easily distracted

Poladroid, Or Today In Time Wasting

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 06:35:53 GMT

So today, other than trooping to the mall to get my eyes checked and fitted with contacts for the first time in a decade, I have done...nothing. Or rather, I have downloaded Poladroid and spent the day Polaroidizing vacation photos, a picture of tornadorex and one fairly terrible self-portrait.

Washington D.C., October 2008

San Francisco, July 2009

tornadorex in my hat impersonating a "bitchass hipster," according to the immortal eugenetapdance, July 2009

Horribly Out of Focus Self Portrait, November 2009

I am the most disorganized librarian on the planet.

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 20:28:20 GMT

That there meme that everyone else is doing:

Pick a paragraph (or any passage less than 500 words) from any fanfic I've written, and comment to this post with that selection. I will then give you a DVD commentary on that snippet: what I was thinking when I wrote it, why I wrote it in the first place, what's going on in the character's heads, why I chose certain words, what this moment means in the context of the rest of the fic, lots of awful puns, and anything else that you'd expect to find on a DVD commentary track.

February 2008 - current
Drabbles of the Recent-ish Variety
Among the Trees
Other VeidtOwl stuff that I may have forgotten to put on the fic journal

I am deeply ashamed of my lack of fannish organization.

Alert! Alert!

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 15:35:33 GMT

I'd like to encourage my flist to sign up for wm_secretsanta. Because otherwise I'm doomed to getting OwlBlot for Christmas, and you wouldn't do that to me, would you? Of course you wouldn't.

So sign up here.

*smiles angelically*

I (apparently) look like Larry King with my glasses on, so we had to go with a picture with them off

Tue, 27 Oct 2009 19:19:40 GMT

MyHeritage: Celebrity Collage - Family history - Family tree templates

Happy Birthday, glasspyramids!

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 21:16:52 GMT

Five drabbles for your birthday.

"One Night"

He's not sure why he brought him home, Adrian thinks as he sits up in bed and pushes his blond hair back from his face; he never brings any of them home. Maybe it's because this one's so clearly different. Maybe, he muses, it's because this one so clearly didn't belong there.

His name's Dan, and he's so far from a club kid that they might as well be different species. Dan's dark hair is just a little too long, and curls against his collar, but it's not the practiced, overstyled carelessness of the boys he usually meets. His eyes are vibrant and blue, but they're unlined, they're not emphasized, and he hides them behind thick-framed glasses that do nothing for him. He's lean and muscled and extremely attractive, Adrian thinks, reaching out to trail his knuckles along Dan's back, but even at the club he hid it under a too-big shirt and polyester pants instead of the body-skimming, gleaming bits of fabric masquerading as clothing that every other boy in the club wore.

He's interesting, Adrian thinks as he slips out of bed and walks into his adjoining bathroom. He might find him again, after this.

The small, silver-colored pager buzzes when he's in the bathroom, and he picks it up and stares at it for a moment. Nite Owl rigged it for all of them - to be an easy way to get in contact in times of trouble - and this, he thinks, is the first time he really wished that it didn't exist. He doesn't really want to examine that thought too much though, so he simply sighs and steps back into the bedroom to convey his regrets.

Dan's already getting dressed, and Adrian lifts his eyebrows. "Going?" he says calmly, and those blue eyes shoot up and pin him, even as Dan blushes and stutters.

"I-I...I've had an emergency," the other man says, shrugging into his shirt and fastening the buttons quickly. "I'm sorry to have to run out."

Adrian's brow furrows - it's not as if Dan has the number here, or that anyone could contact him, but then he sees a small silver object sticking out of the other man's pocket, and he smiles slowly. "It's quite alright, Dan," he says. "I understand."

He takes Dan to the door, straightens his clothes with an amused look, and closes the door before retreating to his bedroom to dress again. Adrian swirls a cape around his shoulders, tames his hair with a platinum circlet, and covers his eyes with a silk mask before his lips tip up in a smile and he heads for the roof. Dan really is quite interesting, he thinks, He'll simply have to see him again.

He wonders if Ozymandias will run into Nite Owl tonight.

"Sleeping With Ghosts"

Frey is having a nightmare, Eli realizes, shifting on the chair he's using as a makeshift bed. You can hardly tell - Bastian Frey is even more still when sleeping than he is when awake and alert - but there's a tight set to his muscles, a stiffness in his jaw, a drawn look that's particularly jarring now, when the other man's supposedly resting.

He doesn't know anything about Frey, so he doesn't know what he could be dreaming about, but he knows what he dreams of. He knows what wakes him up in the night, and sometimes sends him to his liquor cabinet, and always makes him wonder if it'd be better to be with anyone than to be alone. He knows he hates it, and while he doesn't like Frey, he doesn't necessarily like the idea of him dealing with that, either.

Eli rises to his feet and walks on silent feet to the nest the other agent had quickly and efficiently constructed a few hours earlier, and he leans down and pokes Frey's arm with his finger. Frey is instantly awake, his green eyes bright and narrow and suspicious on Eli's blue ones.

"What is it, Kagan?" he hisses.

"Move over," Eli says quietly, and pushes Frey to the side as he slides under the covers. "That damn chair's crippling me. The floor can't be any worse."

"It's the floor," Frey mutters. "It's hard." But he shifts, making room, and his sigh is less aggravated than it could be, all things considered. "If you're satisfied now, Kagan," he says, closing his eyes, "go to sleep. We need to be up in two hours to move."

"I'm aware," Eli whispers dryly, but he smiles, watching Frey out of the corner of his eyes. He's not relaxed, because he's never relaxed, but he's not as stiff, and his expression isn't as tight. "Good night, Frey."

Frey doesn't reply, but Eli didn't expect him to.

"Uninvited"

Aimee takes off her sunglasses as she reaches the doorway of the rental house just outside Tucson. It's nicer than Winnepeg - it couldn't help be nicer than Winnepeg in January - and she's ditched her quited black coat for a light jacket in cinnamon-colored corduroy. The scarf around her neck is more for style than warmth, and underneath, she's wearing a deep purple t-shirt that would have been far too thin for Canada. She's still wearing gloves, but as she stands there, she pulls them off.

The marks on her palms are still bright red and burning, a constant reminder. But she knows she can leave now, and she can wait it out. They'll fade away if she and Spawn don't complete the mating - in just a few weeks - and she can go back to her normal life. She won't mate, but she'll have children, or cubs, with someone Nicolette approves of, and maybe one of them will be a Katagaria bearswan, and she can take the seat on the Council that Aimee's not even qualified to fill. It wouldn't be a bad life. It's probably the one Spawn hopes she'll take.

She can't do it. It's not that she's in love with him; she doesn't even know him, but she cannot do this, and right now, this mark on her palm and the one on his that matches - it's her best chance of finding her own way. She's let herself be the princess too long. She's done with that.

And she doesn't give a damn if she's uninvited.

"Nights in White Satin"

Ellie hesitates in the doorway, and Frey turns back to her, his brows lifted imperiously over aquamarine eyes. "What is it?" he says in a whisper. The soft tone does nothing to disguise his impatience, and Ellie grits her teeth.

"Is this really the only option?" she asks, and he smirks as he places her white gloved hand on his elbow.

"Yes," he says, and then glances down at her. She's a vision, he thinks with no small amount of amusement. White, floor-length, strapless satin. Matching gloves and a diaphanous veil of lace and tulle covering her dark blond hair. The roses and baby's breath - white as well, naturally - complete the picture. Agent Myles looks like she's ready for the cover of Brides.

She also looks like she might at least maim him if he said that, so he goes for a marginally safer option. "I thought you'd enjoy this cover." he says mildly as they walk sedately through the door. "We did secure your favorite MI5 agent's assistance, after all."

Ellie shoots Frey a look that would boil a lesser man, and lifts her chin. "I might," she says loftily. "But I'm not exactly getting a wedding night, am I?"

He would reply, but there's no time, so he just places her gloved hand on the arm of Tom Quinn's tuxedo jacket and inclines his head before stepping back to scan the crowd. Nothing, not yet at least, he thinks as he turns back to watch the ceremony. There's time to enjoy the show. It's really more of a dress rehearsal in any case, he muses, his lips twitching as Quinn lifts the veil covering Ellie's face. He fully expects to see a repeat of this situation at some point in the future.

Except next time, Bastian Frey expects it to be for keeps.

"Thanksgiving"

It has taken three years of dating for Josh to convince Tim to come to North Carolina, and Tim remembers why the minute he stepped inside. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it was like the Spanish Inquisition with different accents.

"How long have you and Josh been together now?" Samantha asks. Her voice is mild and polite, but Tim recognizes a conversational trap, even when it's being used by a nice woman not that much older than he is, cutting a pumpkin pie.

"Three years now," Tim says evenly, and then takes a sip of the coffee he wishes desperately was laced with Bailey's. It's straight. Unfortunately.

"Three years!" Vanessa says, and Tim almost groans. If Sam and Vanessa Sarka have teamed up on this...this...whatever this is, he should wave his his white linen napkin in surrender this minute. Given the deeply sympathetic look Josh's stepfather was giving him, he was completely doomed.

None of that shows on his face as he turns and gives Josh's pretty younger sister a calm smile. "Yes," he says. "Three years. Is that surprising, Vanessa?" Was it just him, or was his boyfriend taking an incredibly long time in the bathroom.

"Oh, no," Vanessa says innocently. "I think you're perfect for one another. I was just wondering why the two of you haven't taken a trip up to Connecticut. Or Massachusetts."

"A Vermont wedding would be lovely," Samantha puts in with a quiet smile, and Tim forgets how to breathe for a second.

"I, er..." he begins. He's stammering, and he never stammers, ever. Dear God, Vermont? Wedding?

"He's asked several times," Josh says dryly from the doorway. "I haven't gotten a diamond big enough yet." He slides into the chair next to Tim, pats him soothingly between his shoulder blades, and turns a stern stare on the women in his life. "Be nice, you two," he drawls, "or I'll take him to Aruba next year."

"Of course, dear," Samantha says serenely, entirely unconcerned. "Pumpkin or pecan?"

Josh smiles at Tim. "Pecan, Mama. Thank you."

Urgh Blargh.

Sat, 17 Oct 2009 13:18:55 GMT

According to Verizon, my internet connection is "intermittent." (The amount of No Shit in that statement is staggering, truly.) Therefore, after a full week of this and a replacement modem that does the same thing, and plugging it into every outlet within reach of the dsl cable, they're finally sending out a technician.

In theory.

Between 8am and 8pm.

Again - in theory.

Somehow I suspect I'll be calling Comcast next week.

In any case, I'll be sitting at home all day today. Maybe I'll actually watch the movies that Netflix sent me a week ago. Or write something. glasspyramids and I are supposed to outline Versus for NaNoWriMo today, but that may be slightly difficult if the internet is being an ass.

Maybe James McAvoy in my icon will glare it into submission.

Happy Birthday, Elisha!

Fri, 16 Oct 2009 05:56:08 GMT

Uh, about two hours late. I'm a terrible person. Here, have pictures of your boyfriend!

Because there can never be too much Matthew Goode on this LiveJournal:

Doesn't he just look like he remembered your birthday?

And he's clearly got PLANS.

Oh, come on, Eli. He's not fussing, but you'll hurt his feelings if you don't let him celebrate! Look at those eyes!

Other birthday wishes are, of course, welcomed.

In which I am a giant geek

Thu, 15 Oct 2009 02:32:40 GMT

Ladies and gentlemen, may I present The Karnak Network:

Yes, quite.

Bubastis = iPod Touch
Ozymandias = MacBook

Apparently It's National Poetry Day

Thu, 08 Oct 2009 19:25:51 GMT

It's really a good thing I have eugenetapdance to remind me of these things.

I had forgotten
But now I recall the sound
Of the steam rising
In the radiators

I had this image of Summer, but now
I realize it was still cold when you left
When you decided to let me know

I could listen to your eyes
All through the night, throwing you upward
Into Winter air
Watching you turn
Watching
An arctic tern diving low diving
Telluric currents
It offers its wing

Breaking your lucid fall
So you carom
Back into my arms, your face
Pale again, the color of Paleolithic sentiment
I have shed the past like a snake its skin
And the future rests unknown, unneeded
Behind the
Hungry poison in my fangs

Which leaves for us only the present
As I slide upward into view
Biting down on you

I'm pretending it's Friday. I know it's not, but maybe if I pretend hard enough, magic will happen.

Thu, 08 Oct 2009 14:15:20 GMT

This weekend's agenda:

Cake
Writing
Outlining the hell out of Versus/whatever we're calling this spy novel with glasspyramids in preperation for NaNoWriMo.
Patrick Wilson in scrubs.

I could get ready for work, or I could meme.

Wed, 30 Sep 2009 11:26:32 GMT

It's rare when a meme hits both the J-fandom and the western fandom sides of my flist, so I took it as a sign.

Comment with a fandom and I will tell you my:

+ OTP
+ Runner-up
+ Honorable mention(s)
+ Crack pairing(s)
+ Ship everyone else seems to like, but I don't

Saturday in New York

Sun, 20 Sep 2009 03:18:43 GMT

Picture the scene: The crowded downtown 6 train at 77th St. I've just strolled back from the Whitney, where I both saw the seriously awesome Georgia O'Keeffe abstraction exhibit and then ate some seriously awesome lemon-ricotta pancakes for brunch. I get on the train and promptly spot a woman holding a humane society cardboard box. Then a tiny little white nose pokes out of one of the holes.

KITTY.

I spent the next two stops talking to the cat - along with every other woman who got on at 77th and 68th, and probably 59th, too. Seriously, forget babies and dogs; cats are obviously the best magnet for attracting women of all ages, ever.

Meme time!

Sun, 13 Sep 2009 22:36:42 GMT

Having accomplished today's baking/cooking plans (ham, mushroom and feta quiche), it's time to meme.

Name a character from one of my fandoms, and I'll give you either
(a) three facts about them from my personal canon/fanon,
(b) a reason he/she sucks,
(c) a reason he/she is awesomecakes,
(d) five things that never happened to that character or
(e) five people that character never fell in love with and why
You pick the character. I pick the letter.

I may actually manage to do this one.

Otherwise, today I have purchased tights (that I needed) and jewelry (that I didn't) and resisted a really kickass pair of boots at Urban Outfitters, and watched approximately half of what promises to be a sad movie starring ~~my internet fiance~~ Matthew Goode. (I got past the part where he's naked, though.)

PSA.

Thu, 10 Sep 2009 13:35:16 GMT

In case anyone was wondering, I am, in fact, alive.

Um, other than that...halfway through stagesoflove . Somehow this time I've managed to go so far over the word limit it's ridiculous. Stage One: 450 words. Stage Two: 530 words. Stage 3: 688 words. At this rate, I expect Stage 5 to be a full-length novella.

ETA: Dear God, there is an entire prompt community for h/c. Someone stop me.

Ahem.

Wed, 19 Aug 2009 05:14:05 GMT

I nearly murdered two dozen entitled teenagers in Soho today, got my haircut, and had a date tonight, but this post is about none of these things. This post is about:

stagesoflove

Stages is totally my favorite writing meme, and I've done it tons of times for several different pairings in several different fandoms. There are no other Watchmen signups, people.

There are also no Kamen Rider signups, gekidasa. *angelic*

Surely this should be rectified. Surely, people. ~~VEIDTOWL COUP OF stagesoflove! WHO'S WITH ME?~~

WTF, Saturday?

Sat, 15 Aug 2009 15:09:31 GMT

Today, in brief:

8:45 am: Wake up. Chat with people online.
9:15 am: Get up to bake a pound cake. Sift dry ingredients without incident.
9:20 am: Realize the oven is smoking. Turn it off and clean it.
9:30 am: Start seperating eggs. Break the second one. Sigh and begin again.
9:35 am: Break the third.
9:35 am-10:00 am: Continue to fail completely at separating eggs.
10:05 am: Decide to fuck this shit and just beat all the eggs together.
10:10-10:25 am: Finish mixing the cake without problems, put in oven.
10:30 am: Collapse back in bed with a headache. Vow to keep the hell out of the kitchen for the remainder of the weekend.

I was forced into this. Just want to put that out there.

Mon, 10 Aug 2009 00:18:23 GMT

Ask me my fannish Top Five [Whatevers]. Any top fives. Doesn't matter what, really! And I will answer them all in a new post.

I am so dead.

In which I fail at self-expression but, hey, have some pretty dudes.

Fri, 07 Aug 2009 14:54:56 GMT

Stolen unabashedly from eugenetapdance and laney_jane:

• Post ten of any five pictures currently on your hard drive that you think are self-expressive.

• NO CAPTIONS!!! It must be like we're speaking with images and we have to interpret your visual language just like we have to interpret your words.

• They must ALREADY be on your hard drive - no googling or flickr! They have to have been saved to your folders sometime in the past. They must be something you've saved there because it resonated with you for some reason.

• You do NOT have to answer any questions about any of your pictures if you don't want to. You can make them as mysterious as you like. Or you can explain them away as much as you like.

In conclusion: I like pretty men.

Adventures in window shopping!

Wed, 05 Aug 2009 14:09:03 GMT

If this dress had squid on it rather than octupi, I would clearly have to purchase it. However, since it doesn't, I am saved from having to spend $50.

In which I fail a lot

Fri, 31 Jul 2009 13:10:02 GMT

Today's intention was to get out of bed at 7 in order to make it to the Union Square Greenmarket by nine. I's now nine and, um, I've taken a shower? That's something, right?

It goes until 6 anyway. My hope is that it will not be as insane today as tomorrow.

In other massive fail news, my plan to get a lot of writing done on the book has pretty much been a dud. I've probably written 1000 words directly for the book in the last month....and thousands of words of RPing for either Watchmen or original characters. Oops.

I'm in the mood to write VeidtOwl, so if someone wants to toss a prompt my way, that'd be awesome.

Jumping on the bandwagon~!

Wed, 22 Jul 2009 14:14:52 GMT

Feeling a bit meh this morning, so:

thefeelgoodmeme
my thread

More drabbles.

Wed, 15 Jul 2009 14:49:23 GMT

Mostly original spyverse, a few Watchmen. All under one cut this time, because I can't be arsed to make 10 cut tags XD

Versus: Elisha Kagan. Adore

Adore, Eli thinks, propping one shoulder against a column, is one of those words high society has rendered completely meaningless, and this is apparently true in Jerusalem as it is in New York. Everyone adores the party. They adore each other. Don't you just adore the Levines' new summer place, it's just darling. The faces are similar too, he thinks with a faint shudder. Mostly dyed blond hair with dark eyes, avid expressions just waiting for the right person to slip up, a kaleidoscope of designer gowns swirling across the floor. Tinkling laughter. Sparkling champagne. Men discussing business while their wives discuss social ruination.

His face twists with distaste, and he compresses his lips together, crossing his arms over the front of his tuxedo. He hates these things, no matter how old he gets, no matter what he's there for.

"That expression actually works for your character," a smooth, faintly accented voice says over the comm. "Wipe it off anyway."

Eli leans back, his lips barely moving as he speaks. "If it works, why change it?" he asks. His eyes skim over the crowd again.

"Sofia DiMichele just walked in," Bastian Frey says succinctly. "Look interested."

Eli immediately straightens, his face lightening, shifting, his lips curving into an automatic smile. "Understood," he murmurs.

Luckily, he knows how to look like he adores this, too.

Watchmen: Laurie. Fanatic

The first one had been when she was just fourteen, and she'd been terrified, hiding in her room until her mother coaxed her out. Laurie could count on one hand the number of times her mother had been, well, motherly, but that had been one of them, and she'd always been grateful for it. It was one of the reasons she couldn't completely hate Sally Jupiter.

"Some men are like that," she'd said, her hand stroking over Laurie's dark brown hair. "But they won't get you. You know how to protect yourself, and I'll make sure to protect you, too. You'll be fine, Laurel. I promise."

And she had been, and he hadn't been the last. Every year brought a new one out, each one worse than the last, but she quickly got to the point where she just viewed them with a jaded sigh. Part of it was the costume, she knew - the tight, sleek latex her mother had outfitted her in was a fucking male fantasy - but part of it was, well, the job. Fans were a hazard. Fanatics were a particularly annoying hazard.

It was just a fact of her life.

Versus: Josh Safra. Insult

"Are you sure you can handle this?" The voice is edgy, worried, and it's the third time Davis has asked him this. Josh raises his eyes towards the heavens even as his fingers fly across the keyboard. He speaks seven Asian languages, he thinks, including two dialects of Chinese. He's been field-rated since he was twenty-five.

Maybe it's the accent, he thinks. Despite the fact that they live and work in sweltering, southern D.C., he's the only real live southern boy working at Green, and he's gotten used to people blinking and immediately reassessing his abilities the moment he opens his mouth. He doesn't like it, but he's used to it.

"Yes," he says, and the drawl is more pronounced than usual. It always is when he's annoyed. "And unless you want to read this message" - in Hindi, he almost adds before biting it back - "I will be handling it. Back off and let me work."

He's not usually this sharp with other agents, but Davis has been an irritant from the get-go, doubting his ability to do anything despite the fact that Josh has practically been carrying this mission on his own. If there's an incompetent agent in Mumbai, he thinks, Erik Davis has that title all locked up. Questioning his language skills is just adding insult to injury.

Josh's eyes flick down to the large white bandage covering his shoulder before scowling at the computer screen again. The injury was bad enough on it's own.

Versus: Bastian Frey/Elisha Kagan. Delirium.

The first coherent words out of Bastian Frey's mouth in three days were "What time should we expect extraction?" and if that wasn't just typical, Eli didn't know what was.

"Not yet," he replied calmly, pressing a fresh, cold cloth to Bastian's forehead and smiling slightly as the other man closed his eyes briefly in relief. "We're to stay in place."

"I see," Bastian murmured. He closed his eyes again, a cough rattling his chest for a long moment before he looked up again, his eyes hazed and green but still intent on Eli's sharply concerned blue ones. "How long have I been down?"

"Three days." Three interminable days, Eli thought. It had just been a cough the night before Bastian...well, he didn't collapse, he just didn't get up in the morning. His fever had been burning high since then, his cough getting worse, and Eli'd been struck with two separate problems: keeping Bastian alive, in this state, deep in the mountains of Afghanistan, and keeping their covers intact. So far he'd managed, but the soldiers in the Taliban splinter group they'd infiltrated were starting to ask questions. He hadn't figured out yet how to answer them.

"It's just the flu," he said out loud. There'd be time to air his worries later, he thought; right now Bastian was only just beyond the delirium that had ruled him for most of the week, and Eli wasn't about to put more on his shoulders. "It's been a bad one," he continued, still calm, voice still even. "But it looks like you're getting over it."

Bastian's eyes narrowed. "You're not telling me everything."

Eli smiled, his expression softening a little as he pushed sweat-dampened hair of Bastian's forehead. "No," he said. "I'm not."

Watchmen: Ozymandias and Nite Owl II. Disappear.

He'd noticed the headline in the paper, of course - if one could really call it a headline, it had been far too small to warrant attention from anyone paying less attention than he customarily did - but he hadn't thought much of it. They all took breaks, after all, they were essential to surviving this...career, and the press was wont to blow it out of proportion every time.

But when Nite Owl hadn't returned in another week, Ozymandias had to admit he was becoming concerned.

He couldn't quite put his finger on why he was so worried, he thought as he stood on his own rooftop, tapping his gloved fingers against his hip. There'd been that comment Nite Owl had made when they'd been out together a few weeks back - a case had blown, in the worst possible way, and after they retreated to the owlship, the younger man had wistfully asked if he ever just wanted to go away for a while - and so he hadn't been surprised when Nite Owl took off in the first place. He'd clearly needed it. It was...surprising, he supposed, that he hadn't notified the other Masks, but he didn't know Nite Owl well.

(He refused to consider that...situation two years ago, shortly after Nite Owl II had emerged, in the alley. That didn't really count as knowledge.)

His lips thinned as the wind whipped his cape behind him. There was only one thing to be done, he supposed.

Find him.

Versus: Noah Zahavi/Elisha Kagan. Obvious.

The closet is dark, cramped, full of wires and equipment. He feels the metallic edge of a server rack dig into his side, and his breath hisses out through his teeth even as snapping blue eyes lift to meet Noah's darker ones. "What are you doing?" he says, his hands flattening against Zahavi's chest as if to push him away. But he doesn't, and Noah Zahavi's lips curve in response.

He dips his head down, trailing a fingertip along the sharp curve of Elisha's jaw. "Isn't it obvious?" he murmurs. Eli's eyes drift shut as Noah leans closer, his lips parting under the other man's. He doesn't reply, because Noah is right.

It is.

Versus: Elisha Kagan/Sofia DiMichele. Quit.

It's a game she plays with him, and Elisha is tired of it, but he says nothing. Not yet.

He draws a deep breath as she skims her knuckles down his spine - damp now - and he opens his eyes as he hears the unmistakable snick of her lighter. He sits up, rolling over with a single graceful movement that Sofia watches with appreciating eyes before turning his head. His own eyes are cool as ice and just as flat. "Your turn," he says, and she laughs.

"Of course, Ari." Sofia stretches languidly and unlocks the drawer next to the bed - Christ, he thinks, it was in the fucking nightstand all along - and taps the thin manila envelope against his bare arm. "I believe this is what the CIA is so interested in this time," she murmurs, and then lifts her eyebrows, pulling the envelope back just as Elisha reaches for it. "Tell me," she says, her Italian accent rendering the words smoky and exotic, "does that partner of yours know where you go on these information-gathering missions of yours?"

"No." Elisha is almost certain of that. "But he wouldn't care. It's a job."

"Hmm." Sofia's eyes gleam under dark lashes as she hands the envelope back again. "I wonder. He does not, after all, indulge in repeats."

He doesn't reply, instead slipping out of the bed and methodically pulling his clothes back in. The door clicks shut behind Sofia as he's refastening his watch, and he finally allows himself to release a deep sigh. He despises Sofia DiMichele, he thinks, and he wants to quit this, but he can't.

Not just yet.

Versus: Angelo DiMichele/Bastian Frey. Borrow.

Angelo DiMichele's voice was genial, amused, entirely pleasant, and that's how Bastian Frey knew he was in for trouble. He barely resisted the urge to shift in his chair and merely met Angelo's steady gaze stonily. "What's this about?" he finally asked, his German as cold and flat as his expression.

Angelo laughed and leaned forward, elbows on the table, every movement as languid as a cat's. "Franz," he purred. "It's not as if you don't know." He skimmed his fingertips along the planes of Bastian's face. Bastian resolutely did not react, did not move, even as a shiver that felt suspiciously like pleasure ran up his spine. "You were in my room."

Shit. Bastian raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps I wanted to borrow a shirt," he said, deliberately facetious. "I do so admire your...fashion sense." The last was said with curl of his lips.

Angelo chuckled with sharp amusement. "I doubt that, caro," he said, his knuckles skimming over Bastian's cheekbones, the gesture more worrying for its gentleness. "You could just tell me," he said, "or let me have my fun...teasing it out of you."

Bastian waited a beat, and then another. "I'd never dream of depriving you of your fun, DiMichele."

Angelo's lips curved in a grin. "And that's why I like you so much, caro," he purred. "You are such a good sport."

Versus: Nadia Hahn. Switch

There was something beautiful about a new bomb, right before she tested it, Nadia thought. She ran her fingers along her latest baby. It was so subtle, she thought. Easily hidden, easily modified. Stable enough for transit and equipped with a strong enough radio signal to activate it from a distance.

It was almost a shame to destroy it, she thought, stepping behind the explosion-proof glass. She smiled and hit the switch with a single jab of her finger, grinning as the lab practically disappeared in the sudden cloud of smoke and orange flames. Almost.

It was things like this that reminded her why she loved her job.

Spam Dump

Wed, 15 Jul 2009 11:50:33 GMT

I was going to just post the link when it was done, but it may never end, so - fiercesunshine and muzivitch Productions Present: Adrian Veidt: Wal*Mart Greeter

I'll let y'all just absorb that for a minute.

*

I have more drabbles to post and more drabbles to write, which will be finished and posted...sometime soon. Yesterday was a bad day for concentration.

*

My cat has figured out how to open the front door. God help us all, but especially me.

Drabbles from glasspyramids

Mon, 13 Jul 2009 11:39:15 GMT

Last night, rather than doing our usual thing - which is is RPing for hours on end - glasspyramids and I threw prompts at each other. Mostly Watchmen and Versus (original spyverse), but there's one Alias, too.

Watchmen: Nite Owl II/Adrian Veidt (post-retirement/pre-Keene). Glass.

He has not seen Ozymandias since he retired and revealed himself to be Adrian Veidt. No, Dan thinks, that's not true; he's seen Ozymandias...Adrian, plenty of times - in the papers, across a crowded room at a party, on the television, being interviewed by Walter Cronkite. But he hasn't spoken to him. This shouldn't be a surprise. None of the other masks would be surprised by this, because, after all, Nite Owl's closest partnership is with Rorschach and Ozymandias always worked alone.

It's more a surprise than it seems.

He knows Rorschach went to see Adrian Veidt after his retirement, because Rorschach railed about him afterward - his weakness, his lack of loyalty. He doubts any of the other Crimebusters bothered. He knows he didn't. Dan's always known to pick his battles where Adrian was concerned, and he'd known the moment he'd seen Adrian on tv - this one was unwinnable. He imagines that Adrian expected him to show up at the Veidt Building as Rorschach did; he imagines Adrian was surprised that he didn't, not that night or any of the ones in the weeks that had followed.

He's not quite sure why he's here now, he thinks as his booted feet thud on the roof, as he walks across and slips inside through the rooftop entrance he's used so often.

Adrian turns as Dan walks across the living room floor, boots ringing against stone. Blond eyebrows lift over almost crystalline green eyes, and Dan realizes his reason for coming. Adrian is surrounded by glass, he thinks. Transparent but as tough as the hardest security window. He always has been, but it's thicker now, more impenetrable. He wears that calmly amused look of his like armor. He'll never be able to get through all the glass, he knows; he doubts anyone ever has, but he'll break through some of it.

"Adrian," he says calmly. "It's been a while, hasn't it?" He reaches up to tug down the zipper holding the top of his suit closed.

"Daniel," Adrian says. "This is unexpected."

"Really?" Dan says. "I can't imagine why."

He going to shatter that glass.

Alias: Julian Sark/Irina Derevko. Handwriting.

He has rarely seen Irina Derevko's handwriting, but each instance has been unforgettable.

When he was sixteen:

Your proposal is intriguing and well-thought out for someone of your age. Perhaps we can discuss.

When he was eighteen:

My congratulations on your departure from Eton, Julian. I think it is safe to say that I have one or two propositions you might be interested in, if you're determined not to continue your more formal education, as I know your father would prefer.

Just before his ninteenth birthday:

The plan is quite simple despite it's seeming complexities. There are certainly risks, but none that I'm not confident can't be overtaken through the usual methods. I will contact you through the usual channels.

He'd rarely seen her handwriting in her native language, he mused as he smoothed a hand over that final note, but it had an flourish, an energy that was absent in her English writing. That, he thought, was perfect - perfectly feminine, perfectly slanted and delicate. Laura Bristow's handwriting, and he rather thought that Laura and Irina had very little in common with one another. He smiled, tucking the note into his pocket as Sydney approached, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her kimono.

Just like Sydney and Irina in that regard.

Watchmen: Dan Dreiberg. Missing.

He'd always hated missing person cases, Dan thought as he stood silently in the shadows. They almost never ended well. This one wasn't any exception. He drew a deep breath as he slipped away, walking silently in the shadows of the crowded buildings in Astoria and away from the clutch of police cars and detectives and tears and recriminations. Never ended well, he thought again as he leapt onto a rooftop and mechanically slid into the owlship's cockpit. Drug lords, at least didn't have this kind of heartache. With drug lords you didn't have this...failure.

He launched Archie into the air and flew across the East River, but instead of turning towards the Village, he kept flying west, over the Hudson, over Hoboken, further and further until suburban New Jersey became pastoral and New York wasn't even a glint in the distance. He brought Archie down in a field and stepped outside, taking a deep, cleansing breath of cold night air. Nights like this, he thought, he needed to get away from it. From New York, and the crimes, and everything he was fighting increasingly losing battles against.

He pushed his cowl back, tipped his head up to stare at the pitch black sky. Nights like this, he thought, made it seem easier to just let Nite Owl go missing too.

Watchmen: Comedian/Adrian. Cross.

"You should know better than to cross me."

The Comedian grinned around his cigar - cocky, even now, Adrian thought with a small measure of amusement - but his eyes were darker, warier than usual. "Yeah?" he said. "Whatcha goin' to do to me, Ozymandias?"

Adrian approached, circled, green eyes skimming over powerful muscles, tanned skin. He brushed his fingers against the surprisingly smooth skin of The Comedian's shoulder, and flashed a quick smile at the reflexive quiver before continuing his slow perusal. He admired the tight coil of hemp ropes wrapped around the other man's wrists, and then halted in front of him, his masked face set in a quietly satisfied expression that was all the more powerful for its subtlety.

"Oh, all manner of things, Edward," he said smoothly. "You should know that as well."

Watchmen: Adrian. Lines.

Adrian has always known that there are lines that should not be crossed. The key, he thinks, is where one places those lines.

His father always placed his lines exactly where everyone else of his acquaintance did. He never examined his actions or his morals for himself, and when Adrian was old enough to consider this, he always felt a frisson of contempt for Johann Veidt. He was a man who never made a decision for himself, but merely followed the guide provided to him by their society. Those who died because of his father died at the behest of a man who simply followed the code of acceptable behavior in 1942 Germany.

He is different. He's weighed his actions a thousand times, he's measured the losses with the probable gains, and though the losses stab at him - and they do, though he doubts the other Masks will ever believe that - he's come to the realization that there is simply no other way. The world would have been destroyed otherwise. This was the only way to jerk the leadership out of their disastrous complacency. It was not a decision made lightly, it was not one that would meet with the approval of anyone else. But it was a decision.

He does not expect anyone to understand, and as Nite Owl slams him against his wall of televisions, his fist cracking against Adrian's face hard enough that bruises are guaranteed to form, he knows he's right. As Dan speaks sharp, angry words that are exactly what Adrian expects, he only smiles. He doesn't blame Dan, of course, he thinks.

Adrian has crossed his line, and there's no going back from that.

Watchmen: Nite Owl. Feather.

"I never realized before that your suit has the impression of feathers on it," Ozymandias murmurs the first time they work together. "Extraordinary." Nite Owl merely inclines his head in acknowledgment.

Details are important, he thinks. It's what makes him a good detective - his attention to detail borders on the obsessive, and while he's known among the Masks for his skill with technology, for Archie and his gadgets, its this skill with solving cases that he's most proud of. He misses nothing, not if he can avoid it, and while Rorschach has an uncanny skill for recognizing connections where no one else would, Nite Owl's particular skill is finding exactly how that connection is formed. He ferrets out the details that Rorschach instinctively recognizes.

With Ozymandias, it's different. With his crimefighting, at least, Ozymandias is a man who seeks out concrete details the same way he does, who paints a terrifyingly accurate picture before he makes a move. In some ways it's a relief. They work like clockwork, without the initial awkwardness he and Rorschach had experienced.

"Owls have feathers," he finally says in reply to Ozymandias' comment. "So my suit does."

Versus/Gameplay: Josh Safra. Tired.

He doesn't even realize he's zoning out until he feels the flat of Alex's hand slam against the back of his head, and he's jolted awake again. "Hey!" he says, blue eyes narrowing. Alex looks unapologetic, which is entirely unsurprising.

"No sleeping," he says. "Mission's not over yet."

"The mission isn't over yet because you got distracted," Josh complains. "If you hadn't gotten waylaid by a black minidress, I'd be napping on a plane by now." Or possibly even sleeping in his own bed, he thinks glumly, imagining cool sheets and blessed silence and sleep.

"It wasn't the dress, it was what was in the dress," Alex says, straddling the chair. "Come on, Safra. You're younger than me. You're supposed to be able to thrive on little to no sleep."

"You need less sleep as you get older, actually," Josh mutters, but he pushes dark hair out of his eyes and focuses on the computer screen and the string of Thai that comprises their only clue to Anne Shin's next move. "And I feel compelled to point out that I've been up for thirty-six hours. I'm tired."

Alex lifts an eyebrow. "Want coffee?"

"Not if you made it."

Watchmen: Adrian (pre-retirement). Self-Conscious.

Tomorrow he will have been unmasked, Adrian thinks as he crosses his legs and leans back on his hands, and he has a moment of self-consciousness as Nite Owl approaches and hands him an ice-cold beer. They haven't worked together often, and Adrian regrets that they've only begun now, as he's preparing to leave the...brotherhood. He smirks slightly at his thoughts as he takes a long drink. "Good work tonight," he says out loud as he sets down the bottle.

"You too," Nite Owl says with a slight smile. "We don't make a half-bad team, do we?"

Adrian's smile blooms slowly. "No," he says. "We don't, at that."

Versus: Ellie Myles. Elope.

Ellie carefully lifts her teacup and takes a sip, her posture razor-sharp, her green eyes watchful as she stares down the length of the breakfast table at her mother. She's dressed in Ralph Lauren, her high-heeled boots are Prada, and her sleek blond hair is tamed into a French braid - the very picture of wealthy womanhood, she thinks, her lips twisting in a sardonically amused smile. The very portrait of a girl who should, by all accounts, have a Tiffany engagement ring on her finger, be consulting with Vera Wang on the exact design of her wedding gown, be arguing with her fiance over the virtues of Italy versus France, or Hong Kong versus Thailand for wedding trip destinations.

She glances down at her bare finger and carefully hides her hand under the tablecloth. Miranda Jordan hasn't noticed that the ring's missing yet, and when she does, there will be hell to pay. Ellie knew it as soon as she gave it back to Christopher.

"Ellison," Miranda says - Miranda never calls her daughter anything but her full name, Ellie is too undignified - and there is supercilious, superior laughter in her voice. "Did you read about Melissande Dreyer's regrettable decision? Las Vegas." Ellie can see the shudder from the other end of the table, and the sharp look Miranda gives her a moment later is as searing as a laser. "I'm sure you and Christopher will never do something so terrifying as elope, will you darling? I simply wouldn't be able to tolerate the strain."

"Of course not," Ellie murmurs almost soundlessly even as a cold finger of dread trickles down her spine. Oh, she thinks.

This is going to be bad.

Watchmen: Dan/Adrian. Suspicious.

This will have to end soon, Adrian thinks. He does not really want it to.

They only started this...thing, recently, and God, sometimes he really wishes he'd thought to pursue Nite Owl earlier. Much earlier, before he retired, before the Keene Act, before the plan was as far along as it is now. But now - it's terrible timing. Everything is beginning to come together, his every waking moment is occupied by it, and Daniel Dreiberg is far too intelligent to be fooled by his practiced reasons and excuses. He would figure it out if he stayed, and he'd never agree with it.

Adrian knew that even before they'd kissed the first time.

So he'll end it, he thinks. He'll push Dan away, sleep alone again, finish what must be done. He'll do it before Dan begins to become suspicious. His hand smooths over Dan's leanly muscled back, and he smiles as the other man shifts beside him and as his sapphire-blue eyes blink open. He'll do it soon, he thinks, leaning back against the pillows as Dan bends over him, his lips parting under Dan's.

But not yet.

Versus: Bastian Frey. Positive.

This mission could have gone better, Bastian thought, but he was positive about two things: the Hungarian guards ostensibly watching over this facility could have done with some more in-depth combat training, and Elisha Kagan was wasted at Langley.

He'd only glanced at his file before they were sent out on this mission - no time, and at first look it was as blank and innocuous as it should have been for a non-field rated communications agent. A mere listing of his skills, specialized training and extracurriculars, a brief cataloging of his sparse collection of prior missions and a longer one detailing his more generalized contributions to the agency. There was nothing to indicate any of what he'd demonstrated on this mission, Bastian thought as he dodged a punch from one guard and fired a bullet into a second. Nothing that would have hinted that Kagan could immobilize a man with a single sharp movement in one moment, and spin back to the terminal and continue his work in the next.

It was impressive, Bastian had to admit that. Most communications agents he'd worked with couldn't function in situations like these, and shouldn't be expected to; one who could would be an unexpected and welcome asset. He'd speak to Timothy when they returned to D.C., he decided as he dispatched the last guard, and as Kagan finished extracting the data from the terminal.

Kagan clearly had been incorrectly assigned, and he was more than willing to take it upon himself to rectify that.

Oh, what the hell.

Sat, 27 Jun 2009 16:51:15 GMT

Ask any of my muses as many questions as you want (but please try to keep it within a reasonable number of questions). This can be anything from their favorite food to their thoughts on yaoi, or anything you can think of. You can also ask me any questions related to them.

Fandom

Dan Dreiberg, Watchmen. Post-Karnak. Yes, I realize I have approximately 800 post-Karnak Dan Dreibergs. Pick one.
Adrian Veidt, Watchmen. Post-Karnak. Same goes here.
Dan Dreiberg, Watchmen. Age 17-19. Could either end up being private school!Dan or Harvard student!Dan. ~~Or hustler!Dan oh God.~~
Yanagi Renji, Prince of Tennis.
Shishido Ryoh, Prince of Tennis.
Oshitari Kenya, Prince of Tennis.
Tezuka Shinobu, Here is Greenwood.
Merlin Emrys, Merlin. Either canon or, uh, the Bad-Romance-Novel-Cliche-AU. That maybe I'll finish someday.
Rachel Gibson, Alias.
Jack Bristow, Alias.

Original

Alexander Woo, Gameplay and Versus. Chinese-American civil engineer and CIA spy.
Anne Shin, Gameplay. Possibly Hong Kong Chinese independent agent.
Elisha Kagan, Versus. Israeli-American communications specialist for the CIA.
Josh Safra, Gameplay and Versus. CIA agent, liguistics specialist, Nice Southern Jewish Boy.
Michael Cohen, 16 year old rentboy.