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This journal contains fiction that may not be appropriate for younger audiences. Please submit a friend request to access the contents within. You must provide a statement that you are over the age of 18 to be allowed access. This statement should be displayed on your profile; it may also be directly messaged to me.


The entries that are public consist mainly of original writing & musings from an estimated 10 million years ago. They're not very good; please keep this in mind so that you refrain from slinging fiery arrows in my general vicinity.

Announcement: My AO3 account & tumblr

Hello everyone! You may have noticed that I don't update here much anymore...I've kind of moved to tumblr.

I still write a lot these days, but it's mostly Johnlock. I'm really sorry to people who were readers of my H/D stories. H/D will always, always be an OTP of mine, but right now I just don't know when I'll get back to writing them. I do plan to one day finish my WIPs, because I don't feel right abandoning them, but I have no eta for you for the time being.

The reason why I haven't been updating here is that this LJ was mostly for my H/D stories. If anybody has any interest, I'll happily mirror my other fics here! If not, I'll just update here when I write H/D again.

If you're interested in reading Johnlock at all, this is my AO3.

Thank you for all your lovely comments over the years. I really cherish you all <3

AO3 Auction

BUY YOURSELF A MICHI GET IT HOT GET IT CHEAP

BID NOW

Callers standing by.

Sorry for the radio silence. Real life was discouraging for the past year or so, and now I'm finally writing again. I DO plan to finish my outstanding projects (in terms of they need to be done, not in terms of quality) but no timeline as of yet; I have a few projects queued up at the moment. (Feel free to bid for them, though!)

As always, you know I'll write you almost ANYTHING. just no graphic hetsex please

[fic] be mine, johnlock, Valentine's Day

title: be mine
part: 1/1
Rating: G
Summary: John spends yet another Valentine's Day alone. Somehow he manages. A fic/art collab with venvephe.
Notes: A few days fashionably late, and a fluff and angst fic?! This is new for me. Not dark at all!


be mine


When John arrived at the clinic that morning, there was a picture of a sexy banana on his desk. There was no other way to describe it: she was a banana dolled up for a night on the town. Her eyelids were painted a lurid blue, her lashes luxuriously long and thick with mascara, and her mouth, a perfect cupid’s bow, was pressed into a scarlet red pout.

Valentine, I find you very a-peeling!” said the speech bubble.

There were a handful of other cards on his desk, each one undoubtedly featuring a terrible pun and perhaps a distressingly oversexualised inanimate object. Someone - probably Sarah - had also gifted him with an oversized Hershey’s kiss.

Was it Valentine’s Day already? It seemed like it had been just Christmas two days ago. Time was a strange concept. Days flowed into each other, months rolled on and on. The next time he looked up, it would be August.

But it was just yesterday, wasn’t it, when he had stood outside St. Bart’s and looked up into a hopeless sky? It was just last night when he had watched the blood pool on the pavement. Just a minute ago it had been January. He’d been on his knees on frozen ground in front of a grave. It had been his birthday. The smooth, black marble had reflected John’s face back at him and he looked at his own face and the name Sherlock Holmes and in that small space their existences overlapped, one over the other, blending together.

Just a minute ago it had been January.

Now it was February again.

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title: you look so fine
Part: 2/2
WARNINGS: mild gore, graphic sex, very very NC-17
Summary: Draco is a Veela and Harry is his mate. Crack Horror, by yours truly.
Notes: curiouslyfic prompted: Wings, Veela, H/D, smut, Crackfic/horror ficlet. For her, and for the ladies in chatzy who didn't know how crack horror worked. I wrote this very quickly, so it's not as carefully crafted as some of my other writing. Don't think about it too much, and please enjoy.

And a million thanks to beautiful curiouslyfic for the amazing services. Beta, and otherwise. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH GAHD.


<< Previously <<

it"s so insane; you"ve got me tethered and chained...I hear your name, and I"m falling overCollapse )
I'm depressed, therefore I need to be productive. This will likely be my last fic post until my Big Bang, just so I can focus my attentions on that.

title: you look so fine
rating: very NC-17
WARNINGS: Dark humor, mild gore, graphic sex
Summary: Draco is a Veela and Harry is his mate. Crack Horror, by yours truly.
Notes: curiouslyfic prompted: Wings, Veela, H/D, smut, Crackfic/horror ficlet. For her, and for the ladies in chatzy who didn't know how crack horror worked. I wrote this very quickly, so it's not as carefully crafted as some of my other writing. Don't think about it too much, and please enjoy.

And a million thanks to beautiful curiouslyfic for the amazing services. Beta, and otherwise. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH GAHD.


you look so fine, I want to break your heart - and give you mineCollapse )
GUYS. GUYS. LOOK HOW I SWEPT THE DRUNKFIC AWARDS.

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The community, of course, is hpdrunkfic :D

This took me 2 nights of solid drinking to write. And it's holy fuck 7.2k. @_@

AND NOW, the moment you have ALL BEEN WAITING FOR:

Presenting....THE JUSTIN BIEBER EXPERIENCE.Collapse )

on dreams of giant squid

They are slimy and in my house.
Their tentacles slick and long…like tongues –with millions of mouths,
suction-cup lips that open and close, open and close,
Winding, slithering, around my coffee tables, my forest-green leather love seats
Making rolls, ripples, waves under the furry, grassy carpet
As if they were growing roots.
I cut them open.
Their insides are wet and cold.
My living room smells like fish,
Like salt, like the ocean – the yard is turning to water, blue, blue sea
Deeper than it looks; I can’t see the bottom …
But where there is still grass I stab deep into the dirt, and dig
–this part-
looks like rich chocolate cake
It smells like worms.
The squid (or is it squids?) keep coming. They have giant eyes - the better to see you with, my dear- and little hook mouths (hookworms, they burrow into your skin, fishing hooks, they catch in your cheek, shiny thin membrane fish cheeks) and all those tentacles. Ten, at least.
Coming in through the windows and the back door and the front door.
They don’t ring the bell or even try to knock,
how rude.
There is never an octopus.
Later I find them in the convenience store,
under fluroescent lights, open 7 till 11,
they're small and pre-packaged, flattened in plastic wrap: tentacles and hoods and hooks and eyes all, dried all, all in plastic.
There’s something unsettling about it.
I prefer my squid stringy, white and dry
(someone once told me that smegma tastes like dried squid. But I like dried squid, I said. Then you’ll like the taste of smegma, she told me, and I wrinkled my nose gross)
unrecognizable.
I can’t imagine just eating this flattened cephalopod whole.
“American,” Zach accuses me.
Surgery – that strange, sterile place where I go that you cannot follow. They lay me down on a table and turn on the lights above me so that all I see is white.

I could never be a junkie, I have what my doctor called “rolling veins.” Rolling veins do exactly that -that makes them hard to find. It’s as if my veins are instinctively afraid of needles, even though I am not. I worry that they’ll stick the needle in and it won’t be right, and the anesthesia will just sit and bleed under my skin and I’ll be awake for my operation.

They stick the IV in my arm and then I’m out.

I wake up twice during the operation. Or maybe it’s more than that. I suddenly feel like I’m on the coroner’s table and they’re performing an autopsy on me – they all think I’m dead but
I’m still alive and they’re cutting me open, alive.

I sneeze, twice, to make sure they know that this is a living body they’re dealing with, here.

I can see them scraping my insides, feel the scrape-scrape-scrape of the scalpel. I feel no pain. There is a body on the table and it is mine but it is not mine. There is pain in the room but it is not mine.

They sew up my eyes, my skin, reconnect flesh to sinew.

Open, close, they tell me.

I’m in, I’m out.

Open, close.

Wake up, they say.

It’s time to wake up.

Wake up.

Robert Burns wrote to a mouse

Based on a true story. And everything else is made up. Warning: Long and completely unlike all my other pieces.

The summer I was getting over being a junior in high school, John Steinbeck killed my best friend.Collapse )