"TELL ME, O MUSE...

Can someone please explain this to me???

2009-06-20T02:18:49Z

So I'm on a Veronica Mars fic kick. It's great. Lots of great writers in the community. But there's just this one thing that's
driving
     me
out
          of
     my
*fucking*
               mind.

So.

As I'm going through various fic archives, I'll see an entry.

Appealing title?
Check.

The obligatory preview line is slick and intriguing?
Check.

I grin and eagerly slide my mouse over the link and click and...

Error. You are not authorized to view this entry.

Qu'est que c'est?

Well it must be a fluke. Surely, it's a fluke.

But it KEEPS happening. Always the same writers, with their provocative little icons and enticing blurbs... The fic sounds so, SO good and I really, REALLY want to read it...

ERROR. YOU ARE NOT AUTHORIZED TO VIEW THIS ENTRY.

Fuck! Why does this feel like such a rejection? *cries* Why am I not good enough to read your goddamn fanfic, huh?!? *shakes fist*

Can someone please explain this to me? What's the point of posting your FIC in a FIC archive and then locking said FIC so no one can read it!?! WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT???

I just felt this issue needed to be addressed. I'm contemplaiting starting a movement. A FREE THE FIC! movement.

Here endeth the blog.

Writer's Block: Little Women

2008-11-29T22:57:48Z

Fans of Little Women often divide along Jo/Amy lines. Jo was independent and smart, but Amy always seemed to get what she wanted and have more fun. Are you in the Jo camp or the Amy camp?

View 500 Answers

Well all four sisters are truly architypes of women/womanhood. We all have a little Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy in us, don't we?

Let's put aside The Great Jo vs. Amy Debate for a moment. That's been hashed over too much. Let's discuss all four Little Women and how we relate to each.

I was the baby of the family, so I'm sure my sister would say I was a lot like Amy in some ways - devious (like all little sisters are) and able to wrap everyone around my little finger - but I never had Amy's sense of entitlement, thank God. That was the character's major flaw, which I could not abide.

Like most girls, I always identified the most with Jo. A mutual love of books, writing, theater, and tomboy-ishness drew me to that character. I was always writing plays and stories and when I wasn't doing that, I was climbing trees. But I lacked Jo's fearlessness. I was painfully shy around strangers - just like Beth - and very well-behaved - but I think that all can be traced back to my eagerness to please, moreso than any inate saintliness.

Meg was the eldest and aspired to be the perfect wife and mother. I'm not in that place yet, but I can picture myself being more Meg-like one day.

Or, better yet, more Marmie-like. Was there ever a more perfect wife and mother in the history of literature? I can't think of any.

Pushing Daisies is Pushing Up Daisies

2008-11-22T07:08:25Z

I should have known. It was just too wonderful to last.

What a perfect little gem of a show: pretty to look at, intelligent, and witty. Pushing Daisies was a sweet confection that made me smile and filled my heart with a giddy joy week after week. Can someone explain to me why watching has-been celebrities salsa dancing draws millions of viewers while a critically-acclaimed show like Daisies can't keep an audience?

Yes, my thoughts exactly, Olive.

I firmly believe that the Reality show has been the worst thing to happen to TV, like, EVER. I can't help be feel that it makes people dumber, pettier, and more obsessed with celebrity and fame. They do little to engage people's minds and often cater to the lowest common denominator. "Are You Smarter Than A Third Grader?" Yeah, actually, I like to think I am.

Bryan Fuller, the creator of Pushing Daisies and other wonderful shows like Dead Like Me and Wonderfalls, is a genius. His brain is a beautiful instrument of creativity. I only hope the rest of the world will discover what some of us special few already know.

Ned the Piemaker once told his childhood sweetheart Chuck that the reason he brought her back to life was because he just thought his world would be a better place if she were in it.

Well - Ned, Chuck, Emerson, Olive, Lily, Vivian, Coroner Guy Who Only Ever Said "Mmhm...", and Digby - for a while, the world was a nicer place because you were in it.

The Computer is Sick!

2008-10-25T01:01:57Z

Be back soon!

Ladies! Fellow writers! Any English majors in the crowd! Some advice, if you would be so kind…

2008-08-28T16:42:50Z

As some of you may know, I've been working on my Firefly AU, The Ties That Bind, for... oh... FOREVER AND A DAY! I can't seem to write linearly, or maybe chronologically is the right word. I have a decent outline. I know pretty clearly where I want to take the characters and where I want to end up. I've written several scenes already… but I'm undecided about how to proceed and in what FORMAT I want to write this fic.

It's a story that spans two generations - the original Firefly crew and then the epilogue features their grown children. I'm not sure which tense would be the best to use. Past or present? I've noticed that when I write scenes, I sometimes write them in past tense, sometimes in present tense.

In your opinion, what would be the best tense to use? Would it be OK to write the majority of the fic in past tense and then use present in the epilogue?
In addition to that, I'm thinking maybe instead of writing chapter after chapter (like Mal4Prez), perhaps do a series of vignettes?

Can anyone recommend a well written fic - or even a book or novel - that uses that format?

I eagerly await your responses!

Also, here's a little scene I've been working on for The Ties That Bind...

He's laid out in the infirmary, one of Serenity's gray utilitarian blankets pulled over him. An I.V. drips silently, the antibiotic finding its way into his veins via one of the long tubes he's hooked to. He's dozing - lightly, though - she recognizes his shallow breathing pattern.

"Hello, Mal."

"Guess I have to lock eyes with the devil for you to grace me with your presence, huh?"

Inara quirks one perfectly shaped brow. "Surely not the devil." And then, "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got a hole in me. I got a hole in me. You wanna see?"

"Thank you, but that's unnecessary." The smile tugs at her lips as she moves further into the room, coming to his bedside. "You're lucky."

He dismisses the idea with a wave of his hand. "Luck's got nothin' to do with it."

"Mal. Why are you here?"

"Long story." He unexpectedly takes her hand. She sits down next to him.

"I have time."

"How's Walker?" he asks suddenly. His voice is pleasant enough, but Mal's use of her husband's name is too familiar, sets her on edge.

"He's fine."

He nods. "You bored yet?" He grins jokingly, but there's a hardness in his eyes and she's not fooled. Inara pulls her hand away.

"Is that why you wanted to see me? To remind me again of what a bad choice I made?"

His eyes narrow, as if he's trying to see past something in her. He smiles softly, grabs her hand again and this time, he holds on. "Believe me, my motivation is a bit more selfish than that."

She sighs. "You scare me, Mal."

"I know." He laughs softly. "I scare you. 'Cuz I'm the only one who's honest with you."

"You never understood my reason for leaving."

"It wasn't a reason. It was an excuse."

"I left to preserve what little friendship there was between us. I left so you wouldn't despise me."

Mal shakes his head violently, his lips forming a hard line. "You ran, Inara. And you ran far - all the way to Mr. Walker Abbott of Beaumonde - to be, what, some gentleman rancher's wife?" He snorts. "I can't believe you love him. That you're actually happy with him..."

"I do," she says, tersely. "I do love him. Very much. It may seem to you Walker doesn't count, but he does. He depends on me…"

"Christ, Inara! If a fellow's going to trade on his helplessness, should I tell you how gorram miserable I am without you?" His thumb strokes over the inside of her wrist and her mouth goes dry. It's been so long...

"I won't leave Walker. You know this."

"Why not? He'll hardly know you've gone, after six months. He doesn't know that anybody exists, except himself and Isabel and his horses. Why the man has no use for you at all, as far as I can see. He's entirely wrapped up in his business dealings."

"Aren't all men that way?" she asks.

"More or less, but that's not the point. The point is, if he can't keep his wife happy, maybe he's got no right to her..."

Her spine straightens. "What makes you think I'm unhappy?" There's a sharpness in her voice that sounds slightly too defensive, even to her own ears.

He is silent for a moment, studying her. Then he looks away, up a the non-descript ceiling, his eyes moving over something unseen. "There was a girl I knew once. She had such a spark in her eyes - a real joy, and strength, too. And when she smiled, it was like the sun shining on my face. It was like that for everyone who knew her." He frowns, turns his head to look at her. "Where'd that girl go, Inara? 'Cuz I don't see her here."

Her words stick in her dry throat and she cannot respond. The man so often pretends to be stupid; it's disconcerting to find that he can still rattle her with his keen insight.

"I'm sorry I came." She rises to leave. He reaches out and touches her cheek. Her eyes close briefly, trying to hold on to the sensation of his touch, so that she can call it up in her mind when he is gone again and she is alone.

When she opens her eyes, she cannot meet his gaze. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right, Mal. Nothing more."

"It can't have been easy, walking through that door. But you wouldn't have come if you didn't want to. That says something, don't it?"

Her eyes begin to tear up. She closes her eyes, presses her lips together. She shakes her head, fighting to keep her defenses up. "You always show up at the strangest times..."

"I know you have a life..."

"I don't know what I have." And there it is. The truth of it - her loneliness, the numbness she feels - it resounds in her head and echoes in an awful, hallow thud in her chest.

He strokes her face tenderly. She hears a sadness in his voice. "What do you want, 'Nara?"

"I have everything that I should want at this time of my life." She says this, almost to herself, almost like a consolation. She swallows thickly, tries to gather enough courage to look him in the eye. "But maybe I want the life I didn't choose."

Walking home, she takes her time. Unwanted thoughts and feelings run amok, confusing her, creating chaos in her normally orderly mind.

After Isabel was born, Inara became aware of a growing restlessness inside of her. She tried to convince herself that it would pass.

It's the life-long companionship that matters, she had told herself in the beginning. It's the living together from day to day, not the physical passion. She and Walker were married, no matter what happened. They had the habit of each other. And habit, to her thinking, had been more alluring than anything else. The comfort of something enduring; permanent. That's what they lived by, not the occasional love-making. Little by little, living together, two people fell into a sort of unison. She and Walker were interwoven in a marriage, the long, slow habit of intimacy, formed through years of patience, mutual respect, and understanding. That was the real secret of marriage, she had been sure, not sex; at least not the simple function of sex.

But now, she is not so certain.

Walker is at once too intimate with her and not intimate enough. He is so very much at one with her, in his mind and hers, but bodily they are non-existent to one another. They are intimate - and utterly out of touch. She wonders if he would really mind if she took a lover. She thinks that he wouldn't - so long as he didn't absolutely know, and wasn't made to see. For Walker, what the eye doesn't see and the mind doesn't know, does not exist.

And so she goes through her days drearily. There is nothing now but this empty treadmill of what Walker calls "an integrated life". Or, as she has come to understand it: the living together of two people, who are in the habit of existing in the same house with one another. Friendship, affection - and an unbearable politeness between them.

Upon arriving home, Inara goes straight up to her bedroom. She does what she has not done for a long time: takes off all her clothes, and looks at herself in the mirror. She does not know what she is looking for.

She knows that she is a beautiful woman, but she can't help feeling that she now lacks something. She examines her skin, the new curves that motherhood has granted her. But she somehow seems… sapless; as if her softness is hardening, making her more angular, all sharp edges. It is as if her body has lost its meaning. Her breasts are still high, her thighs and legs still shapely; but they are just shapes: meaningless. Her body no longer serves a purpose. Isabel is weaned and her breasts have returned to their normal fullness. Her body belongs to no one, save herself. Her body is no one's lover and no pleasure is derived from it. She feels unsubstantial. Useless.

Inara slips into her nightgown and into to bed, swallowing her bitterness.

Writer's Block: Your Favorite Series: One Last Go Round

2008-08-26T06:15:25Z

If you could pick any TV show that has been off the air to come back for one more season, which show would you pick and why?

Submitted By idle_kid_city

View 508 Answers

Just ONE?!? Seems like every show I fall in love with gets canned... Dead Like Me, Angel, Keen Eddie, Arrested Development, Pasadena, Joan of Arcadia, Roswell,...

But my one true love - the show I would sell my blood and possibly a kidney to get back on the air - is Firefly. (But Dead Like Me is a close second.)

"If all your friends jumped off a bridge, would you???"

2008-08-17T05:26:31Z

"Probably."

And since phyrelight, agent rouka, and charlie bz are all doing this survey, I guess I will too.

Dear Flist,
I want to know 36 things about you. I don't care if we never talk, or if we already know everything about each other. Short and sweet is fine ... you're on my list, so I want to know you better! Answer in the comments, if you please!
Love, Amanda

01) Are you currently in a serious relationship?
A.

02) What was your dream growing up?
A.

03) What talent do you wish you had?
A.

04) If I bought you a drink what would it be?
A.

05) Favorite vegetable?
A.

06) What was the last book you read?
A.

07) What zodiac sign are you?
A.

08) Any Tattoos and/or Piercings? Explain where.
A.

09) Worst Habit?
A.

10) If you saw me walking down the street would you offer me a ride?
A.

11) What is your favorite sport?
A.

12) Do you have a Negative or Optimistic attitude?
A.

13) What would you do if you were stuck in an elevator with me?
A.

14) Worst thing to ever happen to you?
A.

15) Tell me one weird fact about you.
A.

16) Do you have any pets?
A.

17) What if i showed up at your house unexpectedly?
A.

18) What was your first impression of me? (hmmm...careful!)
A.

19) Do you think clowns are cute or scary?
A.

20) If you could change one thing about how you look, what would it be?
A.

21) Would you be my crime partner or my conscience?
A.

22) What color eyes do you have?
A.

23) Ever been arrested?
A.

24) Bottle or can soda?
A.

25) If you won $10,000 today, what would you do with it?
A.

26) Would you ever hug a perfect stranger?
A.

27) What's your favorite place to hang at?
A.

28) Do you believe in ghosts?
A.

29) Favorite thing to do in your spare time?
A.

30) Do you swear a lot?
A.

31) Biggest pet peeve?
A.

32) In one word, how would you describe yourself?
A.

33) Do you believe/appreciate romance?
A.

34) Do you have "one of those faces" (i.e. you look horribly familiar to everyone)?
A.

35) Do you believe in God?
A.

36) Will you repost this so I can fill it out and do the same for you?
A.

Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog

2008-07-13T19:20:02Z

Captain Tightpants vs. Mr. Awesome. It doesn't get better than this.

I Do Love to Rant, Don't I?

2008-05-06T16:37:42Z

The Twilight ~~Blog~~ Rant or Why I Support Team Edward

K, here goes. The risk of pissing off any teenyboppers that might stumble across this blog is great, but I just have to get my thoughts out here. Please forgive this scattered, unstructured rant. And beware the spoilers.

So. Twilight.

I kept seeing a lot of Twilight love out there on various LJs when I would search for BSG or Firefly fic. And I recognize the actors. I've got much love for Kristen Stewart. She's young, but a very fine actress and definitely not a bubble-head. Yay for Kristen. And Robert Pattinson. Ah, Robert. Made me feel like a dirty cradle-robber when I saw Goblet of Fire. He jumped from a tree and when he landed and stood up, I actually sat up in my seat in the theater and started paying attention. "Hellooooooo, Hotness!"

Instantly I was flooded with shame and ickyness because I was 22 at the time and I figured he was probably 17. (He wasn't. He was 19. But still..) What a face! What EXCELLENT bone structure! And then he died. Tsk. Tsk. What a waste. Stupid Voldemort. I would wager that the outraged fangirls could have accomplished what Harry Potter himself could not: killing Voldemort by tearing him to pieces with their sharp, well-manicured teenaged fingernails. Anyhoo, I recognized the actors on imdb.com and the fanbase seemed especially rabid on the message boards, so I thought, Why not give the books a try? Yes, I know they're for teenagers, but after reading Atonement, one longs for lighter fare. So I started reading.

First impressions: Stephenie Meyer, bless her heart, is no Anne Rice. The book is probably written on a 5th or 6th grade reading level. I found myself constantly longing for the rich prose and depth that Rice brings to her characters. It was not to be found here. I mean, I know of quite a few fanfiction writers whose literary skills far surpass Meyer's. *sigh* Even so, I found myself fluctuating between enjoyment and utter annoyance. The Cullens are intriguing, as was Edward's volatile first reaction to Bella's presence. Meyer's descriptions of Forks were wonderful. I could easily picture the place, the damp green-ness of it.

I liked all of the characters (with a few exceptions) and the plot, but the one disappointment of the book - in ALL three books, really - is Bella. She reads like a Mary Sue. She's supposed to come off as mature - what with being the "parent" to her immature, eccentric mother - but I never got a sense of real maturity from Bella. All we really get from her whiney/angsty internal monologues in the series is: "Forks sucks. The weather sucks. My dad is emotionally unavailable. Edward Cullen is the most beautiful/radiant/god-like/gorgeous/model-esque/dazzling guy I've ever seen. Edward Cullen hates me. I'm clumsy. OMG! Edward's a vampire! Edward Cullen loves me and he's the most beautiful/radiant/god-like/gorgeous/model-esque/sparkly guy I've ever seen! I want to be a vampire, too! Crap, I'm so clumsy! I wish these dumb mortal guys would stop hitting on me. Oh, Edward, you're the most beautiful/radiant/god-like/gorgeous/model-esque/shiny guy I've ever seen! Too bad I'm such a klutz! I'm horrible person, just like Cathy Earnshaw in Wuthering Heights. I want to be a vampire, dang it! Oh Edward, you're the most beautiful/radiant/god-like/gorgeous/model-esque/sparkly guy I've ever seen!"

We get it, already! He's hot, you're freakishly clumsy, and you want to be a vampire! Move on!

Another thing that really annoys me about Bella - the way she allows Edward to patronize her and treat her like a child. It's terrible in the first book - but in New Moon and Eclipse, Edward seems to mature and he does it less and less. So - points for that.

Now the Jacob issue. I thought Jacob was a very kind, sweet, and thoughtful young man throughout the first and half of the second books. And then he became a werewolf. I have never been so disgusted with a character - except Bella. And we're SUPPOSED to like him!?! He's supposed to be a viable rival love interest for Bella? He makes Edward with his slightly chauvinistic tendencies look like a militant feminist.

WTF was Stephenie Meyers thinking??? Jacob is hostile, aggressive, horribly manipulative, and immature. On top of that, his constant man-handling of Bella and forced kisses made me want to take a Louisville Slugger to his face. OK, so Bella punched him. (points for that) Once. And deservedly so. And what did he do? He laughed at her! Jacob may feel that he loves her, but it's a possessive, unhealthy kind of love. And no one can convince me that he actually respects her. The interaction between them reads too much like some cheesy bodice-ripper ("Methinks the lady doth protest too much!") where when women say "no," they really mean "yes."
Now, does Meyer do the sensible thing and have Bella finally put Jacob in his place??? Hell, no! Mysteriously, after being man-handled and sexually harassed, Bella has an epiphany and realizes that she's IN LOVE with Jacob.
ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING ME??? As a grown-ass woman, I find this highly offensive. The notion that all it takes is one passionate kiss to snap someone out of denial and realize their love for another person is utter nonsense. Puh-leez. Bella told Jacob over and over that she didn't love him. Again and again she likened him to a friend, a brother. She knew that he was in love with her, but she continued to hang out with him. Anyone with a lick of sense knows that you don't do that! Even if it meant hurting him, the best thing she could have done for him was to stay the hell away from him - give him time to get over her - not run off to meet him at every opportunity and giving him hope. But no, Bella just can't stand the thought of anyone being angry with her! Grow up. Seriously.
It seems Meyer is eager to liken this love triangle to the one in Wuthering Heights. It might be an apt comparison and I might have more sympathy for the characters - if Meyer were a better writer. Jacob is Bella's best friend? What kind of "best friend" extorts love like that?!? "I'm going to kill myself or allow myself to die if you don't kiss me like you mean it??? If you don't love me???" That's a hideous thing to do to someone. That is not love. That is utterly selfish. Though Edward does behave jealously at times and his old-fashioned ideas about gender roles can be grating, he behaves quite honorably throughout the series. His love is more honest, more mature. His love is unselfish.
In short, I feel that Bella is to blame for never being strong enough to take a stand and be the "bad guy" when it comes to Jacob. Grow a frickin' spine, please. Seriously. And if her romantic feelings for Jacob were truly as strong as she makes them out to be (post-epiphany), she NEVER would have been able to maintain the level of denial about her feelings as she did throughout the second and third books! It just doesn't work that way. You KNOW when you're attracted to someone. You KNOW when you have romantic feelings toward someone.
Oh, and the whole Edward/Bella/"We can't have sex because he could smash my pelvis to dust and kill me" thing?
Trite.
Seriously, Meyer, in the real world, teenagers know there's ways of getting around actual sexual intercourse. *insert eye roll here* Jeez. (Though I strongly suspect Meyer's literary finagling to keep Edward and Bella out of the sack until marriage has more to do with her Mormon upbringing than dealing with the situation in any realistic or real world kind of way - Meyer is a BYU alum, so draw your own conclusions.)
All I can hope for is that the movie script is better than the book. And that Kristen Stewart can bring some level of intelligence, strength, and gumption to the character of Bella Swan. I'm crossing my fingers.

Here endeth the rant.

He Just Can't Quit Her

2008-04-12T18:51:47Z

So my friend Suzanne is at my place for our weekly BSG Watch and Katee Sackoff is just acting her ASS off and we're totally impressed. Somebody give this girl an Emmy, please???

So Starbuck's tossed in the brig for her little outburst of crazy - I'm thinking holding a gun on the president was maybe not her best idea ever - and I'm thinking, "There's gotta be a Lee-visiting-Kara-in-the-hack moment coming up here shortly." AND I WAS RIIIIIIGHT!!! <====== This is me gloating.

Anyhoo, I was right. ~~Apollo~~ (strike that - he's not a viper jock anymore) Lee shows up in the hack like I knew he would and it's like a flashback to the miniseries, only Lee's wearing the Suit of Hotness.

And when he says,

"You know I never really could say 'no' to anything."

And she says, "Except me."

I was like, Oh, Starbuck. You silly, silly girl.

And then he says, "Especially you."

Fangirl SQUEE moment #1!

I did actually squee and said to Suzanne, "See! He totally loves her!"

But then...

The atmosphere between them kinda seems cool, controlled...

And she offers him her hand and says, "Good luck on your journey, Lee Adama."
And he says, "You too, Kara Thrace."

My heart is in my throat because, DAMN, if that doesn't look like a 'goodbye,' I don't know what else does...
And then Suzanne says, "Awww. They're letting each other go. There's nothing there anymore."

And I was like, "Shut up! Not true! Haven't you been paying attention?"

But it looks true. Kara smiles, but as he's turning to go, she gets the saddest look on her face and I'm thinking, "No! It can't end like that!"

But then, she says, "Lee?" And there's such vulnerablity in her voice and she's about to cry and even though his back is to her, he hears it and knows it.

And DAMNIT, he just can't quit her.

Boom! Fangirl squee moment #2 *head explodes with joy*

#3

#4

#5

And Lee says, "I believe you."

#6

Friends, there was much whooping and pumping of fist in the air and gloating, "I told you! I TOLD YOOOOU! They looooove each other! They'll ALWAYS looooove each other!" Neener neener, etc... Like Numfar, I think I'll be doing the Dance of Joy for at least three moons.

Ah, Ron D. Moore. You do love to put us shippers through the wringer. You magnificent bastard.

But oh my god, if Tori puts Cally out the airlock next episode, I'm gonna be frakking pissed.

Ah, Walmart. Scourge of America.

2008-03-29T17:04:58Z

Oh, Walmart. When will you learn?

This is absolutely DISGUSTING. I will never shop at Walmart again and furthermore, I will urge everyone I know to never shop there again either.

How much do you want to bet that the business Walmart looses over this will be MORE than a paltry $470,000?

http://news.aol.com/story/_a/wal-mart-sues-disabled-ex-employee/20080329083609990001#cmntbgn

Wal-Mart Sues Disabled Ex-Employee

CNN

Posted: 2008-03-29 09:54:15

Filed Under: Nation News, Law News

JACKSON, Missouri (March 29) - Debbie Shank breaks down in tears every time she's told that her 18-year-old son, Jeremy, was killed in Iraq. The 52-year-old mother of three attended her son's funeral, but she continues to ask how he's doing. When her family reminds her that he's dead, she weeps as if hearing the news for the first time.

Shank suffered severe brain damage after a traffic accident nearly eight years ago that robbed her of much of her short-term memory and left her in a wheelchair and living in a nursing home.

It was the beginning of a series of battles -- both personal and legal -- that loomed for Shank and her family. One of their biggest was with Wal-Mart's health plan.

Eight years ago, Shank was stocking shelves for the retail giant and signed up for Wal-Mart's health and benefits plan.

Two years after the accident, Shank and her husband, Jim, were awarded about $1 million in a lawsuit against the trucking company involved in the crash. After legal fees were paid, $417,000 was placed in a trust to pay for Debbie Shank's long-term care.

Wal-Mart had paid out about $470,000 for Shank's medical expenses and later sued for the same amount. However, the court ruled it can only recoup what is left in the family's trust.

The Shanks didn't notice in the fine print of Wal-Mart's health plan policy that the company has the right to recoup medical expenses if an employee collects damages in a lawsuit.

The family's attorney, Maurice Graham, said he informed Wal-Mart about the settlement and believed the Shanks would be allowed to keep the money.

"We assumed after three years, they [Wal-Mart] had made a decision to let Debbie Shank use this money for what it was intended to," Graham said.

The Shanks lost their suit to Wal-Mart. Last summer, the couple appealed the ruling -- but also lost it. One week later, their son was killed in Iraq.

"They are quite within their rights. But I just wonder if they need it that bad," Jim Shank said.

In 2007, the retail giant reported net sales in the third quarter of $90 billion.

Legal or not, CNN asked Wal-Mart why the company pursued the money.

Wal-Mart spokesman John Simley, who called Debbie Shank's case "unbelievably sad," replied in a statement: "Wal-Mart's plan is bound by very specific rules. ... We wish it could be more flexible in Mrs. Shank's case since her circumstances are clearly extraordinary, but this is done out of fairness to all associates who contribute to, and benefit from, the plan."

Jim Shank said he believes Wal-Mart should make an exception.

"My idea of a win-win is -- you keep the paperwork that says you won and let us keep the money so I can take care of my wife," he said.

The family's situation is so dire that last year Jim Shank divorced Debbie, so she could receive more money from Medicaid.

Jim Shank, 54, is recovering from prostate cancer, works two jobs and struggles to pay the bills. He's afraid he won't be able to send their youngest son to college and pay for his and Debbie's care.

"Who needs the money more? A disabled lady in a wheelchair with no future, whatsoever, or does Wal-Mart need $90 billion, plus $200,000?" he asked.

The family's attorney agrees.

"The recovery that Debbie Shank made was recovery for future lost earnings, for her pain and suffering," Graham said.

"She'll never be able to work again. Never have a relationship with her husband or children again. The damage she recovered was for much more than just medical expenses."

Graham said he believes Wal-Mart should be entitled to only about $100,000. Right now, about $277,000 remains in the trust -- far short of the $470,000 Wal-Mart wants back.

Refusing to give up the fight, the Shanks appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court. But just last week, the high court said it would not hear the case.

Graham said the Shanks have exhausted all their resources and there's nothing more they can do but go on with their lives.

Jim Shank said he's disappointed with the Supreme Court's decision not to hear the case -- not for the sake of his family -- but for those who might face similar circumstances.

For now, he said the family will figure out a way to get by and "do the best we can for Debbie."

"Luckily, she's oblivious to everything," he said. "We don't tell her what's going on because it will just upset her.

2008-03-29 08:37:19

What is the significance of All Along the Watchtower!?! Can somebody tell me please???

2008-03-25T05:24:25Z

Ahoy, there! SPOILERS FOR BSG SEASON 3 be ahead, mateys! Shove off if you don't want to be spoiled!

Well I did it. I managed to get through season 3 of Battlestar Galactica in two - yes, two! - days.
Amanda feels accomplished.
Now about the finale. All I can say is: WHAT THE FRAK WAS THAT!?!

I mean, All Along the Watchtower?!? What was that all about? Do the lyrics of the song have some sort of significance to the Cylons? And are we supposed to dismiss the fact that it's a… (for lack of a better term) … an Earth song? What does it mean? What does it all meeeean!?!

How can Chief Tyrol be a Cylon?!? He's got parents! And how is Cally going to react to being married to a cylon? She hates cylons! And Kara? Married to a cylon, too. But that shouldn't matter cuz she's dead. Oh, wait a minute! NO SHE'S NOT! Her viper blew up and everything (with her in it), BUT SHE'S NOT DEAD!!! And TIGH?!? What the hell was that?!? I thought the skin-jobs were only recent development in cylon evolution, but Adama has known him for forty years! What the frak???

As you can imagine, I spent the last fifteen minutes of the show shaking my head and muttering to myself - actually doing a fair impression of Colonel Tigh throughout most of the episode - "What the frak is going on? What the frak is going on? What the frak is going on!?!"

Listening to Bear McCreary's trippy cover of All Along the Watchtower and watching Anders, Tigh, Tori, and the Chief all acting like they've been into the special brownies, it starts to dawn on me where the writers are taking this. And I really don't want to believe Chief Tyrol is a cylon and I don't want Anders to be a cylon (cuz I secretly love him-shhh don't tell Lee) and it seems impossible that Tigh could be a cylon, but apparently HE IS! I gotta say though, when Tigh did the whole "I may be a cylon, but I'm the frakkin' XO and I'm gonna die the frakkin' XO!" speach, I had a total fangirl SQUEE moment. It was JUST. SO. AWESOME. Everyone else I just kinda feel bad for. They were all like, "What the HELL do we do NOW?"

Well I think I've fangirled myself out. Must rest and recoup for the upcoming season 4 premier which is now 10 days 20 hours and 32 minutes away. Yes, I made a countdown clock. Yes, I'm that big of a nerd.

So many questions: will Lee and Kara ever get together? Will Laura's cancer be cured? What is the purpose of the recently revealed four cylons? Who is the fifth? How the frak did Starbuck come back from the dead?

We shall soon see, dear fans. We shall soon see.

..
Get Your Countdown

My Newest Obsession...

2008-01-05T09:40:01Z

...Battlestar Galactica.

Starbuck and Apollo. Oh, yes. It is angsty. Deliciously so. And so to the pantheon of my all-time-favorite 'ships, I now add Kara Thrace and Lee Adama - to keep Mulder, Scully, Buffy, Angel, Mal, Inara, John Crichton, and Aeryn Sun in good company. Yay for them.

So without further ado, here's a very fine fanvid edited by latteaddict, music by Damien Rice.

Note: I only realized about half way into the BSG miniseries that the guy playing Lee Adama was, in fact, Jamie Bamber - "Archie Kennedy" in the Horatio Hornblower miniseries - which I've seen about a dozen times. How the *frak* did I miss that?!?

I'll tell you how - no 18th century mullet, that's how! And no English accent. And, Mr. Bamber's arms were not so, shall we say, well-developed back then.

Dudes, his arms are *SICK*!

Now it must be said that I'm not into muscle-y guys - at least not how they're portrayed in movies and tv: all bulk, no brains, and missing a sensitivity chip. Kudos to BSG creator Ron Moore and Jamie Bamber for bringing real depth, intelligence, and sensitivity to what could have been just another beef-cake character.

I mean, really, compared to Starbuck, Apollo's almost kinda girly, what with all his namby-pamby feelings and constant mooning over her. LOL

My Fabulous Playlist

2007-12-02T07:34:54Z

NEW FIREFLY FIC! "Achilles Heel"

2007-07-26T03:14:12Z

Was anyone else holding their breath the first time they watched that scene in Our Mrs. Reynolds? You know the one I'm talking about, right? I was sure Mal was going to kiss Inara. I was sure of it! But then... Well, you know...

Well here it is. My first attempt at NC-17. *Whew!* All kiddies and those easily offended - scoot! This fanfic is not for you. I'm fairly certain even Joss Whedon would hide his eyes.

Achilles Heel is set post-Our Mrs. Reynolds and is very much an AU because Mal and Inara did not get horizontal in Firefly. Nope. Not even close. Mores the pity. 'Cuz they are so very pretty.

*

The moment he steps into her personal space, she feels herself turning towards a caving in. He towers over her and she can feel the warmth of his body radiating out to meet her chilled skin.

She can hear him speaking, his voice low.

“Come on, ‘Nara. How's about we don't play?"

What? What is he saying? She can’t quite think. Her nerves suddenly tighten and her stomach leaps.

"W…what? What do you mean?"

"You didn't just fall, did you?"

It is more of a statement than a question. Mal knows. The thought hits her like an unexpected blow. Merciful Buddha, he knows she kissed him! She doesn’t know how, but he does. Fear coils in her belly and her hands clench anxiously at the fabric of her dress.

Inara wants to look away from his gaze, but finds that she can not. Pride holds her there. Pride - and something else. His face seems so serious, his eyes, soft. Perhaps... Dare she?

Perhaps it is time to be honest. Things cannot continue the way they are between the two of them. The very thought terrifies her, but moving forward, getting out of this tiresome holding pattern they’ve been in for almost a year… To finally stop skirting around their emotions... It would be such a release.

Good or bad, it was inevitable, she realizes. They have been on a collision course from the moment she stepped aboard and he showed her his shuttle. Now, it’s is just a matter of who will take control and bring them in for a landing. At any rate, false pretenses are of no use to her now. It’s apparent she isn’t fooling him. What can she do? She recalls what Shepherd Book told her once - that confession is good for the soul. A peaceful calm settles over her spinning mind.Confession it is, then.

She takes a breath.

“No,” she says finally.

He sways forward slightly. Inara feels her pulse quicken and her breath catch. She searches his eyes, trying desperately to read him. They really are a lovely shade of blue, she thinks, earnest, and so…

“Well isn’t that somethin'?”

Yes, she thinks. Yes.

She can feel his warm breath. All he need do is lean forward. Just a matter of inches, really, and his mouth will be on hers.

His body rocks back and a grin spreads across his face. “I knew you let her kiss you!”

At first his words don’t register. She blinks, and for the first time in her life, Inara Serra is positively struck dumb. His smile broadens. He chuckles, turns on his heel, and strides out of her shuttle. Whistling. That hun dan is whistling.

She stands there for a moment, not quite sure of what has just happened. She sits down to collect herself and with a shaky hand, pours a cup of tea.

She tries to tell herself she should be thankful for the misunderstanding. If it is a misunderstanding at all. Is it possible that he could he really be so oblivious? Surely he can’t be unaware of this… this… thing between them. The moment she decided to come clean with him, the moment she knew she wouldn’t push him away were he to take her in his arms… She thought she was sending a clear message with her eyes, her body language. Was he dim-witted? Should she have put a sign on her forehead saying, “Kiss me!”?

The more Inara thinks on it, the more agitated she becomes. Does he really think so little of her? That she would take to bed with any strumpet who bats her eyelashes? She sips her third cup of tea and grinds her teeth. Well let him think what he wants, if he knows her so little, damn him!

Inara sets down her teacup with an abrupt clink. She stands and stalks over to her dresser, pulling out the furthest thing from a negligee that she has: a cotton nightgown. The thread count is high and it's lovely and soft, but she imagines her House Mother frowning upon such a common garment.

She runs her fingers over the soft, light material. To the blazes with it, she doesn't care. She yanks it down over her head. Her movements are jerky, angry, nothing graceful about them. After such an injurious rebuff, the last thing she feels is graceful and desirable.You are slipping, she thinks. Or maybe that man is just too obtuse to comprehend subtlety. Perhaps it takes a frying pan to the head or a brass band to get his attention. Or a naked red-head.

Inara unclenches her fists and climbs into bed. She picks up the book on her nightstand and begins to read.

It isn't until an hour later that she realizes she's been reading the same paragraph from Ovid's Poems of Exile for Buddha-knows-how-long. She violently throws the book against the wall and tosses off her covers. She knows she won't get any sleep until she sets him straight on this issue of Saffron. She steps into her slippers and pads down the corridor toward the galley. That's usually where he is this time of night, taking his evening tea. She's hoping to find him alone. Mal is not a man who takes kindly to confrontations, especially when there’s an audience.

*********

“All things considered, sir, I think the punch was well-earned. I’d have done damn sight more than black her eye. May just snap that little jian huo’s neck if I ever set eyes on her again.” Her eyes narrow and Zoë takes a swallow from her mug of tea.

“You may at that. Still, felt sorta… bad… afterwards. Never hit a girl before. Well, ‘cept in combat.” Mal chuckles, then grimaces and scratches his cheek. “Didn’t know I was quite capable of that…”

Zoe shakes her head. “Don’t fret over it. I don’t think any less of you for it, for what it’s worth.” A sly smile spreads over her lips. “Ain’t like you slugged a fine lady or somebody’s grandma.”

“Nope”, he agreed.

“Speaking of fine ladies...” Zoe lifts her chin, gestures to the corridor down which Inara is walking. Mal turns in his chair to see, taking note of the scowl she’s wearing. Hoo boy. She don’t look too pleased. Guess he got her dander up before.

He stands up to greet her, but is thrown off-balance for a moment by the image she presents: some pretty, fresh-faced girl in a cotton nightgown. Not the usual carefully made-up temptress in a frilly nightie. Not that he minded seeing her in that frilly number, ‘cuz he most certainly did not. He pushes aside his dirty thoughts and puts on an overly-cheerful tone.

“I-nara,” he says in that over-the-top hick drawl, “on your way to bed? You wanna join Zoe and me for a nightcap?”

Inara stops short when she sees Zoe. “Good evening, Zoe,” she says with strained calm. “No, thank you, Mal.”

“You sure? It’s a…”

“No.”

“Suit yourself. To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“I wondered,” she says sweetly, “if I might have a word with you. Alone.”

Mal eyes her warily. He’d have to be pretty stupid to be taken in by her pleasant tone. And Mal Reynolds knows he is not a stupid man.

Well, most of the time.

“Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of Zoe,” he says stubbornly.

Zoe nods to Inara and stands, her expression that of placidity.

“Zoe?” Mal shoots her a look of almost wounded betrayal. She arches her eyebrow, shrugs and strides off down the hall for her and Wash’s bunk.

Abandoned, Mal turns back to Inara with a defeated huff. He plants that snide grin firmly on his face. “What can I help you with, Inara?”

She casually drums her fingers on the table. “Do I pay my rent on time?”

He takes a moment, squinting, as if he has to think about it. “I s’pose you do.”

“And do I interfere with your criminal activities?” she asks, emphasizing the word with disdain.

“No,” he says sullenly.

“Then why, may I inquire, do you take such perverse delight in provoking me?”

He laughs, but the mirth stops somewhere short of his eyes. "You think…?" He shakes his head. "Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart."

"Flatter myself! Why would you accuse me of making a pass at that… that… strumpet if you weren’t going out of your way to slight me?”

She plants her hands firmly on her hips and purses her lips, continuing. "I don't flatter myself by pointing out that, for some unknown reason, I've been the target of your insults more times than I can count. And what have I ever done, but tried to be a voice of reason during difficult times? Or used my so-called wiles to bail you out of trouble?"

"I've never asked you for help, Inara," he snarls at her, crossing his arms defensively across his chest.

"Damnit, Mal! Has it ever occurred to you that I might actually care about what happens to this crew?"

"Well sure! God knows time spent bailing us outta trouble cuts into your whorin’."

Despite her years of training, she winces at that. She closes her mouth and just stares at him. His expression shifts from anger, to expectation, to confusion when she doesn’t fire back at him. Instead, she sits down in the nearest chair and folds her hands in her lap. She seems to study them for awhile, while he just sits there holding his breath.

"That was unkind, Mal." Her voice is soft and tinged with sadness. “Do you really think so little of me?"

No, he thinks. No no no no. I don‘t think that. But he says nothing.

She shakes her head, her dark curls trembling. "I can't do this anymore." She raises watery eyes to look at him. Mal feels himself softening. He hadn't expected tears, hadn't thought her capable of shedding them, what with her calm, cool demeanor. But now he finds himself feeling like a rotten hun dan.He uncrosses his arms and slumps in his chair, head bowed in… what is it he’s feeling? Shame? Remorse for having cut her like that? Maybe she’s right. Maybe he does like hurting her. The thought gives him an unpleasant, nauseated feeling in his gut.

"I don't know what you expect of me," she whispers. "I pay my rent on time. I try to be supportive in your endeavors. Despite what I first said about ours being a strictly business relationship, I've come to regard everyone here as friends. Good friends. That includes you as well, Mal, if you'd only let it…”

“Friends, huh?” he mutters. The word tastes bitter in his mouth.

“Yes, Mal. Now truthfully, why do you enjoy baiting me so?"

Mal swallows thickly, regarding her for a moment.

“Honestly?”

He pushes back from the table and rises from his chair. His movements are deliberate, self-possessed, as he unfolds to his full height. It arouses something in her, watching him. It’s ridiculous, really. No matter how inappropriate the timing, often her desire is stirred just by watching him. He moves toward her, all loose-limbed an unhurried. She finds herself shrinking back in her chair as he invades her personal space.

He takes a breath and a rueful smile quirks his lips. "Maybe I like to see this pretty façade crack." He reaches down, his large hand wrapping around the back of her neck, his thumb tracing circles on her cheekbone.

His intent is to disarm her, maybe annoy her even, with his proximity. It's intimidating, he knows, and it works on most. But when he touches her, her breath catches and he feels her pulse jump and race in her swan-like throat. Mal realizes his plan has just backfired. Suddenly, he can't swallow.

"Why?" she whispers. "Why is that so important to you?"

Her pupils are dilated, and unless it's some special Companion-trick, there's no mistaking it for anything other than desire. He blinks and releases her, like her skin has burned him. He takes a step back, all the mirth bled dry in an instant.

His sudden withdrawal is hurtful. "No," she says, rising. "No, don't do that. Tell me why." She moves to take a step forward but he retreats, looks away.

"I've gotta…" Mal clears his throat and points vaguely in the direction of the bridge, backing away, as if he’s afraid of her. He refuses to meet her eyes. "Yeah. Captainy things…" He turns away.

"You're not a coward, Mal. Why are you acting like one now?” she demands, her tone sharp as a blade. He stops abruptly and swings around to face her, eyes ablaze. He stomps toward her and she instinctually backs away, her back to the bulkhead. He slaps his hands down on either side of her, effectively trapping her against the wall.

"Why don't we just cut out all this go se, huh?“ he says with a sneer. “You're just mad 'cause I caught you in a fib, that's all. Now, I can see why you'd be embarrassed. Was a bit myself, ya’ll finding’ me in such a sorry state. But you've got no right to call me a coward. Make no mistake, you're just as yellow as I am, sweetheart."

Inara sets her jaw in fury. "You’re right,” she says tightly. “Perhaps ‘coward’ is an unsuitable description. I imagine ‘idiot’ would be more accurate!” she hisses. She reaches out to shove him away, but finds herself grasping his shirt in her fists.

“Wei!” he hollers, grabbing at her hands.

She’d like nothing better than to give him a good punch in the jaw. Instead, she lets out an aggravated growl and launches herself at him, yanking him down by his hair, bringing his mouth squarely down on hers. She kisses him hard, bruising her own lips. He's stunned for a moment, his lips and body slack against hers, and doesn't respond. Then he's kissing her back, his big hands pulling her hair down, one fisting in the black waves, the other clutching at the small of her waist.

Her arms are thrown around his neck. Artfulness has been abandoned. It's all battered lips, clinking teeth and sliding tongues. This is how he wants her. This is what he wanted all along: to rip that mask off, to have her undignified, stripped down to all but the same aching need that he feels - raw and powerful. He lifts her against the wall and he’s a bit surprised to feel her legs wrap tightly around his waist. He’d half expected her to come to her senses and slap him across the face. But she didn’t. Mal takes this as a good sign.

He pins her against the cool metal with his hips, drags the soft cotton of her nightgown up higher on her thighs. She clutches at his shoulders, her eyes clenched shut. Dear Buddha, she doesn’t want to look at him. If she looks at him, then it means that it’s real, that he’s really kissing her. Inara Serra does not kiss petty thieves, so she’d have to make him stop. But she doesn’t want him to stop. No, not ever.

Desire, she concludes, is the Achilles heel of good judgment.

His fingers press into the flesh of her thighs, lifting her up higher. Her skin is soft; smooth with a touch of velvet. Soft, like the petals of the roses that grew in his mother’s garden. Through her panties, he can feel the humid heat of her sex against his belly. She’s actually grinding against him, her hips making little thrusting motions. He can’t help but grin at that. But he wishes she’d open her eyes.

“‘Nara?” he mumbles against her clavicle. No answer. “Inara…” he demands, forcing her chin up to look at him. “Look at me.” He hates how pathetic he sounds.

She opens her eyes, her reluctance transparent to him. “Tell me,” he says. She tightens her grip on his shoulders. She moves to kiss his lips, but he pulls back, denying. “Tell me.” A small whimper escapes her throat. She tries to reach his mouth again and again he denies her. He wraps his hand around the back of her neck, his thumb swiping over the fullness of her lower lip. Her lips part, her breath coming fast.

“Mal…” she wheedles, struggling against him. He leans in, his mouth a hairsbreadth from her own. He can feel her delicate little puffs of air against his lips. She’s trying so very hard to stay in control, it’s almost comical. But Mal ain’t laughing. So close. So very close. He whispers, allowing his lips to brush softly - softly - against hers.

“Tell me.”

“I want you,” she sobs, shaking her head back and forth in frustration. “I want you!”

A surge of elation fills his chest and he grins against her mouth. The only kind thing is to put the woman out of her misery. So he does. Gleefully. His lips press urgently to hers and she lets out a grateful sigh. Their tongues meet, sliding lithely against each other with abandon. Her thighs are squeezing his hips again and he’s got one thought then: move move move. Mal hoists her up and shoves off from the bulkhead, turning towards the hallway corridor. He stumbles through the door, almost looses his grasp on her backside, but rights himself at the last moment. If Inara notices his slip-up, she don’t say anything. ‘Course her mouth was a bit busy at the moment, what with tryin’ to kiss his face off.

He can’t really see where he’s going except peripherally. Good thing he knows his girl Serenity so well, or he’d be -

“Ow!” Inara yelps when he bangs her elbow against the wall.

“Sorry! Sorry,” he mumbles, penitent, against her throat.

Getting down into his bunk - that creates a predicament. But Mal is a man of great fortitude. And he’s good at multi-tasking. Balancing Inara with one arm and fighting the door lever, he is able to get the hatch open. Now, how to get down the ladder…

Inara slides out of his arms and down the hatch in front of him. Easy-peasy. Mal scrambles to follow her. His feet haven’t touched the floor before she’s on him again, her mouth hot and slick on his throat. “Well, hey there,” he laughs, almost falling off the last rung. She tugs insistently at the buckle on his holster, ignoring him. “Whoa, girl. This ain’t a race…” He strokes his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, trying to soothe her. Her small hand attempts to wriggle down the front of his pants.

“Inara.” He eases her away. “There’s no fire…”

“Oh, I beg to differ.” She offers a wry smile and begins her assault again.

“You know, as much fun as I’m havin’ - and darlin’, I’m having a swell time, here - it’d be even nicer if you’d open your eyes and look at me and just… you know… relax a little.”

Inara straightens, a frown darkening her face. “I am relaxed, Mal.”

“Sweetheart, you’re as edgy as a cat at a dog race.”

She purses her lips, obviously offended. “You are mistaken. I am blissfully serene. I’m…”

He kisses her, slow and deep, his tongue stroking, swirling, against hers - unhurried, languidly - as if he has all the time in the world and means to take it. A spark of desire floods through her and her womb clenches. She clutches at his shirt to steady herself.

He draws back, sniffs with an air of self-assurance. “How was that?”

“Wha… what?”

“Was that okay?”

“Okay…?”

“By your standards…”

“My ‘standards’…?”

“You gonna keep repeatin’ everything I say?” He crosses his arms, studying her like she’s some peculiar child. The loss of his touch leaves her feeling bereft. It’s unsettling to say the least; missing him when he’s only an arms length away.

She doesn’t answer him. When she finally raises her glazed eyes to meet his, he can see fearful apprehension in their depths.

“Xiu, Mal. I don’t know if this is a good idea…”

“No,” he says sharply, cutting her off. “No.” There’s a note of finality in his tone. He’ll tolerate no argument. “We’re not going down this road again, Inara. I’m growing awful weary of this game.”

“‘Game’?” she exclaims.

“Now don’t start that again.”

He throws her over his shoulder and drops her unceremoniously on his bed.

“Mal!” she cries, most indignant over his man-handling of her.

“I’d like to try something, if you won’t object.”

Inara scoots backwards on the bed, drawing her knees up protectively. She eyes him with suspicion.

“What?”

A grin - positively devilish - spreads across his lips. Mal grabs hold of her feet and all she can think is “Oh dear!” and “Where in the world are my slippers?” and he pulls her down to the end of the bed. He kneels and slides his big hands up her calves, over her knees, to her heated, shivering thighs - dragging the thin cotton of her nightgown with him.

“Oh…” she breathes, licks her lips.

“Now you just tell me if I’m doin’ this wrong, dong ma?”

“Wo de tian, a,” she groans and falls back on the bed.

Mal’s is an evil laugh.

********

His tongue darts out tentatively, like a cat licking cream. Once, twice, three times, he swipes across her clitoris. He lifts his head to gage her reaction. She ignores his pointed look, his half-lidded gaze. She looks away, closing her eyes. Mal lowers his head again and runs the entire length of his tongue over her clit with agonizing slowness.

She sucks in a breath, her hips arching against her consent and she can hear him whisper, “Do I have your attention, now?” She glances down at his smug grin and frowns.

Inara bites her lip to stop herself from begging him to just get on with it. She doesn’t think she can handle much more of this. But if she begs him to stop, he will, and she can’t stand the thought of that, either. She feels helpless, trapped. She can’t plead, can’t beg - that is just not something she can allow herself to do. No, not with him, not with Mal. It’s Mal, for god sakes! Mal! Mal… He begins again and all coherent thought leaves her.

“Mal…”

His name curls out of her throat in a long moan and she finds that she can’t remain silent any longer. A string of breathless sighs and mewls stream from her lips, turning to strong moans as he takes this reaction as a good sign and doubles his efforts. Oddly enough, as she begins to verbalize her pleasure, it becomes more bearable. That awful, trapped feeling dissipates as if holding in those sounds and words had made it so much worse.

He drags her a little closer to his mouth, adjusting her knees slung over his shoulders. It’s a more comfortable position and he takes up drawing delicate circles on her hipbone with his thumb. His other hand creeps up and his index and middle fingers slide deep inside her, crooking upward. She moans in response, her hands reaching out, grasping. He lifts his head to look at her again, she can feel his eyes on her. His fingers don’t stop twisting and sliding inside her and he whispers, mumbles some soft words against her inner thigh, placing a soft kiss there.

“…so lovely…” She strains to hear, but then his tongue is on her again and she thrusts her hips up at him and threads her hands through his hair. She’s surprised by how soft it is. It tickles the skin between her fingers.

"Harder,” she whispers.

His lips close over the tiny bundle of nerves and suckle. His fingers begin to piston faster. Within minutes, he has her writhing on his bed, short, high cries issuing from her throat as she grinds shamelessly against his mouth.

The man is merciless. He works at her urgently, lapping at her. She can hear the slick, wet sounds and it’s driving her mad. She feels the pressure in her womb building, her body tensing. Her breath comes quicker as her orgasm bears down on her with all the speed of an express train.

“Wait. Wait!” she gasps. Mal withdraws, puzzlement written on his face, his fingers stilling inside her. His lips are slick with moisture and his breath is labored. He blinks, confused.

She has the overwhelming urge to kiss his mouth. She sits up, tugging her nightgown over her head. The fabric skims across her sensitive nipples and she shudders. He’s still kneeling at the foot of his bed, eyes wide, taking her in like she’s some kind of Christmas present. She leans forward, her hands tugging his face closer to hers. Her tongue swipes at his lower lip and she kisses him for all she’s worth. His hands settle on her hips. His fingers splay out, pressing into her skin as he slides his tongue against hers.She pulls away and his lips follow after her, seeking their heat. She whispers softly against them: “I want to come with you inside me.” She’s surprised she can even utter the words to him. She’s never spoken anything so bold, certainly not with a client where everything is ceremony and carefully skilled actions. She dares to look into his eyes. His pupils are black, black with rims of blue, dilated with arousal. His nostrils flare and he wraps his large hand around the back of her neck pulling her to him for another searing kiss.

This time, it’s Mal who pulls away, standing to shuck his boots, his trousers and shorts. She leans back and he begins to crawl onto the bed, between her thighs.

“No. Roll over,” she instructs. He obeys without argument, reclining with his back against the bulkhead.

Inara moves over him, straddles his hips. She takes him in hand, caressing. Like smooth silk over hard bone, she thinks. His head falls back against the metal wall with an almost comical thunk. He closes his eyes and swallows audibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. She leans forward and presses an open-mouthed kiss there.

Inara raises up on her knees and plunges down onto him. They both cry out. He, in pleasure, she, in near-pain when he bumps roughly up against her cervix. She foolishly thrust herself down on him too quickly. He can feel her tense, notes her wince. “Don’t move, she pleads, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. He obeys without question, though she can feel his body trembling with need. She allows her body a few moments to adjust to his length and thickness before she begins to raise and lower herself with her thighs.

The sensation of him sliding in and out of her body is beyond incredible. The initial discomfort from that abrupt penetration melts away to pleasure. With each stroke, he goes so deep, his hands roaming over her skin as if he were a blind man. After a few moments of slow, languorous strokes, she leans back. It brings him into firm contact with her g-spot with every stroke, the friction sinfully delicious. She throws her head back and moans, her eyes closing in pleasure. Her teeth sink into her lower lip and she leans back further, bracing herself on his thighs. She begins to move faster on him.

In no time, her movements loose all semblance of grace and rhythm. Just frantic, animalistic thrusting. She smiles thankfully when Mal grabs her by the hips and begins to lift and lower her faster. Bless him, she thinks. He knows her muscles are getting tired.

His breathing becomes shallow, his eyes are intent upon her. She meets his powerful gaze.

"Are you close?" she gasps.

"Any second now, darlin'," he replies, his voice is harsh and ragged. "'Nara, you're killin' me here."

She takes his hand and presses it to where they are joined.

He groans and presses on her clit with his thumb. He strokes in hard, deep circles and she can feel pleasure strum through her body like electricity.

"Unnnnhmmmm… Mal!” Her breathless cries run together until they became one continuous wail. Her body jerks hard against him as the climax hits her, and she stiffens, her mouth open and gasping as wave after wave rocks her. Somewhere, seemingly a million miles away, she hears Mal yell and feels him buck his hips into her hard one last time.

Inara slumps against him, throwing her arms around his waist. She unfolds her legs, stretching them out to ease her tight muscles, and entwining her legs with his longer ones. He’s still trying to catch his breath, but he raises one hand to stroke her hair.

As her breath returns and her heart rate returns to normal, reality sets in. She lifts her eyes to meet his, embarrassed.

“Well that was… Thank you,” she says, the words fumbling in her head. He scrutinizes her with a look of amused incredulity and she blushes, looking away. Truthfully, she is a good deal surprised by her own behavior. She has never behaved like that, never selfishly demanded that anyone meet her needs, with so little consideration for their own. It is strange to feel so out of control and yet so in control at the same time. It was exactly what she needed, but she can’t help feeling like she has used him somewhat.

She lifts her head to kiss him on the lips. He responds, his tongue caressing hers, gentle sweet, like warm honey, and deep. She sighs into his mouth, allows herself to relax against him. His hands shift and rub her upper arms, warming her against the chilly air. He pulls her down lower on the bed and throws the blankets over them. Inara rests her head on his chest, her ear pressed to his ribcage. Distantly, she can hear the beat of his heart. She can’t help but smile at this.

“Maybe next time we should do this in your shuttle,” he says, glancing around his bunk with a critical eye. “Crew needs their rest, after all.” He nods imperceptibly. “Anyway, wouldn’t it be nice to have a place where you don’t have to worry about screamin’ your pretty little head off?” He bats his eyelashes at her and grins sardonically.

She gasps in indignation, sitting up to confront him. "You think you don't yell?" she laughs. "Because if that's the delusion under which you're laboring, allow me to assure you that no woman would ever accuse you of being the strong, silent type, Malcolm."

He chuckles and draws her to him, placing a kiss on her lips. "Don't be sassy, woman." He kisses her again, his lips slanting across hers with all the ardor he can muster in this exhausted state. Then he pulls her down to hold her close.

She shakes her head, her lips pressed tight in agitation. He’s mistaken if he thinks it’s she’s always going to be so compliant… But Inara finds she’s too sleepy to retort. She pokes him in the gut. His eyes fly open and he squirms underneath her, laughing.

********

He watches her waking, her arms stretching upward as she breathes in deeply, a soft groan issuing from her throat, like a purr.

He thinks of all the kittens that had lived in their barn back on Shadow - how sweet they looked and how nice it felt to scratch their soft heads and rub under their little chins. He doubts Inara would take kindly to the comparison, but that’s what she looks like, his own sweet little kitten.

He runs his hand over the soft waves of her dark hair and down the curve of her cheek. She presses up into his touch, a slow smile spreading over her lips, as her lashes flutter open.

"I never kissed Saffron."

Well that was unexpected. "Shen me?"

"I never kissed her."

He looks confused. "So you did fall?”

She smiles. "Not exactly..." She gives him a heated look out of the corner of her eye.

She laughs softly as it dawns on him and his eyes go wide. He flops back down on the pillow in exasperation, shakes his head and lets out a string of curses in Mandarin.

She takes the opportunity to snuggle closer to him.

"Why?" he asks.

"Why what?"

"Why'd you kiss me?"

"I thought you were dead," she says softly, her beautifully arched eyebrows drawing together in a frown at the thought.

"You in the habit of kissin' corpses? Is this something I should know about?"

"No," she laughs, then turns serious again. "I thought you were dead..." She shudders slightly. The grin disappears from his face.

"And then you weren't," she says finally. "And all I could feel was thankful." She looks up at him, her soft brown doe-eyes beginning to water.

"Inara." He whispers her name, tracing his finger over her cheek. She blinks away the unshed tears. She takes his hand and delicately kisses the palm, presses it to her cheek for a moment. She slides his hand down to rest over her heart.

"When you came to my shuttle tonight, I was certain you had figured it out. I thought..." she says, emphasizing the word and shooting him a look of annoyance. “I thought that you were going to kiss me." He snickers at that.

"Sorry I disappointed you…" She elbows him in the side, which only makes him laugh harder.

"Don't make fun," she murmurs, a slight smile creeping across her lips. He quiets down.

"Well, don't seem right," he says after a while. Mal sits up, moving out from behind her. He shifts and eases himself over her. In response, Inara instinctively scoots down in the bed, lying back in willful submission. His voice drops to that low drawl that raises goose-bumps on her arms and makes her clench her thighs together for relief. "Maybe I should make it up to you - you bein' so disappointed, and all..."

He draws a calloused finger down her breast. She sighs.

"Perhaps you should." That heated look is back and he doesn't say another word. See? Sometimes he does know when to keep his mouth shut. But right now, he plans to put it to good use.

His mouth latches onto the peak of one breast and she sighs again, bites her lip as she watches him with heavy bedroom eyes.

Yep. Very good use, indeed.

Fini

NEW FIREFLY FIC! 'Cutting In'

2007-07-22T05:10:33Z

This was the day that I woke up and said, “Gosh darnit, I’m going to post something. Today. If it kills me.” So I wrote this. No betas, so forgive any spelling or grammatical errors. I’m sure there’s some in there.

I want to dedicate this to all those wonderful writers (muses!) that inspire my ‘shipper heart: Mal4Prez, Biggrstaffbunch, TamSibling, 2x2, Goldy, Kaynara, and Phaedra, just to name a few. Reading your wonderful fic is such a treat and an inspiration, really, for me to keep writing myself. Thanks for that.

*

And now, "Cutting In"

*

He watches her, unobserved, from the doorway. He was passing by just then - going about his business this evening - when he caught a glimpse of her in her fine white silk frock. He stopped, business forgotten, as he paused to take in the sight of her. The warm light from no-doubt strategically placed candles and the fireplace embraces her, giving her skin and raven hair a golden glow. She’s too gorram beautiful and he cannot look away.

Mal doesn’t recognize the tune, nor the dance she steps to in her fine embroidered slippers. Some kind of waltz, maybe. She holds the hand of a young man and they turn circles on the floor. Her cheek presses against her partner’s and the light catches on the elegant curves of her long neck, her delicate shoulder. Her lips form a soft smile as she brushes them over the fortunate youth’s cheek, whispers into his ear - sweet sentiments, Mal’s sure.

There’s no spark of jealousy, only a peace that can maybe be described as contentment - because she really is happy. Despite harsh words he may have said to her countless times, he really does want that for her. It’s what he’s always wanted for her. Because he’s in love with her.

A new song begins, this one’s slow, too, and sultry - with guitars and violin and accordion. It’s a song for another time, another place. A place where summer nights are humid, where the scent of flowers is intoxicating, and a glass of amber liquid sweats in your hand. Her mouth twists up suddenly and he’ll be damned - that hun dan Atherton Wing had it right . Her smile is like sunlight. Only when Mal thinks it, he really means it. Almost stops his heart for a moment - the beauty of it.

He encontrado en tu amor,
la fe perdida,
Ahora tiene mi vida una razón.
No sé si fue el embrujo de tus ojos,
que le dijo a tus labios,
Róbale el corazón.

She begins to mouth the words to the song. It’s a language he don’t speak and he’ll never ask her what it means; but then, he don’t really need to know. Sometimes, when the music is just right, you don’t need the words to understand what they’re sayin’.

Yo sé que en los mil besos
que te he dado en la boca
se me fue el corazón;
y dicen que es pecado
querer como te quiero
Quizás tengan razón.

They sway to the music, one figure, instead of two, gliding across the wooden floorboards. A turn, a twirl, a dip. The young man laughs and she echoes it, her voice like a clear-ringing bell. Nope, Mal don’t need the words. It’s a love song and it’s plain to him that it’s fitting - that she’s head-over-fancy-heels for the fellow in her arms.

Pero que ha de importarme
todo lo que me digan,
no te he de olvidar;
que si es pecado amarte
yo he de seguir pecando
nunca lo he de ocultar.

He doesn’t want to impose, but there’s a twinge of selfishness that twists in his heart. He wants to be the one dancing, to hold that small hand in his own and take a turn around the room. He takes a quick breath to calm his nerves and makes his way over to them. Her back is turned and when he gives that inevitable tap on the shoulder, she whirls around, surprised.

“Mal?” she asks softly. Her eyes… He thinks a man could drown in their dark, warm depths. He’s certain he’d like to volunteer, then realizes he was a goner years ago.

“May I…” He takes a moment to clear his throat. “…cut in?”

Inara glances at her young man, searching his blue eyes for any sign of annoyance at Mal’s intrusion into their private time. “Well, I…”

She looks back up at Mal, and he stands up straighter, attempting to look like something between a wounded puppy and a cool, shui fellow. He fails miserably, but Inara seems to take pity on him. She smiles knowingly. “I wouldn’t want to be rude, but… Why don’t you join us?” she asks coyly. “I don’t think Baylor minds, do you darling?” She kisses him again, softly on his cheek.

Two chubby hands release Inara’s nightgown and hair, respectively, and reach out to him. “Dadadadadaaa?”

Mal can’t help himself. There’s a stupid go se-eatin’ grin that seems to appear out of nowhere and plaster itself to his lips every time he hears that high-pitched, unintelligible string of babble. ‘Cuz sometimes, when a thing sounds so right, you don’t need the words to understand what they’re sayin’.

“Now here’s a handsome fella,” Mal grins, taking his son in his arms, pressing his nose to the shock of sandy wisps that cover the baby’s head. He breathes in deep and wonders where that sweet, milk and honey smell comes from. He holds Baylor in one arm, the baby’s small bottom cradled against his forearm and with the other, he reaches out for Inara. She comes to him, swaying, humming to the melody, her eyes soft and sleepy. He wraps his arm around her waist, draws her close. She presses her warm body against him, her cheek resting against his shoulder.

“Very handsome, indeed,” Inara agrees, “just like his Papa.” Her voice takes on that adorably hi-larious baby-talk intonation Mal would tease her for were circumstances a mite different.

He turns to her, a look of mock consternation on his face. “And who, may I ask, is the father?” he exclaims. “‘Cuz while I wouldn‘t wish this nose on my enemy, I don‘t take kindly to the thought of some other…” Inara rolls her eyes and reaches up on her tip-toes to silence him with a kiss that makes his ears turn red and his knees go wobbly.

He shuts up after that, content to have them in his arms, Baylor smacking his tiny lips in sleep and Inara, eyes closed, serenading them both.

Te he de seguir amando,
te he de seguir besando
hasta volverte loca.
hasta que me devuelvas
el corazón que en besos
yo te deje en la boca…

The music comes to an end. Mal reluctantly releases Inara and she moves quietly around the room, blowing out the candles one by one. She returns to his side, offers to take the baby. “I’ve got him,” he whispers. Mal catches a loose curl around his finger, bends down to kiss his wife’s lips.

“Mal,” she murmurs softly against his mouth. Just so. And he understands her perfectly. No need for words more than that. He takes her hand and they start up the stairs.

Today was a good day. Man can’t ask for more than this, he supposes.

Fini

English translation of ‘Mil Besos’

I have found in your love
my lost faith,
Now my life has a reason.
I don't know if it was the witchcraft of your eyes,
that said to your lips,
Steal his heart.

I know that in the thousand kisses
that I have given you on the mouth
my heart left me;
and they say that it's a sin
to love as I love you,
Maybe they're right.

But what should everything they tell me
matter to me,
I won't forget you;
for if it's a sin to love you
I will continue sinning
I will never hide it.

I will continue loving you,
I will continue kissing you
until I drive you mad,
until you give me back
the heart that in kisses
I left in your mouth

A fic-let snip-pet

2007-03-18T00:21:01Z

I've mulled over several titles, but the one I keep coming back to is: The Ties that Bind. Not original, but I think it encompasses what the story is truly about. Here's a rough draft of a scene that I wrote early on. Thought I'd post it here and see what people thought...

Remember, feedback is good for the soul!

She is old now. Her hair is pale silver and the skin of her hands is lined with veins and thin like the rice paper she paints her calligraphy on. But she is the same size at eighty six years old as she was the day she married, a fact that she still takes pride in. Her posture is as straight and elegant as ever, her movements as graceful as she can manage, relying on her cane to walk. But despite the cane, she still walks. She walks every day, down the mile-long stretch of dirt road that leads up to their ranch from the only road into town.

After her students leave for the day, she makes her daily trek down this lane, with flowers in her hands. She stops at the white clapboard church with its rows of gray stones to lay her offerings before the headstones of her loved ones. She carefully kneels to clear away weeds, any bits of rubbish or leaves that have blown around. As she works, she thinks of them all: dear Walker and his father, Murphy. Shepherd Book, who long since passed. Wash and Zoe. Hannah. Jayne and his Coralee. Her Mal. And her Jamie. These two stones are her final stop. Each time, she traces the names with the pad of her index finger. James Finlay Reynolds. May 1, 2528 - August 20, 2545. Malcolm Finlay Reynolds. September 20, 2486 - July 17, 2576. She places pale, wild roses at the base of their headstones. This is her daily ritual. She may walk into town if there is something she needs. She may pay a visit to the Tams or River and her husband. Or she may turn and walk back home.

Today is her eighty-sixth birthday. She sits on her front porch, rocking in the smooth pine chair her husband built for her, one of a pair. Her fingers lovingly stroke the smooth wood and she listens to the creak, creak of the rockers against the floorboards. She does not glance over at its silent mate. It had been empty for a few years now. Mal made them for her on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. He spent days sanding the wood to perfection. She brought him glass after glass of iced tea as he worked in the hot summer sun.

He ran his hand through his graying hair as he paused to take the glass from her hand. He gave her an unabashed grin and a wink.

"You're going to get heat-stroke," she warned.

"Almost done," he countered and pressed the cold, perspiring glass to his forehead.

"At least put on a hat..."

"Woman, why don't you stop pesterin' me and make me a sandwich?" He laid down the sand paper and kissed her thoroughly.

"You're getting me all sweaty," she laughed, squirming away from him.

"Time was, you didn't mind, me gettin' you all sweaty." He curled a loose strand of her salt and pepper hair around his finger. She laughed and swatted his hand away.

"Keep that up, old man, you'll be making your own lunch." He shrugged and picked up the sand paper. She made her way back to the front of the house before calling out, "What do you want on that sandwich?" He chuckled to himself and went back to work.

Glancing up at the sky, she notes the billowing clouds. The sky is blue as blue now, but she marks there will be a thunderstorm rolling through before nightfall. She watches as the wind blows the billows of white into ever-changing shapes. Days like these, when work was done they would lay in the tall grass at the top of their hill, Isabel chasing after Baylor and little Jamie sleeping on her breast, his chubby hand fisted in her black hair. Mal would pull out a pad and a bit of charcoal and begin to sketch: the horizon with its line of mountains standing sentinel, their homestead nestled in the foothills. He drew the children: when they played, when they slept. And often he drew her: her profile, her slim hands, her arched feet. There was no part of her he hadn't drawn at one time or another.

He had hidden this talent from her for many years. She asked him about it once, when he'd learn to do it. He said back on the ranch there hadn't been much for a boy to do, once his chores were done. He'd spent his free time reading mail-order comics and books - and drawing - everything he could: the horses, the ranch hands, and his mama.

"Did you keep any of them?" she asked, leaning over his shoulder, her arms around his neck. He scratched his cheek in consideration. "I might have some stashed away..."

"Show me."

She followed him up to the attic. He hefted some boxes and trunks out of the way, pushing aside dust-laden sheets. He knelt to open a large square trunk. She noted the postage markings and worn labels curling up at the edges. It had traveled with him many miles, she knew. And now that its travels were ended, it gathered dust in the attic of their home, a remnant of his former life. He glanced over his shoulder at her and quirked a half-grin, hesitating. She smiled back and motioned for him to get on with it.

He popped the lock and dug through various papers and old shirts. A worn black Bible was lifted out, but he set it aside with only a second look. She stooped to pick it up as he continued digging. It was massive, weighty. The brass latch was broken off. She carefully opened the cover and gently turned the first yellowed pages. She ran her finger over the long line of names and dates. Births, deaths, christenings, and weddings. At the end, she found her husband's name: Malcolm Finlay Reynolds, his birth date, his baptism, and above it, his parents: James and Margaret Reynolds. She recognized her husband's neat, even scrawl noting Margaret's date of death. The final entry, she supposed.

"Here," he said finally, producing some loose pages and a sketchbook with the cover half falling off. She closed the cover of the Bible, secreting the book in some cast-off shirts of his. He closed the trunk and they climb back down the stairs. He didn't ask about the bulk of old shirts she carried in her arms.

He flopped his large frame down on their bed, careful to kick his boots off before resting his back against the headboard. She nonchalantly set her bundle down in the chair, then sat down next to him.

"This is my ma," he said, handing her a loose page. "And this here's my first horse. My pa got him for me for my tenth birthday." She took it, noted the flowing lines, the muscles of the animal well-defined. "That was right before he died," he said softly, almost as an afterthought. He was silent, stared at the page, stared, but did not see, his mind lost in remembering. She slid an arm around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. He seemed to shake himself out of his wandering thoughts and opened the sketchbook.

"Here's one of Tom Cullen. He was our foreman. My pa's best friend." She examined the sketch. Mal captured the man's lean, craggy face and his deep-set dark eyes. It was not a handsome face, but it was a kind one. This was a man who had lived a hard life, the lines of his face stated it plainly. Like the sketch of his mother, the obvious care Mal had taken to draw him accurately and with such detail was proof enough to her that he had loved this man dearly. Mal turned the page and she did not ask what became of Tom Cullen.

Later, after they tucked in Isabel and Mal had turned in for the night, she sat down at the kitchen table, Margaret Reynolds’s Bible open before her. She took up a pen and in her delicate hand she wrote their daughter's name, Isabel Rose, and her date of birth. She wrote their wedding date, August 15th. She eyed the next blank line and smiled softly. She placed a hand lightly on her belly. Still flat, but in a few months, she'd begin to show.

This is your line, little one, she thought. I will write your name here.

She closed the Bible carefully and carried it into the great room. She placed it in the book case, next to her own first and second editions, some of them so old, they bore names of countries and great cities of Earth-That-Was. She knew he would not make a fuss. Though her husband was no regular church-goer, at least Mal was on speaking-terms with the Almighty again and would not object to her putting the Bible on display. The good book was his mother's and it deserved a place of honor in their home. She closed the glass door and the key turned easily in the lock with a little snick.

She made her rounds, turned off the lights, put Isabel's two cats out for the night, then climbed the stairs to their darkened bedroom. Mal was already snoring softly. She felt her way in the dark with ease, navigated around their bed to fold his pants and hang up his shirt. She stood his boots upright and placed them at the foot of the bed instead of at the side where he would, no doubt, trip over them first thing in the morning. She undressed, pulled her cotton nightgown over her head, and gathered her abundant hair up in a neat chignon. She crept softly to the bed so as not to disturb Mal, slid under the covers. He shifted in his sleep, his hands reaching out, unconsciously drawing her closer to him. Her eyelids fell and behind them, she dreamed of blue-eyed boys.

empirex1020 @ 2007-03-15T22:52:00

2007-03-16T04:01:01Z

Huzzah! A brand spankin' new home for all my Firefly and X-Files fanfic. How exciting! My first Firefly fic is in the works, but I'm still contemplating the title. Check back soon for an update!

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