this post has no cohesive theme!
Some things in no particular order:
1) So, xxdoublexx finished that draft I told you about, and drew some other scenes from the coffeeshop AU as well, and I am posting about it here in addition to that other post because IT WOULD BE A SHAME IF YOU MISSED THIS. Seriously, it so gorgeous that I cannot even, you guys. In a similar vein, ravyn_ashling drew ARTHUR IN HIS OWN ADORABLE BEANIE, and also I am the luckiest person in the world, I am still so bowled over by the love and response and just. Augh, you guysssss! ♥
2) I apologize for the fact that it's been like, a whole week since I posted fic, because I know that is a long time for me and stuff. I'm working on it! I just, I have these two domesticverse fics that I want to do but both of them want to be Eames POV and I'd FINALLY gotten that 'verse evened out POV wise and if I do three more there will be eleven fics in that series instead of just the ten and, you know, assorted sidestories, like I was originally planning, AND TEN PLEASES ME MORE THAN ELEVEN, and, um. None of this makes any sense, but I'm on it, yes? And also in theory the film AU, I'd really, really love to get past my writer's block on that one, if I could just pound out this one scene I'd be all set, because the rest would write itself, I know it would. BUT I AM WRITING A LITTLE CRACKY THING AND A BUNCH OF OTHER THINGS AND THERE WILL BE FIC SOON, I SWEAR.
3) HELLO AND WELCOME, NEW PEOPLE ON MY FLIST! There are a mystifying number of you, and I am deeply deeply flattered and very excited to get to know you all, but concerned that you may not understand that I am most sincerely out of my mind. As such, please be advised: I am, most sincerely, out of my mind. Should you decide to stay on anyway, be warned in advance that all I do is post fic and occasionally really ridiculous other shit, and also whatever you've heard about me is probably true, only, you know, more and worse. Especially if what you heard about was my insanity and my abysmally foul mouth :D
4) DEAR WEATHER, SUCK LESS, LOVE JIZZ
5) I did some. Um. Original...um. Would you read a novel that started like this:
James Emerson is in a shitty airport bar, because the movies lied to him.
By all rights--by the laws of everything taught him in sticky theater seats between half-assed teenaged gropes and too many stale Twizzlers--a shitty airport bar isn't where he should be. He's at a climax of his life, a turning point, everything falling to pieces around him; he should be smashing in windows or sobbing in the rain on someone's doorstep or, at very least, getting spectacularly trashed in public. He is, he thinks, owed these things. He thinks he's probably earned them.
Instead he's got a plastic cup full of frankly sub-par gin and flickering fluorescent lights, and he's thinking about his sunglasses.
They'd been really nice sunglasses, is the thing. The kind of sunglasses that make the man, to the extent that sunglasses can make anything. He'd shelled out three hundred dollars for them in the peak of his goddamn success, and they'd felt good on his face, and he'd never lost them, because James Emerson isn't the kind of man who loses much. Six years he'd spent with those sunglasses--they'd outlasted his wife by four months like the champions they were--and he'd callously abandoned them in a bathroom at Heathrow. Just taken them off his head for no reason he can fathom and fucking left them, and he knows exactly where he put them down, too, which doesn't exactly help.
James is almost entirely certain that quietly getting drunk over a pair of sunglasses is maudlin, ridiculous, pathetic, and wrong, but as that's a fairly accurate summary of the last year of his life, so be it.
"It's not fair," he says to the room at large. It's not a particularly populated room--there's a disinterested bartender flirting with a waitress from the Subway next door, a couple who are clearly some variety of over-eager, under-travelled tourists, and a woman three seats over that James can't quite get a read on. She's got a carryout leaning against her leg and she's…attractive, in that way that isn't quantifiable. Not cute, not sexy, but not unappealing either.
"What's not fair?" she says, when it becomes clear no one else is going to.
"Airport bars," James replies, rolling his nearly-empty glass between his palms. "Isn't there supposed to be some kind of…ambiance?"
"Is this your first time in an airport?" the woman asks, laughing. "You don't look like the type for naive optimism."
"I'm not," says James. "But, hell, please don't tell me you're like...like an aura reader or something, I don't actually think I could take it."
"Nah," the woman says. She stands up, dragging her carry-on behind her as she slides into the seat next to him. "No point in that kind of shit when you could just ask, right?"
"You're that woman who always ends up sitting next to me on my flights and never stops talking, aren't you?" James says, narrowing his eyes. She just smiles, bright and a little too probing, sardonic around the edges.
"Ah," she says, "I see this isn't your first time in an airport after all."
"Astute."
"I try." She flicks a spot off one of her nails casually as she says it, and James follows the motion with his eyes. They're red, her nails, sharp against the muted amber of whatever she's drinking, and he's just tipsy enough to find that fascinating. He wants to know the name of the color, on the off-chance it would be possible to paint his life with it.
"So, Mr. It's Not Fair," and she leans in a little as she says this, her smile turning a few shades darker. Almost idly, James realizes that this is a come on, that he could fuck her if he wanted to. "What's your story?"
He looks her over, the easy lines of her, filling out her faded denims in a way that's somehow alluring and unsettling at once. She's softer than he remembers women being, a little extra weight tucked along her hipline, but that could be because it's been years since he's touched anyone other than the woman he'd married. Tricia had been all even planes, built on pilates and yoga and jogging, and she'd gotten harder the longer he'd known her. This woman's name is probably something like Althea, and she's probably only drawn to the hangdog helplessness of the aura she claims she isn't reading, and none of that--none of it--is really dissuading him from the idea of exploring the territory hidden under her shirt.
"I'm an actor," James says, returning her smile in kind. It's a lie, but it's as true as anything else.
1) So, xxdoublexx finished that draft I told you about, and drew some other scenes from the coffeeshop AU as well, and I am posting about it here in addition to that other post because IT WOULD BE A SHAME IF YOU MISSED THIS. Seriously, it so gorgeous that I cannot even, you guys. In a similar vein, ravyn_ashling drew ARTHUR IN HIS OWN ADORABLE BEANIE, and also I am the luckiest person in the world, I am still so bowled over by the love and response and just. Augh, you guysssss! ♥
2) I apologize for the fact that it's been like, a whole week since I posted fic, because I know that is a long time for me and stuff. I'm working on it! I just, I have these two domesticverse fics that I want to do but both of them want to be Eames POV and I'd FINALLY gotten that 'verse evened out POV wise and if I do three more there will be eleven fics in that series instead of just the ten and, you know, assorted sidestories, like I was originally planning, AND TEN PLEASES ME MORE THAN ELEVEN, and, um. None of this makes any sense, but I'm on it, yes? And also in theory the film AU, I'd really, really love to get past my writer's block on that one, if I could just pound out this one scene I'd be all set, because the rest would write itself, I know it would. BUT I AM WRITING A LITTLE CRACKY THING AND A BUNCH OF OTHER THINGS AND THERE WILL BE FIC SOON, I SWEAR.
3) HELLO AND WELCOME, NEW PEOPLE ON MY FLIST! There are a mystifying number of you, and I am deeply deeply flattered and very excited to get to know you all, but concerned that you may not understand that I am most sincerely out of my mind. As such, please be advised: I am, most sincerely, out of my mind. Should you decide to stay on anyway, be warned in advance that all I do is post fic and occasionally really ridiculous other shit, and also whatever you've heard about me is probably true, only, you know, more and worse. Especially if what you heard about was my insanity and my abysmally foul mouth :D
4) DEAR WEATHER, SUCK LESS, LOVE JIZZ
5) I did some. Um. Original...um. Would you read a novel that started like this:
James Emerson is in a shitty airport bar, because the movies lied to him.
By all rights--by the laws of everything taught him in sticky theater seats between half-assed teenaged gropes and too many stale Twizzlers--a shitty airport bar isn't where he should be. He's at a climax of his life, a turning point, everything falling to pieces around him; he should be smashing in windows or sobbing in the rain on someone's doorstep or, at very least, getting spectacularly trashed in public. He is, he thinks, owed these things. He thinks he's probably earned them.
Instead he's got a plastic cup full of frankly sub-par gin and flickering fluorescent lights, and he's thinking about his sunglasses.
They'd been really nice sunglasses, is the thing. The kind of sunglasses that make the man, to the extent that sunglasses can make anything. He'd shelled out three hundred dollars for them in the peak of his goddamn success, and they'd felt good on his face, and he'd never lost them, because James Emerson isn't the kind of man who loses much. Six years he'd spent with those sunglasses--they'd outlasted his wife by four months like the champions they were--and he'd callously abandoned them in a bathroom at Heathrow. Just taken them off his head for no reason he can fathom and fucking left them, and he knows exactly where he put them down, too, which doesn't exactly help.
James is almost entirely certain that quietly getting drunk over a pair of sunglasses is maudlin, ridiculous, pathetic, and wrong, but as that's a fairly accurate summary of the last year of his life, so be it.
"It's not fair," he says to the room at large. It's not a particularly populated room--there's a disinterested bartender flirting with a waitress from the Subway next door, a couple who are clearly some variety of over-eager, under-travelled tourists, and a woman three seats over that James can't quite get a read on. She's got a carryout leaning against her leg and she's…attractive, in that way that isn't quantifiable. Not cute, not sexy, but not unappealing either.
"What's not fair?" she says, when it becomes clear no one else is going to.
"Airport bars," James replies, rolling his nearly-empty glass between his palms. "Isn't there supposed to be some kind of…ambiance?"
"Is this your first time in an airport?" the woman asks, laughing. "You don't look like the type for naive optimism."
"I'm not," says James. "But, hell, please don't tell me you're like...like an aura reader or something, I don't actually think I could take it."
"Nah," the woman says. She stands up, dragging her carry-on behind her as she slides into the seat next to him. "No point in that kind of shit when you could just ask, right?"
"You're that woman who always ends up sitting next to me on my flights and never stops talking, aren't you?" James says, narrowing his eyes. She just smiles, bright and a little too probing, sardonic around the edges.
"Ah," she says, "I see this isn't your first time in an airport after all."
"Astute."
"I try." She flicks a spot off one of her nails casually as she says it, and James follows the motion with his eyes. They're red, her nails, sharp against the muted amber of whatever she's drinking, and he's just tipsy enough to find that fascinating. He wants to know the name of the color, on the off-chance it would be possible to paint his life with it.
"So, Mr. It's Not Fair," and she leans in a little as she says this, her smile turning a few shades darker. Almost idly, James realizes that this is a come on, that he could fuck her if he wanted to. "What's your story?"
He looks her over, the easy lines of her, filling out her faded denims in a way that's somehow alluring and unsettling at once. She's softer than he remembers women being, a little extra weight tucked along her hipline, but that could be because it's been years since he's touched anyone other than the woman he'd married. Tricia had been all even planes, built on pilates and yoga and jogging, and she'd gotten harder the longer he'd known her. This woman's name is probably something like Althea, and she's probably only drawn to the hangdog helplessness of the aura she claims she isn't reading, and none of that--none of it--is really dissuading him from the idea of exploring the territory hidden under her shirt.
"I'm an actor," James says, returning her smile in kind. It's a lie, but it's as true as anything else.