Random collection of things.
Nov. 16th, 2008 04:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blue_soaringI forgot how much I loved the movie Charlie Bartlett. The characters, their interactions, the rhythm, the story, everything. I'd love to see that kid in more stuff but I haven't really seen him around.
Figured out (and by 'figured out,' I mean played with cables for all of thirty seconds) how to hook Roomie's laptop up to the television today. Gonna watch Ten Inch Hero again later, just so I can see Jensen make stupid blowjob faces.
My need to see Jared flounce about in cutsey little touques may some day outweigh the inevitable boredom of Thomas Kinkade's life story.
Spent some time sorting out files on the PC ealier and came across two FF7 mostly-finished fics, one SPN that's atmospheric pre-Stanford but I have NO idea where I intended it to go, and another SPN that's apparently underaged SOMETHING. No clue. I can't even remember writing the two SPN ones.
I'd really like to do something with the pre-Stanford one. Been poking at it off and on all day but haven't really been able to figure it out. Sam feels pretty... charged. Or something.
Here, have a snippet (Sam/Dean, pre-Stanford).
*
Sam stands at the edge of a wasteland, hemmed in on three sides by somebody's pathetic stab at growing suburbia where ragged scrub brush barely eked out an existence. Beyond the dirt-dry pool, tiles baked yellow and cracked under the sun like old bone, and the rusty red skeleton of the chain link fence, stretches nothing.
The screen door behind him creaks open, bangs shut on rattling hinges. He doesn't need to look back to see which one of them came out to talk him down this time. He closes his eyes, pictures the ruin of the abandoned house: scuffed, ragged linoleum leading to sludge-grey carpet, scarred boots set wide between sloppy piles of smudged newspaper and bottles still wet at the mouth with dregs and spit, John's wide, thick-veined hand clutching the fresh Johnnie Walker Dean had driven thirty miles in the scorching heat to buy.
Sam says, "What're you gonna tell me?"
Dean's heavy boots crush the dead grass to a fine brown dust that disappears into the ground. Swallowed up like everything else. "What d'you wanna hear?"
Easily, marionette on the string of Dean's voice, Sam raises the gun warm in his grip, mother-of-pearl handle smooth against the rough calluses on his palm, sights down the barrel and squeezes the trigger. The third of seven cans jammed into the fence explodes in a mess of torn aluminium.
"How about you lie to me?" Sam says. He aims again, feels the satisfying punch of force straight up his arm and into his shoulder as another can is ripped open. The shiny metal inside glints brightly in the sun. "How about you tell me how much you need me. That one always works."
Dean steps straight into his line of fire just as he's about to squeeze down again. He sucks in a quick, hissing breath, teeth clenched, and drops the muzzle from Dean's heart.
"Sammy-"
"You stink like puke."
Dean runs a hand over his head, the sharp gel spikes of his hair going soft and fuzzy. His smile is broken and bent as the swing set jumbled in one corner of the dead yard. "Yeah, s'what happens. He doesn't mean to, Sam."
"'Course not. Nobody ever means to get falling down drunk at ten in the morning."
*
I am shamelessly open to suggestions. Evil twin? Bueller? Anyone? :p
Figured out (and by 'figured out,' I mean played with cables for all of thirty seconds) how to hook Roomie's laptop up to the television today. Gonna watch Ten Inch Hero again later, just so I can see Jensen make stupid blowjob faces.
My need to see Jared flounce about in cutsey little touques may some day outweigh the inevitable boredom of Thomas Kinkade's life story.
Spent some time sorting out files on the PC ealier and came across two FF7 mostly-finished fics, one SPN that's atmospheric pre-Stanford but I have NO idea where I intended it to go, and another SPN that's apparently underaged SOMETHING. No clue. I can't even remember writing the two SPN ones.
I'd really like to do something with the pre-Stanford one. Been poking at it off and on all day but haven't really been able to figure it out. Sam feels pretty... charged. Or something.
Here, have a snippet (Sam/Dean, pre-Stanford).
Sam stands at the edge of a wasteland, hemmed in on three sides by somebody's pathetic stab at growing suburbia where ragged scrub brush barely eked out an existence. Beyond the dirt-dry pool, tiles baked yellow and cracked under the sun like old bone, and the rusty red skeleton of the chain link fence, stretches nothing.
The screen door behind him creaks open, bangs shut on rattling hinges. He doesn't need to look back to see which one of them came out to talk him down this time. He closes his eyes, pictures the ruin of the abandoned house: scuffed, ragged linoleum leading to sludge-grey carpet, scarred boots set wide between sloppy piles of smudged newspaper and bottles still wet at the mouth with dregs and spit, John's wide, thick-veined hand clutching the fresh Johnnie Walker Dean had driven thirty miles in the scorching heat to buy.
Sam says, "What're you gonna tell me?"
Dean's heavy boots crush the dead grass to a fine brown dust that disappears into the ground. Swallowed up like everything else. "What d'you wanna hear?"
Easily, marionette on the string of Dean's voice, Sam raises the gun warm in his grip, mother-of-pearl handle smooth against the rough calluses on his palm, sights down the barrel and squeezes the trigger. The third of seven cans jammed into the fence explodes in a mess of torn aluminium.
"How about you lie to me?" Sam says. He aims again, feels the satisfying punch of force straight up his arm and into his shoulder as another can is ripped open. The shiny metal inside glints brightly in the sun. "How about you tell me how much you need me. That one always works."
Dean steps straight into his line of fire just as he's about to squeeze down again. He sucks in a quick, hissing breath, teeth clenched, and drops the muzzle from Dean's heart.
"Sammy-"
"You stink like puke."
Dean runs a hand over his head, the sharp gel spikes of his hair going soft and fuzzy. His smile is broken and bent as the swing set jumbled in one corner of the dead yard. "Yeah, s'what happens. He doesn't mean to, Sam."
"'Course not. Nobody ever means to get falling down drunk at ten in the morning."
I am shamelessly open to suggestions. Evil twin? Bueller? Anyone? :p
no subject
Date: 2008-11-19 06:17 pm (UTC)But yes, that kid in Charlie Bartlett was awesome. BUT! He was also so fucking awesome in an episode of Criminal Minds that was just over the top creepy and awesome, and I know you (and probably your evil twin) will love it. It was 2.11 "Sex, Birth, Death." I'd be happy to upload it somewhere if you want. Or you can torrent it here (http://www.mininova.org/tor/1372986).
<3 Ari (arabiana@livejournal)
no subject
Date: 2008-11-22 04:15 pm (UTC)Heh, well. I dunno if that one is going to get written, since I don't have a sweet clue what to do with it, but even so, I'll just keep it tucked away until something happens. Or until I forget about it again, heh.