between Barbara and himself. The gap had been there for a long time, he knew, widening everyday Gordon worked late or didn’t come home at all, and it had probably started when they’d moved to Gotham. Gordon just hadn’t wanted to see it, but in kissing Bruce, he’d brought it into perspective; clarified just how far he’d grown away from his wife. “I should never have brought her to Gotham,” he said aloud. When he turned to face his dinner partner, Bruce returned his gaze.

“Is she going to make you choose between Gotham and her?” Bruce asked.

“I think she already has, several times in fact, but I wasn’t paying attention,” Gordon replied, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Maybe I’d already chosen,” he continued with a short self-depreciating laugh, “and she was waiting to see if I’d change my mind.”

“Gotham then,” Bruce said.

“Over and over, it would seem. Sad, isn’t it? I’m losing my wife to work,” Gordon said, shaking his head and glaring at the ashtray. “Really, Bruce, you should be running for the hills.” An empty silence fell between them, and it seemed the short nights and long days finally found Gordon as a deep seated weariness settled in him.

“Not work,” Bruce said quietly, and Gordon felt a foot press against the length of his own. “People,” Bruce continued, “you chose people, Jim.” Bruce’s gaze drifted around the diner, alighting on the couple with three children across the diner, the men drinking coffee and waiting on the ferry, the waitresses dress in white aprons, and finally focusing on the marina visible outside the front windows. “You chose to help and protect people, Jim, and that’s a choice I can understand.”

Gordon pressed back against the foot next to his. “I don’t get you,” he said. “Sometimes, I really don’t. Are you ever just you with anyone?”

“I tried once,” Bruce said, looking down at the table, “but she didn’t much like my choices either. By the time I thought to make amends, well, time ran out.”

“Rachel Dawes,” Gordon stated, and Bruce looked up questioningly. “Some of us do watch the news. There was quite a bit of press about you two before she was seen with, well…” Gordon trailed off, not able to bring himself to face that particular skeleton in his closet, “and then you paid for her funeral, if I remember correctly. She was a good A.D.A.”

“Yes, she was.”

“I’m surprised you don’t harbor some blame for me for her death,” Gordon said.

“You did your best,” Bruce said in a hard tone paired with an air of absolute belief that left Gordon knowing that, while Bruce didn’t seem to blame him, he somehow blamed himself.

They were quiet again as Carla returned with a glass of water for Bruce and a plate half covered by a Turkey and Swiss Melt and finished off by a mound of fries. In front of Gordon, she laid a Ruben and a side salad.

“Can I get you gentlemen anything else?” Carla asked.

“Nothing right now, thank you, Carla,” Bruce replied, giving her a smaller smile than before.

“I’ll check on you later then,” she said and moved on to check on her other customers.

“Listen,” Bruce started, “I don’t want to come between you and your wife, if you are going to try and fix things, but if not… I’m not going anywhere. Gotham’s my home, even if it took me awhile to figure that out.”

“You know, I have no idea what on Earth you are doing here with me,” Gordon sighed, but slid his hand along the table to brush the back of Bruce’s fingers behind the ketchup bottle.

“I could think of a few reasons,” Bruce grinned, playful humor returning.

“Seriously, you, Bruce Wayne, should not be having this sort of conversation with me,” Gordon said. “I’m a far cry from the usual prima donnas latched onto your arm.”

“And here I thought you didn’t buy into my “foppish games” as you once phrased it,” Bruce said, easing into a casual slouch against the cushioned back of the booth, his head tilted back, so that he looked at Gordon through his eyelashes. He turned over his hand that rested on the table beneath Gordon’s and intertwined their fingers. “I only show up with those people because it’s expected of me, and so that no one asks why I’m out alone.”

“Well as long as we’re laying the cards on the table,” Gordon said, “you realize, I have no idea where this is going, right?”

“Good,” Bruce smiled, “neither do I.”

“No expectations.”

“Not a one.”

“I can deal with that,” Gordon said, releasing Bruce’s hand.

“I can work with that,” Bruce grinned.

“You really are incorrigible,” Gordon said.

“As long as you’re encouraging,” Bruce replied, snagging a cucumber off Gordon’s salad.

“You do realize that you’re fries are now free game,” Gordon said, eyeing Bruce’s plate over the rims of his glasses. Bruce raised an eyebrow at the challenge, and bit into his stolen cucumber.

* * * * * *

“So where are you off to now?” Bruce asked as he and Gordon walked around the side of the diner towards their respective cars.

“I’ll swing by Arkham again and check in before heading back to the office,” Gordon replied. “Reports should start coming in soon, and maybe we can piece together his trail and pick it up again.” Amazingly, and somewhat disappointingly, Gordon’s cell phone had only rung once during dinner, and the call hadn’t contained any groundbreaking news. Bruce’s phone had rung twice. Both calls had been ignored after Bruce checked the Caller ID. “Don’t know why I’m telling you, though,” Gordon continued, “I must be boring you with shop talk.”

“No, I’m interested,” Bruce said sincerely, causing Gordon to raise an eyebrow at him. “This is the man who broke into my penthouse. The window he broke was custom.”

Gordon continued to scrutinize his companion as he replied, “Just don’t let me catch you on the evening news quoting me.”

“Really now, Jim,” Bruce pouted, “you should know that I never really say anything to the press. They probably wouldn’t know what to do with me if I did.”

“Not a thought in that pretty little head, is that it?”

“So you do think I’m pretty,” Bruce laughed.

“One of these days,” Gordon growled, leaning into Bruce’s space, “I will figure you out, Mr. Wayne.”

“I wonder what you’ll do with me then,” Bruce replied softly, voice thoughtful.

“I can think of a few things,” Gordon replied and cupped the back of Bruce’s neck.

“That’s my line,” Bruce breathed and brushed his lips against Gordon’s. “You sure this is where you want to be going?”

“You might be the only good thing I see all day,” Gordon said, running his hand through Bruce’s hair. “For once, I’ll think about consequences later.”

Gordon drew Bruce back to him using the hand he had buried in the man’s hair. He felt Bruce’s hand cup his jaw, the thumb brushing the edge of his mustache. Bruce’s lips parted and his tongue licked along Gordon’s bottom lip. Gordon tightened his grip on Bruce’s hair and opened his mouth in return, seeking that hot mouth, which the thought of had been tormenting him since the garage. A growl rumbled low in Bruce’s throat, and to Gordon it seemed a sound he already knew and wanted to hear again.

The feeling of brick scraped against Gordon’s knuckles, and without realizing it, he found they had backed up against the shadowy back wall of the diner. He ran his tongue along Bruce’s upper lip, dipped back into his mouth, and back out, avoiding Bruce’s tongue and causing him to groan in frustration. Bruce growled again, and then Gordon’s back was to the wall.

“I seem to recall my back against the wall last time,” Bruce said, gasping in a quick breath. “Only fair.”

“And here I thought there weren’t any expectations,” Gordon responded and hooked an arm around Bruce’s back, pulling him forward. When Bruce shifted his feet to keep his balance, Gordon pushed his thigh between Bruce’s, who inhaled sharply in surprise. Gordon chuckled throatily against Bruce’s mouth. “I may have been on the bench for awhile, but this is one game I’ve played longer than you.”

“And you,” Bruce panted between kisses, “say my lines are bad.” Gordon groaned softly and hitched his leg higher as Bruce bit his earlobe, rolling it between his teeth. “You keep doing that, and you won’t make it back to work.”

“Promises, promises,” Gordon sighed.

“I’ll kidnap you. No one will suspect me,” Bruce said, feigning maniacal laughter.

“I should go,” Gordon said, “before I have to arrest us both for public indecency.”

“Work calls,” Bruce said.

“Always,” Gordon responded, and Bruce hummed agreement.

“I know you’ll be busy, and you will have to go home at some point, but give me a call,” Bruce said, pulling away to allow Gordon to move away from the wall.

“You’re not exactly full of free time yourself, Mr. Wayne,” Gordon said.

“We’ll play it by ear,” Bruce said, looking off toward the pier visible around the corner. “After all, no expectations, right?”

“Maybe a few,” Gordon said, reaching out to pull Bruce’s face back to him. “If I can, I’ll call you tomorrow. Give you an update on your window smasher.”

“You’ll catch him, Jim.”

“I hope so,” Gordon sighed and dropped his hand. “I’ll call you,” Gordon repeated and turned towards his car. Bruce nodded and followed suit. Gordon returned Bruce’s parting wave as he got in his car; Bruce sporting his ‘on loan till the new one’s completed’ Lamborghini. As Bruce sped off, Gordon flipped on his police scanner. Gordon contemplated sending an officer to pull Bruce over, but he doubted Bruce would learn his lesson. Plus, it wouldn’t be the first time Gordon aided and abetted. He hoped Batman had taken his advice and stayed out of sight till after dark.

Thanks for stopping by,

Solaras

Fic: The Clues In Front Of Us - Chapter 9

Thu, 27 Nov 2008 05:35:45 GMT

*sneaks back into community*

Hey, guys *nervous laughter* Sorry about the whole disappearing thing and the long delay. Life's been kicking my butt. Anyway, I finally managed to get back around to Clues, so here is chapter 9. I may have watched too much CSI recently, so yeah... beware of that with this chapter. It's follow Gordon to work day.

As always thanks to my beta, rhye

Title: The Clues In Front Of Us
Chapter 9
Pairing: Gordon/Bruce
Rating: Chapter: PG-13 Overall: Rish
Summary: Gotham's great mystery: Who is Batman? Gotham's other mystery: Bruce Wayne. Sometimes it just take a good cop to sort out the clues.
Crossposted: nowweretwo , darkknightfic

Chapter One Chapter Seven
Chapter Two Chapter Eight
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six

Disclaimer: If I owned it, this wouldn’t be on the internet, and I’d be rich. Seriously though, all things in reference to Batman are not mine.

Author’s Notes: Pick a reason why life sucks, and go with that as my excuse. Sorry this is soooo late, but on to important stuff…

Here be police investigation, conversation, and smoking. I promise there will be more relationship-ish stuff next time. :)

Oh and brief summary (I suck at these) of what’s happened so far (cause yeah sooo late):

Gordon and Bruce started having lunch together at the Ritz. Gordon as the new Commissioner needs some political power backing his new position, and Bruce thought he was just the billionaire to do it. They go out, get seen together, and Gordon goes up in the poles. After they’ve been paling around for about a week, they end up in a parking garage, joking around and one thing leads to another, aka the kiss. While they’re both confused about what they want at the moment, they decide to give this ‘thing’ between them ago. Later Gordon, who does love his wife in his own way, confesses what happened in the garage to Barbara. Barbara and Gordon come to an unstated agreement that they both need time to think, aka don’t really talk about where their marriage stands. The next morning Gordon leaves early for work, and before lunch time rolls around he gets a call from Alfred saying Bruce can’t make it to lunch, which precedes a call saying something is wrong at Arkham. DUN DUN DU-DU-DUN

The Clues In Front Of Us

Chapter Nine:

The body, still feigning the warmth of life, lay on the cold floor of an Arkham holding cell. The throat bore the bruised shadows of two hands and a string of red crescent moons. Lifeless blue eyes stared doll-like up at Commissioner Gordon.

“Name?” Gordon asked.

“Dr. Robert Telmary,” replied the medical examiner, “he was one of the Arkham staff assigned to the Joker.”

“What was he doing in here?” Gordon asked, fingers twitching by his side.

“Part of the Joker’s psychiatric treatment included medication combined with psychotherapy.”

“And Telmary drew the short straw,” Gordon said and stuffed his hand into his coat pocket, fingering the lighter inside. He watched Dr. Lagner’s small, glove-covered hands bag a cotton swab. “No one came in with him?”

“One on one therapy to promote a doctor-patient trust,” answered another glove-clad officer, “or some such rubbish. A guard was posted outside, but if he heard anything, it did him little good,” the CSI finished with a gesture to a second body stripped to its underwear.

“Henry Collner,” Dr. Lagner continued, “part of Arkham’s private security force. He was stabbed in the leg with a pen, probably Telmary’s, and then hit hard on the back of the neck.”

“Where’s the pen?” asked Gordon.

“Getting to it, sir,” interjected CSI Voit. “We’re think’n he was bludgeoned with Telmary’s clipboard. The Joker waits by the door for Collner, stabs him with the pen, and when Collner bends over from the sudden pain, brings the clipboard down in a vertical motion on the back of the neck.”

“I won’t be sure until I get him on the table,” said Lagner, “but the blow probably hit the vertebral artery and stopped blood flow to the brain.”

“The Arkham docs are saying that the Joker should’ve been too doped up to execute his apparent escape,” supplied Voit, “much less strangle a man, but—”

“He is the Joker,” finished Gordon.

“Yeah,” said Voit, while compulsively biting the inside of his lip. Gordon wondered if Voit needed a smoke too. “We’ve seen him take a lot of crap and keep getting back up.”

“I’m more worried when he’s down,” Gordon sighed, “that’s when he’s holding all the cards, and the bomb is set to blow. So,” he continued, turning away from Telmary’s corpse to survey the crime scene, “he strangles Telmary, and Collner either hears the struggle or is lured in.”

“That’s the theory,” Voit said. “Collner would have had to unlock the door, so while he’s fiddl’n with the keys, the Joker grabs the pen and crouches by the door.”

“Collner goes down, and the Joker takes his uniform and keys,” Gordon continued, frowning down at the stripped corpse. “Now how did he get out of the building?”

“That’s where the third body comes in,” replied Dr. Lagner. “The Joker made it down to the laundry room.”

“Let me guess,” said Gordon, “it’s laundry day.”

“Right, sir,” said Lagner. “Julie Granway worked for Gotham Clin Care, which provides laundry service to most of Gotham’s private and small medical facilities. Her coworker found her. She was stabbed through the eye.”

“That’s where we found the pen,” added Voit. “We’re assuming at this point it’s the same weapon used on Collner, but no one here doubts what DNA will turn up on that. The coworker, Alan Koss, also confirmed for us that the Clin Care truck was indeed missing from the loading dock. Neither he or Granway had moved it.”

“Yes, I heard Lieutenant Bryain’s APB go out on the vehicle,” said Gordon. “It’s already been discovered abandoned in an alley near the eastside bridge.”

“Do you think he’s left the Narrows?” asked Voit.

“Good question,” Gordon said, eyes following the hallway and its trail of evidence leading down to the laundry. “One more thing,” he said, pausing in the cell doorway, “anyone find out who alerted the media?”

“No one’s ‘fessing up to it, sir,” said Voit.

“Right,” Gordon said with a nod. “Keep working through his trail. He’s left us something, if only to toy with us.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Voit, with Lagner echoing him.

Gordon left the CSI team to their swabbing and bagging and headed down the hall. He stepped carefully around investigators busily marking and photographing evidence, bypassed corridors cut off with bright yellow tape, and sidestepped officers interviewing various hospital staff. The passageways of Arkham Asylum twisted around in a maze that always left Gordon wondering about the mental health of the Arkham family. Down in the bowels of the building Gordon found himself relatively alone. The bulk of the investigation team was divided between the two primary crime scenes. Gordon could see the lights from the laundry room ahead of him, and he stood by as two officers, deep in discussion over possible exit routes, passed him. Down the corridor to his left, the shadows moved. Gordon followed.

“He’s definitely left the premises,” said Batman from a dark alcove between a storage closet and the entrance to the boiler room.

“The sweeps didn’t turn him up either,” replied Gordon, turning to face the glimpse of pale skin and frowning mouth visible in the shadows. “Two news stations have admitted to receiving anonymous phone calls reporting an escape from Arkham, which explains how the media beat us here.”

“I’ve traced the calls to a cell phone belonging to the third victim, Julie Granway,” said Batman.

“Doubt she made them,” Gordon said, “the caller was male.”

“Joker,” Batman said, voice edging to a growl.

“Two news vans race downtown, the other stations wonder what’s up and follow,” Gordon said and pulled out a half-empty pack of cigarettes. “Next thing you know, you have a three-ring circus surrounding Arkham.”

“And no one bothers the laundry van driving in the opposite direction,” Batman finished.

“Hmm,” Gordon mumbled, while tapping the bottom of the cardboard pack.

“I’d ask about the cell phone, but—”

“Found it by the body,” Gordon answered. “I’m sure it’ll have the Joker’s prints, little good that will do. The van was our best bet, but the trail goes cold there. Half the investigators are telling me he crossed the bridge, and the other half are telling me he’s hiding in the Narrows. Either way, the man knows how to disappear.”

“I’ll find him.”

“Yeah, well,” Gordon said, licking his lips. The shadows shifted. “You’d do well to stay away from the area around the van ‘til well after dark. Joker or no, you’re still a wanted man,” Gordon continued with a pointed glare at what he could see of the man’s face. “Although,” he said as he stuck a cigarette between his lips, but refrained from lighting it, “with the Joker out, you’ll probably be bumped down from public enemy number one.”

“Don’t worry, Jim, I’m pretty good at disappearing too.”

“Say that again when you get arrested. You really shouldn’t be here,” Gordon said and glanced back towards the main hall. “I’ve got all available units on this case, and you’re smack dab—and I’m talking to myself, aren’t I?” Gordon directed to the empty alcove. He sucked on his cold cigarette. “Damn.”

Gordon managed to get outside Arkham reasonably un-accosted. Officers wanting to report, question, or just commiserate kept their comments brief at the sight of the Commissioner gnawing at his unlit cigarette. Leaning against a police car, Gordon blew smoke out of his nose and frowned at the media hounds sniffing around on the other side of the police barrier. He picked up his cell phone on the fourth ring.

“Gordon,” he answered.

“Do you have time for an apology, or are you too busy?” asked the smooth voice of Bruce Wayne.

“Bruce! I thought you were off on some spur-of-the-moment-trip.”

“A sudden business development arrested my attention,” Bruce replied airily, “and required a quick flight, a little personal supervision, and a quick exit. Now, I thought I’d say sorry for missing lunch, but it seems you ended up busy yourself.”

“Are you watching the news?” Gordon asked skeptically.

“Alfred refuses to hand over the remote,” Bruce answered huffily. “Really, one little party gets crashed, and he thinks we must be prime targets. I honestly thought better of my staff,” Bruce said, his voice sounding distant, angled away from the phone. Gordon picked up Alfred Pennyworth’s cultured tone and a ‘thunk’ in the background noise. “I thought there was a rule against throwing things in the house!” came Bruce’s voice again followed by a ‘that’ and a ‘for you.’ “Besides,” Bruce said into the phone, “it was brought to my attention yesterday that I might have an interest in police business.”

“I had wanted to talk about that,” Gordon sighed, breathing out a cloud of smoke. He took a final drag, tasting a bitter tang as the flame hit the filtered end, and dropped the cigarette remains on the pavement. “What is the news saying?”

“Nothing much,” Bruce drawled. “Mostly they just repeat that the Joker has escaped and show old video footage. Rather boring actually, although, they have some pretty good shots of my building.”

Gordon snorted at the thinly veiled narcissism leaking into Bruce’s voice. “Well, I’ve got a city-wide manhunt underway, an asylum full of CSI, and apparently as Commissioner, I’m expected to wait for reports to come in.”

“Well, someone has to delegate.”

“I hate waiting,” Gordon said, “and I never did get lunch or,” Gordon paused to check his watch, “dinner.”

“I could meet you. There’s a decent diner near the Narrows’ ferry,” Bruce supplied.

“How would you know?” asked Gordon. “Never mind, let me guess. You crashed a car into it.”

“I’ll have you know, I found it in a perfectly respectable way,” Bruce sniffed, “rebellious teenage slumming, I believe is the appropriate term.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Gordon responded. “You know, sometime you’re going to have to tell me where you went when you dropped off the radar.”

“Do you really want to know?”

“I’m sure it involves really fast cars,” Gordon said. “What’s the name of the diner?”

“Port View.”

“Try not to wreck on your way there.”

“Don’t worry, Jim,” Bruce said, and Gordon heard the phone line close.

“That’s the phrase of the day, apparently,” Gordon said as he tapped out another cigarette.

Thanks for stopping by,

Solaras

Go To Chapter Ten

School booooo

Tue, 30 Sep 2008 17:32:50 GMT

I hear by dub this week the Week O' Papers!

Two down; two more to go. I'll get back to writing Clues eventually. :(

Bright spot of the week (maybe): My poem will get work-shopped this week in my poetry class. I am both excited for feedback to improve the draft and nervous that no one will get the concept. *crosses fingers*

Wow

Sun, 24 Aug 2008 03:49:51 GMT

The amazing and talented naroclie drew art for 'Clues.' It's an awesome picture! So awesome that I have to mention it in my journal, which I can barely make myself post my own stuff in. It's so what I was seeing for Gordon and Bruce having lunch. I'm all warm and fuzzy inside right now. :)

Many thanks, and much much love. I love this:

Click to find art

My life sucks, but how are you?

Fri, 22 Aug 2008 01:51:30 GMT

I have the feeling that people may be stalking me in regards to 'Clues,' so for anyone who ends up here, I am working on it. :P I love that so many people are reading the story and waiting for updates, but I feel bad that chapter seven keeps getting delayed.
Work is insane right now, and I'm not going to have a day off again for at least another week. I've been trying to mess with Clues in the evening, but I've been really tired. I work at a campus dining hall, and we are fixing to open for the school year. This week and next week, when I also go back to class as well, are utter chaos.
As you've probably guessed, chapter seven will be a little later in coming than normal, but it is coming. After the next week, things should settle down, and I hope to be updating regularly again. I'd rather work on 'Clues' when I'm not so tired. I know it's not the greatest story ever or anything like that, but it's not bad. It's fun to write, and I think it's probably fun to read. I want to make it good, and I just don't think I can when I'm tired, grumpy, and just plain out pissed off at work.

Ok, so that's the deal with 'Clues' at the moment.

Personal rant time, cause I'm still pissed, please feel free to ignore:

I HATE MY JOB!!!!! Today sucked big time! One of my bosses is annoying to no end. My staff and myself get walked on by everyone. My employees are taken for granted, and the turnover rate is way to high. I have to hire a billion people, and I can't get any space in the office I share, by which I mean I fight to even have a box in, with ten other people, by which I mean the office manager and everyone else fighting just to have a box. My staff feel dejected, I feel dejected, and I get to work all weekend: 12 hour shifts. I just want this week to be over. :(

Ok, I'm gonna grab a beer, watch 'Burn Notice,' and if I don't fall asleep after that, work a little on 'Clues.'

Testing..

Wed, 13 Aug 2008 02:17:38 GMT

Trying some formating stuff....

Title: The Clues In Front Of Us
Chapter One
Pairing: Eventual Gordon/Bruce
Rating: Chapter: G Overall: R ish (not completely decided)
Summary: Gotham's great mystery: Who is Batman? Gotham's other mystery: Bruce Wayne. Sometimes it just takes a good cop to sort out the clues.

Disclaimer: If I owned it, this wouldn’t be on the internet and I’d be rich. Seriously though, all things in reference to Batman are not mine.

Author’s Notes: I told myself I wasn’t going to start scribbling for anymore new fandoms right now…. But OMG THE MOVIE WAS AWESOME!!

The Clues In Front Of Us

Chapter One:

Jim Gordon, Commissioner Gordon repeated the awed litany in his head, tugged on his tie for the hundredth time, and then hastily straightened it for the hundredth time. His glasses slipped down the damp bridge of his nose; he pushed them back. He was hot in his good suit, not nervous, not at all. He pulled at his cuff, and wondered again where the cufflinks had gotten to; the nice ones his wife had bought one Christmas; the ones he had never worn. He wished she was here, or he was there. She had stayed home with the kids. It was too soon after Dent, and Batman, and The Joker, and everything. She had stayed home, but he was here. Commissioner Gordon was here, and here was the shortest-longest elevator ride of his life. At the same time that he wished everything finished and done with, he wished to not start at all.

The elevator came to a stop, and Gordon’s stomach went into his throat. The floor chime sounded, and he swallowed. The doors began to open, and he pressed his tie flat again. Light and noise (glasses clinking, band playing, voices talking) flooded the elevator. Gordon pushed aside the compulsion to hit the door-close button; to flee to a dark roof with a broken signal, or even his own back stoop. Stepping into the light, Gordon joined the party; the party held for him.

“There’s the man of the hour,” said the Mayor, who stepped out of the crowd to steer Gordon through the throng of guests. “And as it seems our host is, as usual, fashionably late to his own party, I will take the honor of introducing the guest of honor and the reason for tonight’s gathering of Gotham’s finest, the new Commissioner, Jim Gordon.” The audience applauded dutifully, and Gordon, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that even the Mayor came, tried to think of something respectful and full of leadership to say.

“Thank you,” he began, his hands firmly clasped behind his back. He could fake death and talk face to face (or face to shadowy darkness) with the Batman, but couldn’t shake the urge to fidget in front of Gotham’s rich and well-to-do. “I will try…” and the sound of chopper blades never sound so good in all of Jim Gordon’s life. A buzz went through the room, as one and all turned to await the entrance of the real reason everyone came out tonight. No one, who was anyone, missed a party thrown by Bruce Wayne, and the crowd was not disappointed, as Gotham’s favorite son entered the room: rich tailored suit, windswept hair, and an easy playboy smile.

Gordon let the people glide past him, as he surreptitiously moved towards the fringe of the partygoers. Reaching the relative safety of the far side of the buffet table, which comprised itself of numerous little tidbits, that Gordon couldn’t begin to name, and lots of champagne; he breathed a sigh of relief. At the other end of the room, Bruce Wayne greeted men and women with a handshake or a peck on the cheek, and always the smile. The groupies thinned out after a few minutes, a composed-faced man easily moving between them and unobtrusively maneuvering the young billionaire out of the remaining hangers-on. Alfred Pennyworth, Gordon recalled. The butler to the Wayne family, and the one who came to claim a boyhood Bruce on the tragic night Gordon first met the youngest Wayne; small and faintly trembling, the child had sat huddled in a chair of the police station, clutching his dead father’s coat. Gordon saw nothing of the scared little boy in the self-assured man across the room; for all that he was Gotham’s very own walking Peter Pan Complex, fast cars and fast women said the tabloids day after day, a boy with his toys.

As Gordon watched his host for the evening, however, the smile shifted to something warm, maybe a little self conscious, and real. The butler seemed to hover and fuss for a moment, a mother-hen clucking over a wayward chick, and then as if the moment never existed, the older man faded back into the crowd with a tray of drinks. Bruce Wayne beamed his playboy smile to the room, and the horde descended once more.

Gordon claimed a glass from the table, more for something to do than a real desire for champagne. Surrounded by Gotham’s elite, he stuck out like a sane man at Arkham. He glanced to the door, and then to his watch.

“I should think an hour at least, sir,” said a cultured voice to Gordon’s left.

“Beg pardon?” he asked, turning to find the butler beside him.

“I should think the guest of honor should stay at least an hour,” repeated Alfred. “By then you should have been seen about enough, and they’ll have consumed enough champagne, that your absence will go unnoticed.”

“I don’t think it’d be noticed now,” replied Gordon, who gazed about a room still focused on its host. No one missed a Wayne party, if only to not miss what new spectacle or theatric would befall it. Gordon prayed he would be gone before any buildings burned down, or crazed madmen crashed in.

“I doubt that, sir,” said Alfred, and then he was gone, full tray in hand, swept away by the crowd. Gordon turned to look for him, probably the closest he would find to a down-to-earth person in the wealth filled room, but instead found himself face to face (or face to dazzling playboy smile) with Bruce Wayne.

“There you are, Commissioner Gordon,” Bruce greeted, and Gordon dissected the tone of voice and friendly hand on shoulder, but surprisingly found only genuine enthusiasm in the flaky playboy’s welcome. “I do hope you are enjoying your party. Forgive my late arrival. A small inconvenience made off with my time.”

“Replacing the car?” Gordon asked; the recent accident, which had inadvertently saved Reese from a lynch mob, being the only the thing coming to mind that might occupy the young billionaire’s time. But instead of launching into a comparison of costly foreign cars, Wayne’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly and the smile tilted. Gordon knew the look in those suddenly hard eyes, recognized it from his own reflection after coming from an interrogation. Bruce Wayne, for some unknown wary reason, was assessing him. Gordon wanted to look away and see if anyone else noticed the change, but the cop in him had to assess in return, go back over the conversation, and find the cause. Nothing stood out, and those eyes seemed to compel him to keep talking. “The wreck the other day,” Gordon clarified, “you were trying to beat the light.”

“The Lamborghini,” Bruce said laughing, and just like that the hard edge vanished. Around the two men, the crowd continued their merrymaking, oblivious, but Gordon couldn’t shake a notion like that of finding a clue, a piece of evidence, to… something, something he should pay attention to. “Oh those are a dime a dozen, well, maybe not a dime, but you can appreciate the analogy. I haven’t decided what to replace it with. I have an appointment later this week with Lamborghini to preview what’s in production. Although, I have been considering purchasing an Aston Martin, but I’m still discussing options; after all, what’s the point if it’s not exactly like the one from James Bond.”

“Why not just buy both,” said Gordon with incredulous sarcasm. The closest he’d ever been to a Lamborghini was when Wayne’s smashed into the police escort.

“That’s what I said,” Wayne stressed, “but Alfred keeps bringing up the limited garage space available until reconstruction on the Manor is complete.”

“Frustrating, I’m sure,” Gordon replied.

“Very,” Bruce sighed, “but I suppose we all must make sacrifices occasionally,” he finished with a wink. Laughter flowed around them, and Gordon realized that the fawners had gravitated around Bruce again, like insects to a light. “Perhaps,” Bruce said to the swarm, “we’ll take a vote later on the car.” The crowd swallowed Wayne again, and Gordon rode the surge until it moved beyond him. He stayed by the table, and (always the cop) watched the playboy’s face for another break in the smile; another chance to analyze the puzzling look from before. Although the smile never faded, Gordon found the observation interesting.

Harvey Dent, whose memory still stung, had been correct, when he said Bruce Wayne knew how to work a room. Between posh jokes and leers to beautiful women, Wayne smoothly inserted support for Gotham’s new Commissioner. The room held a lot of power; the wealth of Gotham gathered at the Prince’s beckoning. If Bruce Wayne truly meant to support Gordon, then cleaning up Gotham and enforcing laws would go much smoother. Gordon almost couldn’t connect the politically savvy man gliding through a room of his peers, with the socially oblivious man sitting outside a crushed car worth more money than Gordon could fathom having at one time.

The evidence existed; however, for those who looked beyond the money being thrown away on hotels and boats. Lucius Fox ran Wayne Enterprises in a manner reminiscent of the ideals of the late Thomas Wayne, but he hadn’t facilitated his return to the board alone. Underneath the disinterested playboy there resided a streak of intelligence, but what that intelligence wanted, Gordon could only speculate. When the young beat cop had seen a traumatized kid surrounded by a flurry of police activity, he knew the boy just wanted someone to make it ok again; but the man the boy had become, Gordon doubted the answer remained so simple.

Skirting the edges of the room, Gordon managed to retreat to the balcony. High above the streets of Gotham, the night air blew cool and clean against his face. The light from the party filtered through the tinted windows in a soft and muted glow. Below him the city sprawled across the horizon, a billion lights islanded in a sea of shadows.

“Some view isn’t it?” commented Bruce Wayne, coming to lean on the railing beside Gordon. “The real problem with these parties is all the people in one room. All the champagne in the world won’t chase the heat away,” he said and set his full glass down on the railing beside him. “Not quite your scene?”

“No, not really,” replied Gordon, “but I appreciate what you’re doing; though, I don’t know why you’re bothering.”

“Any excuse for a party,” Wayne said glibly.

“Is that the line you gave Harvey Dent?” Gordon asked, more to see the reaction than anything else.

“Not quite,” Bruce said; his face shadowed as he turned away from the party lights to look across the city. “Let’s just say his enthusiasm was contagious.”

“And me?”

“Old debts,” Bruce said simply, and without turning, “ah Alfred, I think the good Commissioner has other obligations to see to, children to tuck into bed perhaps.”

“Very good, Master Bruce,” said the butler, appearing as if summoned by thought.

“The back stair, I think,” Bruce continued, “the paparazzi are crawling around down there. Wouldn’t want you to be held up at the door,” he said, turning his smile on Gordon.

“And you, sir,” asked Alfred.

“I will be having a word with Mr. Dash in there,” Bruce said, gesturing to the ongoing party. “He owns the parking garage across the street. I think I’ll take Gordon’s advice and buy both cars.”

“And the garage, sir?”

“I will have our parking problems solved momentarily, Alfred,” Bruce laughed, as he moved back into the light of the party. The crowd parted and flowed like water around him.

“Very good, sir,” Alfred responded with a long suffering sigh. He picked up the untouched champagne glass left behind and gestured with the empty hand to the far side of the balcony. “This way if you please, Commissioner.”

“Time to go back up the rabbit hole, then,” Gordon muttered.

“In Gotham, sir,” Alfred said, leading the way, “the way may have caved in.”

Thanks for stopping by,

Solaras

Chapter two

Most amused with myself

Sat, 12 Jan 2008 22:10:24 GMT

I have actually been productive. Amazing! Today I posted, the long awaited, chapter 12 of MGaC at the usual places Adultf and Media. I'm putting the story back on FFN too, as soon as I format it correctly. Why does every site need a different format to show up correctly? And even then sometimes it doesn't work out! Grrr.

Anyway, I have also been busy in the Sweeney Todd fandom. Let me just say that I love Johnny Depp and Tim Burton. I've written two one-shots that go together (more or less) in a series I call the Appreciation Series, which can be found on FFN and at sweeneytoddfic

Mission Impossible

Wed, 15 Aug 2007 15:30:50 GMT

*Theme Music*

*shifty eyes*

*radio static* Reporting from within enemy territory. The parental units have left the building, thus leaving the box of knowledge and communication unguarded. My transmission must be brief... *radio static*

So I'm still in temporary exile at my parents house, and the Great Job Hunt continues. The parents are out, so I'm taking the time to catch up on some fanfiction ^_^ Can't do that when my mom is here, as she has no sense of 'leave me alone for five minutes.' I love her, really I do, but she is annoying.

Must find a job and get out of this house. I'm slowly going insane. I'm used to a high speed internet connection, and my mom has dial-up. I feel like those turtles in the tv commercial. I want to download music and watch a billion useless videos on youtube!! I want my stuff out of storage!!! Must escape exile.

*sigh*

Please let someone hire me soon.

Oh other news, I have been working on MGaC. I have my computer set up in my room, sans internet, but at least I can play games and write. If it looks like I'm going to be in exile for awhile, I'll copy the story files to my flashdrive and update from here. My mom goes back to work soon (teacher) and I will have more access to the internet.

Hopefully *crosses fingers* I won't be here much longer. Viva la Solaras!

Moving

Fri, 27 Jul 2007 05:23:55 GMT

Well tomorrow I am going to be moving. I am temporarily going to be staying with my parents while I continue to look for a job. If I don't find anything by the end of the month, I've decided to go back to school and take classes. Maybe work on a second degree. I don't think I could stand to stay at home longer than a few weeks (if that). While I'm in transition over the next month, I don't know what my internet access is going to be like. The only connection point is in my mother's study, and well yeah... yaoi fanfiction + mother = very bad. :P
If I can get my computer hooked up, then I will see if I can't make some progress in the way of fanfiction. But I seriously need to do some job searching, so that has to come first. But either way, after a month, I should be settled somewhere.
On a side note, I hate moving. I'm sitting in my (soon to not be my) living room surrounded by boxes, and I still have so much crap to pack. I seriously don't know where all this stuff came from.

I've become obsessed with DW

Tue, 24 Jul 2007 02:11:54 GMT

So I've totally become obsessed with Doctor Who. It just happened. I saw a couple eps on SciFi and just couldn't stop watching, so naturally I go crazy and watch all the episodes of the new series. I don't think I've been this seriously obsessed since Weiss. Anyway, as part of my exercises in writing, I wrote a Doctor Who story. It was supposed to be a simple smutty PWP, but then all this imagery and character crap snuck in. I'm not sure if I like it, but I've decided I don't hate it. Now without further ado:

Title: Burn
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jack/Ten (Could imply Master/Ten if you wear tinted glasses)
Summary: Set during The Last of the Time Lords. The Doctor can't stop seeing the fire and Jack burns.

Disclaimer: If I owned Doctor Who, Jack would have snogged Ten. Obviously I don’t own anything. I just want to borrow.

Author’s Notes: Being out of practice with writing fanfiction, I decided to do a little exercise in smut. What I ended up with was not what I had in mind. My short little smutty PWP one-shot, soon turned into a long smutty one-shot with a heavy side of imagery and characterization. I blame caffeine overdose.

Burn

The fire had burned itself out long ago, but not in his mind. In his eyes the flames still burned hot and bright; a never ending blaze of yellow and orange that faded into red as it reached into the dark of night, and how the dark hungered for it. The burning intense light of the fire outshone all around it. Even the stars ceased to shine in the blackened void surrounding the flame. In his mind there were only the constant burning and the darkness perched to devour.

The fire became apart of a bigger flame. An inferno filled with screams that spanned the whole of time. An orange sky, and all that dwelled beneath it, swallowed by the dark. A symphony composed of double beats reduced to one solitary set of notes. The Doctor stared at the dying embers of the funeral pyre, but still saw the flames. He saw Gallifrey burning.

After so many years of silence, the Master’s double heartbeat had been a serenade. The brush of his mind had filled a void within the Doctor left raw and ragged by the loss of the Time Lords. The Master’s mere presence bought such aching relief to the Doctor’s soul. His scent, cool skin, and voice spoke of Gallifrey. The Master was horribly retched as he always was. He destroyed what the Doctor cared for most, but the Doctor forgave him as he always did. Once the Doctor would have said the reason was a friendship he couldn’t forget; now he forgave the Master because he was Gallifrey.

The Doctor watched as Gallifrey burned all over again. He watched as the silence crept into his mind. He watched as the lonely void filled his soul. He watched until the dark swallowed the last spark.

Jack stood a respectful distance away; far enough to give the Doctor a sense of privacy, but close enough to keep an eye on the grieving man. The Doctor had clutched at the body of the Master with such desperation, that Jack felt it prudent to stay with him. Martha had stayed with her family while the two men left to bear witness to the Master’s death. She made the Doctor promise to return when the task was complete, and he smiled saying he would. She told him not to go anywhere else, and he smiled. She asked if he was alright, and he smiled. He smiled at her with dead eyes, but the smile was bright and blinding.

Jack could not be blinded; however, for he had become intimate with sorrow in a way that humans were never meant to know. He could see the sense of loss that only comes from outliving everything around you. He had left the Doctor to wrap the Master’s body in peace, while he took the time to take a long overdue shower. When he returned to the TARDIS control room, the Doctor sat holding the shrouded form. He spoke in a language Jack couldn’t understand, but the way he held the body said more than enough.

Jack waited in silence till the Doctor’s flow of words ran dry, and when the Doctor could speak no more, his tears continuing the tale for him, Jack draped the long brown coat around him. Gently Jack lifted the body from the Doctor’s lap, and both men walked out into the cool evening air. The setting sun cast the sky orange against the approaching dark, and the Doctor stared at the horizon until night descended and Jack handed him a glowing torch.

Jack kept his distance until the last embers gave out. When only the moon and the stars lit the night, he approached the still form of the Doctor. With a hand on his back Jack nudged him towards the TARDIS, but the Doctor didn’t move. He stayed firmly in place; his eyes locked on the pile of ash and burnt wood. In his mind it still burned.

The Doctor could feel the hand on his back. He could feel the heat of humanity. Humans were so unbearably hot with their single hearts beating so fast. He could feel the heat of eternity in Jack; that spark of time burning along his spine. Jack was wrong, but he burned. Gallifrey had burned, but that was wrong. The Master had burned, but that was wrong. Jack was wrong, but he burned and the Doctor wanted to burn with the lot of them.

Jack was not prepared for the kiss. The Doctor spun away from the pyre so fast, that Jack’s mind hadn’t even processed the motion. Instead his mind skipped to the motion of the Doctor’s lips on his own. On instinct alone he kissed back. His arms slid around the slim form before him, and Jack crushed the Doctor against him. His mouth slanted against the Doctor’s hungrily. His tongue fought against the Doctor’s, as both tried to reach into the other. Jack pulled back gasping for breath, and the Doctor followed after him oblivious to the need to breathe.

“Doctor,” Jack managed before his mouth was claimed again. The Doctor’s arms wrapped around his neck, and his fingers twisted in Jack’s hair. Jack could have been kissing the night air, so cold was the Doctor against him. The Time Lord’s tongue felt like cool water sliding along his own, and he had thirsted for the Doctor for longer than most humans lived. There was such desperation in the Doctor, and Jack ached to answer it but he couldn’t be such a bastard.

Jack had dreamed of hurting the Doctor in the past. He had gone over every cutting word a thousand times. He had thought of the satisfying crunch the Doctor’s nose would make when he punched him in the face. He had planned out how to lock the Doctor in a Torchwood cell and leave him, but then the dawn would come, and Jack would still love the Doctor. Jack had dreamed of hurting the Doctor, but not like this; besides, they had all hurt enough in the year that the rest of the world didn’t remember. Jack pushed the Doctor away as gently as possible, but with enough force to impede the persistent (distracting) mouth.

“Doctor,” Jack tried again, “this isn’t a good idea, and I have so used that phrase sparingly. Not that I don’t really want to explore this path to it’s fullest, and under other circumstances I would love to buy you that drink and explore time and relative dimensions in sex, but I don’t think you’re thinking this through right now.”

“Jack,” the Doctor moaned. The hands fisted in Jack’s hair slid around to the sides of the other man’s face. The first two fingers of each of the Doctor’s hands rested lightly against the Jack’s temples. “Please.”

“Doctor,” Jack choked out. There were unconfirmed reports in the Torchwood archive of the Doctor being a touch telepath, the proof of which was brushing, almost politely, against his mind. Jack had limited abilities in the field, enough to pass his Time Agency qualification exam, but the mind waiting beyond his shields was far more advance in the subject.

“Jack,” the Doctor called again. His fingers pressed more firmly, and Jack wondered if the Doctor would let him say no. Then the Doctor opened his eyes, and he looked at Jack with a gaze no longer dead, but burning. Jack gasped as the pressure against his mind increased. He shuddered and let the shields drop, and the Doctor flooded into his mind.

The Doctor’s mind burned. Everything consisted of fire and flame. Screams echoed from everywhere, but those too were made of flame. A world burned behind the Doctor’s eyes, and the Doctor burned with it. The body Jack clutched onto felt like ice compared to the mind that held him enthralled. Jack could feel himself as the Doctor did. The burning heat the Doctor clung to was him; his body so hot against the Doctor’s cool skin. The Doctor was burning, Jack was burning, and Jack couldn’t help but crush his mouth against the Doctor’s cool mouth. That cool water tongue swirled into his mouth, and Jack drank in the Doctor. It was all so wrong, but they were burning together.

The Doctor’s hands slid down to Jack’s coat, but it didn’t matter they were still touching: always touching, grasping, gripping, ripping, shredding. The coats were gone, and Jack’s hands were in the Doctor’s pants. The Doctor’s hands were in Jack’s hair, while their tongues roamed from mouth to mouth and back again; fire and water, each trying to claim one from the other.

Jack’s hands burned against the Doctor’s ass, and the Doctor moaned jerking his hips against Jack’s. In return Jack thrust a leg between the Doctor’s, wrapped one arm around the thin waist, and lifted. The Doctor, standing on the tips of his toes, gave a choked cry as his own weight pressed him down against Jack. His hands made short work of Jack’s shirt, forgoing buttons, and simply ripping the fabric apart. The button on Jack’s pants faired no better as those too hit the dirt. Jack returned the favor, and soon the Doctor’s shirt went the way of future spare rags.

The Doctor sucked Jack’s tongue into his mouth as he all but fell to the ground. Jack, compelled by that luscious mouth, could only follow. He straddled the Doctor atop their coats, as his hands worked on removing the Doctor’s pants. The other man groaned at the feel of Jack’s weight pressing against him. Jack’s burning heat trapping, smothering, igniting him. He could feel fire in the wake of Jack’s hands pulling off his pants. He panted against Jack’s mouth, who breathed in the cold air from him and fed him back the hot flashes of a furnace. The Doctor’s tongue chased back into Jack seeking the heat, and Jack sucked in the cold.

A hot hand gripped the Doctor’s cock, and the he couldn’t help the resulting thrust. Jack’s hungry mouth swallowed the gasp of cold air and chased the Doctor’s tongue back to the water’s source. The Doctor’s hips thrust against the heat surrounding him, while his throat worked to swallow the fire in his mouth. His hands clutched at the burning body above him; short blunt nails dug into heated flesh. The fire was all around him, consuming him. Each of Jack’s fingers branded his flesh. The slide of Jack’s hand left a trail of flame behind it. Jack’s thumb glided over the tip of the Doctor’s cock, fingernail pressing against the slit, and the Doctor screamed as the blaze raced up his spine meeting the fire spilling down his throat. The Doctor’s hips left the ground, his whole body arched against the heat, and cool wetness spread across Jack’s hand.

The Doctor, head spinning, clung to Jack. He lifted a leg to wrap around the other man’s waist. Jack’s skin felt like hot coals against him, but it wasn’t enough. His mind was burning in Jack’s, while Jack’s body burned against his, but it wasn’t enough. His tongue dove back into Jack’s mouth, seeking, searching, pleading. He felt Jack nudge against him, slicked with his own seed, and he pushed back against the searing heat.

The cool skin beneath Jack felt like his only salvation from the scorching flames engulfing his mind. Jack pushed into the tight passage of the Doctor’s body. The cool flesh seemed to siphon the heat right out of him. He thrust, and the Doctor molded to him; both the Doctor’s legs wrapping around his waist. Jack pulled back only to quickly push in again, not daring to leave the cool relief of the Doctor for long.

Heat blistered inside the Doctor and spread through his blood. Every thrust was stoking the fire. Jack’s flesh burned along his prostrate, and the Doctor arched off the ground; only his shoulders remained in contact with solid earth. The Doctor’s mouth remained firm against Jack’s, trying to suck the fire out of the man, as it was pounded into him. The force of Jack’s thrusts increased, as eager to expel the heat as the Doctor was to take it, and the Doctor moaned deep in his throat. Heat returned to the Doctor’s cock, stroking in time with the thrusting.

Jack slid in and out of the tight body clinging to him. The Doctor’s muscles seemed to squeeze the heat right out of him, taking him in and milking him for all he was worth. Jack could feel a tightness forming in his gut, his balls lifting, the edges of his vision blurring. He ached, his mind burning. The fire danced behind his eyes and shot down his spine. He thrust hard into the Doctor, and yelled against his mouth. His cock pulsed deep within the Doctor, whose muscles clenched around him.

The Doctor could feel the heat in Jack rush into him. The flames spread along his skin and boiled his blood. The fire in his body burned through the flames raging in his mind. He cried into Jack’s mouth even as Jack did the same. His right heart beat furiously, as his left skipped a beat. He came for the second time in Jack’s fist, and they both burned against each other, consumed.

They fell together in a heap of limbs drenched in sweat. Eventually Jack hefted himself off to one side, so as not to smother the Doctor. The night air felt like an artic breeze against his bare skin. The Doctor’s skin felt strangely warm, and Jack loathed moving far away. Jack’s mind buzzed lethargically and he felt vaguely thirsty. Cracking his eyes open, he surveyed the alien he was currently cuddling.

The Doctor’s eyes were closed, and he breathed with a slight hitch through his partly open mouth. His lips were moist and swollen, their normal soft pink color flushed red. Parts of his brown hair stuck out in damp tuffs, while the rest laid slick against the sides of his head. Jack watched as dark eyes opened and slid in his direction.

“Jack, I…” Jack stopped the Doctor with a finger pressed to his lips.

“I know,” Jack said raising his fingers to brush the Doctor’s temple, who moaned softly at the contact, “I know.”

The fire had burned itself out long ago, but not in his mind. For the Doctor, the burning never stopped because he couldn’t forget, but he could lock it away. Deep in his mind the fires raged, and a planet burned, but for today, tomorrow and the day after that; he pushed the fire back with as many thoughts on as many different things as he could. But sometimes he just needed to feel the flames. Sometimes the Doctor needed to burn with Gallifrey.

End

Thank God it’s finished. So much for writing a short PWP. *sigh*

Opinions and comments are welcome and appreciated. Thanks for stopping by.

^_^

Solaras

Doldrums

Wed, 11 Jul 2007 05:28:51 GMT

So I'm trying to find a job. I've graduated and now I'm unemployed. I worked at a dinning hall, and now that school is out so is my job. The basic rundown is like this:

"Yay no more school. Damn I have to find a job."

So far it's not been good. I get kicked out of my apartment at the end of the month, and I need to know where I'm going. This is a crappy time of life. Stuck in the doldrums.

Farfarello one-shot

Mon, 09 Jul 2007 21:47:18 GMT

Earlier I said I would write some one-shots to work out the kinks and here we go. This is something I scribbled down while watching some Weiss eps. today.

Shades of Red
Rating: PG to be safe. How disturbing is the color red?
Summary: Farfarello dreams. A one-shot insight into the character and a writing exercise for me. Strange imagery abounds, but it is Farfarello. Not really yaoi, but if you want to wear tinted glasses that's ok with me.

Disclaimer: I do not own Weiss Kreuz or anything related to it. I have nothing worth suing over, and if it comes between a fine and jail time… I’m broke, you do the math. But I do love Weiss and want to spread the love a little.

Author’s Notes: Just something to stretch out the writer’s cramps. Haven’t written any fanfiction in awhile, and I need to do some warm ups before I get back to work on my poor neglected chapter fic. One-shot character analyses are good for that sort of thing.

Shades of Red

Farfarello dreamed in shades of red: red the color of roses, red the color of brick, red the color of hearts, and red the color of rubies. Sometimes the red was so dark it was almost black, but always red. It ran, twisted, formed, and broke upon the walls of his mind in a sea of waves that turned to clay, molded an image, and melted back into the red.

Demons danced across the red wearing familiar faces. Nuns in red habits lifted red hands in prayer, while red lipped priests blessed a red sacrament. A gleaming red cup lay overturned and askew on a red stained altar, its contents spilled endlessly into a pool the color of freshly bruised flesh. Form the pool a hundred thirsty children drank. Their red hands cupped the red liquid, their red tongues lapped at it, and their red eyes stared at red.

A red hill rose atop a pile of red bones, and upon the summit sat a red church. The windows where broken, and the glass sparkled red in the red earth. No door guarded the sanctuary. There was only a gaping red portal that bled red light. The light seeped through cracks in the stone work, and gushed from the shattered windows. Red bled into red and trickled down the hill, weaving in and out of empty-eyed skulls. The flowing tide of red swept over the children, drowning the priests, and washing away the nuns.

The wave of red ran up to a pair of shoes but not over them. It swirled and raged around a figure not born of red. A green coat would not yield to red. Blue eyes stared defiantly into the red. White clad legs took a step into red, and red shuddered, stretched, and formed a path. Stones cobbled themselves together with red mortar, while the not-red took more steps. The red flowed in a great rush beneath the red path; crashing and writhing its way up to the red church.

Not-red stood upon the hill atop the red bones and looked into the red portal. The red light stretched to meet its visitor, as the not-red moved towards the church. The light swirled around the not-red, bleeding into hair a shade it almost knew and made it red. Not-red made a sound, but the red did not understand. The sound was not red. Sound was not a form red could take, so it swirled again around the not-red looking for other things it could bleed into.

Not-red moved again, displacing the swirling red, and stepped into the red church. Row after row of red pews lined the red nave. A broken red cross stood in the apse, and under it sat a pale faced figure dressed in red. Pale hands were stained with red, and pale hair dripped with red. One gold eye stared upward, while the other eye (which wasn’t so much an eye but a red void) leaked red. Red fell from the eye and ran, twisted, formed, and broke in a never ending red.

Not-red sat beside the pale figure and grasped a red stained hand. The gold eye rolled down revealing a red pupil. The other red stained hand ran through the red hair that now swirled along with the red. Not-red smiled a wicked smile that became red. A dreaming Farfarello smiled in his sleep, while he dreamed of red and Schuldig, of Schuldig covered in red, but mostly of red.

End

Well what do you guys think? I think I'm a bit rusty, but I've done worse. Responses are welcome and appreciated.

Solaras

Maybe if I post stuff on my livejournal, I'll actually use it. ^_^

Been Gone

Mon, 09 Jul 2007 17:04:07 GMT

So I kinda died, internet wise, for awhile. The last few months have just been... well... let's put it this way: I go to Virginia Tech. I graduated this past semester with my bachelors. What a way to end the semester huh? But we are Virginia Tech and we will prevail! School work was a hassle anyway, and with so much going on I just haven't been very inspired artistically. But I'm emerging from the funk now, and I am ready to be 'Solaras' again. I've reactivated my yahoo email address, and look I'm posting to Livejournal. Time to dust off the fanfiction and get to work. My first priority is "Mind Games and Coffee."
I need to watch Weiss Kreuz again, and get my self reacquainted with the series of events. Chapter Twelve of the story had been started, so that gives me a nice jumping off point. While I get my self re-familiarized with the fandom, I will probably write some one-shots for practice. But I will come back to MGaC. I really do like the story and want to continue it. So here we go, back to the world of internet fandom.

I hate coming up with subject titles

Fri, 12 Jan 2007 06:16:37 GMT

So yeah, I've been a lazy bum. I have no excuse other than that. I finished my exams and stupid term papers and proceeded to crash. I did as little as possible and I'm proud of it. Then there was Christmas with the family. *shudder* I love my family really, but I like them a lot better when they are far away. But my real reason for being unproductive is Zelda. I got the new Zelda game and spent entire days playing it. Today I won. I would have finished sooner, but people kept insisting I leave my apartment to visit them. Silly people.
The point is that now that I am no longer a crazed Zelda fend, living only to destroy Ganon, I can return to other obsessions like fanfiction.
I really should use this journal more often, but I'm just so lazy. If I had an ounce of ambition in my body, I believe I could do great things like finish my fanfiction, write a real novel, or RULE THE WORLD! But I don't. I really should not start posting stories till they're finished. I should enforce that for future stories.
MGaC will continue... as soon as my brain stops gloating over my victory over Zelda.

hmmm... nope can't think of anything

Thu, 09 Nov 2006 16:31:54 GMT

There comes a time when one must accept the simple truth that life hates them. That time has come in the form of this stupid research project. So I have to give a presentation about said project on Nov. 27, which I have know for some time. What I didn't know, however, was that I would have to do a run through with the professor a week before that. Hence my presentation has do be done a week earlier than I was planning. Now I have to kick everything into overdrive to catch up to the new schedule imposed on me. So before the 17th I need to write one paper, write speech, make powerpoint for speech, and work on the written form of the research project. This is what I get for going on a trip instead of doing work over thanksgiving break. Now the big question is, can I squeeze writing fanfiction in there somewhere? There's no way I will be able to write on MGaC after break. I'll be to busy trying not to overdose on caffeine (which is actually possible according to a Drug Ed. class I took), while finishing up the semester.
*Whines like a baby* I want to play with Schu and Crawford, not write stupid papers. Why is it not Winter Break yet?
Okay I'm going to go do work now, and maybe sneak off to write fanfiction. That's the problem with self-grounding, there's no one else to enforce it.

I actually did something gasp

Sat, 28 Oct 2006 19:34:21 GMT

Even though I have this massive amount of work to do, I had this itch to write on my fanfiction. I think I have finished chapter eleven. I'm going to let it cool for a few hours, then go back an read it, and see if I still like it.

not dead

Tue, 10 Oct 2006 19:06:39 GMT

*sigh* I've been so busy lately, that fanfiction has had to take a backseat for awhile. I have a bunch of work (ie research) to do for school. Plus as always my job sucks. Anyway to all those who read MGaC, and check this page, don't worry I haven't abandoned it or anything. The story has been evolving as it goes along, and the next chapter just isn't working for me yet. I found some notes I thought I lost, so that has given me a new direction to work in, but it's going to take some time for me to get redirected. October is going to be a bad month for me, as far as school work goes, so I'm not expecting to get any work done on the story. Depending on how much work I get done on my big project this month, November may be more conductive to fanfiction. I'll see how things go. But unless I get a massive injection of insight (which happens occasionally), and write the next chapter in one sitting, don't expect updates for at least a month. I'll try and keep this page up to date on any advances I make on the next chapter. Just hang in there readers, and it will get done.

Return!

Mon, 21 Aug 2006 19:05:40 GMT

Finally my internet is up and running! I moved to a new apartment, and I lost internet at the old place sooner than I was expecting, thus the lack of warning. It took awhile to get it running here, due to the fact that I was broke. :P Anyway I hope to get MGaC updated real soon. School started this week and I have some stuff to do this week with getting my schedule fixed. My apartment is still a disaster also. But I'm alive and hope to get back to updating as soon as possible.

Delay

Fri, 07 Jul 2006 16:52:40 GMT

Alas, MGaC chapter eleven is delayed again. I have to go out of town for a few days. I think I will be back in time to finish the chapter and have it ready for Tuesday, so just one week missed.

Busy

Thu, 06 Jul 2006 02:59:29 GMT

I know the new chapter of MGaC is late, but it was the Fourth of July. I cooked all day yesterday. So tired...
Anyway I was hoping to get the update out today, but I'm not quite happy with the chapter yet. There is still some awkwardness I'm trying to work out. Maybe by tomorrow it will be ready.

roll'n along

Wed, 28 Jun 2006 05:51:01 GMT

Updated MGaC today. Very late in the day, but it's all good. I was being a bum today and didn't get off my lazy but to update the story. I've also been distracted by that evil thing know as 'real books'. You know those things that have copyrights. They've been cutting into my fanficiton consumption. I need to rectify that, and catch up with the Weiss Kreuz world. I've been neglecting it, and I feel out of the fiction loop. Maybe next week, after the fourth of July, I will sit down and browse the usual places.
Like my writing, my reading goes through ruts too. Sometimes I devour fanfiction, and other times I read a dozen real books. The plus for books is that they're already finished. I, like most people I suspect, read several fandoms religiously, and of course there are still others that I browse from time to time. I alternate fandom obsession, which is good, in that new stories get posted during the rotation. Weiss Kreuz is a big one for me. I read so much fanfiction, I was have trouble finding anymore good fics to read. (We've all been there) I've been loitering in other fandoms for a while now, so there is a lot of new stuff I should check out.

Lost Galaxy

Fic: Whispering Avarice

Fic: Weight of Want

Fic: Conversational Pacing

Fic: Forward Momentum (SGU)

Fic:The Clues In Front Of Us - Chapter 10

Fic: The Clues In Front Of Us - Chapter 9

School booooo

Wow

My life sucks, but how are you?

Testing..

Most amused with myself

Mission Impossible

Moving

I've become obsessed with DW

Doldrums

Farfarello one-shot

Been Gone

I hate coming up with subject titles

hmmm... nope can't think of anything

I actually did something *gasp*

not dead

Return!

Delay

Busy

roll'n along

I actually did something gasp