Meda wanted more female!Bruce Banner fics to exist, and that got the plot bunnies swarming, so now this exists?

This also somehow turned into “the Avengers discuss Beowulf,” so I threw in some quotes and everything went downhill from there.

(Bruce Banner = Lucille Banner)

Lucille looked down into the barrel of the gun. Black. Like the night. Like the moment between unconsciousness and awake. Like dark lakes and dark moors, like every dingy hovel she’d escaped to, black like hatred and fear and loathing and despair.

Lucille squeezed the trigger.

The world split into blinding shades of green, and as she faded it only grew more vibrant.

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So I wrote a Cumberbatch!Chapel oneshot.

Chapel touched the corner of her eye and collected the tear before it could tremble down her cheek and smear her makeup. Raucous voices echoed in the hallway, made loader and looser with the addition of alcohol, but they faded into the background as Chapel gazed into the mirror and tried to clear her mind in the hopes that it’d clear away her tears, too.

“You look fine, you know,” a voice said, directed at her. In her surprise, Chapel dropped the mascara and it fell into the sink, clawing black streaks into the dirty porcelain. She saw a woman in the mirror smiling at her from an adjacent sink. The woman had an elaborate woven updo that Chapel stared at in wonder before she remembered herself and quit staring.

“Oh, thank you,” Chapel said. She retrieved her mascara and capped it hastily.

“You reapplied it twice. I thought I’d save you from taking the time to apply it again. So, is it some guy who’s got you into this state? If so, he’s a real jerk, and you should leave him.”

Chapel said nothing. Her fingers were curled around the counter, too tight. Roger Korby, laughing with his friends and clasping an empty glass in hand, the alien wine it once contained long downed. “A perfect woman, hmm… I’m always partial to shapely brunettes.” Chapel took in a breath. She forgot the woman beside her. There was only her form in the mirror and Roger’s words cutting into her thoughts.

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So I finished the first chapter to a MLP fic last night.

It’s incredibly depressing, which is mostly because of the theme, but so far I’m satisfied with how it’s turning out? (And yes, the title is indeed from the Emilie Autumn song of the same name)

Here’s the beginning (Warning: Contains themes of suicide):

Clouds blotted out the moon, or maybe it was Luna’s tears that smeared its light into the darkness. She felt as if the night and all of her stars were wrapped heavy around her, blotting her out, too. She wished that they would.

Luna lifted her wings. She soared over a lonely countryside, shadows collected in the rooms of every house, silence draped over the land like heavy dew. She turned sharply and flew a great distance away from all of the cities. She flew and flew, until her wings strained and burned and she could barely hold herself afloat.

Then she let herself drop.

 -

Luna awoke gradually. She stretched her legs, fluttered her wings a little to stretch them, too, and climbed out of bed. It never got any easier to wake up. But somewhere, buried deep in her thoughts, were vestiges of a devotion to some obligation that she had to perform, some purpose that she fulfilled.

Luna’s movements felt mechanical. Dusk was already fading; she needed to begin her duty soon. She walked down the halls and gazed at the late sunlight splashed orange and vibrant across the walls.

The rest of it (so far) can be found on my ff.n account here.

I’m half-tempted to submit it to Equestria Daily, but then I realize how terrible of a fic it is. And also I’ve never submitted anything there before what if my fic gets only like 2/5 stars? Ack! that’s worse than getting no reviews on ff.n.

Song: Snow White Queen (by Evanescence)

Can be listened to with lyrics here.

The rest of the fanmix is here.

Stoplight, lock the door.
Don’t look back.
Undress in the dark,
And hide from you,
All of you.

T’Pring stepped into the room, the door barred behind her without a lock. She removed her white dress, a shining beacon in the dim light, and folded it carefully before she set it aside. Bare and exposed, she stood there. Only military secrets protected her now. And those, she grasped tight around her, coiled up in her mind, and turned to face her captor.

The Commander stared at her with ruthless greed. She moved closer, and T’Pring shivered.

~

Joanna’s command was still fresh and unsure the day she captured the Vulcan ship. At the end of it, she had only one prisoner: a young, delicate Vulcan woman with possible Federation knowledge. An uncertainty.

She locked the woman away the first week. Something about her stirred strange sensations in Joanna, unnerving her with their potency.

“Why did your ship cross the border,” Joanna asked the Vulcan woman. She demanded it, not posing it as a question.

The woman only looked back at her, silent, cold. Her features were beautiful, her figure pleasing.

“You are at the mercy of the Romulan Star Empire. It would be unwise to act with impudence.” Frustrated, Joanna left her to her cage.

That night Joanna paced the width of her room, unable to find sleep. When she finally did, it was a restless sleep, full of fragmented dreams of her prisoner, clothing peeling away like the layers of non-emotion which obscured the woman.

She awoke abruptly, her heartbeat elevated.

~

“The physiology is the same,” The Commander said. “The blood.” She touched T’Pring’s fingers, the shock of them like ice. T’Pring’s breath caught, both of theirs did. “The pleasure,” the Commander murmured.

Some part of T’Pring wanted this. The heated tremble in her limbs, the feel of the Commander’s desire focused on her. The other part of her hesitated. Back at Vulcan, so far away, she had obligations to another.

Touching and touched. T’Pring projected the words into empty thought. Her flesh crawled, but in a pleasant way, with the pressure of the Commander’s skin against hers, moving, rubbing, a dance of fingertips and suggestion.

~
Joanna soon allowed the Vulcan woman access to the rest of the ship and a room meant more for a guest than a prisoner. Vulcans couldn’t be broken with the usual tactics, Joanna learned. Now, the woman slept only a few doors away from her.

 Joanna thought of that in her restless nights.

Her days passed in lesser torment, but in torment nonetheless. Her command was no longer her sole focus, as thoughts of the Vulcan woman began to draw her attention further and further away from her duty.

“What have you done to me?” she snapped at the woman. “What form of Vulcan mysticism is this?”

The woman defied her with a glance, her perfect lips sealed.

~

The music lifted, and T’Pring released the Commander’s fingers for a moment, then reclaimed them again. When had the music started? She couldn’t remember, anticipation crisp in her mind, blocking coherent thought.

The Commander pulled her closer and their bodies pressed flush against each other. T’Pring released a soft sound before she could prevent it, everything slipping out of her control.

~

Romulan music was quite inferior to that of other cultures. Even through her pride, Joanna admitted that. She had a strange fondness for it nonetheless, and she asked the computer to play a section of it on a whim one day when she had summoned the Vulcan woman to her quarters for questioning. That excuse weakened a little more each time Joanna used it.

But the woman’s beauty, her strange thrall, it never lessened.

Joanna thought that if things continued much longer in this manner, unresolved and unsatisfied, she’d lose her mind. She tried to steel her thoughts again, reminding herself of her ambitions, of her command. Then the woman spoke for the first time.

“I did not know that your people appreciate art,” she said, her voice soft and smooth.

Disbelieving, Joanna wondered if she’d imagined it. “What?”

“Your Empire, you produce music.”

“Of course. And we have dance as well.”

“Dance? I presumed that your culture was centered entirely on war.”

“You presume that there is a difference.”

Joanna showed her, then, the maneuvers of a dance. There was distaste in the woman’s eyes, but she complied, her movements hesitant yet precise.

“Romulan dance is styled as battle,” the woman stated.

“Of course.”

“And what about that of your people, Vulcan?”

“T’Pring.” the woman said. It took Joanna a long moment to understand that the woman had given her name. On the subject of Vulcans, T’Pring did not utter a single word.

~

T’Pring wondered when it had became this. She knew the progression of events, from the first dance to the second, when the Commander made her sexual interests known. Some part about it, consorting with the enemy in such a way, still revolted her.

“We’re the same, T’Pring,” The Commander purred. “Vulcan and Romulan, we still burn for one another.”

There was no escape. She couldn’t flee the ship, she couldn’t flee from this woman who stirred these sensations in her.

“Forget logic. There is no logic in this.”

T’Pring almost did. In lust, she returned the Commander’s touches, let them elicit sounds and reactions from her, let her already lost control slip away even further.

The Commander pressed her mouth to T’Pring’s ear and hissed a word.

T’Pring tried to say it, tried to voice a sound in the midst of the burning dance, but only afterwards could she free the word from her lips and breathe it into the dark room, “Joanna.”

You belong to me,
My snow white queen.
There’s nowhere to run, so let’s just get it over.
Soon I know you’ll see,
You’re just like me.
Don’t scream anymore my love, ‘cause all I want is you.

It’s not perfect.

It’s not entirely what I had in mind, but I had to sacrifice a little of that to explain how everything all came about in the first place.

Also, a lot of this ship consists of PWP without any legit porn (because I can’t write it and don’t particularly want to learn). I really don’t know how it turned out that way, but sex is the vehicle for their relationship dynamic most of the time, and major themes in this mix such as control, manipulation, lies, love is war, etc. are often explored through sex.

Next up: In which T’Pring masters the skill of manipulation and turns the tables a little.

It’ll probably be posted in a few days, because I have loads of homework again.

So I wrote a Sherlock fic.

It’s John/Sherlock, but honestly, it’s not really any slashier than the actual show is.

John waited impatiently. Overhead, one of the lights flickered a little, almost enough to be noticeable. His stomach protested the wait with a pathetic grumble. A waiter came by, and John ordered hot tea, black.

Movement shifted in the dim light. John craned his neck, sighed in annoyance, and went back to contemplating the menu as a couple strode past his table, the woman’s fancy dress smelling faintly of some freshened perfume, her hand tucked in the man’s gentle yet firm grasp. To amuse himself, John tried to construct a detailed background for the couple from the minute details as Sherlock always did. He got as far as judging them to be confidently wealthy from their tailored clothes when someone approached his table.

“You look lonely,” a man said, leering down at John. “Fancy that, I’m lonely too. Maybe we two lonely folks could offer each other some… comfort.”

“Not interested,” John said. “Sorry.” Something in the man’s almost hungry gaze put him off sharply.

The man took a seat opposite John anyways. “Maybe I could change your mind,” he said. When John opened his mouth to voice a protest, he caught the man’s eye and everything he wanted to say slipped from his thoughts.

“So you aren’t late,” John said curtly. “And what is this, anyways? Is this a date?”

“Do you date men?” Irene Adler asked, a glitter of amusement in her eye.

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The first part is here.

Warnings apply: It’s unedited. There is evil!Blaine, cloning, selfcest, and potentially disturbing things done as the result of Mad Science™. Also, I guess it’s Blaine/Sebastian? In addition to some brief Blaine/Blaine.

Also, look out for a few references to things in the fandom (mainly the Canoe).

This abomination can really only be described as a campy sci-fi horror fix-it crack!fic.

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Here’s everything I’ve got so far under a cut:

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Also, I should mention that the credit for the idea behind my Glee fic goes to Darren Criss.

I just added clones.

Blaine Anderson rolled up his sleeves. Then he reached for the knife on the table, testing its edge with his finger. The brief pain that welled up with a drop of blood proved the blade’s sufficiency. He set the knife down, the clatter of metal echoing in the room as it met the surface of the yet-unsullied laboratory table.

“Too quiet.” Blaine decided. He sang, releasing the note into the stale basement air. “This won’t do.” He stepped off of the stool, then bent down and pushed it underneath the table. “Changes will have to be made.” The knife caught his eye again, its wicked steel gleaming in the florescent light, his blood, his DNA, caught as a beautiful wash on the blade.

“Oh! I know!” Blaine clapped his hands together. He turned, slowly, towards a little, cracked mirror on the wall.

And then, at only five years old, he successfully began to grow a human clone.

 -

More than working with flesh, however, Blaine preferred the cold, slick feeling of metal against his skin. He constructed a metal boy on a whim one month and gave him a mechanical voice box as well. Blaine’s own clockwork bird in a cage, built to sing beautiful music at the will of its master. The boy had no face. No distinguishing features. Just a polished surface as smooth as the petals of a rose, molded to suggest the dip of eyes, the incline of a nose.

The fetuses he maintained in the proper state required for incubation. They were growing well, and far quicker than expected. Blaine had a large room specifically built for their storage until they were ready. Watching them felt like a gradual rebirth, and Blaine knew that it would soon be necessary to move his operations elsewhere, somewhere with room to raise them, somewhere with a view.

He called it Dalton.

After the initial robot’s completion, he began work on improving the design. Eyes he formed from glass. Not the ideal solution, but it would suffice.

“I think I’m going to name you Warbler.” He said to his creation. Warbler released a hollow song in response, its sound indisputably metallic. “You aren’t good enough. But you’re only my first try, so that’s alright.”

Eventually, Sebastian is going to make an appearance if I continue writing this as planned.

But omg it’s so much fun to write campy sci-fi horror fix-it crack!fic.

So much fun.

This is my current Blaine headcanon, guys.