Insomnia
I'm up late, I'm having a hella huge allergy attack, drinking beer (thumbs up for Sierra Nevada's "Celebration" Ale) and watching my Metalocalypse DvDs. Believe, it distracts.
I've been enjoying the Adult Swim's ads for its homegrown products lately; they seem to have been hatched specifically for Xmas, but they're still funny: "I want the Murderface T-shirt, or I'll murder your face!" Bwah ha, yeah, like I said: late night, allergy attack, insomnia. I'm also easily amused.
I've also been feeling the artist's urge lately: shadowscast's Buffyverse Alphabet makes me itch to try to draw the Edward Gorey versions of the Buffyverse case ala Gashlycrumb Tinies, and Buffyverse Big Bang Ficathon also tempted. I want to draw, DRAW! It's times like these I remember that I actually DO have an art degree, even if that and three bucks wouldn't necessarily even get me a cup of coffee these days, sigh. (Thank the gods for petzipellepingo's pimpage posts, or I'd never be able to find anything anymore. You are a treasure to fandom, Petzi, especially to slackers such as I.)
I thought I'd try to choose bits of my WIPs in progress for that meme I'd seen going around - argh, and crap, I've really got to update wip_out for this year and establish that no, the community hasn't been abandoned, but I've just been busy, yo - but I discovered that yes, I really AM prone to long, slow buildups, with everybody talk talk talking. Such as:
[I swear, I'm still working on it! Excerpt from my hideously late 'Buffy is the Hero, Dammit!' Ficathon.Picture some demons talking in a bar]
"I saw the Slayer once."
No reaction, other than a snort or two of derisive laughter.
"THE Slayer. Buffy."
That got a reaction. Heads turned. Arguments paused.
Satisfied with the attention, the demon preened ever so slightly, and raised his voice.
"That's right. Buffy. The Slayer."
A bristly breed by the bar spoke up. Untrained ears would've had a hard time identifying the demon's fang-crowded speech as English. "Huurd fweh ve furs tuhm." Heard you the first time.
The demon ignored this, and went on. "That's right. The Slayer. And yet, here I am to tell the tale."
"You didn't kill her." This from a vampire at the dart board, whose companions promptly snorted with laughter. "She's not dead. My cousin saw her, in Paris, just a week ago."
"Yeah. Is this a story about how you turned tail and ran?" More snorts of laughter from the dart-players.
"No, it's a---" The demon frowned. "I didn't fight her at all. The story's about what I saw."
"Well, get on with it, then!" The bartender finally chimed in, annoyed that no one was drinking.
"I was in London. Down in Southwark, feeding on the hopelessness of humans... y'know, the usual. And then I saw this big ol'... I don't know what they're called, but they're about seven feet tall--"
"Basketball players." Chuckles from the peanut gallery. The demon glared.
"And they have horns. But forget it, whatever, it was chasing after this vampire. White hair, long leather coat--"
"Ah," someone spoke up. "The Slayer's lover."
The demon looked startled. "What?"
"What, you hadn't heard? That Slayer and vampires." The creature made a crude gesture. "Well known."
"Oh." The demon's face crumpled in thought. "That does explain a lot."
The dart-playing vampires moved closer to the speaker "Did you see them... do it?" The leader moistened his lips with his tongue, his fangs interrupting the movement so that it took a long time.
"No, I--" The demon shuddered. "She just... they were running, the horned one and the vampire, and the vampire was losing ground. I thought I'd get to see a good dismembering, you know? Then she showed up. And then I thought, okay, big loss on the vampire, 'cause she's just gonna stake him, but maybe the big demon will tear her apart. So I'll still get a good show."
"She killed the other demon."
"That's right! Then she walks off with the vampire, all arm-in-arm."
"Just walks off." The audience sounded disappointed. "So you really didn't see anything."
The demon looked vaguely disgusted. "As if I'd want to! A Slayer and a vampire?"
"Kinky." Some of the audience laughed.
See? Nothing's happening yet! It seems to take smut to really make me get to the point, such as:
[Excerpt from "Jack the Giant Killer"]
As illusions went, it was a perfect one. The heat of his body. The phantom beat of his heart that she could almost imagine, his lungs moving air and hot breath on her skin... everything.
She clung to Spike's shoulder, fingers digging in, and he hovered over her, not quite touching. Worried about burning her. She didn't care--curled her body toward him in an upward arch, tried to draw him down. Wanted his weight on her, pressing her into the soft pillows, wanted to hold him tight. He still held himself away, just enough to allow air to slip between them, and dipped his head low to share her breath.
He felt alive. Alive like she did. She couldn't take her eyes off him, damp hair hanging over his forehead and blotchy pink-red skin. He let out hard, harsh pants when he moved, and the condensation from his skin as it cooled looked and felt like sweat, dripping from his forehead, his chin. Cold splashes of water on her hot skin, cold as the tickle of air between their bellies when he lifted himself up, when they moved apart.
Warm. So warm.
And fast, fast as the pace of his imagined beating heart. His phantom living heart. Pulsing inside him and pressing against hers.
Clearly there's something relevant about physical sensation forcing a cut-through-the-bullshit approach. Or maybe it's just because I'm semi-drunk at 2:00 am. Or maybe that's why I'm making that connection. Who knows.
I've been enjoying the Adult Swim's ads for its homegrown products lately; they seem to have been hatched specifically for Xmas, but they're still funny: "I want the Murderface T-shirt, or I'll murder your face!" Bwah ha, yeah, like I said: late night, allergy attack, insomnia. I'm also easily amused.
I've also been feeling the artist's urge lately: shadowscast's Buffyverse Alphabet makes me itch to try to draw the Edward Gorey versions of the Buffyverse case ala Gashlycrumb Tinies, and Buffyverse Big Bang Ficathon also tempted. I want to draw, DRAW! It's times like these I remember that I actually DO have an art degree, even if that and three bucks wouldn't necessarily even get me a cup of coffee these days, sigh. (Thank the gods for petzipellepingo's pimpage posts, or I'd never be able to find anything anymore. You are a treasure to fandom, Petzi, especially to slackers such as I.)
I thought I'd try to choose bits of my WIPs in progress for that meme I'd seen going around - argh, and crap, I've really got to update wip_out for this year and establish that no, the community hasn't been abandoned, but I've just been busy, yo - but I discovered that yes, I really AM prone to long, slow buildups, with everybody talk talk talking. Such as:
[I swear, I'm still working on it! Excerpt from my hideously late 'Buffy is the Hero, Dammit!' Ficathon.Picture some demons talking in a bar]
"I saw the Slayer once."
No reaction, other than a snort or two of derisive laughter.
"THE Slayer. Buffy."
That got a reaction. Heads turned. Arguments paused.
Satisfied with the attention, the demon preened ever so slightly, and raised his voice.
"That's right. Buffy. The Slayer."
A bristly breed by the bar spoke up. Untrained ears would've had a hard time identifying the demon's fang-crowded speech as English. "Huurd fweh ve furs tuhm." Heard you the first time.
The demon ignored this, and went on. "That's right. The Slayer. And yet, here I am to tell the tale."
"You didn't kill her." This from a vampire at the dart board, whose companions promptly snorted with laughter. "She's not dead. My cousin saw her, in Paris, just a week ago."
"Yeah. Is this a story about how you turned tail and ran?" More snorts of laughter from the dart-players.
"No, it's a---" The demon frowned. "I didn't fight her at all. The story's about what I saw."
"Well, get on with it, then!" The bartender finally chimed in, annoyed that no one was drinking.
"I was in London. Down in Southwark, feeding on the hopelessness of humans... y'know, the usual. And then I saw this big ol'... I don't know what they're called, but they're about seven feet tall--"
"Basketball players." Chuckles from the peanut gallery. The demon glared.
"And they have horns. But forget it, whatever, it was chasing after this vampire. White hair, long leather coat--"
"Ah," someone spoke up. "The Slayer's lover."
The demon looked startled. "What?"
"What, you hadn't heard? That Slayer and vampires." The creature made a crude gesture. "Well known."
"Oh." The demon's face crumpled in thought. "That does explain a lot."
The dart-playing vampires moved closer to the speaker "Did you see them... do it?" The leader moistened his lips with his tongue, his fangs interrupting the movement so that it took a long time.
"No, I--" The demon shuddered. "She just... they were running, the horned one and the vampire, and the vampire was losing ground. I thought I'd get to see a good dismembering, you know? Then she showed up. And then I thought, okay, big loss on the vampire, 'cause she's just gonna stake him, but maybe the big demon will tear her apart. So I'll still get a good show."
"She killed the other demon."
"That's right! Then she walks off with the vampire, all arm-in-arm."
"Just walks off." The audience sounded disappointed. "So you really didn't see anything."
The demon looked vaguely disgusted. "As if I'd want to! A Slayer and a vampire?"
"Kinky." Some of the audience laughed.
See? Nothing's happening yet! It seems to take smut to really make me get to the point, such as:
[Excerpt from "Jack the Giant Killer"]
As illusions went, it was a perfect one. The heat of his body. The phantom beat of his heart that she could almost imagine, his lungs moving air and hot breath on her skin... everything.
She clung to Spike's shoulder, fingers digging in, and he hovered over her, not quite touching. Worried about burning her. She didn't care--curled her body toward him in an upward arch, tried to draw him down. Wanted his weight on her, pressing her into the soft pillows, wanted to hold him tight. He still held himself away, just enough to allow air to slip between them, and dipped his head low to share her breath.
He felt alive. Alive like she did. She couldn't take her eyes off him, damp hair hanging over his forehead and blotchy pink-red skin. He let out hard, harsh pants when he moved, and the condensation from his skin as it cooled looked and felt like sweat, dripping from his forehead, his chin. Cold splashes of water on her hot skin, cold as the tickle of air between their bellies when he lifted himself up, when they moved apart.
Warm. So warm.
And fast, fast as the pace of his imagined beating heart. His phantom living heart. Pulsing inside him and pressing against hers.
Clearly there's something relevant about physical sensation forcing a cut-through-the-bullshit approach. Or maybe it's just because I'm semi-drunk at 2:00 am. Or maybe that's why I'm making that connection. Who knows.