IDEK.
1. Dear Internets: sparky77! is the best.
2. Dear Internets: maurheti is the best.
3. Dear Internets: romanticalgirl is the best.
Enablers ho! Now let's get down to business.
*I created a thank you music mix for #2 and #3, which I now feel compelled to share, because the tunes are just that awesome. Special thanks to moneyfolder for her contributions.
* On last night's Daily Show, Jon interviewed Sebastian Junger (The Perfect Storm). Mr. Junger was shilling for his new book, WAR. This book was about the time he spent embedded with Army soldiers on the Iraq/Pakistan border. It was about the troops and how they hoped for battles to stop the boredom. It was about how you could hate somebody and still work beside them. It was the most freakish sense of deja vu ever. If they had started talking about being hired to work at Hustler while on Xanax, I'd've thought Evan Wright had had plastic surgery. Don't believe me? Watch for yourself.
I've been thinking about Ben McKenzie a lot recently. Okay, I've been thinking about Ben Sherman a lot lately. No, I've been thinking about them both. In fact, there was supposed to be a small ficlet here about Ben and Cooper, but then I realized I might need to save that for something else.
In conclusion, who's seen The Losers?
I have! And maurheti has. And sparky77 has. Three of us cannot make a fandom. Okay, that's not true. ONE CAN MAKE A FANDOM (Always remember that. Ari is proof of that). I assume this is how I have 100 500 words of The Losers/Leverage for sparky77.
Leverage/The Losers
Hardison/Jensen, Eliot, Parker
Rated Crack
My Boyfriend's Back (And You're Gonna Be in Trouble)
Jensen is the worst ex-boyfriend ever.
Not that he's Hardison's ex-boyfriend or anything. Hardison's nana doesn't play that. Hardison doesn't play that. Jensen was a fluke. Eliot doesn't even count.
Even though Hardison's nana likes Jensen a lot. It's the glasses. And the pink tee shirts. Even Hardison has to give Jensen props for the Petunia tee shirts.
But not in bed.
Nobody who gets in Hardison's bed wearing pink tee shirts that support his niece's soccer team is going to get any action from him. It's just creepy.
"That was one time," Jensen complains over Skype.
"That was one time too many," Hardison says, unwrapping a fudgesicle.
Jensen's whole face screws up on Hardison's monitor. "Are you really going to eat that while we're talking?"
Hardison takes a long slurp. "Yup."
"I hate you," Jensen says, rubbing at blonde highlights that would never work on anybody else.
Hardison makes an obscene noise. "Technically, you're dead, so what you think doesn't matter."
"Do I look dead to you?"
"You look a little pale." Hardison runs his tongue over the head of the fudgesicle.
"I'm white!" Jensen bitches, "of course I look pale."
Hardison holds up his hands. "Hey man, I wasn't even bringing up the race thing, that's all you."
"Oh, the race thing is all me? It wasn't all me when you were hatin' on my fried chicken!" Jensen's hands are flapping in the air like he grew up in a black church. It's kind of cute. Not that Hardison thinks that. One military nut job at a time is plenty.
"Fried chicken isn't supposed to set the house on fire," Hardison says matter-of-factly, sticking the popsicle in his mouth while he flips through a few napkin scribbles for a program he wrote at 5 a.m.
"Why do you always have to bring up old stuff?" Jensen gripes.
Hardison glances up. "I saw your Death Certificate. Technically, everything with you is old stuff."
"I thought you'd be happy I wasn't dead."
"I am happy." Hardison gives his fudgesicle a mild blow job. "Can't you see I'm full of happiness?"
"You suck."
Hardison licks at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, I know I do."
Jensen scowls. "We're going to talk about this when I get there."
Hardison's fudgesicle falls onto the floor. "When you get where?"
"Parker and I are orderin' pizza," a deep voice interrupts.
Hardison's head snaps up from the 17' monitor. "Which part of knock first is so hard for you?"
Eliot pushes long hair behind his right ear. "What part of suck my cock is so hard for you?"
Hardison blinks. "Whose cock are you sucking?" Jensen's tinny voice demands from the computer.
Eliot's left eyebrow raises. "Who're you talkin' to?"
"Nobody," Hardison says, hitting the mute button.
Jensen's yelling at the screen, his face turning red. Hardison ignores him, focusing on at Eliot. "This time get three meat lovers pizzas: one for me, one for you and one for the munchies you have at three in the morning when you're watching The Home Shopping Network."
"Don't talk shit about HSN," Eliot warns. "Where you think I got that fancy keyboard I bought you last month?"
Hardison looks at the neon colored monstrosity monopolizing his desk. He could say something derisory, but he likes his nuts how they are: attached. "Love it, man."
Eliot nods. "That's what I thought," he tosses over his shoulder before walking out.
Hardison reaches down and retrieves his fudgesicle from the hardwood floor.
On his computer monitor, Jensen's face has been replaced by a green screen and a chair.
Green screen.
And then there's a flash of light as a door opens. Okay, it's more like the back of a truck being opened. The back drop looks a lot like the street outside Hardison's apartment.
And that guy that just passed by the computer screen looked a lot like Cougar, one of Jensen's fellow not-dead-military men.
The sinking feeling in Hardison's stomach has nothing to do with the fudgesicle melting all over his fingers.
And then his apartment buzzer rings.
"Hardison, do you want me to--" Parker calls.
"Don't answer that door," Hardison calls, racing out of the room.
Of course it's too late. Parker's nose scrunches up at she looks at Jensen's round glasses and plaid board shorts consideringly. "Where's my pizzas?"
Hardison winces. "He's not the delivery guy."
Parker loses interest for a moment, but then she cocks her head to the side thoughtfully. "Who are you then?"
Jensen smiles broadly. "I'm his boo," he says, pointing at Hardison proudly.
Hardison covers his eyes. "I hate you so much," he says to the world in general.
In conclusion: GO SEE THE LOSERS.
2. Dear Internets: maurheti is the best.
3. Dear Internets: romanticalgirl is the best.
Enablers ho! Now let's get down to business.
*I created a thank you music mix for #2 and #3, which I now feel compelled to share, because the tunes are just that awesome. Special thanks to moneyfolder for her contributions.
* On last night's Daily Show, Jon interviewed Sebastian Junger (The Perfect Storm). Mr. Junger was shilling for his new book, WAR. This book was about the time he spent embedded with Army soldiers on the Iraq/Pakistan border. It was about the troops and how they hoped for battles to stop the boredom. It was about how you could hate somebody and still work beside them. It was the most freakish sense of deja vu ever. If they had started talking about being hired to work at Hustler while on Xanax, I'd've thought Evan Wright had had plastic surgery. Don't believe me? Watch for yourself.
I've been thinking about Ben McKenzie a lot recently. Okay, I've been thinking about Ben Sherman a lot lately. No, I've been thinking about them both. In fact, there was supposed to be a small ficlet here about Ben and Cooper, but then I realized I might need to save that for something else.
In conclusion, who's seen The Losers?
I have! And maurheti has. And sparky77 has. Three of us cannot make a fandom. Okay, that's not true. ONE CAN MAKE A FANDOM (Always remember that. Ari is proof of that). I assume this is how I have 100 500 words of The Losers/Leverage for sparky77.
Leverage/The Losers
Hardison/Jensen, Eliot, Parker
Rated Crack
My Boyfriend's Back (And You're Gonna Be in Trouble)
Jensen is the worst ex-boyfriend ever.
Not that he's Hardison's ex-boyfriend or anything. Hardison's nana doesn't play that. Hardison doesn't play that. Jensen was a fluke. Eliot doesn't even count.
Even though Hardison's nana likes Jensen a lot. It's the glasses. And the pink tee shirts. Even Hardison has to give Jensen props for the Petunia tee shirts.
But not in bed.
Nobody who gets in Hardison's bed wearing pink tee shirts that support his niece's soccer team is going to get any action from him. It's just creepy.
"That was one time," Jensen complains over Skype.
"That was one time too many," Hardison says, unwrapping a fudgesicle.
Jensen's whole face screws up on Hardison's monitor. "Are you really going to eat that while we're talking?"
Hardison takes a long slurp. "Yup."
"I hate you," Jensen says, rubbing at blonde highlights that would never work on anybody else.
Hardison makes an obscene noise. "Technically, you're dead, so what you think doesn't matter."
"Do I look dead to you?"
"You look a little pale." Hardison runs his tongue over the head of the fudgesicle.
"I'm white!" Jensen bitches, "of course I look pale."
Hardison holds up his hands. "Hey man, I wasn't even bringing up the race thing, that's all you."
"Oh, the race thing is all me? It wasn't all me when you were hatin' on my fried chicken!" Jensen's hands are flapping in the air like he grew up in a black church. It's kind of cute. Not that Hardison thinks that. One military nut job at a time is plenty.
"Fried chicken isn't supposed to set the house on fire," Hardison says matter-of-factly, sticking the popsicle in his mouth while he flips through a few napkin scribbles for a program he wrote at 5 a.m.
"Why do you always have to bring up old stuff?" Jensen gripes.
Hardison glances up. "I saw your Death Certificate. Technically, everything with you is old stuff."
"I thought you'd be happy I wasn't dead."
"I am happy." Hardison gives his fudgesicle a mild blow job. "Can't you see I'm full of happiness?"
"You suck."
Hardison licks at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, I know I do."
Jensen scowls. "We're going to talk about this when I get there."
Hardison's fudgesicle falls onto the floor. "When you get where?"
"Parker and I are orderin' pizza," a deep voice interrupts.
Hardison's head snaps up from the 17' monitor. "Which part of knock first is so hard for you?"
Eliot pushes long hair behind his right ear. "What part of suck my cock is so hard for you?"
Hardison blinks. "Whose cock are you sucking?" Jensen's tinny voice demands from the computer.
Eliot's left eyebrow raises. "Who're you talkin' to?"
"Nobody," Hardison says, hitting the mute button.
Jensen's yelling at the screen, his face turning red. Hardison ignores him, focusing on at Eliot. "This time get three meat lovers pizzas: one for me, one for you and one for the munchies you have at three in the morning when you're watching The Home Shopping Network."
"Don't talk shit about HSN," Eliot warns. "Where you think I got that fancy keyboard I bought you last month?"
Hardison looks at the neon colored monstrosity monopolizing his desk. He could say something derisory, but he likes his nuts how they are: attached. "Love it, man."
Eliot nods. "That's what I thought," he tosses over his shoulder before walking out.
Hardison reaches down and retrieves his fudgesicle from the hardwood floor.
On his computer monitor, Jensen's face has been replaced by a green screen and a chair.
Green screen.
And then there's a flash of light as a door opens. Okay, it's more like the back of a truck being opened. The back drop looks a lot like the street outside Hardison's apartment.
And that guy that just passed by the computer screen looked a lot like Cougar, one of Jensen's fellow not-dead-military men.
The sinking feeling in Hardison's stomach has nothing to do with the fudgesicle melting all over his fingers.
And then his apartment buzzer rings.
"Hardison, do you want me to--" Parker calls.
"Don't answer that door," Hardison calls, racing out of the room.
Of course it's too late. Parker's nose scrunches up at she looks at Jensen's round glasses and plaid board shorts consideringly. "Where's my pizzas?"
Hardison winces. "He's not the delivery guy."
Parker loses interest for a moment, but then she cocks her head to the side thoughtfully. "Who are you then?"
Jensen smiles broadly. "I'm his boo," he says, pointing at Hardison proudly.
Hardison covers his eyes. "I hate you so much," he says to the world in general.
In conclusion: GO SEE THE LOSERS.