athousandwinds: (Aberystwyth)
[personal profile] athousandwinds
For my next history module, what should I do: mediaeval Spain or mediaeval Iceland?

"Write 10 different categories of fic, each in ten words about the same fandom/pairing."

Give me fandoms or give me death!

(no subject)

Date: 2009-04-04 03:33 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Iceland? Mainly, because it's a subject that I don't know jack about...not an expert on medieval Spain, but I just took a class on it, so it's better than nothing.

(no subject)

Date: 2009-04-05 12:31 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Hmmm. Iceland is all about heroic sagas and ordinary life, but Spain has Intrigue and Insanity.

(no subject)

Date: 2009-04-05 04:35 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
There is much truth it this! Then, we are back to square one and that square is the square in which I do not know and have no good advice to give.

Although it is slightly the wrong time period, if you do proceed with Spain, I recommend the micro history called "Mad For God" in which there is insane peasants and the Inquistion as well as being fascinating.

(no subject)

Date: 2009-04-06 01:38 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Hmmm, I will add that to my ridiculously long list of to-reads. Los reyes Catolicos come right at the end of the module, so it technically counts.

(no subject)

Date: 2009-04-04 04:27 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Ooo, I've never thought about Iceland's history before... have a quick lok at both and see which has the most kickass monarchs!

Well, if it's that serious... Riff/Cain because the last book had me biting back sobs and they so deserve a little bit of happiness.

So this wasn't exactly ten words after all.

Date: 2009-04-05 03:08 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
SPAIN. Spain is freaking awesome.

Without Riff's calming hand on his shoulder, without Riff watching him with quiet eyes, Cain can't breathe; he is choking on air.

Tragedy is averted; it seems there is a cure for death and madness and that cure is love. Cain doesn't trust it at all; he keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Godfather won't be happy," Cain said, and Riff could see the shudder run through his caporegime's body. He knows what it means when Godfather isn't happy.

"I will abide by your decision, sir," he said.

"There's a wonderful little pie shop in Fleet Street," said Oscar. "I went there last week..."

"No," said Cain. "If I want human flesh I can get it elsewhere."

"Riff," Cain whispered, his lips brushing Riff's ear like a prayer, a benediction. "Riff, you can't die before I do."

"You aren't allowed to leave me again," Cain said, his chin high and his mouth set in arrogant lines. "Do you understand me, Riff?"

"Yes, Lord Cain," Riff said, and thought, It was you who almost left me, running into the fire like that. Did Dirk mean so much?

First Time
It was Riff's fault. His hands lingered too long when he was undressing Cain, pausing and caressing his shoulders like he cared. Cain shivered under his touch, not for the first time, but this was the first time he leant back into it, and this was the first time Riff had bent to kiss him like that, hard and deep.

Sometimes, when work and Merryweather and the vilest concoctions on his shelf can't quite stave off the reminders that crowd him, choking him, Cain closes his eyes and gives in.

"Riff," he remembers saying once, "do you love me?"

It was the stupidest question he has ever asked; he is not in the business of asking stupid questions. He regretted it the moment he heard himself, he opened his mouth as if to snatch it back. It hung in the air, like a painful, off-key note.

"Lord Cain," said Riff, forgiving of his lapse, and leant down to kiss him.

"You poisoned the chickens again," Riff said with what might have been exasperation were he not a consummate manservant.

"Yes, we'll have the ham tonight," Cain said, infuriatingly sanguine about the sudden deaths of his entire stock of poultry.

Riff sighed.

Cain let out a quick, barely-audible gasp as Riff's fingers traced his scars.

"Be still, my lord," said Riff. "The ointment will need time to work."

And it would be so easy to make Cain beg. Riff has desires like that sometimes, and he has to force them back down even as they overwhelm him, dark and inviting. Occasionally, he manages to convince himself that Cain would like it, to be spread wide and shaking and desperate with lust, completely at Riff's mercy.

Cain is in the oldest armchair, black velvet coat merging with the black upholstery. Riff kneels in front of him, between his wide-spread legs. It is not the way Cain normally sits; this way stretches the cloth of his trousers and pulls it out of shape. Cain offers him a hand, so pale Riff could trace the blue veins with his tongue - if he dared, and he bends his head, presses his lips to the sharp knuckles. When he looks up, Cain is watching him.

Re: So this wasn't exactly ten words after all.

Date: 2009-04-05 09:14 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
eeEE! This is fantastic,you are a genius, some sheer hot-ness and some dark humour and AU is so cute and I'm currently going - that's what happened really! cos I'm a total sucker for happy endings.

Thaaanks! <3

Re: So this wasn't exactly ten words after all.

Date: 2009-04-06 01:34 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Thank you very much! Our gothic module has taught me lots.


athousandwinds: (Default)

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