in need of hugs.
My car's broken. And I'm getting it fixed, but paying for the repair with money that I'm borrowing from my parents that they can't really afford to lend. So. That could be going better.
This also means that I'm still stuck in Bumfuck instead of being home last Friday. So it's just me, kettlecorn-and-seaweed (IT IS LIKE SUSHI ONLY NOT), and rum-and-coke. AND White Collar season 1 - some friends of ours who are moving in January left a bunch of their stuff in our apartment, INCLUDING THEIR GIANT TELEVISION AND PLAYSTATION. Blu-ray is actually as cool as the commercials say it is. And the picture quality on this TV? INSANE. IT IS LIKE MATT BOMER IS ACTUALLY IN MY LIVING ROOM. White Collar's the only show I've watched so far where the ultra-detail only adds to the perfection. Their acting's wonderful. I love Tim DeKay's mouth creases.
Have been reading some plays. Scarcity is fucking brilliant - read the last five pages absolutely breathless.
Ohohoh and an update - I am officially directing Romeo and Juliet next semester! Definitely a challenge, but one I feel confident I can meet, as I can research and prepare like nobody's business. I think it's a good sign that I've already started directing it in my head whenever I'm bored. I'm pondering doing the balcony scene on a ladder. Possibly with lanterns and flashlights as the only source of illumination. "What light through yonder window breaks..."
This may mean a sequel to be all my sins remembered. I never did get to the corset-and-candle-kink sex scene that inspired the whole damn thing!
Also, I know that I am weeks behind in replying to comments, and I am very sorry. I really really do appreciate comments - especially feedback on my stories! - and I will try to catch up soon. I know I also owe a bunch of people emails - sorry I suck. :-( I think next semester I may need to take an official fandom hiatus. 'Cause right now I just feel like a bad friend.
But before I do that there are five fics I need to finish - Roman!AU for Elr, Neal-with-AIDS, hurt!Eliot, the sequel to Sore, and the-WIP-that-haunts-me-at-night.
To that end - I'mma do the WIP meme! Only not really, because it tells you to only post a sentence, and I want to post more than that. So:
WHAT, WHAT, WHAT ARE YOU WRITING?
*
"The senator’s dead," Jones whispered from behind his right shoulder. "The whore was here the whole time, but is claiming that he didn’t do it. Ruiz is ready to take him to the chambers to make sure he's not withholding - should I accompany him?"
Peter'd seen the whore before. He was sure of it. Something about the eyes, the angle of his chin, the tension running down his curved spine. He just couldn’t quite place him. He doubted he'd ever seen the man like this before - naked, covered in blood and probably semen. Possibly tears.
"Tell Ruiz to go find a phallus and sit on it. This one's mine."
He could practically feel Jones stiffen behind him, hear him stifling the urge to ask Peter to reconsider. The politics of the senate were a delicate game and Peter'd never claimed to be anything other than a blunt instrument. This room, with its gold trim and brocade fabrics, the sumptuous odor of roses drifting on the air, the blood that may as well have run purple for all its richness - this room was not a place Peter belonged.
He waved Jones away and stepped towards the whore. Put his hands on his hips, fingers falling comfortably in the grooves of his leather armor, and surveyed his witness.
"Well, I'll be damned."
*
After the job at the VA hospital Nate had been sure that this gig was too good to be real. Too good to last. Four thieves and an insurance agent? It barely even made a mediocre knock-knock joke, let alone a business plan. So he kept his cards close to his chest and his skepticism even closer.
But then-somehow-it had worked. They worked. Together, smoothly, over and over again.
A year and four months after that first VA job things went bad. And by then Nate had forgotten that they weren’t the good guys, forgotten that the world didn’t owe them, forgotten that in the end things don’t always balance out.
He’d stopped thinking that every day could be their last.
*
He just - he really wished that Gaila was there. So that he could ask her how these things were supposed to go, ask her if she knew of any stupid social rules he'd broken, some ritual he'd failed to observe. Ask her if she knew what the feeling was that had lodged itself deep in his belly after he'd seen them together. Maybe she'd know if it was something that he was doing wrong, or if it was just - him. Just something else he wasn't supposed to have.
*
I'm gonna go read about what Ancient Romans ate for breakfast, eat my popcorn, and ponder Mercutio's liminality. Or maybe I'll just get drunk and watch Spartacus: Blood and Sand. WATCHING SWEATY MEN ROLL AROUND IS V. IMPORTANT RESEARCH FOR MY ART.
This also means that I'm still stuck in Bumfuck instead of being home last Friday. So it's just me, kettlecorn-and-seaweed (IT IS LIKE SUSHI ONLY NOT), and rum-and-coke. AND White Collar season 1 - some friends of ours who are moving in January left a bunch of their stuff in our apartment, INCLUDING THEIR GIANT TELEVISION AND PLAYSTATION. Blu-ray is actually as cool as the commercials say it is. And the picture quality on this TV? INSANE. IT IS LIKE MATT BOMER IS ACTUALLY IN MY LIVING ROOM. White Collar's the only show I've watched so far where the ultra-detail only adds to the perfection. Their acting's wonderful. I love Tim DeKay's mouth creases.
Have been reading some plays. Scarcity is fucking brilliant - read the last five pages absolutely breathless.
Ohohoh and an update - I am officially directing Romeo and Juliet next semester! Definitely a challenge, but one I feel confident I can meet, as I can research and prepare like nobody's business. I think it's a good sign that I've already started directing it in my head whenever I'm bored. I'm pondering doing the balcony scene on a ladder. Possibly with lanterns and flashlights as the only source of illumination. "What light through yonder window breaks..."
This may mean a sequel to be all my sins remembered. I never did get to the corset-and-candle-kink sex scene that inspired the whole damn thing!
Also, I know that I am weeks behind in replying to comments, and I am very sorry. I really really do appreciate comments - especially feedback on my stories! - and I will try to catch up soon. I know I also owe a bunch of people emails - sorry I suck. :-( I think next semester I may need to take an official fandom hiatus. 'Cause right now I just feel like a bad friend.
But before I do that there are five fics I need to finish - Roman!AU for Elr, Neal-with-AIDS, hurt!Eliot, the sequel to Sore, and the-WIP-that-haunts-me-at-night.
To that end - I'mma do the WIP meme! Only not really, because it tells you to only post a sentence, and I want to post more than that. So:
WHAT, WHAT, WHAT ARE YOU WRITING?
*
"The senator’s dead," Jones whispered from behind his right shoulder. "The whore was here the whole time, but is claiming that he didn’t do it. Ruiz is ready to take him to the chambers to make sure he's not withholding - should I accompany him?"
Peter'd seen the whore before. He was sure of it. Something about the eyes, the angle of his chin, the tension running down his curved spine. He just couldn’t quite place him. He doubted he'd ever seen the man like this before - naked, covered in blood and probably semen. Possibly tears.
"Tell Ruiz to go find a phallus and sit on it. This one's mine."
He could practically feel Jones stiffen behind him, hear him stifling the urge to ask Peter to reconsider. The politics of the senate were a delicate game and Peter'd never claimed to be anything other than a blunt instrument. This room, with its gold trim and brocade fabrics, the sumptuous odor of roses drifting on the air, the blood that may as well have run purple for all its richness - this room was not a place Peter belonged.
He waved Jones away and stepped towards the whore. Put his hands on his hips, fingers falling comfortably in the grooves of his leather armor, and surveyed his witness.
"Well, I'll be damned."
*
After the job at the VA hospital Nate had been sure that this gig was too good to be real. Too good to last. Four thieves and an insurance agent? It barely even made a mediocre knock-knock joke, let alone a business plan. So he kept his cards close to his chest and his skepticism even closer.
But then-somehow-it had worked. They worked. Together, smoothly, over and over again.
A year and four months after that first VA job things went bad. And by then Nate had forgotten that they weren’t the good guys, forgotten that the world didn’t owe them, forgotten that in the end things don’t always balance out.
He’d stopped thinking that every day could be their last.
*
He just - he really wished that Gaila was there. So that he could ask her how these things were supposed to go, ask her if she knew of any stupid social rules he'd broken, some ritual he'd failed to observe. Ask her if she knew what the feeling was that had lodged itself deep in his belly after he'd seen them together. Maybe she'd know if it was something that he was doing wrong, or if it was just - him. Just something else he wasn't supposed to have.
*
I'm gonna go read about what Ancient Romans ate for breakfast, eat my popcorn, and ponder Mercutio's liminality. Or maybe I'll just get drunk and watch Spartacus: Blood and Sand. WATCHING SWEATY MEN ROLL AROUND IS V. IMPORTANT RESEARCH FOR MY ART.