Yeah, this is Sawyer. Not here, probably on an island. Leave a message, and I'll get back to ya when I can.

(( You thought I was done with my nickname-fetish?  HAH. ))

James isn't Sawyer any longer.  He hasn't been for a while, truth be told, especially not since the island started skipping like a goddamn scratched record.  Probably not for a good time before that, too.  Juliet had never called him Sawyer, and Locke had one day decided to fixate on his actual Christian name, like the annoying ass he sometimes was.  The kids from the freighter, even, had flucuated 'tween James and Sawyer until they gave in and called him just what the others had been.

But he definitely isn't Sawyer, and he knows that 'cause of his Dharma jumpsuit.  Okay, it ain't like it says his real name in the stitched embroidery on the pocket, but LeFleur is a sight closer to Ford than Sawyer.  He likes LeFleur.  It's different, it ain't got no connotations to it except what James gives it.  He never went in for fake names during grifts, leastwise other than Sawyer, but James fits right into the idea of Jim LeFleur. 

It's new, it's different, but it suits him.  He's done with Sawyer, with the idea of the man, and he never really was a Ford.  But LeFleur, head of security for the Dharma Initiative, LeFleur, who comes home ta the goddamn beautiful Juliet, LeFleur, captain of a salvage ship?  Yeah, that'll do.  Very fuckin' nicely.

(( I had been noticing all season that no one had called Sawyer ... "Sawyer".  I want to see if the Oceanic 6 do, and how James reacts to that, because I think Kate and Jack, at least, think of him as Sawyer, but James seems to have finally successfully distanced himself from that, which is awesome. ))

You Are Fearless

You have great dreams and unrelenting ambition. You go for what you want, and it's hard to deter you. You are incredibly competent and intelligent. You've had a very high success rate in your life. You tend to dominate people. You have a very strong personality, and others tend to heed to your demands. You're confident enough to be considered arrogant. You tend to think of other people in terms of what they can do for you.

You Are Made Of Flair, Sweetness, and Impishness

3 parts Flair 2 parts Sweetness 1 part Impishness And a Splash of Fascination Finish off with a little umbrella and straw

Shit, I hate th' things that just ask fer your name or somethin'. A name don't mean nothin'.

James left a lot of things up for interpretation, secure in the knowledge that people would take it the wrong way. He had never said the necklaces were real, never straight up admitted to stealing them from a jewelry store. That's how the best games went down. Weren't like you ever right out said things were the way you wanted them to believe they were. Took away the power from the mark, that did. You wanted them to connect the dots, wanted them to think you were a little dull, a little too honest, even if you were obviously all crooked-like. It was impossible to con an honest man (but luckily James were pretty sure they didn't exist), but it was sometimes ridiculously easy ta find someone willing to believe that th' shiny piece of glass on the busted up goldish ring was a real goddamn diamond, big as yer eye, that James was awful sorry to have to sell, really torn up about it, but sometimes shit just got thrown your way, fuck, it's worth somethin' near a hundred thousand, but he just needed bail, right then, right now, so maybe a few thousand, what do you say?

( It worked, because people were saps. )

3. FIVE times you played games and one time stood back


1.  $150,000

2.  $390,000

3.  $45,000

4.  $165,000

5.  $19,048

And a broken collarbone when I said I wouldn't do it

James rubbed his eyes with one hand as he fumbled with his key in the lock with the other. Motherfuck me, he thought, coming home from a long day of decidedly not seeing Clem and, instead, starting to slowly wrangle his way into his latest grift, trying vainly to distract himself with the speed of the chase.  All he needed now, James had long since decided, was just a tall, cold glass of --

"Shawn fuckin' Spencer?"

James stopped short, one shoe off, the other about to be toed off, as he stared into his living room, where one fake psychic detective was lounging on his couch, feet up on the oak coffee table littered with more than a few empty beer cans, and a weird-ass, colorful video game taking up James's large television screen.

Shawn twisted in his seat, craning his neck back and grinning upside-down at James.  "Hi!"  He gestured with the Wii-mote in his hand.  "Your TV is way better for the Wii, dude."

"What the fuck."  James stepped out of his shoes, then, shrugging off his suit jacket and habitually hanging it on the hook by the door.  "How the fuck -- why are you -- how did ya get in here, Spencer?"

Shawn shrugged, looking back at the television and swinging his arm in time with the little bobble headed, tennis-playing Shawn on the screen.  "One of your upstairs windows was unlocked."  As if that was all the information James needed, as if it was perfectly normal to find the other man in his home -- and while, okay, it was more normal than James ever wanted it to be, it wasn't welcome.  Especially not after a day like he had.

"Why are you here?"  James asked gruffly, moving into the living room proper, his glare weakened by the distraction of the Wii tennis game taking place on his tv.  He watched the two Shawns play against some random NPCs for a moment, then glanced expectantly over at Shawn.

Spencer shrugged again, a wide smile creasing his face.  "Like I said, dude.  Your TV is great."

He stared at Shawn for another few seconds, then James shook his head.  "I need a beer."  Then, his gaze dropped to the beer can covered coffee table and James scowled.  "You drank all my fucking beer?"

"No, dude!  Well, kind of.  But I brought some with me!"  Shawn jerked a thumb toward the kitchen, in a conjoining room. "But yours was already in the fridge, already cold, so I drank yours first!  It's totally a good trade."

James didn't even bother shooting Shawn a death glare this time, instead just walking toward the kitchen and heaving the avocado fridge door open.

"What the fuck, Spencer!"

Clutching an amber colored bottle of beer, James stormed back toward the couch, where Shawn craned his neck again to smile beatifically at the older man.  "You bought light beer?"

"It's healthy!"  His tennis game now done, Shawn lifted two thumbs-ups at James, then patted the couch cushion next to him.  "Like, no calories, and you can barely taste the difference.  You should be grateful I downed all those fatty ones first, dude."

James counted to five, then cracked the beer open and walked around the couch to slump next to Shawn.

"Spencer, why the fuck are you here?"

The psychic opened his mouth, then abruptly snapped it closed in response to James's true death-glare directed at him.

"Dude, fine.  Lassie-pants kicked me out.  Just a little."  Shawn made a face, sticking his tongue out and slouching.  "All, 'I need peace and quiet, I need to 'work,' can't you go amuse yourself for a day or two,'" Shawn mocked, his voice going squeaky as his fingers twitched in exaggerated quotation marks.  He shook his head.  "He just needs his space, I guess, whatever.  Quiet, private guy.  We're okay and all, but whatever.  You do have a nice TV."

They stared at the Mii Plaza for a few moments, James wondering just what the hell he was supposed to do in this situation.  Ask why Shawn had drove all the way to L.A. to give Lassiter his space, when Shawn had plenty of friends with probably nice TVs and comfortable couches in Santa Barbara?  Ask if Shawn and Lassiter really were okay, if Shawn wanted to talk about it, if they should go out to a bar or something?  Fuck.

"Dude, do you want to make a Mii?"  Shawn pushed another Wii-mote into James's hands, grinning over at him, eyebrows raised expectantly.

A few hours later, after a rousing boxing match or five, James sat heavily back onto the couch, taking a long, grateful swig of his disgustingly light beer.  He grinned, wiping sweaty palms on his jeans.

Shawn echoed James's move, sitting next to the other man and taking the beer bottle out of his hand.  Shawn finished the beer and then stretched, leaning his head back on the worn, red material of the couch.  They both breathed companionably for a few moments, catching their breath and, in James's case, their dignity from being battered into the mat so completely.

Shawn rested his head on James shoulder, chuckling.  "Jesus, man, I would've thought fighting a polar bear would've prepared you for the likes of me."

James grinned, reaching an arm around Shawn and resting it easily along the line of the other man's shoulders.  "That weren't boxing.  I just shot it.  Bet I could shoot you pretty good."

Shawn smirked and just shook his head.  The two rested there, forgetting the trials of their days and bickering amiably about what game to try next.

(( Since we never quite finished our shopping-for-Clementine thread, fever_crusade, and I think it might be way too long ago now to restart it, this is my offer for what happened after they finally got out of bed. Up to you if this is canon or not. ))

</span>"Baby, it's cold outside," James crooned, grinning widely over at Martha as they relaxed on a bench, each holding a hot caffeinated beverage, a bright bag of goodies resting between James's knees on the tiled mall floor.

Martha responded simply by raising her eyebrows and directly a wry grin at the younger man, who didn't seem daunted by the silent response.

"Nah, Red, that's yer cue ta say, 'I really can't stay,' or at least ta agree with, say, 'Th' weather outside is frightful.' "

"You're just spoiled by your Californian weather," Martha said warmly, taking a long drink of her mocha. "This isn't that bad."

"Which is why we're stayin' longer than we needta? I know it ain't 'cause yer waitin' fer me ta convince ya ta strap on some ice skates and goin' arm in arm with me on that rink down there." James raised his chin to indicate the indoor skating rink down a ways, visible from the wooden bench they had appropriated. He rested his latte on his knee, holding it steady with one hand. His other arm was stretched comfortably behind the woman, tapping out an unindentifiable rhythm with his fingers.

Resting her head against James's arm, Martha set her empty, paper coffee cup to her side, leaving a hand free to rest tantalizing on her thigh. "Sure that's not what I'm waiting for?"

James grinned, moving his arm, now, to wrap more securely around the woman's shoulders. "I would've thunk you were too damn tired fer more rigorous physical activity."

She chuckled, a warm throaty sound that James knew he could fall in love with. "I'm sure Clementine will love what you got her."

In the bag guarded by James's sneakered feet, there rested a soft, sparkly stuffed unicorn, an ornately costumed Japanese princess doll and, because James had insisted that his little girl was gonna at least be part tomboy, a mighty realistic lookin' cap pistol.  James were already looking forward to Christmas now, something he hadn't really felt for a damn too long.  He wanted to see his little girl's smile, caused by the presents Martha had helped choose.  Plus, since he was sure, as well, that Clem would love them, James wouldn't mind seeing Cassidy's scowl turn to an honest appreciation, for once.

He nodded, holding Martha closer for a moment afore releasing his tighter grip.  "Me too, Red. I think it'll be a mighty fine Christmas."

He heard Martha sigh quietly, happily, in agreement.  She raised her hand to twine her fingers with his, resting on her shoulder, and James smiled.  This scene, right here, must've looked almost perfect to anyone on th' outside.  The smell of pine drifted down from the long garlands twined around store displays and hanging from the ornate rafters lining the roof of the mall's main walkway.  Chatter and laughter bounced off the storefronts as people bustled by, carrying bags upon bags of presents and wholly unnecessary purchases.  And there he was, with Martha in his arms, a content smile on his face.  This was real nice.

It weren't anything James had ever expected to have -- hell, he still didn't really have it, as this wasn't permanent or real or anything -- but it was nice to pretend, once in a while, that he had something of a normal life.  That he could go to the mall with a gorgeous, sexy lady, shop for his way too adorable young daughter for Christmas, and just be.  And then, ya know, probably go back to having some really damn good sex afterwards.

(( This is a_georgia_peach's response for my </span>open snuggle meme. This is canon in the Oceanic 6 verse only if Savannah!mun wishes it to be so. ))

James opened his eyes slowly, grinnin' afore he was even rightly awake as he saw the tousled head of dark chocolate colored hair strewn 'cross the pillow next ta his.  Mm, pillows.  God damn, James loved New Otherton.  And Kate was --

Wait a fuck.

He stiffened slightly, although he didn't pull his arm away from where it was around the girl's waist.  The girl snuggled next to him, her long brown hair smellin' good, like spices and cinnamon, but nothin' like Kate ever smelled like.  Her body, too, was softer than Kate's -- she weren't fat or anything, but just not as toned and lean as a girl livin' on a desert island for ten or twelve weeks. 

His mind still racin', James pushed his nose inta the girl's hair, smellin' and tryin' ta remember just what happened last night.  He could see the nighstand in the room -- hotel room, it looked like.  Definitely not New Otherton.  Of course it weren't, since he had left th' island a good long time ago, he was in Hawaii, they had landed and been reunited with their friends and family, and oh yeah.

Savannah took that opportunity, as if she knew James had kinda just remembered who it was in his bed, ta turn around and face him, smiling sleepily through her tousled locks.

"Mornin', darlin'," she said warmly, although James detected a little hesitance in her hunched shoulders and flushed cheeks.

He took his time respondin' vocally, instead tightenin' his hold 'round her waist with one arm, and brushing her hair offa her face with his free hand.  Restin' his forehead against hers, James closed his eyes and revelled in th' fact of Savannah fer a moment, thankin' the stars for gettin' him off that island, back to civilization, and back where women could, in fact, be really fuckin' sane.

He opened his eyes, smiling gently at her, dimples marking his cheeks as he kissed her own cheek.  "Good morning ta you, beautiful."

1. What gender of character do you play more of, male or female? Why?
Male. I don't know why, but I just tend to be interested by the male characters I run across. I can't seem to identify a female character that I really connect to and want to explore.

2. Is this different or the same as your own gender?
Different.

3. Do you find that your gender makes it easier or more challenging to play your characters?
Well, I guess more challenging, since I'm a woman. But I'd like to think I play convincing men.
( Read more... )

Because everyone can use a snuggle now and again.

If your muse has ever wanted a good snuggle/cuddle/hug with my muse, comment here.

I'll write at least 250 words with the pairing [unless brevity strikes]. Every fic will, by default, be fanfiction a la not happening in RPland. But I prefer to write stuff with context, so by all means request stuff in-verse. Any suggestions, be they prompt, song, or even just a guideline [platonic v romantic] etc, etc greatly appreciated. I can hopefully guarantee one per person but if you have more than one request by all means don't hold back.


The list:

complicatedguy- James "Sawyer" Ford, LOST
always_pooping- Paulo, LOST
silent4_40days- Mr. Eko, LOST
m_f4rr3ll - Matt Farrell, Live Free or Die Hard
imthedeadone- Fred Weasley, Harry Potter


I'm pretty sure I'm not forgetting anyone...

If you choose Paulo, be prepared for stupid humor/sandy zombie hugs/whatever.

In response to dial_a_psychic's post about a lovely custom shirt delivered to Sawyer.

--

The box was waiting on Sawyer's doorstep. It had the familiar markings and stamps indicating that it had been forwarded from the damn fanmail address Oceanic had set up for all of them. The officials there went through all the crap sent to the Six, disposing of the illegal shit, like underage naked shots and drugs, and the annoying crap, like people trying to weasel the "truth" out of the "conspirators."

This box, though, had clearly made it past the checks and so it was assumed safe for James ta open it and so he did, although not with a little trepidation. The idiots at Oceanic had still forwarded lots of annoying crap to James, like a bobblehead shaped like yours truly, more'n a dozen bouquets of rotting and disgusting flowers, and worse.

This, though? This might take the damned DHARMA cake.

James stared down at the bright material folded in the cardboard box. Fuck. He knew what this was, even if he really didn't want to.

Pulling the shirt out, James sighed as he saw the big Wikipedia logo, with the words "Wiki-Man" proudly emblazoned on under it. Stupid fuckin' "psychic."

As if summoned by the curse, James then noticed the attached note, which admonished James's lack of belief in "psychicness" with a snarky tone, and ended with "*h's + k's*,"  which James could only assume meant hugs and kisses.

Son of a bitch.

James's fingers itched for a cigarette, for the comfort of somethin' to do with his hands and his lips, somethin' completely different from what he really wanted ta do.  Something destructive and awful, something leading to death, somethin' he wouldn't mind taking him right now.

He leaned against a chainklink fence, hazy blue eyes barely focused on the clean, eggshell white building afore him.  Cars filled the parking lot.  They had arrived about forty, forty-five minutes ago, and James had seen them all.  He had seen the darkly clothed women and men, confused children, and veiled relatives step out of the cars and make their way inside, not a one of them noticing the man in faded jeans and green flannel across the street.

He couldn't go in.  Anyway, it was too late now.  The service was most likely done, the friends and families and acquaintences and nobodies mingling awkwardly, some trying not to cry, some weeping too loudly.  James didn't want to go in and take part.

( Bowing his head, James felt like shit. )

Three men can keep a secret, if two of them are dead.
Benjamin Franklin, Poor Richard's Almanack.

---

Frank Duckett was dead. So there was one down.

James might have told a small fib when he assured Savannah McBride he had travelled clear across the country just to see her for a few days. But it weren't like spending time in her bed and enjoying her wasn't a definite benefit of the trip. But, fact was, he had been planning the expedition since the day that cargo plane landed clunkily down in Hawaii. He might've let it develop and fester in the back of his mind for the past three, four years, but now it was time to get this done.

James hadn't let it wait out of pleasure or because he had too many other things to do. In fact, putting it off this long just upset him more'n he would admit. But he was as famous as the sky was blue for a long time, so it weren't like he could easily sneak into a man's house and shoot him without the paparazzi accidentally catching the whole thing on tape. So he had to wait. Plus, another side effect of his unfortunate, unhelpful popularity with the press meant that the son of a bitch knew for sure he was back and thus definitely expected him ta show up.

But waiting almost four years meant that the bastard would've let his guard down, even if he didn't realize it. Waiting four years meant that James hadn't been able ta properly focus on anything else, though, but now that'd change. He was in New York, he knew where the asshole lived, and now James was going to kill Hibbs.

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1,604 words

Not like she asked or nothin', but here's some shots of Clementine. She don't look very happy with me in either, but that's not uncommon or nothin'.

( Read more... )

James sauntered down th' streetlamp lit sidewalk, dodgin' bundled up New Yorkers and tourists alike as he read th' signs of the establishments linin' the road, lookin' fer the one particular one he remembered from a lifetime ago. He ain't been to the upper west side since, well, afore Oceanic changed his life, and the man had been getting a subtle amount a shit thrown at him fer it for the past few months. So, findin' himself with a week ta spare -- hell, when didn't he have time to spare, if he was honest with himself? -- James had caught a flight on good ol' Oceanic Airlines over ta the city.

He always could be pulled outta his own home with th' temptation of a beautiful girl, 'specially when that was combined with baked goods. And, shit, Savannah done bake some good muffins.

There it was: the Gin Mill. James grinned and pushed th' door open, glancin' 'round for the familiar head of thick chestnut hair.

(( Not bothering to describe the pub or anything, since I don't know what it looks like.  :D ))