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Greysnyper Fanfiction ArchiveCollapse )

Two Bilbo Adventures

I'm spending a lot of time on Tumblr and while I've never really left any of my fandoms, I haven't been writing. Tumblr stalking other people has lead to more writing. Here are two drabbles tied into The Hobbit after a successful Christmas season of reading through all things Tolkien and seeing the movie four times (soon to be five).

Read more...Collapse )

I'm in the midst of cleaning the house (again, though I could never really say it's been cleaned fully yet. Like aspiring for utopia. There's just always setbacks.) before my trip. In a week I fly over to Europe, hang out with trunks_angel and then go beat up girls in Germany for martial arts. Life is just too cool lately.

Unfortunately, I don't keep my promises about updating here more often. The fact makes me sad, and I am sorry.

Tomorrow I go zip-lining for charity, so there's too much to do right now rather than stress. I'm exhausted, but the house must be cleaned and my room-mate is having an uncharacteristic mood of helping, which I must take advantage of.

Chinese food is ordered (SO HUNGRY) and clothes are being sorted. I hope some of you are still around. I hope it means something.

Life and love and happiness to y'all.



I Have Had One of Those...

It...it could have been a lot worse.

He tells himself this. He tells himself this a second time, coming to believe that he'll start to understand gratitude in just a moment. A moment, he just needs...

The blood dripping over his lip has a particular tang to it. Familiar, though he cannot appreciate that while he waits for the pain in his leg to stop. Any moment now, he'll pass the threshold of feeling shock and the unquenchable demand to collapse in on his person, and the pain will become bearable. Numbing, almost nice. Moments, he just needs to wait...

"Teh," he chokes back. It's a sound he makes again, with the next breath. The mask is blocking the torrent of tears, and Tim realizes that he's on the precipice of giving up on withholding a good cry.

It really could have been a lot worse. And he won. He did succeed and he's alive and...

All those things he had just let through. All the hits, and the way the man's aggression had just slipped past every defense. It had taken on a face it shouldn't have, and like a member of some audience watching a replay show again and again, Tim had just allowed it to happen. Small, confused, aware but helpless to avoid it. A train wreck, which was him all over.

The man was nothing special. Just a criminal, and yet he had taken on the reflection of everything in Tim's life right now.

His dad, the lie, the gang war, the Titans, the lie, the homework, the look Bruce had given him, the lie.


And he's crying. His nose runs and his eyes see red and black and the asphalt in the alley takes him, and it's indifferent and smells like rot. He'll get the grime and the diseases of the street on him, clinging to his cape, if he stays like this. It's all his body knows to do right now, though.

It's...it's okay. He thinks this, a kinder more rational part of him that doesn't make excuses for him. That side has Dick's voice, and is completely accepting Tim's need to let out the pent up things he's only now realized he's been hiding. There's nobody conscious enough to see him this weak. He's human and he's in pain, and perhaps much of the strikes against him could have been avoided. There were a few accidental injuries from his fall, and all of it now serves a purpose of being a conduit. A justification to cry and wheeze and crumple.

He does this for a few moments, starting to finally understand the gratitude he initially told himself he would feel. Nothing broken. Bruises, certainly. He's already feeling some reign of control coiling inside of him, stirring. He can push off of the ground and tells himself the stink will wash away. His eyes sting from crying, but his sinuses feel clear.

The bruises are dulling into the strange kind of ache that feels almost kind of good. He can live with it, and start to probe it for different threshold-feelings, stretch himself and sigh, forlorn.

He comes up composed, a little glad that he had been alone tonight. Bruce would have...he's not sure what Bruce would have done, or thought. Dick would have taken him, and some of Tim longs for that kind of time-line. The other is busy, though. He's out here for Dick, so he'll just make do.

And it wouldn't serve him to have the Titans see him like this. No, that wouldn't work at all. A part of him wishes it could be like that, but...but, no.

He hums and sniffs hard--snotty, yet nodding at the shadows in the alley and the broken crook in the corner. Sucks on his lip testing the sting, and then leaves, moving gingerly.

It's the closest he'll get to leaving his problems behind him.


Stacy fell down the back stairs taking the garbage out. I don't know how the neighbors over the fence didn't hear me sucking back cries from the grass. Maybe I wasn't as loud as I thought I was, or maybe they're just jerks.

I feel like an idiot.

But still, it could have been worse. I'm going to have the biggest bruise, but considering how close to my bike I was and how I probably unconsciously break-falled into that bruise (and nothing worse), I should be grateful.

I wish being a black belt meant I wouldn't have to be clumsy anymore. I suppose it's not an automatic thing, though. That I still need to be constantly working towards grace and caution, rather than inheriting it.

That's the way the world works and should work. And I understand this, but it doesn't mean I don't hate it for that. Stupid world.

On days where I fall down the stairs, a part of me secretly dreads the revelation that they were all wrong about me. That I'm not ready to be where I'm at, and that I'm never going to be. The "Bruce" look.

And I hate myself for thinking that, but it's mostly just the humility of having such an avoidable accident.

I'm tired and stressed out about money, and work, and how my house looks. There's only one other time that I've used getting hurt as an excuse to cry my face off over all the perceived stress in my life. Today was one of them.

I'll be better in the morning, which also comes with being black and blue.

Oh, that one moment with the lights down low. He's got sweat stinging his eyes and he keeps reaching up to them, pushing thick hair of the way. He wants to see them--his crowd.

And just like that, his fingers are on the neck of his guitar, fondling the frets.

"I played this, for the first time. It was in the shower, with my acoustic."

Oh God, mutters Tim, braced all the way in the back of the club. Someone will have gotten that online, and while Dick's turning fans into stalkers in person here (how could they resist?), a percentage will come from a virtual world--those future towns they'll visit. The cities, where encounters are just waiting to happen. It'll be hell to run security at future shows, Dick. Every time you open your damn mouth...

"It sounded terrible," laughs the man commanding all of their attention. "I wrote it for you."


At this point I'd love to:

--embed something here--

The problem is, I've got nothing new. Coldplay "Yellow" goes good with damn near anything, but this is old hat. And "Inside of Love" by Nada Surf is a close second, though that's likely because when I hum one, I inadvertently get sucked into the other. My brain thinks their guitars are the same, even though I think that's just a glitch in my memory.

I posted New Pornographers, which is my current newcomer lately, last weeks.

There's the new Death Cab (meaning old, I just found it late)...I don't think "Long Division" would be something Dick would sing. Tim would write it, but it's not something Dick would sing...I may even have shared that months ago. I can't remember.

Sooooo, how about someone share music with me for once. If Dick's serenading the world (possibly to annoy Tim--attention is attention) what the heck is he playing?


(Maybe I'm thinking of continuing old fictions. I'm a bad person. XD)

An observation on people.

Scapegoat means never having to say that the system is wrong.

Goddammit. I tore up my house looking for my only remaining copy of The Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker so I could fill in a response to jbmcdragon and in the end tried to do the best I could with what the internet had to offer in book review excerpts.


Hulk smash?

So, here I am. Source material. I guess I should just say what I want to say here and now. Please listen, because this is why it's essential for me to tell you:

This is important. This is for You.Collapse )


A Clean Bill Of Health

I had this idea earlier today at work. I know I'm jumping the queue with several other projects, but I care not for petty rules and self-inflicted regulations. I also think you should all listen to more Death Cab for Cutie.

Not the habitual fandom, but perhaps that'll fix itself further down the road. This is Spider-Man/Avengers, and apologies in advance for any incorrect canon-toting that I may or may not do. I don't actually own the story in question (which kicks this part off), and so it's all from memory.

[edit] I'm also really stunned at how long that took. Three hours! This is going to be problem-ful, because once my second job kicks up again I can't imagine spending three hours on any kind of writing. I write a lot at night, and, well, my new job starts at five-thirty in the morning. D'oh.[/edit]

Not the End He Had ExpectedCollapse )

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