Next Year In Jerusalem

Trouble

Sat, 22 Aug 2009 05:19:23 GMT

Did you know that baby skunks are really cute?

I do. Because there are two of them on my back porch right now.

And they show no desire to leave.

This is not good.

Do you think Hollywod has finally gotten a clue about slash?

Sat, 08 Aug 2009 02:57:04 GMT

Because I finally saw the latest HP movie (about which I will say nothing, because it's all been said already) and caught the trailer for the new Sherlock Holmes flick. The one where Holmes is played by Robert Downey, Jr. and knows how to use nunchuks (I know, I know....) and Watson is Jude Law and OMFG just from the TRAILERS I'm going "Good God, are they actually playing them gay? Because that is SURE as hell what it looks like to me!" Okay, maybe they're supposed to be Heterosexual Life Partners or something, but golly, even with my brain set at level 10 slashiness, I've never seen a movie trailer that so audaciously begged the audience to SLASH THESE GUYS!

Really, I'm wondering if it's some sort of marketing ploy. Like there was some Hollywood movie dude who went "Look, if we make the pairing opportunities *really obvious* then there will be fanfic and fanart all over the place, and hey guys, that's like FREE MARKETING for our movie!"

If so, I'm not sure whether I'm disturbed that they're using us, or glad they've figured out we're worth pandering to. If it's the latter, it's certainly working. Because, believe you me, there is NO other way you could have convinced me to see a movie where SHERLOCK HOLMES uses nunchuks. And I'm definitely planning to see this one.

ETA: Here's a link to the trailer in case you haven't seen it. It gets slasherific around :53.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S4K3aM5H5KM#watch-main-area

"Let The Right One In"

Sat, 25 Jul 2009 08:09:34 GMT

I just watched this movie with friends and am totally in love with it. As in, I think I'm going to have to buy it when it comes out. (And the number of movie DVDs I own can fit on half a shelf.

If anyone else has seen it and wants to discuss, here's your chance because I love it on so many levels.

There are so many things I love about this movie! First off, the pallette and feel of the cinematography. The set up of the characters. The incredible acting, especially by the actors who played Oskar and Eli. And I love love LOVE the way it screwed with power balances! It wasn't as obvious in the movie that Eli's 'pop' was actually a pedophile, tho it was hinted at, and as gross as that is, it was pretty obvious that she was the one who held the power in that relationship. For a somewhat bloody vampire movie, I also found it amazingly subtle. Even though you could figure out early on that Eli was a vampire (even w/o knowing beforehand) every time I saw her display a typical vampire power, it was somehow a surprise.

There were so many good scenes I'm hard put to name a favorite, but I'd probably have to with the sequence where Eli shows up at the hospital to ask about her 'Dad' and ends up with her crawling into bed with Oskar. That may be the tenderest, most heart-breaking/warming pillow talk scene ever. I was hugging myself and getting a bit misty-eyed at the part where Oskar said 'Do I have a chance with you?' and Eli saying she wasn't a girl doesn't make him change his stance one bit. The only other scene that really competes with that one, to my mind, is the climactic scene at the pool. Hello, US filmmakers? PAY ATTENTION TO THE EFFING SWEDES! THIS IS HOW YOU DO CLIMACTIC VIOLENCE! OMGWTFBBQSLDHG;A;BALN;ABJKFN;BAHAF;!!!!!!

Right now, I can only think of 2 very tiny complaints about the film. First, I really didn't think we needed the shot where Oskar gets a look at what is (or rather isn't) between Eli's legs, and the Oskar/Eli Exterior deleted scene *really* should have been left in, because it helps set up the bed scene. WHY did they cut that???? Also, did anyone else understand WTF happened in the second scene with Oskar's dad? This unnamed weird looking guy just SHOWS UP and he and the Dad start drinking and... I really didn't get the significance there. Were the two guys supposed to be lovers or something? Dunno.

Right now, I'm vacillating on whether I even want to see the US remake when it comes out, but I probably will, just so I can see what horrors they've wrought upon it. I think that will be after it comes out on DVD tho, because I could see myself getting tossed out of the theater for screaming incoherently.

So, anyone else who saw it: what did y'all think?

One nice thing about summer in the South

Thu, 11 Jun 2009 01:06:48 GMT

It may be hot as hell, and we may be heading into triple digit temps this weekend, but I'm sitting here eating a salad of home-grown, sun-warmed red, yellow and orange tomatoes drizzled with really good balsamic vinegar.

Summer has its moments. ;)

Happy Birthday Slashpine!

Sat, 30 May 2009 06:45:27 GMT

Eeep! I'm late! But I hope you've had a wonderful birthday!

I don't want to jinx this, but....

Thu, 23 Apr 2009 13:21:43 GMT

we seem to be having.... *looks right and left*.... Spring. :)

If you don't live in South-Central Texas, that might sound odd. But see, we don't always get spring. I mean, sometimes winter just stops and it goes smack into summer. Or we might get 2 weeks of coolish, moist weather -- not wet enough for rain, mind you; just humid enough to give all the roses powdery mildew -- and then, wham, the heat is on.

What we're having right now is kind of unusual. Warm days -- it got to 94 yesterday, but it's been staying pretty much in the 80s -- followed by cool nights. Like, in the 50s! O_O Yeah, that's unusual here. Plus, everything is blooming really late! Like 2 weeks to a whole month late. Usually by this time, my sweet peas are bloomed out and done for the year, but this time, they're not even blooming yet! But they're about to!

Which is what I was really writing about anyway, because OMG I have nasturtiums!!! (We almost never get nasturtiums to work because it goes from being too cold for them to too hot for them.) And a big patch of larkspur! (Not unusual, but I still love them.) And I have POPPIES!!!!!!! Back in Jan/Feb I found a pill bottle full of tiny seeds and tossed them out, and now I have frilly white poppies coming up, and pink/white ones, and rose-red ones with purple marks inside them and OMG I've never had poppies before and I LOVE them! Eeeee! (I know, I'm an idiot, but I can't help myself.)

Now, I just need the sweet peas to start blooming. C'mon, sweet peas!

Also, I actually got some tomatoes put in -- planted them straight into compost, then mulched the hell out of them -- and *for once* they actually look nice! *looks around for bad faeries* Fat, green and happy! Leaves going everywhere! Baby tomatos already even! Ssshhhhh!

So yeah, I'm a total gardening and flower dork. Keep fingers crossed please, as I would really like to have a year where I get some tomatoes and peaches.

In other news (since I like haven't posted in ages....) uhm.... oh yeah, school! Lessee.... Well, I won the undergrad creative writing scholarship for the 2nd year in a row. I entered fiction this time, and poetry last time, so that's kind of cool. Also, I got offered the creative writing internship for next year, which I'm really jazzed about because I adore all the instructors in the Creative Writing Dept AND I'll get to help my fiction prof with the national journal she and her hubby edit. I am SO looking forward to that, because I'll get a chance to see all the stories and poetry that comes in and find out what people are writing. So yeah, I'm happy about that. (It's not a paid position, of course, but I do get 3 hours of credit.) Oh, and I also got picked to present one research paper and one CW story at the school's Liberal Arts conference. I took 2nd place for the undergrad CW and 4th for the research and I won actual MONEY! (The story I entered was the same one I put in for the scholarship, so boy is THAT one paying off!) XDDDD

Sigh. Now I just have to finish 2 portfolios and 1 paper, study for a math final, find a job for summer and find out why I haven't heard about my financial aid stuff yet and go bother some more student lending institutions so I can finish my last year of college and try to keep the house from falling down around my ears and stuff, but who cares? I'm almost done with this semester and I have a yard full of flowers, which makes me stupidly happy.

And how is everyone else doing?

Birthday! (Yikes! Almost forgot!)

Mon, 23 Mar 2009 23:08:13 GMT

Hope it's a good one, darling!

Jesus tastes like pita bread

Thu, 26 Feb 2009 10:07:05 GMT

Despite the fact that I am firmly on the side of the heathens, I accompanied my mother to Ash Wednesday service today. Worthless Brother has been causing her worlds of emotional, psychological and financial pain, so I didn't feel like I could refuse her when she asked. My mom only recently started attending church again -- we were a fairly secular family through a good part of my formative years -- and her previous experience was with the CoC, which is probably the most boring church in existence. (If there was anything entertaining about church at all, believe me, the CoC found a way to suck the joy right out of it.) Now, however, she's going to a United Methodist church and all the "high church" bells and whistles just fascinate her. (It's quite amusing, actually. She called me up one night all breathless with excitement because they had a church mixer where WINE was served. "These people actually drink!" were her words.)

Anyway, this was her first Ash Wednesday service at the new church, and since I actually have more experience with "high church" stuff than she does -- I went to an Episcopalean school -- she wanted moral support and, like I said, who was I to refuse?

Except, this meant she expected me to take communion with her. The problem with that is, I've never taken communion before. Because I'm not baptised. CoC is one of the "dunking" churches, and frankly, even if I had ever felt the 'call to serve Jesus', there was no way I was letting Brother Osborn hold me under water. Nothing doing. (Also, I figured that if Dante's Inferno really does exist, maybe I could still squeeze into Limbo with the Virtuous Pagans.)

So, my plan was to just sit in the pew and wait for my mom to do the Communion -- Pray -- Ashes thing, but... that's not what happened. An usher came to conduct our row out and up, and between him and my mother's pleading glance, I rolled my eyes and resigned myself to my fate; which I rather hoped wouldn't entail me vanishing in a gout of celestial fire when I touched the chalice, you know? So we make our way up to the priests/ministers/whatever-the-Methodists-call-them, and one of them is standing there with a big, spongey round of flat bread. It's the kind that makes really good gyros when it's grilled with olive oil, but rather lacks something when it's plain. So this old guy rips me off a sizable chunk of This-Is-My-Body, hands it to me, I go to the next guy, dunk it in the wine and put it in my mouth. Where it SITS because, well, it's large. And kind of gummy. And suddenly I'm seized with a certain quandary that I'm sure every Catholic or High-Church Protestant soul has experienced at least once in their church-going lives:

Does one chew Jesus?

My natural inclination was probably not so there was an uncomfortable minute or so where the Communion Host just sort of wallowed in my mouth, swelling and getting gummier by the second. My options were dwindling to Chew or Spit Out, and I was simply not willing to offer that sort of insult. It was beginning to look like a stand-off, but when we went to the kneeling bench before getting our noggins smeared, I managed to sort of tongue-mash the Host into a swallowable consistency and coax it down my throat. I'm not sure either of us was exactly happy about it, but while pretending to pray for forgiveness, I had the "Look, this is for my mom, okay? I'm following that whole 'Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother' thing, so give me a break, please?" chat, and that seemed to do the trick. Down it went, and the rest of the service passed without incident, fortunately.

Which meant I could come home and study for my math test. Which I'm still avoiding doing lo these many hours later. Which is why I'm posting this. Just so you know.

Obviously I didn't give up procrastination for Lent.

Original Works Filter: Luminous Fragments (semi-final draft)

Wed, 18 Feb 2009 23:40:50 GMT

Hiya kids!

Here's the finished draft that I sent to Fiction class today. I'll let you know what everyone says in next week's workshop. (It should be interesting... Personally I'm betting on comments like 'overwritten' 'sentimental' 'are these women supposed to be lesbians?' and 'I don't get it'.) >_<

I'm not finished messing with this, of course, and depending on its reception, I might add more scenes. As seems to be typical , the scenes I originally wrote didn't even end up in the mix, and I had ideas for others as well. Still, I think I might actually be pleased with how this turned out (which almost certainly means my instructor will hate it); oh and BTW you are now welcome to tell me it sucks rotten dinosaur eggs, etc.. :D

Luminous Fragments

Born around 612 BC, Sappho of Lesvos was regarded as the greatest lyric poet of Ancient Greece. A devotee of Aphrodite, she was the leader of a group of women dedicated to poetry and mutual passion, and spent time in exile due to the turbulent politics of her day. True to her patron goddess, she had numerous love affairs. Sappho’s collected works comprised nine books in the Library of Alexandria, but due to the vagaries of time and cultural change, only fragments remain.

Immensely popular well into Roman times, her reputation spawned many legends. One of most persistent is that, while exiled from Lesvos, she sought political asylum in France, and from November 1974 to September 1975 lived on Rue Leon Blum in Antony, six kilometers south-east of Paris, with Ana, the most consistent of her many lovers. Despite its vociferous denunciation by eminent scholars, this tradition persists, abetted by the small bronze plaque at the Boulangerie Germain where she worked for a time, and the words ‘Ανακτορία + Ψάπφω (1) found carved on the window sill of the Residence Villiers, Rue Leon Blum (2). – from Barbier’s “Sappho in Paris”

Like a hyacinth crushed in the mountains
by shepherds; lying trampled on the earth
yet blooming purple.

Five paces past the black iron gate of the Biblioteche Antony and thirty-three paces from the Boulangerie Germain, Sappho stopped in the middle of the walkway because a band of blue in the dawning sky had reminded her of hyacinths. Not hyacinths like those at the flower shop twenty paces ahead – stubby plants erupting from their glazed pots like blue and pink ears of corn, giving off a perfume so sweet it was almost foul – but the gracile, untamed hyacinths she had left behind. The ones that stretched their lean stems up from soil that was mostly rock, lifting their hydra heads to mock the sky. The ones that bloomed when the sunlight was as thin as watered wine; that sipped their complexion from the sea until each flowering stalk was Aegean blue.

Remembering hyacinths, Sappho stood quite still. It was that verging moment that is almost outside of time – the little equinox between the night and day – and the windows of the shops and flats along Rue Leon Blum were still dark. The lamp-lit street was silent but for the low, cold wind – how odd that no other workers were hurrying to early jobs, and that no bicycles had yet flown by, splashing her legs as they sliced through the dingy puddles. Sappho closed her eyes and drew a long, deep breath of the chilly, pre-dawn air. She sucked it in through the knitted scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face, through the green coat that was far too large for her, even through the gray woolen cap that flattened her dark, curling hair. She inhaled the cold with its dank stone smell and its sound of bare branches scraping against cracked garden walls and felt it settle through her entire body, reminding her that it was winter in Antony. Winter in Paris. Winter all over France.

It was winter in Lesvos, too, she told herself, then shivered once and walked on with a sigh, counting out the thirty-three paces to Boulangerie Germain and trying to forget how much winter in Lesvos looked like spring.

when I look at you my voice fails,
my tongue is broken and thin fire
runs like a thief through my body.

Sappho was counting out change for the two baguettes she had sold the grandfather in the red wool scarf when Anaktoria pushed through the bakery door. The world stopped, just as it always did when Anaktoria entered it anew. The patrons at the three small tables froze with their white cups halfway to their lips, the coins she was dropping into the man’s gnarled palm hung like ornaments in mid-air, and her head was deafened with the sound of wings.

How many doves had she promised to Aphrodite so long ago, yearning for Anaktoria’s love – no, for Anaktoria even to notice her? Hundreds? A thousand? She remembered the rapacious gleam in the eyes of the bird-sellers outside the painted temple whenever they saw her coming. She remembered the white face of The Cyprian smiling down through the rush of whirling wings, and the temple-bell voice chiming through her dreams: What is wrong? Why have you called me? What does your mad heart desire? Whom shall I make love you, Sappho…

Frizzy tendrils of Ana’s torchlight hair had escaped her paisley kerchief and floated about her round face, pink and steamy from the laundry where she worked. Each eye was a spring anemone, blue-violet petals fastened by an inky center, and when she struggled to the counter – for Anaktoria was the only creature granted movement in that frozen moment – she used her ample hips and sharp elbows to thrust the other customers out of the way.

The world came back to itself as the old man cursed and stumbled, as the last coin of his change rang against the counter, and the people drinking coffee and chocolate raised their cups to their mouths. Ana ignored the man with the baguettes swearing at her, dumped her net bag onto the counter and leaned there, panting as if she had run a great distance.

“Sappho,” she said with great seriousness. “For Kytherea’s sake, give me some pain au chocolat or I will die!”

“Of course,” Sappho smiled at her, in the way she only ever smiled for Anaktoria. Completely ignoring the complaining customers who had been shoved aside, Sappho turned, stately as a priestess, and went to get Anaktoria her croissant.

Then I said to the elegant ladies:
“How you will remember when you are old
the glorious things we did in our youth.”

When Sappho returned to their apartment that afternoon, shaking off the snow that had started falling halfway home, she opened the door to see Anaktoria wrapped in red and purple shawls, huddling by the radiator. She had spread a yellow blanket on the bare wood floor and set down white plates filled with butter, red currant jam and some cheap paté that the townsfolk denounced, but which she and Anaktoria liked.

“It’s too cold to eat at the table,” Ana explained, pouring red wine into a glass and holding it up to her. Sappho shucked her coat and scarves onto the floor and walked away from them, dropping the baguettes she carried onto the blanket and taking the wine from her hand. She leaned down to kiss the top of her lover’s head, and stayed there for a moment, eyes closed, breathing in the scent of Anaktoria’s hair, which was steam and sweat, harsh soap and essence of myrrh. “Drink,” Ana said, prodding Sappho in the leg, and so she did. The wine tasted of smoke and spices and heated her mouth, her throat, her heart. It was the warmest she had felt all day.

“Snow again,” she sighed, folding herself beside Anaktoria, who handed her a chunk of bread smeared with paté. “And I was thinking of hyacinths today.”

“Were you?” Ana laughed. “I was thinking of narcissus myself; the tiny, bright yellow ones. That’s what made me pull this off the bed.” She tapped the saffron blanket beneath them.

“I wanted to go home this morning,” Sappho admitted, looking out the window as she chewed. It was only three in the afternoon, but already the day was dimming, hurried along by the colorless sky and the fluttering snow.

“Ah, that’s why you looked so desolate. It’s good to remember Lesvos,” Ana considered, dabbing jelly on her bread, “but not so much that you disregard Antony.”

“Today was a good day to disregard it,” Sappho grumbled.

“You’ll regret that when we’re gone from here,” Anaktoria said.

“Gone? Why should we be gone from here?” Sappho demanded, although that morning she would never have dreamed of saying it. “I thought we were going to stay here. Why shouldn’t we?”

Anaktoria swallowed her latest mouthful and leaned back on her hands, shaking her cloud of hair behind her. It was paler than narcissus, but still yellow, even with the white and silver strands mixed through. “Because nothing lasts,” she said after a moment. “These people here – one day they will tear this all down, you know.” Her tone said she knew these things for a fact, and Sappho felt annoyance pinching at her stomach, remembering sybils and fortune-tellers who had told her similar things. “The Res Villiers with its creaky elevator and its bare bulbs,” Anaktoria went on, “and the flower seller at the corner, and even the library behind its wrought iron gate. One day they will want to widen the street, to build new things, and all that is shabby and familiar will be gone.”

“Not the bakery,” Sappho asserted. She had only worked there for three months, but already she was invested in its permanence.

“All right, not the bakery,” Ana allowed. “That will stay.”

“And the window sill,” Sappho added, nodding at the board where Ana had scraped their names with the point of a flimsy knife. She had cut the heel of her hand doing it, and Sappho was seized with the desire to take her fingers, find the scar and kiss it, but as Anaktoria was resting her weight upon them, she could not.

“The window sill, too,” Ana admitted. “Stranger things have occurred.”

“And us,” Sappho added, dusting the crumbs from her fingers and scooting over to press against her lover’s side. She pulled the shawls from Anaktoria’s shoulders and wrapped them over hers as well so that they were bundled together. “We will not be torn down, either. You and I will not perish. The places we’ve walked – the hills of Lesvos, and the holy places, the gray streets of Antony with their puddles, and even the cursed bicycles that like to splash me – these things will be remembered.” As she spoke, Sappho reached out and took a long lock of Anaktoria’s hair and began to weave it with two locks of her own. She watched as her own brown fingers plaited their strands together into a braid of light and dark.

“Some things endure,” Sappho said to Anaktoria, to the air, or to herself. When she finished braiding their hair together, she held on to the end so that it would not unravel. “We will endure.”

“You and I,” Anaktoria mused, “the window sill, and the Boulangier Germain.”

“Yes,” Sappho insisted, even though it sounded a bit ridiculous. “These things will remain. I am sure of it.”

“Very well,” Anaktoria chuckled. She leaned her head against Sappho’s shoulder and the two of them sat in silence until the gray daylight faded, and neither could tell the blond hair in the woven strand from the dark.

Somebody, I tell you,
someone in future time
will remember us.

Notes:

(1) "Anaktoria + Sappho"

(2) Demolished during the recent commune d’Antony expansion. The wooden sill is preserved in Mme. Phyllide Barbier’s private collection.

Final note: All italicized passages (except pain au chocolat) are taken from the surviving fragments of Sappho's poetry, as translated by Willis Barnstone in Greek Lyric Poetry.

Snack Rec! Hate!Sex even!

Tue, 17 Feb 2009 23:07:20 GMT

Hey folks, if you've been missing Snape/Black, and especially if you've been missing "OMG I HATE YOU!" sex, go check out the great ficlet torino10154 wrote me here: http://torino10154.insanejournal.com/154020.html

It's short but definitely NOT sweet. It's also hot! Check it out!

In Honor of the Martyrdom of St. Valentine

Sat, 14 Feb 2009 18:03:59 GMT

I didn't get any further than this one. It's so ME that it just stopped me dead.

hp_hardcore presents Hardcore Valentines! Click here to get your own!

Disclaimer: I have never engaged in erotic pony play. Pretending to be a horse on innumerable childhood playgrounds with my other horse-crazy friends is, however, a different matter entirely. It's probably a good thing I'm not into pony play because I would be a very exacting mistress. "That was the most pitiful attempt at a whicker I have ever heard. Try it again, or I use the curb bit."

Zombies Reported in Austin

Fri, 30 Jan 2009 23:27:28 GMT

I have sort of a love-hate relationship with my home state.

Today, I just gotta love it.

Road Signs Warn of Zombies

I especially like how the news reporter actually has an escape plan to share.

Hmm. Bush is back in Dallas now, and zombies are roaming I-35. I wonder if they're heading north?

No, wait. That's right. They eat brains....

Piffle.

Good Things

Fri, 30 Jan 2009 21:25:22 GMT

So, after the Post of Pain, how about some good stuff that's going on?

Food: Does "being in school" always mean "eating like crap"? I know it doesn't have to -- surely it doesn't have to -- but that seems to be my default setting. And I know I need to eat better, especially since I have gained back enough weight for it to really be affecting my energy levels, it's just, you know, hard. Or maybe just getting motivated to eat better is hard. Of course, if you let things slip long enough, your body will get into the fray, right?

Body: Hey, WTF? Just because you're a college student does not mean you have to eat nothing but granola bars, cookies and delivery pizza, OK?
Me: Shut up. Yes it does.
Body: No it doesn't. Really, it doesn't. Look, there's yogurt in the fridge! Eat some yogurt, for chrissakes!
Me: Mmmm, pizza.
Body: Right. I'm breaking both your lower molars. Try eating pizza now. Ha ha!
Me:... you bitch....

If my body would only be kind enough to make me stop wanting bad things, that would help, but I must admit, I have been having healthier cravings of late. A weekend turn through one of our smaller organic groceries that often has good, reasonably priced produce netted me Fuji apples, sweet onions, small green and yellow striped acorn squash, red grapefruits and OMG blueberries (which I stocked up on because they were so good.)

So, late last night I actually started feeling better. This, combined with the fact that it was actually freaking cold, made me think putting the oven on and baking things might be a good idea. So, after last night's baking (I couldn't call it cooking, actually, as it was more like just slice things up and toss them in the oven), I have some really tasty and good-for-me food, to wit:

-- baked acorn squash halves, sprayed with a bit of olive oil, which turned out fab w/o any additional spices at all, but which I then filled with
-- caramelized onions (which I tossed with olive oil, balsamic vinegar and Kosher salt before throwing them in a glass pan and baking them a couple of hours. OMG, they're like freaking candy! Cannot stop eating them. Must go get more onions and make more.)
-- baked Fuji apples with dried fruit inside them (Normally I like my apples crisp, and these were -- it almost killed me to bake them -- but the teeth thing? Yeah. Much easier to eat this way. And oh VERY yummy.)
-- grapefruits and blueberries: not baked, because they're just too good on their own.
-- Activia yogurt: also not a baking thing, obviously, but since I'm taking antibiotics and I don't want to get a yeast infection, this was necessary. Eating at least one of these per day.

So yes, eating much better all of a sudden, and rather liking it.

Not to rub it in to those of you living in more northern climes, but even with the recent cold front, the weather here freaking gorgeous! When it's warm, like in the 70s, it reminds me of summer in the Pacific Northwest. It's in the 60s today, but bright, sunny, and with very little breeze. Totally a day to be out working in my yard, except I'm still feeling a bit puny from the infection. I can see buds forming on the peach tree already, but not yet on the redbud -- and as anyone in Texas will tell you, redbud trees are the earliest bloomers -- so it seems we'll have a few more weeks of winter yet. Which bring me to...

I used to garden a lot. One year, my then-roomie and I planted over 21 different varieties of heirloom tomatoes in the back yard. That's how into gardening I was. I currently have no roomie, nor anyone to help in the garden or yard, and what with school, the outdoors have taken quite the back seat in my priorities the last couple of years. I did try to do some raised bed gardening last year, but something went wrong -- weather, soil, not entirely sure -- and I got squat in the tomato department. Hope springs eternal, however, especially in a gardener's heart, so I am feeling rather hopeful this year. For one thing, I'm only taking 12 hours of classes this semester, and aside from the heavy load of writing and critiqueing for the workshops, none of the classes are especially onerous, so... fingers crossed. Now if only the plants and weather and everything will cooperate a bit.

So, I have seedlings already started under lights (and on a heating pad, which seems to work as well as those expensive heating cables and mats) for my favorite tomatoes -- Aunt Ruby's German Green, Yellow Pear, Sungold and Costolute Genovese -- and also for some favorite (if short-lived) spring flowers -- sweetpeas and nasturtiums. Never had too much luck with nasturtiums but I try every year. As for sweetpeas, I actually had a naturalized colony of them under the crape myrtle tree, but the drought got them (and everything else) last year. I put a huge ring of composted amended soil around the tree, tho, and everything seems to be coming back, much to my surprise: narcissus foliage has been up since Nov/Dec and more is poking out; a few sweetpea seedlings (but not nearly enough, thus my seeding efforts) and larkspurs (another fave of mine). Later I'll be starting squash and eggplants, and figuring out something to do about the raised bed this year. It was invaded by the most pernicious weeds last year, and I'm still working out a strategy for planting and weed control there. I also have high hopes for the peach tree. The bugs and birds have gotten all the fruit for the last three years, but I'm determined that this year, it will all be MINE hah hah. Still pondering that strategy, tho.

I am also trying to save my remaining roses. I had a yard full of antique roses -- any time you can combine history, adventure and gardening, I'm pretty much there, and antique roses fit that bill beautifully. Alas, remember that drought I mentioned? Yeah. Usually these roses are tough enough to take it, but it's been so bad, that only the real champions now remain -- Mutabilis (who blooms nearly all year when she's happy), Cornelia (a sprawler who needs to be trimmed back some more), Maggie (who also has some blooms about to unfold), Archduke Charles (no idea how he survived in the worst part of the yard) and R. moschata, Shakespeare's Musk Rose. Oh, and the entire hedge of Old Blush, but hell, I don't think a nuclear winter could kill those roses. They are the very epitome of tough. I will really miss some of the ones I lost -- especially Gruss an Aachen, which was probably my favorite for cutting and just looking spiff from bud to bloom -- but I'm not sure I'll replace them. I still have to be careful of my time and energy. I think for this year at least, I'll just see if I can keep the survivors alive and, uhm, grow some food. (Organically, of course.) ;-)

The birds started out being for the cat. Phoebe has the highest prey-drive of any cat I've ever had. She's also probably the most intelligent and bonded-to-me cat I've owned, and she gets bored easily. So I figured, hey, I'll put up some bird feeders outside the windows, and we'll have Kitty-TV with which she can amuse herself when I'm gone. Little did I know that I would come to enjoy the damn things just as much. Aside from the ubiquitous sparrows and grackles and doves, I've seen blackcrested titmice (titmouses?), several house finches, a goldfinch (now and then), a pair of cardinals, and then just a few days ago, 3 redwinged blackbirds. There's also a yellow fronted woodpecker who comes onto the porch to eat the catfood. I can see how people can get sucked into this whole birding thing, you know?

So see, even when wrestling with brain chemical imbalances, there are still bright spots. Summer will be here all too soon, frying gardens to a crisp and sending everyone indoors into air-conditioned aestivation, so I try to savor days like these as much as possible. I hope you're all able to enjoy whatever season you're having wherever you are, if only in some small way.

Birthday Girls!!!!

Wed, 28 Jan 2009 16:51:47 GMT

Sorry for my failure at cool graphics, but I wanted to send big Happy Birthday HUGS and best wishes to two amazingly talented people whom I really adore:

fanlay (whose b-day was yesterday)

and

r_grayjoy!

Hope you had, are having, and continue to have wonderful birthdays!

HOLY SHIT, YOU GUYS!!!

Wed, 28 Jan 2009 09:34:08 GMT

Well, I wish I had an icon for *stunned shitless* because I'd sure be using it!

I'm just.... Jeez, people, it's taken me like over 25 minutes just to process LANGUAGE again, because... yeah, uhm.... SPEECHLESS.

And stunned. And utterly and completely humbled.

Definitely humbled.

I'm just... jeez, okay, I did NOT mean to sound that pathetic and all, and... god, there are people SO much worse off than me, and... GAH!

Thank you. All of you. Really.

I don't feel like I probably deserve the consideration you've given me, especially on top of your friendship and emotional support, but... I'll do my best to BE deserving of it.

Thank you, guys. The last time I felt this deeply affected by something was... erm, the Inauguration last Tuesday. And lessee, before that.... I don't have a freaking clue.

Yeah, okay. You people are now offically on par with Obama. ;-)

*bows*

You guys are the best! And no, I really don't deserve you.

*HUGS*

(And yes, fine, all right, I'll call my doctor in the morning. And those other numbers & sites you were so sweet to find for me, too.) :D

*hugs very surprised cat in lieu of flist and heads to bed*

Because that whole idea that writing is a solitary art? Is bollocks.

Mon, 26 Jan 2009 19:22:08 GMT

Another thing that writing fanfic has taught me is that I do my best work when I can knock ideas around with people. And that it's always good to have a second and third and fourth set of eyes, especially for poetry.

You know where this is leading, right?

I've decided that instead of stressing out over my fiction and poetry, I'm going to utilize the interested parties on my flist. Yes, that means I'm making an Original Fic/Poetry/Etc filter. If you want to be on it, comment here and I'll add you.

Before you freak, no, being on the filter doesn't mean you *have* to comment on anything I put up there. I understand that time is limited. It just gives you the opportunity should you so desire.

And no, it also doesn't mean I won't like you anymore if you don't sign up. Please. I wholly subscribe to that Lazarus Long quotation of "People who read their poetry in public probably have other annoying habits as well" (or whatever it was, exactly.) Trust me, I'm under no delusions about the alleged 'nobility' of the literary arts, and am quite aware that only about 2% of the entire literate world even likes poetry. (And it only goes up to 4%, even for English majors.) I would no more thrust my work under unsuspecting or undesiring noses than I would knock on your door unannounced to "testify" about how Jeezus (TM) restored my tattered virginity.

Fair warning: I'm in a poetry workshop this semester and have to write 1 poem per week, so you'll probably see a lot more poetry than fic. OTOH, it takes me awhile to ferment original fic ideas so I expect there will be some discussions, which probably start with things like "Tell me which of these ideas suck less" but might actually include interesting stuff like "Anyone know where all the poor artists lived in 1920s Paris?" Who knows?

Anyway, if you're at all interested, speak up. Like I said, it doesn't commit you to anything. Except for having to scroll over at least one non-fandom post every week or so.

A question for you Snape/Sirius readers: Do you think fabularasa's stories are "Dark"?

Mon, 26 Jan 2009 07:58:07 GMT

This is something I've been pondering for a long time, and I just wondered what others who had read her stuff -- and if you like Severus/Sirius, then I'm sort of assuming you have -- thought.

A little background. fabularasa's Snack fic is what turned me into a slasher. Yeah, not just a Snack shipper, but a full out, never-look-back slasher. (I still remember reading a Snape/Hermione that turned into a Lupin/Hermione, that then turned into a Snape/Hermione/Lupin, and when the writer had the two guys kiss, I actually went "Ewwwww!" (Pretty damn funny in retrospect, isn't it?)

Now, I think I might have read a fic or two where MWPP-era Sirius had Sev up against a wall and it was pure hate-sex -- I think I could sort of see that happening, y'know? -- but fabularasa was the writer who made me believe those two could have something more than hate between them. That there could even be a weird sort of angsty romance between them. Now, when I say "romance" I'm obviously not talking about candy and flowers and one of them on bended knee offering the other one a ring (gods forbid), but honestly, for a ship so very steeped in hate-sex (and I mean that in no pejorative sense, because, hello, hate-sex is HAWT), fabula's stuff definitely tends toward the romantic. There is always a positive emotional connection between Sirius and Severus. It may not start out that way, but it's there by the end. In fact, given these two characters, given their canon interactions, and the relatively high hate-sex level in their fanon interpretations, you could almost make a case for at least some of fabula's Snack fics being... fluffy. (Put down your pitchforks. I'm trying to make a point here.)

And yet... and yet... these arguably 'fluffy' stories are also just chock-full of the sorts of things that make a whole lot of readers start stabbing their Back buttons and running for cover, screaming "Hoshit, that's Dark!"

Take Cordelictus: It is graced with one of the most devastatingly romantic declarations of love I have ever read (between any two characters, not just these two) and yet contains a horrific rape scene (between these same two characters, mind you) as well as very graphic torture and abuse. Misericorde? Graphic rape. Hermitage? A seriously traumatized PTSD Snape freshly fucked over by Azkaban. I could go on. fabularasa's Snack fic is well-seasoned with angst, trauma and abuse, whether it be in the stories themselves, or in the characters' pasts.

If you click on the links, you'll notice none of the stories take you to LJ or IJ. There are no warnings given. That's just how I read them. I started reading, got sucked in, and ate up every delicious word of those fics, whether they were spiced with tenderness or trauma or torture. I'd never even heard the term "Darkfic" when I read those. I was still lurking and reading at that point in time, and wasn't conversant with the fandom glossary that delineates -- and perhaps effectively separates -- "dark", "fluff" and all the other terms we veterans bandy about.

Of course, fabularasa's work had a huge influence on me as a writer. Thing is, even after getting more into fandom, when I started writing stories with, oh, torture and abuse and non-con and stuff in them, I didn't think I was writing Dark!fic. To be quite frank, except for a very small number of stories that I wrote specifically to BE Dark, I don't think of myself as a writer of Dark!fic. (Stop looking so shocked. I really don't.)

Which brings me -- finally -- back around to my original question. You see, with maybe one or two exceptions, I seriously doubt I've ever written anything as "Dark" as some of the scenes in fabula's Snack fic, and yet I can't think of a single instance where I've ever seen her stories defined as as "Dark".

Do I think they should be? Nope. Not at all. And perhaps I should note that when I refer people to them -- which I often do -- I hardly ever remember to warn that there are Dark elements to the stories, or that they might be hard for some people to take. And I can't recall that anyone's ever come back going "Shit, why didn't you tell me about the RAEP!" or anything. In fact, when I do hear back from people, it's usually "OMFG please tell me there's MOAR somewhere!"

So, on one hand, I love the fact that fabularasa's stories continue to be devoured in the same manner in which I consumed them, which is without regard for whatever warnings would be there if they were posted on IJ or LJ. The same way, I guess, that we pick up books in the bookstore, read a couple of paragraphs, get sucked in, and purchase them without knowing everything that is in store for us. (And no, please don't take this as me saying we shouldn't have warnings on fic. I'm not saying that.) On the other hand, it also makes me wonder why people don't kick up a fuss over the torture and rape and stuff. Maybe people do, but we just never see it because the stories aren't on the journals, so we don't know what everyone's saying?

I have a few theories, of course, but no certain proof -- thus the reason I pose the question in public. It's possible that Snack shippers, as a group, simply have a higher tolerance for certain "Dark" elements than fandom as a whole; or even that Sirius/Severus as a pairing is just intrinsically Darker than some others (tho I'm not sure I can wholly support that part of the argument, given that I'm pretty good at seeing the twisted side of most any ship.)

Could it have something to do with the fact that fabularasa wrote most of her Snack fic quite some time back; certainly before OoTP came out, since her Snape is a Pureblood and Sirius is mongrel Irish. Does this simply put it in a class by itself -- a sort of fanon-canon, that defies categorization? I could go for this explanation, but for the fact that another classic Snack fic, The Miseducation of Severus Snape, always comes with a heavy warning when recommended. (While I still think a few scenes in Cordelictus might could give pieces of Miseducation a run for their money, it is a MUCH Darker story overall, with a very unhappy ending -- which fabularasa's Snack stories, fortunately, lack.)

Another possibility? That people actually DO define fabularasa's Snack fic as "Dark" and I am simply the last to know. (I would find this last embarrassing, but probably not that shocking, because I often AM the last to know.)

So, assuming you've read this far -- and if you have, good show! You're a real Snack trooper! -- what's your opinion? It's something that's intrigued me for a long time, and I'd love to hear what others think. So, have at. Lay on. Laissez-allez! I await the debate with great interest (assuming anyone read this far, of course.) ;-)

CMA note: Please please please don't think I have meant any disrespect to fabularasa by taking her name and fics in vain here. I still adore her stories and have the greatest respect for her as a writer. This is just one of those little fandom mysteries that's been caught in my brain for awhile and I wanted to see what people had to say. Believe me, no offense is intended.

Further CMA note: I also don't mean any disrespect to people who DO think fabula's stuff IS Dark. In fact, I'd love to hear from you. Nor do I mean any disrespect to people who dislike or shy away from Dark fic. Again, I'm not trying to prove or disprove anything. I'm just curious.

RL Update

Fri, 23 Jan 2009 20:46:04 GMT

I keep telling myself I'll post when I "decompress" from last semester, but I've decided that day may never come, so I'm just going to have to grit my teeth and do it. Do a lot of things, actually.

I am keeping up with my f-list, though none of you would know it because I'm not commenting. I do apologize for that. All of you are in my thoughts. This may be TMI, but part of the problem is that, being a student, I have crappy medical insurance (none at the moment actually, so I need to re-up) which doesn't support my incredibly expensive anti-depression drug habit. It's like, there's enough of me to concentrate on school, but that's about it. Again, I'm going to have to suck it up and do something about it -- possibly start looking around for some sort of student health aid agencies. (No, the alleged "clinic" at my school won't do anything. I've tried several times. Apparently they are only worth anything if I cut my finger on campus or get a veneral disease. Sigh.)

So, many of you have had birthdays and I forgot to post and say hi and wish you well. And some awful RL things are happening to others, and again, I haven't said boo because... frozen hands syndrome, or something. (I'm usually not the shy, retiring sort but whenever stuff like this comes up, I think people will see me post and go "Who the fuck is this? Do I know this person? Why is she sticking her nose into my life?") So, my sympathies to all of you. And god, I wish I had money to help you out, because even when I can't seem to post anything, I can usually manage to make it to my Paypal account and send a few dollars, but, I have this cat, you see.... who is mostly a happy, outside cat but who ignores me except for food, but who decided to pull the "OHAI, LOOK, I CAN'T PEE!" thing right in front of me. So... $500 later, I have a very unhappy cat who fights me every time I try to medicate him and is UNHAPPY living inside the house where I can control his food, and who, if the problem recurs, is probably going to have to go to Kitty Heaven because I *can't* afford to treat him. (No, he couldn't possibly have gotten sick while I had a job, could he? Nooooo.) And I've got about 2 months living expenses left in my bank account, so... yeah.

All I can say, dear f-list, is please forgive me for seeming like I'm ignoring you. I've just got some brain and life issues to deal with that are preventing me from being the kind of online friend I'd like to be. I feel like I'm walking around underwater and dragging the chains of Marley's Ghost besides. It makes doing anything -- even typing -- rather difficult.

Fortunately, life is not all cold syrup and rust. My classes this semester are very cool -- except for math, which is never cool, but I'm bearing with it. The poetry workshop rocks, and I'm probably going to end up writing more than I have in years because of it. Yay! I got my Senior Seminar paper back from my Arthurian Lit prof and, despite me thinking it was utter crap, he is urging me to publish it (with a bit of clean up, of course) and wants to sponsor it for a symposium/call to papers type of thing, so OMG I'm jazzed over that. I'm taking the fiction workshop again, and stressing the hell out, because I always stress out over fiction. And my Fic prof has been handing me journals under the table with notes that say "This would be good to submit to!" which is very encouraging so... I guess I kinda need to start cleaning up my original stuff and mailing it out. Sigh.

And of course I have fandom duties. No, I haven't forgotten about those. I've got a Snupin Fantasy Fest fic to finish, a bi-monthly daily_deviant commitment, and I'm determined to write more Snack this year. There are some tempting looking fests out there, but luckily I've been able to temper the urge to sign up. Oh, and I promised to put up some notes on my Snupin_Santa piece, which I'll do eventually (but probably only once interest has dwindled to the point that everyone goes "Whut?" when I post it.) ;-)

Hmm, nothing like an RL post to make you look back over it and go "Wow, I need my drugs back really badly!" huh?

I'll try not to be such a stranger. (As long as I can still be strange.)

You Know Me So Well -- Snape/Lupin, NC17 (slightly expanded version)

Sun, 11 Jan 2009 02:44:32 GMT

Title: You Know Me So Well
For: Snupin Santa 2008
Recipient: snegurochka_lee
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 7350
Warnings: bondage, non-con/dub-con, wanking, rough sex, hate sex, werewolf bestiality
Secondary Pairing: Snape/Mulciber
Summary: You will never forget how it happens: the way his lip curls around the word, the way he bares his uneven teeth in a silent hiss, the way his eyes fuse horror, fascination and contempt into one searing glance that brands you for the rest of your days. You are a monster. And in all the world, only the two of you understand.
Time Period: Set during PoA and MWPP era.
Author’s Note: Thank you to my wonderful and most excellent beta ships_harry without whom this would have been an absolute mess, and a wink to blpaintchart for some Brit-picking she didn't know was for this fic. Lee, I really was looking at doing one of your plotty prompts -- or rather something based on elements from both your long plotty promtps -- but the Semester from HELL (TM) was busy having its way with me and I had to fall back to something shorter and a bit simpler, figuring that you would rather have a short but intense (and hopefully well-crafted) story rather than long but half-assed one. I hope I was right. ;-) I have to admit I wasn't entirely happy with the last bit -- possibly due to conflicting school deadlines and me pulling 2 all-nighters in a row while finishing this -- so it's been just slightly reworked -- maybe 'retouched' is a better word -- with the result being, uhm, slightly more smex. Or rather, slightly more graphic smex. (Don't ask how these things happen. They just do.)
Story Notes: I think I've decided to post some meta on this story as well -- at least a third of which will probably be bitching about a certain 'makes absolutely NO fucking sense!' canon decision by JKR which resulted in way too much hair-pulling and teeth-gnashing on my part -- but I'll do that in a separate post due to possible spoilers. I might even dig around on the 'cutting room floor' file and toss out a couple of deleted scenes; and maybe even include a contest poll for "Why was this scene deleted?" (including the option "Because it sucks, duh!") Hmm.... ticky box meta. That could be weird. And maybe fun. We shall see.

You rise and nod when Dumbledore introduces you and sit back down to a smattering of applause, but even though you’re seated at the head table, no one is paying you any attention. No one is really watching you.

No one except him.

You drape your napkin over your lap, you pass Flitwick the pepper pot when asked, you agree with Sprout that the rosemary from the Hogwarts gardens suits the squab to perfection and tuck in with relish – you don’t remember the last time you had squab, or the last time you even ate this well – all the while feeling the heat of his gaze on your right shoulder. All the while pretending you don’t notice.

It feels good to be back at Hogwarts. It feels good to bask in the glow of floating candles, to have food appear on your plate when you’re hungry, to bathe in the fascinated loathing of those black, matchless eyes that never quite let you go. It feels familiar; as much like home as anything ever has.

You do not give him the satisfaction of noticing his fierce disdain. This is carefully calculated and before the remains of the splendid meal have vanished from the table, you hear the brief clang of silverware tossed onto a plate and the scuff of a chair pushed back. You feel him stop behind you, place his hand on the back of your chair and lean down just close enough that his words will reach only your ears.

“Remember, Lupin,” he breathes, “you may have all the others fooled, but I know what you are.”

“Is that so, Severus?” you ask, dabbing your lips with your napkin to hide the smile you can’t restrain. You turn your head just enough to see the murky fabric of his sleeve, the raw knuckles denting the pale hand draped over your chair. His nearness is electric. “And here I thought you might have forgotten.”

“I can assure you, Lupin,” he hisses, and the skin on the back of your neck prickles as he draws closer, “that as long as I’m alive, there will be at least one person who knows what kind of monster you are.” With that – too soon – the hand and sleeve are yanked away, and the air shifts as he whirls and stalks from the hall.

“Glad to hear it,” you murmer, even though he is no longer there to listen. There is a strange happiness welling inside you, and even though there is no reason now to hide your smile, you reach for your goblet and drink.

Because you are glad to hear it. In fact, you’ve been counting on it for fifteen years.

~~
“That’s utter shite!” Sirius snorts as the four of you push through the crowd of black robed students spilling out of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. He is right behind you and you can feel his anger, seething like a wave that catches you up and pushes you along.

“Utter shite,” Peter echoes with a firm nod that makes his pale forelock flop into his eyes. “Isn’t that right, Prongs?”

“Total crap,” James confirms, his expression stormy. You can tell he’s upset because he’s not even scanning the crowd of students ahead of him for a glimpse of dark red hair.

“Dumbledore’d spit tacks if he knew what that uptight tosser was teaching!” Sirius growls. “I think we should tell him, or at least McGonagall...”

“Sirius, no.” You stop so suddenly he nearly stumbles into your back, and when you turn, his expression is puzzled and indignant. “There’s no need for that. I’m not upset.”

“Well, I am!” he insists, eyes smouldering like hot ash. “Bad enough that bit was even in the book, but the way that nancy pillock pointed it out!”

“Keep your voice down, would you?” you hiss, because the four of you are standing in the middle of the corridor, and the rush of chattering students is breaking upon you like water on rocks, parting and flowing in opposite directions. “If you make a fuss, it’s only going to draw attention, all right?” You sigh and put your hand through your hair. Despite what you told him, you do feel slightly ill, like your stomach has just been driven over a bad road. “Besides, I’m sure that passage was only there for historical perspective. Really, I don’t think anyone even noticed.”

“Wouldn’t be so sure of that,” James mutters, sharing a glance with Sirius. “Did you see the way Snivellus’ hand shot up when Bellows asked someone to read it aloud? He was looking right at you, Moony.”

“Greasy swot,” Peter glares, wrinkling his pointed nose.

“I didn’t notice,” you lie, and your stomach shrugs again because, oh, you did indeed notice, and maybe the sweat crawling out of your hairline as you sat frozen at your desk wasn’t from Professor Bellows’ thin voice wheezing 'I direct your attention to the bottom of the page, where Germanicus of Tilbury comments upon the true nature of the Werewolf', but from Snape’s eyes rasping over your skin before he cleared his throat and started to read. “Just leave it, all right? Bellows said that bit wasn’t going to be on our OWLS, so no one’s going to pay it any mind.”

“Suppose that’s true,” James allows. You can tell he’s already losing interest because he’s fiddling with his hair and casting glances down the corridor. Sirius still looks vaguely mutinous, but just then Peter’s stomach gives a thunderous growl, a sound so much larger than he is that everyone stares at him in shock.

“Sorry,” he stammers, flushing at the sudden attention. “I didn’t have any breakfast, you know, because you lot didn’t wake me up when you went down. Can’t help it if I’m hungry.”

“Lunch then?” you offer, your tone light. “Can’t have Peter wasting away now, can we?”

“Wouldn’t hurt him to miss a meal or two,” Sirius grunts, rolling an eye at the shorter boy.

“Oi!” Peter shouts and swings his satchel and, to everyone’s surprise, hits Sirius right in the cods. You and James wince in sympathy but the next moment you can’t keep from laughing at the look on Sirius’ face. Peter stares in horror at what he’s done, then shrieks, drops his books and goes tearing off down the hall. Sirius staggers, gripping his nads and looking a bit green, then manages to shake it off. With a choked howl of rage, he stumbles after Peter, leaving you and James leaning against each other, shaking with laughter.

It’s over just like that, the matter forgotten, no more to be said. And later, in the common room, when you slip your Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook out of your satchel, no one says anything as you settle into one of the cushiony armchairs and turn to page 394. It's there at the bottom, reproduced in the original Gothic hand.

Whyle many do maintaine yt ys onlie the fulle moone’s lyght that doth command the Werewolf’s sauvage nature, yet I saye thys Darknesse ys yn thyr blude, a taynte whych atte alle tymes affects thym; for more than alle others they are gyven to the humours of Melancholia, to darke thoughtes, secrette perversions, and unspeakable desyres.

No one notices that you do not turn the page; that you stare at only these words until the common room is almost empty and the fire has burned down. You study the antique hand as if you might divine new secrets from a crossed capital or a flourish. You are seized with the notion that Germanicus of Tilbury was himself a Werewolf, a Dark Creature, just like you. How else, you think, could he have known? How else could these 500 year old words pry open your secrets like tins of meat and spill them out in front of your unwitting friends?

Because you do have dark thoughts – not just when the moon fattens, but all the time. You do have secrets you can never tell your friends. You do have unspeakable desires.

They all wear the sallow, sneering face of Severus Snape.

~~

“When’s the next moon, then?” Sirius wants to know, rearranging his pillows before stretching out for sleep. “Padfoot could use a good romp.”

“Twelve days off,” you say, turning on your side and twitching back the hangings so you can see him. He’s staring up at the canopy, arms folded behind his head.

“Tch. So long!” he huffs.

“Too soon for me,” you mutter, putting the lights out before you tuck your wand beneath your pillows. There’s a moment of silence as everyone settles in.

“It’s not that bad, is it, Remus?” It’s James asking, and you feel a brief flush of embarrassment because he does sound a bit concerned. “When you’re with us, I mean.”

“No,” you admit softly. “It’s not. Not with you. You’re the only thing that makes it bearable.”

“Hey, we’re your mates,” Sirius says into the darkness. “That’s what we’re here for.”

“S’right,” Peter chimes in sleepily, and before you can respond, you hear his soft, burbling snores begin.

You feel a great swell of gladness at their presence, at the friendship you feel around you, but you don’t say anything more because when you go over it in your head – the words you might say – they all sound rather mushy, and you’re sure it would just make everyone uncomfortable. You hear them fall asleep around you, and as they do, you allow yourself to relax.

You allow yourself to admit one more thing you will never tell them.

To have them with you on the full moon nights – the dog, the stag, the rat – is a mercy you never dreamed; that you probably don’t deserve. But sometimes—you dream of running alone.

That night you dream of being the wolf. You dream there is no stag, or dog, or rat, but only you. The night and the forest are yours. You dream that you pad through tangled shadows cast on silvered ground, your nose parsing the air for scent. You revel in the pine-sharp, leaf-rotting darkness beneath your paws, and lift your muzzle to praise the fat moon perched above the trees in the star-stung night. In the now of these dreams, you do not hunger. Your lips do not tremble with the lust for soft flesh and the snap of bone, your muscles don’t yearn for the chase, nor your loins for the sharp, shuddering release of blood and tortured screams. Here, you want nothing. You are complete in the night and the forest, in the cold air and the even colder moon.

It is only when you catch a scent that is new and strange yet somehow achingly familiar that your peace is broken. It’s a powerful scent: irresistible as the fountain of blood from a fresh-cut throat, as spilled intestines steaming into the snow, as the spasm of legs still weakly kicking as you begin to feed. Agitation fills you because now, suddenly, you’re hungry, and confusion follows because you don’t know for what. You’re not sure of this smell, which is troublesome and alluring, making part of you twitch with hunger, and another part quiver with something else. You have never scented this prey before, and it isn’t until it detaches itself from the shadows and stands before you that you understand it isn’t prey at all – or is it? – but another wolf.

A wolf just like you. Only not quite, because your paws are broad and shadowed silver, and this wolf is black and lean with hipbones jutting under coarse fur, but it doesn’t matter because the yellow torchlight eyes and the jaw that drops in a half-grin say I know you. I know what you are. You’re just like me.

Just like you. Prey. Not-prey. It doesn’t matter because you are beside him in one bound, burying your senses in his fur, his warmth, his underfed breath, your noses finding and testing each other. You trade nips and bumps, but when you try to sniff beneath the black wolf’s tail, he lowers it with a faint growl and angles away, and you know you can’t accept that. You’re bigger, stronger, healthier, and you both know what that means.

When you mount him, dropping your greater weight on top of him, he stands up under it, not whining in acceptance, but not growling either, and that’s when it becomes more than play. The new hunger, the agitation and confusion tangle inside you; a writhing knot of tension in your belly that only starts to unravel when your jaws close on the scruff of the black wolf’s neck and your forelegs clamp his skinny sides. Your legs are trembling because a sharp, sweet heat is filling your loins, and you feel like a seam is ripping inside you – like you’re starting to come apart – and you thrust against the black wolf because it’s that or stagger and fall. You surge together, and the black wolf – your dark reflection – snarls and startles as you sink inside him, and you hold on tight, thrusting harder and deeper, because this is everything – everything – that you didn’t know you wanted.

It ends too swiftly, the hot rush swelling inside you after too few thrusts and pouring out in a long, rolling wave of delight. You collapse on his back with a whimper, throbbing inside the black wolf’s feral heat until you’re drained. When you pull back and try to step away, he turns his head and you see in a flash that his eyes are not gold after all, but as black as his fur and fathomless as the sky behind the stars on a moonless night. They pierce you like a weapon, those eyes no wolf should have, and you flounder back in a panic because they know you – they know what you are – but you can’t pull away because you’re locked inside him. His jaws gape in a grin as you whine and struggle, but it’s no use. You both go down panting, your claws raking desperate darkness until your furious writhing wakes you and you sit up, gasping, tangled in sticky sheets, your body still buzzing with terror and delight.

You toss aside pillows until you find your wand and a Lumos proves that everything is as it should be: that you are in your own body; that your friends are snoring unaware around you; that no wolf with come-drenched haunches and knowing, night-black eyes stands grinning beside your bed.

You mutter a Cleansing charm, straighten your covers and lie back down the with a groan, leaving your wand glowing. You close your eyes. You open them. You whisper Nox but it doesn’t seem to matter.

Dark or light, asleep or awake, the memory of the black eyes will not leave you.

~~

Secret perversions. Unspeakable desires. You know you have them, you know what face they wear, but it isn’t until that day in the greenhouse that you fully understand. That you know how lost you truly are.

You’re moving pots for Professor Sackville when you see shadows behind the smeared glass of Greenhouse Five and go to investigate. Peering through the missing corner of a cracked pane, you see two boys, half-clothed and panting. You stand there, frozen in shock because even though you’ve never seen it before, you know what those two are doing, and your heart stumbles to its knees because one of them is Severus Snape.

He’s pressed back against one of the planting tables, his knuckles white around the edge of the wood, and he’s staring down with at a shaggy beige head – Mulciber’s, your brain supplies – moving at his groin. Snape’s trousers are down and his shirt is pushed up, and the other boy’s thumbs are hooked over his hip bones, the broad hands curling around to knead Snape’s arse. Snape’s mouth is open, his lips are very red, and he’s making these little panting noises that sound almost unwilling, like he doesn’t want to make them but can’t help himself, and your own mouth goes dry, watching, listening.

Suddenly the panting becomes a groan, and he grabs Mulciber’s head, the spidery white fingers clenching in the sandy curls as Snape’s head tips forward, his own dark locks curtaining his face, and he bites off a cry as his hips jolt and freeze. Mulciber makes a gagging sound, then he’s pulling off Snape, spitting out a mouthful of come, and there’s a sudden heat expanding in your head and groin as you glimpse Snape’s cock – long and pink and wet – just before Mulciber gets up and bends him over the table.

“Wait!” Snape chokes out as the larger boy tugs Snape’s trousers further down and presses against him. “You said we weren’t going to...”

“Oh, shut it, you great baby,” Mulciber grunts, steadying Snape’s hips as he grinds against him. “I’m not going to put it inside you. Keep your legs tight. Yeah, like that. Brilliant!”

You can just see Snape bite his lip and stare down at the table as Mulciber thrusts against him, and soon enough the other boy is shuddering and groaning out his release. When he pulls back, Snape shifts and opens his legs, and beneath his pinched, reddened arse, you see Mulciber’s come dripping off his pink sac and down his lean thighs, and you have to turn away and remember to start breathing again.

You leave while they’re still sorting out their clothes, not running because you don’t want them to hear you, but walking carefully back to the potting shed even though your brain is on fire and you’re harder than you’ve ever been in your life. The door to the shed closes without a sound, and you even manage to draw your wand to cast locking and warding spells, but your other hand is already tearing open your trousers and pulling down your pants. You drop your wand and grab your prick, hissing because it’s never felt so big or hot or hard, and when you look down you almost don’t recognize it – the veins standing out, the head dark and so swollen the foreskin is tight around it. It almost feels like another bloke’s cock in your hand, and somehow that makes it even better when you start stroking it, tugging your foreskin up and down.

You start thrusting hard into your fist, imagining the curve of Snape’s back beneath you, imagining you’re moving your cock between his pressed-tight thighs, but it’s not enough. You want more – more than what Mulciber got from him. You want it all. Even though you’ve never seen it, you imagine pressing your cock into that tight cleft, you imagine getting your cock inside him, penetrating him, fucking Snape like he wouldn’t let Mulciber do. The very thought sets your brain on fire, and you spread your legs as much as you can with your trousers only half down and pump harder. You brace your back against the door, reaching down to squeeze your bollocks, imagining them slapping against the tight arse that you’re fucking, fucking so hard....

“Shit!” you grunt, spurting into the air, eyes squeezed shut so you don’t see where your semen splatters. You keep thrusting because you’re still hard and it still feels good, and you groan as your arse clenches and your cock spits two more bursts until there’s nothing, you’re empty, you’re dry. You lean against the door, breathing hard and gripping the head of your softening prick, pretending it’s still inside him, and when you open your eyes, you see a thick spatter of come sliding slowly down the inside of a clay pot.

You’re already imagining it leaking out and down Snape’s reddened skin.

That’s when you start to understand what kind of creature you are. That’s when you understand what Germanicus meant.

~~

OWLS are coming, everyone is looking crazed and harried and falling asleep on their books, but all you can think about is whether they’ve done it yet.

Snape and Mulciber.

Whether Mulciber’s actually put his prick inside Snape’s arse, or whether all they’ve done is suck each other off and fuck between the thighs. It’s not like they’re always together, but you watch for them – you spend more time doing that than studying, in fact – and whenever you do catch them together, you wonder.

You see them in the hall as you’re hurrying to a revising session and you almost stop right there to stare stupidly at them as Mulciber whispers something in Snape’s ear and gets an unpleasant smirk in return. Have they done it? you wonder. Have they? Snape sees you watching and his expression curdles. He starts to say something, but you’re already hurrying on, long legs eating up the hall way and leaving him behind.

What you can’t leave behind is the sudden, unbidden image of Mulciber pressing Snape down, pushing into him, fucking him with hard, rough thrusts. Your face is hot, your pulse is hammering in your ears, and it hurts to walk because you’re hard hard hard and you realize if you don’t do something you’re going to lose it right there in the middle of the corridor. You duck into the nearest toilet, lock yourself in a stall and lean against the door, letting out a shaky breath.

You have to meet the others in the library in a few minutes and there you are, hard as a Bludger, just because you walked by Snape and Mulciber. You tell yourself you’re a sick fuck, and you do feel a little ill about it, but another part of your brain says Not sick, just Dark. Can’t really help it now, can you? so with that benediction you take yourself in hand and start chafing up and down. You’re trying to make it fast, but staring at the dank wall, and the hanging toilet chain, and the magical graffiti – about Sirius, no less – just isn’t doing it for you. It isn’t until you close your eyes and imagine Snape’s face – not the sour expression from a moment before, but slit-eyed, open-mouthed, red-cheeked and panting – that you feel that clench and tickle behind your balls as they tighten. Wait! you imagine him gasping, but it’s too late, your climax is already shocking through you, bursting out the end of your prick to stripe his astonished face with your come.

It’s so wrenching, the vision of your semen splattered on his thin, red mouth, drops of it clinging to his lashes, streaked in his hair, that your head gets swimmy and your knees start to liquefy, and you collapse back against the stall. When you finally let go of your wilting cock and look up, your come is painted across the wall. A glob of it is dripping off the pull chain, and another is blurring the animated words Sirius Black sucks flobberworms!

“Fuck,” you mutter, your hand still shaking when you draw your wand to clean up. “Fuck.”

You’re ten minutes late to the revising session, and afterwards, you can’t even remember what you went over.

All you can think about is Snape.

~~

You can’t stop thinking about him.

You keep looking for him in the corridors, in the Great Hall, in the library, on the grounds – hunting him, stalking him – and that’s the joke of it all, isn’t it? Because the next time you see him, he isn’t where you ever expected to find him, and he isn’t with Muliber.

He’s alone.

And he’s your prey.

You don’t always remember what happens after you change – it’s easier if the others are with you – but the moment you see him will always be as clear and sharp as a diamond, never dimming, painted in the harsh colours of dank earth, twisting root, horror and desire. You are torn with agony, howling as your body wrenches, as you are filled with the strange, dark fire of blood lust and longing – that moment when the dark thoughts come to light, the secret perversions burrow to the surface like maggots breaking through rotting flesh, and the unspeakable desires have names.

The narrow white face in the tunnel, the black eyes at the moment of recognition, the thin mouth cracking open – each of these things brings its own light. You see him at the same moment he sees you. It is the most perfect connection you have ever felt.

You will never forget how it happens: the way his lip curls around the word, the way he bares his uneven teeth in a silent hiss, the way his eyes fuse horror, fascination and contempt into one searing glance that brands you for the rest of your days.

Werewolf. There is no sound when he says it. It comes out of his lips as a perfect piece of Darkness, holding everything that you know you are.

You are a monster. And in all the world, only the two of you understand.

You are reborn in that moment, and he is the one who has made you.

Your joy is the same as hunger, the same as need, the same as death, and you surge forward, eager to embrace him with everything you have, with teeth and claws and thickening cock, but he’s gone, in an instant, he’s vanished. Just like that. As if he had never been.

But you know he was there. You remember.

You will not allow yourself to forget.

~~

You stand in the doorway to his bedroom, watching him sleep – if sleep he truly does – in the shifting amber light of three candles. You have never seen him at ease before and his repose surprises you. You have imagined him tucked tight in starched covers, stiff as an effigy, geometrically aligned with the angles of his bed.

Never in this attitude of near abandon.

You have never imagined him with his limbs flung out, half his face buried in a pillow and his hair like a wash of shadow across the white linen. You have never imagined the wrinkled sheets kicked down to his knees, or the gleaming silk coverlet sliding off the bed, or the crimson dregs of the half-finished glass of wine on the small table.

You have never imagined him sleeping naked. But you will now. Always.

You are not surprised by the books stacked on the floor beside his bed, the serpents twining up the bedposts, or even the way his eyes do not quite close in sleep. You are not surprised by the slim, dark wand clutched hard in his hand, and this – like the complicated net of wards and spells you neutralized in order to break into his chambers – you are prepared to deal with.

You summon it with a flick of your own wand, and it has barely begun to slip from his grasp before his eyes flash open and he jerks awake and to his knees with a sharp curse. He manages to keep hold of his wand and twists to face you, his eyes burning through tangled hair. There’s a jinx already on his lips – he must sleep with one loaded on his tongue – but despite his fierce expression, he’s disoriented and you’re not. Your spell hits before he can release his own, and the wand flies out of his hand. His shocked eyes follow it only briefly, because already thin cords are shooting out and lashing his wrists together.

“Lupin!” he shouts in outrage as he’s flung backwards with another gesture, and his wrists are fixed to the headboard. He kicks and struggles, trying to break free, but you aim again and more ropes fly out to slither around his legs, yanking them apart and binding his ankles to opposite bed posts. He howls in frustration and continues to fight, flexing and twisting and hauling against his bonds. You lean against a bedpost to admire your work. Finally he lies still, breathing hard, a faint sheen of sweat gilding his limbs in the candlelight. His eyes are black holes filled with gall.

“What,” he snarls roughly, “is the meaning of this?”

You consider him in silence, then turn aside to take the goblet from his table. You taste the wine and smile to yourself because it’s just as sharp and acidic as he is. In the flickering light, the lees are not blood-red but as black as his hollow eyes. You drink it down and set the glass aside.

“Turn to page 394,” you tell him as you begin to remove your robe.

His eyes narrow. “What idiocy is this?” he demands, sounding remarkably haughty for someone bound naked to his bed.

You hold your robe by the shoulders, twitching it straight before folding it length-wise and draping it over the back of a chair. “That day you taught the Defense Against the Dark Arts class in my stead,” you continue, your tone conversational. “It seems you skipped ahead a bit.”

“Did I?” There is no need to look. You can hear the smirk in the wry twist of his words.

“You did,” you confirm. You step closer, peering down at him as you undo the buttons of your coat. “To page 394. The chapter on the identification of werewolves.”

“How careless of me,” he says with an unpleasant smile. You strip off your coat, toss it on to the same chair and tilt your head at him.

“Funny that,” you say softly. “I don’t think you were being careless at all.” He goes still at the tone in your voice, and there’s a flicker of fear in his eyes when you lean down, placing your hands on either side of his narrow chest. “I think you knew exactly what you were doing, Severus.” You watch his nipple tighten as your breath puffs over his skin.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he huffs, shifting nervously before he can stop himself.

“You’re not a careless man, are you, Severus?” Your tone is mild, but it makes him flinch and try to pull away just the same. “There was a time when you couldn’t afford to be.” You eye his left forearm, which makes him grit his teeth and pull harder. “I expect old habits die hard. Isn’t that so?”

“What are you implying, Lupin?” His breath is coming faster, rough and unsettled. You straighten and step back, taking in the long, trapped limbs, the veins standing out on his arms, the faint valley that runs from the center of his chest to the flat whorl of his navel. The hair between his legs looks like black moss, lush and thick, and his penis a long, pale root growing from it. It twitches against his thigh as you stare at it, and he makes a choked sound of vexation as his cock starts to swell and stiffen beneath your gaze. You smile, and this vexes him even more.

“You knew I wouldn’t let you get away with that, Severus.” You unbutton your shirt sleeves and turn the cuffs up, then start on the front. “You knew I would respond.” You hold his gaze as you peel your shirt off, then reach down to unfasten your trousers and let them fall. You’re harder than he is – you have been for quite a while – and you see his eyes widen at the size of the bulge in your pants. You toe off your shoes and socks, step out of your trousers and ease your pants down, freeing your rampant cock. “You surely knew how I would respond.”

“Lupin,” he pants hoarsely, eyes fixed on your cock. There’s an edge of panic in his voice, and he squirms as if he’s trying to shrink away, but his prick is harder than it was before and arching toward his stomach. You can smell both his fear and his desire, and it rachets up when you curl your hand around your shaft and give it a long, thoughtful stroke. His eyes track up with your fist, then down, widening when you expose the flaring knob. It's as red and swollen as the lower lip he's biting now, and you can't resist a closer comparison. Gripping the headboard with one hand, you put one knee on the bed and lean over him, pressing the moist head against his cracked lips, rubbing it slowly back and forth. His eyes glaze with momentary desire and his mouth starts to open until he remembers himself and jerks his head aside with an angry sound.

“You knew what would happen, Severus,” you tell him, and though he keeps his head turned aside, you see the shuttle in his throat fly up and back as you move to the foot of the bed. The mattress bows beneath you as you crawl between his spread legs, watching his body tighten with panic and his prick shudder with need. His breath catches as you stretch yourself over him, chest above his chest, cock above his cock. “This is what you expected, isn’t it?”

His eyes spring open at that and he pins you with a glare. “Is that what you think?" he hisses. "Is that how you plan to sooth your ragged conscience, Lupin? By imagining that I have invited this assault?”

The sudden heat of his rage is better than winter sun, and the growl that pours out of your throat is almost a purr. “Are you telling me you can’t make a ward that will keep a werewolf out? That will keep me out? It took less than five minutes to slice through your wards, Severus. Is that really the best you can do?” He bares his crooked teeth in sheer frustration, fists clenching so hard his knuckles look like bone, and you can’t help laughing. “You might as well have scattered rose petals all the way to your bed.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer a trail of body parts?” he sneers. He lurches against his bonds just as you lean closer and his movements brush your cocks together. He freezes, his breath stumbling in his throat. You merely smile.

“Oh yes,” you agree softly. “But only certain parts.” You shift your hips until your lengths are pressed together – your balls settling on top of his, the tiny teardrop of moisture at your slit slowly dripping down until it falls onto the head of his prick. There’s so much heat coming from him, you imagine you can hear it sizzle.

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you, Severus?” you whisper, thrilling at the way he closes his eyes and turns his face aside. “I'm going to put my cock inside you." You pause to lick your lips. "I'm going to shove my prick into your arse and fuck you long and hard. Maybe until you scream." The single shudder that passes through him at your words makes your cock throb with desire. It's lying thick and heavy against his own and you know he can feel it, but you lean down anyway, putting your lips right to his ear. “Can you feel how big it is, Severus? Did you see the size of the head? It's going to hurt when I push it inside you -- believe me, I'll make sure it does. Because that's just what you deserve, isn't it?" The tendon in his throat leaps like a frightened deer as he swallows. You want very much to lick it, but you don’t. “Shall I give you 394 thrusts, since you seem so taken with that number?”

“As if you could!” he chokes through gritted teeth, still avoiding your eyes.

“Don’t underestimate me, Severus,” you warn. “I’ll make you count each thrust.”

There is no doubt in your mind that you could do it, that you could fuck him for as long as that would take, and even longer. You have imagined this for so many years that it would only be a fraction of what you owe him. You pull back carefully, sliding the head of your prick along his shaft, over his sac and down, the ring of muscle flinching when you press against it. You pause, observing him, smiling faintly as he flexes his trapped wrists. “Are you going to beg me, Severus?” you ask. “Are you going to beg me not to do this?”

Now he turns his head to glare at you, the blood high in his cheeks. “Is that what you want to hear, Lupin? Then I’m happy to disappoint you.”

“Not even if it would make a difference?” He pauses, and the brief uncertainty in his gaze makes the hatred burn hotter when it’s gone.

“You’re crueller than I ever gave you credit for, Lupin,” he says, and there is perhaps the slightest edge of approval in his tone. “It wouldn’t make any difference at all.”

“You’re quite sure of that, Severus? Or perhaps,” you add, leaning down until your mouths are bare inches apart, “perhaps you don’t want it to make a difference?”

Snape’s lip twitches, his face twisting into a nasty leer. “You’ll never hear me beg you for anything, Lupin.”

“All right,” you smile, baring all your teeth. His anger is so intoxicating that your cock is dripping moisture, little pulses of pre-come leaking out against his hole; so much that you think you can probably fuck him with that alone. Not that it matters. You weren't going to use anything anyway. You nudge his entrance, testing. He grits his teeth and tenses, resisting you.

“Why?” he snarls at you, his features twisted with defiance. “Why are you really doing this, Lupin?”

“But you already know the answer to that.” You’re fighting to keep your voice mild, even casual, but it’s a losing battle now because you’re so close to having what want, what you’ve been denied for fifteen years. What you really came back to Hogwarts for. “You know it well enough to teach it to the students, don’t you, Severus?”

He stills completely at your words. For an instant, his eyes are clear of hatred, his expression one of dawning realization as he grasps and re-examines the truth he’s always known.

The truth that no one else believes.

“Germanicus,” he whispers in a voice that is at once horror-stricken and triumphant.

“Yes,” you growl. “Exactly.” You drive your hips down hard in one relentless surge and force your cock inside him. He screams when you do it – there’s a long moment of friction, refusal, redoubled force before the head pushes through, before you get all the way in – but you don’t care. There isn’t any reason to care, because you both know what you are. He knows better than to expect any mercy from you, and it would be against your true nature to give it. You don’t want to in any case, and once you're deep inside him -- sheathed to the balls in his resistant heat with him panting and struggling beneath you -- and it’s better than a fresh kill. You lean down, growling, to lick the sweat from his throat, to taste his skin.

“Fucking—werewolf!” he gasps, and you can’t tell if it’s a pejorative or an acknowledgement or even a compliment, but since he’s been kind enough to remind you, you pull out, thrust in again, and start fucking him hard and deep, just like you said you would.

“Does it hurt, Severus?” you pant, thrusting so hard it seems to shock the breath out of him. “I want you to tell me. It’s difficult to know when your cock's that hard.”

“Shut—God!—Shut up!” he grimaces, sweat dripping down his face, the tendons tight in his arms.

“Fuck, you love it,” you grunt. You grab a fistful of black hair and yank his head back, leaning to down to bite a nipple. He bucks and whines in his throat. You do it again, harder.

“Damn you!” he chokes, writhing beneath you, and you growl as you bite the other one, drawing blood. It tastes like salt and fermented tea, and suddenly you want to hear him scream. You want to fuck him so hard he can’t form words; so hard you want to lose yourself inside him.

Your head is buzzing like an attic full of wasps when you pull out of him, cursing at the way his arse clings tight to your prick, at the way his cock leaks and twitches on his belly, and you’re sure the combination of looking at him and remembering is going to break you like glass. You make the mistake of meeting his eyes, and your spine starts to shiver into pieces because they aren’t his eyes, they’re two pieces of darkness you remember from a long time ago, in the shadowy face of a dream wolf who knew you even before him.

Whatever you thought you wanted isn’t enough any longer. You want more – everything – you want every piece of him you ever desired. You tear through the covers, looking for your wand, find it on the floor and dispel the cords holding his ankles. Immediately he gets his feet flat on the bed and starts struggling, but before he can do anything else, you’ve grabbed him and pushed him over onto his face.

“Get up, get up,” you pant, grabbing his tight rump and dragging him to his knees. “I want to fuck you like this—yes, yes—oh!” He grunts when you fling yourself on his back and push inside -- easier this time, but still so hot, so resistant. You scrape your cheek against his shoulder blade, wrapping your arms around his stomach to pull him into every thrust. You groan as you speed up, finding a rhythm, pounding so hard your bollocks are slapping against his. His fists are clenched and he’s grunting into the mattress and you can hear his swollen cock slapping his stomach with each thrust. The thought of it hard and sticky as candy makes you wild, and you reach under him and start stroking.

He pulls his face out of the covers and roars at that, angry, anguished and writhing, and you sink your teeth into his shoulder to stay on top of him, still tugging at his cock.

“Stop—stop it!” he gasps, and even though his length is hot and heavy and leaking all over your hand, you understand.

“Shut up,” you snarl over his shoulder. “This isn’t for you. If I want to make you come, you’ll come!”

He tries to curse you, but he can’t, he can’t get anything out but gasping, half-made words. Your fist keeps flying on him, just as ruthless as your cock, until you feel him seize and shudder, feel his bollocks pull up, and his arse pinch tighter around your length, throbbing like a heart. Even then you don't stop, not until he's groaning like a wounded thing and the last hot bursts are sputtering in your slippery hand.

“Fuck,” you mutter, wiping your hand on the covers, and you shove him down like you’ve always dreamed of doing, grab his hips and yank him back hard onto your cock. Your eyes and your hands and your prick and your mouth are all different entities now, different gods fighting over the same territory as you thrust and bite and scrape and claw, marking him because he’s yours yours yours and driving into him deep and fast and beautiful because he knows.

Because he knows what you are. You don’t have to hide it from him.

“Severus!” you roar as you plunge in deep, deeper, and he shudders again, his body a thin echo of the climax that storms through you, thunderous and electric. Your teeth sink into his neck, tasting blood, your fingers clutch, your cock erupts, the force of it blinding you as you shatter, howling, inside him.

You can't tell how many years it takes for your breath to slow -- maybe a hundred, maybe only fifteen -- but you wait, draped over him, silent – almost reverent – until you are sure it is over. You want to savour everything before pulling away. When you try to move, it feels like small birds taking flight. Your cock makes the decision for you, wilting, easing out of him, leaving a shiny mark across one thin thigh. Your hands remain on his back as you draw away. He doesn’t move, or fall, but stays on his knees. His face is still pressed into the bed.

You push him carefully so that he slumps to the side, your hand on his hip as he collapses. He only lies there, lips parted but silent, and you lean over, peering at his face which is impassive, almost slack, as if he were asleep. He is not, of course. His eyes blink. His skin and hair are damp with sweat, but his eyes are perfectly dry. His wrists are still bound, but you are not foolish enough to untie them. Instead you stretch out beside him with a small sigh, lean your head on one hand and stroke the now-stiff muscles of his outstretched arms.

“I hate you,” he whispers, and even though there are no tears in his eyes – there never were – the desolation in his voice curls in your stomach like a contented cat. “I hate you,” he says again, even softer. “And I know what you are.”

“I know that, Severus,” you tell him, your voice placid with understanding. You feel his muscles quiver as your fingers run down his arms to stroke his damp sides. You comb a hand through his tangled locks and press unwanted kisses under his hair. You’re going to kiss his mouth before you leave, but he doesn’t know that yet.

“That’s why I’m here with you.”

~FIN~

Some More Snusa Recs

Mon, 05 Jan 2009 23:49:52 GMT

I realize it's a bit late in the game for recs, but in case you're way behind on your Snupin reading (like me), I did want to post about some of the stories I've really been enjoying.

Taste -- A stunning piece in so many ways. It hit my literary kink for very well executed extended metaphor, and my characterization kink by making Snape exactly the rotten bastard that JKR says he is, but still making him so wonderful that you can't let him go. The exploration of the dark, wolfish side of Remus' nature is so well done, but the real gold here is how the writer shows the way their relationship changes over the years until the end. This will seem dark to some folks, but to me, it was more 'darkly romantic'. Oh, and did I mention that it's also OMFG hot? No? Well, it is! I have a pretty high smut tolerance but this left me squirming and biting my lip. Good stuff on a whole lot of levels.

The Voyage of the HMS Leviosa -- Yes, everyone in the world has rec'd this already, so I'm just tossing my 2 shillings into the pot. I have friends who've been trying to get me read O'Brien's "Master & Commander" books, and if they are anywhere near this good -- even without the slash -- I'm going to have to check them out. Also, I'm a complete whore for a good bibliography -- the sort that sends you scrambling for the uni library website and the ILL button -- and this one has that. If you haven't read this yet, then kiss the gunner's daughter and take 12 lashes from the boy's pussy. XD

Blood Moon -- Draco isn't a character I normally expect to see in Snupin fics. In general, I can take or leave Draco -- usually leave -- unless he's really well done, and here? He is really well done. This writer made me believe Draco would clean Snape's house -- and not even with sexual favors attached. OK, that probably sounds glib, and I really don't mean it to, because while we bandy the word "dark" around a lot, this fic really is dark. Not in a graphic way, though. You'll hear about throats being torn out and blood thrown around, but you won't see it for the most part. It's very restained in that way -- and to good effect, I think. The darkness in this story is the miasma that surrounds Snape and Lupin in this dystopic "Voldemort won" scenario. It's like a whirlpool that they are sucked into against their will, with their only consolation being that they are together. If you shy away from darkfic because of Snape/Lupin death, or graphic rape, non-con, blood or general gore, you can probably read this safely. It is dark, yes indeed, but it's so well done, I must recommend you try it. (And should you need something happy to read afterwards, perhaps a re-read of Magical Magazine would hit the spot? Yes, I already rec'd this, but really, if you haven't read it yet, you should. And it would be an excellent, high-spirited chaser after any dark fic.)

Forbidden Passion: A Soap Opera in Five Acts -- Normally, I'm not one for soap operas, but this? This had exactly the effect on me that soap operas seem to have on so many people: you can't stop watching. Or in my case, I couldn't stop reading. The framing for this story is so clever. Several of our familiar characters -- all of whom are exceptionally well-realized -- are addicted to a particular soap opera in which the usual bizarre and unbelievable soap-opera-type things are happening. As the characters follow their favorite soap -- and the 'excepts' alone are so entertaining they're reason enough to read this -- another soap opera is unfolding around them, and it was just as captivating to me as the 'real' soap was to Rosmerta, Remus and, oh yes, Dumbledore. Aside from the soap opera thing, I had my doubts about Remus as an ultra-femme gay guy -- it's not a way I normally imagine him -- but the writer has done just a fantastic job, following the prompt to the letter but still giving us a very recognizable and believable Remus. This fic really has everything -- it will make you laugh, it will wring your heart, it will make you shake your laptop and scream "What is WRONG with you!" at the characters, it will make you sweat from the UST, and squirm with the very hot and wonderful smex scenes. Even if you don't like soap operas, you have to experience this one.

Five Times Snape and Lupin Had Sex At Order Headquarters... -- How could I not read something where I'm assured of at least five smex scenes? That sort of promise is too good to pass up, and this one definitely delivers. While I will happily admit that I take great delight in PWPs, this one has more to offer than just the sexing. For those of you are familiar with her work, it has just a bit of a fabularasa feel to it -- not in any derivative way, though; and of course I mean that as a high compliment. :) I really enjoyed this, but then, give me a hot, conniving Alpha!Remus who's willing to do whatever it takes to get Snape where he wants him, and I'm more than halfway to happy already. Nom.

I'm probably leaving out some things, but my brain is still fried from the holidays, and I'm still reading Snusas, so this will do for now. There are still 2 days till the Big Reveal, after all. So... what are y'all catching up on?

Starting the New Year Off Right -- with PRON!

Fri, 02 Jan 2009 03:34:44 GMT

This is either my last pron of 2008 or my first of 2009, depending on where you were when I posted it. I guess it's a little of both, actually. Just fic pointing to my daily_deviant Kinky Kristmas post. It's young Sirius/Severus, bondage/frottage. Probably dreadfully fluffy for these two, but NC17, nonetheless.

If you like, here's a handy link to Happy Christmas, Git

Otherwise, I hope everyone is enjoying the start of 2009.

TTFN!

A Very Merry Christmas to my lovely and talented f-list!

Fri, 26 Dec 2008 05:02:24 GMT

To those of you who get some time off, I hope you are having rewarding and relaxing holidays. To those who don't, I hope life is treating you well in any case. I have been in an absolute frenzy of cleaning and cooking and serving and then cleaning again, and FINALLY the real fun can start: kicking back, eating leftovers, nibbling Christmas cookies and relaxing with friends. In fact, we're about to go drive around and look at lights. In the spirit of things, here is a holiday image from last year -- but the tree and cat look the same. :)

Tomorrow my out of town guests and I have our beady little eyes on post-holiday sale at Smith & Hawken, but no other plans. Now that the semester from Hell and the holiday cooking and cleaning frenzy is over, I plan to sit back and finish some fics.

Merry merry kids! Big hugs to all of you for being such cool IJ friends this year, and I *swear* I'll be better about posting next semester. (Only taking 12 hours.) :D

Art Rec: Hot!Remus to the Rescue

Tue, 23 Dec 2008 07:01:28 GMT

OMG guys, you've got to go look at this! This is the latest Snupin Santa posting and it's so beautiful and intense and O HAI IcrediblyHawt!Remus! The cardigan is off and the all-black ninji gear is ON, baby!

Now don't get me wrong. This isn't exactly an erotic piece; it's Remus rescuing a badly abused Severus from Azkaban, but despite the obvious trauma here, this Remus is such a gorgeous mix of daring, strength and passion that it balances out the angst with hope and love. This is an Alpha!Remus who isn't going to allow a little thing like the Law to stand between him and his man, and he's just beautiful. They both are.

Here's a link for Cut Our Bodies Free on E-fiction. Check it out, and if you like it, leave a few words. If you don't want to sign up on E-fiction (which doesn't allow anon comments), you can leave comments on the original posting on IJ here. It's only PG-13 but I'm not sure I'd pop it up on the work computer, unless your co-workers are used to seeing guys smooching on your monitor.

Ipods and I-Touch anyone?

Sat, 20 Dec 2008 23:54:49 GMT

As usual, I turn to my flist when the mysteries of the modern world confuse me.

I'm considering entering the world of Ipods. I was looking at a Nano, but Best Buy is having a sale on the I-Touch. This is the 1st Gen I-Touch, 16GB, for the same price as a 2 gen I-Touch with 8GB. Apparently the only change is something about the volume control. This thing sounds like it would be pretty cool and helpful (calendar, maps, Wi-Fi, etc.) and I'm really leaning towards getting it. It would save me having to haul my laptop around, at least for some things. But if anyone has any opinions on it, I'd like to hear them. Also, it doesn't look like it comes with battery chargers. You have to buy those separtely??? WTF? And since I'm a complete neophyte in the Ipod world, what accessories (aside from a battery charger) am I going to find that I absolutely have to have?

Any help with this would be muchly appreciated. Maybe my resolution for 2009 will be to become less of a Luddite.

READ THIS FIC! "An Ecstacy of Fumbling" (Now with link!)

Mon, 15 Dec 2008 16:04:29 GMT

Oh fuck it! I have tried writing a rec for this incredible gift I got from my Snupin Santa like FIVE TIMES and I have erased every one of them. If I say everything I want to say, I'll give away everything about the fic. If I try to keep it short, I think of 5-10 things that have to be mentioned. And I just... GAH! I'm pulling my hair out, because this is SUCH a great story, and everyone needs to read it!

ETA: Here's the link: An Ecstasy of Fumbling

Do you love stories set it post-WWI England, where the cracks are starting to show in the very stiff-upper-lip Edwardian social structure? Did you love shows on Masterpiece Theatre like "Upstairs, Downstairs" or "The Duchess of Duke Street" or even the Agatha Christie mysteries? Do you love well-researched historical AUs where the writer really knows the period and gets the details right? Then READ THIS!

Do you love infidelity fic? Well, it isn't quite infidelity fic, because Snape and Lupin are experimenting with 'seeing other people' and have an agreement, but read it anyway. Do you HATE infidelity fic? Please give this a try! Because it isn't really infidelity, tho it is a bit painful, but if you don't read through the painful part, how can you get to the wonderful hopeful, healing ending? (And the incredibly hot sex that goes with it?) Not convinced yet? Believe me, the infidelity -- such as it is -- is NOT gratuitous. It's there for a reason. Snape and Lupin are both tortured by their pasts (did I mention how well this works with the Potterverse? It really does!) and Remus especially is desperately fumbling for some sort of remedy -- just like the men fumbling for their gasmasks in the poem from which the title is taken. And surely, surely we can forgive him for straying from Severus just a little bit when we get to read an OMFG HAWT smex scene between Remus and hunky, sweaty undergardener Charlie Weasley, right?

Speaking of which, do you love historical AUs where appropriate Potterverse characters are inserted in wonderfully believable ways? Like, where most of the Weasleys are the "downstairs" to Severus and Remus' "upstairs"? Where James Potter and Peter Pettigrew are names on a memorial monument, Sirius is a traumatized ex-POW and Regulus is but a shell-shocked ghost of himself? Where Hogwarts becomes Harrow and Lucius becomes a top-hatted member of the House of Lords and Dora Tonks-Black is a charmingly clumsy socialite whose instincts for finding the 'right sort' of husband are equally clumsy?

If none of that sells you, how about just an incredibly well written story with a strong narrative told from Remus POV, aided by a box of letters that Remus and Severus sent to each other while he was in the trenches? How about a story that explores LGBT issues, social mores, a damaged society and damaged people, all without hitting you in the face with it (i.e. it's quite subtle, okay?) and which explores the soothing/healing nature of love and trust even between damaged people -- without sounding moralizing? No, I wouldn't call this a "feel good" fic -- it's beautifully crafted, fascinating, uncomfortable, disturbing and sexy, but definitely not fluffy -- but it is so emotionally fulfilling and the ending is so perfect that I actually wept. They were good tears, tho. The "it's going to be all right for them" kind of tears.

This is just such a wonderful story that I really, really urge you to go read it. Whoever wrote this -- and I'm dying to know who you are, BTW! -- is a fantastic story-teller. And actually, if you're a writer, that's another reason to read this story. It's so well done, the narrative, characterization, pacing and word-choices are so strong, that you can learn things from reading it. (Believe me, I have my share of notes!)

Really, folks. Don't miss this one. I'd be recommending it even if it wasn't my gift! Thank you, Santa! I don't know what I did to deserve such a great gift (2 years in a row, I might add!) but you can definitely put me on your "very satisfied customer" list!