i_am_tl_dr: (existential owl)
Title: Lying is the most fun you can have without taking off your clothes
Character: unnamed
Rating: R for general not-goodness?
Notes: [livejournal.com profile] itsproductivity July 02.


These are the frequently asked questions.

What medications are you on? What have you been on? Do you know exactly what the diagnosis from your prior doctor was?

pick a page, any page )
i_am_tl_dr: (gunplay)
Title: Got to Spend Some Time
Character: Dewey and Parker, Bad Cop AU
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2536
Notes: [livejournal.com profile] itsproductivity 4/17, 4/19, 4/23, and 4/30: Falling from grace; a time you did something you didn't want to do; this is not about... ; an injury. This is the Bad Cop AU, and Dewey's particularly bad in this one. Warning for non-con and the fact that I wrote this in a notebook over a week and a half of very scatterbrained days. >>


Sometimes it was useful having a journalist on my speed-dial. Parker and I were in good places to help each other-- I helped untangle a few legal knots, he dropped a couple big leads on dealers that needed and got put away right quick. Sometimes I tip him off for a story, and he keeps the press positive for the boys in blue. All very mutually beneficial.

valet service comes with an automatic 20% fee. )
i_am_tl_dr: (gunplay)
Title: Favors
Character: Dewey Ceinion (guest-starring Ambrose Parker, lol)
Rating: R
Word count: 1391
Notes: [livejournal.com profile] itsproductivity 4/12: Dubious intentions. I can't resist AUs, and this is particularly early-onset. Dewey's archetype is the New Cop. But it was a close pick between that and the Bent Cop. Very dubious consent issues.



the thrill of blood comes instantly; there's only darkness at the finish. )

Smoke

Apr. 13th, 2008 02:07 am
i_am_tl_dr: (gunplay)
Title: Smoke
Character: Dewey Ceinion
Rating: R
Word count: 997
Prompt: [livejournal.com profile] itsproductivity 4/10: "I still don't know..." Started with the prompt and it took off in another direction, but fuck it. Dewey in Seattle, 2004.


Seattle fits my shoulders with fog like a new shirt, until the heat of the raging fire burns away the moisture and leaves me warm from my nose back. Serial arson, fourth apartment building in three weeks to go up. At least this one was condemned, the others had occupants. Everyone was pissed off about this, cops, firefighters, all the way to the guys playing chess in coffee shops.

"You should get back from there," one of the firefighters shouts, muffled behind his helmet. I don't have to see his face to know it's Finn. He hates it when I show up at his alarms, figuring I'm too young and dumb a cop to know when to back off from a gigantic fucking inferno. "Go, Ceinion, take a hike." Rolling my eyes, I follow orders like a good boy. If Finn Flannery wants to order me around, hell, he doesn't argue with me when I'm the one on duty.

cops and firemen. )
i_am_tl_dr: (gunplay)
Title: Raindrop Intuition
Character: Dewey Ceinion
Rating: R for language. (Dewey's got a dirty mouth.)
Word count: 639
Notes: [livejournal.com profile] itsproductivity 4/4: It was a rainy day. Testing out the narrative form I'm supposed to be using for Dewey's game.


I'd flipped my coat collar up before I left the precinct. Didn't stop the rain from making rivers down the back of my neck, though. One of these days I'll give in and buy a fedora like all the good cops wore in the old movies, but that night I was all wet, and so were my leads. I'd been chasing tipoff to tipoff, a game of he-said-she-said that ended, so they said, in quite a tidy stash of heroin. At least it wasn't meth; one explosion like that was enough for my career.

only crazy motherfuckers in Clark County. )
i_am_tl_dr: (tl;dr)
[livejournal.com profile] itsproductivity, January 23, 24 and 28.


You were the first one I loved.

Sure, maybe we were only six at the time, and to me love meant sharing nicely during play time and agreeing to use the seesaw together and not let each other fall, but isn't that a pretty solid basis for love even later in life? You were the first one I loved, and the first one I could share with and support. I didn't even share with my cousins like that. I couldn't trust my own brother on a seesaw, and I had the scars to prove it, but you didn't hurt me.

I slipped away from class every day, too smart for the A-B-Cs, and I sat tiny and brave in with the second graders while you and everyone else puzzled through 'cat' and 'hand', and when you're six years old no one knows hate well enough to hold that against you. When I was six, I was cool because I was smart.

When I was seven, I was in a new school, the one that picked the smart kids out of other schools in the city. By the time I was eight, I hardly remembered my kindergarten friends, too busy with new ones, and no one ever teased me again about my little Asian boyfriend with the name of a kitchen spice. I heard you moved to Canada, to England, to Texas; I heard that you never left New Bedford. We never really said goodbye, because who thinks that summer vacation means goodbye? It's see-you-later, even kindergardeners know that.

You were the first one I loved, Basil, and everyone knew it. You were the first one I left, all wide-eyed and ready for a new adventure, and moved on from sharing and playing nice to chasing scared boys around to threaten them with kisses. It didn't take long for affection to become a weapon, for closeness to be used in all the wrong ways, for the lack of spice in my life to turn bitter from blandness.

When I was little, I thought that a house with a library room, a big yard, a dog and a pool and someone to love were as good as it got, the image my parents set out for me an unsurpassable ideal. When I was little, all I needed to fly was a swingset, or a seesaw, and someone to help me into the air.

I've lowered my standards since I was a kid. I can settle for an apartment, a bookshelf, a window flower box and a bathtub, a cat for company. I'm scared of flying, too big for swings, traumatized from being let fall from seesaws too many times, too scared to let anyone try and help me up. I look back on where I've been, everyone I don't know any more, and I try to convince myself that sometimes it's good not to dream too much, not to care.

I don't know what you're reaching for any more, Basil. I just hope that you've let yourself flourish. I hope you still trust people to balance you out, still believe in see-you-later and not goodbye. I hope you're happy. And I hope that if your parents made you get braces like mine did, that you actually wore your retainer like I didn't, because even with baby teeth you had a beautiful smile.

Stuck

Jan. 6th, 2008 08:15 pm
i_am_tl_dr: (existential owl)
Title: Stuck
Characters: sort of based on reality
Rating: PG
Word count: 960
Summary: For [livejournal.com profile] itsproductivity, January 5. "Write about your oldest superstition." It's a family thing.



I almost wasn't born.

My mother tells me that I was a wish come true. She was in a car accident a month before I was due; in the ambulance she wiped her face and found an eyelash stuck to her fingers. She put it on the back of her hand, wished for her child to be all right, and blew it off her skin, and it flew. So she tells the story, it was right then that she felt me kick for the first time since the crash.

revisionist history )

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