What the hell happened to my default icon?

*roots around in computer for a copy of it to upload*

A little bit o' crack fic for tonight as I try not to study my score and think about my impending doom. I apologize for its badness. It seems like I cannot do anything well lately. /emo



Temari had an obsessive need to save everything. From scraps of cloth and old weapons to takeout chopsticks and last week's two mouthfuls of leftover dinner, Temari would put away every little thing that could be put to use later, no matter how much later it would take to be of use. Oftentimes, Shikamaru would grouse to himself, the things in question would never be of use, and Temari's clutter would start to take a life of its own, rising up in sinister piles from the floor, the windowsill, his desk, and the fridge.

The piles in the fridge, so carefully compartmentalized in stacked airtight containers, were the focus of the night's activities. "It's smorgasbord night," Temari had said in response to their daughter's query of what was for dinner. "It's time to clean out the fridge."

Shikamaru could already feel the indigestion gnawing at him, but a more immediate concern was garnering his attention: their daughter was attempting to reason with her mother. No, he mouthed at the child, shaking his head quickly whenever Temari's back was turned. Don't say it, don't question it, I'll get you something later... Damn!

The girl swung the door of the fridge wide and stood in front of it, hands planted on her hips, the very personification of Temari's stubbornness brought to life. "But," their daughter protested, "some of the stuff in here is really old! Look." The girl pulled out a container marked "rice". "This is from two weeks ago! Shouldn't we throw it out?"

Frantically, Shikamaru tried to catch her eye, even going so far as to put both his hands up and wave them around. Too late. "Throw it out?" Temari said evenly. Shikamaru grimaced. "Throw it out? Throw it out as in throw it away? Like wasting food?"

Here it comes, he thought, and groaned.

"Would you like to know what happens to people in the desert when they throw out food?" Temari asked her child, who had by now realized the danger too late. She shook her head, her dark eyes wide. Shikamaru felt pity for her. "They starve. They starve, and their dried, desiccated corpses have such little meat on them that even the vultures won't eat them. Is that what you'd like to be? Useless to this world, not even fit for vultures when you die, wishing you had eaten that two-week-old rice?"

Their daughter clutched at the handle of the freezer door, trying to fit herself into the refrigerator under her mother's glare. "No ma'am! I want to be useful! Alive! And dead!"

"Then you'll eat what's in the fridge," Temari growled, "and you will be grateful."

Most people thought the reason why Shikamaru had an iron stomach was because of Temari's cooking. No, he thought sourly, resigning himself to future gastrointestinal distress, it was because of Temari's cooking, several weeks past prime.

AND LO, IT HAS COME BEFORE THEE. BEHOLD THE POWER AND THE SPLENDOR. CAST YE THINE EYES UPON IT, AND MARVEL. WEEP, FOR IT IS THE END OF DAYS.

Warning: HEAVILY image intensive.

pinkfairywand and I present to you:


( More majesty underneath the cut. )

Made a collaboration with pinkfairywand, fufufufufufu. Also, she's awesome.

"Geez, Shikamaru, you really are spoiled," Temari said as she entered his darkened apartment, bags of groceries in hand. "You weren't kidding when you said it was fully furnished."

"I also wasn't kidding when I said I didn't cook," Shikamaru replied, flipping the light switch on and kicking off his shoes. "I don't even know how to cut vegetables, and I don't have kitchen knives. What are you going to use?"

Temari set down a bag and drew so close that their noses almost touched. Shikamaru froze. What was she...?

"This," Temari said sweetly. Grinning broadly, she pulled his shortsword from its sheath and held it up, letting its edge glint in the light. She turned for the kitchen, tossing the long blade in the air with the practiced ease of someone used to dealing with such objects. "Be a dear and bring the groceries in for me, will you?"

Shikamaru is slightly tipsy.

It's late, he's tipsy, and the damn street light by his apartment door is out again. It's late and the only thing he can think about, aside from muttering curses under his breath as he stumbles into various objects, is that he's going to have a hangover in the morning. He can almost see Kurenai's smirk when he shows up to help her out tomorrow, see Chouji and Ino's knowing grins when he is more grumpy and irritable than normal. Damn them. Damn them because it's all their fault.

He manages to find the door and get inside, carelessly kicking off his sandals, almost tripping over an extra pair. Bewildered, Shikamaru holds himself up against a wall and blinks down at the shoes, not comprehending for a second that someone is already in his apartment. After a while he shakes his head, trying to clear it of the alcohol cobwebs. He hates it when his friends push him to drink more than he can handle - which is admittedly not much.

There is a single lamp lit in the living room, and as Shikamaru approaches to turn it off, he sees a small note on the side table. Frowning, he picks it up. "Happy birthday," it says, and it's in Temari's handwriting. "P.S. - Don't wake me up."

The "or else" is implied.

Smirking, Shikamaru switches the lamp off and goes to his bedroom, shedding clothes along the way. When he enters he sees the usual lumpiness of his sheets has been molded into a familiar form, with shoulders curving into a small waist and rising into gorgeous hips. Shikamaru takes a moment to appreciate the sight.

As quietly as he can, Shikamaru slips under the covers and into bed. He wiggles a bit, sighing as his rear settles into the large dent in the futon. After sleeping on his back for so long, the mattress has practically taken on his shape. Temari, however, is a side sleeper, and she likes to keep her back to him.

Temari also likes to sleep naked whenever she's not out on a mission.

Shikamaru figures that Kurenai can take care of herself tomorrow morning.

As they say on ohnotheydidnt, HATERS TO THE LEFT.

There were unresolved plot points. There were plot holes, there were unnecessary things. But the beauty of Zuko and Azula's fight, Azula's rapid downward spiral, Aang's dilemma, TOPH'S IRON MAN SUIT, Iroh and Zuko reuniting, they were all perfect. There are more things but those are the ones that come to mind. The score was excellently done.

The limitations of the Y7 rating, as well as the target demographic made it so that Avatar didn't quite have the punch I wanted at the end. My friends who watched it, as well as my fiancé agree that had it not been through the censors or was written for the Y7 crowd that more "bad things" would have happened, and we would have gotten a bittersweet ending instead of the saccharine stuff they gave us. That's understandable and forgivable. Killing Toph and crippling Sokka for life would have disturbed the kids. So I can look past all that.

Thank you, Nickelodeon; thank you, Bryan and Mike. I look forward to the next installment!

"So I heard someone's sweet on you."

Temari turns to face him, a smile spreading slowly across her face. The afternoon sun highlights her eyes briefly in a flash of bright green fire, and Shikamaru can't help but admire them, admire the ease at which her body drapes itself over his couch, long limbs arranged gracefully over the cushions and the arm. The corners of her mouth curl up as he doesn't reply, and she acquires a catlike grin, sly. "Been hearing around town it's that girl you worked with before, Shiho. Is that her name?"

Shikamaru sighs, puts his pen down, adjusts the various stacks of paper strewn across the floor. He takes a moment to stand and deliberately brush off dust from his flak jacket before he picks his way over to Temari and the smooth, golden skin on display. "Who?" he asks flippantly, sliding his palm up her thigh. He feels her grin widen as their lips touch, and thinks of nothing for a while.

i stand on a peak, a cityscape of clay red and tree green behind me. at my feet, a curling white mist. before me the mountain vistas unwind, shrouded in the fog, lions mouth sides rising up like dragons from the sea. in a blink of an eye the slopes run down to a thin bar of sandstone beach where it meets the ocean, a grayish turquoise liquid that nibbles gently at the shore.

if i squint hard enough i can see them, legendary creatures thousands of years old. here and there a scaled back writhes, and in the echo of the ocean there is a roar, far-off, centuries away. the smell of salt mixed with ozone is in my nose as i inhale deeply, letting the land infuse my bones. i have never felt more at home anywhere else.

no matter the place, no matter its overwhelming beauty, its siren call to me to abandon myself, throw my arms wide, root to the earth, nothing has touched me like this place. this place, between mountain and sea and city, with gabbling on the wind and spray in my face and unfurled emerald peaks in my eyes, this place is mine and i it. i was born to it, and when i look down i see two small indentations in the rock, as if my feet have already been there, as if i am imprinted upon the land.

i close my eyes. i abandon myself. i throw my arms wide and root to the earth. i am home.

I've been thinking a lot lately about Mitsui, and no wonder since his birthday was yesterday. Since last night I've re-read half of Slam Dunk, re-read old fanfics, dug for pictures, laughed at length over my poor attempts at fanfiction all those long years ago. I can't think of anything else. Mitsui, his character, his story arcs, everything about him has been crowding my head, driving me slightly insane with the desire to express my deep and abiding love for him, with the need to find someone else just as nuts to fangirl with me.

On the way home from Pilates today I really got to wondering what exactly draws me to him. How is it that, more than eleven years after I first was introduced to Slam Dunk, that no other character has ever come remotely close to beating him out as my favorite? How is it that no other character in Slam Dunk itself comes near him? There are plenty of similarities between Mitsui and, say, Rukawa, or Mitsui and Sakuragi, and on the whole the entire Shohoku team is comprised of misfits and hot-tempered egomaniacs, which makes for about a million different story angles, all equally funny and poignant.

I've been a basketball fan ever since I was six years old. When I was little my mother would turn on the game any night her favorite team, the Celtics, was on. Those were the waning days of Larry Bird, of Magic Johnson, the unbeatable Celtics team, the rising Knicks, which I ended up liking the most. Captivated by the swish of the ball in the net, incensed by every unfair foul, I spent the next six years of my life glued to the TV every time the Knicks were on. I cheered them through regular season games, glared daggers at my mother during playoffs, especially when the Pacers were on. To this day I have a lasting hatred for the Pacers, like every other New York basketball fan out there. Fuck you, Reggie Miller. (For an explanation of why the Knicks fans hate him so much, read NBA.com's top 10 3-pointers of all time. You'll notice that the Knicks-Pacers rivalry crops up twice. Fuck you again, Reggie Miller!)

While watching I developed the utmost respect for anyone who could score a three pointer, especially the specialists. I loved the playstyle of the small forward and the shooting guard, the skill it took to drop the shots. Any sharpshooter automatically became my favorite player on the team. I loved John Starks, a medium-sized guard who slipped in and around the court and, for a few seasons, could be relied upon to sink some clutch threes in the traditionally failure-filled Knicks fourth quarters (whether or not they have fixed their fourth quarter slump, I do not know). Ironically, he had a fiery temperament, often stirred up by - you guessed it - Reggie Miller, and wore the number 3 on his jersey.

If I didn't hate Reggie Miller so much, I'd love him. I also fell in love with Jeff Hornacek of the Utah Jazz, who with his kind of goofy face, bad teeth, and dorky white guy look managed to sink amazing shots from downtown, often consecutively. I remember the game when he dropped eight, eight fucking threes in a row. Whaaaaat. Jersey number? 14. Larry Bird gets a mention too, because at his last three point shootout he threw the money ball, lifted a finger in the air, and turned away. Drop-swish, nothin' but net.

Mitsui's capabilities behind the line drew me to him, understandably. But then I also had to take into account his personality. I've always liked the dark ones, especially the tall, dark, and handsome ones (why helloooooo, Mitsui). I like brooders, characters who are somewhat emo, who like to dwell on things, usually in a sexy sort of way. I like characters who are flawed, realistically flawed, who try to come to terms with their own shortcomings. When Mitsui was introduced I felt so much pity for him, that someone could take a love and transform it into bitterness. Everything he did was spot on for a young teenager deprived of the one thing he loved the most. Inoue Takehiko did make his arc a little heavy-handed, but the point got through.

I won't wax overlong on the remaining points, since I've already written a small essay on why he's the best damn character in Slam Dunk (to me, at least). Suffice it to say of all the characters he is the most real. He's got problems, and tries to solve them; he knows his limits, but pushes them anyway; he's kind of an asshole, but if you dig deep enough he has a heart, and he's silly. Vindictive and silly. Compared to other characters, he's gotten more development, has a more engaging backstory, than anyone, except for maybe Sakuragi, whose past is even sadder. I wonder why I don't like Jin. Simply put, yes, he's pretty, but he's about as three-dimensional as a piece of paper compared to Mitsui. And there's always more. I want to know about his family life, I want to know what his interests are outside of basketball, if there are any. I want to know how he'd interact with people outside the team, if he ever plays pickup games, what he likes to eat. I'm sad that it'll always remain a mystery, because I'm a canon-whore at heart.

That's what fanfic is for, right?

In conclusion: oh Mitsui, I love you so freakin' much. Thank you Inoue Takehiko for creating such a wonderful character I can fangirl over.

Happy birthday, Mitsui! You will remain forever my absolute most favorite character of all time.



<3

Response to a fic prompt from Sook on the ShikaTem FC at NarutoForums. Posted here to make sure it doesn't disappear. I can't say I love it but I can't say I hate it either, there are some redeemable parts.

Prompt: calligraphy
Wordcount: 465

Shikamaru's desk at home is, to make an understatement, a mess. Like many other things in Konoha it's slightly ramshackle, with a cracked plastic blotter lying atop a faded vinyl surface, supported only marginally by steel legs that are half-screwed in. Every time he looks at it, with its peeling paint and its piles of stuff, Shikamaru can't help but feel some pride at the wanton display of laziness, at the sheer volume of I-don't-care that is stacked in precarious mountains on an already wobbly foundation. Somewhere in there, he knows, are important things, like copies of treaties he was supposed to look over, scrolls detailing jutsus, letters needing responses. Between the amount of work he's assigned and his duties, however, he can never get to those things, and so the mountain grows, like a volcano oozing paper lava.

One day Shikamaru returns home to find the usual stack of mail dumped onto the floor by his desk. He sorts through it with only half a mind - a thank you card, a schedule of notable Chuunin exam dates - when he comes upon a boldly marked envelope. Curious, he opens it, and discovers two sheets of characters marching straight down in even, military rows. He frowns. It's from Temari.

He settles onto his bed to read her uncharacteristic missive, leaning back onto his pillow with a hand behind his head. Above him, the fluorescent ceiling light shines dully through the rice paper, backlighting the characters. Shikamaru scowls, squints, reads through. Temari's writing is exactly like she is: brusque to a fault, with no embellishments, but with a surprising sense of fluidity, of continuity between words and phrases, sentences and paragraphs. As he reads he notes that her calligraphy is also much like her, unmistakably regimented, but with graceful sweeps reminiscent of her fan, and sharp, horizontal slashes, like punches to the face. He grimaces. Temari is expecting a reply.

Shikamaru's own handwriting is wiry and thin like he is, and when he uses a brush the tip of it dribbles ink in meandering loops that just barely manage to form characters. A select few can decipher his scrawl, Temari one of them, but as Shikamaru gets up he wonders briefly why she'd want to visit that sort of torture upon herself. He stands and shuffles over to his piles, pondering how much effort it would take to find brush and ink and paper, and time for writing. Too much effort, in all likelihood. Too much effort, definitely.

Shikamaru sets the paper down on the nearest pile. After a moment, he hesitates, his hand hovering over his desk. Then, carefully, he picks up Temari's letter, folds it, and stows it in his pocket. Tomorrow, he tells himself, he'll have to go buy a calligraphy set.

My Mom is a Monster

New English 101 post should be coming in the next few days. I am tackling quotation marks.

Welcome to English 101, your daily dose of correct spelling and grammar. Today's subject is:

Peek, peak, pique

Peek (verb) defined by Merriam Webster Online

Function: intransitive verb
1 a: to look furtively b: to peer through a crack or hole or from a place of concealment —often used with in or out
2: to take a brief look : glance

Peak (verb) defined by Merriam Webster Online

Function: intransitive verb
1 a: to reach a maximum (as of capacity, value, or activity)
b: to cause to come to a peak, point, or maximum

Pique (verb) defined by Merriam Webster Online

Function: transitive verb
1: to arouse anger or resentment in : irritate [what piques linguistic conservatives — T. H. Middleton]
2a: to excite or arouse especially by a provocation, challenge, or rebuff
b: pride
Synonym: provoke

Homonyms frighten us. There are so many in the English language that it takes practice and sound reasoning to figure out which one to use in writing. Mis-usage of peek, peak, and pique isn't as widespread as there, their, and they're, but when they are used, the majority of the time, they are used incorrectly.

Yes, I am talking about the criminally incorrect sentence of, "This has peaked my curiosity."

People often use the word peak to convey the sense that they have reached the pinnacle of something. However, when something grabs your attention, spurs you into an action (becoming curious), we cannot say that the action has reached a maximum, unless you are naturally curious and anything that intrigues you causes a sudden, inexplicable rush of emotion that goes quickly away. If that is so, then you must live a continually disappointing life. You can also stop reading here.

Pique is correct because the action you are taking will continue. If you see an interesting headline you don't stop reading there, you go and read the article. If you see an erroneous charge on your credit card bill, you don't shrug and let it go, you pursue it to its end. Peak is more of an ending, because you know that what goes up must indeed come down, while pique is more of a beginning, a leading on to more things.

Sometimes peek is used in place of peak, but the argument for that one is pretty simple. If you climb to the peek of a mountain you're going to have issues with the mountain climbing community once you descend and declare your achievement. If you peak into a spyhole - that's not physically possible. Peek and peak is more of a spelling issue rather than one born of misuse.

I hope today's lecture has been educational. Until next time!

Interesting note: Mis-usage should be hyphenated, but misuse stays un-hyphenated. The English language is a silly and fickle creature.

Please read your stories aloud so that you may hear the language you are inflicting upon the reader. You will do us a great service.

Thank you.

"You really should turn in those reports."

Shikamaru grunted. "Tomorrow. I can't be bothered to do it today."

"And don't forget to go over the Chuunin exam roster again."

"Yeah, yeah." He flapped his free hand at Temari as he took another bite of his food. "I'll get to it."

"Do it as soon as possible. We've got a lot of work to do and you're getting us backlogged."

"Fine, fine, okay." Shikamaru shot her a pointed look. "Mom."

Temari froze, and the temperature around the both of them plummeted some twenty degrees. Shikamaru shivered, withering under her glare.

"Shikamaru," Temari said in what felt to him a relatively calm voice, "if you value your life, never, ever, ever call me that again."

"Yes'm." If he could shrink he'd do it.

"Besides, does your mom fuck you the way I do?"

His mouth dropped open.






*flees* Sorry sorry the crack it just happened and like I heard Temari bitching at Shikamaru and Shikamaru sassed her and she totally just smacked it down I mean like she pwned him hardcore okay *flees more*

Shikamaru is awake the second he hears the noise.

The thin blanket pools around his feet as he rises from the couch, oddly alert given the time. It’s the witching hour, the dark before dawn, when the world is swathed in a close, heavy darkness. It’s a darkness he is familiar with, that he knows intimately. He moves through it with ease, slipping over the wooden floor, weaving between the furniture, silent until he reaches the bassinet.

The baby fusses at him as he picks her up. Shikamaru finds it amusing how handling a child has become second nature to him. He’s got a hand under her head, the other supporting her body, and he tucks her close to him with one swift, practiced movement. “Shh,” he tells her, “shh, hush now.” He starts walking his usual track around and around, murmuring soothing nothings to the child in his arms, bouncing her gently.

She quiets down in a matter of moments, and Shikamaru marvels at how quickly she does it, how effortlessly he’s fallen into fatherhood. If Temari were here to see him she’d bitch at him for going soft, for losing what edge he had. Shikamaru knows better, of course; despite her rough bravado she still looks at children fondly, and when she turns away there is always a slight smile on her face. The next time he sees her, he thinks, he’ll make his intentions clear regarding their relationship. He’ll probably need an entire carton of cigarettes if it doesn’t go well.

When the baby finally relaxes against him, when her breaths finally grow deep and even, he places her back into her bassinet. His hand lingers on the crown of her head, on the black spider-silk tangle of her hair, fine and downy to the touch. She will have beautiful hair, long hair like her mother who is sprawled exhausted in the room next door. Before he returns to the couch Shikamaru checks in on Kurenai to make sure she is still sleeping. He holds himself motionless, listening for the sound of her breath. It is eerily silent in the house now, and Shikamaru feels a pain in his chest as he realizes it is the sound of Asuma’s gentle snores that he is missing.

The table was the battlefield, an expanse of time-worn wood painted with faded squares of black and white. Scattered across it were two armies, their tiny swords bared, fierce expressions carved permanently across their faces. In clusters they fought, standing toe to toe, a brutal dogfight carried out in stop animation.

Rowan sat on one side, chin in one hand, thinking. Across the other side sat his sister, Ryn, who as the minutes passed turned to restless fidgeting. She picked up a piece, then dropped it. She picked it up again, flipped it in the air, and caught it. She picked it up a third time and bounced it off the inside of her elbow, all the while humming tunelessly to herself.

Rowan scowled. “Ryn, stop it!”

His sister regarded him, her eyes bored. “Stop what?”

“Stop that. Being stupid.” Reaching out, Rowan picked up one of the pieces and slid it up two squares. He grinned triumphantly. “I win.”

“I’m not being stupid.” Standing, Ryn stretched up and backwards, her body stiff after ten minutes of sitting and pretending to enjoy her brother’s game. “I was being nice.”

Rowan stood as well, shaking his head quickly to clear the hair from his face. “No you weren’t. I only got ten minutes out of you. Even I play swords with you longer than that.” He started collecting the pieces to put them away, being careful not to mix the two sides.

“Well, Dad said I should play. He didn’t say how long.” Ryn stuck her lip out, then scrunched her face up and poked her tongue out at him. “You can go two days without playing your dumb game. Ask Mom to play or something. I’m going outside.” And with that, Ryn spun on her heel and flounced for the door, everything but her next activity forgotten.



No time to write any more! Ideas are beginning to percolate, though. I haven't really decided on the personalities of these two, what they're going to do, or what the story's going to be, or even what world they'll be in. Well, it's a start.

Finished another WoW drabble.


The target is silent as the dagger slips in, eased with loving ferocity into a vital organ. Shock and fear are written on his face, but the target is immobile, the poison on the blade freezing him. Heedless, the rogue works quietly, teeth gritted. There are a thousand ways to kill, and she knows every single one of them.

Neck, back, groin, chest. Four points and a finishing strike and the target crumples, bleeding out. He is stunned, unable to fight back against the onslaught, and he falls, face to the sky.

Their eyes meet.

She smiles and fades away.

( The other three follow, if you don't remember what they were. )

Thanks to Inside the Actor's Studio and by proxy Marcel Proust for the idea. Here is the questionnaire James Lipton always asks people on the show:

1. What is your favorite word?
2. What is your least favorite word?
3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
4. What turns you off creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
5. What sound or noise do you love?
6. What sound or noise do you hate?
7. What is your favorite curse word?
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
9. What profession would you not like to do?
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?

My answers:

1. I don't believe I have one. There are too many.
2. Commonality.
3. I get excited about spontaneity, creativity, artistry.
4. People who have no desire to have any of the above attributes.
5. A perfectly played note on the piano. Perfect time, perfect touch.
6. Mouth sounds.
7. ... what else? Fuck. Least favorite: cunt.
8. I would love to be a voice actress.
9. A park ranger in the tropics.
10. "It's about fuckin' time."

I'm not tagging anyone, since I'm starting it. Go forth and answer!