miss maggie (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bossymarmalade) wrote2002-12-29 09:06 am
bossymarmalade) wrote2002-12-29 09:06 am
love in the time of scurvy
More DWNOGA madness.
anti-alphabetical--l to g
runaways: What's that? I mentioned this one before? No, you must be mistaken. Shut up, that's why! *snuggles fic fiercely*
When they'd decimated the bread, Lance brought out the chocolate. Maybe it was weird French chocolate, but Chris didn't care; it tasted like chocolate was meant to taste. Chris was definitely behind the concept of chocolate no matter where it came from, and the French were apparently very, very good at it. There was more kir then, and with the chocolate it didn't seem too girly anymore, so he drank enough of it to lose track of what he was drinking and eating and to start talking smack about Justin, which he suddenly felt was the only reason he'd come to Paris.
count the days: There's something that's just so pretty about Joey and Justin when they're written like this, and you never see it coming.
They're on break when Justin comes up behind him, wrapping impossibly long arms around his waist. Slender fingers intertwine and push, just a little, at the hem of Joey's shirt.
anarchitect: All this Trickyfish, man. Good thing some of it is intensely funny and loveable, or I'd be clamoring for Timbertrick.
Lance let him down. When they met up in the soda aisle, Chris had store brand nachos, a bottle of Pepsi, and a block of Velveeta. Lance proudly held out a cantaloupe, broccoli flowers, a huge bottle of vitamins, and bread.
Chris made him put all of it back - even the bread, which was the gross, nutty kind.
"It has linseed oil and extra fibre," Lance protested.
"You make me sad, Bass," Chris said.
fried chicken: Stories that use food in a fabulous way are near and dear to my heart, and good lord I would kill somebody for some macaroni pie about now. Plus, bitch!JC, and they fuck in a library, heaven help me.
JC and Justin bickered for over a week about the menu, Justin wanting to try some of the more exotic dishes he knew Lance liked. JC argued that Lance would have nothing but exotic meals in Russia and that his last meal with his four best friends should be something simple. In the end, because JC can hold a grudge like nobody's business, they decided on good ole' Southern fare: fried chicken, macaroni casserole, corn on the cob, refried beans (none for Joey, thank you) and sweet cornbread with peach cobbler for dessert.
game: Teerlove, dammit, but they're all snarky and good.
“Don’t touch me,” JC says, biting and clipped. Justin pulls his hand back, startled, then remembers the dark reflection in the bus window he can’t see from where he’s standing.
the neurological disorder elf: JC thinks he's clever, and Chris calls Legolas a bitch. It's beautiful.
"I'm not a fucking elf."
"Well Chris, for the last three months, you haven't been a-fucking anything." JC thought it was a good comeback, especially for him. He didn't understand why Chris was unappreciatively hitting him over the head with a pillow.
safe places: Chris and JC make fishcakes and diss "Glitter" and like to fuck. Hey, that sounds like a good time to me!
"No time like the present," is all JC can get out before Chris pounces on him and shuts him up with a rough kiss. Well, he also manages "Mrgglekempsf," but he somehow doubts that anybody would makes any sense of that besides maybe Romanians, and sadly, neither he nor Chris is Romanian.
black and white: Nick and Justin, and is he a starfucker or isn't he?
"Leave your number," he said to Justin before shrugging on a hoodie and going.
"Sure," Justin said with a half-smile, like he thought there was no way in hell Nick was going to call him. But when Nick got back that afternoon there were seven digits in big even handwriting on the complimentary stationary on the desk, along with a note thanking him for the use of his couch and shower.
jailbait street: I'm not all that keen on baby!sync, but this is fantastic and funny and the characterization is bang-on.
"No rehearsal till twelve. So you've got plenty of time to talk to the babies."
JC sighed and went to sleep.
When he woke up the next morning, Chris had already left the room. There was a large note taped to the door, saying TALK TO THE BABIES in big bright red letters. Stupid Chris.
More to follow, eventually. And tomorrow, a Baltimoron! Whoo-hoo!
anti-alphabetical--l to g
runaways: What's that? I mentioned this one before? No, you must be mistaken. Shut up, that's why! *snuggles fic fiercely*
When they'd decimated the bread, Lance brought out the chocolate. Maybe it was weird French chocolate, but Chris didn't care; it tasted like chocolate was meant to taste. Chris was definitely behind the concept of chocolate no matter where it came from, and the French were apparently very, very good at it. There was more kir then, and with the chocolate it didn't seem too girly anymore, so he drank enough of it to lose track of what he was drinking and eating and to start talking smack about Justin, which he suddenly felt was the only reason he'd come to Paris.
count the days: There's something that's just so pretty about Joey and Justin when they're written like this, and you never see it coming.
They're on break when Justin comes up behind him, wrapping impossibly long arms around his waist. Slender fingers intertwine and push, just a little, at the hem of Joey's shirt.
anarchitect: All this Trickyfish, man. Good thing some of it is intensely funny and loveable, or I'd be clamoring for Timbertrick.
Lance let him down. When they met up in the soda aisle, Chris had store brand nachos, a bottle of Pepsi, and a block of Velveeta. Lance proudly held out a cantaloupe, broccoli flowers, a huge bottle of vitamins, and bread.
Chris made him put all of it back - even the bread, which was the gross, nutty kind.
"It has linseed oil and extra fibre," Lance protested.
"You make me sad, Bass," Chris said.
fried chicken: Stories that use food in a fabulous way are near and dear to my heart, and good lord I would kill somebody for some macaroni pie about now. Plus, bitch!JC, and they fuck in a library, heaven help me.
JC and Justin bickered for over a week about the menu, Justin wanting to try some of the more exotic dishes he knew Lance liked. JC argued that Lance would have nothing but exotic meals in Russia and that his last meal with his four best friends should be something simple. In the end, because JC can hold a grudge like nobody's business, they decided on good ole' Southern fare: fried chicken, macaroni casserole, corn on the cob, refried beans (none for Joey, thank you) and sweet cornbread with peach cobbler for dessert.
game: Teerlove, dammit, but they're all snarky and good.
“Don’t touch me,” JC says, biting and clipped. Justin pulls his hand back, startled, then remembers the dark reflection in the bus window he can’t see from where he’s standing.
the neurological disorder elf: JC thinks he's clever, and Chris calls Legolas a bitch. It's beautiful.
"I'm not a fucking elf."
"Well Chris, for the last three months, you haven't been a-fucking anything." JC thought it was a good comeback, especially for him. He didn't understand why Chris was unappreciatively hitting him over the head with a pillow.
safe places: Chris and JC make fishcakes and diss "Glitter" and like to fuck. Hey, that sounds like a good time to me!
"No time like the present," is all JC can get out before Chris pounces on him and shuts him up with a rough kiss. Well, he also manages "Mrgglekempsf," but he somehow doubts that anybody would makes any sense of that besides maybe Romanians, and sadly, neither he nor Chris is Romanian.
black and white: Nick and Justin, and is he a starfucker or isn't he?
"Leave your number," he said to Justin before shrugging on a hoodie and going.
"Sure," Justin said with a half-smile, like he thought there was no way in hell Nick was going to call him. But when Nick got back that afternoon there were seven digits in big even handwriting on the complimentary stationary on the desk, along with a note thanking him for the use of his couch and shower.
jailbait street: I'm not all that keen on baby!sync, but this is fantastic and funny and the characterization is bang-on.
"No rehearsal till twelve. So you've got plenty of time to talk to the babies."
JC sighed and went to sleep.
When he woke up the next morning, Chris had already left the room. There was a large note taped to the door, saying TALK TO THE BABIES in big bright red letters. Stupid Chris.
More to follow, eventually. And tomorrow, a Baltimoron! Whoo-hoo!
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