a. i love that you have anna and the french kiss on there. beacause that book was so surprisingly good
and b. THAT THEN I GET REALLY EXCITED ABOUT THE IDEA AND IT TURNS INTO 90,000 WORDS OF KATNISS/PEETA AUs.
that made me squeeee i need to check out your recent fic that i've missed in my lj absence!!!
c. i will attempt to write fic. let me look at the list when i am awake tomorrow

YAY!

And yes AATFK IS MY NEW OBSESSION I CANNOT EVEN HANDLE HOW MUCH I LOVED IT.

I AM HANDLING MY LOVE FOR IT SOMEWHAT BADLY.

BRB READING THE CURSE WORKERS TO WRITE YOU FIC.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE THE CURSE WORKERS IS SO GOOD, YOU DON'T EVEN UNDERSTAND.

Gah, I really want to write something because one of the AU's is daemons but I haven't read enough of THG to write for them and then I was thinking TMI or PJO (lol, shortening titles ftw) but out of all the pairings listed the only one I liked was Clary/Jace and ... I don't know if I could pull off their sappy romantic-ness and/or Jace's angst. :P Would you like a fic with Clary, Jace, Alec and Isabelle? I could do that ... (long comment is long now ...)

Yeah, sure, that would be fine! I'm always happy with gen fic. :)

When do you want these done by, my dear?

IDK, whenever people have time, really. I guess I should be like, "around Halloween!" but really, just... IDK before the New Year? I don't want to put too much pressure on anyone.

Would you be amenable to Wicked Lovely? If so, character preferences?

I would! Hmmm... ALWAYS yes to Seth; and I like Seth/Aislynn and Seth/Donia. :D

I so want to dip my fingers into PJO fandom by writing something about Talia/Reyna and Fair Isle sweaters, but I can't for the life of me think of anything except the idea is hilarious.

LMAO, that is... when I wrote it, I was thinking that Nico in one would be funny, but Reyna in wool is even more hilarious. ^__^

WELL, THEN TOO BAD.

I guess for YOU I could make an exception and send you a lovely Very Lumpy Ashtray, though.

HMMMMMMMMMMM

What are you HMMMMMMMing, Emma Stone?

I will try to produce a fic from this gorgeous prompt chart. I WILL TRY. (Probably something PJO related, possible KC, because omfg Sadie/Anubis yes.)

Yayyyyy!

ANUBIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL. He is like a fanon!Nico that exists in canon, but is Egyptian and sometimes has the head of a jackal so THAT'S REALLY KIND OF AMAZING HONESTLY.

I am intrigued by these prompts.

::hops around:: I LOVE YOUR WRITING!

I WOULD GLADLY WRITE CASTER CHRONICLES FOR YOU! <3 Also, I like writing Percy/Rachel ('joke shop' :D), so maybe some of that? :3 And possibly Percy/Nico ('gorgons' maybe?), or Nico/Rachel ('green spray paint' seems good for them).

Btw, I never told you this but I am writing drabbles for some of the PJO prompts you gave out. I'm writing '20 Percy Jackson Drabbles' right now.

Your prompts being filled:
Nico/Bianca: trading cards, trading hearts
Percy/Rachel: beard (facial hair)

Yay? :3

Yay! All of that is REALLY AWESOME! :D

Hunger Games gen fic (friendship?) fic with Evil!Madge and Katniss entering the games?

...It would depend on how "evil" Evil!Madge is, since I Madge is one of my favorite characters. Manipulative Rebel Madge would be awesome. Cato-esque Psycho Madge, less. But an interesting concept, for sure!!

First time writing Seth! Glad to have an excuse, thanks to you.

--

The first time he throws out a sculpture, it's the middle of the night on a Thursday at the end of September. He's just barely past the sketching stage, making a dozen of little wet clay tests so he can see the thing from all angles. It's for Ash, or it's supposed to be, a hollow shell that's meant to crack in the kiln so the light inside will blare through.

And then, for a moment, the cracks become threads, and weave out over the air. They're so thick and so bright that Seth forgets for a moment that Boomer can't see them and wonders why the snake doesn't try to follow them out the train doors. But Seth can see them, and knows what they are, with that same surge to trip the lines, tug on them and better whatever’s at their ends as there was in his new beginning.

Keenan, not Ash, is at the end of the strongest thread, laughing at his efforts. Seth knows, in the way that Sorcha gave him, that this gift will be a waste: juvenilia, or opacity, a trinket of missed meanings and tricks of the light, and that anything that cracks in the kiln will be taken for a flaw, intentional or not.

Seth gathers up the clay, dissolves all the mockups, and goes back to sketching. Maybe metalwork, he thinks: filigree. Stained glass.

-

After that, the sketches slow. Some, he only half-finishes. Some he stops before he starts, the pencil slipping through his hand, eraser rubbing out on his rings. The images in his mind explode into those threads of possibility, phantom graphite shifting into silver wire and trapping everyone else like flies. Art affects all who see it, after all, not just those who See, and everything Seth almost-creates creates and creates and creates without him. And not everything he sketches is art, to be fair, but someone, somewhere, will believe it and be changed, and the threads will shudder and strain.

No wonder nobody believed Cassandra in Troy. She probably couldn’t hear herself think.

-

He trains with the Hounds. He’s not skilled enough for their tastes, but he will be, and he’s strong enough to take the lessons, which is more important anyway. Chela even tells him so. Gabriel makes his approval plain enough.

It’s better, easier, when Seth stops trying to see Bananach at the end of every strike. It’s a cliché, for one thing, but that’s not the trouble: the trouble is, see her or not, he can’t See her, and shouldn’t try.

Not that he begrudges that Sight, when he fights. When he doesn’t have to worry about coming out of this alive, he can sense the threads of next-moves and dodges, the marionette strings that move even the blinding-fast Hounds. Seth trips them, sometimes, mostly without meaning to; he pulls Chela through the rusted-over sidewalk grate, or weakens the boards of a table to break his fall.

There’s even less art in war, he thinks, when you’re far back enough to see everyone’s moves.

-

Mortality’s supposed to be a relief. That’s the conclusion he comes to. Mortality, when he returns to Sorcha in Faerie, will turn the Seeing off, and let the art surge up again. He’ll create there, works worthy of his Mother and her court and Ash, Ash who will miss him six times longer than he misses her, if she still wants him after all. That’s what mortality is for, and now, as a faery, Seth knows: without the curses of Sight and stagnation, he, as a mortal, can take chances again.

That is, as long as he can remember how to think, without wondering what will be, what will mean, and what will pass unnoticed.

Oh, this is so sad and lovely and pretty! Your love of, and understanding for, art always comes through so beautifully with characters like Seth. And I loved the nod to Boomer! For some reason, I think that was my favorite part -- it's such a tiny detail but it just makes the fic so lovely.

...do you have a preference between Delirium and Paranormalcy? Because I think I can work with either of those. :D

OMG. UHHHHH. Actually, I think I'd want Paranormalcy, because I'm looking for fruffy happy limey happy Halloweeny fic, and that suits Evie/Lend more, I think. But eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!

so redbells won't sign up to this herself, so I am volunteering her to write Foxface/Thresh. I'll bribe her to make sure it gets written.

I definitely want to write you something because I really like you and you introduce me to all kinds of cool books. I'll probably only write PJO, unless I read really fast and finish The Red Pyramid and Beautiful Creatures sometime soon.

Also, I remember you said something on tumblr about really good Percy/Nico/Annabeth fic written by antistar_e,am I correct? I've read two of her TSN fanfics and I love them, and if it is her you were talking about, I need to find her PJO fics STAT. ♥

Yesssssssssssss, antistar_e writes THE best P/N/A fic. It's RIDICULOUS. And P/A/R, too, omg it's my life now. And her Percy/Nico is amazing, too! sgksgkgkskgkskgksgkskgfdfk

And yayyyy, I am excited for more fic! ♥ ♥

i don't write nearly enough fanfiction, so if my school workload doesn't kill me, i think i'd like to try this out. it'll probably be shadowhunter-verse, the hunger games or dw... yeah, we'll see. but i really like this idea!

and since i'm new to this: do we need to include all of the concepts from the prompts or just one or two? i'm assuming it's just as inspiration and such, but yeah....

also, you're really lovely and i totally admire you! <3

You can include however many you want, whether it's one or all or some or whatever. :) Yay! I'm excited that you want to write! ♥

Okay, here I am (finally) signing up for this! It looks like it's going to be really fun! (:

YAYY! :D

Just now seeing this and would love to do it! prob something Mortal Instruments/Infernal Devices or Hunger Games.

Do I comment here when I finish it?

Yup! :D

I really want to write something but I'm scared I won't be able to write anything outside the one fandom that I used to do write for.

I believe in you! That ~one fandom~ is more than okay, too, but I believe you can write other things if you want to! :)

If you do write that other fandom, your Halloween-full prompt is: Cadbury, the Great Pumpkin, Bear, "Halloween is for candy, stupid."

I've been wanting to try out a Delirium/PJO crossover/fusion, so this is a perfect motivator!

(That or I'll attempt Finnick/Annie or Thresh/Foxface. Ahhhh sooo many awesome prompts!)

Yayy yay!! :D

(i have a strong feeling that my sense of Panem geography/timing of events is off, but here goes!)

the hunger games: chromatography

i.
Finnick Odair may be the most desired in all of Panem, but he is not naive. He knows he is not safe nor rich nor free, not in the way one could ever really hope to be, but he also knows this: Annie loves colors and he loves Annie.


ii.
The truth is, she had only mentioned it once, a simple line he almost missed if not for the sheer confidence behind it. "Mags said the trees in District 11 are beautiful around the Harvest Festival, like nothing we've ever seen. Will we have much time to walk around after we give those speeches?"

Annie had been a Career long before her Reaping Day, but this, this was the first time she let herself say aloud that she was coming home.

-

On her Victory Tour, the districts blur together. Annie closes her eyes and there's no room for yellow and orange when she wants to escape all that red, to simply dream of sails and oars and sand and home.

Finnick, though, he remembers. He never forgot and never forgets.


iii.
Seeder finds a way to send them, pressed between sheets of wax. It's not much, he thinks, but now it's hers to keep.

-

Annie watches as he strings them all, a garland for her doorway. She imagines them multiplied, dancing from trees too full to keep them, colors running into one another, indistinguishable in a floating sea.

But then there's Finnick, standing steady against it all in sharp relief. He reaches for her hand; she doesn't miss.


vi.
Annie Cresta likes pretty things as much as any other girl that's often gone without. She doesn't collect so much as curate, treasures the gifts brought to her by the sea: iridescent fish scales and tumbled glass and two brave boys most of all.

Finnick had never seen the way leaves change in the autumn before coming to District 13. Over the past ten years, he had split his time pretty evenly between District 4 and the Capitol, and anyways, victors weren't really allowed to travel anyplace else. The few trees in District 4 stayed green year-round, and there were no trees in the Capitol. When he'd done his victory tour, it was the middle of December, and by then, all the trees were ragged and barren, mere skeletons of their former selves.

It wasn't until he'd been walking along with Katniss, during her scheduled hunting time (that Finnick had special permission to accompany her on), that he saw autumn leaves for the first time. It was late afternoon, and they had just come up from underground. The sun was low in the sky, and its red rays set the trees ablaze. He studied the forest floor, and saw that some of the leaves had fallen, littering the ground, and-they were orange. Orange? As he looked closer, he saw there were red and brown leaves mixed in as well. He actually stopped in his tracks at the sight, and Katniss approached him cautiously, no doubt assuming he was having concentration problems again.

“Finnick, what is it?” she asked, with a slight edge to her words.

Finnick didn't answer her at first, too enthralled with the scene in front of him. He had seen an unmeasurable amount of sunsets in his life, and while nothing rivaled watching the sun slowly sink into the sea and extinguish, what he was observing at that moment was the only sight that ever came close. The fiery hues of the leaves, combined with the setting sun, was absolutely wondrous to behold.

“Finnick?” Katniss asked again, more worried now. She stepped into his line of vision, and the movement roused him from his daze.

“I'm sorry, Katniss, it's just...the trees. I've never seen anything like it.”

“The trees?” Katniss said, confused. She looked around. “What, you've never seen the leaves change?”

“You forget that I come from a place that barely has trees. All I know about trees is that they're always green. Or at least, that's what I thought, until now.”

“Right. I guess we're even, now. I know nothing about the ocean.”

Finnick continued to stare, awed by the sight before him. It reminded him of the bonfires they held on the beach sometimes. He was reminded especially of last year's Harvest Festival, when they all gathered together beneath the full harvest moon, and put together what the closest thing to a feast District 4 could ever have, in celebration of another successful fishing year. Bonfires were set in intervals along the vast coastline, and burned on for hours, late into the evenings.

After the children had been put to bed, the adults gathered around the fires once more to tell tales. It was almost a competition, the storytelling, with the goal being to scare the wits out of the others. Finnick's father was the greatest storyteller District 4 had ever seen, back when he was alive, and Finnick had memorized all the stories he'd ever told. Finnick, however, never felt he told them as magically as his father had. There was something majestic about his father's voice, and Finnick would actually get goosebumps when his father shared his stories of ghostly shipwrecks, of sailors coming back from the dead for revenge, and of mystical creatures of the sea that would lure you to your doom with nothing more but a song. Finnick didn't tell his father's stories anymore, anyways, as they bothered Annie, and he tried to keep her untroubled as much as possible. They had left the Harvest Festival early last year, way before the storytelling began, but Finnick had felt a twinge of regret when he'd glanced out his window before going to bed that night and saw the others still gathered around one of the bonfires.

Perhaps he'd get a chance to participate next year.

“We'd better get going, Finnick,” Katniss said, breaking the silence, and Finnick returned to reality once more. “If we hurry, we may still be able to catch a few deer. Dusk is when they're most active.”

“Okay. Lead the way,” Finnick said. Katniss began to walk again, and Finnick trailed behind her in the weak sunlight that remained. The leaves really were beautiful, and he hoped to get the chance to show them to Annie one day soon, but nothing beat the sea. Nothing beat home.

(I think this ended up being more SIMON HARLEY-DICKINSON than Penelope/Simon, but I hope you like this and the Finnick/Annie piece.)

[the incorrigible children of ashton place] of muses and men
prompt: red hair

Simon Harley-Dickinson was, by all accounts, a perfectly nice young man. He was also -- as one Miss Penelope Lumley, governess to the three rather remarkable Incorrigible children of Ashton Place, would describe -- "tall, but too not tall, with finely shaped features, gentle waves of brown hair, and a gleam of genius in his eyes." Now, most perfectly nice young men with such good fortune would be quite content with their lot in life, but Simon Harley-Dickinson, well, he strove for so much more.

As Agatha Swanburne would say, "No one knows what you can offer the world but you."

-

Simon had, as was common in his family, a veritable knack for navigation. Armed with the sky, a map, and a few instruments, he could inevitably find his way (or, at the very least, right it). And so it was through this very innate sense of direction that he came to live in a modest but eccentric neighborhood in the corner of London -- with musicians and actors and clairvoyants and all -- in search of a muse.

But Simon, try as he might, found that inspiration simply did not strike. (In this instance, we mean that the bard had difficulty writing compelling tales, and not that a person bearing the name of "Inspiration" decided against giving this perfectly nice young man a resounding -- but undeserved -- wallop.) On such nights, with the lights burning dim and the floor covered with crumbled sheets (and here we could use a metaphor to compare those many, many drafts to his crushed hopes and dreams, but let us not be so cruel), Simon Harley-Dickinson felt as though he was bobbing aimlessly afloat in an ever widening ocean, no North Star in sight.

It was a rather frustrating and disheartening time indeed.

-

If Simon were a lesser man, he would have ignored the sudden commotion and sound of howling dogs below his window, would have let the ruffians do what they pleased in the pursuit of greed.

But Simon was not a lesser man, and so he flew down the steps, two at a time, with nothing but courage and character and some pencils and paper at his side. Simon was not a Poor Bright Female, and thus could never have been a Swanburne girl, but the academy's founder would have remarked that being stalwart was already quite enough.

-

Simon Harley-Dickinson left Miss Lumley and her three charges at the foreboding gates of Number Twelve Muffingshire Lane with a spring in his step, buying the reddest apples he could find and whistling his favorite sea chantey all the way home. He dreamed that night, of forests and pirates and moons, and wrote and wrote upon waking.

But there was one story that he committed only to his heart. The principals? A mysterious princess and the three true heirs, faces all framed with rich auburn locks, of course. And the fifth, a mere secondary rising from the shadows of the chorus to join them in the Second Act, was a regular pauper turned prince. You could say that this dashing character was all in all, a perfectly nice young man. And you would be right.

OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG INCORRIGIBLE CHILDREN FIC OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG

THIS IS PERFECT

THIS IS PERFECT

THIS IS LOVELY

THIS IS PERFECT

Gale/Madge

Labryinth/Hunger Games

with Dementors

Five Things Madge Undersee is Bad At

apologies for:
-being late
-only following prompt at end
-end getting a little weird.
-being un-edited.

you don't have to read it if you find it too atrocious.

001.

Madge bad at making friends.

There is a reason why she sits with Katniss everyday at lunch everyday at the loneliest lunch table of them all.

In part, it's because the rich girls don't want to talk to her. Whenever they count the score in their game of "make fun of the seam kids" Madge always seems to have zero points.

The kids from the Seam don't want to talk to her either. Because they live lives focused on muddling through the ugly and the hard of the world, they don't want to hear about her weekend of eating strawberries and putting together jig-saw puzzles and solving mazes.

They don't want to hear about how besides not having very many friends and occasionally worrying that her father will upset the capitol, little bad has happened in her life. She scores zero in the game of sins suffered and negative points in the game of sins committed.

Madge is very bad at games.

So she sits with Katniss at lunch and partners with her in gym. Once they make a diorama about coal and Katniss helps her get the look of it right and Madge looks up the details in her text book.

When it accidentally falls apart, crushing the little paper doll inside and Katniss storms off, expression surly as rock-salt, Madge finishes it without a word.

She knows when Katniss looks angriest is when she's hurting most.

It's funny the things Madge learns from silence that grows slow and soft as moss.