Let's try that capitalized. Drama Queen Amnesty Day.
Yes, that looks better.
Now what would that entail is the question. Though I'm all for mandatory caplocked posts and screeching about the existential unfairness of it all.
Everyone is doing challenges. There are remixes due soon. I'm guessing that this means I should work on mine. I've done the 'narrowed it down' and then the 'oh god, this isn't happening to me' right into 'i'm going to put out a contract on Victoria, because I do *not* believe she didn't get some seriously evil glee out of this one'. Or I could be imagining that. Though I don't think I am.
And is it my imagination, or in the last six months, have there been like, a rash of people changing LJ names? Not that I'm against this or anything, because variety is the spice of life and all, but I'm doing the connect the person to the LJ to the AIM name to the YM name to the writing-pseudonym-in-this-fandom name to the webpage name game again. This is why I rarely ask for Real Names from people. Frankly, I'm not sure I'd be able to keep up.
I'm beyond words tempted to write B/J Vampire AU fic. It's like, this obsession of not-wanting-to-write mixed in with really, over the top dramatic bloody scenes that are pretty much Guess Jenn's Number One Kink here. I honestly think it's the influence of Te's Cliche Challenge, reminding me of all the cliches I've never gotten around to playing with.
I just have this vivid image of Justin and Michael holed up in the comic shop, waiting for dawn, all the windows and doors boarded up.
You're never going see dawn.
Brian said that, four hours ago when you were pressed up against the remains of Babylon, half-broken, crumbling wall gouging your back with Brian's hand in your pants. Cold, so cold, you remember that, shivering at the touch like frozen metal in deep winter, burning across your skin like he'll leave fingerprints pressed into every inch he touches. You hate how you whimpered and twisted, hips pushing into his hand, eyes straight ahead and staring into hazel lightened almost to amber, you could drown there and never want to stop.
You could, you could see yourself, you *can* see yourself, toes brushing slick alley concrete and a rotting corpse that didn't seem anything near as real as Brian, who was always more vivid than anything alive could be, even more now.
"You want?" he said in your ear, and you can feel that pressure just beneath, that weird touch that's like pinpricks, reminds you of shooting up in Babylon's backroom at seventeen and stupid as shit, blissing out on the toilet and Brian finding you, though he'll never say he was looking, pulling you out and calling you a stupid cunt and throwing you on the floor. Taking you home to ride your high out, to ride him, and you think it'll feel like that, when he does it, when he pushes in, when he draws more than a thin line on your skin and then pulls away, licking the taste of your blood from his lips, vivid against his teeth, Christ, Brian--
Fucking tease, playing with you like a mouse, and you hated him for that. Arched against cold stone and begging for it with your whole body, crawl like a filthy little bitch to lick his boots, take me, take me, please, anything you want, everything you want, just don't let me go....
You were crazy. You still are. You have been, for longer than you ever guessed. You can taste him in your mouth, cold skin and the taste of dirt, metal-sharp blood, someone else he had tonight, someone that wasn't you.
"Justin?" Michael whispers, and you shudder at warm breath against the scratch on your neck and think that you hate him a little. You hate him because Brian was touching you like you always wanted, wanting you as much as you wanted him--he looked for you in this godforsaken city, hunted you down a hundred streets, drew you out, had you *right there* and then Michael, Christ, you fucking *ass*, standing there with a cross and that look of hurt surety, little martyr, oh look how fucking brave you are, fuck you, Michael....
And Brian was gone with a lick to your mouth and you were slumping on the dead body of a faceless man, pants loose at your hips, cock hard and aching, tasting him. You don't think you'll ever stop.
You boarded up the windows when you got here, crept into the airless storeroom and blocked up the door. It's three hours until dawn and Michael's been this restless, faceless presence, meaningless, like the stale, fear-thick air, like the nameless, faceless people huddled around you that Michael brought, bodies warm against you, and you want to get *away*.
You sweat through your shivering and touch the scratch on your neck, and God, you'd do anything to feel cold again.
*cocks head* Stupid? Not?