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one_moon_cat

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Training Camp, pt. 1 [Sep. 4th, 2012|11:30 am]
one_moon_cat
[Tags|, , , ]
[mood |geekygeeky]
[music |Disturbed: Intoxicated]

Training Camp , pt.1

Written as a Scrabble fic challenge (my best friend and I play Scrabble, then take down all the words to a Scrabble game, then have to write a short or introduction to a fic using all of said words).
Rating: MA
Fandom(s): Nolan-verse TDKR
Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine. Verse is not mine. Actions, accents, and ideas of characters are.
Songs written to: Been Awhile; Staind, & Headstrong; Trapt

Walk, sunshine.Collapse )
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(no subject) [Aug. 11th, 2012|06:19 pm]
one_moon_cat
[Tags|]
[mood |enthralledenthralled]
[music |Marilyn Manson: This Is Halloween]

ya, woman, what d'you think i'm gonna do? realleh. realleh. dahn't bayt ze behr. dahn't, not unless y's know whatcha in fer...
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(no subject) [Jul. 21st, 2012|02:57 pm]
one_moon_cat
[Tags|, ]
[mood |predatorypredatory]

OH NO, DO NOT TRY TO FUCK WITH ME TODAY. THIS IS A BAD DAY TO FUCK WITH ME, SUNSHINE.
SUNSHINE, GET YOUR PRETTY LITTLE ASS THE HELL OUT OF MY FUCKING SIGHT.
BEFORE I TAKE YOUR BLOODY NECK AND TWIST IT SO FAR AROUND YOU ARE GOING TO BE LOOKING AT YOUR OWN ASS THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.

GET. OUT. OF. MY. CITY.

GET. OUT. OF. MY. CITY.

AND ALL YOUR FUCKING PONCEY FRIENDS IN TIGHTS TOO. GET THE FUCK OUT OF THIS. THIS IS MINE NOW. THIS IS NO LONGER YOUR HOME. DO YOU HEAR ME? THE FUCKING KING OF THE GYPSIES HAS COME HOME TO ROOST. AND THIS IS THE ROOST I CLAIM. NOW: GET. THE. FUCK. OUT...
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(no subject) [Jul. 21st, 2012|02:11 pm]
one_moon_cat
[Tags|, , ]
[mood |predatorypredatory]

Some bitch tending this bar. Nowhere near fast enough. Fuck that shit.
Sweetheart, get a fuckin' move on, whyn't'cha?
She turned, irritation writ large, mouth opening to snap some bullshit back at whoever the fuck he thought he was, daring to speak to her like that.
The stupidity of people. Always thinking they're so bloody safe. Accustomed to patterns, accustomed to ruling their own little world. She's got a bug up her ass here, this shitty little bar, thinks she's the fuckin' Queen of Prussia in this rat hole. Not so fuckin' fast. Not so fuckin' fast at all.
Think twice about whatever you're plannin' to say, bitch, I'm very damn fuckin' thirsty, and you're one step away from bein' a snack on the step to dinner for me, I want that bottle, and while you're at it, might wanna give me the key to your flat.
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(no subject) [Jun. 10th, 2012|03:57 pm]
one_moon_cat
[mood |pensivepensive]

Drabble. JP. IM/ES/AG. Not mine. Nice to play with.
I have absolutely no idea where this came from. It meant to be something else entirely.


Seriously, he drawled, stretching out even more, reaching for the bottle across from them, Even if you don't want to think about it, don't you think about having kids? She blinked, startled out of the cheerfully tipsy haze they all three had settled into. Pouring shots all round, he extended them, then, raising an eyebrow - But I interrupt myself, it's your toast, buddy. With a sigh, crinkled eyebrows, and a stretch, their other half sat up. To the future, since Ian's got that look says we're all gonna need a couple more, Alan,sitting back in his chair, a wry little grin. But, no, dude, I was, you know, uh, well, we know SHE wants 'em, don't you babe? Ellie, tossing back the tequila, making a face. You don't always have to sound like that. YOU have THREE. Ian, nodding, then seriously, replies. And why do you think I'm in a tiny little apartment? Uh, was in one, before, you know, I moved in, you know, why do you think we have solar panels and shit? It's Alan seizes the bottle this time, pours, drinks, pours, sighs. Ian, we get it, but really... Ian, shifting from intense to pissy now, fervent on his tirade. No, you don't get it, man, you don't. Even if we wired the whole fucking block for solar, you wouldn't get it. There is no way I can responsibly make sure my kids are still gonna have clean water when they're legal to fuckin' drink. And I can't say I wish I hadn't, cause I don't, but fuck, we need to think about this shit, dude. Alan, calmer now, rolling papers, passing the lighter to Ian. Who sighs. Alan, talking, slow but certain. I can't think about it, Ian, it makes me pissed and upset and I can't do a damn thing about it, not more than I am, and yes I know that's not fucking enough! Why do you think I'm not having kids? Eliie's upset, it's in the line of her neck, in her shoulders. So you'd have made me go elsewhere? Ian, rubbing her back, slowly tracing the curve of her ear, trying to bring her back from where ever it is she goes when she thinks about how much she wants and how unlikely it is that she'll get these things. Ellie, honey, I mean, I'm pretty fuckin' much irresponsible already... Ellie, pissy now, not just sad, snaps back at him. I'm aware you're a fucking fertility god, Malcolm! I don't think that's going to help! You know I can't! She has said the one minefield they all try to avoid, after Nublar, after Sorna. Ellie is not in a position where she, ex- or future- Mrs. Anyone, can have her own. You know, Ellie, Ian replies, pulling her in - she goes, she always goes, no matter which one reaches for her, as they spent too long not holding on at all - Ellie. You know, I have three kids, and one of them's kinda adrift, girl... Alan's eyes widen, and for a minute he thinks he might scream. We can't! Ian Ian shoots him a dirty look. Ellie, I was thinkin', maybe my kid needs another dad and a momma who ain't gonna ditch him for the ends of the earth.

Aw, hell, Alan remarks, breaking the silence that has fallen. Ian, please, please tell me your kid's not nearly as impetuous and annoying as you?
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(no subject) [Jun. 3rd, 2012|06:06 pm]
one_moon_cat
[mood |geekygeeky]

Ian, Alan sighs, wondering why he answers, wondering why he listens... But not really. Wondering, somewhere in the fog of sleep, why neither of them have asked these questions. Sure, there was trauma, sure, there was near death. And all the perjorative words, experiences, and fame that accompanies this, this... Well, this whatever-it-was, and Alan was sure Ian'd have a better way to put it, for outsiders.
Not so much for them. Ellie's taken to sleeping, when she does, in the lab, and Alan would ask why, except he understands more than he'd like to. Somehow, the dire consequences of possibly mutated flesh-eating bacteria seems almost comforting in stark relief to the horrors they've seen - and seen too many, yea, more than too many times.
And Ian's on the other end of the phone again. Sometimes Alan wonders what future, normal or slightly so, there can possibly be for any of them, now.
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part two... ///definitions/// [Mar. 22nd, 2012|03:29 pm]
one_moon_cat
[mood |contemplativecontemplative]
[music |laramie - indigo girls]

Definitions, part 2. JP1 semi-AU, AG/IM.

Disclaimer: The men aren't mine. Will never be mine. Would be quite a handful if they were. The characters aren't mine either. Many thanks for the dabbling & play in these quasiverses.

..."Shut up, Alan", Ian muttered, reaching over for Alan's half-drink and downing it. "Until we want to start gropin' the... What?" Alan was looking at him, a peculiar expression on his face, crinkled eyes roving up and down Ian's angles and planes, settling (Oh, crazy man, Ian thought, he's not staring at your mouth) sometimes on his lips only to skate away again and stare at - Ah. Alan, waving at the bar kid, frantically it seemed. "What?" "You drank my drink!" "I - " Ian started, then blinked. THIS was the source of the excitement? Man. "Major downer." "What? Yes. It was mine!" "They taste like shit anyway." "Well, too bad", Alan rejoindered triumphantly as the bar kid brought over a fucking pitcher of whatever-it-was-was-their-drink. Alan, pouring for both of them, looking bothered by the way Ian saluted him over the rim of the glass. "What did you start saying, awhile back, anyway?" Ian raised an eyebrow. Slowly. Ran his tongue across his lips, mostly to wet them, partly to watch and see if this had any effect on the other man. It did, rather. Alan swallowed, looked away, looked around, looked back, set his jaw. Then affected a bored expression. "Oh... what our problem, you know, our, our problem, is." Alan eyed him, almost predatory now, the new drink seeming to have strengthened some resolve, maybe some hormonal resolution, maybe nothing more than the invincible feeling that sometimes comes after a damn good shot. This, however, was still quite an interesting change from Alan's often-befuddled expression, and Ian was of the opinion (if anyone had bothered to ask him, which they hadn't) that it was a welcome change.


"Do you ever take off that hat?" Ian's next cheerfully pissy remark came as quite a surprise, possibly to both of them. "I mean. Um, I mean -" Alan leaned over, across the table, as Ian leaned over to match this, Mirroring, or mimicking, behavior is commonly seen in both the animal world as something done as a precursor to mating and in the natural world on the more elemental level of self-symmetry, as observed in fractal states the tape in his head somehow continued on, licking his lips again, wondering in a different detached part of his brain if this was all that intentional - he's always been the touchy one, whereas Alan shies away from most any physical human contact. Alan, almost nose to nose with Ian now, low, definitely the wrong tone of voice for what comes next: "Do you really have THAT MUCH of a problem with MY HAT?" "You - you; you sleep in it!" "SO? It's a behavior, based on circumstance, what with always being in the damn desert." Ian's never really heard Alan use Big Words that aren't related to genus or species, and this is such a fucking turn-on that he's rather momentarily unable to speak for the rush of heat through him, some primal impulse that also sends his hand, of its own accord, to the brink of Alan's damn hat. "And what, or, in what, umm, what would have to be the right circumstances for you to take it off? Mmm; the hat, for you to take the hat off".
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I did say I'd start posting this if it decided to go somewhere... [Mar. 22nd, 2012|09:29 am]
one_moon_cat
[mood |nerdynerdy]
[music |pj harvey: the whores hustle & the hustlers whore]

{Note: I have forgotten, through inaction, how to cut-tag things. However, I am also beginning to be fairly sure I am one of 3 people on the planet who still uses LJ, so I may be apologizing for this clumsiness only to myself.}

Definitions

JP1; AG/IM. Slightly AU, canon manip for location and timing.
Probably eventually going to be more than PG. {Oh, who am I kidding? They're doing it like bunnies inside my head.}

"Now see", Ian says almost crossly, sitting up straighter and making a face as he downs the rest of the drink Alan's insisted that they have - Ian told him to order, this time, as Alan has started fussing about only drinking Jameson. Which Ian sees - has never seen - anything, nothing, wrong with, but you meet at the same Austin bar three times inside of a week when it's been - six months? God, that's - Long time, yet as if yesterday; Ian's leg can still foretell rain four days out; bet Lorenz didn't have that fucked-up a tool to aid him in his plans and experiments! - but, the fact remains, Alan'd had an unexpected layover and needed somewhere to crash. Ian, having sent Sarah off to Africa none too recently, and none too soon, was wanting for arguments and some other presence in the house. He almost got a cat, but they seem to have a habit of staying in the refrigerator, and anyway, nothing was sure, ESPECIALLY the house, with the route he'd finally decided to go... But anyway.

Ian had been rather rudely awakened from a very nice dream by the damn phone, and, figuring he might as well express his displeasure with whoever was calling, had answered. To find Alan -Alan! Using a phone!- on the other end, saying some shit about "bad weather" and "unexplained atmospheric bullshit" and "in town". Well. Ian, well, he'd told the damn man to get a taxi and stay on the couch. Of course, they'd immediately gone out for a drink, spent the next hour (to neither's surprise) arguing, gotten kicked out well past closing time, spent the taxi ride back to Ian's arguing some more, then gotten into a bottle once back. Waking up the next day; Ian not having made it to his room and his bed but sprawled loose-limbed and somewhat distorted across the recliner, Alan confused at first as to WHY he was sleeping on the couch, and WHAT had happened to HIS couch -black leather!- before seeing each other. This had resulted, with much eloquence, in Alan's "Hey", and Ian's response of "Just so you don't touch my computer!".

Two days turned into a week. They kept going to the bar, either to finish an argument or when they needed a new one. Ian finally told Alan to stop behaving like he was on the dig, instead of suspended in some strange Austin-Ian-city inertia and to take a bloody bath, already. Alan was subsequently horrified to only find a huge clawfoot tub -"No shower, Ian?" "Excuse me if I prefer the sensation of being somewhat cocooned" - but complied, grumbling all the while.

And now Ian had let Alan go ahead and order the drinks for the night. "I'm a bloody pushover", he muttered, mostly to himself, or the table. Alan was explaining, with gestures presumably to help explain, exactly what he wanted next to the poor bartending kid. He never would have let Alan do this, had he known the man was so bloody fond of cherry brandy. But at least the kid at the bar knew how to mix 'em strong.

"Yeah?" Alan, distracted by Ian, or more assuredly by Ian's empty glass, had gone over to explain, particularly, to the bartender. "Dude, any more cherries, and I'll be a freakin' virgin", Ian muttered. Alan eyed him, a bit longer than necessary. This didn't seem like the most likely analogy for Ian, even with his cheerful demeanor, after all, there was all that leather. And, or so Alan had been told, everyone loved the dark-and-brooding-Poe-and-Icon-type. Right? Not that he... Well, not that he. At all. "You aren't, hunh?" "No, big shot, I'm a freakin' rockstar, doncha know?" "Yeah, but... as I remember...as to that rock star theory...unless it's all about going hella fast and screechin' like a girl..." "Shut up, Alan", Ian muttered, for what felt like the umpteenth time. Looking around for a new drink, or at least the dregs of an old one.
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(no subject) [Mar. 16th, 2012|09:12 am]
one_moon_cat
[mood |flirtyflirty]
[music |whiskey bar - jim morrison]

Well, he said, eyeing her, not too far apart. I think, ah, maybe you're... Well. Um. If you would, would like, the idea?
She stared right back, not giving an inch. Oh, this was going to be fun. Apparantly he was going to have to come right out and say it.
I, I'm not sure if you know, but, well. The whole Method thing? Not exactly just a thing?
She groaned, shook her head, moved right close up to him, head tilted back to see his face. If this is Malcolm, then where'd his balls go? A laugh jerked out of him; startled. I actually know what you're talking about...and yeah...there are rumors to that, anyway. She was grinning now, hands running over his hips, his belly. This was making it difficult to keep any form of perspective on the situation. So why the hell are you just standing there? I can stop. And stop she did, twisting away, face mixed exasperation, arousal, worry. He found his voice. I'm ... No. You gotta see, if Malcolm decides to go Malcolm, well, it's gonna be pretty intense. Now you're starting to sound slightly schizo. He blinked. I don't mean it like that, uh, just... Well. Yes. I would like to go Malcolm, uh, here. She grinned then, looking around the kitchen. Raised an eyebrow. Here? He was next to her in a second, pulling her against him, predatory. Yes. And - well. Possibly so. Leaning over now, her back to his front, he bit the shell of her ear, harder than maybe you'd expect for an initial exploration, then at the noise she made, bit again, still roughly. She seemed to melt back against him, molding to the planes and bones of him, curves, sex...Let me guess, her voice less than steady, no foreplay before breakfast?
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(no subject) [Mar. 14th, 2012|04:57 pm]
one_moon_cat
[mood |mischievousmischievous]
[music |soul kitchen - jim morrison]

Yeah, I like it,, he muttered, long fingers turning the glass first one way, then the other, swirling the dark liquid against the light coming in through a window. Is there some reason I shouldn't? Are you in the habit of - -he trailed off, watching her move, amongst the surroundings, she seemed just so damn secure. Like playing house for a couple weeks, in this big old monstrosity, somewhere in the colder (Ha, he thought, trying not to show it, so many times over, they're lucky they got me when they did, and, well, got me, or the Malcolm myth - well, one of twenty - would so be over, as cold as it'd been...) parts of the highlands here, a structure no doubt left over from some failed or abandoned colonization attempt... And Steve, sensing the rapture that so often accompanies the creation of myth, had played on it, ah yes to a tee, offering up a lottery of rooms available in the actual house, the house they were going to use to shoot the John scenes, and why not? So many of them had jumped on it, but in the end, as lotteries so often are, it was a strange mash indeed. One sound guy, himself, Vince, this short and tenacious makeup chick, and one of the women who seemed to be attached, in some way, to one of the unpaid lackeys always hanging around sets. Ah well. It was what it was... But anyway, nevermind that now, he'd been unable to sleep and as such had wandered downstairs. From the day they all moved in he wondered who'd taken over the kitchen, but since it seemed to result in interesting things and a constantly stocked bar, he hadn't found it in himself to complain. Also, it smelled good, like tarts or so on. He had realized that his room happened to share a vent with the oven, which solved that question, at least. But he was having no luck at all getting interested in the molecular components of what he smelled, and for him, that was a Problem. A Big Problem. A Big Fucking Problem. Being Method, after all, it should be happening. As should the rockstar legions following him. As should the occasional crackpot. And...nothing. So it was three in the morning, and he'd wandered downstairs, lured closer as he came by the scent of slight burned raspberries and the sound of Patti Smith. She drew a lot, you know? Upon entering the kitchen, he'd felt like an intruder, a bit. The girl was cleaning a counter and drinking something amber, cheeks flushed from heat or alcohol or exertion, moving like she owned the place. He envied that, but at the same time, he'd thought - you were clumsy on set - She'd stopped, paused, gestures a little extravagrant from the booze, and looked at him, sizing him up. And maybe I am, but that's a hell of a way to meet the chick who's been feeding you sugar for a week, eh? He was horrified that this had come out of him, and as such - Uh. I'm sorry. I - I - I'm not sleeping well. I'm sorry. I'll, I'll, go... She looked at him again, and he could have sworn with total exasperation. But he was distracted - was it actually warm enough in here? - and there was a tiny bead of sweat running from her collarbone to her chest... Uh. Her chest. Right. Hello, Malcolm. There you are, at last. Great time to find the Method. Damn it. And how are you going to sleep if you just turn around and go? Maybe you should have a drink with me first? He nodded, then, I came down to see if we had, uh, any whiskey. Stupid move! Oh so dumb. Way to go. Uh, any, well, Jameson. She rolled her eyes. Went to the bar, shook out ice from the freezer on her way over, poured into a glass. This is the twelve-year. I figure, they give me money to stock the bar, might as well, eh? He took it from her, toasted her. Tried not to eyeball her chest - just yet. Maybe in another or two. So what do you think? Her voice, amused somehow, faint lilts of sounds he knew already, a rich undercurrent in it that seemed less drink and more...well. Well, more sex, really, but he wasn't entirely sure of that yet...
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