omg, why am i awake so frakking early?
IDK. Except somehow the "I don't want to do laundry tonight" plan from last night turned into "Better shave my legs so I can wear that dress, the last damn thing in my closet I feel like wearing, and oh better get up early to do that!" This craziness brought to you by random Congressionally-ordered changes to the clock and my crazy cat. TYFYT.
Also, as to the Karl Urban Friending Meme. PEEPS. DUDES. If you friend me I will friend you back, because if you love Karl Urban then we're pretty much a sure thing. (Too lazy to find the link at the moment. Tea, earl gray, hot, helping with that. See? RANDOM.)
ALSO, as I type this at 6:50 AM, some woman outside is yelling to someone about they're having fucked something up. WTF.
ALSO, ALSO, I am out of milk so I poured half and half on my granola and damn that's good.
ALSO...FIC
No, really, the whole point of this post was supposed to be posting my fic from the most recent sinfest...so here's ya go:
Karl/OFC
Karl as a vampire. Except not an especially broody vampire. Because he's KARL, for crying out out loud.
The Blood Thing
The movies and the television show and the books, they always get it wrong. Sunlight? Not a problem. And he sure as bloody hell doesn't sparkle. No reflection or pictures? Totally wrong, that bit. Or he wouldn't be doing what he's doing, this lifetime, would he. The blood thing, though, that part is pretty much accurate. Yes, he definitely needs blood. Still, been centuries since he had to completely drain someone of it. Some mild telepathy (that old vampiric magnetism), keener senses, faster, stronger - all accurate. Bumpy forehead? Thank god, no. Doomed to an eternity of soulless wandering and damnation? Last time he checked, he still has a soul. But yes on the eternal life thing. At least so far. Six hundred years is a long time.
He could continue this ridiculous catalogue, he supposes, but there are more immediate things to turn in his attention to. He's at a Halloween party of all things, and only a few hours after shucking the evil cowboy vampire costume for the Karl-Heinz Urban costume. Not that he really thinks of his life as fake or of his name and currently chosen profession as a costume, it's only that this life is one of a succession of lives - Knight of Bavaria (his first life, the one he was born to), farmer, priest, soldier, wanderer/explorer, sailor - Karl has been many things, many people. Today he is an actor from New Zealand, shooting a film in Los Angeles, attending a party, because that is what actors do when they aren't acting and they are stuck in LA - they party, read: drunken fornication (he was a priest; give a vampire a break for hanging on to a few hundred years of personality quirks).
Oh, and the brooding thing. Yes, there is some angst involved with living a really long time and drinking blood to get by, but Jesu Christi is that part ever exaggerated in the fiction.
It’s a big party, and it’s about half an hour before he catches the scent - perfectly sweet and willing blood thrumming through the veins of a woman with long red hair and a skintight green and gold costume. She’s Jean Gray/Phoenix - comic book style. It’s so goddamn perfect - hitting every button he’s got - he has to laugh. Cherries and cinnamon. She smells like the sweetest liqueur; he can’t wait to actually taste her. Thirst and want scrape through him like blades across leather.
His own costume - Han Solo - is pretty unremarkable as far as costumes go tonight. But he knows he won't need to really turn on the magnetism to pull her in, make her his for the evening. He is still a few feet away and she is aware of him, which means he can just step in and let things flow - no need for introductions.
"Jean, Jean. And I here I've left my spandex at home. If only I'd known."
She looks him up and down, her lips curving with amusement. Magnetism, attraction, pheremones, whatever it is that makes her smell so sweet to him, these things work both ways. "No worries. Adamantium claws get tiresome after a while, anyway. But where's your walking carpet?"
"Chewie just couldn't decide on a costume. He's at home - wookie equivalent of a pouting fit."
She laughs, full and genuine. And so things flow from there.
It isn't long into the evening - All Hallows Eve, Halloween, the flow of lore and traditions and magick into games and toothless fun is something that will always amuse him - it isn't long before they are flowing into each other. Jean - he has not bothered to learn her real name, it might really be Jean - Jean's hair tangles and twists, sinuous, around his fingers. Her mouth is sweet and ripe, taste and touch feasting on the promises of scent and sight.
She won't remember exactly how she got home, or how she got here, she won't remember the cry of pleasure-pain/pain-pleasure as he fills her and then she fills him. In the morning, she will feel satisfied and sore and a little tired and hazy, and he will be gone. He will remember everything. Subtle blooms of color across pale skin. Coppery cherry-sweet blood, warm down his throat, and the hint of cloves across the top of his mouth. Everything liquid and warm and sweet.
The blood thing, the fiction gets that part right.
Karl/OFC
Another Wardrobe Mistress Fic! What did I say a while ago? That I'm going to end up doing one of these for EVERY MOVIE KARL HAS EVER BEEN IN. I'm starting to believe it.
A Cowboy and His Hat
It is difficult to judge or estimate the finished project while you're in the middle of filming it, but Karl figures the fun of doing this one - cowboys and indians and horses, oh my! - will outweigh the final quality by a more-than-narrow measure.
Not that he cares about that. It's the fucking Lonesome Dove saga. It's a character once inhabited by Tommy Lee Jones. So everything else - it just doesn't matter.
They have been working for weeks now out in the middle of nowhere somehwere, U.S.A., and he really should be better at keeping his geography straight, but at the moment he doesn't care to think about it too hard. Riding a horse all day is quite the exercise, and shame on him for forgetting that fact somewhere in the few years between Eomer and Woodrow Call.
The wardrobe mistress will probably have his head for this - lounging next to the river, still in costume, long after the day's shooting is done. She's a firecracker, that one, almost ferocious, and he finds it terribly amusing that anyone would be so concerned over costumes meant to look extra lived-in and dirty.
He's pulled his hat down over his eyes - very in character Karl - tired of squinting against the sun. It's a tiny, perfect moment of Old West.
Until he is interrupted by the scrape of other boots over dirt next to his head.
Speak of the devil. It's the wardrobe mistress. He moves the hat just enough to squint up at her and her disapproving yet somehow indulgent look.
"You're messing with my work, Urban."
"How do you figure?"
"Hat, bandana, suspenders, shirt, pants, boots, spurs - everything should have been back in wardrobe at least two hours ago."
"Is that so?" He can practically see steam coming out her ears, and it is just too much fun baiting this woman.
"You know so." She bends over and starts taking off her own boots.
"What are you doing?"
"Going swimming. It's been a long day."
He watches with amusement and then rising interest and she strips off everything in efficient motion and walks down into the water. Her ass is perfect - ripe and curvy and firm. Her breasts, too - the glimpse he caught.
"This isn't entirely appropriate."
She sort of snorts in response. "Like you care."
"So, maybe I don't."
"Then what are you waiting for?"
"Excellent question." He is up and stripping down before conscious thought is catching up to his body - naked, woman, water.
She splashes water in his face before he's even really in the water and that just does it. He dunks her and they wrestle in water that is too cold, with skins that are too hot.
Finally, he captures her, she is still long enough for his mouth to find hers, and while the water feels good, the river has washed away the day, he wants solid ground for this. He lifts her up and she curves around him and he carries her back to the piles of clothes.
Her hair lies dark across her shoulders, dripping wet in fading light, as he pulls her down on top of him. She rises from a series of lazy but hungry kisses with his hat in her hand, settles it onto her head, reaches and settles down on him, full enclosure, slick heat and slow motion.
She rides him like that, wearing his hat - Woodrow Call's hat - too big on her, wide curving brim hiding her eyes but not her smile as she rides, rides. He brings his knees up for leverage, plays his hands across her nipples, down her stomach, down to where they are joined, wet and hot. Her rhythm is slow, indulgent, maddening. Until it isn't and she quickens and a throaty sigh escapes her and he grabs her hips, pumping once, twice, for his own release.
She falls into another kiss, slow, sweet, the hat covering them both.
Winona/George
A terribly bad drabble from a prompt about a book I've never read, but it kinda came to me. Plus, I've never written Winona before.
Always
It's a fever dream, or something like it - space fever, maybe. Except she is not ill. It's only that she has been out in space again, looking at stars and studying singularities, walking the corridors of a ship, wearing the uniform. And whenever she does this, whenever she it out here in the black, she can count on these dreams. She does, she counts on them; they are hand in hand with any other reasons for coming back.
Hand in hand. George's hand is big and real and strong around her own.
"You should be here, George." Echoes, ripples from a different moment.
"I am here."
She laces their fingers tighter. This is not a dream, this is not a fever. This is real. George is real and she is real, this brief instant is all that's real. "I've missed you. I miss you."
"I know, sweetheart. But I'm here now." His hand cups her face, his thumb sweeping along the curve of her cheekbone. She would close her eyes and lean into the heaven that is his touch, but then she would miss his smile and his eyes. It is the only difference between then and now - now she does not close her eyes.
Not even when he bends to kiss her and she folds into his embrace, clinging to his earnest goodness and upright strength - things she does not have when he is not here. Her eyes are open. And she could swear that galaxies wheel around them, that they are at the center, that the universe is rearranging itself for them, for this love that breaks her and rebuilds her.
It is a selfish view of time and space. But perception is reality. And this is real. The eternal, fiery, frozen moments when George is returned to her and she is returned to herself.
"I love you so much."
"I'll always love you."
"I'll always be here."
She opens her eyes to darkness.
Also, as to the Karl Urban Friending Meme. PEEPS. DUDES. If you friend me I will friend you back, because if you love Karl Urban then we're pretty much a sure thing. (Too lazy to find the link at the moment. Tea, earl gray, hot, helping with that. See? RANDOM.)
ALSO, as I type this at 6:50 AM, some woman outside is yelling to someone about they're having fucked something up. WTF.
ALSO, ALSO, I am out of milk so I poured half and half on my granola and damn that's good.
ALSO...FIC
No, really, the whole point of this post was supposed to be posting my fic from the most recent sinfest...so here's ya go:
Karl/OFC
Karl as a vampire. Except not an especially broody vampire. Because he's KARL, for crying out out loud.
The Blood Thing
The movies and the television show and the books, they always get it wrong. Sunlight? Not a problem. And he sure as bloody hell doesn't sparkle. No reflection or pictures? Totally wrong, that bit. Or he wouldn't be doing what he's doing, this lifetime, would he. The blood thing, though, that part is pretty much accurate. Yes, he definitely needs blood. Still, been centuries since he had to completely drain someone of it. Some mild telepathy (that old vampiric magnetism), keener senses, faster, stronger - all accurate. Bumpy forehead? Thank god, no. Doomed to an eternity of soulless wandering and damnation? Last time he checked, he still has a soul. But yes on the eternal life thing. At least so far. Six hundred years is a long time.
He could continue this ridiculous catalogue, he supposes, but there are more immediate things to turn in his attention to. He's at a Halloween party of all things, and only a few hours after shucking the evil cowboy vampire costume for the Karl-Heinz Urban costume. Not that he really thinks of his life as fake or of his name and currently chosen profession as a costume, it's only that this life is one of a succession of lives - Knight of Bavaria (his first life, the one he was born to), farmer, priest, soldier, wanderer/explorer, sailor - Karl has been many things, many people. Today he is an actor from New Zealand, shooting a film in Los Angeles, attending a party, because that is what actors do when they aren't acting and they are stuck in LA - they party, read: drunken fornication (he was a priest; give a vampire a break for hanging on to a few hundred years of personality quirks).
Oh, and the brooding thing. Yes, there is some angst involved with living a really long time and drinking blood to get by, but Jesu Christi is that part ever exaggerated in the fiction.
It’s a big party, and it’s about half an hour before he catches the scent - perfectly sweet and willing blood thrumming through the veins of a woman with long red hair and a skintight green and gold costume. She’s Jean Gray/Phoenix - comic book style. It’s so goddamn perfect - hitting every button he’s got - he has to laugh. Cherries and cinnamon. She smells like the sweetest liqueur; he can’t wait to actually taste her. Thirst and want scrape through him like blades across leather.
His own costume - Han Solo - is pretty unremarkable as far as costumes go tonight. But he knows he won't need to really turn on the magnetism to pull her in, make her his for the evening. He is still a few feet away and she is aware of him, which means he can just step in and let things flow - no need for introductions.
"Jean, Jean. And I here I've left my spandex at home. If only I'd known."
She looks him up and down, her lips curving with amusement. Magnetism, attraction, pheremones, whatever it is that makes her smell so sweet to him, these things work both ways. "No worries. Adamantium claws get tiresome after a while, anyway. But where's your walking carpet?"
"Chewie just couldn't decide on a costume. He's at home - wookie equivalent of a pouting fit."
She laughs, full and genuine. And so things flow from there.
It isn't long into the evening - All Hallows Eve, Halloween, the flow of lore and traditions and magick into games and toothless fun is something that will always amuse him - it isn't long before they are flowing into each other. Jean - he has not bothered to learn her real name, it might really be Jean - Jean's hair tangles and twists, sinuous, around his fingers. Her mouth is sweet and ripe, taste and touch feasting on the promises of scent and sight.
She won't remember exactly how she got home, or how she got here, she won't remember the cry of pleasure-pain/pain-pleasure as he fills her and then she fills him. In the morning, she will feel satisfied and sore and a little tired and hazy, and he will be gone. He will remember everything. Subtle blooms of color across pale skin. Coppery cherry-sweet blood, warm down his throat, and the hint of cloves across the top of his mouth. Everything liquid and warm and sweet.
The blood thing, the fiction gets that part right.
Karl/OFC
Another Wardrobe Mistress Fic! What did I say a while ago? That I'm going to end up doing one of these for EVERY MOVIE KARL HAS EVER BEEN IN. I'm starting to believe it.
A Cowboy and His Hat
It is difficult to judge or estimate the finished project while you're in the middle of filming it, but Karl figures the fun of doing this one - cowboys and indians and horses, oh my! - will outweigh the final quality by a more-than-narrow measure.
Not that he cares about that. It's the fucking Lonesome Dove saga. It's a character once inhabited by Tommy Lee Jones. So everything else - it just doesn't matter.
They have been working for weeks now out in the middle of nowhere somehwere, U.S.A., and he really should be better at keeping his geography straight, but at the moment he doesn't care to think about it too hard. Riding a horse all day is quite the exercise, and shame on him for forgetting that fact somewhere in the few years between Eomer and Woodrow Call.
The wardrobe mistress will probably have his head for this - lounging next to the river, still in costume, long after the day's shooting is done. She's a firecracker, that one, almost ferocious, and he finds it terribly amusing that anyone would be so concerned over costumes meant to look extra lived-in and dirty.
He's pulled his hat down over his eyes - very in character Karl - tired of squinting against the sun. It's a tiny, perfect moment of Old West.
Until he is interrupted by the scrape of other boots over dirt next to his head.
Speak of the devil. It's the wardrobe mistress. He moves the hat just enough to squint up at her and her disapproving yet somehow indulgent look.
"You're messing with my work, Urban."
"How do you figure?"
"Hat, bandana, suspenders, shirt, pants, boots, spurs - everything should have been back in wardrobe at least two hours ago."
"Is that so?" He can practically see steam coming out her ears, and it is just too much fun baiting this woman.
"You know so." She bends over and starts taking off her own boots.
"What are you doing?"
"Going swimming. It's been a long day."
He watches with amusement and then rising interest and she strips off everything in efficient motion and walks down into the water. Her ass is perfect - ripe and curvy and firm. Her breasts, too - the glimpse he caught.
"This isn't entirely appropriate."
She sort of snorts in response. "Like you care."
"So, maybe I don't."
"Then what are you waiting for?"
"Excellent question." He is up and stripping down before conscious thought is catching up to his body - naked, woman, water.
She splashes water in his face before he's even really in the water and that just does it. He dunks her and they wrestle in water that is too cold, with skins that are too hot.
Finally, he captures her, she is still long enough for his mouth to find hers, and while the water feels good, the river has washed away the day, he wants solid ground for this. He lifts her up and she curves around him and he carries her back to the piles of clothes.
Her hair lies dark across her shoulders, dripping wet in fading light, as he pulls her down on top of him. She rises from a series of lazy but hungry kisses with his hat in her hand, settles it onto her head, reaches and settles down on him, full enclosure, slick heat and slow motion.
She rides him like that, wearing his hat - Woodrow Call's hat - too big on her, wide curving brim hiding her eyes but not her smile as she rides, rides. He brings his knees up for leverage, plays his hands across her nipples, down her stomach, down to where they are joined, wet and hot. Her rhythm is slow, indulgent, maddening. Until it isn't and she quickens and a throaty sigh escapes her and he grabs her hips, pumping once, twice, for his own release.
She falls into another kiss, slow, sweet, the hat covering them both.
Winona/George
A terribly bad drabble from a prompt about a book I've never read, but it kinda came to me. Plus, I've never written Winona before.
Always
It's a fever dream, or something like it - space fever, maybe. Except she is not ill. It's only that she has been out in space again, looking at stars and studying singularities, walking the corridors of a ship, wearing the uniform. And whenever she does this, whenever she it out here in the black, she can count on these dreams. She does, she counts on them; they are hand in hand with any other reasons for coming back.
Hand in hand. George's hand is big and real and strong around her own.
"You should be here, George." Echoes, ripples from a different moment.
"I am here."
She laces their fingers tighter. This is not a dream, this is not a fever. This is real. George is real and she is real, this brief instant is all that's real. "I've missed you. I miss you."
"I know, sweetheart. But I'm here now." His hand cups her face, his thumb sweeping along the curve of her cheekbone. She would close her eyes and lean into the heaven that is his touch, but then she would miss his smile and his eyes. It is the only difference between then and now - now she does not close her eyes.
Not even when he bends to kiss her and she folds into his embrace, clinging to his earnest goodness and upright strength - things she does not have when he is not here. Her eyes are open. And she could swear that galaxies wheel around them, that they are at the center, that the universe is rearranging itself for them, for this love that breaks her and rebuilds her.
It is a selfish view of time and space. But perception is reality. And this is real. The eternal, fiery, frozen moments when George is returned to her and she is returned to herself.
"I love you so much."
"I'll always love you."
"I'll always be here."
She opens her eyes to darkness.