Reasons to be cheerful

Woke up feeling eerily chipper today, song in my heart, bounce in my step. I hate it when I'm happy like this. It means the universe has to go that extra mile to put me down, and it will, it always does. I feel like a child on a swing but I'm waiting for that other shoe to drop, poised above me like Damocles' sword.

I know that's not the happy American way to look at life, but it's realistic. The last time I was this happy the world dropped away beneath me like a trap door, so I tread carefully.

My cheer I think is three fold. I posted a piece of fic yesterday and was most gratified to receive several pieces of glowing feedback. Deserved or not they made me a very shiney happy person. Bouyed by this I stopped off to pick up new undergarments by necessity and I found a couple of new tops, one I really like which is in my colour, my size, allegedly made of cotton and only $20 (ie the cost of a handful of change for my overseas readers).

Reason to be cheerful number three was the simple fact that I was recovered enough to manage a small egg last night. Mmmmm, chocolate... (nice choclate too as I'd warned family I preferred oeufs for jellybean weekend, meaning there'd better be Eurochoccies, dammit. Upon pain of death, family complied - grin).

Oh, there's a forth reason: I love a week that starts with a Tuesday and ends with a Thursday. Might have been nice to have the week off but that privilege is the purvoy of managers only. Still, a week without my manager is a holiday itself, and I have managed some work on my fic. Just that pesky shoot out to block and I'm done. I'd do it now but my time has elapsed and it's hard to wrangle cowboys inbetween phone calls and emails. Maybe later if everyone buggers off early. This time Cinders won't just be handling the press releases :)

TV last night: just Angel and Buffy. Willow on a tear, and I can really understand her rage and self loathing, it speaks to me, and I wish she'd beat up self righteous and blonde Buffy but good, and on Angel we had the further temptation of Wesley and the whole Connor plot (yawn). Wesley's fall from grace is excellent, the whole Connor & Cordy deal, a mistake I think. We don't need any more whiney teens, they've ruined Cordy forever and the Holtz plot went nowhere. Can't win 'em all, I guess (but if Tim Minear thinks he gets a pasting online he should try posting fic these days).

Word of the week: "marmalade-dropper", coined by the Telegraph UK to describe startling news read over breakfast. I just love it and will endeavour to use it as often as possible.

Clint Eastwood

The Sword of Damocles

More pics from the Buffy wrap party

Delphi Snippet

Heavyweights compete at Cannes

Posted this to EzrasBodyofSlash yesterday to make amends for being churlish (the trolls on the sharpecc had gotten me down, it should be a Rings list for all the trolls about) and everybody loved it, which cheered me up no end, and the FB, that rare creature, was most gratifying, so I thought I'd post it here. Please excuse it if it's not to your taste. Buck must bring out my mushy side.

Just to make amends, if my humble post has offended, here's a snippet
from the fic I'm desperately trying to finish.


Um...

Title: sod knows, still working on it

Pair: Ezra/Buck

Rating: M for sexual refences


+++


Their passion carried them into the corner, Ezra sinking down into
one of the thickly upholstered chairs and Buck sinking down between
his thighs. No words needed to be said, just Buck's tongue twisting
around his, Buck's hands touching him all over, then Buck's
mouth...Ezra's hand tightened in Buck's hair for just an instant as
he was swallowed in hot silk.


Buck loved him like this: so hard and desperate it made Ezra wanton,
his head lolling back as he gave himself up to Buck, riding the
motion until they leapt up together and came tumbling down like waves
in the ocean, Buck enjoying the jaunt as much as Ezra.


Ezra was kissing Buck and he could taste himself on Buck's lips.


Buck loved the taste of Ezra. He tasted like silky smooth skin and
sweet and oily soap and salt and when he had Ezra in his mouth he
could feel his life. He could lick at the trembling pulse and make
Ezra squirm and whisper his name, the way Ezra did when he really
meant it, the way Ezra said his name like Buck was the only thing in
the world to him that mattered, and Buck knew in that moment it was
true.


He loved the taste of Ezra and the saltiness that clung to his lips
and the murmur of his name in his ears, spoken urgently by Ezra's
voice. He loved to feel the beat of Ezra's heart beneath his touch,
the heat of his skin, the way he moved, pressing against Buck and
then drawing away, like a relentless tide against a pier, surging up
and hissing Buck's name as the waves crashed around them.


He loved the sea green eyes that were so cracked with pain, like
flawed emeralds, eyes that always seemed to be asking him a question,
and surprised when they read the answer. Eyes that hid so much of
themselves yet could see so clearly into the souls of other men,
searching for those flaws, those cracks and weaknesses that could be
prised open and shattered. He saw those same eyes, begging for love
and forgiveness and unsure of how to receive it.


He loved the way Ezra's auburn hair would curl when damp, one stray
strand dropping down, reminding him of the old nursery rhyme. When
Ezra was good he was very, very good and when he was bad he was
horrid. A naughty, spiteful little child but one minute spent in the
company of Ezra's mother had explained that deeply bred and well
taught viciousness.


Ezra had such grand plans for himself, yet thought so little of
himself. That conflict drove him, tugged at him, tore at his skin.
Ezra envied his friends as much as he loved them. He saw their lives
in hopelessly romantic shades while despising his own. He saw them as
larger than life heroes, and himself the scavenger, nipping at their
heels.


The bitterness tainted Ezra, but in his heart was such sweetness, and
Buck loved to see it shine out, like the dawning of a rosy pink sun,
warm and so full of promise, so full of beauty. When he smiled, when
he truly smiled and Ezra tasted sweeter than honey, more intoxicating
than wine. Buck loved the taste of Ezra, sliding in his mouth. His
love was better than wine, his kisses rained down on Buck's mouth in
a heavy downpour and Buck was a thirsty man willing to drown in the
river of Ezra.


He came up for air, smelling the faint traces of cigar smoke and
champagne on Ezra's skin, the faintest hint of lavender water on his
clothes, and Buck breathed deeply of his lover's scent, feeling the
brush of Ezra's light ginger stubble graze against his own darkening
cheek. He could taste the soap, the expensive kind, still clinging to
Ezra's skin.


He loved the taste of Ezra, so clean and rich and tasting of a
hundred different things. He could taste them all and know the
picture that made up the whole. He loved the taste of Ezra and he
would gladly kiss him until the day he died, but for now he murmured
huskily in his lover's ear, perhaps they should take this upstairs
before somebody else walked in and caught them in an intimate
arrangement.


He rose up and took his lover with him, the taste of him still
lingering in his mouth, knowing he'd taste that skin again soon
enough, and Ezra would be tasting his.