Mini-DVD meme
Feb. 8th, 2011 08:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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penknife -- why not?
Pick a paragraph (or any passage between ... let's say 200 and 600 words) from anything I've written, and comment to this post with that selection. I will then give you a DVD commentary on that snippet: what I was thinking when I wrote it, why I wrote it in the first place, what's going on in the characters' heads, why I chose certain words, what this moment means in the context of the rest of the fic, lots of awful puns, and anything else that you'd expect to find on a DVD commentary track.
My website
My stuff on AO3
penknife -- why not?Pick a paragraph (or any passage between ... let's say 200 and 600 words) from anything I've written, and comment to this post with that selection. I will then give you a DVD commentary on that snippet: what I was thinking when I wrote it, why I wrote it in the first place, what's going on in the characters' heads, why I chose certain words, what this moment means in the context of the rest of the fic, lots of awful puns, and anything else that you'd expect to find on a DVD commentary track.
My website
My stuff on AO3
(no subject)
Date: 2/9/11 08:07 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2/10/11 02:41 am (UTC)My opinion of John Sheppard is that his perspective is pretty muted even to himself. By which I mean that I think he doesn't actually know what he feels most of the time. Maybe he's one of those people who'd say "I know what I feel when I see what I did."
He woke up hours later, with an ache in his shoulder and that faintly feverish sensation you got when you slept too much in the daytime. Sheppard's weight was still pinning one of his legs to the couch, but Sheppard's head was no longer resting on his chest.
He opened his eyes to find Sheppard looking down at him -- looking like hell, with bruised eyes and deep lines around his mouth. Rodney took a breath to utter some inanity like "How are you doing?" and Sheppard kissed him.
People usually telegraphed a kiss pretty thoroughly, so that even Rodney, who was not the best at predicting human behavior, knew they were coming and could get his mouth in the proper position beforehand. This one was totally out of left field, and Rodney's lower lip got smashed against his teeth while his upper lip wrinkled up uncomfortably under his nose.
It lasted maybe two seconds, and then Sheppard's whole body went tense. With lightning speed Rodney saw the way to prevent another round of guilt and horror, and he cupped a hand over Sheppard's cheek and opened his mouth.
OK, for what it's worth, here's what I think Sheppard is doing here. He has done a terrible thing and he knows it. He is a victim of abuse, and he's trying very hard not to know that. It's true that Rodney is the only familiar person on Baj, but if he had his choice, he'd choose Rodney over everyone else, because Rodney is the opposite of Lija's manipulations. Rodney is so socially inept that he can't manipulate anyone. What John is craving here is not just comfort but also honesty.
For a while the kiss was an oddly ceremonious affair, like a dance. It occurred to Rodney that Lija had trained Sheppard in the way she wanted him to kiss, and he was just starting to get pissed off when apparently it dawned on Sheppard that he was on his own time and could kiss any damned way he wanted to, and suddenly everything got a lot wetter, a lot dirtier. Also, of course, with Rodney John can choose. Rodney made a noise that wasn't quite a groan but fell very far short of being English.
He put his hands on Sheppard's back and took a shocked breath; somehow this morning he'd failed to notice the way the silky fabric conducted body heat so well that it was like touching bare skin. Sheppard shivered against him, kissing deeper, and Rodney ran his hands down and found that the pants were just the same. He rubbed his thumb along the undercurve of Sheppard's ass, and Sheppard drew off his mouth to say, "Oh, yeah."
"I can't -- can't entirely approve of how hot I find this," he said, gathering up a handful of the slippery fabric.
"Yeah?" Sheppard wiggled his ass under Rodney's hand.
"Yeah, but this -- I mean, this is the, the material of your oppression and whatnot." Rodney took a women's studies class once at university; it seemed like a good place to meet girls. I'm afraid he was one of those guys who thinks that the reason we gals haven't fixed everything yet is because we're doing feminism wrong, and everything will work out a lot better if we'll just listen carefully to him while he explains it to us.
Sheppard raised up further to look Rodney in the eye. "It's different," he said, "if you like it." I can't really see John dressing to seduce, in his normal life, or putting his body on display for someone. But if he can take what's been put on him, and use it to please Rodney by his own choice, he can redeem his whole situation.
(no subject)
Date: 2/13/11 09:59 pm (UTC)As a John motto, that does make total sense.
Ah, unlike the comfort, it's not something I'd considered. (I've always felt that even if Rodney had better social skills and the capability, he'd still find manipulation inefficient and underhanded, which does make him very safe for John here.)
♥ ♥ ♥
(So much. *g*)
That I really like, as an angle here.
Thank you!
ME ME ME!!
Date: 2/10/11 01:42 am (UTC)Ray swallowed. " 's Wanda," he said, "red light, that's all it --"
His mouth shut with an audible click as Fraser's lips touched his cheek.
Fraser moved very slowly. Up, where the taut skin around Ray's temple was slightly damp with sweat. Down, where his stubble prickled against Fraser's lips. There was a barely perceptible tremble in Ray's body, but otherwise he was perfectly still. Fraser slid his lips slowly over Ray's face, pausing at the corner of his mouth and then pressing on to cover Ray's lips with his.
For a long moment that was the only point of contact between their two bodies. Then Ray's lips moved in what might have been his name, and Ray's hands came up to fist in the back of his tunic, and finally, finally, Ray's mouth opened to his.
Ray never stopped talking, even as his tongue touched restlessly over and behind Fraser's lips. Ray was murmuring, "Fraser," and "yes," and "oh jesus it's about fucking time." And at last Ray pivoted and pushed Fraser back hard against the pinball machine, which let out a startled little bleep of electronic music, and he pushed up heavily against his chest, tasting every part of his mouth, shivering as Fraser's hands went into his hair.
The machine clattered, and Wanda's husky voice cried, "Eat cold steel, goblin warriors!"
Ray took a stumbling step backward, looking stunned and wide-eyed and very thoroughly kissed. The flashing lights lit his face with a wash of flame-colored light.
Fraser suddenly remembered where they were.
The barfly in the cowboy hat still had his back turned, but Heather was drying a glass with such ostentatious care that Fraser was certain she'd been watching them. Oh lord.
He turned back to Ray, mouth opening to apologize, and found him grinning. "Jesus, Fraser," he said, shaking his head, "you don't do anything by half, do you."
His long fingers closed around Fraser's wrist, and he tugged them both toward the door, calling, "Night, Heather," making no pretense of being anything but what they were -- two people with a sudden urgent need for privacy.
Heather called after them, "Don't do anything I wouldn't --" and then the door swung shut, cutting off her voice.
Ray's hand came off his wrist and his arm went around the back of Fraser's neck, heedless of the passersby. He was still grinning.
"I oughta stop and get a couple Lotto tickets," he said, "because clearly this is my lucky fucking day --"
Daring greatly, Fraser brought his hand down solidly on the right back pocket of Ray's jeans. "No," he said firmly.
And Ray was unlocking the car door with one hand and tugging Fraser's head in with the other. "You realize that's -- mm -- millions of dollars I could be losing -- oh --"
"Drive, Ray," Fraser said, shoving him away. "I'll owe you."
Re: ME ME ME!!
Date: 2/10/11 02:46 am (UTC)-----
"You're blushing," Fraser said very quietly.
Ray swallowed. " 's Wanda," he said, "red light, that's all it --"
His mouth shut with an audible click as Fraser's lips touched his cheek.
Fraser moved very slowly. Up, where the taut skin around Ray's temple was slightly damp with sweat. Down, where his stubble prickled against Fraser's lips. There was a barely perceptible tremble in Ray's body, but otherwise he was perfectly still. Fraser slid his lips slowly over Ray's face, pausing at the corner of his mouth and then pressing on to cover Ray's lips with his.
This Fraser hasn't done a lot of kissing, and I'm thinking Ray is his first guy. I don't think he really has any doubt, at this point, that Ray is going to respond; he's just gathering sense impressions, trying to experience everything.
For a long moment that was the only point of contact between their two bodies. Then Ray's lips moved in what might have been his name, and Ray's hands came up to fist in the back of his tunic, and finally, finally, Ray's mouth opened to his.
Ray never stopped talking, even as his tongue touched restlessly over and behind Fraser's lips. Ray was murmuring, "Fraser," and "yes," and "oh jesus it's about fucking time." And at last Ray pivoted and pushed Fraser back hard against the pinball machine, which let out a startled little bleep of electronic music, One of the things I liked about this setting was imagining the contrast between a pinball bar and Fraser's snowy wasteland. and he pushed up heavily against his chest, tasting every part of his mouth, shivering as Fraser's hands went into his hair.
The machine clattered, and Wanda's husky voice cried, "Eat cold steel, goblin warriors!"
Ray took a stumbling step backward, looking stunned and wide-eyed and very thoroughly kissed. The flashing lights lit his face with a wash of flame-colored light.
Fraser suddenly remembered where they were.
The barfly in the cowboy hat still had his back turned, but Heather was drying a glass with such ostentatious care that Fraser was certain she'd been watching them. Oh lord.
He turned back to Ray, mouth opening to apologize, and found him grinning. "Jesus, Fraser," he said, shaking his head, "you don't do anything by half, do you."
His long fingers closed around Fraser's wrist, and he tugged them both toward the door, calling, "Night, Heather," making no pretense of being anything but what they were -- two people with a sudden urgent need for privacy.
Heather called after them, "Don't do anything I wouldn't --" and then the door swung shut, cutting off her voice.
Ray's hand came off his wrist and his arm went around the back of Fraser's neck, heedless of the passersby. He was still grinning.
"I oughta stop and get a couple Lotto tickets," he said, "because clearly this is my lucky fucking day --"
Daring greatly, Fraser brought his hand down solidly on the right back pocket of Ray's jeans. See, in some ways he's like a fifteen-year-old; to adults, that's not daring at all!"No," he said firmly.
And Ray was unlocking the car door with one hand and tugging Fraser's head in with the other. "You realize that's -- mm -- millions of dollars I could be losing -- oh --"
"Drive, Ray," Fraser said, shoving him away. "I'll owe you."
(no subject)
Date: 2/11/11 11:03 am (UTC)------
"That letter," you said, "is a dirty knife. That letter is clean water. Listen: I'm a liar, and I've surrounded myself with liars. But that letter," and now you were leaning over me with your weight on your hands, "is the only honest word anyone has said to me in fifteen years."
You have beautiful eyes.
You kissed me.
It wasn't a hard kiss. It was slow and lush and hot like melted butter. But my head slammed back against the headboard and the coffee cup went tumbling off onto the carpet as every cell in my skin prickled like a hand waking up.
You sat back again and looked at me while you touched my skin. You knew my skin. You didn't need a map.
Your coat buttons were cold against my bare chest. I might have ripped it a little, getting it off of you. I might have hastened its demise.
I don't do this. Or at least it isn't something I'd done before. But when you laid me down, you were hard against me, you were hard because of me, and, christ, yes, I wanted it. I twisted to get the feel of your cock against mine -- just the thought of it took my breath away -- and you put your hand down my pants and touched me.
And, "Tell me," you said.
"Tell you what?" It took two breaths to get that out.
"Does it feel like you imagined it?"
"Fuck you," I said. "I never imagined it."
You closed your eyes at that. Your face came closer and closer, as you jerked me off, slowly, expertly, filthily, until you were leaning your cheek against mine. You were newly shaven. It's these weird things a person notices.
"Tell me," you said into my ear.
"Feels -- like -- dying," and I was gone.
You didn't give me any time to pull myself together. You undid your pants and pulled yourself off with the same hand, fast and brutal. By the time I got my eyes open, you were shooting. Eyes gone to slits, but still watching me.
You held yourself up on your elbow, panting, and I lay there for a minute wishing you would kiss me again, if only because I suspected this day was about to go downhill fast. But you looked down my body, and then, carefully, you fitted your thumb over the birthmark under my navel.
For a second I felt like I was going to swing open like a safe door.
"Cyprus," you said.
"Mm?"
"This time tomorrow we could be eating octopus in Nicosia. Throw some shirts in a sack, come on." You were up, fastening your pants, looking at me over your shoulder like I was already making you late.
But I wondered. I went to where you were checking your coat for missing buttons, and I put my hand on your back, low down, one of those places where it's not private but just the same nobody can touch you there but a lover.
You went still for a second, and then you turned around and let me take you in my arms.
"Cyprus," I said, and already I knew there wasn't anybody that mattered that I couldn't call from the taxi.
And how much of this really happened? How much have you forgotten? How much can you attribute to differences in perspective? How much do we just make up, after the fact, to make sense of something? You may be wondering. Or maybe not. You were always less preoccupied with reality than other people.
Wherever this finds you, you'll know that it is everything I believe to be true.
(no subject)
Date: 2/12/11 03:53 am (UTC)So a lot of what I say here is going to be interpretation after the fact, just like what any reader could do, rather than real insight.
-----
"That letter," you said, "is a dirty knife. That letter is clean water. Listen: I'm a liar, and I've surrounded myself with liars. But that letter," and now you were leaning over me with your weight on your hands, "is the only honest word anyone has said to me in fifteen years." The thing that's always struck me about "Famous Blue Raincoat" is the combination of ambivalence of feeling and absolute clarity of expression. I hate you, I miss you, and I really can't not say that you made my lover happier than I did, even though I hate you for it.
You have beautiful eyes.
You kissed me.
It wasn't a hard kiss. It was slow and lush and hot like melted butter. But my head slammed back against the headboard and the coffee cup went tumbling off onto the carpet as every cell in my skin prickled like a hand waking up. Two similes in one paragraph, can you believe it? And I knew when I wrote it that that was a bad idea, but I could not bring myself to delete either one of them.
You sat back again and looked at me while you touched my skin. You knew my skin. You didn't need a map.
Your coat buttons were cold against my bare chest. I might have ripped it a little, getting it off of you. I might have hastened its demise. I'm not really sure where this voice came from. There's not much in the song to go on, and I certainly don't usually write like this.
I don't do this. Or at least it isn't something I'd done before. But when you laid me down, you were hard against me, you were hard because of me, and, christ, yes, I wanted it. I twisted to get the feel of your cock against mine -- just the thought of it took my breath away -- and you put your hand down my pants and touched me.
And, "Tell me," you said.
"Tell you what?" It took two breaths to get that out.
"Does it feel like you imagined it?"
"Fuck you," I said. "I never imagined it." See, that's a line that I can't tell you the psychology of it, because I thought the question was very sexy but never expected that 'fuck you' in the answer.
You closed your eyes at that. Your face came closer and closer, as you jerked me off, slowly, expertly, filthily, until you were leaning your cheek against mine. You were newly shaven. It's these weird things a person notices.
"Tell me," you said into my ear.
"Feels -- like -- dying," and I was gone.
You didn't give me any time to pull myself together. You undid your pants and pulled yourself off with the same hand, fast and brutal. By the time I got my eyes open, you were shooting. Eyes gone to slits, but still watching me.
You held yourself up on your elbow, panting, and I lay there for a minute wishing you would kiss me again, if only because I suspected this day was about to go downhill fast. But you looked down my body, and then, carefully, you fitted your thumb over the birthmark under my navel.
For a second I felt like I was going to swing open like a safe door.
"Cyprus," you said.
"Mm?"
"This time tomorrow we could be eating octopus in Nicosia. Throw some shirts in a sack, come on." You were up, fastening your pants, looking at me over your shoulder like I was already making you late.
But I wondered. I went to where you were checking your coat for missing buttons, and I put my hand on your back, low down, one of those places where it's not private but just the same nobody can touch you there but a lover.
You went still for a second, and then you turned around and let me take you in my arms.
"Cyprus," I said, and already I knew there wasn't anybody that mattered that I couldn't call from the taxi.
Now, the whole story is very romantic, really -- except for these last two paragraphs. But they really have to be there, because, seriously, there's no conventional romantic future for these two. Two days in Cyprus and the rival is off with some nineteen-year-old barmaid who doesn't speak any English, and anyhow, the narrator's tired of going without the Sunday book review section.
The reconciliation: that's the story, that's the payoff. The reconciliation, and the speaking and hearing of the truth, finally. Not the future.
And how much of this really happened? How much have you forgotten? How much can you attribute to differences in perspective? How much do we just make up, after the fact, to make sense of something? You may be wondering. Or maybe not. You were always less preoccupied with reality than other people.
Wherever this finds you, you'll know that it is everything I believe to be true.
(no subject)
Date: 2/12/11 05:13 am (UTC)See, that's a line that I can't tell you the psychology of it, because I thought the question was very sexy but never expected that 'fuck you' in the answer.
Yeah, I love that thing where a story starts writing itself and goes where it wants to.
Maybe the 'fuck you' is a last defence against his need? One last bit of denial to ward off the fact that he's going to lose him yet again. Like you say, there's no future for them.