Category Archives: fanfic


Beautiful photo manip of Sir Guy in his black leather glory by Karima.

This poem is from Maid Marian’s POV. In spite of her assurances to Robin it is otherwise, she is, in fact, more than a little curious and stirred by Guy. She finds herself imagining what the master-at-arms is like beneath all that black leather . . .

Beneath the Leather

What lies beneath the leather?
She had often wondered
Beneath his buttery-soft black armor;
Beneath his second skin . . .

Strong arms to embrace her,
Capable hands to cup her face?
Broad chest to touch, to kiss,
To lie against in the velvet black night?

Sinuous legs to wrap round her,
Strong thighs to claim her as their own,
That hidden part so unknown to a maiden,
Ready to enter her, to join them as one . . .

What would she find, she wondered,
If he shed his leather shield,
And came to her, naked and ready,
To make her a maiden no more.

What lies beneath the leather?
She had often wondered,
Beneath his buttery-soft black armor,
Beneath his second skin . . .

Don’t forget, Fastrav3 continues!

Oh, what the heck, more Sir Guy. “Beneath the Leather”

The Dark Knight by “Firelight” (Daily Dose of Guy)


She has spurned him in a most grievous way,
rejecting him at the altar, running away with the man
He most despises.
His handsome face bears the scar of her betrayal.
Cut by the very ring he had slipped on her finger.

He hates her; he loves her.
He wants her to hurt as much, as deeply as she has hurt him.
“Beg!” He commands, the anger contorting his face,
Eyes turned dark with emotion, rage in his deep voice,
His words, his gaze, cut right through her as the flames arise.

She thinks she can toy with him, tease him,
With beseeching eyes and honeyed words, the softest caress
of his arm; it gave him hope, it brought him light–
But “a man like me” will endure her games no longer.
She has rejected him before the world; she will fool him no more.

And yet she does not give up, this high-born lady.
She has a mind of her own, a stubborn will;
No constraints on her freedom will she accept,
Chafing at the unseen shackles now placed upon her,
A captive in a castle, a prisoner in Milord’s cage.

And so she comes to his home, wrapped in the cloak of night,
With beseeching eyes and honeyed words, and is surprised–
For she sees the well-knit man free of his leather armour
The fair, smooth skin burnished in the firelight;
She does not know until now a man could be—beautiful.

“Friendship,” she offers, extending a near-trembling hand,
her heart hammering in her chest as he draws closer to her.
“Freedom,” he answers with a twisted smile, his eyes—those eyes!
Boring into her very soul as his broad hand clasps her small one.
“Friendship—is impossible now. You’ve made that clear.”

Let there be no bad blood, she has said; let bygones be bygones . . .
He hates her; he loves her.
“Have you heard of the power of firelight?” A husky rumble.
“While the fire burns, time stands still. What happens is secret.
Words and deeds, all that occurs, remain hidden to the world . . .”

He draws her closer to the fire, to the flame, ever closer,
Until they both kneel before it, skin bathed in its glow,
“Tell me of your dreams, milady, and I will tell you of mine . . .”
And as she begins to speak, slowly and hesitantly, her guard drops
She leans against that broad shoulder, and sighs.

As he talks of the pain and losses of his past, she looks into the fire
And sees a boy looking back out at her, miserable and alone.
She did not know how much he had suffered; she had never asked.
“I have no one,” he says simply, quietly, with a shrug.
And at that moment, the proud lady’s heart breaks just a little.

She extends her hand again, and takes his, and bows her dark head.
Speaking not a word, she tenderly presses her lips to his hand,
And when she lifts her head, he sees the glistening in her eyes . . .
“I fear I have—misjudged you in some ways, Sir Guy.”
And there is hope and light again for him.

He swallows hard, his fingers seeking out her tousled raven curls,
His touch, gentle, as he rises and lifts her to her feet.
“It is late, milady, and you must return to the castle . . .”
He clasps her hand tightly in his own, eyes beseeching her;
“Will you come back, and visit—in the firelight?”
She smiles. “I shall.”
His heart sings.

(Screencaps from RANet. Poem inspired by the beautiful film Firelight, and the chemistry between Richard and Lucy as Sir Guy and Marian. If only . . .)

A Lazy Sunday with a TDHBEW

Sunday Morning

Sunday Morning (Photo credit: jspaw)

It’s a Sunday morning. A soft rain is falling, the drops tapping against the windowpanes. The bed is so cozy, the freshly laundered sheets smelling of the sweetness of new-mown grass.

You stretch languorously, like a cat, and open your eyes. “Good morning,” the deep chocolate voice rumbles as you smile into his heavy-lidded blue gaze. You reach out a hand and let your fingertips dance along his jawline, heavy with dark stubble.

“Good morning to you, Mr. Gorgeous.”

He gives you a lazy smirk and captures one of your fingers in his mouth, his tongue slowly swirling around it, teeth lightly grazing your flesh.

“Are you hungry?” You say teasingly.

He slides your finger free, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips before he leans in and presses his mouth to yours. It is a soft, sweet, lingering kiss.

“I am very hungry,” he murmurs in your ear, giving your earlobe a quick nip.

English: Pain perdu. French toast French style...

“Hmmmm. For–blueberry pancakes?” You ask.

He lifts his disheveled head, his dark-lashed eyes glinting.

“No, not blueberry pancakes.” He nuzzles your neck, giving it warm, moist kisses as those broad, elegant hands move downwards. He’s very good with his hands.

You thread your fingers through his soft hair and drink in its fragrance. Your voice is a little breathless. “French toast?”

“No, not French toast . . .”

He raises his head, his mouth curving into a distinctly naughty smile. “But I do want breakfast in bed . . .”

Gustatory Pleasures with Mr. A . . .


John Mulligan pauses whilst enjoying his juicy steak for a little "fork porn."

Wow, I go away for a while to  try to sleep and mend (Even Worse Knee took the brunt of the last fall and is starting to kick up a fuss aided and abetted by the damp weather) and discover Monday turned out to be the day with the most hits so far! Good work, my darlings.

Now, back to Mr. A.

As I was contemplating what I would like to  eat this morning, having skipped lunch and supper yesterday, visions of Richard’s characters eating popped into my head. I love watching them eat and drink. They always seem to do it with such–gusto. I like to see a man enjoy his chow.

Whether it’s Sir Guy quaffing wine or scarping down prunes (prunes. The new sexy food), Lucas sipping champagne as Banker Pete or sucking the choccie frosting off his shapely thumb, Thornton enjoying a cuppa or John Mulligan and his “fork porn” . . . watching that stubbled jaw chewing, the bob of that tempting Adams’-apple as he swallows, the pursing and smacking of those lovely lips, tongue darting out to catch a morsel . . . I only regret I never got to see Sgt. Porter eat. You know a big, strapping soldier like that would certainly enjoy his victuals. So I made sure he was fed well in my fanfic. Let’s look at Mr. A’s characters enjoying good food and drink.

A prune-eating Glamour Guy is absolutely irresistible.

A Guy post a day–keeps the blues at bay.


I don’t just do these for Carla, my delightful Milanese friend, of course. It is no secret that I love Sir Guy of Gisborne, the character who introduced me to the magic that is Richard Armitage.

My first novella fanfic featured Guy and Marian in an AU version of their story, Dangerous to Know.Practically everyone in the story seems to have a crush of some sort on Sir Guy, which seems perfectly reasonable to me.  I turned a character Lucy Griffiths played in one episode of the paranormal drama Sea of Souls into multi-chapter fic Night Falls.  Lucy and Richard looked so good onscreen together I just had to give them stories that allowed the sparks we saw turn into a fiery flame. Judging by the tons of G/M fanfic out there, many others felt the same as I.

At any rate, my deep affection and admitted lust for the character has lead me to produce prose and poetry, fanvids and blog entries about the Nottingham’s Finest, the Sultan of Smoulder and Swagger, the Deep, Dark, Delicious Knight–the one and only Sir Guy. He is also the first chaRActer Ladywriter Loved Into Being.

 “You will always love me the best, Lady Writer,” Guy rumbles, flicking back a stray lock of raven hair as he gives me a distinctly smug smile, arms folded across his broad chest.  I shake my head and sigh. “Yes, you incorrigible creature, you. I always will.”


Remember what I said about the thighs? . . .


Mr. Armitage is, as we have clearly established, a magnificent example of masculine beauty. Great eyes, great smile, strong jawline, gorgeous long neck, broad sboulders, sculpted chest . . . well, I could go on and on. But as promised, I have written a poem saluting one particular atttribute that brings us joy,  Richard’s thighs.  Written and read with tongue firmly tucked into cheek, accompanied by photos to illustrate, I give you this gift:

A truce between colleagues: TAE Word for the Day


I subscribe to a couple of word-a-day sites, adapting the information for my TAE Word for the Day posts. Funny thing is, Judit just finished reading my novel-length John Porter fanfic Truce. And what was my daily word from Wordsmith today?

That’s right. Truce. Serendipity? Perhaps.

Well, I never mind talking about John Porter, our brave, resourceful, tough yet tender and sexy-as-hell soldier, and considering his occupation and my fanfic, Porter is also the perfect character to illustrate this word.

Truce: (noun) 1. A suspension of hostilities by mutual agreement; armistice; cease-fire.
2. A temporary respite from something unpleasant.

I named my fanfic Truce because the main characters, Porter and Layla, decide to set aside their initial differences and mutual disdain and learn to work together. Their cease-fire, or truce leads to unexpected and not unwelcome developments in their relationship.

I have also made several JP videos, and here is one that ties into my fanfic with a great song from Linkin Park. Waiting for the End to Come. And it’s on Vimeo, because YT blocked this song. *grumble, grumble* Hope you enjoy another dose of Portah goodness. 😉

Strike Back Saturday #2: Captive Soldier


The amazing Strike Back viral video, made as a test promotional tool, offers a tour de force performance by RA packed into one very intense minute. Personally, I think it’s a shame they never used Sean’s video. Even if you’ve seen it before as many times as I have, it’s worth another look. (And since the weather is nasty and I haven’t been able to get my nap yet, here’s another post!)

I was inspired so much by Sean’s video and editing skills and RA’s performance I wrote my own narrative based on the video, entitled Captive. My Captive video features narration by yours truly with images from the viral vid. You can watch it below.


(I wrote this as a salute to the effect he had on me and quite a few others after seeing and hearing Mr. A at last year’s Hobbit press conference ~)

There are some who eschew guys who pass up a razor,
Preferring a clean-shaven face.
As for me, I don’t agree.

I don’t think it’s so weird to fancy a gent with a beard;
Facial hair—oooh, that air of masculinity!
That alpha maleness lurking in the vicinity
Of a handsome hirsute face
makes one’s heart quicken its pace . . .
(Downy-cheeked lads just lack a certain—virility.)

And when the beard that’s sprouting out
Graces not some average lout
But Our Man who outshines all the rest of ‘em. . .
Hip, hip hooray! Oh, glorious day!
Mr. A, you rock that beard, I have to say.

When we first caught a glimpse of The Hirsuteness
Bearded Beauty extraordinaire,
what gorgeousness was there!
What a sexy, sexy beast we saw in you, my dearest Armitage . . .

At that table you dominated,
For your words our breath was bated,
as we waited, anticipated the Bearded Beaut.
(You sexy brut!)

Still, just watching gave us pleasure—
The Little Black Shirt encased our Biceped Treasure
Sitting so still and so attentive as others chattered.

And when your question came,
(darling girl, why a query so—lame??)
Sexy Rich, you did not disappoint us.
Deep blue eyes flashed ‘neath bold brows
Deep, dark voice, tinged with a growl!
White teeth gleamed–that wolfish smile–
Crinkled brow, that teasing style—
Hearts palpitated for quite a while . . .

The Bearded Beaut, a bit flirtatious,
a bit sarcastic, a little dang’rous,
You proved your point, proved it so well—
Such gravitas! Such—regal-ness—

You owned the room,
You wowed the geeks! They must confess . . .
That PJ’s Pick has the finesse
To strut his stuff (OMG, you’re really BUFF! But I digress . . .)

As alpha dwarf, you’ll reign supreme!
The finest dwarf Middle-Earth’s ever seen.
O Bearded One, you I adore,
And when you shave that chin once more
And bid farewell to your lovely beard,
Some will likely feel a little blue, ‘tis true,
For the beard has grown on us,
As well as you.
(But it looks better on you . . .)

(photos/screencaps courtesy of RANet)

More RA Poetry: The Bearded Beauty


Angsty Guy, you made me want to do bad things to you--and give you a nice shampoo and scrub.

Ah, those fetching curls at the nape . . . so touchable.

Floppy raven locks paired with a sexy smirk and those eyes. Irresistible.

Guy, sporting his longish tresses and those hot sideburns . . .

Glamour Guy--fresh from PJ's Red Door Salon and Spa. A stunner!

(screencaps courtesy of RANet)

Sir Guy: The Rightful Hair

A lighthearted little homage to Sir Guy’s tresses . . .

Sir Guy, dear Guy, I love your hair;
Sometimes it seems to be unfair
For the villain of the piece to be so blessed
While the hero is rather—scantily–tressed.

Oh, some may jest at your mullet medieval
with its cluster of lush raven curls;
Or at your floppy Guy locks
their derisive, dismissive howls, hurl . . .

But surely none can deny the power of the Angsty Guy Mane
Those long, unkempt jetty locks, so wild and untamed,
Never have lank and greasy been quite so—fetching,
And the glory of Glamour Guy—aah, makes our hearts sing!

Oh, yes, you work it, that amazing mane,
First as a curtain to hide your deep shame,
Then as an arrogant, proud dark stallion stamping its feet;
Is it any wonder watching you, I always feel such—heat?

And meanwhile, your nemesis, what of he?
His receding hairline, we now clearly see.
Sweaty combat reveals his balding pate,
Makes us understand why you he hates.

For you have the hair, the teeth, the physique;
“But I am the HERO!” he cries in a fit of pique–
And clutched his locks in full-blown despair,
Oops—watch out! More comb-over needed there.

Guyday Friday: It’s All About the Hair

Since you asked . . . where to find my fanfic & a small sample


The big black gorgeous cat of Nottingham Castle, one of my favorite fanfic subjects.

Several people have asked me about my fanfic and where to find it, so here we go:

My fanfics go back to December 2008 at LJ, so there is quite a lot archived there, both fan fic and essays. You do not have to be a member to access anything I have posted at Livejournal.

I also have some of my fiction at where I am “fedoralady60.” However, the adult-rated stories cannot be accessed without a special password.

If you are a member of Dreamerfiction, you will find all my fiction under “Fedoralady’s Fics.” If you are not a member, enjoy reading a variety of fanfics and are over 18, contact me.

Be forewarned, much of my fiction is very steamy and each ficlet or multi-chapter fiction has an appropriate rating at the beginning. I just don’t want anyone to get an unwelcome surprise. 😉

Guy has this great slinking, sinuous stride through the castle. He is like a beautiful black panther. Cats are very sensual creatures, and so is our lovely Guy . . . this is a poem I wrote a few years back. It’s PG so no worries. 😉

Prowl: A Sir Guy Poem by Fedoralady

He prowls the torch-lit corridors
Like a massive black cat
Moving with a feline grace.
Supple and sleek, he swaggers,
And all eyes are drawn to him.

Teeth gleam sharp and white
in the darkness,
Eyes pierce you with their fire.
Be wary of those black-clad hands;
They may strike a deadly blow.

He stretches in the soft bed
Like a massive black cat
Moving with a feline grace,
He sheds his leather skin,
To reveal the Apollo underneath.

Claws sheathed, his calloused palms
And long, elegant fingers touch gently.
Eyes pierce you with their desire.
Welcome the lips that caress,
For they bring only sweet pleasure.

(Photo courtesy of