vom_marlowe

Nano and cameras

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Thu, 27 Sep 2007 19:33:21 GMT

Things wot I wish to include in my NaNo:
Red violet hair.
Genderbendiness.
Sorta Aya character holding a gun with those pearl grips, wearing brocade jacket, saying "Stand and deliver"
Fangs
Wings
Color-shifting wings
Magic
Daring escapes
Dashing
Swords
A threesome
Perviness
City
Leopards of DOOM

I'm writing a paper for my class and it's going well, I suppose, but I am deeply bored. I like the class, but I'm so eager to start tomorrow's fifteen minute a day art project that I'm starting to fidget. I also realized, see, that I could create my own reference photos with Obitsu dolls and an inexpensive digital camera. (My current camera will not download photos to my computer, which is A Problem). Anyone have favorite *simple* and inexpensive digital camera suggestions?

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Tue, 25 Sep 2007 22:57:14 GMT

This is just to say
that I finished the marc record
you left in the catalog

it was boring
and made me emo

Ahem. Anyway! Yes, I have now completed one long homework. 214 word comments inserted.

I have met with my co-group. (They were happy to hear I had 'figured out' who we were supposed to be researching. One of them, telophase, used dogpile as her main search tool. I...right. Anyway!) I thought the scholar sounded pretty interesting. She is a sociologist who writes on diffusion of knowledge, primarily in fashion, multi-media, and pop-culture, although she wrote in other fields, too. My co-group insisted that her writings on fashion could have nothing to do with library science. Anyhow.

I wrote one paper.

I have now taken lots and lots of meds, because I fear I am not coming down with stress queasiness so much as the fall semester yearly crud.

I have attended the three hour work phone meeting.

I responded to the response I got in regards to the personal's ad from the Pitch. Probably too young for me, but I am trying not to be judgemental or emo etc etc. Besides, Chemistry has *already* run out of matches for me. Jeez. I already responded as interested to about ten people and have heard back from nary a one. I suspect they're all no longer there in the system. I refuse to get my hopes up. I am just...putting feelers out there, and if something happens, it happens, and if it doesn't, it doesn't. Right.

I got an imp of extra-aged Snake Oil as part of my Snakie decant. It is AWESOME. I also have a huge backlog of imps that I'm going to sort through, sell, trade, or give away. If you've never tried BPAL, watch this space.

Goals for the remainder of the evening: Attend class. Answer some stuff. Do yoga. Go home. Sleep.
Tomorrow: Get up. Get car inspected. Write Aversa paper. Read Aversa readings. Read group project meetings. Train new employees. Yoga. Bed.

Random halp needed: LJ knows all

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Sun, 23 Sep 2007 14:56:50 GMT

Does anyone know of a good way of organizing large paper artwork? I mean, like B5, 10 x 14 inches?

My artwork is taking over, and storing it on the floor is a Bad Idea, I'm sure. It won't fit into file cabinets, and I need to be able to page through it from time to time, so stacking it is very inefficient. I have a single portfolio at the moment, and it now weighs about ten pounds, and tends to list to one side. Also, portfolios usually cost a small fortune.

I'd like to be able to sort into categories. Like: F, S, W, and C, projects, subdivided into at least twenty page manga.

I did try to work at 8 1/2 x 11, but it was no go in the draft stage. So, I'm back to 10 x 14.

*looks pleadingly at f-list*

A lovely problem to have.

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Sat, 22 Sep 2007 17:04:22 GMT

I got a bunch of bookstore giftcards for my birthday. *bounces* What to get? What to get?

I'm looking for something squeeful, something fun, something I can maybe even fic about, or just get overexcited by.

I'm also looking for a doable game that does not require much gaming skill, will run on my laptop, includes men with braids/long hair, beautiful women (ideally wiv swords), androgynous gorgeous people, etc. I can't play the Sims because it makes me completely depressed, no idea why. I suck at shooting with guns, get bored by hack and slash, and enjoy movement puzzles. My favorite game evah was Lara Croft: Tomb Raider. I love her swan dive. ~.^ I plan to use the game as a fun reward for homework, maybe. I do very badly with Japanese dating sim games, too, by the way.

Music or CD or DVD suggestions are also welcome! I'd love to find another show to watch and enjoy, since I'm going to wait to watch SPN and BSG. I don't actually have cable, and have no IRC or whatever that is, so I'd ideally like it to be something I can get ahold of fairly easily. I tried Bleach and bounced off it, enjoyed early Trinity Blood but stopped because I heard it went to WTFF-land, loved Last Exile until the end, really really really love Loveless, and am generally open.

I still have several as yet unread novels from my last plane trip (Melusine, the Luck in the Shadows trilogy, Fingersmith) and am mid-Flora Segunda but other novel ideas are wonderfully welcomed. Feel free to suggest fic, non-fic, art, how to, gardening (especially small scale, organic, food gardening for total idiots), history, whatever you're grooving on, etc.

Fic: Formerly Known As, Chapter Seven

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Wed, 19 Sep 2007 21:03:59 GMT

If you're new to this fic, don't start here. All parts are tagged with 'fic: formerly known as'. I've had new people friend me, so I might as well say it here, since it bears repeating, I think, given the lighter tone of most of my other stories. I don't post warnings for this 'verse. The world isn't always a nice place, and neither is this fic. This is also, oddly, the fic that is dearest to my heart. I wanted to do something self-indulgent for my birthday, so I worked on this fic.

Continued thanks to my betas rzyna, wedjateye, and nekojita, who all helped me in innumerable ways and to aluragayleceruleansoul

Yoji rocked back in the office chair and lit a smoke. He watched the monitor dispassionately. On it, a woman and a man argued. The angle was funny, but the scene was clear. He’d turned off the sound. Blues spilled from the speakers behind him.

He put his feet on the desk just about the time the man grabbed her by the shoulders. When the show was over, Yoji tapped for a minute on the keyboard, and flipped open his cell.

“Hey sweetheart,” he said.

“Hey you!” The voice was clear and sunny, shining and polished and perfect. It made Yoji smile. “Did you get it?”

“Straight to the point as always,” he said. He lit another smoke and sucked nicotine deep into his lungs. It burned.

“Well, did you?”

“Sure I did, sweetheart.”

“Yes!”

Yoji tapped the smoke on the rim of the ashtray. Ashes fell in a tidy little pile. He stared at them for a while.

“Can you bring it down?” she asked. “I’ll be in for another hour.”

“No problem, sweetheart.” Yoji flipped the phone shut and stood.

The still of the woman, bloodied lip and terror-filled eyes, still shone on the monitor. He minimized the screen, tugged the USB key from its port. Wouldn’t do to upset Shannon, Asuka’s latest prodigy in office management.

Yoji dropped the disc key off at the receptionist desk. He didn’t expect Ginny to be in, or to come dashing down the hall on her spike heels. “Yoji!”

He turned, gave her a smile, but he was a little tired. He still hadn’t figured out what the hell to do with the beautiful boy he’d left at home and he had a hell of a headache. Sometimes he truly hated work.

She clasped his hand in both of hers, squeezed tight. “Thank you so much.”

“It was no trouble,” he said.

She nodded. “But I mean it. This is going to cap the case. It’ll be over.”

Yoji sighed. “Maybe. Until next time.”

Ginny shook her head. “No. There will be other options next time.”

Yoji raised one eyebrow.

She squeezed his hands again. He could feel her ring dig into his hands. “I mean it. Thank you.”

When Yoji took the sleek elevator down to the ground floor, leaving Newman, Marks, and Nichols, he curled his hand around the slip of paper Ginny had slipped him. Perfect. He sighed and went to get his car from the underground lot. He a few hours before he’d told Ran he’d be back. Best to make good use of them.

“But why are you doing this?” the man gasped through bubbles of spit and blood.

Yoji shifted the cig to the other side of his mouth and brought his knee up sharply into the man’s chin while he held him by the hair. “Does it matter?”

“I never stole those—“

Yoji ended it. He was tired of hearing it. The man slumped to the ground. Yoji rolled the corpse over and removed the man’s wallet, felt down the body and took the packet in his shoe. Close enough. Yoji stubbed out his cig and removed his gloves. He wrapped the lot into a wad of old towel, walked to where he’d left the car, drove to the warehouse with the incinerator, disposed of the trash, took a shower, and went home.

Ran started when the door opened, but it was just Yoji. He set down the dishcloth and stood.

Yoji lounged against the cabinet, all sleek, comfortable ease. Ran’s eyes traveled down the crisp white shirt, the fashionable well-worn Sevens, ankle boots in cordovan. A bit of gold glimmered in Yoji’s hair; he’d added an earring. Yoji was far hotter than most of his johns. Any of them. All of them.

Yoji reached out and stroked Ran’s hair back. He shivered. Turned into the hand, kissed the bruised knuckles, looked up into sleepy green eyes.

They sharpened. “Miss me, baby?”

“Yes.” Ran bit Yoji’s fingers, sucked one into his mouth, licked the join between fingers.

Yoji tugged his hand back, brushed Ran’s hair back. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Ran leaned forward, breathed into Yoji’s neck. Come on, Kudoh. “You’re late.”

“Stopped for a drink after work,” Yoji said. He laughed, but it was more bitter than sweet, tired and a little sad. “Long day.”

“Want me to make it better?”

“Yoji closed his eyes and sighed. “That’s not a good idea today, baby. I—“

“Mmmm,” Ran said. “But that’s what I’m here for. Yes? Whatever you want, however you want it—“

Yoji shoved him against the cabinet. Ran felt the counter dig into his back. He angled his head to the side, showed off his neck, wrapped his fingers into Yoji’s hair and purred.

“And what about what you want?” Yoji asked, two inches away.

Ran gasped. He thrust his hips forward, moved against Yoji, slowly, rocking a little.

“Answer me, baby,” Yoji murmured. “Tell me what you want.”

Ran’s mind scrambled, but Yoji’s hands were doing distracting things and his eyes were mesmerizing. Ran shook his head, dazed. “Whatever you—“

“Just answer me, baby.” Sharp green eyes. Why had he ever thought them sleepy? And Yoji was wearing some heady cologne—he smelled of cigarettes and fresh shampoo.

“What—whatever you want,” Ran said. “Just—“

“Whatever I want?” Yoji asked.

“Yes.” Finally. Ran closed his eyes, let Yoji run clever fingers through his hair. “Yes.”

“Look at me, baby.”

Ran opened his eyes.

Yoji was inches away. Yoji shut his eyes for a moment, and his lips quirked into a bitter smile. He mouthed something, but Ran couldn’t tell what he’d said. “Albright, baby. I get it.”

Yoji stepped back and Ran blinked.

“Come on,” Yoji said. “Bedroom.”

Ran followed him. He’d made the bed, put away all of his clothes as directed, vacuumed and polished, dusted the three abstract prints hanging on the walls. It still looked lived in, comfortable and luxurious, nothing like Ran’s own tastes. Maybe Yoji would—

Yoji turned him around to face the bed. Yoji took hold of the back of Ran’s shirt and tugged it up; Ran lifted his arms. The shirt slipped over his head. Yoji unbuckled his belt from behind, undid his zip, tugged. Ran stepped out of the jeans. He was starting to get hard—he wasn’t sure if that would make Yoji happy or piss him off, but Yoji didn’t say anything about it.

He pushed gently at the center of Ran’s back; Ran laid down on the bed on his stomach. He heard Yoji moving behind him, rustle of change in jeans’ pockets, other soft noises.

Then Yoji’s hands were on his hips, sliding up his back, gripping his wrists. “Over your head, baby.”

Ran let Yoji move his arms over his head, took hold of the headboard.

“No, together, baby.”

Ran put his hands together. He felt the belt circle his wrists; Yoji tugged it tight. Gentle fingers wrapped the tail of the belt around the headboard.

He felt Yoji’s weight leave the bed. Then he heard the click of the lighter, smelled Yoji’s Luckies. The first smack took him by surprise; his whole body jumped. The next smack hurt—a line of fire across his ass. Ran didn’t know what Yoji was using—he just felt the sting of it, hid his face in the pillow.

Yoji wasn’t just marking a pretty line of welts—Ran felt the heat gather under his skin, felt the dark sweetness of the pain start to cloud everything out. Pretty soon, Ran couldn’t stop himself from squirming and shifting, trying to escape the pain, the solid rhythmic slaps on his skin.

Then it stopped. Ran lay gasping. His eyes were wet, his dick was still hard, and his back felt like one huge burn.

The lighter clicked again. Hands moved his legs apart. Ran just let them. Fingers pried between his cheeks, cool with lube. He felt the fingers tease at his asshole, move in, shift around, stretching. He bucked back up into them and had to bite back a whimper.

The fingers stopped. “Oh, no baby. You can’t do a thing. It’s all gonna be how I want it, so just lay back down.”

A long stroke down his side, soothing, avoiding the burning skin.

Ran moved a little, leaning into it.

“That’s it, baby. Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Ran moaned. The bed shifted. Weight settled on his sore back. Soft hair brushed against the fire of his skin. Teeth bit into his neck. “Albright, baby. Just so you know, I don’t share.”

Ran panted into the pillow, kept his eyes shut.

“If I take you, that makes you mine. And you don’t go to anyone—not ever again. Are we clear?”

Ran rubbed his face into the pillow. The words shouldn’t make him hard—he should have some dignity, should—but he couldn’t. The sweet feeling swept over him and he shivered.

“Answer me, baby.” Teeth bit down on his neck, hard enough to bruise, right under his ear. “You want me to take you?”

“Yes,” Ran said.

“Yes, what, baby?”

Ran’s mind blanked out. He couldn’t think—had Yoji said he wanted to be called something special—Was it sir? Master? He was so lost he couldn’t think. Teeth on his neck again, different spot. It hurt.

“Who’s gonna fuck you, baby?”

“You are,” he said. “Please.”

“You don’t need to beg, baby. You should’ve just told me before, how it was with you.”

Ran didn’t know what he meant. The fingers were stretching him again, they found his sweet spot and his arched into it, crying out. Oh god, he could come from just this, would, if Yoji didn’t stop—“Please.”

Yoji coaxed him up, and Ran went to his knees, bent over his bound hands. He was shaking. Yoji gripped his hips, slid in, and Ran moaned. Fat and thick and he couldn’t think—just feel. And everything else was fading away—gone, gone, gone.

And then teeth gripped the back of his neck, bit hard. “Ow.”

They bit again. “Mine.”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Yours.”

Yoji rocked into him and Ran had to bury his face into the pillow to hide his moans. Hands moved his head, turning it away from the pillow to the side.

“It’s all right baby, nobody’s gonna hear you but me.” Soft fingers through his hair contrasted to a sharp push into him. Oh god. Ran moaned again. Yoji stroked over his sweet spot.

“Nothing you can do about it,” Yoji murmured in his ear. “It’s all up to me, baby. Nothing you can do.”

Ran came. Gasping and jerking. And a wave of blissful darkness closed over him.

Yoji stroked long and sweet while the aftershocks wracked Ran’s body, while he groaned and shivered, sweated and shook. Then Yoji leaned down and bit his neck again, came with a few hard thrusts. He leaned his weight into Ran and Ran’s wrists protested, his back felt sore. Yoji pulled out slowly, flopped down beside Ran on the bed, undid the ties.

He pulled Ran over to his chest, tucked Ran’s head beneath his chin. Ran wanted to cry—he felt naked and terrified and alone. He should get up, get dressed, get going, get out. But Yoji’s long fingers twined into his hair. “Go to sleep, baby. Nothing you can do.”

And Ran slid into sleep. He dreamed of fire, and bombs, and houses. The sick thump of car hitting Ayachan, her body flying like a dishrag. His mother’s blown away face, his father’s hand on the gun, shattered bone and pools of blood.

He woke with a start, cheeks wet.

Long fingers tugged his hair. “Lay back down, baby.”

Ran shivered. But he laid down. He rubbed his nose into Yoji’s chest. He heard the click of the lighter, smelled Yoji’s cigarette. “I’m not going anywhere, baby, and neither are you.”

A pause, soft hiss of smoke, long exhale. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be right here.”

Ran jerked. “No, it’s, I should—“

Fingers tightened in his hair, kept his head tucked against Yoji’s chest. “No. Nothing you can do, baby.”

The fingers stretched out, slid through his hair, slipped down his neck and rubbed a little gently. “Nothing you can do.”

Ran’s eyes closed and he slid back into sleep.

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Wed, 19 Sep 2007 13:18:33 GMT

I like to make little lists for major life turning points--things I want to do, qualities I'd like to have more of, things I've done, goals, etc. This year, I turn thirty five, which seems Significant. For my birthday this year, I'm doing something different. Comment and I'll tell you three things that I adore about you.

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Sat, 15 Sep 2007 14:52:21 GMT

I'm not getting all my comment notifications, darnit.

I'm such an ink fangirl. You remember my sore hand? Ha! My beloved Pilot pens, makers of the indispensable V5 best pen of all time, have come out with an ergonomic grip, retractable version. *dies of glee* I'm here to report that it works just as well as the V5, except you don't have to worry about sore hands. My sore hands were actually caused by the el cheapo Bics that I have to use on forms and such but which I coopted for homework. You can find these new awesome Pilot Precise V5/7 versions on display here. I bought mine at the drugstore.

BPAL: Been a while since I posted any reviews. Yikes! I traded my bottle of the LE Passion for a whole half-imp decant set of Snake Oils, of which there are thirteen, I believe. I'm so glad I did. I love Snake Oil, and it really works on me, but I wanted to try all the variants.

I haven't tried them all, but so far my favorite is Boomslang. It's like extra dark chocolate mixed with sex. Dude. I must have a bottle of this. It's the first chocolate BPAL that doesn't go funky plastic on me. We're not talking some sort of Hershey's chockie either, this stuff is extra dark, rich with cocoa. It's chocolate, snake oil, sex, and something similar to sandalwood but richer and darker (the description informs me it is teakwood and that rice milk is also involved). It's also thick, dark and oily in the bottle, so sluggish it slides against the glass slowly.

Australian Copperhead, Banded Sea Snake, King Cobra, and Coral Snake have also been awesome, but so far I don't like the smell of Saw Scaled Viper. I've also got an extra imp of Western Diamondback, because I have the whole bloody bottle already. Western Diamondback is.....well, it's the most dom scent I have ever smelled. Seriously. Snake oil, worn leather, and oomph. The imp is super!cute, a little snake wearing a cowboy hat. *dies*

My tattoo is shedding. It looks very silly, all scaly and weird.

Big weekend plans: art, write, clean, rest, and snooze. It's too cold to sit on the porch today! *bounces*

Y/A fic: girl!Yoji, part 9. Not worksafe.

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Thu, 13 Sep 2007 15:14:25 GMT

</span>

“Yoji are you all right?”

Yoji threw the car keys straight at his head.

Aya caught them in one hand. He paced forward slowly. Yoji knew that walk. It meant Aya was still in mission-mode, ready to kill anyone and everyone. Aya glanced up at the fire escapes, eyed the end of the alley. Checking for possible targets, looking for enemies.

When he didn’t find any, because hey, only the dark beasts around here were them, he turned to Yoji.

“Is something wrong with the new car?” Aya asked.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Mission,” Aya said. He stepped closer, one hand outstretched.

Yoji stepped back. “Right. Great. Perfect. I got that from Manx already. For some unknown reason—hey, maybe because I am pregnant with your goddamn baby and we’re sleeping together—I thought I might get details. But oh no. Turn into a girl, get kicked from the team, and poof, no more security clearance.”

“Yoji—“

“Because we all know that only Y chromosomes can keep a secret.” Yoji rolled his eyes and stalked away.

A hand grabbed his arm. “Yoji,” Aya said softly.

Yoji turned around and slugged him. Aya’s head popped back, but he didn’t let go of Yoji’s arm.

Aya shook his head a bit to clear it, and soft red hair shimmied in the alley like rubies.

“You cut your hair!” Yoji said. “Again!”

Aya tugged Yoji a little closer, but Yoji dug in his heels. Oh hell no.

“It was for the mission,” Aya said softly. “I—“

“Oh the fucking mission. It’s always the mission isn’t it?” Yoji kicked very low and hit Aya on the vulnerable join of ankle and foot.

Aya grunted and stepped into Yoji instead of back. They wrestled. Yoji kicked with abandon, drove a fist right where Aya ought to be, hit dead air, and spun forward and around. Aya flowed into him, and it was just like always. They were sparring, feet slipping a little on the gravel, moving into each other and away. Yoji felt awake again. Alive and good. He nearly laughed at the feeling. Aya almost caught him on the chin, but he threw his head back. When Aya retreated, Yoji stepped forward, into him, beckoning with one hand, grinning.

Aya’s eyes gleamed and shone with that fierce light he got when fighting. Not with Ken or Omi, but on the floor, out in the world, or sparring with Yoji. Yoji loved it. The brick wall of the Koneko was only a few feet away and Yoji took his chance.

He flowed into Aya’s space, turned them around with an arm hold, let Aya hook a foot behind his knee, twisted, shoved, and wound up exactly where he wanted to be.

Leaning straight into Aya, who was plastered back to the harsh brick wall. Yoji leaned up, grabbed a fistful of too short, ruby red hair, and tugged Aya’s face down. Then he was kissing Aya, inhaling him, getting that taste, scent, Aya-essence. He groaned, loud, into Aya’s mouth.

Hands crept up his back, braced him. They tried to turn him.

“Nuh-uh,” Yoji gasped into Aya’s mouth. “My turn.”

Aya made a soft keening sound. Yoji just tugged harder on the hair, and Aya melted. It was harder than it should be, Aya’s was taller now, and Yoji too short, for a proper good fuck against the wall, but Yoji thought he could manage just fine, if he—

“Um—hello?”

Yoji ripped hard at the stupid belt Aya was wearing. What idiot in his right mind wore belts? “No more belts,” he panted, as he unbuckled it.

“Ng,” Aya agreed, and tilted his hips into Yoji’s hands.

“Uh, guys?”

Yoji got the belt undone, slid the tab out, went for the button—

“Yo, Aya!” A voice shouted from about two feet away. “Did you know your girlfriend’s got her hand down your pants in a fucking alley?”

Aya arched his neck. He looked positively debauched, and the way he rhythmically thrust his hips into Yoji’s hand just made it that much sweeter.

He opened his eyes and violet gleamed like fire. “Fuck off, Ken. Or I’ll gut you.”

“Sheesh. Try to do a guy a favor and—“

Yoji tuned him out. He slid to his knees and tugged the fly open. Then Aya’s cock was in his hand, his mouth was on him, and he was in heaven. Aya’s hands slid down through his hair to clutch at his shoulders. He slumped against the wall within seconds, gasping, hoarse-voiced chanting softly under his breath a litany of “Yoji, Yoji, Yoji.”

Yoji licked a bit of come from his lips and stood. Aya’s eyes were shut, his face open the way he only got after a solid bout of sex. He was still making soft noises, coming down from it. He touched Aya’s cheek, and Aya started a bit. Heavy lidded eyes met his.

“Get my car back, Aya,” Yoji said quietly.

“No,” Aya said and closed his eyes again.

“I can’t take much more of this,” Yoji said. “I mean it, Aya. Get my car back.”

“No,” Aya repeated. “Won’t.”

“It’s very important to me,” Yoji finally said. “I need a car.”

“Not that car,” Aya said, sex-voiced and slow. “Not Seven. Not the 928, either.”

“Yes, Aya,” Yoji said.

“No.”

“I hate to interrupt this charming reunion,” said a voice about a foot behind them. “But Abyssinian, you owe me your—“

Yoji had Manx against the wall with a knife at her jugular. “Hey,” he said. “So nice of you to drop by.”

“Should you really be dropping your guard to have sex in any alley, Yoji?”

“Who said I dropped my guard?” He pressed the knife point in, just a little, above the vein, so a long slide of blood trickled down her neck. “And leave Aya the hell alone. He doesn’t belong to you.”

“And he does to you?” Manx pursed her absurd little bow shaped lips. When had he ever found that sexy?

Yoji pressed the knife in a little, too angry to answer. Fucking Kritiker, they never learned--

“Yes,” Aya purred. “I do belong to Yoji.”

He stood up from the wall and buckled his belt. Then he came and looked over Yoji’s shoulder. His breath was very warm on Yoji’s neck, soft little breeze, wafting gently at the hair around his ears.

“What were you thinking, Manx, sneaking up on Yoji like that?”

“It was a test,” Manx said. Her eyes were so wide her eyeliner cracked.

“I think you flunked,” Aya said. “Yoji, I brought you some things from the trip. Want to come inside and see?”

Yoji lifted the knife a little, Manx surged forward, but Yoji just moved the knife so it pressed against her breastbone and she slumped against the wall again. “Remember what I said when we talked before?”

She shivered. “Which part?”

“All of it.” Yoji stepped back and Manx slid down the wall to sit on the alley pavement, getting grime all over her little red dress. He tossed the knife so it clattered next to her. He grinned. Then he stuck his hands in his pockets, and went after Aya, whistling.

</span>

Girl!Yoji fic. I think this may be part eight.

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Wed, 12 Sep 2007 22:03:06 GMT

I discovered I numbered them wrong and missed a chapter. Ooops. Will renumber Real Soon Now. Warning: not as fluffy as usual, and worksafe like whoa.
Yoji stared morosely at the packages on the shelf. He had his hands stuck firmly in his pockets. He hoped he could keep them there. Still…
Cherry. Vanilla. Clove. Menthol, but he wasn’t interested in that shit. Marshmallow and jasmine and yerba santa. Those sounded pretty innocuous.
He sighed. Aya would gut him. If he found out. But the boyfriend was gone again, ninja’d into the night after supper last Thursday, hadn’t been heard from since.
Manx knew where Aya was, but she wasn’t telling.
Yoji picked up a package, read the contents. This one was mostly rose petals. Yoji couldn’t stop himself from snorting. Safe, yeah right, what with the shit the floral trade doped the roses with to keep them alive. He set that box back on the shelf.
But vanilla. That sounded good, actually. Tasty, almost. The cherry was positively calling his name.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Yoji jumped. He still wasn’t used to being addressed as a girl. Much less a ma’am. He grinned at the speaker, used the old Kudoh charm and sparkled his eyes, showed off his dimples.
The short woman in the blue polyester store uniform frowned at him, uncharmed. “They still contain carbon monoxide.”
Yoji blinked. “What?”
She looked down at his stomach, which was still mostly flat for gods sakes, and back up into his eyes. “The herbals. Not good for your baby.” Her lips pursed. “Or you, for that matter.”
What, did he have a sign posted on his forehead? Pregnant and thinking of doing evil?
He must’ve been scowling because she just raised her eyebrows at him. “You can bring them to the counter, sweetie, but I don’t have to ring you up.”
“Hey!” Yoji said. “Maybe I’m buying them for a friend.”
She just walked away, turned a corner, opened a cold storage door and pulled something out. She returned. Handed it over. He stared down at the small container in his hand. ‘Healthy mom shake!’ it proclaimed in cheerful letters. ‘Chocolate flavor! With over twenty vitamins and minerals for the health of your baby—and you! Satisfies without guilt!’
“This cannot be my life,” Yoji said.
“On the house,” the woman said. “Trust me, the craving’s worse if you’re standing in front of the cigarettes. They sort of call out to you.”
Yoji fled before he got any more input from random strangers. Sometimes he wondered if Aya’d hired local people to keep an eye on him while he was out of town. Yoji wouldn’t put it past him, except that when he went out of the city to test his theory, strangers offered him their seats on the bus.
He fucking did not *glow*.
*
“Omi!” Yoji shouted. He’d been holding it together. Just another few hours of this mess and he could be on the road, eating up the blacktop, wind in his hair. “Omi!”
Omi popped out of the kitchen, looking worried. “Yoji! Should I call a doctor?”
What was with everyone? He wasn’t deathly ill. For chrissakes. “Where the hell is the car?”
Omi cocked his head. “What do you mean?” He kept on wiping the dish he held in his hand with a dishtowel.
“The Porsche!” Yoji shouted. “You know, white? Belongs to Aya? Costs a fucking fortune? Has a goddamn top unlike some cars I could name that are cooler, even if they don’t have exactly the same crashtest—“
“Oh,” Omi interrupted him. “They should have delivered the other one already. Maybe it didn’t fit in the garage.”
Yoji stopped ranting. “What?”
“Aya called and said they’d deliver it today. And you know, take away the old one. He traded it in.” Omi seemed blissfully unconcerned.
Yoji stared at Omi. Omi just did not have the sneakiness the rest of Weiss had. Well, not mostly. Not about this sort of thing anyway. He hoped. “Aya had a new car delivered?”
“Sure. Another Porsche. Keys in the kitchen.”
Oh. Huh. Well. All right. Yoji trodded into the kitchen, determined to get in his quiet, Sunday afternoon drive even if it was Tuesday. He had a six o’clock appointment with the doctor and he couldn’t be certain he’d still be allowed near a steering wheel after that. The doctor was getting difficult about risk taking behaviors. Probably Aya had been talking to him. Long distance.
If only Aya had been talking to Yoji. Aya’d managed to call everyone—even Ken—on his cell, but for some reason, when Yoji called Aya, it went to voicemail. No matter what the time.
Asshole.
Yoji found the familiar black tabbed key with the leather fob and rearing horse shield, except newer and shinier, hanging on the key rack. He went out the door and to the side street. They hadn't parked it in the garage, because probably the delivery guys were afraid of dinging such a new—
He stopped. Then he pulled the cell phone from his pocket and pushed speed dial. When he got voicemail, he said, “Fucking pick up, Aya. I know you’re screening your calls. The fuck is the matter with you? Bait and switch the 928 for a fucking minivan? That’s low even for you. And not answering your phone? Even lower, man.”
Yoji closed his eyes and stared at the blackness. He tried to dredge up something. Righteous anger. Bewilderment. Amusement, even. All he had left was crushing exhaustion. Not the car. Come on. Couldn’t *any* part of his life remain the same? Or even, you know, remain not horrible?
“I want a divorce,” Yoji said finally into the dead silence of the voice mail recording on the cell.
“Yoji?”
Yoji dropped the phone and spun around. Aya stood at the mouth of the Koneko alley, looking concerned as hell.

Latest Playlist: Enable me! Classic rock....anyone? Anyone? Buehler?

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Wed, 12 Sep 2007 21:10:46 GMT

Here's what I've got planned so far:
David & David: Welcome to the Boomtown
Stones: Wild Horses
Sheryl Crow: Strong Enough
Fabulous Thunderbirds: Tuff Enuff
Allman: I'm No Angel
Marc Cohn: Silver Thunderbird
Lou Gramm: Midnight Blue
Dire Straights: Sultans of Swing
Indigo Girls: Closer to Fine (on which they collaborated with my beloved and underknown HotHouse Flowers)
Cat Stevens: Wild World
Jackson Brown: Down on the Boulevard
Zevon: Werewolves of London (Lawyers, Guns and Money is more apropos but I like Werewolves better. It's perky!)
Bob Seger: You'll Accomp'ny Me and Roll Me Away

I'm getting ready to write more Formerly Known As. In case it isn't obvious. (Which it probably Very Much Is.) I like a nice long mix, because I tend to write for exactly as long as my mix lasts. Then I have to go wander off, muse-less, and come back for another session after a several hour to multi-day/week break. Thus, the longer and sweeter the mix, the better. So! If y'all have any song suggestions that would Fit Right In, I'm all ears.

I swear that FFKA has a happy ending. It does! Honest! But I need to get there first. Thus my quest for further musical inspiration. I've managed to burn myself out on Springsteen so I need a new, but very good mix. And, um, obviously, my taste is a bit...um. So! If you have anything that goes along well with this, especially with good solid harmony and a teensy bit of twang, I'd love to know more.

Firefly fic?

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Wed, 12 Sep 2007 00:54:13 GMT

I'm on break from baby-cataloging class. I've never read Firefly fic. I was pre-fen when I watched Firefly. So! What are your favorite fics? I adore Firefly. I'm in a real mood to visit that world. *

I've got an insane to-do list and I need me some rewards.

Also: I plan to answer comments, emails, and take pics ASAP! But first, I must do work and attend class. And trust me when I say I need rewards. Baby cataloging is Killing. My. Brain. Surrogate record databases. Authority records. Proliferation of version, library economy, work morphing. Marc records. *whimper*

Also? Tattoo...still awesome.

*If you haven't got any Firefly recs, I could also do with some BTVS Faith fics. If they have happy endings.

The folly of muses and the rocking of socks

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Tue, 11 Sep 2007 21:06:09 GMT

Dear my brain:
We are behind on homework for class, you do realize this, right? It's due in two hours! So now is NOT the time to slam me with two simultaneous plot bunnies: one for dom!Aya and one for girl!Yoji.

Also? Getting slammed with two plot bunnies for those universes at the same time is giving me muse whiplash.

In other news: my new tattoo rocks my socks. I got it on the upper arm. The guy took his time, really did a fantastic job. My girls couldn't make it, because tattoo parlors have the weirdest scheduling known to man, but that's okay because they wouldn't have been allowed in the tattoo area anyway. It took about two hours. And the artist was very pleased to do my art. It didn't hurt, but I found the noise a bit irritating. Fortunately, my artist had some lovely mellow hip hop and then later Mazzie Star on. I sort of dozed off a couple times. There will be pictures! But first, there will be homework. Alas.

Ugly realization: the story of the knee thus far

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Sun, 09 Sep 2007 15:22:31 GMT

Feel free to skip.

I realized I'd nearly hit the two year mark on my knee. I injured it, for those who don't know, moving my library (yeah, the whole bloody thing, though it isn't that big a library) into some spare classrooms, over the course of a week. No formal tools or assistance, because my boss was too chicken-shit to tell the big wigs no. They needed to install some new carpets, and that meant everything had to be off the shelves. Everything: bound journals, reference books, unbound journals, stacks, the lot. She dealt with the whole thing by mostly being gone that week. I ended up in workman's comp, and so did my two full time coworkers. The two part timers were ok, but had to leave early a couple times.

Workman's comp dicked around for a couple months with NSAIDs and PT and rest and braces and shit. I was tumbling down stairs (always fun). Fell once, just trying to get into bed. Finally, I wound up in my PTs office, shaking with pain, dripping sweat. She sent me for the MRI. The MRI got sent to a new guy, a hotshot surgeon who teaches at the university. He's the one who took two seconds to tell me that I needed surgery, would be out on disability for at least a couple three months. (Work HR, by the way, said, literally, "Oh, we can't have that." To which I hissed, I will follow doctor's orders, exactly as stated and I expect you to, as well.) Course that took a while. Hotshot surgeons have a waiting list. My guy is a sports specialist, by the way. His university office does all the local athletes.

I was duly operated on, went to see my PT. Another hotshot, by the way. The most beautiful man I have ever seen. Mmmm, gorgeous. Body like a dancer, kind, British accent, brilliant, married married married, darnit. I had to do a lot of very painful PT. I wasn't supposed to drive then. (Well, the knee wouldn't bend, so...) I did drive once to the local library, hopped up on Percoset. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I was not in my right mind. Anyway.

My PT told me, rather offhand one day, "When you get your knee replacement, a couple years down the line..." And I said, "What knee replacement?!?!" And he told me I'd need one. That was the next step, it would happen. I must have looked pretty shocked, because he smiled gently and told me that by then, they'd prolly be bionic knees. Given recent advances, in ten years when I'd need one, they'd be....

But I'll only be in my forties, I wanted to shout. I'm only thirty three! (At the time.)

I learned a lot. My PT used me as a final exam a couple times for his students. They had to test my limbs, take my history, evaluate, etc, and then prescribe and be graded. Fun, actually.

Their goal was to get me back to work, and they did. Officially, they only had to get me fit for sedentary office work, but did their damndest to get me to what they could. After I was back at work a bit, I kept having problems, so I went through PT *again*.

Before, I used to ramble about the city with Pookie, as a kind of hobby. Our idea of a good time was about five miles. I used to do Cathe workouts (www.cathe.com). My favorite workout, a FitPrime, has a handstand as one of the shoulder strengthening exercises.

Yesterday, I went to lunch. Stormy weather's moving through, so I was good and took my opiates early. Halfway through lunch, the bloody joint went into its little spasms and would not stop. I had to cancel a shopping trip, because I couldn't face the cost it would be to the stupid, fucking knee, if I went to a mall and walked around for twenty minutes. I looked bored at lunch, when I didn't mean to. Just zoned out on meds. It's a blessing that my mom does the grocery shopping, because I just can't. Not every damn week. I take meds every time I clean the house. I had to get help laying out my latest quilt. Latest landlady insanity means I'll probably be moving sooner rather than later, and I know I can't do any of the moving. I nearly took my cane to Alabama on the trip, but didn't because it seemed stupid, and I wasn't sure if it would go through security.

My doc was upfront that this was as good as the knee was going to get. It'd hurt, but it does work. I just....expected it to get better. Slowly. I kept telling myself to suck up the pain and hassle, because in a year, I'd go back to my old life. Well, it's been a year since I kicked the second round of PT, and....

The knee is not better. It's worse. That's how they do. The joint isn't going to get better, it's going to hold a while, slowly deteriorate and eventually get replaced. The other doc in the university office tells his patients not to walk more than two miles a week, TOTAL, to delay the knee replacement. (My guy tells you to do whatever the hell you want, just get it replaced sooner. Great.)

I'm such an optimist some days. I kept expecting that if I just did enough work on my diet, did enough of my exercises, got enough massages, took enough meds, that I could go back to my old life. (Some of you are probably smiling wryly here.) But....it's not going to happen.

Those things do help, but they aren't going to return me to my old body. It's just a delaying tactic, a small way to reduce the pain. Some things that are broke, can't be fixed.

Winter's coming. Last winter was hard. This one is going to be harder. I don't have the dream that it'll get better, eventually. And the knee's that much more worn. I should sell my Cathe workouts, my collectable FitPrimes. If I'm honest with myself, I'm never going to do them again. I'm sick of opiates and how they make me feel. I'm on the biggest dose of the new meds that you can take, have taken it for a couple weeks now, and it's not doing anything miraculous other than be better on my stomach (which is a lot, really, I don't mean to downplay it). I've tried the only other Cox-2 inhibitor still left on the market, but got no miracles. Fuck.

Just....fuck.

I need to find a way to get past this. Accept it, and move on. Haven't figured out how yet. Barely figured out that I needed to accept it. I need to call my doc and tell her that the closer it gets to the fall weather, the more the sucker just randomly hurts. Ask whether I should avoid moving and be medless more often, or take the meds and have a life. I just don't know anymore, other than that I'm fucking sick of it. I'm sick of it fucking up my life. I'm just....Yeah.

In which I request assistance in spending money

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Fri, 07 Sep 2007 17:35:57 GMT

Yeah, I'm supposed to be resting the hand. *looks shifty* I am, I really am. I swear. I'm not writing fic the way I want to be at any rate. I refuse to post about the recent local crime or my new landlady's increasingly disturbing insanity. So! My beloved f-list, talk to me. I scored a hundred bucks back from a refund. What should I do with this unexpected bounty? (I'd post this in poll fashion but I am sucking LJ bandwidth for free for the foreseeable future!)

VM should:
Buy a corset and a pretty necklace and go to a bar and like, trawl for dates for once in her life (assuming I could find an appropriate bar for my taste).
Tattoo!
Two words: Fuck me boots. Oh, wait, that's three words.
Convince B to help me shop for a new and stunning outfit.
Ten packs of manga drawing paper! (I, um, may already have a sizeable stash, so this is not the siren call it might otherwise be).
iTunes music splurge, although I freely admit I don't think I could manage to spend a hundred bucks there...
Something wot I will explain or suggest! (Suggestions very welcome, nay encouraged)

Abbreviated state of the VM

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Fri, 07 Sep 2007 01:32:09 GMT

I strained my typing hand. (I type almost exclusively right handed. Long story.) Owwwww. I don't think it was the fic. I think it was hunching over the keyboard and typing that stupid, long homework assignment while stressed and emo and stiff. And writing homework notes longhand, clutching the pen in an iron grip. Bad VM no biscuit.

I'll be RICEing it. Which means I must skip most writing for a bit. Arrrrgh. Must do work stuff, must do school stuff, so that means. (Paper due next week.) Woe! I'll be scarce around here for a bit. *grumbles*

Revisited: class, hardship, poverty, sacrifice

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Thu, 06 Sep 2007 16:31:01 GMT

It’s probably in bad taste to post an essay in response to somebody you’ve banned in your own journal, but fuck it. I’ve got things I want say to about class, hardship, poverty and sacrifice, and I’m going to say them. Feel free to skip.

I was thinking about the recent Will Shetterly wank-fest that went from my journal and spilled elsewhere, and why it pissed me off so fucking much. (NB: Shetterly—still banned!)

And I figured out why. Why *I* was so pissed, anyway. Furious, in fact. I don’t get angry very often these days. Hurt, sometimes, but angry, rarely. See, here’s the thing.

Shetterly talked like life hands you a set of choices: do the right thing, do the wrong thing. But life isn’t like that. Not for everyone. Sure, he sees that doing the right thing (in the sixties, anyway) can cost (getting spit on), but he doesn’t see…well. And of course, there are those times when you’re not doing shit, and you pay just for existing, no choice involved.

Being lower class, you get different choices. I’ve set aside some of my beloved principles before. I expect life will force my hand, and I’ll set them aside again. Y’all probably know by now that I am deeply boring, law abiding, et cetera. But that is not always enough. It just isn’t.

Working hard and doing the right thing, in this world, that doesn’t always feed your family. That’s what being lower class means. Not money, but choices. Options. Ways and means. Or…not.

One of the things Shetterly uses to claim his po status is getting teeth pulled instead of getting cosmetic dentistry. This hits a sore point for me, because my grandmother, when she was younger, got hers pulled too when they went rotten. Without any painkillers. Of any kind. Before, during, or after. From an ex-army doctor with a shady reputation and a set of pliers. She skipped the meds to save money. So her kids could eat.

My mother wore shoes too small and so tight that fifty years later, her toes finally unkinked and she gained two full shoe sizes. She didn’t have her own shoes as a kid. None of them did. They didn’t just share a bedroom, they shared everything.

My life was a hell of a lot better because of their sacrifices, but I sure as shit never had to spend a summer contemplating what the fuck to do with my trust fund.

No, my life’s been pretty good, really. But the thing is, when you’re lower class, there just aren’t the same choices. My mom paid a heavy price for her hard work all those years with lousy healthcare. When she couldn’t work, who paid her way?

Well, I did. That’s what being lower class means.

When I was in highschool, we took in a kid I knew from school. He lived with us a couple years. His mom kicked him out, because she couldn’t handle more than one guy in her life. That worked for a couple years. But life’s hard, and eventually we couldn’t afford it. He eventually wound up selling, and I’m fairly certain himself, too, from time to time. His family didn’t take him in, and no, social services didn’t give a shit, so we did what we could for as long as we could. I saw him a couple years later. He was doing okay, I guess.

See, here’s the thing. In my class, or my social group, or whatever the fuck you want to call it, you can’t trust that everyone will be taken care of, either by themselves or someone else. When I quit my job, it’s not just me who pays. It’s my mom. And the cost isn’t going without some extra books, it’s the gaping horror of no rent. Or water. Or whatever. And when the costs come, without ceasing, there aren’t nice ways to get out of it. There are ways, yes, but never nice ones. And sometimes we take those ways. Set aside principles, do what needs doing.

It’s not a game, it’s not a choice, really. If I could walk into a white collar firm and get a good job, I would have. And did, eventually, but I had to climb hard up that ladder that would get me there. If that means my hair started graying in my twenties, it was the price I paid. Not a small price, but the price offered, and taken.

So I suppose I look at Shetterly and his claims that everything is about class, and I roll my eyes. Lots of shit is about class. But he thinks he’s lower class, because he’s poor. But he’s not poor. He’s broke. Broke is no money. Broke has options and choices. He’s like Tolstoy, slumming with the peasants, able to go back to his old life. So Shetterly doesn’t understand class. Class (like other oppression) is when you choose between what’s lousy and what’s worse. You don’t get to choose between upholding your principles and setting them aside. Oh hell no. You have to choose between setting down this principle or that one. Which one matters most? Choice is life and death, sometimes, and fuck if god doesn’t hide the consequences when he hands out the test, so you must choose blind and guess and hope you guess right. Choose not just for yourself, and your own life, but for other people you love, who—and this is class, squared—don’t get to choose.

Choose well. Right? Right.

I think of my grandfather, who I knew only a little. Long time ago, I read Homer, in the original, and ran across a line in class. My classmate Nick Cofod translated the line as ‘violent-handed Achilles who would not live long’. That was my grandfather, beautiful and violent-handed. Beloved and hard.

He worked himself into the grave. Three jobs. Worked as a printer laying lead type with his fingers. Chain smoked Luckies. He used to sleep during the day, between his shifts. Was a union organizer back when that could get you killed.

Went to war, took part in the D-Day invasion. He was a military policeman in France. Said that when they sat around the fire, eating their canned beans, you’d see these gleams in the firelight. Kids, hungry kids, creeping close. Orphans, feral. Nobody in his family doubted who got the beans then. He could never stand to see a kid go hungry. He was proudest of the fact that as a military policeman, he never fired his gun. He always found another way.

My family has always been strict Catholic. Back in the day, my grandmother made him fried meat on Friday and my mom asked how come. Wouldn’t that make God angry? Wouldn’t he go to hell? And my grandmother told her, “Your father works hard all day long, all week long. He needs this meat. God will understand.”

About two years after he retired to a farm in the country, he sat down at the couch to wait for lunch and died. My grandmother found him, head resting back on the couch.

He was a hard man. Violent.

But god he worked hard. He did what he had to, what he could, whatever it took, whatever the cost. Wanted to be a lawyer, work for justice. Never did.

I’d betray him if I went and got poor just to be poor. Jesus.

The whole fucking point, the pain, blood, sacrifice, hurt and hunger, that was all to get OUT. To get the family safe. Keep them safe. Whatever it takes. But when you do, you set it down, the sacrifice and pain. Until you need to take it up again. But the pain isn’t the point. The family is the point.

Doesn’t mean the pain doesn’t exist. Because it does, under the ties of family is real blood and sacrifice and soul searing heartache. But the family is the point. Yes.

And that’s what I have to say.

Further questions of a Yoji nature.

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Mon, 03 Sep 2007 20:18:12 GMT

I paced out the pages that I have drawn. It looks like I can make a printable doujinshi if I add a couple more pages, so I think I will do that. Which leads me to some Very Crucial Questions.

Supposing you would like to read a short Y/A doujinshi, what do think about the following:
Plot? Yes/No?
Explicit sex? R or NC-17? PG-13? Implied only?
Assuming yes to the question above, Yaoi tradition or something a bit less...liquid? (Not to worry, there will be NO Murakami style shots, for the love of god, but I might do something a la Dr. Ten or Zaou.)
Flowers: orchids and roses, or something else? Suggestions of a Significant Floral nature are welcome.
And finally, I'll need a name for the "doujinshi circle", aka publishing name. Ideas?

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Sun, 02 Sep 2007 13:58:37 GMT

I am doing much, much better.

I have a question. Does anyone have an album worth of music that has the feel of Tom Wait's Ol 55? I need an album-worth of that sort of absufuckinglutely gorgeous harmony/melody and gravel, bittersweet but uplifting, for a writing project wot shall remain nameless at the moment. It should have a masculine feel, like that, in some way, but female singers are fine. I don't care if it has words, or no words, or anything like that. The feel is what matters.

Big plans for today: art, ice cream, nap, play with Pookie, write on porch, read, do project, clean (hey, I'm running out of ice cream spoons).

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Fri, 31 Aug 2007 13:39:12 GMT

rzyna, I put the package in the mail! You should get it pretty soon. Sorry for the delay.

I'm feeling much better. Sleep is awesome. I have a few key plans this weekend: take Pookie to vet, eat ice cream, do laundry, play. I bought some awesome food yesterday, including a bit of buffalo steak for my new grill. *bounces*

Has anyone found any really good pens lately? I could do with some new ones. The smoother flowing, the better. I have a new story to plot out and I think I may do so on paper with pens and colors and possibly index cards, just because I adore them.

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Fri, 24 Aug 2007 17:39:08 GMT

I'm terribly behind on comments, and there are a bunch of f-list posts I want to comment on, especially art related ones and some cheering ideas I've had and so on. But I'm dead on my feet, so most will get answered on Monday, I think. Mostly, I'm planning my relaxing weekend.

I'm curious. Would anyone be interested in reading original fic? Um, especially sff flavored fic with a bit of kink, some female and male and genderswitch POV, a bit of poly, bi, slash (f as well as m), and also maybe swords, braided hair, comrades in arms, fighting with back against the wall, classic car porn, food porn, etc? I'm kind of spending this weekend noodling around a brand new notebook with some Fresh, Shiny, New Pens. It's my current clever scheme to treat myself to some comfort fic writing at the end of my study time for grad school. I mean, I'm taking cataloguing fer godsakes; also, gradschool makes me twitchy and I need to unwind. I need something restful, swashbuckling, and fun. Think girl!Yoji flavored, except not actually Yoji, obvsly. I'll be writing it anyway; mostly I'm just wondering whether I should post it, or do the editing that posting requires.

Current relaxing weekend plan: Do my hair, sketch more Soubis, paint my toenails, have a spa night, have a massage, sleep in, read fluff, play with Pookie, nap on the porch, eat my exciting new practically nightshade free potato chips, etc.

Girl!Yoji universe YA fluff.

vom.marlowe@gmail.com — Fri, 24 Aug 2007 02:25:53 GMT

My first online class was supposed to be tonight. We were to figure out the tech. The tech didn't work. I used the planned class time to cheer myself up with girl!Yoji. My current weekend plan is to finish work tomorrow, head home early, put on PJs, and spend as much time reading fluffy YA books and Y/A fic, eating heirloom tomatoes, and snoozing as is humanly possible, ideally on the porch, supervised by the Pookie, who makes Mad Eye Moody look like a slacker when it comes to Constant Vigilance.

For wedjateye, who asked me to write the next scene despite its potential sugar content and/or embarrassment factor. This is not really canon, per se. It's the scene that I've been playing through my head before falling asleep at night, and is thus perhaps a bit too id-ridden. I do have plot related stuff to write in this 'verse, I just haven't managed it yet. Feel free to not read, or skim, or what have you. It really is me just cheering myself up.

Aya point of view, about 1800 words.

Aya curled up a little closer. Yoji’s breathing was deep and soft. His eyelashes made soft fans of honey gold against his cheek. Aya leaned on one elbow and watched him sleeping.

Yoji’s jaw was subtly different. Aya didn’t think it was because he was a woman now; Aya was pretty sure it was a recent change. The line was a little softer, the edge of the jaw rounded a bit.

Aya tugged the blanket down a bit, so he could see better. Yoji made a cute little snuffling noise and snuggled deeper into the pillow. He grumbled and shifted. Aya slid the blanket down more.

Yoji’s shoulders were sleek with muscle. He could see the wings of the shoulder blades, the biker tat on his bicep, but it was as though everything were done lighter. Not softer, not really. The muscles were more slender, less defined. The hair was as soft as always, and Aya couldn’t help himself. He stroked Yoji’s nape, exposed that little arrow of hair, played with the strands.

Yoji sighed in his sleep. Aya brushed his fingers deeper into Yoji’s hair, stroked the strands back from his forehead, massaged around his ears. The earring was still there. Aya made a note to himself about it, but kept going, easing Yoji oh so gently onto his back. Aya rubbed long strokes down Yoji’s collarbone, a little under his armpits, stroking the lymph glands the way the books suggested. Yoji remained dead to the world, completely out of it as only orgasm induced slumber seemed to make him.

Aya smiled quietly to himself. He laid his hand over Yoji’s still smooth belly. The abs weren’t six pack anymore. Now they were a gentle female curve, rounding into wide hips. He stroked down and back up. Yoji’s breasts were just as gorgeous as they’d been when he’d first set eyes on them. The same creamy gold as the rest of his skin, with dusky rose nipples, wider now than they’d been at first. A bit heavier, not quite so much like those poetic firm apples. No, rounder, hanging lower with gravity. Aya weighed one in his hand, curbed his thumb over the top. Yoji shifted a little.

Aya glanced up. Green eyes watched him sleepily.

“What?” Yoji asked. His voice was low and relaxed.

Aya shook his head, but he didn’t remove his hand.

Yoji shrugged his shoulders deeper into the pillows. Then he raised one lazy hand and tugged at Aya’s hair. “I can’t believe you cut your ear tails.”

Aya laughed. It was such a Yoji thing to say. He leaned down and kissed Yoji’s nose.

“I mean it,” Yoji grumbled. “I liked them.”

“They had to go. Undercover,” Aya said.

Yoji sniffed. “Just registering my sartorial disapproval.”

“Noted.”

“You checking me out or something?” A line formed between Yoji’s eyebrows.

“Yes,” Aya said. He thumbed Yoji’s nipple again, dipped down to kiss Yoji’s breast, open mouthed and wet, licking with his tongue, sucking a bit. Yoji gasped and grabbed his hair and Aya backed off.

“Shit.” Yoji said. “Sorry. Just—” He shook his head.

“Too sore?” Aya asked.

“No.” Yoji leaned up on his elbows, looked at his own breasts. “Too weird. I’m a girl.”

Aya shrugged.

“That doesn’t bug you?”

“No.”

“You prefer me that way?”

Aya raised one eyebrow. So far Yoji had skipped all the hormone-induced terrifying emotional outbursts the books talked about. “I prefer you any way I can get you.”

Yoji rolled his eyes. “Yes, I got that speech already, thank you. A straight answer would be nice. No pun intended.”

Aya leaned down and kissed Yoji’s lips this time, open mouth, and with lots of tongue. He leaned into Yoji’s ear. “I can’t believe you’re pregnant.”

Aya nibbled at Yoji’s earring. Tomorrow, he was going shopping, for certain. Yes. “I—like that.”

Yoji jerked back, startled. “What, that I’m pregnant?”

“Oh yes.” Aya leaned in again, licked at the ear. “Very much.”

“You have a thing about this?” Yoji sounded positively horrified.

“Yes,” Aya admitted. He licked down the line of Yoji’s ear to his jaw. “Your jaw is softer. It’s the pregnancy. So lovely.”

Yoji sat up and Aya was disappointed to see him, her really, pull the blanket over his lap. Yoji reached behind him for something on the bedside table, scrabbled with his hand for a minute. “Fuck, I forgot,” Yoji muttered. “I don’t smoke anymore. Fuck.”

Aya looked down. He knew he was making Yoji uncomfortable. He hadn’t expected that. Yoji was so sexual—in every way—that Aya hadn’t really thought about anything about except how much he’d love to have a lapful of warm, eager Yoji when he got home. He should’ve known it wouldn’t be that simple. It was never simple.

Yoji shoved a stick of fruit flavored gum in his mouth and chewed aggressively for a minute, all the while staring at Aya. Finally he said, “You really do like it.”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” Yoji spit out the gum and stuck it to the bedpost. “It really doesn’t bother you.”

“What doesn’t?”

Yoji waved his hand at himself, herself. Poked his own breast. “The boobs. And stuff.”

Aya shook his head.

“They’re getting weirder,” Yoji said.

Aya cocked his head. “In what way?”

“Squishier.” He glared down at them. “Not so perky.”

Aya just leaned forward and nuzzled at Yoji’s chest. He felt Yoji smack him lightly on the back of his head. Then Yoji tugged him up. Aya closed his eyes for Yoji’s kiss. Yoji was such an amazing kisser. Not that Aya had kissed very many people. But it was probably not standard to lose brain cells. Yoji shoved him backward and Aya went gladly. Yoji was on top of him, squirming a little, kissing into his mouth, making those sounds.

“Did you just whimper?” Yoji asked.

Aya leaned up and licked Yoji’s jaw.

“Guess that means you did,” Yoji said. He didn’t look concerned anymore. Aya was glad. He liked his Yoji sleepy and dangerous.

Yoji grabbed Aya’s hair and held him still. Aya let himself be kissed. He found himself wrapping his legs around Yoji’s back, trying to tug him close.

Yoji breathed the words a few inches away. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were begging to be fucked, Aya.”

Aya heard himself whimper.

Yoji grinned, then the smile turned wry. “Sorry about that, baby. I don’t have the right equipment anymore.”

Yoji bit his neck and Aya closed his eyes. He ran his hands down Yoji’s hips, felt that round swell of hips, the lovely lush ass, wrapped his legs tighter and angled them, arching his own hips up. “You could get some,” Aya panted.

Yoji quit biting his neck, so Aya tugged him even closer. When that didn’t work, Aya opened his eyes.

Yoji was staring at him, wide eyed. “What?”

Aya shivered and looked away. “Never mind.”

“No….” Yoji said, drawling the word out like it went on forever. “I don’t think so. Are you saying you would like me to?”

Aya shut his eyes and shivered some more.

Yoji kissed him, gently at first and then full tongue, holding his hair too tight, using his teeth on Aya’s lips in quick, gentle bites, until Aya was panting. Then he stopped. Yoji licked his ear this time, and then sat up. “I’d dearly love to fuck you, Aya.”

Aya stared at Yoji. Yoji sat on him, with Aya’s dick nestled against his ass, comfortable as though he was sitting in an armchair. “You would?”

“Oh yes.”

Aya blinked. He could feel himself blushing. “I like you very much the way you are, Yoji.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Yoji crossed his arms on his chest. It looked a good deal sexier with the breasts than it used it to without. “But I used to be a guy. Fucking is…me fucking you.”

Aya nodded. “I fell in love with you, when you were a man,” he said quietly. “I would love—I always wanted…”

Yoji nodded. “Yeah, but then came the Takatoris and poof, no more Yoji-dick.”

Aya nodded, dazed.

“But not today, baby.” Yoji hopped out of bed.

Aya sat up in confusion. “What?”

“I’m starving.” Yoji picked up some pants from the floor and tugged them on. “Shit. Do you have any idea how much of a pain underwires are? Jesus. Who the fuck invented them? Torture devices, I’m telling you.”

“Perhaps…some without the wires?” Aya suggested, at a loss.

“No. The ones without are worse, if you can believe it.” Yoji whipped the inside out bra around his chest at lightning speed, clasped it, whirled it around and tugged the straps up. “Aya! Come on, I’m dying here.”

Aya searched for his own pants. While he looked, Yoji tossed a pair of black pants at his head. He caught them. They seemed a bit short.

“Aya. Before I keel over.”

Aya tugged on the pants. His flagging erection was obvious and the pants ended at the knees.

“They’re capris,” Yoji said impatiently. “Food, Aya. Now.”

If this was the Kudoh version of mood swings, it was a major improvement over the descriptions in the pregnancy books. He picked up his wallet and keys and ran out the door. Yoji was just disappearing down the stairs. Sex, it appeared, was off the menu at the moment.

“Hey Omi,” Aya heard faintly from down the hall. “Is that fruit stand open nights?”

Aya sighed. The fruit stand wasn’t, but the specialty grocery with the organic produce might be. Good thing he’d made a comprehensive list with locations and hours of major cuisines and where to find them and stuffed it in the glove comparment, just in case.