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jamjar: (Default)
Because I need a little distraction and I want to get a little writing practise even before I start railing against the Yuletide deadline:

From [ profile] daegaer

Give me the premise for a crossover (example: someone in a fairytale meets the devil, who turn out to be Crowley), a fusion (example: Midsomer Murders and Weiss Kreuz fusion: the peaceful English countryside plus assassins - let's face it, it would explain a lot about the death rate . . .) or an AU (example: the Fenndom sci-fi AU - the Victorian British empire in Spaaaace!). I will write you one to three sentences* of fic based on that premise.

*Or, you know, more.

Good fandoms include (but are not limited to) Life, The Mentalist, Better Off Ted, The Big Bang Theory, Modern Family, Bandom, Young Justice, Sherlock Holmes Vorkosignan series, Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, Chalion, Good Omens, Neverwhere, Discworld, Johnny Maxwell, M.A.S.H., Dianna Wynne Jones, Doctrine of Labynths, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, YYH, Petshop of Horrors, Crimson Hero, Dead Like Me, From Eroica with Love, Buffy The Vampire Slayer, Highlander, Doctor Who, Merlin, fairy tales, Superboy, Neverwhere, D.E.B.S, Stick It, Ima Ai Ni Yukimasu,Star Trek IX, DS9, Temeraire
jamjar: (five buck dick)
Dick throws himself forward through the air, travelling through with more grace and direction than most flyers manage. His hands catch the top of the flag pole of lightening rod or whatever it is, and he swings around, pulling himself in and sliding down it.

He leans on it, looks and Roy and smirks. He's breathing heavily, but Roy knows it has more to do with how much he enjoyed that little demonstration than actual exertion.

Roy leans on to his bow. “I feel like I should be tucking money in to your G-string,” he says.

Dick blinks and looks confused for a second. “My-- what?”

Roy shakes his head. “Never mind."

Dick's always had that combination of control and carelessness about his body, a result of working it, training it and knowing it absolutely, to the point where he can be thoughtless with it.

Dick looks at him, then back at the pole. Hesitates for a moment like he's debating rolling his eyes, then grins at Roy. "Pole dancing can be a serious gymnastic sport, you know. Takes muscle endurance and coordination."

"Muscle endurance and coordination. Those are always the first thing I think of, when I see pole-dancers." Roy thinks about Gina and Isis and Gypsy. "Actually, that might be--"

He stops talking, because Dick has grabbed hold of the pole, pulled himself up, wrapping his legs around, and is leaning backwards, holding on with his legs, back arching until he's touching the ground with his hands. He pulls himself up, swings his whole body around the pole to build up momentum, then hooks one leg around the pole, spinning around it before grabbing his ankle with one hand and leaning back. His back arches and he hold the position for a moment before adjusting his position, gripping on to the pole with both hands and unfolding his legs, spreading them out and holding perfectly steady.

He flips upright, slides and spins down in to a smooth dismount.

Roy's throat is dry. He swallows a few times before he can speak. "Batman really got you the best trainers in everything, huh?"

Dick shrugs. He gives a half-smile, deliberately playful. "I don't suppose you'd believe it's all natural talent?"
jamjar: (pretty blue eyes)
Just a head's up, but it's been a while since I read or wrote these, so my character voice may be a bit shaky.


Johnny shrugs and puts the comb down, giving his hair a final check in the mirror before turning around. "It's just a question of priorities. Like, I don't have as much brain power as Sue, but I use what I do have. Focussed," he says gunning his fingers, twin little flames like lasers. The land on Ben's chest, targeted and less flickery than Johnny's regular flame. More like being poked than being tickled.

"Focused on what, hotstuff?"

Johnny looks at him like he's being stupid. "What do you think?"

Ben shakes his head, because man, those extra few years seem like so much more when he looks at Johnny. Even in his worst days, he's pretty sure -hopes, at least- that he was never that bad. Probably because he never had to worry about it. It's weird to think that this is the longest he's not had sex, not even messed around, since he was sixteen. "Maybe you're thinking about it too much, instead of going out and actually finding someone."

Johnny looks at him. "Man, you're just not thinking about it enough. There's a whole world out there, a world of mutants and aliens and options." He puts both hands on Ben's shoulders and looks at him. "You're just so caught up in this," and he raps Ben's skin with his knuckles, "that you're missing out. We can call up the X-men, maybe fix up some double date. I'm sure they know lots of girls or whatever that would want to date a nice guy like you."

"Or whatever?" Ben says, amused.

Johnny steps back and shrugs. "Whatever."

Ben looks at him and smiles. It's less and less strange, the way his face feels when he goes that. "I could work with Whatever. Whatever's cool. Or, you know, hot."

Johnny's smile is the classic fight between cool and grinning.
jamjar: (pretty Harley)
"I ain’t gonna do it, Red."

"Uh-huh." And if she adds just a trace more –-oh, maybe more than a trace of nitrate, because her babies deserve it-- then she can increase the growth just enough to—

"Are you listening to me?"

"Of course I am, Harley," Ivy says. And then if she lets them grow on that wonderful soil she found in the--"

"That was the last time, ever, because you never respect me after," Harley says.

"Hmm. No, of course no--" Wait, what was that? Ivy looks up at Harley’s back. Her ponytails float above her shoulder and even from behind, Ivy can tell that she has her arms crossed and her lips pouting. "Harley, what’s this about?"

Harley turns around, knocking over several valuable test tubes and sending Ivy scrambling for them. Harley, as ever, is oblivious to the chaos she causes in Ivy’s carefully ordered lab. "I’ll tell you what it’s about! It’s about respect. It’s about you showing me a little appreciation. I don’t go jumping in the Gotham City Aquarium for anyone, ya know," she says, sounding hurt. Her arms are folded under her Arkham Amateur Softball Team T-shirt and she still smells like seaweed, pacing up and down the workbench. "And I don’t get any thanks. No respect." She stops pacing and stands still, looking down at Ivy. There’s a smear of dried mud, probably gained during her scramble through Swamps Of The Worlds. "You don’t repect me at all."

"Because you were caught," Ivy says, trying to keep her voice patient. "You almost brought the wrath of the Bat on us. And of course I-- consider you a good friend."

Harley looks down at her suspiciously. "So does that mean you respect me?"

Anything to get you off my work surface and away from my-- "Yes," Ivy says. She looks Harley in the eye and makes her voice sincere, curling one hand around Harley’s ankle to prevent any more pacing. "Of course I do." She really does smell of seaweed. Ivy tugs her, not quite enough to get her off balance and Harley takes it as a cue, somersaulting down. She holds her hands together, pressed against her chest.

"You really mean that, Red?" Harley says, sounding hopeful. Her hair looks like two shocks of wheat in the sterile lights of the lab. "’Cause you’re my bestest galpal, ya know?" She’s up on her tiptoes, leaning forwards, kinetic energy in waiting. It was a particularly rare strain of kelp she dove for, distinctive in colour and chemical composition, with a fascinating potential phylogeny...

"I know," Ivy says. "And you’re..." She pauses, leans forward to wipe a smear of sugar off the corner of Harley’s mouth.

Harley beams, leans forward and kisses her.
jamjar: (christmas!)
The Death of Rats pushed the parcel forward, tentatively. "Thank you," Susan said, making no move to touch it.

It squeaked at her and gestured with its scythe.

Susan had a very serviceable voice, a pleasant if unspectacular alto, and excellent rhythm. She could keep time and always, always knew the words, and had a good ear for wrong notes. Furthermore, she had a great deal of experience controlling small children.

This all explained why she loathed being called upon to take part in the annual Hogswatch carol service at the university. As big as the University choir was -and it encompassed several generations of wizards- the choir lacked any natural choirmaster, and had very few sopranos, with the exception of some of the younger students and the Bursar's rather good falsetto. Susan was called upon to fill in the gaps.

"And in the winter, comes the sno-ow..." she sang, bracing herself for the answering bass.

"Ook oook, ook oook."

"So all the children wrap up wa-arm,"

"Ook ook ook ook oook." The Librarian's voice rang out over the other wizards. Although the carol, "Little Children In The Snow (See how Blue Their Fingers Go!)" did not have a solo part, the Librarian clearly felt otherwise and had made his opinion very well known.

"No. It's bad enough that you get the words wrong," she told the Librarian. "And yes, I can tell, especially when it doesn't even scan. The rhythm is all wrong."


Susan folded her arms and glared at him. "I don't care if apes have natural rhythm. Look this just isn't working. Maybe if we--"


Susan turned around to where the Death of Rats stood, holding a score hopefully. She frowned. The Death of Rats shuffled its feet in a disturbingly bashful way. Susan crossed her arms sceptically. "All right, let's hear it."

It coughed into its bony paw once, unrolled the song and began. "SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEA-EAK..."

Susan gave a reluctant sigh and waved it into the choir stands. The Death of Rats had a surprisingly good soprano.
jamjar: (glasses)
The light from the computer screen reflects off Babs' skin, turning it green and flickering blue. Babs leans forwards over the keyboard and Dinah can hear the pleasantly irregular blur of tapping, Babs typing faster than some people can speak.

When she leans over the back of Babs's chair, she can see the L.E.G.I.O.N. logo on screen and two languages,one human and both incomprehensible, flash cross the screen.

"You know, some people wouldn't take the fact that a borderline sociopathic alien general was stalking them as a cue to start flirting."

"He's not stalking me," Babs corrects. "Just my work." She smiles, one corner of her mouth twisting up. "We have overlapping areas of interest on AIs."

"Oh, who hasn't heard that old line before," Dinah says. She wrestles the keyboard away from Babs long enough to type,"Are we flirting?" before Babs can get it back.

A new window opens up on screen and incomprehensible text starts flashing across it. Dinah frowns. "What is that?"

"A section from the code we were working on together, for determining statistically significant fluctuations in crime rates amongst non-earth born immigrants."

Dinah looks at her. "And that means..."

Babs smile gets a little wider. "I believe it's saying that we're way past flirtation."
jamjar: (Nightwing and Robin)
"This is what I don't get," Tim says. "They know we've got grapples. They know there are way too many metas that can fly. They know that half the capes in the JLU have got anti-grav or wings or something. And they still never look up." He jumps on the railing of the fire-escape, changes from a crouch to a handstand and then hooks his legs into the bar above. On the street three stories below, the cops are pushing Clayface into one of the modified vans. "You think it's a criminal trait? Start stealing candy from old ladies and babies, surround yourself with two-bit thugs that make Grundy look like Luthor, and you lose the ability to look up once in a while."

Dick leans against the railings. "Not everyone takes the high-road," he says. "Most people go through life on ground level." He looks at Tim and raises an eyebrow. "And right side up."

Tim takes out a powerbar and takes out a bite. Dick can see his throat move, working against gravity. He finishes it off and, because Alfred's training is more powerful than even Bruce's, he scrunches the wrapper up and tucks it into a pocket in his belt. "Yeah? Poor bastards."

"I don't think they mind," Dick says.

Tim pulls himself up and on the way, kisses Dick. The angle is doubly strange, upside down and to one side, but Dick is nothing if not flexible. Tim unhooks his legs and jumps back on to the fire-escape, his face still red from the blood rushing to it. "That's just because they don't know what they're missing."
jamjar: (buddha)
"Are you looking for Johnny?" Wobbler said without looking up from his playstation portable when the elf sat next to him on the park bench.

The elf- yep, definitely an elf, pointy ears and a bow and an air of ethereal... etherealness, looked at him.

"I do not know this "Johnny" of which you speak," It said. "I am merely searching for my pathway home." The elf looked at Wobbler, body motionless while his thumbs moved frantically over the buttons. Although it gave off an air of unruffled and supernatural calm, an above-it-all air that was hard to take offense at, since it so clearly was above it all, it was, deep down, rather off-put.

Normally, its air of glamour and otherworldly charms (and it used these words in their oldest meanings) had a certain effect on those mere mortals around it. Currently, those charms were washing against the great solidity that was Wobbler. Its frowned deepened, creating an air of tragic and fantastical beauty that would overwhelm the senses of any that saw it, if their senses hadn't been brought so abruptly down to earth by the sight of Wobbler.

The presence of Wobbler next to the elf was having an effect similar to playing Abba in a Transylvanian tomb, quite disrupting any supernatural effect.

"You probably do want Johnny," Wobbler said, his mouth barely moving as he concentrated on the small, crashing object on the centre of his screen. "All you things do."

The elf looked at him, affronted. Its expression of disapproval, which would have had kings and queens on their knees, begging for forgiveness, bounced off of Wobbler without leaving so much as a ripple to show its passing.

Wobbler shifted in his seat slightly. "I'll take you to meet him when I'm done," he said. "I'm almost at the bit with the cops and the thing."

"You will take me to him now!" It commanded.

"Inna minute! I'm almost done," Wobbler said. "I just gotta--"

Stunned at the lack of reaction, the elf sat down on the bench next to him. After a while, it started to feed the pigeons.

There was a tinny but rather final sounding crash from the game and Wobbler sighed and got up. "C'mon. He's probably at his grandad's."

The elf stood up to go.

"Have you got money for the bus? 'Cause I've got my card, but..."

jamjar: (stories)
"You look good," Tatsuki says, and by good she means "Good", but she knows she also means "different" and "tougher" and "older".

"Thank you!" Orihime flexes her arms. "Look at my muscles!" She puts her elbow on the table. "Let's arm-wrestle."

Tatsuki could probably circle Orihime's arm with her fingers. She rolls her eyes. "Forget it. I'm hungry. Did you get any of those little purin things from that bakery?"

Orihime nods and sets out tea. She talks about school, about the people she saw over the summer, mostly familiar names and some not, and Tatsuki is used to Orihime's style of speech enough to construct a reasonable understanding of it. She met people, who might have been friends of Ichigo or not, and she spent time with people, and possibly did some charity work, and Ishida-kun helped with that and also made her an outfit, which means that he likes Rukia, probably, and...

Orihime gestures as she talks and when she raises her arms, Tatsuki can see that her waist is thinner, pared down of it's normal slight softness, and there are the faint lines of stomach muscles. Whatever she did -and Tatsuki knows Orihime's style of speech well enough to know when she's deliberately concealing things, skipping over and jumping past bits- it was work. Tatsuki knows the product of physical labour.

She waits until Orihime's stopped speaking long enough for Tatsuki to ask, "Was it a good holiday, then?"

Orihime frowns a little, thinking about it. "Yes. It was a good summer." A sharp little nod that makes her hair fall forward and Tatsuki pushes it back for her.

"But I'm happy to be back," Orihime says, smiling brightly.

Tatsuki smiles back and talks about her summer.
jamjar: (Cake or Death!)
Johnny sighed and moved his bishop. "Check," he said.

His opponent moved a pawn. "MATE."

Johnny nodded and started to clear up his pieces. "Guess you win again. I've got--"


It helped if he just thought about him as a--

Actually, it helped if he didn't think about him, except maybe as another Alderman or a Mrs Tachyon, just cleaner and more solid and thinner. He wasn't like that at all, because those people were definitely people, definitely human, and this one wasn't, but...

His Grandad had taught him to play a few months back when he was off sick with the 'flu and it's not that Johnny didn't like chess, because it was pretty good for a game without any special effects, but he didn't know other people liked it as well, until he showed up with a board and a worryingly hopeful expression.

"NO-ONE EVER WANTS TO PLAY WITH ME," he'd said. "AND I ALWAYS ASK." And he'd looked so hopeful…

Almost like he did right now, in fact. "Okay," Johnny said, sitting down. "But this is the last time, really. I've got school tomorrow."




jamjar: (Default)

October 2017

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