actually i don't care how you feel about supernatural. if you're just looking for ANY dope fic, go to AO3 and read anything by orange_crushed. she is my bestie and her fic is dope. and i wrote a fic with her called pie without plot and it's basically my pride & joy. GO FORTH
Sweet. I’ve always been interested in Supernatural, but I’m going in blind. This should be interesting. Wheee.
<b><b></b> Frooit:</b> I had some weird dreams<p><b>Raserei Virus:</b> oh? What of?<p><b>Frooit:</b> We were hanging out with Sherlock. Instead of getting around by London cab... He was zooming around on one of those modified bicycles. In full garb, trenchcoat and all. Leaning back all intense. Wtf.<p><b>Raserei Virus:</b> like, the Cumberlock?<p><b>Raserei Virus:</b> or the Downeylock?<p><b>Frooit:</b> Cumberlock<p><b>Raserei Virus:</b> OK cool<p><b>Frooit:</b> Concerned about emissions<p><b>Raserei Virus:</b> hahaha<p><b>Frooit:</b> And cardio<p><b>Raserei Virus:</b> that doesn't sound like him. At all.<p><b>Frooit:</b> Nope. So weird.<p><b>Frooit:</b> Totally want to rewatch some Cumberlock<p><b>Raserei Virus:</b> I take it you like that name? haha<p><b>Frooit:</b> Absolutely<p><p>
A snippet from the Pacific fic I’m working on. Kind of. This is always a weak attempt to spark my muse. I’d rather set it on fire at this point. I always lose my steam before things can really kick off.
Story of my life.
Home isn’t always where your heart is.
He is pretty sure that was ripped from him somewhere back in the Pacific anyway. Or maybe later. Who can really say?
The big guy upstairs could, but he’s sure not looking to give him the hand. He barely seems to remember his name these days.
Since being home he’s been slow to warm up; he has trouble with crowds; he no longer enjoys hunting; hugging even his mother is difficult; having a job is impossible.
His former self is a fog long dispersed.
The family doctor, good ol’ Dad, tells him that he will be able to carry on. He’s seen it before, it will pass in time. And maybe he can, and maybe he’s beginning to believe it, but there’s a lesson to be learned and civilian life is slower to teach it.
It isn’t until later that he learns just how much it has to do with that torn muscle.
I like it well enough. It’s pretty bland as it stands. And it’s an idea that’s been done before. And then more. Coming home, starting a new life, living together, etc.
This bunny is biting regardless. I’ve got to put my spin on it. You know… UST and rambling and blood and metaphors and less than perfect grammar and cursing and cliffhangers.
Plot has never been my strong suit. I like character delving, fleshing out. I also fear I repeat myself endlessly. Not in one piece, but over all of them collectively. And not in a cool, Stephen King sort of way. A forgetful, lazy sort of way. Can also just have ‘em sit and muse for a thousand words and maybe suggest at an underlying theme once. Or not. And then get bored and end it all weird, feeling regret, because I could have done better.
I really miss that feeling of posting new and fresh fic and then waiting, in such heightened anticipation, for the reception. The feeling of heady accomplished and terrified glee. Slowly coming to the few comments that either made it worth it. Or didn’t.
Named after the state, or maybe that girl with rocks filling her pockets to the brim and the pull of a river over head. Either way you’re Virginia, a street like any other, a road leading to a destination, a pathway to a place. For most you’re tarmac, asphalt, gravel, and…