builtofsorrow: (dw | our hearts are way beyond capture)
{Nelle. Twenty-three. Still experiencing the shellshock of her [no longer quite-so-recent] graduation from uni. Swot. Barista. Reader, writer, & grammar nazi. Aspiring professor of literature. Incurable idealist. Far too prone to fangirling.}

Friends only, except for the fic (which, to be honest, is written (and therefore posted) woefully intermittently, but.).

That said, I am more than open to new friends (if one can be more than regularly open; I'm not precisely sure what that would look like, although I imagine it could be a bit gory, so to clarify: not that way).

So if you don't mind fangirling, punctuation adoration, a bit (um, maybe a teensy bit more than a bit) of angst, and overly long sentences, do feel free to leave a comment and I shall, in all likelihood, friend you back. (Preferably, common interests would be dandy (for these, have a look at the [fairly extensive] profile)). Also, as indicated by this post, there will be a lot of parentheses. And also (as not indicated herein) semi-colons. Ye be warned.
builtofsorrow: (st | zq | ll&p)
Two picspams for [livejournal.com profile] startrekland. \o/

I honestly can't pick a favourite TOS character unless you twist my arm, because I love everybody so much that it's absolutely ridiculous. Which is just to say that these two picspams aren't necessarily because Spock and Uhura are my two favourite characters. But on the 8th, I was rewatching The Man Trap in commemoration/celebration, and was reminded of the introduction we get to Uhura and Spock (well, sort of; my introduction to Spock was actually in The Cage, but this is his introduction in terms of the series as it aired, I suppose), and I fell in love all over again. I love how Spock is so awkward and earnest while Uhura is snarky and bemused as she baits him. It's adorable, and I had to picspam it. The second picspam, from XI, is maybe my favourite Spock/Uhura scene (really, they're all tied) in that film. I'm not totally sure I ship them forever… though in a sense I kind of ship Everyone/Everyone in Star Trek, particularly in XI, but I do love their relationship, and I think this scene is most representative of one of the things I love most about it, which Zach described better than I ever could when he said: 'Uhura is almost a canvas onto whom Spock can project the emotion that he is not able to express himself.' And I think that's very true. TOS!Spock grows to a point where his lack of emotion is really a facade: they talk about it in the show and the films like he hasn't got any, but it's clear that his emotions really do run very deeply and over time, he learns how to deal with them in ways that don't involve shutting down and pretending he doesn't feel them at all. But like the Spock we see in The Man Trap, XI!Spock isn't at that point yet: he's still awkward and earnest, a little bit uncomfortable in his own skin and amongst his fellow Starfleet officers, and unsure of how to balance his emotions with his pursuit of logic as the greatest virtue. So anyway. Picspams!

Stardate 1513.1 )

~ o ~ o ~ o ~

Stardate 2258.42 )
builtofsorrow: (moonstruck | all to set alight)
I will always think of September 11, 2001 as the Kennedy Assassination of my adolescence. It’s not because of any parallels between the actual events that could possibly be drawn; it’s rather because like the members of my parents’ generation who have told me their memories of Kennedy’s death, September 11 is the day whose story I will preface with, ‘I remember where I was…’, when I tell my hypothetical future children about it, when I weave my history into America’s, into the world’s. My mother was five years and four months old when Kennedy was shot, and she doesn’t remember, but my father is seven years her senior, and I remember him telling me of it, of how he was sitting in school and how he felt hearing the news, and I never understood how that moment, that day could exist so crystallized in his memory until I was fifteen years old, sitting cross-legged on my mother’s bedroom floor with my back against our old blue sectional sofa, fingers slack around the remote and my whole body still with shock and horror and devastation and denial as I watched the second tower fall. And I remember thinking then, in the midst of all of it, that I would grow to tell my children, or someone’s children, of the day I woke up and wandered downstairs to collect the newspaper and make myself a cup of tea, as I always did; of how my mother was on her treadmill, as always, but instead of our traditional acknowledgment of each other, she turned her face toward me and edged one ear of her headphones forward off her ear and said, ‘Go back upstairs and turn on the television; the radio says a plane’s crashed into the World Trade Center’; and I, in wonderment that my mother was actually telling me to watch tv and accompanied by naive thoughts of Orson Welles, went back upstairs and watched.

It’s nine years later, and the Pentagon is whole again, and there’s a gorgeous memorial, quiet and powerful, pointing to the section once ruined. There’s a memorial being built in a field in Pennsylvania. And in New York City, there’s a scar in the skyline and a pit in the pavement that’s slowly being filled in, and there’s a museum that has gathered together not only pieces from that day but also what came after: the cards and the gifts and the photos and the messages of the countries of the world, so many of whom were also affected that day: countries who lost citizens, and citizens of those countries who lost mothers and fathers and daughters and sons (and brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts and and). And for those of us who have the luxury not to think about it every day, there’s this day every year when we wonder at and ponder the scars again, when we summon up the memories and wake the ghosts and try again to make sense of that day.

I was so much younger then. There was so much I didn’t know of the world, so much I didn’t understand about humanity. And it’s not that I know or understand so very much more now, but I think more often, now, of what I will tell those hypothetical someones about this day in ten more years. Nine, eight, seven years ago, I would have called this day an attack on America, and it was, in a more than literal sense, but as time goes on I become more and more aware that the fact is that the nearly 3,000 people who died on that day were simply that: people. They were human beings, and my outrage now, my devastation, isn’t based on any sort of national pride or loyalty. It’s based on what I have seen in the eyes of friends and colleagues when they speak of who or what they lost that day, based on the words people I know won’t say and the places they won’t go, based on my uncle crying when we watch a documentary about the Pentagon victims, some of whom were his friends, and me pretending like I’m crying for them and not for him. It’s based on the fact that on every September 11, my social network feeds are filled with the memories about those lost by people from all over the world. It’s based on the love I have and the pain I feel for every single person hurt that day, struck that day, personally and permanently scarred by that day: people who might be Americans but aren’t necessarily, people of every race, colour, creed, religion, gender, sex, and every adjective in every language of the world.

And when I speak of this day to my children, when I weave my own history into the world’s like I have a right to do it, I will speak to them of the flood of patriotism that we Americans suddenly all felt, of all the flags that everyone suddenly remembered they had, of the things of which we were reminded, having so often taken them for granted. But I will speak to them not as the American I felt I was that day, not as a person who lives in a country, but rather as a person who lives in this world. I will tell them how in the years following that day, I began to see this planet not as countries made up of people but as people made into countries. I will tell them how I felt the world continuously shrinking, how I saw the lines I had grown up drawing in my mind fading, how I saw the extent to which the life I had sometimes thought I had a right to was the result of a series of coincidences. I will speak to them of the desperation that I have never felt and will very likely never feel that made 19 people so desperately angry that their desire to hurt trumped their desire to live. And I will not excuse them or their actions, but I will tell my children that what I have seen in the world since has made me understand, to the infinitesimal extent that one can understand what one has never lived, why the faults of humanity lead to places like this, to scars like these, to me cross-legged on the floor with my back against an old blue sofa.

And when I speak of this day to my children, I will tell them to remember this day and the other days like it, when the people in this world hurt each other in uncountable, unfathomable, inexpressible ways. I will teach them to remember, the way I have been taught to remember, that every single person in the world holds histories inside of themselves. I will tell them to seek out those stories. I will tell them to learn about and from what and who they think is Other than them, and I will tell them to work to erase those lines because they are constructs of our own pride, of our own fear. And I will tell them to remember all of this not out of hatred or fear but out of love. I will tell them to temper everything they do and are with love, as much as it is possible for them to do so. Because this is what that girl nine years ago didn’t know then, couldn’t see that she would learn in the years subsequent to those moments she sat crying as flickering pictures of towers collapsing in on themselves flashed in front of her: in this fight to heal the wounds that we humans inflict on each other in a horrific and seemingly-endless cycle, love isn’t a perfect weapon, but it’s the best one we’ve got.
builtofsorrow: (dw | in amongst impossible things)
Posting this before I attempt to kick myself off the internet for the next 20 hours or so and get some sleep/actual work done. (Mostly because I've been working on this for far too long.)

title: Into a Starry Night
rating: G
word count: ~850
character(s): Wilfred Mott, Nancy.
summary: Wilf, during the Blitz.
notes: Meant to be set during 5x03: Victory of the Daleks (because let's face it: a cameo by bb!Wilf would've been brilliant), but there are actually no spoilers as such. There's a lot more to this story, somewhere, and it probably doesn't actually involve Wilf being an orphan, but I totally troped myself right through that, in part to preserve my sanity, because this wouldn't leave me alone in spite of exams. Most of my knowledge of the London Blitz is based on a vague remembrance of history courses, New!Who episodes, and Wikipedia, so… I did attempt to avoid going too in-depth, but if there's anything glaringly inaccurate , I blame Moffat, do feel free to point it out.

For [livejournal.com profile] such_heights & [livejournal.com profile] faeriemaiden, who are actually much less to blame for this than I am willing to admit. ♥

Title from A Song on the End of the World, by Czesław Miłosz.


[S]ometimes Wilf feels very, very old, like his soul got mixed up with someone else's and put into the wrong body. )

builtofsorrow: (politik | i'm also secretly a muslim)
The Manifesto of An Angry Feminist

Note - The use of the specifically singular article is very purposeful here: while, frankly, I think society could do with a lot less condemnation of feminist outrage, this is most definitively not anything to do with Why Everyone Should Be Angry. This is why I am angry, and that is all the justification I offer for it.

Over time I have chosen many words to define myself; some stay with me for a long time, most of them shift eventually, but right now, today, these are fundamental: I am a woman, I am a feminist, and I am angry. )
builtofsorrow: (Default)
title: Put a Ring On It
rating: G
word count: ~600
character(s)/pairing(s): Gretchen Berg, Sylar. Implied/Assumed Sylar/Peter & Gretchen/Claire.
summary: Just like honesty needs a little plus, sometimes fate needs a little push. And no one can ever say Sylar doesn't appreciate the wisdom of the classics.
author’s notes: Clichéd title is clichéd.

[livejournal.com profile] trinsy_fics is about 60% responsible for the fact that this exists (& I mean that in the best of ways!), mainly because today is her half-birthday, which calls for more celebration than I can manage from the opposite side of the continent (D:). So at the very least, it called for an extension into fic of our fangirly e-mails. (We'll celebrate for real[sies] next month when you're here! ♡)

Sylar is still Sylar because I don't think he can ever go back to being Gabriel Gray, which I feel is important to note, but this is set in a future where he's not, you know, killing everyone. That said, this isn't really an AU fic as much as a prequel to The Most Logical Future for Our Heroes, and mainly that future involves lots of Sylar making pancakes, everyone being Awesome & Happy, and some other things that don't pertain to this fic so I won't mention them right now. (It also, in my own mind, involves a New York Senate that's made up of adults who keep their promises.) Anyway.


'It's about time you made an honest woman out of my niece.' )

builtofsorrow: (polska | urbanite | florianska)
Dear Caban,

It is 11 November, and it is Armistice/Veterans/Remembrance Day. In Poland, that beautiful country in which our lives became intertwined, it is Independence Day too.

I wish I could see you. I wish I could, once more, link my arm in yours (feeling your frailty even through the layers of our winter clothes and coats) and walk with you through the city that brought us together, walk down cobblestone streets and past buildings and through cemeteries that you have known for years and I am only just learning. I wish I could once more try to wrap my mind and my mouth around your language as you do the same with mine and we struggle to understand each other, as you tell me your story & I ask you questions in fragments. As I gather your history and bind it up deep within my soul because my history exists in many ways through yours and because of you, and I will never stop treasuring this.

I remember, not thirty minutes after we had met, watching you from across a room as you tried to pour cream into your coffee and most of it ended up on the table, hampered as you were by the sightlessness of that deceptively-colored bit of glass filling in the space where your eye had been. I wanted to cry and help and fix you all at once, because I knew that you were a reason the city we would wander through later that day had been rebuilt and still existed, and cancer had stolen from you what two armies could not. And hours later, as we stood in a cemetery, surrounded by too-many-graves, I remember watching you, hampered by cold and wind and your stripped-away depth perception, struggling to light zniczy for the friends and the parents and the city and the nation for whom they and you had given so much. One red, one white: Polska.

I wondered then what offering my help would mean. If it would be stripping you of one more thing that you by rights should have had, or if reaching out my hand to steady yours would communicate a desire to attempt to honor in the smallest, admittedly inadequate way everything you embodied. I remember then how we walked through more graves and more graves and more graves, and we stopped and bowed our heads over the graves of your parents: your father had 38 years, you told me. I noticed that your mother had 31. You told me they died as soldiers. You told me that when you were a boy, everyone was a soldier.

I remember the way your hands felt on my face, soft and cold and full of a history that became a part of me that day. I remember the way you took off your gloves and you curved your gnarled, gorgeous fingers around my jaw and held my face steady as you told me that my eyes reminded you of your mother's. You told me I was beautiful, like she was. You told me she had 31 years. I remember how the inside of me felt like it was ripping apart.

Later, I wrote about you. My words were inadequate by necessity, because no one, least of all I, could ever write about you in the manner in which you deserve. You deserve the highest accolades, written in the most beautiful language in the most beautiful sequences of words ever woven together. But much as I treasure words: your life and the beauty of it, what you meant to all of history – it is the summer of 1944 and this is Warszawa and here are you and your comrades-in-arms and everyone is a soldier in the army that even its allies won't help and the Nazis are systematically destroying all but fifteen percent of your city and the Red Army sits across the river as you fight and fight and fight – this could not then and cannot now be put into words in an adequately meaningful way.

That beauty, that meaning, it was tangled in the contortions of your hands; it lived in the wrinkles of your skin and the depths of your remaining eye and the curve of your smile that all the hideousness and evil in the world could not destroy. It was in the tremors of your hand as you lit zniczy. It was in the strength of your frail body as we linked arms and shuffled through ice and snow to pay respect to those who didn't survive. It was in the air between us as we created meanings for each other with the language we cobbled together from our separate, native tongues. It was in the way I felt once more, when I was a continent away and told that we, the world, had lost you forever, like the inside of me was ripping apart. It was there, in Warszawa, when I returned last summer and wandered through the city I had once hated but learned to love because you showed me the miracles underlying its very existence. It is, I hope, wrapped up inside of me, part of who I am and pushing me toward something I will become because you told me your story.

It is 11 November, Caban, and I remember, because you taught me that I can never forget.
builtofsorrow: (dw | jack | oh captain my captain)
title: This Ship Could Be a Little More Sonic
rating: PG
word count: ~1,700
character(s)/pairing(s): Janice Rand, Jim Kirk, Leonard McCoy, Gaila, & a bit of Scotty. Implied/Assumed Kirk/McCoy.
summary: Kirk has the Greatest Costume Idea Ever for Halloween. Small details like convincing Bones of this aren't going to get in his way. (Maybe.)
author’s notes: I wish I had an excuse for this especially the last section Idon'tevenknow. I did eat some chocolate earlier? Can I plead insanity by homework? Suffice to say: this is rather cracky. Except for the part where James T. Kirk is totally a Whovian, with the action figures & sonic screwdriver to prove it. That's just a fact.


'Please don't take this as a sign that I'm asking, but even wondering why you need any costumes whatsoever, not to mention acquiring them for you, is so far out of my job description that I can't even think of a proper metaphor to describe it. But I'm sure it would involve a different galaxy.' )


cross-posted to [livejournal.com profile] st_reboot
builtofsorrow: (st | this simple feeling (ot3))
title: Well, There Goes the Neighborhood
rating: G
word count: ~1,000
character(s)/pairing(s): Spock POV, with Bones, Kirk, Spock Prime, & Uhura. Assumed Spock/Uhura.
summary: In which Spock is illogically annoyed by the Ambassador, Jim finds out something no one wanted to tell him about his alternate self, and the Ambassador is amused.
author’s notes: Because long weekends are clearly not for homework, I watched The Wrath of Khan last night, wherein it is revealed that TOS!Kirk also beat the Kobayashi Maru by cheating thinking originally. Only, you know, he got a commendation for it. Which I actually already knew, but. This obviously had to be written. (Also, I realize I've exaggerated the extent of Vulcans' "emotionlessness"; it was done purposefully.) Title from Leonard Nimoy's Highly Illogical.

For [livejournal.com profile] trinsy_fics, who's managed to do a stellar job of surviving the first two weeks of The Semester of Six Literature Courses and clearly deserves something for it. (I seriously tried to make it another installment of Little Navigators, but alas!) Only fourteen weeks to go! &hearts!


'Well, we can't all give each other commendations for cheating,' Spock says (with the utmost respect, of course), in-between bites of vegetables. )


crossposted to [livejournal.com profile] st_reboot
builtofsorrow: (st |i cannot say i was ready for this)
title: Big Brothers, Big Sisters: Little Navigators
rating: PG (for minor language & slight innuendo (because I am secretly 12))
word count: ~1,500
character(s)/pairing(s): Primarily Kirk, with appearances by McCoy, Scotty, Spock, Sulu, & Uhura; assumed Spock/Uhura, but it's only a brief mention.
author’s notes: This fic was written for the great occasion of [livejournal.com profile] trinsy_fics's birthday. (She is 20 today: \o/! & she is also the best little sister pretty much ever. She's kind of the TOS!Spock to my TOS!Bones, except we aren't totally married (obvs, as she's my sister), but the point is: she's awesome & logical & wise & brilliant & always willing to tell it how it is. She's also hilarious, even though she doesn't see it, and she does things like stay up with me until 3am watching Star Trek | TOS & snickering over the slashy subtext & cracky goodness that the whole show embodies. She's fabulous, is what I'm saying, & I adore her.)

Anyway, the fic: it's also a result of an e-mail she sent me telling me why it had to be written (which means it is all her fault). This is like crack on crack. Which, okay, that's also the definition of Star Trek itself in a lot of ways, so I would try to come up with a better simile, but really, I'm just going to shut up & post it, mmkay? (Unbeta'd, so please feel free to let me know if you catch any travesties.)


[F]or someone who likes to wax eloquent about how the intricacies of human emotion escape him, or whatever, Spock has both an awful lot of advice about a captain's relationship with his crew members and no apparent qualms about doling it out. )


crossposted to [livejournal.com profile] st_reboot
builtofsorrow: (st | janice is not your barista)
title: Earth Is Like the Midwest of the Federation Planets
rating: PG, I guess? (for a bit of language and thematic elements)
word count: ~2,500
character(s)/pairing(s): Winona Kirk, primarily. George Kirk, vague appearances by Winona’s mother, Captain Robau, and James Tiberius. The requisite Winona/George.
author’s notes: Once upon a time, [livejournal.com profile] such_heights linked to [livejournal.com profile] latropita’s letter to Winona Kirk, which I may or may not have cried over (I totally did). And then another time, I started getting annoyed because I kept reading Winona written as kind of a bitch, so I decided to up the number of portrayals of her as AWESOME. Apparently. I’m giving it a shot, okay? I hope I succeeded. This is so un-betaed (other than my own, slightly obsessive self-editing) it isn’t even funny (so if you see any travesties, do give a shout).

On another note: I considered research; in fact, I began research. But then I thought: dammit people, I’m a fanfic writer oh, to hell with it. In other words, I’m ignoring some canon, some not!canon, a [likely significant] amount of stuff I have no clue about, and I’m making it my prerogative to make most of this up.

‘Seriously though, sometimes I think about the fact that growing up in small-town Iowa made me want to live anywhere but there, you know? Our kid will probably hate space.’ )


crossposted to [livejournal.com profile] st_reboot & [livejournal.com profile] where_no_woman
builtofsorrow: (nmtb | barrowman | talk to the hand)
Originally via [livejournal.com profile] such_heights & now Twitter/The Internet at Large:

Amazon.com, since February, apparently, has been de-ranking and removing from their search engine books they label as ‘adult’; i.e., both eliminating the 'offending' books from bestseller lists and making these books more difficult - & in some cases nigh impossible - to find on their site.

The very basic fact is that this makes pretty much no sense whatsoever, given that a) their own Terms of Service state they don’t sell books to children, b) they’re in the bookselling business & people should be able to choose if they want to see books; if there’s such a problem, engage something like Google’s safe search, y/y? But beyond that, it appears that this censorship is targeting the LGBT community. It’s not only such books that have been affected, but it seems to be the trend: the children’s book Heather Has Two Mommies is de-ranked, whilst things in the Playboy category are not.

Stephen Fry’s autobiography, Moab is My Washpot? De-ranked. Let me tell you, that book is not graphic. Now, I wouldn’t let my ten-year-old read it, necessarily, but I also wouldn’t let my ten-year-old read Everything is Illuminated, which is certainly more sexually graphic, and has not been de-ranked. I'm just waiting for them to get to the actual Wilde; one biography has already been struck, as has John Barrowman's autobiography.

Censorship ftl, Amazon. Selective, discriminatory censorship? Oh HELL no.

Relevant links:

Continually updating list of links concerning the issue.
List of affected authors.

ETA: Amazon Rank, purposes described here.

ETA 2: LA Times for the win.

ETA 3: First statement from Amazon appears, stating it's all due to a 'glitch'. (I (along with many others) say it's an awfully suspicious & selective glitch, but ooookay. Assume we'll hear more from them soon.)

ETA 4 & Final: Updates to this & the beginnings of resolution are here, compiled by [livejournal.com profile] such_heights, including better commentary than I could offer, I am sure.

I know some are now saying that outrage was perhaps a bit overdramatic and preemptive, but you know what? I'd rather see outrage that was certainly justified than have such things ignored. No matter what Amazon says about this being an embarrassing and accidental error on this part, no matter how true its claims may be, the situation was unjust and wrong, and I would rather see 'overdramatic' fury than idle apathy.
builtofsorrow: (moonstruck | all to set alight)
title: If I'm Crazy, I'm Crazy For You
fandom: Bones
pairing: Hodgins/Wendell
rating: PG
words: ~550
notes: Title from Adele's Crazy for You. Other than that... well. I've had these two in my head for days, because a) they pretty much define adorable, and b) I've been lurking a lot at [livejournal.com profile] wendellhodgins (which is where bits of the assumed canon in this come from, which should definitely be mentioned. yay fellow shippers! \o/). And then some other things happened, and now there's this.

'Oh god,' Wendell groans, sinking down a bit further into the cushion and covering his eyes with the hand that's not already entwined with one of Jack's. 'Does the concept of a secret mean nothing anymore?' )
builtofsorrow: (tw | ianto | men are confusing)
title: Penned in This Century's Type-Ruined Hand
fandom: Torchwood
pairing: Jack/Ianto
rating: PG-ish(?), for some innuendo.
words: ~1,000
author's notes: Title from Lisa Hannigan's Venn Diagram. Annnnd... apparently I'm on a sappy kick. I have no excuse for this, other than that it's Christmastime, and I have entered into full-on Laura-Linney-in-Love-Actually Mode (for those to whom that means nothing: I am fully in the throes of unrequited love angst). This might be a bit cavity-inducing, is what I'm saying.

Written for [livejournal.com profile] trinsy_fics, because I a) love her, and b) know she could use a bit of cheering. &hearts!

Jack falls in love with Ianto at least once a week. )
builtofsorrow: (politik | i'm also secretly a muslim)
Put together on a high of hope and happiness and the prospect of no more Bush! No, I wasn't the most passionate of Obama supporters, and maybe my vote began as more of a vote against McCain than for anyone, but now the election is over, there's an excitement I've suddenly acquired at all the possibility in the next four years given whom we've elected. And oh, really, I just can't stop listening to these songs, so I figured I'd share.

'This is our time, to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth that out of many, we are one, that while we breathe, we hope. And where we are met with cynicism and doubts and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people: Yes, we can.' )

I love my country
By which I mean
I am indebted joyfully
To all the people throughout its history
Who have fought the government to make right
Where so many cunning sons and daughters
Our foremothers and forefathers
Came singing through slaughter
Came through hell and high water
So that we could stand here
And behold breathlessly the sight
How a raging river of tears
Cut a grand canyon of light

Ani DiFranco
builtofsorrow: (dw | donna noble)
title: On This End of the Telescope (You're Mostly a Ghost)
character(s): Ten, Donna Noble; Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, & Hermione Granger
rating: G
word count: ~2,300
spoilers: DW 4x13 (Journey's End) & Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows. To be extra cautious: [very] vague references to DW 4x2 (Fires of Pompeii), 4x5 (The Poison Sky), & 4x6 (The Doctor's Daughter).
notes: Written for [livejournal.com profile] dw_cross.
Title from Jakob Dylan's This End of the Telescope; betaed and inspected by my resident canon expert [livejournal.com profile] trinsy_fics (&hearts!)


(here in death you see new adventures grow) )
builtofsorrow: (tw | maybe this could save us)
title: Five Times Captain Jack Harkness Fell In Love With One of His Team Members (& One Time He Knew It Would Last)
characters: Jack Harkness, mentions of Suzie, Tosh, Owen, Gwen, Martha, Ianto, & the Doctor
rating/warnings: PG to PG-13ish (for a bit of swearing). Some slash, obviously.
words: ~1,500
spoilers: None, really.
notes: Written (in rather a bit of a rush, so I make no promises) for the lovely [livejournal.com profile] safebox/[livejournal.com profile] such_heights on her birthday, and originally posted at [livejournal.com profile] willbetime.

‘I bring you all the way to Desidnufor, and all you two do is sneak away for a snog?’ )
builtofsorrow: (dw | our hearts are way beyond capture)
title: Beginning After the End
characters: Martha Jones; appearances by Jack Harkness, Tish Jones, the Doctor, and various others.
rating: G (maybe thematically PG?) pretty much, though the song Dust of Ages has one use of the word 'f---ing'.
spoilers: To be safe, all of S3, and references to what I've read in interview spoilers about what Martha's doing during S4.
disclaimer: I don't own any of it (or much else besides).
notes: I've never been totally at peace with the way S3 ended, so in a lot of ways this was an attempt to exorcise those demons. I've been collecting the various songs for awhile now: songs that reminded me of Martha and how she feels about the Doctor and that reflected how the world must have changed for her after everything we saw her go through (or heard about her going through later). As a final note, one bit of fic is reused from my piece No Longer at Ease (In the Old Dispensation), so if it looks familiar, it's because I plagiarised myself.

Compiled & Written for the [livejournal.com profile] lifeonmartha Countdown to Martha.

With infinite thanks to my beta, [livejournal.com profile] lexiedoh.

After every war/someone has to clean up./Things won't/straighten themselves up, after all. (Wisława Szymborska) )

-Screencaps for cover art are from Adventures in Time & Space.

-I'm more than willing to upload things to different servers; just let me know. (It may take me a bit to get back to you, but it's really no problem.)

-Comments and con-crit are equally appreciated and adored. ♥
builtofsorrow: (nmtb | christnukah)
title: This is Torchwood
characters: Martha Jones; the members of Torchwood Three
rating: PG
words: ~2,500
spoilers: This is really not canon, so not a whole lot, really, though there are references to 1x06 ('Countrycide'), and 1x07 ('Greeks Bearing Gifts').
disclaimer: I don't own any of it (or much else besides).
author's notes: Written for the [livejournal.com profile] lifeonmartha Ficafest, and yes, finished embarrassingly late. -hides- I claimed the prompts Christmas at Torchwood & Reference to Ancient Greece (which ended up being references to 300, but hey, that's set in Ancient Greece, so it totally counts, right?).
Many thanks to my usual lovelies: [livejournal.com profile] un_titled_love, [livejournal.com profile] lexiedoh, and [livejournal.com profile] trinsy_fics, who listened, encouraged, and betaed along the way.

'For Torchwood-' Martha continues. 'For freedom-' Ianto adds. 'How many times have you two watched that film?' Jack asks, laughing helplessly. )
builtofsorrow: (hp | lupin | you smell like moonlight)
Now that the reveals are up, I can finally claim my fic from [livejournal.com profile] hp_holidaygen. I mentioned before that I wasn't particularly fond of it after I first wrote it. It's grown on me since then, and there are bits of it I quite like, but I am well aware of the fact that it's not my best work. That said, it's not the worst either, by far. (Not to frighten anyone off, or anything. -shuts up-)

title: Acclimatisation
character(s): Remus Lupin
rating: G
word count: ~1,500
notes: Remus in the inter-years.
Originally written for the [livejournal.com profile] hp_holidaygen fic exchange.
Title from Czesław Miłosz's Notes on Exile.
As much thanks as possible goes to [livejournal.com profile] lexiedoh, who got me through my ridiculously angsty phase of writing this, and to [livejournal.com profile] trinsy_fics, my canon expert.

'Acclimatisation: After many years in exile one tries to imagine what it is like not living in exile.' Czesław Miłosz )



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