The Fable

I'm being lured back....

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 07:07:35 GMT

Collectormania. In London. I blame divalucia, I totally do. She just pounced on me with Misha Collins, and fandom, and SPN panel, and JOHN BARROWMAN. And partly I balme Mr. Clauida for getting me back into SNP and being all excited about it, and listening about boy!incest. Really, it's all his fault.

I've been so out of fandom for ages now. Like 8 months ages. For a lot of reasons, mostly to do with RL and Torchwood. But now I'm kinda, maybe, sort of being lured back in and I'm going to host divalucia for a while and meet the most exciting kat_lair in person....

But I do plan to join this with my new hobby: cake! They will be cake, or muffins, of chocolate fudge brownies (or possibly all three.)

Torchwood shit (I know this fandom was too good to be true)

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 07:24:00 GMT

Okay, yeah I know, I’ve been gone for ages and serious RL update is coming later, but something more important came up:

Read THIS first.

You know, this just pisses me off. I get about licenses and copyrights and what shit, but this is a fan convention which should be organized by fans for fans. Fandom for me has always been about the underground, and about freedom and about free production. Stories passing on in postal lists and on the internet, and for some reason this kind of behavior really pisses me off.

They (TPTB) have always done these things; closing down web sites, cease and desist orders and every fucking trick in the book, but never have we complied with their request. We mounted a rebellion when LJ tried to fuck us over and went underground for Harry porn. I feel that this is very much a same issue, the Torchwood TPTB have just announced that if you don’t have the money and the free time and possibility to travel to these cons (which btw they have totally take over!) you, as a fan, can fuck off! Now they are well within their rights to do this, protecting their copyright etc. but what I don’t approve is fandom complying with this crap. We are supposed to be united! Striketrough, people! Where is that spirit?!

And how dare somebody ask fandom to snitch on one of their own?!

I say bring on the video! Anybody know where one is cause I want it! Not just because I want to see that play, but because I want to rebel! I’ve been around for a long time, I’ve lived through the 20th Century Fox quibbles about X-files and closing down of fan sites, Harry Potter upheaval and we have always closed ranks and protected our own and in no way has it hurt fandom. What people seem to be forgetting is that They Need Us. They are protecting a copyright, but they seem to forget that it is Us who buy the products. What I say, don’t sell at conventions, don’t do fucking anything! We’re already writing, drawing and manipulating here for free.

Thanks you for listening. </rant>

Meta: Dana Scully is my Sexual Role Model – or Can I have some Feminist Porn, Please

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Sun, 01 Jun 2008 13:21:03 GMT

In wich I discuss (okay, discuss is a bit of a wrong term, rant or rave would be much better) fandom, sexuality and current erotic books. It's looooong loong.....

Dana Scully is my Sexual Role Model – or Can I have some Feminist Porn, Please

When I was in secondary school I did a study on Harlequin novels (trashy romance you can pick up from the grocery store). My motivations were rather selfish, as by that time (tender age of fifteen) I had been involved in fandom for quite a few years and had been reading things our society thinks a 15 year old has no business reading. So I wanted to see if there was anything like that available in book form. Now as you can probably imagine I was severely disappointed. The books were formulaic, there was absolutely no sex (well, not by my fandom standards anyway), and worse of all the women were all spineless cunts. No, I didn’t quite use that word then, but I am using it now because truly I think it is the only way to describe the role of a woman in that kind of literature. The sad thing is, that this view of femininity was not restricted to the Harlequin novels I devoured that summer, but also to the YA books from my local library. As an adolescent I found these women very odd and felt that the adulthood they projected had nothing to do with the kind of person I was growing up to be. But I do wonder if, had I not had another more powerful literary force pulling me into another direction, I would have taken more from the women of Harlequin. Would I have become, in my own words a spineless cunt, searching the purpose and fulfillment of my life through men and romantic relationships, instead of an academic feminism? Yes, a rash caricature perhaps, but in a lesser degree would I have become sexually less autonomous and less independent had I not had fandom as my chosen tool of sexual education?

Now I’m the first to admit that fandom produces some of the most deprived fiction anywhere on the planet. Non-con, bestiality, chan, necrophilia (yes, I have to just love the Potter fandom), we all know these terms, and at least I have read examples of all. Some out of pleasure of reading, and some….. well, out of pure curiosity. However, the point I’m trying to make here is that there is very little in writing that can shock me anymore. Now maybe I should call myself hardened and perverse, but I see the whole journey fandom has taken me through the world of sexuality and I have to be grateful because it has opened my eyes, and taught me to look beneath the surface of people and understand the differences. Now you must be wondering what I’m on about, so I must go back into the very beginning.

Mulder and Scully. The team X-files: shimmering sexual tension, just there but no lemon, built up expectations. Yes, the X-files fever was at its peak and I was thirteen years old. I was a religious fan, with the posters and books and other nick nacks collected on the way. Most importantly I had an internet connection and my very own laptop. Now X-files was not my first fandom, so there was no thrill of discovery, merely a though “I do wonder if there is similar stuff of this as Star Wars”. So I looked, and I read, I discovered what things like NC-17, smut and slash meant (because Star Wars was back then, and I think partly still is, very pre-pubescent fandom.)

Now, we’ve all seen and heard the moral police raving about the indecent Potter fans and children reading adult material on the internet. I find this incredibly funny because I was that child (at thirteen I didn’t really rate myself as child, though, and I feel that this is an important point to make) reading and blushing and sometimes hitting the “back” button faster than my mouse hand could move. Have I been depraved and compromised, possibly, but for me that has never been a bad thing, and there is one person, if you will, who was responsible for that: Dana Scully.

The red-headed, steadfast and trustworthy heroine of the X-files. All fanfiction writers have a different style and a different interpretation of their favorite character, but some characteristics stay the same, and with Scully those were her independence, her uncompromising character and her thirst for knowledge. Sexually those aren’t bad characteristics to have, neither are they bad things to give a young girl just discovering her own sexuality. She became my sexual educator in the things that school quite often leaves out. We all know the mechanics of sex, the in and out principles, medical terms are thrown at us and pictures of disease paraded on the overhead. And yes, these are all important things to know, but I still value Scully’s way of educating me much more. She taught me about consent, about trust, the need to be true to yourself and your desires, about intimacy and that sex doesn’t always equal love or relationship, and most of all that it is about pleasure, my pleasure; orgasms, toe curling, back arching, screaming the house down pleasure and that I should expect it, that I should demand it, and my partner should want me to experience it. As strange as it may sound the ample smut of the X-files fandom became an integral part of my journey into feminism.

I think that fandom is a place for feminist porn; sexual pleasure and experience where women come first (literary sometimes). We write from the female perspective (because most of us are women) whether it be slash, chan or drippy sweet fluff. And now this is the crux, it doesn’t always have to be pretty or nice. Fandom taught me to accept the darker fantasies in myself, taught me that what is written and thought does not mean that you will it to be real, it is an exploration in your mind. Sexuality is not a one way street of romance, and take me in my wedding bed kind of scenes that are fed to young girls as the true form of “right” or “correct” female sexuality.

Now, this spring, like my thirteen year old self many years ago, I decided to see what was out there, in the book sphere of erotic literature. I was spurred on after reading Niki Flynn’s Dances with Warewolves, now I won’t go into details of that book because this essay is not about that, but I will say go buy it NOW, it is a fantastic piece of writing and deserves to be read. So, I browsed the amazon selection and came by Emily Maguire’s Gospel According to Luke, now it seemed interesting enough. Religious themes, sex and romance; it had good reviews and I decided to give it a go.

Now, I have nothing personal against the author, but could people please stop writing spineless cunts, please.

The plot is rather simple: Aggie runs a free sexual health clinic, Luke runs a youth church across the road, they fall in love/lust (I couldn’t really tell or care to be honest) and in between of having moral-religious-ethical debate-sex, they both get involved in the life of a pregnant and abused teenager Honey. Now the story starts okay enough (even though no teenager I know would call her private parts “vagina”) with Luke and Aggie trying to change the other into their beliefs (god and abortion respectively). The author keeps telling me that there is shimmering sexual tension between the two (yes, yes get on with it.) However I began to have serious doubts after this passage:

“She had rarely in her life felt the urge to masturbate and found now – to her shame – that she was horrible at it. She wore herself out trying to relieve the unfamiliar tension. She tried reading Anais Nin and Henry Miller and Colette, and applied the silver bullet vibrator her mother had given her last Christmas until the batteries went dead. Then she stayed in the bath with the shower nozzle massaging her throbbing clitoris until the water was cold and her fingertips were wrinkled. She continued to see him every day, and every night she tried but failed to convince herself that the large white hands between her legs were Luke’s small brown ones.”

Okay, so this tells me that Aggie is quite an asexual person, it has been up to Luke to “ignite” her sexual feelings altogether. Now I oppose this on principle. We are all sexual beings and the control of our sexual selves lies with one person, yourself! It is an archaic view that women require men to show them the real essence of their sexuality. Secondly, this passage claims that Aggie is extremely aroused (“soaking panties” were mentioned prior), if a vibrator and a massaging showerhead doesn’t work then there is something physiologically wrong and Aggie should see a doctor immediately, also she is supposed to be a sexual educator, how on earth is she not worried by her body’s inability to orgasm!? The author claims that the problem is “the wrong hands”, so Aggie is unable to bring herself pleasure that is only reserved to the man. The man is the only true way to gain sexual fulfillment. This argument is then proven when Aggie and Luke finally do the deed and Aggie nearly screams the house down in her fierce orgasm. What?! I shouted as the reader. The vibrator and showerhead didn’t work for you but suddenly a sexually inexperienced and celibate priest gets between your thighs and it’s fireworks all around. Now, somehow I don’t buy it.

Back to our lovely Dana Scully, I have never read a fanfiction that discourages masturbation or even a one where masturbation is portrayed as not “correct” or inferior to a coupling. Yes, of course I’ve read the “his hand was so different from my own” drivel, but never has it been “oh, his hand brings me pleasure what I cannot bring to myself at all”. Now Scully masturbated a lot, with toys, fingers and I think I remember one with a washing machine, and yes it was often portrayed as frustrated “I wish Mulder was here” but never did she fail (over and over again, I might add) to reach some kind of pleasure. It was a part of life and part of her.

I also found Aggie’s balant disregard for her own personal morals really disturbing. In one sequence after Aggie discovers that Luke has “stolen” Honey from her clinic and brought her into the church with the lure of paying for her upkeep and education if she keeps the baby. Aggie is furious with him, but only for a moment, only until she sees Luke eating a pear in an “erotic manner” (don’t ask me to define that, the author didn’t.) It seems that Aggie’s sexual hunger for Luke overpowers everything, now as a rule of thumb I’m not against that, but it seems that Aggie just gives up everything that makes her who she is, what makes her tick. She then takes Luke back to bed and states “let’s not speak of our work at all” as if her personal beliefs are only “work” not something that fundamentally defines her as a person. If Scully had ever done such a thing “Mulder, let us not discuss the existence of aliens or conspiracies and let’s just make love”, the author would have been kicked out of the fandom (figuratively.) It seems to speak that you, as a woman, should give anything and everything of yourself up for the chance of having a man.

Now the next particular paragraph, would basically have me rip the offending volume off my imaginary daughter’s hands and sit her firmly on the computer to read some X-files smut:

“He didn’t seem to realise that people have limits. He had hurt Aggie badly with his explorations and invasions. He had also made her come harder and for longer than she thought possible. He had burst into song about the miracles of rainbows while she sucked his dick and he had woken her in the night by licking her arsehole.”

Now where do I even begin to deconstruct that monster? Why did she not say “no”, or is that not a word in the vocabulary of a sexual health worker? Scully would have whacked Mulder on the head and said “oi, quit it!” (okay, maybe in an American way). And she did, several times in a few fics I read. This taught me, the insecure 13 year old, that even if you love somebody and they love you back they don’t know your body 100% and it really is okay to say “stop”, “no” and “not like that”, it won’t stop them from loving you. If I had a daughter that is the kind of lesson I would want her to have, not this absolute shit of just lying there and taking it because “it’s his first time”. I also find it incredibly patronising that pain should be accepted because he makes you come. Is it some kind of an exchange of prisoners: I let you hurt me so you can make me come? I have nothing to say on that except: What The Fuck.

Now to the “arsehole” part. I think that as a reader you are supposed to hold your hand over your mouth in shock and think that this man really has no sense of propriety. Me, I think drivel, driver woman! I have read detailed descriptions of fisting and it was very enjoyable for both parties, thankyouverymuch. What I find disturbing that it is lumped together with the hurt and pain; that somehow your ass is off the limits. Well, yes it is if you deem it so, but don’t go to your reader and claim that there are right and wrong kinds of sexual preferences and actions, what floats your boat might not float mine. In fandom just the wealth of material is a witness to that. We try to exist by a live and let live kind of rules. If you don’t enjoy something you can just hit the “back” button and around the corner there is something that you will enjoy. But we don’t go around calling other people depraved (okay, okay ideal world and all, but you gotta admit we are more forgiving of other people’s kinks than the general public.) In fanfiction and especially porn writing we explore things that women are not supposed to enjoy. I think that is partly why that paragraph is structured the way it is, there are things that are taboo, but fortunately fandom has skewed my views on taboo and no-go areas. It has taught me that it is all in my head, and in the spaces of my mind there are no no-go areas.

Now I’m not trying to preach some sexual gospel according to Claudia, but this book really got me thinking about the moral brigade and the things that we as a society deem indecent for “young minds”. I think that if I had just had the harlequins and the Story of O’s in my teens I would have turned out quite different. I think I would have respected myself less sexually, demanded less, accepted more mediocre lovers and suppressed a lot of fantasies. For me Dana Scully was the best sexual role model and I think us as fandom, as writers and as women should never stop writing her.

Writing meme

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Mon, 05 May 2008 19:46:53 GMT

Because wallowing loves company, snagged from kat_lair

What's the last thing you wrote?

In terms of wrote and brought to the public domain, it would be Blood. Privately I wrote a section from a Van Helsing - Hunchback of Notre Dame cross over where Gabriel wonders the sexual differences of Anna and Esmeralda. (No, really, don't ask.)

Was it any good?

Yeah, Blood was pretty good, the other stuff was shit.

What's the first thing you ever wrote that you still have?

I don't have the first things I wrote anymore. Dissapeared down memory lane a long time ago. The olders stuff I have is from high school creative writing class.

Write poetry?

Nope.

Angsty poetry?

What part of "nope" is unclear to you people?

Most fun character you ever wrote?

Possibily Sara from Witchblade. She doeasn't really have any hang ups and her jealousies and insecurities are so on the surface that it makes her fun.

Most annoying character you ever wrote?

Well, I don't thing any of them are irritating, I wouldn't write them if they were, now would I? Trying to be clever, Mr Smartypants, now are we?!

Best plot you ever wrote?

Well the entire Van Helsing sequence is pretty godamn plotty, but I don't think I would really call it "The Best". I think my best is still waiting, still somewhere in the back recesses of my mind.

Coolest plot twist you ever wrote?

Again, I'm not really the right person to ask this, as I don't get to experince them as twists. But possibly the most proudest I am of the way I made Anna live in the Van Helsing sequence. I was very green and naive, but I wanted to make to plot work in terms of the canon and in terms of the storytelling. It was the most I've ever worked on details untill then and even after.

How often do you get writer's block?

Often. All the fucking time. Like right now.

How do you fix it?

I don't. I quite often can't. Usually I get bullied into writing something and it slowly goes away. Massive, insomnia inducing bout of creativity and ideas help.

Do you type or write by hand?

I type everything. Except The Monologue wich I wrote by hand lying in my bed about 2 o'clock in the morning.

Do you save everything you write?

Well, kinda. Not everything though.

Do you ever go back to an old idea long after you abandoned it?

Well, not really go back per say, but the old ideas often get incorporated or melted into new plots. I'm a hoarder in terms of plot ideas and I'm very reluctant to let anything go, even when I can clearly see that it is a bad idea.

What's your favorite thing that you've written?

The Monologue and Stone Quartet (In the Company of Wolves, Small Crimes, Decadent and Touching the Void)

What's everyone else's favorite thing that you've written?

Judging purely on the base of reviews and comments I would have to say Precious Things (part 1 and part 2) and Heart

Do you ever show people your work?

Yes, almost all of my work is betad by the lovely arubyslipper. She's been my beta since, well since forever really, and I like the way she treats me. With enough power to get me to change and with enough gentleness not to bruise my ego.

Who's your favorite constructive critic?

Again, see above. But also, everybody who takes the time to actually break my work apart. It is incredebly flattering to know that your work has made somebody think that much.

Did you ever write a novel?

Nope.

Have you ever written fantasy, sci-fi, or horror?

Yeah, all except sci-fi because I never got that Star Wars fic written. I really should, shouldn't I? The SW fandom really needs some quality porn, they are so incredebly uptight.

Ever written romance or teen angsty drama?

Romance yes, pretty much everyhing I write is overtly romantic, but ......... teen? well I would never admit to writing anything that could be labelled "teen".

What's one genre you have never written, and probably never will?

I doubt that I will ever writ humour fics. Anything that would make people laught. And here I mean somethint that is meant to make you laugh......

How many writing projects are you working on right now?

Oh god, let me count the files. The biggest ones would be the next part in the Van Helsing sequence called The Heart of the Ocean and a Potter fic wich is still stuck in development hell titled Life in Cold Blood

Do you want to write for a living?

Okay, now I would say yes, but the question implicates "for a living". Considering my tendecies to get massive writers block and wallow in self pity for months, I doubt that I would be doing much living on it. Yes, I would like to write as my main occupation, but I rather think that I would have to have made some serious dough before retiering to wallow with my textual pursuits.

Have you ever written something for a magazine or newspaper?

Nope.

Have you ever won an award for your writing?

Nope.

Ever written something in script or play format?

Umm, yes, once and it was a complete disaster. I just can't deal with the fact that I cannot tell people what the characters are feeling. I am very much a writer that relies on the text to convey emotion, that most things are unseen and unheard, so no, I could never do play or a script.

What is your favorite word?

Minions.

Do you ever write based on yourself?

Technically no, but in practice I think all of our characters are reflections on the writer. Anna is very much a version of me, she is me in ways and manners I would never, could never excist and I revel in the way that I can live though her, but I think it would be too much to suggest that she is BASED on me. I like the word reflection much more. And in a way all my characters are also related to each other, because they do all stem from me, I am the link in their creating so in turn they are like each other and like me.

Which of your characters most resembles you?

Okay, yes, see above.....

Where do you get ideas for your characters?

Music, art, the woman on the tube. Genral thoughts and musching that pass through my head. I don't know! Where do you get yours!?! From a character guide book!

Do you ever write based on your dreams?

Yes. In high school I once wrote a short story about a flying cow and a fairy in pvc trousers.

Do you prefer happy endings, sad endings, or cliff-hangers?

I prefer whatever is best for the story. You can't specify things like that without specifying the story.

Have you ever written anything based on an artwork you've seen?

All the time. But I'm not going to tell you what.

Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as you write?

No, you see. Fandom is very anal about these sort of things, and that's why I need a beta reader. I'm very very dyslexic and spell check will only get you so far.

Ever write something entirely in chatspeak?

I don't know what that means.

Does music help you write?

Yes, iTunes is on continuous loop. I espcially like classical and instrumental music.

Are people surprised and confused when they find out you write well?

Umm, not many people know. I just don't talk about it. And then again, I'm not really convinced that I write that well.

Quote something you've written:

In the spirit of this I will give you from The Garden, which is not finished quite yet:

She walks back into their dark bedroom with her hair still dripping water on the carpet. Lucius is still asleep, his breaths long and even but Narcissa can hear the cough still in there beneath the air. She hopes that now they will have enough peace for him to recover from Azkaban. She hopes, but then she doesn’t have much faith in hope anymore.

She sits on the bed, towelling her hair and gently counting the lines beneath his eyes. They are both getting on the years, and she has been forced to notice the edging crow’s feet by her own eyes. A few years ago she would have been horrified but now she knows that there are far worse things to be than old.

She gets dressed in the dark. The plain black travelling cloak swishes against the carpet as she makes her way to Draco’s door. Gently she pushes the handle and peeks in. It’s an old habit which she cannot hope to break. He has again thrown his duvet on to the side and sleeps with his feet half hanging off the bed. Narcissa stops herself from tucking him back in. He is seventeen after all, and nearly a man. She descends downstairs and through the dining room into the garden. The house elves stop their polishing and dusting with the sight of her, but she pays them no heed.

And another from Three Ways which I will finish! I will!

She sits on the bed leaning back on her arms and the light catches on two white scars on the side of her belly. She parts her legs and looks at her husband, not with the bashfulness of a virgin bride, but with the knowledge of a seasoned whore. There is nothing coy or pure about her smile and Robin feels dirty thinking and looking at her in this way.

Suddenly Gisborne moves, his steps fluid and silent. He kneels before her, his hands travelling over her thighs and hips, then up her back. She closes her legs around him, as if pulling him in, knees vice like on his ribs. Her hand grips the back of his scull, spreading her fingers in his hair like a web. She kisses him from above, like a benediction, and Gisborne closes his eyes.

And in that one horrible instant Robin realizes that this is not the first time. Their touches are too seasoned, too familiar to be new. It was easy for him to think of Marian’s unwillingness and her sense of duty when it came to this man, but gently she falls against the mattress, her hair spreading around her head like halo, and Gisborne’s hands caress behind her knees, and the bliss on her face has nothing to do with duty. In witnessing her ecstasy Robin feels ill, but he cannot look away. He will not.

RL and stuff

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 20:12:03 GMT

I'm going back home for a while to get some surgery done (no! not that kind of surgery!) so might be off LJ for a while (well, atleast as long as the drugs last), not that I'm on here a lot, but still.

Besides the drugs, I have a meeting with the lovely divalucia to look forward to. I shall try to do a trascript of the fandom squee (but only if am not a) as high as a kite b) too drunk).

XD

Ps. I really hate planes!

bleet bleet

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Mon, 24 Mar 2008 15:52:58 GMT

"stolen" from kat_lair for whom I faked a memory in spirit of going back home on Thursday.

If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, (even if we don't speak often) please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE-UP AND FICTIONAL memory of you and me.

It can be anything you want - good or bad - BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE.

When you're finished, post this little paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people DON'T ACTUALLY remember about you.

Fic: "Blood"; George/Mitchell; NC17

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 20:40:20 GMT

For two reasons. I made somebody cry with my last fic, and felt very bad about it. And my lovely beta sent me an email where she impersonated a Dalek and demanded: "p.s. Send.more.porn." and of course her wish is my command, and thus.

Being Human; George/Mitchell

It is the pulse in his ears that he cannot live without. Continuation on Four

Beta by arubyslipper. Lyrics by Damien Rice.

Blood

Allow me that
And I can't let go of your hand

It’s peaks and troughs for Mitchell; going without blood. After four months George has learned to recognise the bad days. From the early morning bitter coffee brewing on the stove instead of the eternal tea; from closed doors; and from the twitching and shaking. George tries to help, he wants to help. But he doesn’t know how, beyond buying the really nice coffee beans from Starbucks. They both work in a hospital, so George knows about going cold turkey, about the symptoms and events. With Mitchell it doesn’t seem to get better, he’s in constant motion like a manic depressive on a high. For a while George considers stealing some Valium for him from the hospital, but stops because he fears that it wouldn’t really make any difference.

About a week after the fool moon Mitchell takes sick leave from the hospital. He stays in his room for a week, and George wonders if he has died, if he can die at all. Annie makes jokes about decomposing bodies in the flat. George gives her a look, but doesn’t say anything after he notices the faraway look in her eyes, and wonders if she is speaking about Mitchell at all.

It’s very late, or very early depending on your point of view. George is still wearing his scrubs from the night shift. The kitchen is blissfully silent and there are no teacups in sight. For a while he just stands by the sink and enjoys the silence, the lack of dishes to be done. George doesn’t hear Mitchell at the door until he says

“George.”

His voice is thick and his eyes red-rimmed. George knows the tone, the timber of Mitchell’s voice and knows that there has ever been only one time and place where he hears it. George turns to face him, opens himself up, apprehensive and expectant at the same time. Mitchell moves with a kind of speed George has rarely witnessed.

He pushes George against the sink. His back already aches from where the blunt edge pushes into his flesh. Mitchell pants and mutters incoherently, and George can make out some of the words, like sorry and shit and please. And it’s enough for him, enough to know that Mitchell needs this. He flattens his palms out on the edge of the counter and spreads his legs in invitation. Mitchell’s breath is irregular and loud in the room as he swallows George’s cock. George tries to keep his mouth shut, but he is undone in the face of Mitchell’s guttural moans and sighs muffled by George’s own flesh. So, George lets his head fall back, and for the first time lets the sounds out. He tells himself that no one will hear him, that whatever he says will mingle and merge with the sounds of Mitchell’s pleasure, and thus will never have existed in the first place.

George doesn’t know when Mitchell learned his way around his body so well. He doesn’t think about those long days after the transformation, doesn’t think about Mitchell wrapped around him and in him. That is part of the wolf, and George will not let those thoughts ruin his normality. He groans, feet slipping on the linoleum floor, as Mitchell shoves two fingers into him, hard and brutal and wonderful. He knows it won’t be long now, his stomach knotting and calves tensing, and he knows that Mitchell knows this as well, can feel every tremor and twitch.

Afterwards Mitchell pulls away reluctantly and his lips are swollen and shiny. He gets up like a folding of paper, with sharp corners and heavy angles, and leaves the room. The loudness of his own breath startles George in the sudden silence, and with numb fingers he manages to pull his trousers up. It means nothing, he tells himself. Nothing.

Mitchell barricades himself into his room again and takes more time off work. George takes some of his shifts, and tells himself it’s not guilt or regret, just practicality. He goes two days without seeing Mitchell, and the look he wore standing by the kitchen door will not leave him be. George is not an articulate person, but he understood that look; understood I’m sorry I need this, I’m sorry I want you, I’m sorry.

George knocks on the door. Once, twice. He gets no answer and goes into the room anyway. Mitchell is curled on the bed, all arms and legs like an origami. The noodles of his spine draw a straight line like a pearl necklace through his back. Slowly George strips; sweater, t-shirt, jeans, all pile up on the floor that hasn’t been cleaned in ages. If he wasn’t so terribly focused on the shivers running down Mitchell’s sides, George would be disgusted. He crawls into the bed, palming Mitchell’s spine, ribs and sharp jutting hip bones, anywhere his hands can reach. He whispers.

“Mitchell.”

Softly, against the hairs that stand on end in the nape of his neck. Slowly Mitchell unwinds from his self-imposed circle of limbs. His mouth is open and eyes heavy and tired. George kisses him then, those lips that have been wrapped around him and inside of him, and he must admit to himself that yes, I want.

Fic: Four; George/Mitchell; NC17

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Sat, 23 Feb 2008 19:54:35 GMT

Look ma! I wrote slash. Just because.

Being Human; George/Mitchell

Normality is what you make it to be.

Superfast beta by the gorgeous arubyslipper. Lyrics by Snow Patrol.

Four

You're the only thing that I love
It scares me more every day
On my knees I think clearer

They have a ritual every month. One of them goes to Oxfam two days prior to the full moon to buy old clothing. It doesn’t matter which of them goes, Mitchell knows George’s clothes size almost as well he does. Before they met, George used to go back to whatever part of the local woods he had isolated himself into the night before, and try to collect his clothes. Most of his things were torn and he went through more packets of washing powder than the germ-phobic cleaning lady at the hospital. George had looked scandalized after Mitchell had informed him of this.

“You mean the one with the gloves? And the…”

“Yes.”

He had drawn the word out, long and lazy, exactly in a way he knew George disliked.

He draws out long and lazy now as well, George’s cock heavy and thick against his tongue. Mitchell feels the thigh muscles tensing against his shoulders and pulls back. It’s too soon, too quick and he wants to savor this.

Oxfam is not their only ritual. There are small things; buttery breakfasts as George’s sense of taste and smell increase. The blood bags that show up in the fridge for Mitchell, now that George is beyond caring. They circulate in each other’s orbits even more in those few days than they usually do. George needing reassurance that he is not the only monster, Mitchell needing the sound of George’s blood streaming in his veins like the tide.

Mitchell scrabbles down beneath the bed for the half empty tube of KY. He lets his tongue play around the head of George’s cock while slicking his fingers. After meeting George, Mitchell has become very good at multitasking. His fingers slide easily in the valley of George’s ass, circling and pressing. George’s breath hikes and he swears. Shit. The word echoes in the bare walls and Mitchell thinks that they should get some posters, maybe some old painting from the market.

But the small rituals had never been enough for Mitchell, he wanted more. Maybe it’s in his nature to crave and to push further and further until there is nothing left but bright blood and the echo of heartbeat in his ears. He had reveled in George’s adoration of the house, had thought about the pizza and the beer on the couch, and though; yes, more. And he was lying to himself, because what he was really thinking was the days after the full moon and George’s room next to his own, thinking of the shrinking distance between them.

He spreads George’s thighs further apart with his shoulders, scissors his fingers with more force. Mitchell lets his teeth graze against the head of George’s cock, lets him feel that hint of danger, the sharp sting of his incisors.

The first time had been in the back of the car, plush velvet and old leather surrounding them. George had been rattled and vehemently denied it afterwards, but it had not stopped him coming into Mitchell’s closed fist. Slowly, month by month, the hasty wanks had become a part of the ritual. Something George needs afterwards. After the high and the blood lust dissipates, and his body crashes and his mind won’t focus.

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

He says this seriously, watching Mitchell in the eye through the blinding shine of his glasses which he doesn’t need four days out of the month. Mitchell had accepted his argument, just because it meant that he would get to hear the hike in George’s breath, feel the tremble of his legs and the way his body squeezes around Mitchell’s fingers just moments before he comes.

Mitchell pushes a third finger in and George grunts, but his hips move down, forcing it deeper. His eyes are squeezed shut, nostrils flared, mouth a thin, hard line trying to stop the moans and shouts Mitchell knows he’s wanting to voice. Mitchell wants to pry those lips open with his own tongue, but instead he swallows George’s cock as far as he can. The pulse of the other man reverberates in his scull. He can only smell the blood, but somehow this is better than feeding. He twists his fingers and George’s body shudders, his legs clenching on Mitchell’s shoulders. Every time he feeds, Mitchell wants to delve closer, deeper, but the heart always stops just before that moment, just before he knows the answer. George’s pulse never stops, it speeds faster when Mitchell hollows his cheeks and when he crooks his finger. Sometimes Mitchell has to close his eyes against the knowledge, against the overwhelming feeling that he is inside George.

They try to decorate the apartment and George wonders about growing vegetables.

“This is normal.”

He says to Mitchell as he washes the tens of teacups left by Annie. They go to the supermarket and live like ordinary people. Mitchell tries to give up blood, give up eating other people. They find a safe room for George for the nights of the full moon. They live like regular young people, except for four days out of every month.

Mitchell holds on to George’s quaking body. He can get away with it for now, while George is too disorientated from his orgasm to move or think. But then his breathing evens out, the sound of his pulse dissipated from Mitchell’s ears. George untangles his legs from Mitchell’s body and begins to search for his jogging bottoms. Mitchell knows that George considers this only as an extension of the curse, a part of his life that is extraordinary, a part to keep hidden. Mitchell wants to push him, to force George into the open, expose the lie that he lives. Mitchell knows that the blood won’t lie. All of his victims have wanted it in the end, like George, they have tried to mask it and fight it, but in the end the pull of blood is too strong.

Mitchell rolls off the bed and goes to the kitchen to make tea. Annie is already there with five steaming cups scattered on the table. Mitchell knows that he will never push George, never force him into the open. Not because he is George’s friend, but because he is deathly frightened that he will no longer have even those four measly days to call his own.

So, anybody thinking that Cupid and Fate should get together....

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 18:19:11 GMT

No?

Well, if you live anywhere near the United Kingdom, you’ve probably seen the ads. And yeah, “Make Love Happen” is not the most subtlest of lines, so maybe that has something to do with my brain short circuiting to perversion every morning on the train to Liverpool Street. But I think it’s more to do with slash as a way of life.

No, really.

I’m just wondering here if other people on my flist ship random advertising characters and just regular people on the train. Does the concept of reading slash into tv and movies and books spill over into the general experience of culture? The reason I’m using Cupid and Fate here is because they aren’t very attractive. See for yourself! And no way would I be ogling them otherwise, but I just can’t help but wonder: “Are they doing it?”

Now, speaking of ogling the beeb’s attempt of revitalizing BBC3 has lead me to Being Human. And I know it might seem a bit off kilter, a bit weird. (But hey, aren’t we into that sort of thing, anyway!?) However, if that does not tempt you enough…..

A pretty buff young man gets naked in a forest (and when I say buff I mean gorgeous ass) while an indie rockery sharp hip-boned (yes, this is for you Kat) skinny lad makes the moves on a buxom brunette. Now we move to the next morning and buff young man is sleeping in a crevice of rock covered in deer blood and hip-bone lad in having an angst fest in a toilet after draining the blood of said buxom gal. Later on our two heroes (only after the buff one washes himself everyhwere, and now listen carefully dear readers, while naked in the same room as lovely indie rocker and I really mean everywhere) decide to get a house together. And of course they are mistaken *cough* by the agent as a couple. Indie rocker seems very into this while buff young man fumbles and blushes his denials. Now I do think the Lady doth protests too much.

Intrigued yet?

Fic: Purgatory; Guy/Marian; PG13

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Wed, 02 Jan 2008 21:25:35 GMT

Because denial IS indeed a river in Egypt….. Spoilers for the Robin Hood season 2 finale. This is my way of coping.

Robin Hood; Guy/Marian

Life is a choice. Marian learns to live with hers.

Unbetaed. All mistakes are my own. Quote from The Secretary

Purgatory

Who's to say that love needs to be soft and gentle?

Marian retches violently. The vomit is clear and mucusy, and tastes of bile. Aynna’s fingers pull the sweaty strands of hair away from her face. She pushes Marian back onto the sleeping mat and brings a beaker of water to her lips. Marian doesn’t really feel like drinking, her throat is too sore, but she knows that Aynna won’t give up until the beaker is empty. She can feel the water in her belly and the cramps beginning again. Marian turns to her side, curling around herself.

Throughout the day her fever dreams are only interrupted by heaves and more bile. She begins to think that this is her punishment for betraying everything she has ever known, for being so selfish, for wanting the wrong things. Aynna brushes Marian’s hair, and sings in her ear. Marian doesn’t know the words, but her fevered mind follows them none the less. Slowly the walls of their tent begin to darken and she knows that night is near. She sees Sallah’s shadow on the canvas, and then he steps inside. Marian watches as he greets his wife gently, and curls again as her body spasms with another cramp, or is it jealousy, Marian doesn’t know.

“It is nearly sundown. We must prepare for the night.”

Sallah’s voice is much more accented than his wife’s and Marian still strains to understand him. Aynna forces Marian’s body to unclamp and begins to move the dressings from her side. The cut itself is very shallow but it bled profusely and has not yet healed completely. Her body had shut down with the potion and had been unable to heal. The cut had remained untreated for two days. Aynna tuts, and presses the skin, and spreads her ointment. Marian clenches her teeth and bears the pain.

She still retches through the night. Aynna wakes every few hours to force more water into her. Near dawn Marian finally falls asleep, but only after Aynna is satisfied that she will not suffocate in her sleep. She dreams about the sand, and about the cool Jerusalem night, and of the warm body inside of her own. She wakes up crying and coughing. Aynna is by her side in an instant. Marian wonders if she has slept at all.

Aynna infuses bread in camel’s milk for Marian, and with sheer strength of will Marian manages to keep from vomiting it up. It takes her nearly three hours to finish the small bowl. The desert winds make the sloped ceiling of the tent pillow and move. Marian lies on her sleeping mat and watches the play and move of the fabric. She can hear Sallah moving on the outside, on the lookout.

Marian stands by the entrance, the door flaps grasped in her fists. She looks out into the horizon until tears fall. Marian tells herself that it is just the light that is making her eyes bleed. Sallah tells her to rest, to go back inside, but resolutely Marian stays by the door. The sun hangs low in the sky when a small black dot appears in the edge of the desert. For a while Marian thinks it as a mirage, a trick played by her sore eyes and groggy head. But slowly the dot grows and Marian’s grip on the tent canvas tightens.

She begins to limp from the tent. The gash on her side tightens and pulls with each step. The heat from the sand shimmers around her and she can hear Sallah shouting behind her, but Marian hears none of it. The riding party begins to take shape, and Marian quickens her steps, mind numb to the pain in her side. She can nearly see the riders now, their heads and faces covered in scarves. Marian begins to run, her breath a painful gasp in her chest. The riders stop and dismount at the sight of her. One of them begins to run. His feet kick up a cloud of sand. She collapses into him, wheezing and dry heaving. Tears stream down her face and she can smell him under the sweat and the desert wind that clings to his clothes.

Guy

She moans his name. He rips the scarf covering his face aside, and then he is kissing her. They kneel in the hot sand and Marian’s knees burn. She sobs and swears into his kiss, hands violent and merciless on his coat, pulling the fabric.

He carries her back to the tent. In the night Marian listens to the sand moving in the desert. She stretches her fingers out into the air seeking out the cool night. She gasps softly, as not to wake the others, as Guy moves inside of her, and Marian finally forgives herself.

Fic: Not a Damsell in Distress: a collection of drabbles

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Tue, 01 Jan 2008 18:54:56 GMT

Not a Damsell in Distress: a collection of drabbles

Originally written for Fandom Muses.

August 19th
Introduction

Anna Valerious does not like telling other people who she is. It is not in her nature to be social and to share things with others. But she should learn.

She is a princess and has social standing among her people, the gypsies. But being a gypsy princess is very different from being a princess, the heir, of a country. Her people are vagrants and vagabond, they move around, rarely settling down. Her social standing has structured her life. It does not give her great wealth or prospects, but it gives her freedom. Because of her title she can govern herself, be independent in ways that would never be possible for a daughter of a commoner. Not that there is much difference between the commoners and nobility among her people. The King’s and Queens are merely the leaders of clans. They rule a Kingdom as vast as the earth. Their subjects are always on the move, but her family stopped moving long time ago. They stood still when one of her ancestors spawned an evil creature which the world had never seen before.

That is why she is not social. She cannot afford friends or lovers. She cannot afford to give any part of herself away in fear that it would hinder her in the fight against Dracula. And she fears that any attachment on her part would lead into the destruction of those beloved to her. But she wants to learn. She wants to feel people close by without fear. She wants to know if there is strength to be found in friendship. Or is there only death and fear for her in life.

She should be strong; it is what her station demands of her. But inside she is weak, she wishes for the comfort of husband even though she knows it will take away her freedom. She wishes that someone would take her away from this icy land and show her the beauty she knows the world has to offer. The vagrant in her blood wishes to walk away, to leave all old behind and discover something new. But these are thoughts only let out in the privacy of her room. Given life in the dark moments when she is alone.

On the outside she is strong. She stands and weathers in the face of death and suffering and glory. She knows that in the end she will stand alone and she knows that she will die, and for a moment that thought is not so frightening anymore.

word count: 421

August 16th
Tell us a secret.

I have never ever told this to anyone before. Not even to my priest, or my brother.

I never pray. Ever.

I lost the sight of it when mom died. Not matter what I did or asked for. No matter how much penance I paid, death always came back. It ate away the people around me, took away their smiles and their strength.

We were supposed to be the warriors of God. We kept the devil at bay at any cost. But He never answered the prayers of a child, so why should I pray now? Why should He listen to the prayers of a woman? How could He, after all that I have done.

I go with the motions. I go to church and I kneel at the altar. I bow at the image of the Christ, but they are just motions; in me there is nothing, no hope or wish of a better tomorrow. I know this quest will claim my life, like it has those who came before. My fingers play over the rosary and I feel the words in my mouth. The familiar shape of them on my tongue, but I remain silent. There is nothing He can give me anymore.

Death is my companion now. It is the familiar presence in the back of my mind. I want to get acquainted with it; feel the sharp edges of it until it makes my fingers bleed. Over time it will become a friend; something comforting and inevitable. I do not need to pray for it, for I know it. Knowledge does not require faith, for I have none of it left. I live now on certainties and on tangible things.

Prayer was never tangible, so I could not find any comfort in it. And now I do not.

word count: 293

August 28th
Proverb

After a storm comes a calm they say. She wonders if they have ever withstood a storm, if they have even been torn by its strength? Anna knows that what they say is wrong. After a storm comes a flurry of motion and panic, the desperate need to rebuild and to repair what was destroyed before another storm hits and tears everything apart again. People do trade and get married and do all the things which they would have feared to during ill weather. There is nothing calm about these actions. People do not stop to breathe the clear air or watch the leaves sodden on the ground. They have no time for such foolish actions. Their need for the calm that comes after every storm springs up from fear, so Anna does not look for clear weather anymore.

She does understand why they believe in a calm after the storm. It is not because they have seen it, but because they need the lie of it to live through the bad weather. They want the idea of the clear still air, even if they will never experience it. She often wonders about these mirages of nature that people build. She admires them from afar and hopes that she could believe in them again. But her faith in the calm has been stripped and her bones clawed bare. She can no longer see the glimmering horizon that travels behind the dark clouds. Her sight is obstructed by thick forests and looming mountain tops. Her mother said that she was a storm child, and now Anna understands what she meant.

Anna knows that the calm exists only inside the storm, in its centre. If you can withstand its awesome strength, you can find the calm, but it is not that of still air or wet leaves on the ground. It is cold and biting and it strips you. And every time she allows it to break her harder. She stands and lets the leaves be torn about her and has no fear. In the end that is how all of her family dies. They stop fearing the storm and it eats them whole. She as well will die and part of her welcomes it. She can no longer live on a mirage, on a hope of something that can never exists for her.

Sometimes she wonders if there are storms in Heaven too.

word count: 402

Sptember 12th
Arch Nemesis

So you wish to know about Dracula? You want to see him through my eyes and perhaps catch a glimpse of that mythical beast that seems to fascinate everyone. But that is not what I see. There is nothing mythical or fascinating about him.

Have you ever despised anybody? Not just the common hatred we all posses towards bad weather and people in the train cart who smell bad; but held true despisal towards a thing? It is very different from hatred. Hatred chokes you and makes you immobile and unable to defend yourself. Anger makes you weak and open, because in the end it derives from fear.

I had to stop being afraid a long time ago. If you were afraid Dracula, he would tear you up from your innards out. Despisal on the other hand gives you the moral high ground and it is very easy to have that against a creature of pure darkness and evil. I’ve killed and done things which I would pay for dearly after my death if my family did not have an accord with the Almighty. But I am still not evil, reprehensible maybe, but not evil. So it is easy for me to despise him. It would be easy for me to kill him.

But that is not really what makes an arch nemesis, is it? I fight against him because he is evil. I fight because that is what my family needs. I fight because I must.

People think there is seduction in Dracula that humans cannot fight against or hope to imitate. I have never seen that in him. How could I possibly be seduced by something that has taken away everything I have ever loved? How could there be attraction? I do sometimes wish that he would take my life and end it all. I so wish to see my family again, even if it would be in the fiery pit of Lucifer’s purgatory. It could not be worse than this. To me he is god and judgement on the earth; who takes away the best of us in the beginning leaving the unworthy to suffer alone. That is why he is my enemy.

word count: 366

September 27th
Protection

.... no love, no glory
no hero in her sky......

i.

The leaves were wet and prickly against her feet. The moist air and earth filled her lungs and made it hard to breathe. The bones of the corset and the weight of the dress were long gone but she could still feel them around her body, as if forever etched in her flesh. Tears had been such strangers to her, that it was odd to feel them now, heavy against her eyelids. His light was still on, sharp in the darkness.

ii.

She had always loved her father’s house; its long shadowy corridors and cold stone. She hated it now. Hated the ghosts that lingered in its walls. The light from underneath his door cast playful shadows and light on the Persian rug and she pushed the door open. He was crouched on the bed, like the animal he was to become, with the linen in a dirty, messy heap around his body. He croaked and growled her to leave, but she would not.

iii.

His hands were coarse and hard as they travelled in all the places she had forever kept hidden. She kept her touches soft and her nails sharp against the shivering skin of his back. She tasted salt and let him move her like the waves would. He was her ocean; endless and harsh. In the sharp light, as the dawn crept across the floor, he whispered her name and she promised to be his protection against the night.

word count: 250

October 1st
Grief

Underneath the armour their bones were tiny and brittle. They broke with a snap between her hands and the furious snap of their teeth quelled. Her hands bled profusely, blood making patterns on the dusty ground. She surveyed the bodies around her, still waiting for that glimmer of satisfaction that always came with a kill, but today she remained empty. Today, there was no reprieve found in the slaughter. One of the dwergi convulsed on the ground. Furiously she wrenched the creature’s neck, nearly dislocating its head from the little body. Then everything was still again.

Velkan would not look at her upon her return. His face a pale mask, eyes fixed onto some distant point in the horizon. He did not mark upon her bleeding arms as Anna silently disappeared to the bowels of the house. He would not believe it. His endless optimism would create multitude of reasons why their father was held up on his trip.

She washed her hands and the water turned red in the bowl. The wounds stung and her skin itched but she pressed her fingers into the welts and tried to make her mind forget. He was gone and they were alone now. Her one eyed, gruff father would never be afraid for her, would never be disappointed in her, and would never see her fail. Not anymore.

Her fingers were numb and her writing nearly illegible as she tried to grip the quill and ignore the pain. She used her father’s stationary and her brother’s name. The Vatican would never accept a plea from her. They would let her family die out if she was the only one left. But they would help Velkan, the prince of the crown, even if it by birth belonged to her.

The messenger was an old weathered man, the crow’s feet around his eyes sunken and sharp. He tucked the letter into his coat and Anna feared for his safety. In the parlour Velkan’s words were void of all emotion.

“I know what you did.”

She would not reply, for she knew her brother. He needed this to battle his own sorrow.

“How could you have lost all hope, Anna?”

But there was no accusation in his voice and her thoughts were as helpless as his words. It is not hope that I have lost, but my father.

word count: 393

October 21st
Satisfaction

Sometimes Anna wonders about the end, wonders if it possible for her to win; for them to win. She wonders what it would be like to feel that triumph. Would she have peace then, satisfaction of a quest fulfilled and ancestors restored to their rightful place by Saint Peter’s side? Or would there still be nothing. Would she still be as empty as she is today? She fears that her heart is not strong enough to find salvation in the death of Dracula. She fears that she is not deserving of such grace.

She watches Van Helsing as he prepares his weapons with a grim face and wonders if he feels satisfaction each time an evil creature is brought down, or does he find sorrow in their death as she does. She knows it is wrong to grieve for evil, grieve for a creature that had nothing good to give to the world. But if she cannot grieve for them, then she cannot shed tears for her brother or those who came before her; those ancestors of hers who were not strong enough to resist the pull and seduction of evil. They were all sinners in the eyes of God. As is she.

word count: 204

November 25th
Marriage

When she was seventeen she tried not to think about it. Her father had begun a search for a husband for her. He would be older than her, an experienced warrior, someone who would produce strong heirs. Anna felt ill at the though and would not eat for days. She taunted Dracula, almost courted him, but for some reason he never took the bait. She often wondered if it was because he could feel her revulsion towards her future husband.

Her groom came to visit her on her eighteenth birthday and during dinner she struck a fork through his hand. Her father screamed at her door for hours after he had left. Velkan was the one who finally made her father understand that she would willingly never marry, she was too much like her brother, too independent and wild. Her father would not speak to her for many days, but then he lost his eye, and could no longer fight properly.

For the longest time she refused to think about marriage. Anna dreamed of dead babies shriveling up inside her body and felt ill in the mornings. When her father dissapeared and Velkan closed inside his own grief, she finally allowed her mind to wander down those paths. In their isolation she began to understand her father’s desperation and his need to see her marry.

Like her, he had seen so many of their kin die in this endless battle, that he needed the illusion of continuity, the hope of future generations accomplishing what he could not. In her dreams the dead babies were replaced by live ones. She would dream herself swollen and pregnant and revel in the life growing within her. She would wake up and feel empty. And she would know that it was too late now.

word count: 302

November 26th
Repeated History

Anna knows that no event in the world is singular. She sees the past in the images of her ancestors, their portraits lining the walls of her house, reminding her how her life will eventually end. But Anna knows that she and Velkan will break the cycle of death; after they are gone there will be no one left. Part of her rejoices in that, celebrates her victory over history, but most of the time she is sad. For she knows that the only thing that will be left of her is a portrait. It will be hung next to her mother in the hall leading to the dining room. It will remind those that will come to fight Dracula after she is gone, that history always comes a full circle.

word count: 136

November 27th
Thankfullness

His fingers slid down her spine and then up again, disappearing into the hair in the back of her neck; then making their way back down again, and again. Anna knew she would die today, one way or the other. They would find Dracula and she would die killing him. Gabriel would change into what he loathed and he would hunt her down. And she would let him. Her life would end in the same violent way she had lived it.

She had never had very much to be thankful for.

His hands were replaced by his lips and Anna buried her hands into the pillow and called out his name. Gabriel. Was it so wrong of her to be thankful for this; his hands and lips making her shake and shiver in pleasure instead of pain. His body making her forget who she was and what she was placed on this earth to do.

Yes, she had this to be thankful for.

Tomorrow she could face her death with this pleasure still singing in her veins, with the imprints of his hand still lingering on her body. That would be a good death and she could be grateful for it.

word count: 207

January 7th
New Year

This year we will win. This year I will not let anyone die. This year I shall not press the hilt of my blade against the inside of my arm and enjoy the pain.

I promise to slay him. I promise that I will obey my father and accept the husband who is coming. I will not let the crimson blood of my brother’s soil the white table linen.

Every year Anna Valerious make promises and vows. Silently she whispers them to herself and imagines and they disappear like smoke into the air, like her breath ghosted against the morning sky. Every year she promises with the knowledge that she will never keep her vows.

word count: 115

January 28th
What do you dream about?

Her dreams are filled with blood and sweat and her mother’s hands guiding her flesh. They never make sense after she wakes and the bright morning rays pierce her eyes.

They make no sense, and they mean nothing.

Velkan sometimes speaks about his dreams. Silently and swiftly while they are out on the hunt, with his lips pressed again the earth and leaves. He dreams about Dracula and about the wolves. He thinks that they mean that their victory is close, for how can the blood and pain of his dreams mean anything else.

Anna breathes in the mud and says nothing. She does not have the heart to tell her brother of her dreams. She does not wish to burden his mind with the images of their mother, or how warm her hands are on her skin. He does not remember mother, so Anna guards her memories and her dreams. She cannot bring herself to tell him that dreams mean nothing when her he is so content in his ignorance.

Her dreams mean nothing and she forgets them with the morning light. If there are things hidden within them, some glimpse of the future it is not that of freedom. Because every night Anna feels the blood and the sweat and it is not that of triumph.

word count: 218

February 28th
Mercy

The blood is bright on the snow covered lake, it bubbles out of the wound erratically. The ice creaks under her feet and Anna knows that the weight of the vampires would have weakened the thinning ice much more than the first rays of the spring ever would. But she pays no heed to the ominous sounds. She steps closer, reaching out her hand to touch the blood bubbles breaking out on the girl's neck. They break against the pads of her fingers with a gentle pop. The other girl looks at her, eyes frightened wide, wild and dying. She is not yet fifteen, merely a year younger than Anna herself.

She knows the girl. Not personally, but from the way she lies defeated in the snow, Anna can recognize her own kin. While she is protected and taught to fight so she may carry on the noble and frightful tradition of her family, this girl is instructed to hide. She dies as casualty of Anna's own curse, and for a second she feels glad that it is not her. But that thought only lasts for a moment before it is replaced by jealousy.

Harshly she lets her knees fall against the ice. It's hold is too weak and it breaks under their combined weight. Water rushes past Anna's waist and the sheets of ice fold and spike up. She holds on to the other girl's neck and forces her face below the water. She doesn't struggle, just falls under the dark water. Anna can see the red blood bubbles disappearing into the water and she dives after them.

Under the ice sheets the world is silent and cold. The other girl's eyes are still open, but she can see life begging to drain away. Again, as fiercely as before, the jealousy rises in Anna. She wants to be the one allowed to stay here in the silence of the water. She wants this silent mercy and darkness to embrace her and take her away. She opens her mouth to breath it in.

Her brother's hands pull her through the crack and she can hear her father's voice strong, but afraid in the distance. She breathes raggedly through her frozen lips, and hates the painful throb of blood in her veins.

word count: 382

March 30th
Apathy

The rain drops slide over the tinted window panes, disappearing and re-emerging from the cracks. Anna slides her fingers with them and hopes that she could fall through the cracks as well. Disappear from this body and from this life. She sees the servants from the corner of her eye as they pass the sill where she is sitting. She ignores their questioning looks as well as she ignores her father’s warning tones from the other end of the room.

Don’t be like your mother, girl. There is just death that way.

She won’t listen to him, won’t take to heart the sorrow and anger in his voice. Deep down Anna knows that she is like her mother; courting death and danger just for the sake of disappearing.

She unlocks the latch and lets the rain water bleed onto the sill and soak into her clothes. It chills her skin and makes her shiver. It wakes her up and pushes a small thrill through her.

Death this way.

That is what her father had said, and it is what she can read from her brother’s eyes when he thinks that she is not looking. She wonders if it was the same call her mother felt when she walked into the ocean; the same thrill and coldness enveloping her flesh and bones. Anna wonders if it began just like this, with rain drops in her clothes chilling her away from this apathy and sorrow.

word count: 244

metametameta......

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Tue, 01 Jan 2008 12:52:56 GMT

Because I am feeling very threatrical in lieu of the new year. Yes, there are spoilers.

I read about the end before I saw it.

I read about it with this horrid sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, because, after all it is my Robin Hood otp. How could anything come out of this, this complete and utter destruction of my pair. Suddenly there was nothing for me to fix, no clever lines to write, no wriggle room in the net. So I resigned myself, and I watched the scene, fast fowarded through the entire episode. And it was as awful and as meaningless as I had feared. Just a few hours before I had watched Treasure of the Nation with awe; of when did this show get this good? Sicne when could I hear such range of emotion from both of Guy and of Marian? But of course that was not to be.

I have always enjoyed closed canons, and I think that Robin Hood will become that to me in the wake of this. I see no reason for me to carry on into season 3, now that the subtlety has been removed. Not to mention all of the women. I know that fandom is very divided here, part grieving the loss of Marian and part jubilant over her death. I find myself belonging to neither group. I cannot grieve the loss of Marian as herself because I have never seen her just by herself, but alway in conjuction with Guy, their relationship with all its pretty cruelties and heartbreaking gentleness was the driving force for me.

Meybe now I can feel liberated enough to return to fic in this fandom. I don't have to worry about the changes in canon, now that the final and irreversible has happened. My chanracters can now freely carry on a different path. Because she is gone from canon, Marian's life is more free to carry on in fic, liberated from the constraints which we as fanfiction writers bind ourselves in. In a way it is a joy that there is nothing new to add to her, nothing which I change will be contested later on.

Yes. I am a writer of closed canons; and today I shall begin.

When a door closes, a window opens. Yes, indeed, Torchwood is to return to our screens this January. The rumors and the confirmed spoilers have all been great. With giddy anticipation I wait for the bginning, but I cannot help but to worry slightly. For the BBC and RTD have annouced that cut versions will be aired before the watershed for the younger viewers. I worry because I fear that this decision will undermine the rebellion and strangeness that is Torchwood. What drew me to it in the first place was the way it differed from American serials: it's violence and sex; storylines wich would not conform. But you cannot maintain such style and content when the shows are to be edited, merely by a few minutes.

Let us examine Countrycide. For me it was one of the most powerfull episodes of the series. Its violence truly shocking, truly horrific; and its emotional power truly beautiful. But you could not cut it for a pre watershed audience. You would have to remove so much and in that you would take away the heart and the power of the story. And now I fear that Torchwood can no longer tell stories like that because it needs to appease the younger, and the nilly willy who will be supervising the watershed like hawks. I do not want a series that compromices its content for the sake of wider audinece. There are too many series like that already on TV, I have no need for one more.

I think I should do an update.......

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 13:34:25 GMT

I've been writing a little bit. Not the things that I really should be: like the Van Helsing fic that has been in the pipeline for two years, or the sequel to Precious Things, or even the Guy/Marian BDSM fic. Nope. I've been doing a companion fic to Heart and trying to finish the HP fic The Garden.

I also haven't been seeing Robin Hood due to the crappyness of my internet I can't dowload the episodes and I haven't been around on sat evenings so I'm completely out of the loop with that. I just got a bit disheartened as I read that Marian has left the castle. That was such a good set up, and now I'm just a bit blah! about the show in general.

meme belatedly stolen from the lovelu divalucia

Choose a favorite band and answer the questions only with their song titles.
I'm going with Tori Amos. C'me on like I would pick anything different.

1. Are you male or female: Cornflake Girl
2. Describe yourself: Bells for Her
3. How do some people feel about you: Strange
4. How do you feel about yourself: Girl Dissapearing
5. Describe your ex boyfriend / girlfriend: Mrs. Jesus
6. Describe current boyfriend / girlfriend: Professional Widow
7. Describe where you want to be: Winter
8. Describe how you live: The Power of Orange Knickers
9. Describe how you love: Robbons Undone
10. What would you ask for if you had just one wish: Another Girl's Paradise
11. Share a few words of Wisdom: Cloud on my Tongue
12. Now say goodbye: Twinkle

mememememem and some RL news

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Thu, 08 Nov 2007 20:38:38 GMT

Hookay. I found a house and I'm moving on sunday. I don't know if my comp and the wiereless in there will be happy together so I might be offline a bit. Hopefully not, but I might be.

Also, I've started this wierd craving to write a BDSM Guy/Marian fic, just because the new season lends itself so well to it. But the thing is I know very little about SM because I have no personal interest in it, or I've never been interested in writing about it. But now..... I just like the elements of controll and submission that are beginning to show their colours in the Guy/Marian relationship. There sooms to be some kind of exploration of exhanges and selling in the Guy/Allan dynamic and I began to think that Marian could be willing to do a similar exchange. It would allow Guy an outlet for his rage, controll over Marian and a degree of sexual expression. For Marian, I think, it would be important to be able to let go, to not be responsible for anything, to just for that one moment be free of the expectations that are placed on her.

However, I do have some issues with coinciding sex and the BDSM side of things. Maybe it is because I can never imagine deriving sexual pleasure out of pain or hurting somebody (regular pleasure, yes, but not sexual). That is just a complete alien concept. And in that way I can't actually get into Marian's of Guy's heads in this scenario. BEcause as much as I think that Guy needs an outlet for his rage, I also think that he terribly needs to be able to be gentle with somebody, and Marian is the most obvious subject. In a way it could be a journey from what Marian needs (submission and freedom) to what Guy needs (to be seen as something other than his violent self).

fandom ship meme stolen shamelesly from iscaris

Six ships I like:

1. Anna/Gabriel (Van Helsing)
2. Guy/Marian (Robin Hood)
3. Finch/Dominic (V for Vendetta)
4. Jack/Ianto (Torchwood)
5. Sirius/Remus (Harry Potter)
6. Narcissa/Snape (Harry Potter)

Three ships I've abandoned:

7. Mulder/Scully (X-Files)
8. Angel/Buffy (BtVS)
9. Booth/Brennan(Bones)

Three ships I never liked:

10. Buffy/Spike (BtVS)
11. Snape/Dumbeldore (Harry Potter)
12. Simon/Kaylee (Firefly)

Two ships that have piqued my interest:

13. Abigail/King (Balde Trinity)
14. Vimes/Vetinari (Discworld)

1. Why do you dislike #11 [Snape/Dumbeldore] so much?

Well firstly it has never, ever done anything for me. The first person I shipped Snape with was Narcissa and that in GoF, so a looong time ago, and that just stuck for me. Also, I've always seen Dumbeldore as this asexual-god figure who has just purged all kinds of romantic/sexual feelings from his body. (You see how right I was, he shut himself off after Grindewald!!)

2. Who is someone you know that ships #13 [Abigail/King]?

Sorry, don't know anybody. Just me and some nut cases on ff.net

3. What would be your ideal scenario for couple #3 [Finch/Dominic]?

You know, I wrote that so just see here.

4. Which is your favorite episode for #1 [Anna/Gabriel]? Try to pick just one.

Okay..... it's a movie you moron!

5. How long have you been following couple #6 [Narcissa/Snape]?

Ummm.... since I read GoF, so about.... uhhh.... 6 years.

6. What's the story with #8 [Angel/Buffy]? What made you stop liking them/caring?

Just the lack of good fic. Pure and simple. The A/B pairing is wierd in the sense that Angel always seems to have to be "on top" or in controll and Buffy becomes this little girl. It was wierd.

7. Which ship do you prefer – #2 [Guy/Marian] or #4 [Jack/Ianto]?

I prefer to write #2 because very few people write it well, and I prefer to read #3 as I don't know how to write it.

8. You have the power to make one ship non-existent. Choose from #10 [Buffy/Spike] or #12 [Simon/Kaylee].

Well it would have to be Buffy/Spike, because Simon/Kaylee never bothered me I just found it deathly boring. Buffy/Spike now was just ....ugh.... wrong people together, and the storyline was just wierd.

9. What interests you about #14 [Vimes/Vetinari]?

The power play. And cop!slash, but that's obvious.

10. When did you stop liking #7 [Mulder/Scully]?

Ugh, season 8. Man, the ending just blew ass. And partly it was just time, I was a teenager in my M/S days.

11. Did your waning interest in #9 [Booth/Brennan] kill your interest in the show?

Actually it was the other way around, the crappynes of the show made me go off the pairing.

12. What's a song that reminds you of #5 [Sirus/Remus]?

Cannonball by Damien Rice.

13. Which of these ships do you love the most?

Probably Anna/Gabriel because I've had to grow up as a writer so much with that pair. The newer ones are infatuations, but that one is the constant for me.

14. Which do you dislike the most?

Snape/Dumbeldore, ugh. There is just too much fic on that.

15. If you could have any of these two pairings double date, who would it be? (even better if they're from different shows)

Anna/Gabriel and Jack/Ianto. Oh please, somebody do that. The big coats, and all that bitchynes.

16. Have #2 [Guy/Marian] kissed yet? Elaborate if you'd like.

You mean on the show? Yeah, and it was crap. In fic? Oh yes! and then some...

17. Did #4 [Jack/Ianto] have a happy ending? If the show hasn't ended yet, do you think a happy ending is likely?

I doubt a happy ending. I really do. T. Davies doesn't know how to pull that off.

18. What would make you start shipping #14 [Vimes/Vetinari]?

The right kind of plot.

19. If only one could happen, which would you prefer – #2 [Guy/Marian] or #6 [Nacissa/Snape]?

Guy/Marian, because JKR cannot write romance to save her life. I leave that to fanfic. Guy/Marian would be hot on tv.

20. You have the power to decide the fate of #10 [Buffy/Spike]. What happens to them?

Well, the same plotline, but with Angel. Now that would be interesting in all kinds of dark ways.

Fic: The Monologue, Finch/Dominic, PG

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Fri, 19 Oct 2007 20:21:17 GMT

I get asked sometimes why I don't write slash. Even the tutor asked about it, and was decidedly shocked to hear that "no, I only write het." The only reason I could even give was that I had not been inspired. There just weren't any stories I needed to write.

Untill now that is.

V for Vendetta; Finch/Dominic

The world turns, and things get better. A soliloquy to Finch and Dominic.

Much love for my ever suffering beta arubyslipper who did the most eloquent corrections. Lyrics by Regina Spector

The Monologue

I loved you first, I loved you first
Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth

And history books forgot about us
And the bible didn't mention us

Over the years you’ve made yourself not think about it, forced yourself into some kind of immunity. Withdrawal from exposure, a self-styled mask, and isolation. You never really figured why they didn’t take you too. You were a party member, sure. You had friends in the right places, maybe. The truth probably is that you were never important enough to raise any concerns. Quiet and fastidious. You had the kind of silent and passive rebellion the party did not know how to weed out, and after a while just left alone.

You think of all this as you watch the Parliament burn with Evey Hammond, because in the end you start thinking about the beginning.

You think about the worry lines that deepen around Dominic’s eyes when he is tired. It is the first time in a long, long while that you let a thought like that into your mind without punishment. When the man had been transferred to your unit all those years ago, you had to wear a rubber band around your left wrist for months and months on end. Just to break the thought pattern, you told yourself, it’s not a punishment. But some days he would come to work with the top buttons of his crisp oxford shirt undone and with a smile on his face and your wrist would be red and angry by lunch, and edged with little cuts by the end of the day.

Over the years you trained yourself not to think about him. Not fantasising, that you had to stop a long time before Dominic, but the silent and mundane thoughts which you knew would be your undoing in the end.

Your boss, of course, thought that you didn’t like the man, and hence the band and the anger management. The boss was always a terrible judge of character, and of course in his maliciousness he made Dominic your partner. You snapped the band rather fiercely at that meeting. Dominic just smiled, rather bewildered at the nasty gleam in the boss’ eye.

It became easier over time: the late nights and early mornings by the coffee machine. You got used to Dominic’s presence and stopped being so afraid all the time. You began to realise how lucky you were. You saw Dominic nearly every day, you ate lunch with him, and sat beside him in the freezing car in overnight stakeouts in January. You didn’t get to go to sleep next to him every night or spend the Christmas holidays with him, but you didn’t have a black bag over your head either. You convinced yourself that, in your cowardice, you had made the right choice all along.

It’s been a week since Parliament. The rain stars as a slow trickle, but by the time you reach the A25, sheets of water are drowning the car and you can barely see three feet in front of you. Dominic pulls over on the muddy shoulder. The roads are almost empty, you don’t know if it is the fall of the government or the rain that has made people stay at home. The gray sheet of water makes you think of the past and the systems of surveillance that are no longer in place. The video and audio feeds were switched off after the explosion, or what was left of them after the riots. You don’t know who gave the order, and right now you don’t care. All you care about is that you are going to have to let Dominic go.

Without surveillance and control your thoughts will run rampant. You look at Dominic who is trying to get the radio to pick up a channel.

“You should accept the offer from Manchester.”

Dominic turns slowly to face you and looks at you like you’re mad. You continue.

“It’s a good position.”

You try to sound earnest and Dominic just shakes his head.

“You could make a real difference there. The force might not last long in London and...”

“Godamnit Eric!”

He suddenly bellows and you fall silent. You’ve never heard Dominic raise his voice or call you by your given name, well, not to your face anyway.

He looks at you deploringly, like there is a joke and you are supposed to be in on it.

“Why do you think I stayed all those years? For the stale coffee and the promise of a cheap golden retirement watch?”

You look at him like you’re seeing him for the first time. His shirt is crumbled this time, hair swept to the side by the rain and wind earlier in the day. He grabs your left arm, not unkindly, and pushes the sleeve down.

After months of abuse the flesh had thickened, and developed into a band of scar tissue that is still circling your wrist. You didn’t need the band anymore to remind you. You only had to run your fingers over that unfeeling, uneven skin to keep your thoughts in check.

Dominic’s hand wraps completely around your wrist, the puckered skin covered by his palm and fingers, and you think that managing your thoughts will never work again. You sit like that for a long while, Dominic’s fingers running over the scar and the vein on the underside of your wrist. You think that for a while you might have stopped breathing, stopped living, but Dominic’s fingers move over your pulse, proving you wrong.

He kisses you then with your wrist still within the circle of his fingers and the rain covering the windows like a thick blanket. His lips are dry and taste of the coffee you both had in the office this morning. The breath that you were holding escapes as a whoosh against Dominic’s lips. His fingers scrabble a hold on your coat lapels trying to pull you closer in the cramped space of the car.

But you are on a public road. You hold Dominic’s face between your hands and press your cheek against his. Dominic’s breath is rapid and uneven in your ears. You let him go and lean against the dashboard trying to gain back some of your composure. From the corner of your eye you can see Dominic’s hands squeezing the steering wheel until his knuckles go white. Slowly the rain begins to die away, and Dominic shifts the car back into gear and onto the road.

“Where do you live?”

You squeeze your wrist and give him your address without looking at him. You can’t look at him, not right now. Dominic parks illegally in front of your building and flips the police insignia into the front window.

You didn’t draw the curtains that morning and the flat is dark. You move through the shadowed furniture with Dominic in a strange tuneless dance. In your isolation you have forgotten what other people felt like. You’ve forgotten the feel of muscle and sinew beneath your fingers. You have forgotten pleasure, and you gasp and hold your breath while Dominic is busy reminding you of all these things.

You never imagined Dominic in your flat. You never thought what he would look like in his gray undershirt, peering despairingly into your empty cupboards. You watch as he fishes out an ancient box of PG Tips and puts the kettle on. You think that you ought to run down the street for some breakfast, instead you just stand in the doorway looking at Dominic’s profile bathed in the gray morning light.

The department is in chaos, and nobody seems to mind or even notice how you and Dominic arrive within minutes of one another, or how Dominic is still wearing the same clothes as the day before. He makes the prefunctionary effort to check his emails and phone messages. You don’t bother. You just sit at your desk looking at him, your body still tingling like a limb that has been asleep and the circulation is just beginning to return.

The chaos and anarchy of the past few weeks has changed into general confusion. People went back to their homes, most even went back to work. There was some looting and several robberies. You were rather amused at how eager the men were at turning their heads to these ordinary crimes.

The Desk Sergeant calls you half-way through the day that Evey Hammond is there and he doesn’t know what to do with her. You go to the front desk to collect her. She sits quietly in the waiting room with a box resting on her knees. The officer working on the reception gives her suspicious glances, but she seems not to notice. She smiles at you and follows you through the labyrinth of corridors and offices.

She tells you that she is here to collect Gordon’s things. It takes you a while to realise who she means. She sits in the visitor’s chair while you make the calls, trying to make small talk with Dominic. He is not too happy that the woman who maced him is sitting in his office, but in the end his public school upbringing wins over. They talk about the weather.

Getting a removal order from the Ministry of Objectionable Materials is surprisingly easy. Almost everyone from the head offices have cut tail and run, and the secretary is suitably impressed by your title. The courier is already on his way to Scotland Yard when you place the phone back into its cradle. Dominic is relieved that he no longer needs to force conversation and shifts his attention back to his rapidly filling inbox.

You offer Miss Hammond coffee, and apologise at the staleness of it as she slowly sips the back liquid. She pulls a worn-looking book from her bag and begins to read. You take it as a cue to return to work. Your own inbox is bursting and you try your best to filter the important from the general madness. Dominic is trying to download reports from the riots in Manchester and you move to stand by his desk.

Without thinking Dominic grasps your writs with his free hand, thumb once again sliding over the scar. Instinctively you lean closer to him, your shoulder nearly touching his, trying to catch the faint echo of the pleasure you know his hands are capable of brining. You realise that you are breathing in sync with the movements of his finger, and at the same time you realise that Evey is staring at you, her eyes wide and lips forming a perfectly round o.

Dominic doesn’t remove his hand. You don’t know if it is shock or sheer determination on his part. The moment is broken when the intercom bleeps into life. The delivery has arrived.

The paintings and books take far more room than Evey’s moderately sized box allows. You manage to hunt around for a couple of bin liners for her and she seems grateful. Somehow she manages to pile the box and bags in her arms. You open the door for her and for a moment she hesitates. She tries to balance the box and the bags juggle precariously in her grasp.

“I’m staying in his house. You can come for coffee if you want to. The both of you.”

You watch her speechless, but Dominic nods.

“Sure, Miss Hammond, we would like that.”

She smiles then, a little sad and maybe just a bit hopeful, but that might be just your imagination. When the door shuts behind her, Dominic leans against your side and you can feel the releasing of the breath he has been holding.

is back!

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Sun, 14 Oct 2007 10:16:21 GMT

I is back online. All rejoice!

The cop!slash is off to betas and I need to seriously catch up on Robin Hood. I have des promos for ep3 and just the thought of naked!Guy makes me wanna write some fic.

offlining

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Tue, 09 Oct 2007 07:57:41 GMT

Internet has buggered. I'll be offline till about saturday. Maybe this will give me the time to actually finish the fics.

For now I buid you adieu.

Films and Real Life

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Sat, 01 Sep 2007 18:28:11 GMT

Okay, sorry for such a long absence. I'm tired, and I'm nearing the end of the dissertation. Nothing interesting has happened in my life really. I'm trying to get more fanfics done, but I think it will have to wait till this whole process is over. I went to see couple of films over the weekend. Lady Chatterly and The Bourne Ultimatum, very different films, but both interesting in their own ways.

Lady Chatterly

Overall it was an interesting find in my very commercial cinema. Just by being in french it kind of deserved an idie status. The film was very slow, however, this wasn't a bad thing. The camera lingered in the scenery, and just gave so much space to the actors that a lot of unsaid things came through. The cinematorgrahy was just exquisite. I have a enduring love for nature photography so I immensely enjoyed the muted and slow shots of plants, and birds, and the forests sounrrounding Lady Chatterly's house.

The romance I understood more on an intellectual level, than really in any sort of emotinal level. In a way it was quite like watching The Piano. I just couldn't graps the emotive part behind the driving force in her. However unike The Piano she did have a lot more power in cinmeatic terms with her gaze. It was always her look, her gaze and her desire that instigated everything. We understood the world through her. There was an interesting contrast between her and nature as well. As if she was learning to be a part of something bigger than herself, a kind of connectedness to the sourrounding world. Her relationship with Parking was alway subjected to that connection to nature and I kind of enjoyed that.

There was too much sex. I know that is kind of the point in the film, but by the end it just began to feel repetetive. I just wanted something more, like I said before the feeling was missing for me. The sex really didn't give any insight into anything going on iniside her head. So I think the structure was off for that. I also hated the change in of cinematography towards the end. It went into this odd home-film thing that made me just think that has there been a problem with the reel. The ending was also odd. I understood why the conversation had to happen, but there was this beautiful shot of her walking alone in a field, and I just though that would have been far better ending image. It would have solidified the needing more I think.

The Bourne Ultimatum

Now this was a very different kind of film. Totally commercial. I've always been a fan of the Bourne-sequnce. I have two reasons for my love. Firstly Matt Damon is not a dashing Hollywood man, but someone real and grounded. In a way I can imagine him better an an international spy, than I even can for Daniel Graig. I believe in Matt Damon when he is on screen as Jason Bourne. He is also not a "hero", he merely does what must be done without having any kind of ego issues. As a viewer you not only want him to succedd or win, but you want a life for him. You can imagine a kind of mundaniety with Bourne that doesn't fit with any other action here, and that makes me like him. He's the kind of guy who can save the world but he can also come home and cook pasta.

The second thing is Marie. Now Marie was the woman he met int he first film, and they hit it off. Now if you do your action film math, and realise that we are in the 3rd instalment you begin to wonder why is Marie still in the picture. She died in the beginning of the second film, and she is yet to be replaced. The film respect's Bourne's relationship with her still by making allusions to their time together and he speaks of her surprisingly often. Now this is rare. It grounds Bourne as a person, and as another human being who has lost somebody whom they loved very much. The Bourne series has always been praised for it's realism, but this is rarely mentioned int he review. The way the film series deals with grief is both real and touching.

Generally the third film is excelent. The plot was dense and I was holding on to the arms rest couple of times. Very thrilling. And I know this very shallow, but goddamn Matt Damon has some fine forearms. Just go see the film for those. I guarantee you will need to go home and fan yourself afterwards.

Fic: Heart, Max/Alec, NC-17

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Tue, 14 Aug 2007 15:35:34 GMT

This is one of my forever fics, that I've been wanting to write for years and years. I found it again on my had drive last week, and in the dissertation induced stress and panic I wrote this. Funny, how it takes me to be physically and psychologically exhausted before I can write. Maybe this explains why I was so productive during the last two years of my undergrad degree.

Dark Angel; Max/Alec

Gratuitous heat fic. Max is stubborn, Alec helps.

Warnings: Sex, lots and lots of sex.

Author’s Note: It’s been ages since I watched the series, so I might have some of the facts wrong. I apologise.

Much love for my ever suffering beta arubyslipper without whom this would not have happened.

Heart

When the sun shines
We’ll shine together
Told you I'll be here forever
Said I'll always be your friend
Took an oath
I'ma stick it out 'till the end
Now that it's raining more than ever
These fancy things
Will never come in between
You're part of my entity
Here for infinity
When the war has took its part
When the world has dealt its cards
If the hand is hard
Together we'll mend your heart

-Rhianna Umbrella

The cell is dank and mould grows in the cracks of the walls. Renfro's smiles are sharp and brilliant through the bars. Max wants to fight and tear flesh with her teeth, but she squeezes her hands into fists and lets her nails draw blood, because she needs to cling to her control. It is her only victory against the smiles that kill. Renfro’s words are round and her lips are soft as she speaks, gently stepping closer to the bars that separate them.

“Do you feel where the needle pierced your skin? I image you would. Blood welling around the skin and forcing it to heal too fast, too fast for humans. But I think you can’t feel those hormones in your veins, can you? Insulated by your perfect muscles and antibodies sizzling in your veins. We did make you perfect, after all.”

She smiles, and Max grinds her teeth. Her side throbs, from where she knows the punctures are. She wants to close her eyes and stop the woman from seeing how right she is, but she never managed that kind of detachment. That was always Alec's forte. Little brainwashing, little torture. And now Renfro knows it, and with a final flash of teeth she turns around on her impractically high heels and marches out.

For a long time Max stands still in front of the door, her breath brushing the filthy bars. She knows that if she moves, she will explode and sink her fist into the concrete wall again, and then there will be men with guns and tranquilizers and she does not want to be asleep one minute longer than necessary. So she holds still and lets her rage simmer. She remembers glimpses of time from when they brought her in. The lights are familiar from before, and they still hurt her eyes. Strangely she doesn't remember the needles, but the woman's voice is embedded in her mind. Words like ova and harvesting and impregnation create frightful patterns in her mind, and not for the first time Max prays.

Time passes, she thinks it's maybe a few hours, but she can't be sure. It starts as a little rumble and little flakes of concrete floating down from the ceiling. She thinks that maybe it’s construction work, or maybe it’s an anomaly who is still living inside those walls. She thinks that maybe they missed somebody the last time, maybe they left somebody behind.

When the concrete begins to cave inwards and the flakes turn into pieces of rock, Max throws the mattress on the floor to muffle the sound. She crouches by the back wall, away from the flying debris, and smiles. I knew they would not leave me, I had no doubts; she lies to herself. Then the ceiling gives in and a slab of concrete falls down, and the mattress does nothing to hide the sound. Nothing happens and Max counts the seconds. Two. Five.

Then Alec's head pops through the hole, winning smiles and cocky attitude still in place. Hanging upside down he manages a lopsided salute.

“Did ma'am order an escape on the go?”

They pull her through the hole in the concrete, Alec, Biggs and two other X5's she doesn't know. Damn. She is supposed to be their leader and she doesn't even know their names. They slide through the roof structure of the base, evading the sharp metal prongs protruding from the walls and the thick concrete slabs leaning against the bare, dusty walls, which might give away their position.

For the first time she doesn’t complain having to sit in the back of Alec’s bike, as they make their way back to Seattle through the dirt roads. Max convinces herself that it’s gratitude, and blatantly ignores Alec’s smirks and offhand comments of “knew you wanted to ride me.” But she makes sure to cuff him on the head when she slides off the bike in front of her building. She doesn’t bother to stay and listen to his overtly theatrical complaints, but disappears through the door, with her mind already on gentling the worried OC.

Max doesn't really get it, when it starts. She just presses her ass against the pool table a bit more at Crash, and reminds herself not to wear this particular pair of thong again. Logan looks at her a bit funny, but the gentleman that he is, doesn’t mention it. But it's not the thong. The burn and the itch continues while she is in the shower. Gently she slides her hand between her legs, searching for the wound, but her fingers won't get far, the pads merely sliding over her clit and she is coming so hard that she has to lean on the wall for support. For a while she just shakes. She doesn't feel the water run cold against her back.

She tosses and sweats buckets through the night, and silently counts the months from the calendar of her cycle imprinted in her head. Each time she comes to the same conclusion. Too early, too early. But still she keeps counting just in the hopes of coming up with a different answer the next time.

She goes to work, and delivers parcels on her bike while grinding her teeth and fighting the urge to hump the leather seat. Whenever they pass one another by the baggage station or between the rows of lockers, Alec gives her this look, like he knows, and like he would not want to be anywhere near her.

She goes home pissed off and achy, and masturbates for hours in the shower. Cindy bangs on the bathroom door and yells at her for using the hot water from the entire building. Max just ignores her.

On the second day Cindy asks about it.

“Is it your heat?”

Max isn't really surprised, the girl has eyes, but she doesn't really want to talk about it. The next night she stops being able to come. Her fingers slide uselessly over her throbbing and burning clit.

She stops going to work. Instead she roams around the apartment like a cat in heat, like what she really is. But it’s artificial; she can feel the hormones and pheromones clogging in her arteries and pores like poison. They make her achy and hot, but the desire of her natural heat is missing. She has no desire to seek out a mate or a man. She barely tolerates her own fingers over her sensitized flesh anymore, and the thought of a stranger’s fingers make her shudder. So, she walks around the apartment; living room, hallway, kitchen, her room, Cindy’s room, bathroom, living room, again and again. She does ab-crunches until her muscles spasm and acid burns in her mouth, and mechanically she slides her finger over her clit even though she knows that it won’t relieve the burn. Won’t make any difference.

Cindy brings ice from the fish market and Max empties it into the tub and sits there until it melts around her shaking flesh, and for a while the burn around her clit is gone. She still aches though, deep inside where the ice doesn't reach. Cindy watches her from the doorway as she sits in the now melted water. Cindy's been there the whole time, watching her degenerate to this point where she no longer cares that the old, tatty t-shirt is half soaked and that her hair hangs limply past her ears.

“It will go away.”

She has been saying that for the past five days. Cindy just nods slowly, her brown curls sliding against the uneven edge of the door. Finally Cindy disappears from the doorway, and Max can hear a pan clanging in the kitchen. She rubs her feet under the water and the skin is crinkly beneath her fingers. Slowly the throb in her clit starts again.

It’s been a week. Seven days. Max has counted them all from sunrise to sunset. The sweat that has gathered between her shoulder blades smells stale and sick. It should be over, gone, purged from her body. Instead it’s worse. The burn has spread everywhere, and she pulls her knees against her chest, pushes the heel of her palm against her clit, slides it down over and over again, harder every time. The pain of it is easier to bear than the constant burn and ache of arousal.

She hears the door bang and hears Cindy calling out her name. She doesn’t answer; she can’t with tears and saliva clogging her throat. Then Cindy is by the door, her eyes clouded with worry, and Max tries to smile, tries to reassure her. Alec is next to her, pupils wide and black. Then the scent assaults her, of male and sweat and blood. Alec watches her, knuckles white and finger splintering the doorframe.

“I need you to say it Maxie; I need to know you’re okay with this.”

His voice is familiar and she hears herself begging, the long string of yesyesyes, please now, echoing from her throat. Alec comes into the room, shedding his jacket onto the floor, and she sees Cindy from the corner of her eye, standing in the edge of the door, the corners of her lips tight and worried. Alec pulls off his t-shirt and crawls into the bed with his shoes still on and dark eyes fixed on her. Max cannot recognise the look, cannot place it; like he wants to be nowhere but here.

She tries to move, to inch away from Alec’s hands, but he’s strong, and his forearms circle her thighs and push her ass onto the mattress. He holds still and lets her feel. Her own trembling legs in his grip, the spread of his ribcage on the inside of her knees as he breathes. Slow and steady. Max hides her face behind her hands and tries to muffle the hiccupping sobs, and her clit and cunt and stomach throb so badly she thinks she will die.

She doesn’t expect his tongue, and she cries and moans and tries to gasp for air. His mouth is wet and heavy with saliva, and too gentle on her abused skin. She needs more, and harder, but Alec’s hands hold her still; pressed against the bed. His licks are slow and relentless, and Max claws his arms with her nails, and tries to rock, her body convulsing in time with his tongue. She comes long and hard, with the pad of Alec’s tongue pressed against her clit, and with the knuckles of her hands pressed against her mouth to muffle the sound.

Then she cries, great wrecking sobs, with her knees pulled against her chest. Tears and sweat mix on her brow and she licks the salt gathered on her upper lip. Alec leaves the bed, his weight shifting the springs of the mattress. His scent leaves the room, and Max can smell the stale sweat and the old sheets again.

Then the mattress dips again, and Alec’s familiar fingers run over her face, calloused and warm. A moist towel follows their trail as he wipes the sweat and tears from her face. His palms spread open her legs, and this time she doesn’t fight them. The towel moves over her clit, and the crease of her things. His lips follow its trail, grazing her pubic bone. His fingers squeeze her hips, and she lifts her ass off the bed.

His hands move her limbs like one would a doll and Max doesn’t care. Strong hands between her shoulder blades press her head down between her elbows and she breathes against the crumbled sheets. He is hard and hot against her and Max is so wet and open and ready that she could scream. Instead she rocks on her elbows, needy and growling.

He fucks her like she always imagined he would, with deep and even strokes, a finger stroking her clit and the crease of her ass. His knees push her legs further apart, and he pushes deeper and Max bites the sheet, the stale smell clogging her nostrils. She screams around the fabric and pushes back against his cock. She wants to hear him scream, but instead he bites her shoulder as he comes. She shudders against his pulsing cock, unable to stop her own orgasms.

For the first time in days Max sleeps. Their limbs entwined like the origami Joshua has been learning to make. She wakes with her head resting on Alec’s hip, and she licks his soft cock; pressing her cheek against the open buttons of his jeans. The skin is salty and she lets her teeth graze the hardening head. Alec jerks awake with a grunt, but she clamps her fingers around his hipbones to hold him still. Groggily he calls out her name.

“Max”

She swallows the head of his cock, and lets the smooth skin rub again the roof of her mouth. Alec grabs the arch of her foot, and she can feel the moans and the grunts where her leg rests against his chest. He comes fast and hard, and Max doesn’t mind. She licks him clean, and buries her nose in his skin, just breathing in the scent. Alec’s fingers rub circles on her ankles as he pulls her to him, his tongue cleaving her open again.

Max likes the silence between them. For once it’s not uncomfortable because the air is filled with breaths and moans, and the anticipating silence before a scream. They shower together, and Max stands under the spray while Alec lets the soap build bubbles on his palm. He still doesn’t say anything, and Max is grateful. Gently he just lets the soap travel over her spine, and down her leg as his fingers gently press in her. She rides his hand, with her palms squeezed into fists against the linoleum wall. It’s not even about coming anymore, just the knowledge that he is there, trying to fix her.

So, she kisses him for the first time under the spray of the shower. The water has already gone cold, but his lips are warm and firm. She knows that later she will be horrified at her own lack of guilt, but right now her body is beating in time with this man. She refuses to feel any self-reproach as Alec carries her back to bed, and the water from her hair seeps into the sheets.

OC gets back from work later in the day. Strips of sunlight warm the bed through the blinds. Alec is sleeping, the muscles of his jaw relaxed, and snoring a little. Max doesn’t wake him, not yet, even though her body is still pulsing.

Cindy peeks in from the doorway holding a bag of takeout. Max nods for her to come in, pulling a t-shit over her head. Cindy doesn’t say anything, just sits by the bed and hands out cartons and chopsticks. Max fishes out thick pieces of pork and dips them into the black bean sauce. Cindy went to the good place. She would have to pay her back next week when the Jam Pony pay cheques came through.

Alec wakes up when they’re halfway through the boxes. He kisses her calf sleepily, and Cindy doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even give him a look. Alec looks sheepish, but Cindy just smiles gently and hands him a box and a pair of chopsticks. Max wonders what had transpired between them before yesterday.

Throughout the meal he keeps stealing glances at Max, and she can feel that he wants to say something. Cindy seems to sense it too, and easily she collects the empty boxes.

“I’m gonna go open up the windows, Boo, ‘cause this junk has made the whole place stink like meat.”

Max loves how she can be so cool; make her actions look accidental and real, even if they all know she is leaving for their benefit. When Cindy’s out of the room Alec barks:

“This ain’t normal.”

Max just raises her eyebrow, and shakes her own box at him.

“The Cloud Dragon is the best Chinese in the neighbourhood.”

He looks away, and Max can see his jaw tensing and losing its slept-in look.

“I can smell it, you know. The artificial shit.”

Gently Max gets off the bed. She tries to make as little noise as possible, and steps gently past the boxes and clothes on the floor. She walks to the door, and Alec makes a move to stop her. Instead she turns to the window, keeping her eyes resolutely fixed on the sunlight. That way she can pretend that the tears are from the light.

“Before you got me out, they injected me with something. I think they were trying to collect my eggs.”

Her voice dies out at the end of the sentence, and Max can feel the blood drain from her face, leaving her light-headed. She hasn’t felt this kind of panic since her first heat when she was thirteen. Trying to pee on a stick that wouldn’t hold still in her shaking hand. She left that halfway-house that evening, not watching the guy next door in the face as he asked why she was packing. The strip had never turned blue, but her fingers had still shook.

“I went to see the med guys. They gave me a shot.”

She looks at him surprised, and using her stillness to his advantage Alec slides off the bed and moves behind her to gaze out of the window, seeking with his eyes whatever she was looking at.

“I’d never do that to you, Maxie. Not when you’d had no choice in the matter.”

He hugs her to his side, the box of chow mein still in his left hand, and kisses her hair in an imitation of a long gone moment of intimacy. She knows it’s just the hormones, but for a moment she feels sad. She grabs the box from his hand and throws it to the floor.

“Now”

He lifts her against the blinds, and the glass is warm on the skin of her ass. He doesn’t let her get ready, just pushes in up to the hilt, and Max presses her nails into his shoulders. Her cunt clamps and squeezes around him, and she moans into the air. It’s too good and it’s coming to an end, she can feel it slipping away. The tears from her burning eyes fall then, and she masks her sobs into her sighs. Alec licks the tears from her cheeks and says shh, shh, Maxie and fucks her harder.

Sometime in the night Max wakes to the feel of Alec’s hands. The pads of his fingers sliding between her breasts. His face nuzzles the skin between her legs, his tongue doing lazy laps around her clit. She feels good, and she pulls her legs against her chest, giving him more room. He hums, and she can feel the stretch of his smile, as his nose slides across her pubic bone.

“It’s just you now. No more shit.”

They both freeze at his words, and Max can feel the smile disappearing, and his shoulders tensing to get up. Instead she grabs his arm, stopping him. He lets her pull his palm to her face. She sucks on the pad of his ring finger, teeth grazing the tip. She pulls his forefinger into her mouth, wrapping her tongue around the digit like she had his cock. He watches her, chin resting on the edge of her stomach. She lets the finger slide out of her mouth.

“It’s just you too now, okay.”

the sinking ship

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Wed, 08 Aug 2007 20:17:04 GMT

Okay, I've just been cued into this thing and I think this might be it. Not because I want to leave or abandone this wonderful journal service, but I think that I will. Not because of solidarity and because other people will, but because I think that it's the right thing to do for me. I don't write or draw the things that they are targeting, but I might. And the people I read do. I need the freedom to be able to read and write what I want.

Good Points from amanuensis1, and I've joined fandom_flies, because I do want a ready house to go into. I will not get rid of this journal, probably ever, but I want a backup. I want a way out. I'm not going right now, or even by the end of the year, but when the move goes, so will I.

Come, darling, fly with me.

Ship meme, baby!

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Fri, 03 Aug 2007 14:51:14 GMT

Nicked from divalucia

Pick 12 characters you like, and then answer the questions below the cut about them. Obviously first choose your characters before you see the questions.

and so, in no particular order.

1. Anna Valerious (Van Helsing)
2. Jane Smith (Mr. and Mrs. Smith)
3. Jack Bristow (Alias)
4. Ian Nottingham (Witchbalde -comic)
5. Christina Yang (Gray's Anatomy)
6. Jack Harkness (DW / Torchwood)
7. Mary Magdalene (The Bible)
8. Narcissa Malfoy (HP)
9. Severus Snape (HP)
10. Gabriel Van Helsing (Van Helsing)
11. Faith (BtVS / AtS)
12. Col. William Tavington (The Patriot)

Okay, so I had issue picking characters, so sue me!

1. Have you ever read a Six/Eleven (Jack / Faith) fic?

Nope, but that could so work. She'd probably would be the only person that could get Jack into a ball gag and some chains.

2. Do you think Four (Ian Nottingham) is hot? How hot?

Hello! He's like 400 pounds of prime beef! He can jump from a height of 10m from a helicopter. He has longer hair than his girlfriend. He can slice a car in two with his sword! HELL YES HE'S HOT!

3. What would happen if Twelve (William Tavington) got Eight (Narcissa Malfoy) pregnant?

Really pretty, and evil babies. Did I mention the pretty? And then Lucius would probably challenge William to a duel. Mmmmmm good times.

4. Can you recommend any fic(s) about Nine (Severus Snape)?

Yes: Courtesies that I Despise in Me, because Snape / Narcissa rocks the boat and there isn't enough fic in this pairing. Oh and it' just awesome; and Snape: The Home Fries Nazi, because I need my Snape anyway I can get him after the DH debacle.

5. Would Two (Jane Smith) and Six (Jack Harkness) make a good couple?

Hmmm, well maybe for a one off thing, but I think Jane would demand commitment and Jack could never give that. Also, John would totally kick Jack's ass for even making the moves on his wife.

6. Five/Nine (Christina Yang/Severus Snape) or Five/Ten (Christina Yang/Gabriel Van Helsing)? Why?

Well, Christina/Severus, of course, think of all the snark!! And they would make a helluva medical team, wouldn't they! Also, I think Gabriel would be too wold-saving for Christina. Also, the question is just stupidly DW themed!

7. What would happen if Seven (Mary Magdalene) walked in on Two (Jane Smith) and Twelve (William Tavington) having sex?

Well, I think Mary would congratulate Jane for the women's lib, and point out the correct wips to use. As she is from a kinky kinky era.

8. Make up a summary for a Three/Ten (Jack Bristow/Gabriel Van Helsing) fic.

It would be total; CIA has to work with the Order on some secret spy mission to stop a satanic cult exporting sheep to Achabar. So, sue me, I'm making this up as I go along. Jack would get shot and Gabriel would have to take care of him in a cave somewhere with minimal emergency kit. This would of course included sharing of body heat, and one thing would lead to another. And that would lead some incredible sex. They would get rescued by Sindney, who would just give her dad this look, and there'd be much denial and snak all around. Untill few months later Gabriel would give in and fly to the states and show up at Jack's door with a minimal emergency kit.

9. Is there such a thing as One/Eight (Anna Valerious/Narcissa Malfoy) fluff?

Nope, but there sould be. They could curse the rules imposed upon noble women by society and hoppity skip together to the sunset.

10. Suggest a title for a Seven/Twelve (Mary Magdalene/William Tavington) hurt/comfort fic.

"Marys of the Sea" or other remote Tori Amos reference.

11. What kind of plot device would you use if you wanted Four (Ian Nottingham) to deflower One (Anna Valerious)?

Hmm, well as I've done deflowering on numerous occasions I shall go with: esque Mercedes Lackey Anna would have paid Ian to teach her the art of seduction, before stepping out in society.

12. Does anyone on your friends list read Seven (Mary Magdalene) slash?

I highly doubt it, as much as I love my biblical references, even I don't.

13. Does anyone on your friends list read Three (Jack Bristow) het?

Well, I do. I don't know about the flist. Ruby might do.

14. Does anyone on your friends list write or draw Eleven (Faith)?

No, I don't hang out with buffy people.

15. Would anyone on your friends list write Two/Four/Five (Jane/Ian/Christina)?

I don't think most people on my flist know who Ian is. But, oh if somebody just would, cause imgine the snark! and the hot assassin!sex

16. What might Ten (Gabriel Van Helsing) scream at a moment of great passion?

He doesn shout, he grunts.

17. If you wrote a songfic about Eight (Narcissa Malfoy), which song would you choose?

Damien Rice - 9 Crimes This is not what I do / It's the wrong kind of place / To be thinking of you / It's the wrong time / For somebody new.

It's the wrong time / She's pulling me through / It's a small crime / And I've got no excuse

Post-War, after the Death Of Lucius Narcissa/Severus fic.

18. If you wrote a One/Six/Twelve (Anna/Jack H/William) fic, what would the warnings be?

Ummm. Knife-play. Blood-play. Dub-con. Restraints.

Oh, and a cock ring.

19. What might be a good pick-up line for Two (Jane Smith) to use on Ten (Gabriel Van Helsing)?

"So, I hear you kill things for a living too?" Would probably work too, Gabriel is so needy.

20. When was the last time you read a fic about Five (Chritina Yang)?

I've never read a fic about her.

21. What is Six's (Jack Harkness) super-sekrit kink?

Monogamy.

22. Would Eleven (Faith) shag Nine (Snape)? Drunk or sober?

I don't think that Faith would care really. Okay, maybe she would about the greasy hair, so I'm gonna go with drunk.

23. If Three (Jack Bristow) and Seven (Mary Magdalene) get together, who tops?

Are you kidding me! Mary of course. She's had Jesus, so, Jack won't be a problem!

24. "One (Anna) and Nine (Snape) are in a happy relationship until Nine (Snape) suddenly runs off with Four (Ian). One (Anna), broken-hearted, has a hot one-night stand with Eleven (Gabriel) and a brief unhappy affair with Twelve (Faith), then follows the wise advice of Five (Christina Yang) and finds true love with Three (Jack Bristow)."

Christina does give very good relationship advice!

25. What title would you give this fic?

"O", and if you don't get the reference, then shame on you!

26. How would you feel if Seven/Eight (Mary/Narcissa) was canon?

Well HP, already has the religious allergory down to a T, so why not.

DH meme (total spoilers!)

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Tue, 24 Jul 2007 14:10:30 GMT

The DH meme going around fandom, swiped from furiosity

Go to the music player of your choice and put it on shuffle. Say the following questions aloud and press play. Use the song titles and/or one to two lines from the song as your answers.

What do I think of DH? It's Begining to Get to Me - Snow Patrol

It's not there now
In eloquence and anger
Are all we have
......
Lash out first
At all the things we don't like
Or understand

Yeah, I did lash out with the sickly romatic fic. Fitting.

What do I think of the Epilogue? I'm Good at Being Bad - TLC

You don't know
So what you gon' do
What you gonna do

Yah.

What do I want to say to JKR right now? Stoned - Dido

It's hard sometimes not to look away
And think what's the point when I'm having to hold this fine time
I think I'll explode if I can't feel this free now

Just pretty much: you took too much liberties with the plot. You got too close.

What would JKR want to say to me right now? Bitter Sweet Symphony - The Verve

I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down
You know the one that takes you to the places
where all the veins meet

Man, my iTunes is just, whoa. Basically that she's just showing us the road, that she didn't know how it would end. Cool.

What do I think of OotP: The Movie? I Feel Love - Vanessa Mae

Instrumental, electric. So; fast paced, and still interesting.

What should I do with my life now that I've finished reading all there is of canon? Strange - Tori Amos

Woke up to a world
that I am not a part
except when I can play
its stranger

So; I just gotta write as much fic as I can. Right.

What would I say to Harry Potter right now? My Favourite Game - The Cardigans

I only know what I've been working for
I know you so I could love you more
I really thought that I could take you there

Oh, why did the slash not happen?!?

What would I say to seven Harry Potters right now? We Are One - Kelly Sweet

Not thinkin' bout tomorrow
Couldn't catch it if I tried
World is spinning too fast
So I'll wait 'til it comes to me

*Bawls* oh Hedwig, you stupid bird. And war is coming, so totally.

What would I say to Harry Potter in 2016/2017? Gay Bar - Electric Six
No fucking Way! I love my iTunes

You!
I wanna take you to a gay bar

It's the look in the epilogue, I tell you!

What would Harry Potter say to me right now? Not the Doctor - Alanis Morissette

Visiting hours are 9 to 5,
and if I show up at 10 past 6
Well I already know that you'd find some way to sneak me in
and oh

Really?!

What advice does [my favourite character] have for me? Bad Day - REM
Narcissa

Count your blessings.
We're sick of being jerked around.
We all fall down.

Isn't she cool, like really really cool.

What advice does [my least favorite character] have for me? Come On - Ben Jelen
probably Ginny (just cause she never does anything)

Looking out, looking back across the sky
Trying to find a meaning
Knowing that I just left it all behind

Yeah, I know. Your characterization was just shot all to hell.

How will I remember HP one year from now? Red Meets Blue - Matt Wertz

I want to see all of you
When green meets red and red meets blue
I want to see all of you

So, fandom it is. Harry will always for me be through fandom, trying to look it in different ways. Very true.

What do I think of the fandom today? Moon River - Henry Macini

Two drifters off to see the world.
There's such a lot of world to see.
We're after the same rainbow's end--
waiting 'round the bend,
my huckleberry friend,
Moon River and me.

Holy Shit, I just wrote a fic to thins song!!!! Thus fandom is always inspirational.

What will I think of the fandom one year from now? Somwhere Only We Know - Keane
No! I'm not making this shit up!

I walked across an empty land,
I knew the pathway like the back of my hand.
I felt the earth beneath my feet,
Sat by the river and it made me complete

Hmmm yeahh,

This could be the end of everything.
So why don't we go, somewhere only we know,
Somewhere only we know

Fic: Things Unsaid [Severus/Narcissa] SPOILERS

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Sun, 22 Jul 2007 20:31:30 GMT

Written in like 15 mins. If you can come up with a name, I will love you forever. And make you chocolate fudge brownies.

ETA arubyslipper came up with Things Unsaid, which I love, alas I have to give her brownies when I see her next time.

Okay, this is just the shipper in me that wants to just imagine this happening.

Narcissa. Snape. Happy ending as it should have been. Total fluff. Total AU

Things Unsaid

moon river, wider than a mile,
I'm crossing you in style some day,
oh, dream maker, you heart breaker,
wherever you're going I'm going your way

- Henry Mancini Moon River

The late autumn blossoms were still clinging to three branches. Even if it was nearly September the sun was still warm and the long blades of grass, which had been neglected during the summer months, were swaying in the breeze. Narcissa did not wear white, too old and too married already, she had claimed. Instead her dress was deep green, easily blending in with the late summer grass and leaves.

The gazebo was by the lake, run down and barely standing, but it had been decorated with silver and greed ribbons, and with white elderflowers. There was no music, but she preferred it this way, just listening the leaves shivering in the wind, and counting her future husbands breaths in her mind as she walked. All of the Order was there, as were the teachers and some of her more understanding friends.

Draco stood almost by the entrance; back straight and grey eyes unreadable. They warmed as she walked to him, and hugged her son close to her chest. Draco had given his blessing, had smiled to her in private, even through his grief, and he had said allright.

Severus’ fingers gripped her tightly as she stepped into gazebo to stand in front of the dedicator. The side of his thumb was stained almost black, and Narcissa smiled at the thought of him fighting his nerves in the potions class room. It had always been Severus’ way of escaping, in school, in the service of the Dark Lord and in the final war. Gently she slid her own thumb over the stain and smiled. His eyes did not turn to her, but stayed firmly on the dedicator now wishing the guests welcome, but Narcissa could see the side of his lips twitch. She knew that was as close to a smile she would get from him, before a few tumblers of firewhisky, that is.

“Now, I declare you bonded for life.”

The crowd clapped, and she could hear even a few whoops, which most likely came from Draco’s friends sitting in the front rows. Bonded for life. She had wanted to hear those words in conjunction with this man long before she asked her sister to be their bonder, before he joined the Death Eaters, maybe even before they shared the secret passage way to the Restricted Section so long ago.

The great hall had been decorated much like gazebo, and Narcissa had spared no expenses on the champagne. There were more people in the hall, and the wedding guests disappeared into their midst; friends and family greeting one another and passing he drinks around. Narcissa knew that Minerva McGonagall had sent out invitations for just a “party” in order to get them a proper reception. She did not mind, as she watched the people she did not really know laughing and almost-dancing by the cleared out dance floor.

Throughout the night some people ambled over to offer their congratulations. Even Harry Potter came, disdain still in his eyes, but his voice was polite as he wished well to “Mr. And Mrs. Snape”. Narcissa did not have the heart to tell him that she would not change her name. Malfoy was the name of her son, so it was the name of her. Severus’ arm tightened in her grip, but with an even voice expressed his thank you to the young man.

They only danced together at the end of the night, after most of the guests had left and the rest were tiredly milling about the room. Severus’ stained hands were warm and sure against her back, and Narcissa though how the unbreakable vow had burned both of their hands, fused them together, and for a moment she wished that she could bring that light again, fuse them together into this moment.

It was nearly sunrise when they made it to the carriage waiting for them by the door. Someone had hung a lopsided “just maried” sign on the back of it. The letters were shaky and thick, and Narcissa reminded herself to send Hagrid some of the large pumpkins ripening in the Malfoy manor garden.

Severus fell asleep against her shoulder halfway into the journey, and Narcissa closed her eyes and felt his breath, slow and steady, alive, against her.

Deathly Hallows: I have issues and I have love (but more issues)

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Sun, 22 Jul 2007 14:27:47 GMT

I finished the books last night. There are major SPOLERS undert the cut. DO NOT CLICK IF YOU HAVEN'T FINISHED THE BOOK!!

Allright, I finished Deathly Hallows last night. And hoo boy. I hate to say, but I was disappointed. Because the Potter-books are, for me, all about the omgsupriselikewhoa effect, and that just wasn’t there. It felt like JKR just went through all the most common fan theories and shoved them in the book. I felt cheated.

The attraction for me in the books has been the ensemble cast thing, because the trio could never be too controversial or too complicated, but then I had the other minor characters to amuse myself with. Now, when it was just the trio, all the time, I felt slightly bored. I can’t go through all the issues I had with the book, so I will concentrate on a few. And these are all very self-centred issues, and most likely will have nothing to do with your reading experience.

Firstly the Snape/Lilly thing. I felt like somebody was shoving a “worship the saint Lilly” pamphlet in my face during The Price’s Tale chapter. Not to mention it was just fucking obvious from the moment the doe partonus appeared on the scene. The whore/Madonna division came through so clearly and disgustingly in that. Snape loved Lilly, they were friends; they grew up together, but by god if she ever has any feeling towards the ugly boy! Oh the horror! And of course she is exlusively James’ and even the suggestion that she could have returned Snape’s feelings is show to be plashemous. I am not dissing this because it breaks my pairing of choice of Snape/Narcissa, because it really doesn’t. Lilly is dead and people are in relationships all the time where they love other people. So, that’s fine, but to paint Snape as this kind of desperate stalker who could not let go of her, is just...... well wrong! Also, Dumbeldore trusts Snape because he was obsessed with Lilly, okaay, now that’s a good reason.

My second issue was with Ginny. I saw an icon by somebody that says “I’ve read the Epilogue and...... thanks for playing the uterus, Ginny.” So, here we go again with the saintly mother type. She is not allowed to fight, to be brave, to be smart and helpful. Oh, no, because she is the uterus that will bear the Potter babies. She is being saved for Harry, like some kind of prize-bride/virgin sacrifice.

UPDATE: Third problem I had was the house unity issue. The poem on the start set up a some kind of expectation to the houses being united against Voldemort. It seems that JKR doesn't really consider Slytherine a part of Hogwarts. It was as those children weren't needed or wanted by anyone at all. Now it makes me cheer Snape on, as the head of house, in the previous books, because he tryly tried to get Slytherins feeling like a part of Hogwarts. I guess it is okay to just write of 1/4th of all children that they are evil/unworthy/not to be bothered with. But hey! whatever! Not to mention Ron and Harry passing on their jurgemented views to their children. Hey, it doesn't matter if you don't like the Malfoys 'cause they are pure-blood, it's okay to hate them and beat them. And, don't worry, sonny boy, you can choose not to be in slytherine. So, basically it's okay to be prejudiced as long as you are on the right side.

Final issue, the epilogue. I can just say WTF, and leave it at that okay.

But I did love things in the book. Maybe not the things I was supposed to, but I did anyway.

First: OMG Kreacher love. The only moment in the book when I was even close to tears was when Harry was thinking of Kreacher back at the house making his pie and waiting for them to return and they never would. The elf just went all Martha Stewart. I just loved that, because food is love. It’s his way of showing love to the people who have been kind to him, and that just touched me.

Second: OMG Headmaster-Snape love!!! I just want to read fics about his year in the school. The rebelling students, the balancing between Voldemort and making it okay for the kids. I want to see how he got on, how he navigated his life there, and that wasn’t show. I needed that. So anyone sees any fic, point me there! And I wouldn’t say no to snippets of Narcissa visiting him in his Headmaster’s study. ‘Cause they are so still doing it.

Third: Narcissa kicks ass! I’ve been a fan of hers from Goblet of Fire onwards, ‘cause this Lady has style, grace and an iron will to protect what’s hers. She is not the virgin-saint-mother the good girls seem to be stuck with, but a real fiery woman willing to fight. Her hand commanding and guiding Lucius. Her protectiveness over Draco. Her saving of Harry’s life. And the Malfoy’s group hug in the hallway. Now that is family. Lucius or Narcissa didn’t care about the war or the people, they cared about their child. And I hope that some people in the Order would have taken a leaf out of their book.

Anyways, I will post a more coherent review at some point, but this will have to do for now.

Precious Things DVD commentary (part 3)

claudia_flies@yahoo.com — Sun, 15 Jul 2007 13:36:13 GMT

Okay, finally done. It's quite frigtening to look back at your own work and analyse it in any sort of coherent way. I like talking about myself and my work, but this was actually very illuminating, because I've never actually thought about the psycho motivation that drive me to write this wierd shit!

:D

for the lovely kat_lair

xvii.

This section was rather strange. It didn’t appear into my writing radar till very late in the process. I never intended to make Robin and his men the enemy. I wanted to create some gray areas into the narrative by having Robin’s men attack Marian, but it was never intended to divide loyalties into black and white. So, here I wanted to bring that forth. I knew I couldn’t use Robin, because his relationship Marian had already broken down, so it had to be someone else. I chose John because he is only one of the men (apparently) who is married. That was a very important element that would be carried over into the following pieces.

The entire scene was sparked off by one line which I imagined Marian saying:

“Gisborne did not kill him. I did.”

It was there, because I wanted the concept of the damsel in distress to be challenged and changed. Because the act of killing a man is something that would never really be associated with a Lady, with someone like Marian. And I think John was the perfect foil for that conversation because he is the one with the most life experience.

I also wanted to stir up the memories of the attack for the following scene, partly because I wanted the contrast, and because I needed to remind the reader what had happened when Robin steps into the picture. If this scene had not been here, I think it would have been harder to write credibly. But more on that later.

xvii.

The maid had retrieved her in the middle of breakfast. Her father had not been roused yet and the house had been silent. The maid had insisted that she come to the kitchen. There was a man there demanding to speak to her and the girl was too afraid to tell him to go away. The fear in the girl’s voice made Marian grab her father’s long sword from the rack by the door before she followed the maid to the back of the house.

In the brightly lit kitchen stood the giant of a man she knew as John. He was hunched over by the door, trying to take as little of space as possible, while all the kitchen girls were giving him apprehensive glances from the corner of their eyes. Upon noticing her, the man gave a clumsy bow.

“Lady Marian. I want to speak to you.”

She gripped the sword in her hand, but sensed no threat from the man. She nodded her agreement and buried her apprehension. Marian commanded the kitchen staff out; even if the man meant no harm she could not take him to any other part of the house. Her father might awake any moment.

“If Robin is too much of a coward to come here himself, I have nothing to say to you.”

He voice was harsher than she had meant, but the idea of Robin sending his lackeys to her was insulting. But the man shook his head.

“I come on me own, Your Ladyship. There are some things I need to say to you.”

Marian nodded for him to continue.

“About a month past, some of the men returned to camp. Two of them very badly wounded by the sword. They told me to have been attacked by Gisborne and his men while out hunting. Jonas, a younger lad, had been killed. We took care of the wounded as the best of our abilities and in a few days time I insisted to be taken to collect Jonas’ body. To give him a proper burial and all.”

His voice changed to a more halting tone, and Marian guessed he had noticed her white knuckled fingers squeezing the wood of the table.

“Now, you must, understand, My Lady that I saw nothing untoward in the injuries or the stories of these men. It would not have been the first time for our men to have been injured while hunting. But when I saw Jonas’ body I knew something was wrong. Such a small precise wound would only be inflicted by a very small weapon, at a close range, not by a sword. I realised that they had not been hunting. Gisborne would never get off his horse to fight for such a small crime. This appeared to be more personal.”

Marian shook her head, eyes cast to the table top, but he carried on without any regard to her reaction.

“I pressed some of the men then. And finally they admitted to me that they had come upon a lady on horseback, and had acted like no man ever should.”

Marian fought to keep her voice steady, and met the man’s eyes.

“That is an interesting story, John. Why did you wish to tell me this?”

He was silent for a while and she could read the pity and the apology in his eyes. She wanted to throw up, wanted to make him leave and never come back.

“Because I think the Lady was you. I think Gisborne came to your aid and killed Jonas in his rage.”

Her voice was cold, and so were her eyes and she could visibly see the man flinch.

“Gisborne did not kill him. I did.”

John was silent for a long time and Marian felt her anger peak.

“Does that change things for you? It would have been so easy to blame Gisborne and take me as the wronged damsel.”

The man shook his head again, his eyes averted now.

“No, My Lady. I was just after the truth.”

Marian nodded. She had nothing left to say. What had happened was monstrous, but she wished to leave it in the past, bury it deep, so she would never have to feel it again. But John was not finished.

“Is that why you are marrying him? Out of gratitude?”

“I fail to see how that is any of you business.”

He voice was like ice and John looked suitably chastened.

“And now I do believe you have overstayed your welcome. If you speak any of this to Robin...”

But his gruffy voice interrupted her.

“You will what?”

For the first time his voice sounded threatening, but Marian just smiled.

“I will tell your wife.”

At that John averted his eyes and moved to leave, his massive hands pressing on the wood of the door.

“But tell Robin this: my reasons for marrying have nothing to do with him, and he would do well to stay out of my way.”

She could see that he wanted to argue, but on the last second decided otherwise. He merely nodded and gave another stumbling bow and left. Slowly Marian pried her fingers away from the wood and forced her breath out in even puffs.

xviii. part 1

There are clearly two parts to the last section, and the reason why I didn’t divide it was because it would have disturbed the flow.

Here I needed to lay to rest the Nightwatchman-issue. Because I wanted there to be no questions whether or not Guy knew, I needed him to know and to accept it in order for the plot to work properly. This was again to contrast Guy with Robin, who had been very condemning of Marian’s nightly treks. But because Guy has seen to what lengths she will go in order to follow her own heart he realises that he cannot stop her. It’s more of an admonition from him, a profession of love. Like he would be saying: I accept you as you are, I can love you if you let me. I think Guy has this terrible need for Marian to love him back and he is willing to give everything to get that, even support her as the Nightwatchman.

I don’t know if the daggers and the letter were a clear enough indication what I wanted it to mean, but I’m not the kind of writer who wants to spell it out. I, as a reader, love the moment of realisation where you have to do some brain work.

I don’t think that Marian bursting into tears works as well as I wanted it to, I wanted to give it this sudden-damn-bursting feel. The realisation is a shock to her, because it’s something that she hasn’t allowed herself to think about, let alone feel.

Alice, was an obvious choice for this scene, because firstly she is one of the only female characters in the show, and I think that she can really relate to Marian. The reason why I contrasted Alice’s marriage to Marian’s was because I needed to bring the events into perspective. Not all marriages were happy, or born from love. Not all marriages were equal, or made for the right reasons. I also thought that in a way John and Guy are very similar. Outwardly very violent and dangerous, but inside they both need love and are willing to anything to get it and keep it (John disappearing into the forest in order to protect his family).

Marian’s musings in the bedroom were just a treat for me, because it is one of my favourite things to write about; the first night, the fear and the apprehension. Here that is missing and I find it an interesting contrast.

xviii.

I need your grace
To remind me
To find my own
- Snow Patrol, Chasing Cars

Marian had not been the kind of girl, or even woman, who imagined and planned her wedding day in her mind long before the event. She had never had any expectations, because she had always assumed to be married in someone else’s house, on someone else’s land. She looked at herself in the polished mirror and smiled at the reflection. If she would have imagined, this would have been it.

The knock on the door made her wonder about time, but it was nowhere near noon yet. She had not been able to sleep and had risen with the sun to prepare. Her father opened the door, where a young man stood patiently carrying a wooden box. She recognised the yellow and black sash on his arm and gave him a slight smile. He would not step over the doorstep, but gave a formal bow to her and her father.

“Sir Guy sends a gift for his bride.”

Her father took the box from the messenger’s hands while Marian waited in the background, as was proper. The man bowed once more and then left. Her father ran his hands over the wood.

“What is this, Marian?”

Quickly she took the box from her father and made her way to the stairs.

“Marian?”

His voice was louder, and she could hear the underlying hack of his lungs.

“I do not know, father.”

She closed the door behind her and laid the box on her dressing table. The top was smooth and worn with age. There was nothing eloquent about the box, nothing festive. She could imagine him trying to find even remotely clean chest to bring her, and smiled at the thought. Slowly Marian lifted the lid. The hinges sliding open without a sound. The velvet lining was black, and inside rested a pair of daggers with sheaths and a belt. Their handles were intricately carved and perfect size for her hands. Her fingers slid over the small leaves and indented flowers, and the bold and smooth etching of MG. Over the sharp blades rested a simple brown envelope. She had never seen his handwriting before, but the sharp thin letters suited him. With shaking fingers she pried open the seal.

I know it is customary to give the morning gift only after the wedding, but as we did things wrong way around the first place, I though they would be suited for now. It would honour me if you would wear them today.

With these I wish to once more show you my love, which I am not capable to do in words. I will never do justice to your beauty, your honour or your courage. I wish to show you that I will love you in everything that you are and in everything that you wish to do.

Gently she lifted the daggers from their box and beneath them rested a mask of black leather. The tears and the sobs were so sudden Marian could no nothing to combat them. The trepidation and fear of the last week came pouring out in huge, chest shattering sobs and she could not stop. She did not hear the soft steps on the stairs or the subtle knock. Alice’s voice floated through the room:

“Lady Marian, I have come to wish you well for your wed...”

Alice’s words were caught in her throat at the sight of Marian in tears. She rushed to the Lady’s side kneeling by her seat.

“Dear, it is not so bad, do not shed tears on this wonderful day.”

Marian shook her head at the other woman’s gentle words, and managed to hiccup out through her tears.

“I love him. I have never told this to anyone, but I do.”

Alice hugged her then, an unusual show of boldness on her part, and smiled into Marian’s veil. She had felt a stone on her heart for all week for the kind Lady Marian, who would have to marry where she did not love. Now she stroked her shaking shoulders and whispered.

“Then tell him that, My Lady. Men are so fragile in their affections. I am certain he will love you back well.”

Marian nodded, unable to from words, the hilt of the dagger squeezed in her palm. She could feel the grooves and the edges against her skin, the marking visible. But this time she did not mind.

Marian wiped her eyes and smiled at Alice. She walked around the room prattling on about how beautiful Marian looked, how lovely the day was and how fondly she remembered her own wedding day. At that Marian felt guilt sting in her heart. She should tell Alice the truth, but would the truth hurt more after all these years than the sorrow she has learned to live with. Marian knew the old sorrow to be better so she stayed silent and smiled at the other woman.

“Alice, thank you for coming. It means the world to me. I have no women friends near here to keep me company, so I appreciate yours.”

The older woman smiled back brightly and moved behind her to smooth over her veil and adjust the crown of fall flowers holding it in place.

“I know many of the villagers do not approve of your father’s choice, but I always thought that a woman should have happiness on this day so I came to wish you well. And I do know something about unsuitable marriages, I do.”

Marian raised her eyes from the daggers in her lap and met Alice’s gaze in the mirror. She smiled, but Marian could now see the sorrow beginning to peek through the happy facade of Alice’s eyes.

“When I chose to marry John, God rest his soul, people would speak behind my back. They would say how could I marry such a violent oaf, how such a slip of a girl could wed him.”

Marian had to smile at that. She could truly imagine people’s remarks.

“It does not matter what they think. What matters is what you know in your heart. You are the only one who needs to accept him.”

Alice let the veil go, finally pleased with her handiwork. Marian rose from her chair still holding on the twin blades.

“Would you mind helping these on me?”

Alice gave her a curious look, but nodded. The belt fit perfectly underneath the belt of her dress. Marian turned around admiring herself in the mirror. She could see Alice smiling behind her and Marian turned and hugged the other woman. Alice remained rigid in her embrace for a moment. Then her joy won over propriety and she hugger her Lady back.

“Thank you Alice, for your kind words and your company. I insist that you come to the wedding and to the banquet after. And bring your family. Today we shall all dine well.”

The other woman gave her a slightly clumsy curtsey and disappeared through the door with a grin and Marian could not help but be uplifted by her joy. She heard her father’s courteous voice welcoming Alice to the celebrations and then bidding her goodbye. She listened to her father’s steps in the living room and finally allowed the happiness to rise in her. It felt bright and bubbly inside her chest and for a moment Marian thought she could not breathe through her grin.

She walked to the end of the hallway, where the heavy doors lead to the master bedroom. No one had lived there since her mother’s death. Her father had refused to set foot in it for many months after her death, and even now he did not like being there. Now it would be Marian’s new bedroom. She pushed the door open and stepped inside. It had been aired out and new linens put everywhere. Her father had commissioned a new bed for them, as was customary. It had been brought yesterday, nearly late for the wedding. She let her fingers travel over the wood, familiarising herself with it. Part of her wondered would she have been afraid. No one had spoken to her about her wedding night, but she knew women were often afraid. But the daggers, heavy and solid against her hip, reminded her how good it felt not to be afraid anymore.

xviii. part 2

This is the choice. I wanted there to be no questions about Marian’s choice in marrying Guy so I needed to present her a “way out” of the marriage. And I liked the idea of Robin coming to rescue her, when she is really in no need of rescue.

The dialogue between Robin and Marian was intended to be very tense. I don’t know if that comes through as well as I hoped, because I don’t think I justify Marina’s rage enough. I think it might have moved a bit too fast.

Here again, it became important that John was on Marian’s side, because technically he is the only one who could stop Robin, the only one who would have the guts.

I think that with Robin and Marian, they would have always been unequal if they were to get together. Marian understands Robin’s motivations far better than he understands hers. I think Robin, until this moment has considered Marian to be his, somehow waiting for him in the distance after he had claimed his glory and fame. I feel slightly sorry for him, because I don’t think that he had fully realised that Marian was not going to wait for him.

I moved to Alice’s point of view in the end because at the time of writing I just didn’t know how to finish the story, but now looking at it I think that it worked really well. The contrast and reasons for writing the story come through it Alice’s thoughts more clearly than they would have come in anyone else’s, I think.

I always intended to end the story at the wedding, but even right at the end I wasn’t quite sure at which point. I think it turned out pretty well all around.

Her thoughts were interrupted by shouting and raised voices downstairs. In a second she had time to pray. O Lord, please not my father. And then she rushed to the hall and down the stairs.

Robin stood on the doorway, his bow and arrow firmly grasped in his fist. She could see a band of his men on the porch behind him, blocking out the light from the doorway. At the sight of her Robin squared his shoulders, as if readying himself for a fight. Slowly she moved into the room, cautiously looking around the side doors for anyone laying in ambush. Part of Marian scolded her; this was just Robin, he would never trap her. But in the back of her head still rested the thought of the thick earth clogging into her lugs and Marian stood on her guard.

“Gentlemen, this truly is not a good time. Whatever business you are here for...”

“Marian.”

Robin’s voice was hard but Marian would not let him continue.

“...must wait until after the wedding.”

Robin shook his head, eyes serious and boring into hers.

“I will not let you do this, Marian.”

All the playfulness Marian had been used to hearing in his voice was gone and she finally understood he would not see reason in this.

“When have I ever given you the implication that your will has any power over my decisions?”

He merely shook his head again, as if her decisions were not even to be discussed.

“You cannot marry him. He is everything you stand against, everything we have been fighting for! How can you forsake that?”

She tried to keep her voice steady and low, but Marian could hear the rage starting to seep into her words.

“Robin. You and I have never fought for the same things. You fight for glory and for King and country. I fight for the poor women and children who are left to these abandoned estates to starve. I have been doing so for five years. And that is not about to change, just because my name will.”

“Are you honestly so stupid that you think that he will allow you to continue as the Nightwatchman?”

His voice was harsh and it made her want to flinch, but Marian fought the urge and tried not to sink to his level.

“How dare you come here and call me names, and make assumptions about my marriage agreements!”

Easily her fingers wrapped themselves around a dagger by her side, and her father moved, as if to come between them.

“Robin, please.”

Her father’s voice was soothing. Marian’s eyes were again drawn to the men blocking the doorway as her father tried to calm Robin. Their faces were familiar to her, in a distant sort of way.

“I am sorry Sir Edward. I understand your reasons for allowing this to continue, but I cannot let this happen.”

Robin’s voice was a whisper in her ears, as her eyes collided with one of the men. She knew him, knew his sneering mouth and the foul words he had shouted at her not so long ago. The hilt was solid in her hand and it slid out of its sheath like knife through butter. She could see fear flashing through the man’s eyes, and Marian bared her teeth.

She was jolted out of her rage by John’s voice and by his staff that shoved the men away from the doorway. Marian felt a shiver of satisfaction as the man was thrown to the floor by the force of John’s blows. Robin turned to his friend, his voice raised in anger.

“John, what is this?”

But his demands were drowned out.

“Out! Everybody out now!”

John’s voice made even the wooden beams shake and quickly the men, all but Robin scattered outside.

“We have no right to stop the Lady. If we do we will be worse than the Sheriff, Robin.”

She could see the protests forming in Robin’s mind, but John would not let him voice them.

“She goes there of her own will, and none of us have any say in that. Not even you Robin.”

To enforce his words, John placed his staff against Robin’s chest and with a small bow motioned Marian and her father towards the door. As softly as she could Marian pushed the dagger back into its place and forced her breath to even out. John’s eyes were soft and Marian smiled at him.

“Your horses are waiting outside, My Lady.”

“Thank you John.”

She could see the betrayal on Robin’s face and for a moment Marian regretted not speaking to him about this before. Robin was a man of action, but she did not know him well enough to confide in him. She had had the suspicion for a while that he still considered her to be his, that upon King Richards return she would be here, waiting. She understood his anguish, but could not partake in it.

“Robin, I would have never been yours. I never promised you such things.”

His face fell, and Marian felt guiltier in her love, than she had when she’d been lying to her father. She was taking the hand o his enemy and he could not understand why. And that was the reason why she could never marry Robin: he could never see the choices forced upon her. Marian was about to step over the threshold, but stopped at the sight of John's face. He was smiling a little, and she thought about his wife.

“Alice will be at the wedding. If you wish to see her.”

The man’s head bowed, as if by some great pain, but his voice was surprisingly clear.

“Thank you, My Lady.”

They walked through the band of outlaws, her father’s hand on her elbow. He would not look at her, until they had reached the horses.

“Marian, what was that about?”

She, in turn, would not meet his eyes. Her fingers slid over the leather of the ladies saddle that she had never used before. It had been brought from the storage room just for this day.

“Nothing, father. Absolutely nothing.”

Easily Marian mounted the horse, and with care arranged the dress around herself, so none of it touched the ground. She could see one of the stable boys helping her father mount his horse, and felt glad that he was still able to ride. She had insisted that they would ride to the wedding. Her father had called her imprudent, but she had just laughed. It had been her way of showing independence and the colours of Knighton. The long, bright sashes were tied to her reins.

Robin had come out of the house and when she looked back Marian could see his grim face. Marian understood why he had tried to stop her; understood his reasons beyond his infatuation and lingering love for her. He thought that she would go to Gisbourne’s side now, he though that she would belong to the castle now. But what Robin did not understand that with this marriage she was buying Guy’s freedom from the Sheriff and from his own ambitions. Robin would see it as selling her own freedom in exchange for his, but that was something she was willing to trade. She would be his Gisborne and in turn he would let her stay in Knighton.

The barren branches of the trees crated an archway over her head and the frost bitten leaves crunched under the hooves of her horse. She smiled to the empty forest and to her father who rode a few paces behind her. The church came to view behind the bend in the road and Marian was surprised to see so many people on the yard. As she rode through their ranks, she could see the scowls on their faces, she could see the fear and she smiled at them. I will prove you wrong; I will show you the good that is in him. She knew herself to be naive in the hope that he would change, but she could try.

His eyes were hooded as she stopped outside the steps of the church, he would not look at her or smile. The soldiers standing on guard helped her down from her horse. She could feel the heavy gazes of her villages on her back as she walked up the steps. His hand found hers under the heavy fabric of the sleeves. Softly she leaned against him and with her free hand adjusted his collar and whispered.

“Do not be afraid. For I will.”

Alice stood among the villagers and smiled. She could see that many of her fellow watchers were eying the edge of the forest. As if waiting for Robin Hood to rescue the fair maiden from such a terrible fate. Alice wondered if she was the only one who could see the small and coy smile on the lips of the bride, and the way her fingers squeezed those of her groom in a deathly grip beneath the folds of her long sleeves. These were things people did not wish to see. They wanted their world to be simple, black and white; where the lines between evil and good were clearly drawn.

Alice, however, knew life to be different, with John she had learned to look beneath the surface of people. Maybe that was why she could be happy for Marian, for she recognised the look so plainly written on Sir Guy’s face. The same expression had been looking at her not too many years past on her own wedding day, she recognised the expression of wonder and happiness on the man’s face; the amazement that this beautiful and gentle woman was to be his wife. People, including her family, had much misjudged John, and maybe today Marian’s family was misjudging her future husband as well.

End

There is a sequel to this currently at work. I’ve written Robin’s point of view already, and I think I might post that all by itself, because I don’t know if the rest of the story will even take shape in the way I want it to.