it's hard enough to find your way around Chinatown
Well, that was a most lovely day indeed! *beams at you all*
Thank you friends for all the wonderful birthday wishes. It makes the cockles warm.
My non-fannish loot, I will keep in the close spaces of my heart, but my fannish loot, I share with you with pleasure and enthusiasm:
[1] witling wrote James Marsters/Vincent Kartheiser with Vinnie in make-up, swaggering and shrugging with confident diffidence at a Jimbo that's fumblingly sweet in all his dorktastic glory.
Jim’s good at flirting. Jim can flirt with a tin of tuna if he has to. God knows he’s charmed half a million hopeful women into parting with their hard-earned dollars (and occasionally more than that) on the strength of nothing more than the signature smile, the frank look, the bleach job. Flirtation has paid Jim’s mortgage and his car insurance, it’s financed his da Vinci veneers and his personal trainer, it’s kept him afloat in a city where thousands and thousands have drowned. Most of the time he likes doing it. He’s particularly motivated to keep the ralley going when the person on the other side of the net is a friend, and a curiosity, and also, frankly, hot.
[2] swmbo wrote Art and Life, a sequel to her amazing Typecast. Vincent Kartheiser can't seem to forget Orlando Bloom. Plus, there's pizza, beer, kissing and the sweetest, funniest dialogue; Orli and Vince, the way only Swm could write these two. And! Daniel Dae Kim. *preens*
Vince stared at Orlando for a second before wrenching his eyes back to the road. "Your life is weird, man."
Orlando raised an eyebrow. "This from the guy who called to ask me to teach him how to be a male prostitute?"
Vince had to admit that wasn't exactly normal. He did not, however, have to admit that to Orlando. "A British male prostitute," he corrected. He decided not to think on if that made it better or not. "I need help on my accent." Vince said firmly.
"Mmm." Orlando reached over and patted Vince's thigh.
[3] neverneverfic wrote untitled JM/VK Slag Head pron, which is hot and sweet made me squirm with happiness.
And he’s missed the way Vince tenses and moans as he comes, and the way he goes limp and smiles so slow and pretty after.
And not written for me, but this weekend was a treasure trove of *damn* good fic (finds):
[4] likethesun2 writes fic for Band of Brothers, and her Each Man Does Not Die is, without hyperbole and without exaggeration, amazing. It's Carwood Lipton/George Luz, and I'm still awed at the richness and fullness of the characterization in this story. It's been my experience that there are very few war-related fics out there that neither romanticize the combat experience nor gloss over it too superficially. This story manages to convey the true battle within a soldier during wartime, the fear and hope and loss and renewal that comes with each day, each hour. And to humanize that experience with a slight, deft touch that adds depth and emotional range to these beloved characters.
They're twenty years old, glutted on the milk of a country that has never before known fear. Lipton has tasted that country himself, has ranged barefoot through its fallow fields and woken to its mourning doves and seen its Technicolor wars in LIFE magazine, but he was weaned too young. He alone knows the dull, cold clench of being ten years old and watching a father's large, pale, false-looking body being pulled from a wrecked car. That responsibility, too, compresses him into something quiet and contained.
[5] tabaqui wrote Foundling, a sparse, emotionally powerful Connor/Spike in a dim and dreary post-NFA where Connor's descending into a state of dementia and Spike is somehow managing to care enough to keep him warm.
L.A. got worse, in time, and one night they loaded up a couple of packs and struck out across the smoking, pock-marked plain, heading for Portland or maybe Denver. Watching Illyria do her clock-work stalk, watching Connor pick his way through the cracked streets like a deer; all wide eyes and sudden lift of the head - frozen stillness and then movement as he tracked and dismissed the noises from the shadows. Pale, bruised arms under an old flannel he'd ripped the sleeves out of - worn-out blue jeans and sneakers - ring of bite-marks around his neck and the look of being always just over the edge, in one way or another. Spike wore his demon-face and nothing came near them, and near Carmel they found a Humvee that had the keys in it.
Wow. I'm going to go re-read all of these now.
Thank you friends for all the wonderful birthday wishes. It makes the cockles warm.
My non-fannish loot, I will keep in the close spaces of my heart, but my fannish loot, I share with you with pleasure and enthusiasm:
[1] witling wrote James Marsters/Vincent Kartheiser with Vinnie in make-up, swaggering and shrugging with confident diffidence at a Jimbo that's fumblingly sweet in all his dorktastic glory.
Jim’s good at flirting. Jim can flirt with a tin of tuna if he has to. God knows he’s charmed half a million hopeful women into parting with their hard-earned dollars (and occasionally more than that) on the strength of nothing more than the signature smile, the frank look, the bleach job. Flirtation has paid Jim’s mortgage and his car insurance, it’s financed his da Vinci veneers and his personal trainer, it’s kept him afloat in a city where thousands and thousands have drowned. Most of the time he likes doing it. He’s particularly motivated to keep the ralley going when the person on the other side of the net is a friend, and a curiosity, and also, frankly, hot.
[2] swmbo wrote Art and Life, a sequel to her amazing Typecast. Vincent Kartheiser can't seem to forget Orlando Bloom. Plus, there's pizza, beer, kissing and the sweetest, funniest dialogue; Orli and Vince, the way only Swm could write these two. And! Daniel Dae Kim. *preens*
Vince stared at Orlando for a second before wrenching his eyes back to the road. "Your life is weird, man."
Orlando raised an eyebrow. "This from the guy who called to ask me to teach him how to be a male prostitute?"
Vince had to admit that wasn't exactly normal. He did not, however, have to admit that to Orlando. "A British male prostitute," he corrected. He decided not to think on if that made it better or not. "I need help on my accent." Vince said firmly.
"Mmm." Orlando reached over and patted Vince's thigh.
[3] neverneverfic wrote untitled JM/VK Slag Head pron, which is hot and sweet made me squirm with happiness.
And he’s missed the way Vince tenses and moans as he comes, and the way he goes limp and smiles so slow and pretty after.
And not written for me, but this weekend was a treasure trove of *damn* good fic (finds):
[4] likethesun2 writes fic for Band of Brothers, and her Each Man Does Not Die is, without hyperbole and without exaggeration, amazing. It's Carwood Lipton/George Luz, and I'm still awed at the richness and fullness of the characterization in this story. It's been my experience that there are very few war-related fics out there that neither romanticize the combat experience nor gloss over it too superficially. This story manages to convey the true battle within a soldier during wartime, the fear and hope and loss and renewal that comes with each day, each hour. And to humanize that experience with a slight, deft touch that adds depth and emotional range to these beloved characters.
They're twenty years old, glutted on the milk of a country that has never before known fear. Lipton has tasted that country himself, has ranged barefoot through its fallow fields and woken to its mourning doves and seen its Technicolor wars in LIFE magazine, but he was weaned too young. He alone knows the dull, cold clench of being ten years old and watching a father's large, pale, false-looking body being pulled from a wrecked car. That responsibility, too, compresses him into something quiet and contained.
[5] tabaqui wrote Foundling, a sparse, emotionally powerful Connor/Spike in a dim and dreary post-NFA where Connor's descending into a state of dementia and Spike is somehow managing to care enough to keep him warm.
L.A. got worse, in time, and one night they loaded up a couple of packs and struck out across the smoking, pock-marked plain, heading for Portland or maybe Denver. Watching Illyria do her clock-work stalk, watching Connor pick his way through the cracked streets like a deer; all wide eyes and sudden lift of the head - frozen stillness and then movement as he tracked and dismissed the noises from the shadows. Pale, bruised arms under an old flannel he'd ripped the sleeves out of - worn-out blue jeans and sneakers - ring of bite-marks around his neck and the look of being always just over the edge, in one way or another. Spike wore his demon-face and nothing came near them, and near Carmel they found a Humvee that had the keys in it.
Wow. I'm going to go re-read all of these now.