it's like i two fist every day with lj entries.

Fannish post of EPIC PROPORTIONS AS I IGNORE THE OPEN SNARRY:

1. I can't adequately express how I feel about

angstslashhope's post-CoE fic, Not with a bang or a whimper. No really. I can't. not with out giving things away. Her summary is Five places Ianto's story went next. And they are ALL AWESOME. I like the second one the best.

2.

1. The poly fic: breaks down like this: I/L+J/I=>J/L/I…….-->J/I/L+R/G=>J/I/L/G/R….-G/R=J/I/L=<3. If you squint. It looks like math. Oh polyfic, how I love you. You and your wigginess and your sexy, and your puppy piles of love. I would work on you if I could.

Jack has been living with them for two months, coming and going and sharing their bed, setting up his own space in which he keeps books, and ammo and clothing, the occasional DVD. One night in the middle of dinner when he is telling them some far fetched story about a Norlon and her amazing spinning vagina, Lisa takes off her wedding band and gives it to Jack. Jack stares at the band of gold in his hand, out flat and shaking, when Ianto finds himself sliding his off his finger and dropping it in that palm, listening to the soft jangle of gold on gold on Jack's skin.

Jack looks at him like he doesn't know what it means, though Ianto knows that he does. Jack likes to call Lisa his Thoroughly Modern Millie, and Ianto his Man Friday. Ianto calls him Wooster and Lisa his Gorgeous Dove. Lisa jokingly refers to Ianto as Slave One. Jack has only recently graduated to Slave Two, a step up from Step N' Fetch It.

Ianto rolls his eyes and sets his chin in his hands, elbows on the table. Lisa simply blinks a few times and then refills her glass of water from the pitcher, an attractive filtration system that Jack has bought for them.

Jack stands and walks to the sideboard, opening one of the ornamental Russian nesting dolls that Lisa had brought back from a trip to Moscow. He clinks the rings into the matryoshka, then assembles the whole set, dolls in dolls. Lisa's eyes are bright. Ianto can feel his heart like a jackhammer and Jack shakes the whole thing a little as if to prove to himself that they are in there, and turns back to the table with a wry smile.

"Safe keeping," he says.

2. THE BODYSWAPPING. OH BODYSWAPPING. I LOVE YOU LIKE A LOVING THING. ::SOB::

She amused herself casting the rest of Torchwood as superheroes for a few minutes (Tosh was Wonder Woman, Owen was The Flash, et cetera), watching the sunlight catch the glass windows of the buildings around her. She was right pleased with herself for even getting up here, and she intended on enjoying it.

"Ianto and I," Jack said, his voice low, "we didn't do anything. I just thought you should know."

Gwen blushed a bit. "I wish I could say the same."

Jack cocked his head and smiled. "Full of surprises today, eh, Gwen?"

She shrugged. "Things got…." She stopped. "None of your business."

There was nothing to tell him, really, that he couldn't think of on his own, and he could probably think of things that she would never imagine. It was better to just let him wonder.

"It's okay," he said brightly, eyes alight, "Because this morning before you all got in, we found a pair of your knickers under my bunk—"

Gwen laughed. "You two are perved," she told him. Before he opened his mouth again, "Keep them. Wait, which ones?"

Jack raised his eyebrows, then closed his eyes. "Green. Lacy. Kind of like y-fronts."

"Ah. Yeah, definitely keep them. A gift from me to your extra curricular activities. They're called boykinis," she added. "Though I guess for you they're boykinkis."

Jack smirked. "I don't think I can top that." The wind picked up and she swayed. Jack's close arm snaked about her waist and pulled her in. She pressed her head against his shoulder. "I wasn't really joking when I said that I don't think you should be up here doing this," he warned.

3. THE HIGHLANDER/TORCHWOOD—It's one of those things that I just have to finish pounding out, and every time I look at the hard copy, I sigh in frustration for lack of time to spend with it. Oh, angry poltergeist stepchild.

"No, Jack," Methos said when Jack pushed him against a wall outside the bar. "This isn't going to make it better."

Jack dug his hands into Methos coat, into his shirt, his mouth into the crook of Methos neck, tasting, pressing, smelling, looking, searching. There had to be some sort of plug for him to get into, something to make him understand. He could press Methos and the man would open like a flower, open and spill it all out for Jack to see, to process, to understand.

4. KINK BINGO. A Gwen/Ianto with branding, a Josie/Harry with gunplay, and a Samson/Delilah with shaving (obvs). I only have a clip of the first one. I wish I had more of the others, but they're all unconnected. Nothing linear.

I don't know how I feel about this one. I like it. It's set in the YTNW. In the Hub, I wager, with just Gwen and Ianto.

Ianto's hair is messy and too long, and she is sure hers is the same. When he isn't looking, she thinks about all of the things that make this calm and completely fucked: she hasn't shaved her legs since it happened; she's been off the pill for months; she hasn't seen Rhys's face since it all happened; she hasn't gone a day without cleaning her gun.

Ianto doesn't care about any of that. He hasn't had a cup of coffee since it happened; he hasn't worn a tie since Jack disappeared; he hasn't called anyone at all; he hasn't gone a day without kissing her.

5. OH MAAAAAAAAAAAAANDY. This one is actually the most delightful to write, because I think I understand Andy. Like, Andy is me. I guess Lifty probably knows him better, but I feel a real affinity with the poor guy. And he's not a poor guy. He's not clueless. He's smart and sweet, and he knows more than he lets on, and MANDY. Mickey is my man in TW. My gun toting, vehicle driving, sneering "no problem, boss" guy. TOGETHER, THEY FIGHT CRIME, MUTHERFUCKERS! This is obvs alternate S3. Which I shall from now on, refer to as AS3.

The Torchwood team had changed. Andy noticed a while back, but he hadn't really ever got to see them up close, and now, as they rolled toward him, he winked in the bright sunlight as Gwen's hair flew behind her, and Harkness's sunglasses hid his eyes. She strode just behind him on his left, and on his right, the tall one called Ianto, in his suit, hands already covered in neilex gloves, and on Ianto's right, a shorter black woman with her hair pulled back, hands hefting the heavy plastic kit boxes as if they weighed nothing.

They stepped in unison, as if they practised. Jesus.

The short Englishman was gone, as was the Asian woman. Andy didn't ask Gwen after them, because the few times they had got together for a coffee, her face had looked haggard, the kind that he saw on his mates when they came home from a tour of duty and saw action, or even a few of his London PC mates who had lost people. Even his own face had started to look that way some days, after the bombings, when some constables he'd known had been killed by the explosions or the monsters roaming the streets.

Harkness barked orders to his team like a friendly German Shepherd with police training. Andy knew those dogs; he always wanted to scrunch his fingers up into their fur and scratch their ears. Gwen used to roll her eyes and say, 'Andy, they're not petting dogs.'

6. Jack/John, post CoE. It's a five things, five ways they meet again, five ways John can fix it, five ways John is Jack's man. This excerpt has the suit porn. I'm in love with it. A lot.

Jack is still drunk. No way he could have sobered in the fifteen minutes John had been in the bedroom. He thinks that it's only been eight months since Jones, and that maybe it's too soon, but ah well, back on the horse. This is John's horse, and Jack always took a bit well, mostly because he likes the ride.

Nothing for it then. "Sir!" he says then, as cheekily as he can, because he can't say it like Jones would have said it. John loves the game. John loves the knife, and best of all, he knows that even as Jack's face pales a little, as he sees the suit, the pinstripe, the tie and the watch, his eyes skitter to the watch even as he doesn't turn from the glass, looks at mirror John-Ianto (isn't that Welsh for John anyway?) and his hands curl when they tuck themselves up under his arms, he loves it too.

"What do you think? Natty? Dapper?" He smiles. "Bond-like? Mister Steed." He crosses the room slowly, because something like this has to be eased into, dipped into, like sliding into a hot tub, or pulling off a sticky bandage. Picking a scab.

Jack looks away then, eyes staring at the spaceport outside. "Don't."

He runs his hands on Jack's neck, thick muscles there. "I can't talk like him," he says. "You know that." His fingers find Jack's and they lean into each other, staring out to sea, perhaps, a thousand worlds twinkling in the heavens for them.

Jack shakes his head. "Take it off."

He slides the jacket from his shoulders, then twirls it on a finger before throwing it across the room. Jack sees him do it in the reflection of the glass, eyes hard, squinty. Angry. That's okay. He straightens the tie, though, pushing up on the knot and twisting his neck back and forth just like he's seen them do on the telly. It doesn't do much, but Jack turns then, grabs him by the waistcoat and pulls, one hand rounding his waist to reach for the back buckle and twist until John gasps for breath inside the corset Jack has made of the cloth. His eyes are hard when he yanks at the watch, wrapping the chain about his hand and pulling. A button flies off into the darkness, hitting the window with a plink.

Jack stares at the watch, opening it with his thumb and letting it tick away merrily in his palm. John gives him a few seconds to process that it is set on Cardiff Sol 3 time before he leans forward to brush his temple against Jack's. "I stole it," he whispers.

Jack's hand slackens on the back of his coat and he sighs now, closing the gap between them to press into Jack's chest, always warm, and now easier to feel with the different clothes. This shirt is thin, reminds him of the homespun shit Jack'd come to the Academy with, that backend Boeshane shit. It suits him now, when Jack's mouth finds his neck and he buries his nose in it, just above the collar.

That's right. He'd stolen the boy's cologne. Now it is game time, that scent hitting Jack's sensitive fifty-first century nose and dialing everything up to eleven. John licks Jack's ear.

"Come on, then," he whispers, like waiting for a carnivore to move in the darkness. "Come out then."

My unfinished hand written shit is legion, but they include some Blades of Glory, some sad Batman "good soldier" fic, and an Alice-hates-her-Daddy TW fic. An Enter the Haggis fic in which Trevor and Brian have sex in complete silence in the hotel room on tour because Brian is drunk and Trevor doesn't want to think about the fact that he's only gay for Brian.

And then there is the Snarry. I don't think I'm allowed to post that. Or anything from it. :( But I would. I can't even tell you what it's about. ::le sigh::

3.

Folks, if I am cosplaying anyone, it is Vicki Vale from the 1989 batman movie, because it was she who inspired mt to wear men's vests, ties and braces. Though I wear jeans now and hate tucking in my shirts, so I don't wear braces, I do the shirts. And the vests. GOD I LOVE MEN'S WAISTCOATS.

Today:

Yeah, I wears the jeans. And they are too big. I have been losing weight. Sue me.

Prerequisite sexay "stare at the camera" pic.

And then, since I had figured out how to use the timer, I changed into the Ianto-esque mode:

Reading mah flist! Ignore mah fat face.

Shooting aliens in the face? Hrmmm.

Kidlet interprets camera time as time to go outside.

So there you have it. I'm afraid it will be jeans and t shirts for me at the con. Otherwise I just look a shitty cosplayer. ::eyeroller::

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Current Music: BORED