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What is it about sparkly dancing boys? Not only have I abandoned my traditional, neatly linear style of writing – I am also fragmenting in other ways! I currently have six (in numbers: 6!) unfinished stories pending in JE fandom.

My insanity, let me show you it. There is:

1. The Epic, which is over 100.000 words long so far but is currently resting because of:


2. The would-be PWP AU (because, seriously, every fandom needs an "undercover in a gay bar" story), which has considerably more plot than a PWP should and which started out as:


3. The FuQFest story (mark two, because the above-mentioned story got away from me), which so far coyly insists on being all plot and no porn. And which is slightly further along than:


4. The random story idea that ambushed me the other day, which features sparkly dancing boys being bad at sex, and which followed:


5. The random story idea that ambushed me a couple of weeks ago, which features sparkly dancing boys being good at some non-sexual things and bad at others, but for which I have mysteriously found no time so far (gee, I wonder why??). And lastly, there is:


6. The "Highlander" Crossover (because that is another staple every fandom needs), which I rediscovered on an USB stick today, much to my surprise, because I had forgotten about it.

… gah?

In an effort to reduce the madness at least slightly, I have declared the HL crossover a Snippet That Will Go No Further. So, without further ado:


Highlander. The Sparkly Years.

( Featuring KAT-TUN. No sparkly boys were (permanently) harmed during the writing of this fic. )

The slaves arrive with the rest of the equipment, put into stasis for safe transport and shipped in crates. Ryo's in the cargo hold when they're brought aboard – he's going to be in charge of the anorganic matter lab, and he's determined to do a flawless job right from the start. ( Read more... )

I blame solo____, who liked the idea too much. She also betaed, which was the least she could do after encouraging me!

Achieving Indigo
by Sylvia

Warnings: Explicit m/m sex, wincest, strangeness. Also, cursing.
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Summary: Sam and Dean experience unusual complications.
Notes: This story is not set in the same universe as "Last Truce", and so is not a real sequel to it. Rather, it is an AU crackfic pseudo-sequel – and as such, it does contain massive spoilers for and several allusions to that story.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They start out at eight seconds.

Eight seconds. Long enough to break someone's neck, or stab them, or push them off a cliff or down the stairs. Long enough to kill in a hundred different ways.

( Nowhere near long enough. )

A Role Reversal Saiyuki Drabble, as an answer to a challenge on 100_roadtrips. *g* 100 words exactly.



“So we have to go left because *you* say so?” snarls Hakkai. “As if anyone who knew you would believe that divine guidance crap anyway, you know-it-all, not-so-fucking-holy man!”

“Don’t call me that.” Sanzo’s voice is low with threat. “Don’t you *dare* call me that, you one-eyed freak.”

“What did you call me, you corrupt monk?”

Goku’s golden eyes are wide with horror, and the crumbled meat-bun he stole from Gojyo hangs still in mid-air, forgotten half-way to his mouth.

“You take Sanzo”, murmurs Gojyo out of the corner of his mouth. “I’ll take Hakkai. On three.”

Goku nods.

While struggling with my contrary Smallville AU, I wrote something entirely different (and yes, it is pretty much in the Monthy Pythonesque vein of random drive-by silliness). Among other things, Lex considers skin mags, the importance of names, the merits of earplugs, trenchcoats designed by Lagerfeld, and the language of flowers.

( Legend of Nightshade )

Warnings: Satire. Psychology. Ensetophilia. (I rather like that word.)

Disclaimer: I can only claim responsibility for this inconsequential, sense- and meaningless little fanfic travesty, not Weiss Kreuz itself.


Kudou Yohji, Sex God of the Suburbs

It was Tuesday, and as always on Tuesdays, Yohji was horny. His first thought was to find Omi, but the boy was nowhere to be found – not even in his usual hiding places beneath the stairs or under the sink. Maybe he was growing trickier with advancing age. Too bad, Yohji really liked him.

Ken was out playing soccer or doing soccer players. Probably. Yohji hadn’t been paying attention when he’d rambled on about his plans for the day over breakfast, but he figured that, since Ken mostly always played soccer or did soccer players, it was a fairly safe assumption.

Aya was locked in his room, and apparantly he’d had a door with a steel core and frame installed when Yohji wasn't looking. Very painful. Also very frustrating, because – as Yohji found – even a severely bruised shoulder doesn’t do much to cool your ardor when your name is Kudou Yohji, Sex God of the Suburbs (most clubs downtown had for some reason begun to close for the night at the most unreasonable hours. Quite unpredictable, too, because it seemed that no matter when he arrived, they would just be closing down admission).

Anyway. Yohji didn’t really like sleeping with Aya all that much – he always wanted to dress up in his sister’s school uniform, and Yohji had standards. Aya’s legs were terribly hairy, and rather knobby around the knees – short pleated skirts were just wrong for him. And judging from the smell of chemicals escaping into the corridor from beneath the reinforced door, Aya was touching up his roots again, so he’d be all red-eyed and puffy from the fumes. So really, no loss there.

What to do, what to do?

After short consideration, Yohji looked up Schuldig’s address in the phone book – good job there was only one "Schuldig, redh. Grm. telep. assassin, by prior appointment only" listed – and took a taxi. Bad luck, though – Schuldig wasn’t home either, and it seemed like Yohji had only just missed him because there was still a cigarette burning in the ashtray on the sofa table, next to the mug of coffee and book.

Yohji helped himself to cigarette and coffee, but found the book much less interesting than tying Schuldig to the curtain rods would have been (apparently it was a psychology textbook – Schuldig had written scathing comments in the margins and drawn jeering faces next to some paragraphs with captions such as "like you’d know a borderline anankastic personality if it bit you in the ass, you dumb fucker"). He’d gotten new rods, too, Yohji noted. Well, he’d kind of had to. They looked much sturdier than the last set, but that one wouldn’t have fit the wider windows in the new appartment, anyway. A shame the man himself wasn’t there.

There was a banana skin lying on the sink in Schuldig’s kitchen. Yohji eyed it for a minute or two before going into action like the decisive and flexible man about town that he was.

Improvisation and bold innovation were the key to success, after all.