girlofprey (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
girlofprey) wrote2005-10-24 10:06 am
girlofprey) wrote2005-10-24 10:06 am
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Even my fic is slightly damp, hmph >:(
My foot is wet again. Hmph. So is my washing. The rain is just making a mockery of the whole drying process. Have decided to break out the huge umbrella of semi-pink. No Mr Nice - Girl.
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narrauko? I have a comment from you in my e-mail, but it's not showing up on my entry page. I'm happy for you to friend me, but am slightly puzzled about the Night Watch fic thing. Since I haven't written any. Um. Except for this one.
Title: Sleeping Beauty
Series: Tales of the City
Fandom: Night Watch/Nochnoi Dozor
Rating: G
Notes/Warning: 443 words, Olga-centric, set before/during the movie.
Disclaimer: I do not own Night Watch. I do not own Sleeping Beauty. I take some responsibility for mixing the two.
The first thing that starts getting to her is that she can’t move her wings. She gets the instinct to just twitch them every now and then, just resettle the feathers a little. But she can’t. Her wings are like lead weights, clamped to the side of her body. Her muscles itch with the work they can’t do. She tries not to think about it.
Then it’s that she can’t move her head. People walk past her, and she automatically tries to turn her head to follow. But she can’t. People talk in front of her, talk about her, then walk away, still talking, and she can’t follow them, can’t call them back, can’t watch them go. It’s – dizzying.
When he finally wraps her up in tissue paper and shuts her in the safe, she considers it a blessing.
The safe is dark. And quiet. For hours. Days. She can’t tell how the time is passing anymore. The dust settles around her, on her. She feels like she’s floating in darkness. In a funny way it suits her.
In the stillness, she starts telling herself stories, in fragments, bits and pieces. Old memories play themselves out in her mind, and the details give her seemingly no end of pleasure. The feel of a sword in her hands, the weight of it. The panting of a horse, post-gallop, in a silent forest. The way Geser looked at her, that night, in the hotel foyer. The way the air flows through feathers as you swoop down for a kill. The endless starriness of the night sky. Bread and soup. Hot showers.
She thinks about her crimes, sometimes. She doesn’t think about how long she’s going to be in here.
At some point there’s a bright, blinding light, something holding her, movement. The tissue paper is pulled away, and replaced with something crackly and transparent, something she doesn’t recognise. A glimpse of a man’s face. But it might have been a dream. The dust is settled again.
Telephones, she thinks. Snows in the winter. Big fur coats and long dark skirts.
The sound of bats in the trees.
Lamposts.
Then the bright, blinding light again, the hand on her, pulling her out. Geser’s face. Her name, spoken aloud.
(Olga)
He throws her. She flies through the air like a block of wood, and is caught against something solid, and oh. The smell of a man’s neck. The sound of breathing. The rasp of a voice. It’s not quite a kiss, but it’s – something.
She’s thrown back, and then out into the cold night air. She spreads her wings. She blinks. She’s free.
The idea has taken over my brain a bit. I have some ideas in the pipeline, and some I don't know how I'm going to write. Fic with plot does not seem to be forthcoming. But I'm quite enjoying this, barring being dead from reading/writing.
League of Gentlemen show tonight. Am still slightly wet. Growl.
narrauko? I have a comment from you in my e-mail, but it's not showing up on my entry page. I'm happy for you to friend me, but am slightly puzzled about the Night Watch fic thing. Since I haven't written any. Um. Except for this one.Title: Sleeping Beauty
Series: Tales of the City
Fandom: Night Watch/Nochnoi Dozor
Rating: G
Notes/Warning: 443 words, Olga-centric, set before/during the movie.
Disclaimer: I do not own Night Watch. I do not own Sleeping Beauty. I take some responsibility for mixing the two.
The first thing that starts getting to her is that she can’t move her wings. She gets the instinct to just twitch them every now and then, just resettle the feathers a little. But she can’t. Her wings are like lead weights, clamped to the side of her body. Her muscles itch with the work they can’t do. She tries not to think about it.
Then it’s that she can’t move her head. People walk past her, and she automatically tries to turn her head to follow. But she can’t. People talk in front of her, talk about her, then walk away, still talking, and she can’t follow them, can’t call them back, can’t watch them go. It’s – dizzying.
When he finally wraps her up in tissue paper and shuts her in the safe, she considers it a blessing.
The safe is dark. And quiet. For hours. Days. She can’t tell how the time is passing anymore. The dust settles around her, on her. She feels like she’s floating in darkness. In a funny way it suits her.
In the stillness, she starts telling herself stories, in fragments, bits and pieces. Old memories play themselves out in her mind, and the details give her seemingly no end of pleasure. The feel of a sword in her hands, the weight of it. The panting of a horse, post-gallop, in a silent forest. The way Geser looked at her, that night, in the hotel foyer. The way the air flows through feathers as you swoop down for a kill. The endless starriness of the night sky. Bread and soup. Hot showers.
She thinks about her crimes, sometimes. She doesn’t think about how long she’s going to be in here.
At some point there’s a bright, blinding light, something holding her, movement. The tissue paper is pulled away, and replaced with something crackly and transparent, something she doesn’t recognise. A glimpse of a man’s face. But it might have been a dream. The dust is settled again.
Telephones, she thinks. Snows in the winter. Big fur coats and long dark skirts.
The sound of bats in the trees.
Lamposts.
Then the bright, blinding light again, the hand on her, pulling her out. Geser’s face. Her name, spoken aloud.
(Olga)
He throws her. She flies through the air like a block of wood, and is caught against something solid, and oh. The smell of a man’s neck. The sound of breathing. The rasp of a voice. It’s not quite a kiss, but it’s – something.
She’s thrown back, and then out into the cold night air. She spreads her wings. She blinks. She’s free.
The idea has taken over my brain a bit. I have some ideas in the pipeline, and some I don't know how I'm going to write. Fic with plot does not seem to be forthcoming. But I'm quite enjoying this, barring being dead from reading/writing.
League of Gentlemen show tonight. Am still slightly wet. Growl.
no subject
The funny thing is I have the beginning of a similar story on my computer.
:D We should have joined forces!
no subject
Yup. Especially if there's a lot of canon from the source. That's what's keeping me from writing more HP. Writing plot in that fandom? Has to be hell.
:D We should have joined forces!
*g* Obviously.