(no subject)
I've begun archiving my fanfic over at AO3. You can find me here. All of my previously-posted SPN fic (gen, FPS and RPF) is up there now. I haven't yet decided if I'll be posting fic from other fandoms. If anyone has any tips for an AO3 newbie, I'd be happy to hear 'em.
I also pulled the following (written way back in June 2007, when I was still rather new to the fandom) out of the vaults and posted it there. Because I'm anal like that, I'm posting here too:
Title: Second Skin
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Summary: No action comes without a wound to tend.
Spoilers: None.
Word Count: 338
Disclaimer: It’s all made up.
The blister peels back in a long, tapering strip, water pearling over the raw skin beneath it. He covers his thumb with the underside of it, studies the the way it clings to to the pad of flesh, almost a perfect blanket of skin on skin except for the way it crinkles at the edges, drying fast and breaking. It tears off in a fluid motion, but he cringes out of false expectation, assuming it will catch, pull and bleed, not anticipating the ease of it all. No action comes without a wound to tend.
But he has been proved wrong before.
He shreds the skin like paper in pieces, keenly aware of the neuroticism of it, keenly aware of Dean's eyes on him. Each tear he measures against each glance, a call and response. Only, Sam no longer knows who started it first. Watching and waiting, and pulling apart a little more.
His fingers pinch around the layers of broken blister, dry skin dampened by the sweat of his palm. He holds his hand out of the window, fingers stiff and locking, the air knocking against him so no one can tell the difference between velocity and tremor. At the next mile marker, he releases the skin. Pieces cling to his thumb and forefinger before the wind rips them off and they flutter back, somewhere among the asphalt and grass and metal and sunlight that bleed together in the reflection in the side mirror.
The raw skin of his knuckle stings for the first time since he exposed it. He flexes his hand into a fist, watches the red skin slide over bone, waits as fingers slide between the webbing before flattening his palm against the seat.
Dean's hand fits over his, except where his fingers stop short of Sam's. Covered in light scars and roped with soft veins, its pale skin belies none of its real weight. Sam wonders how hard it would be to pull away, marvels at how easy it is to stay there.
I also pulled the following (written way back in June 2007, when I was still rather new to the fandom) out of the vaults and posted it there. Because I'm anal like that, I'm posting here too:
Title: Second Skin
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Summary: No action comes without a wound to tend.
Spoilers: None.
Word Count: 338
Disclaimer: It’s all made up.
The blister peels back in a long, tapering strip, water pearling over the raw skin beneath it. He covers his thumb with the underside of it, studies the the way it clings to to the pad of flesh, almost a perfect blanket of skin on skin except for the way it crinkles at the edges, drying fast and breaking. It tears off in a fluid motion, but he cringes out of false expectation, assuming it will catch, pull and bleed, not anticipating the ease of it all. No action comes without a wound to tend.
But he has been proved wrong before.
He shreds the skin like paper in pieces, keenly aware of the neuroticism of it, keenly aware of Dean's eyes on him. Each tear he measures against each glance, a call and response. Only, Sam no longer knows who started it first. Watching and waiting, and pulling apart a little more.
His fingers pinch around the layers of broken blister, dry skin dampened by the sweat of his palm. He holds his hand out of the window, fingers stiff and locking, the air knocking against him so no one can tell the difference between velocity and tremor. At the next mile marker, he releases the skin. Pieces cling to his thumb and forefinger before the wind rips them off and they flutter back, somewhere among the asphalt and grass and metal and sunlight that bleed together in the reflection in the side mirror.
The raw skin of his knuckle stings for the first time since he exposed it. He flexes his hand into a fist, watches the red skin slide over bone, waits as fingers slide between the webbing before flattening his palm against the seat.
Dean's hand fits over his, except where his fingers stop short of Sam's. Covered in light scars and roped with soft veins, its pale skin belies none of its real weight. Sam wonders how hard it would be to pull away, marvels at how easy it is to stay there.