Tag Archives: fanfic

Guyday Friday: The Dark Knight Plunders, LW Wonders

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“Sooooo–what is on that fertile mind of yours, dearest Ladywriter?”

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The familiar dark chocolate rumble sounded in her ears and LW smiled. She was awake, but eyes closed. LW was daydreaming a bit, still gratefully tucked beneath the covers late on a damp, bone-chilling winter’s morning. It had been a long, restless, painful night.

“Hullo, Sir Guy, my dearest dark knight. Another Friday has arrived . . . ” She gave a small sigh. “My mind doesn’t feel terribly fertile of late, although I DID get a little writing done while the internet was down all day yesterday. And some reading . . .”

LW opened her eyes and laughed softly. “YOU have been–plundering my thoughts again, Sir Guy.”

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He doffed the tricorn atop his handsome head and swept her an elegant bow, the silver buttons shining on his royal blue velvet frock coat, the fabric shot through with pale blue and silver embroidery . . .

“So what shall it be, my lady, am I the rakish highwayman who retains a noble spirit, or that irresistible vampire pirate captain sailing upon the Charteuse Bastard or–”

He raised those dark brows and waggled them roguishly in her direction, giving her a smug and devilish smile.

“Or what about that re-teaming of the Wonder Twins you promised our darling Guylty??”

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“Sir Guy–I truly do not know what is next . . . only that I must write–something.” She blinked back a few unbidden tears. “Even if it isn’t any good. I have to try.”

Sir Guy’s expression softened and came to her side, taking her hands in his own.
“My dearest Ladywriter, I shall be your muse, provide that creative spark–of course, it will be good.” Sir Guy sniffed and flicked back his lustrous black mane.

“How could it be anything else?”

She laughed in spite of herself. “Indeed, you are right. How could it be?”  LW pressed a kiss to the back of his hand. “Thank you for the reminder . . .”

Happy Guyday Friday!

Oh, Guylty, Oh, Guytly, Your *Ooofy* Posts Delight Me. May I say thank you? ;)

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Technical expertise and the history of photography combine beautifully with pure appreciation of our lovely Richard in your posts, dear Guylty,making them pressies we can anticipate each week throughout the year. Because you, my friend, also love my creative endeavors in fan fic, especially that wild slashy NC-17 ride known as “Guy and Rebecca: The Adventures Continue” (which *ahem* can be found at Dreamer Fiction and Live Journal under fedoralady) I made these little photo edits with you in mind. Ho, ho, ho!!! 😉 I hope you will all enjoy these images . . .

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Happy Guyday Friday the 13th! A baker’s dozen of gorgeous Guys

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Are you prone to superstition? Want to be sure you don’t walk under any ladders or break any mirrors on this day?

Still, surely, it can’t be unlucky to have a certain big, slinky, sensual black cat cross your path . . . when it’s this feline. Mmmmmmm . . . . I feel a purrrrrrrr coming on.

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Storm clouds at Ladywriter’s: Thorin vs. Guy

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Forget Black Sky. There were storm clouds a-plenty at Ladywriter’s house. Thorin Thursday had a collision with Guyday Friday, as it were.

“Thorin, Thorin, Thorin. Is that all the fangurlz want to talk about?” Guy was grumbling beneath his breath, a long-haired pussycat tucked beneath his arm as he absently stroked her soft brown and cream fur.

“When will we get to see Thorin? Is it December yet? OMG, he’s so HOT.”

The Dark Knight tossed back his dark locks as he mimicked those annoying Thorin fans in a high-pitched, breathless tone.

Since he was his CReAtor’s er—CreAtion, Sir Guy managed the imitation of a female’s voice extremely well. It just looked rather ridiculous coming out of the mouth of a strapping fellow with an excess of stubble on his jaw.

Guy rolled his kohl-rimmed eyes and gave a distinctly disdainful (but nonetheless manly) sniff.

Now this damned book is out. Did I ever get an—an annual?  No.”

“I know, Gizzy. It’s most distressing,” said the kitty, who was, as you might have guessed, the So Not Dead Puddie.

“After all, you were here first.” She gave her own disdainful sniff with her dainty pink nose. “I know how I felt when Mother and Father started bringing in those other cats . . . why did they need anyone other than ME?”

Guy gave another stallion-like toss of his dark mane. “Exactly.” He sighed. “You and I understand one another so well, Puddiekins . . .”

“You should not forget that today is, actually, my day at the blog,” a deep, booming, authoritative voice said.

Guy stiffened. Puddie gasped. Could it be—

It was. A bearded figure, short and stocky but nonetheless regal, entered the room, clasping an extremely large and shiny sword at his side. Flicking back his long, lustrous locks—yes, even longer and more abundant than Sir Guy’s—he fixed his piercing gaze upon the knight and cat.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” he announced with a small bow to the cat. “I do not believe we have met before, my lady. You have recently joined this company?” (He had briefly met Sir Guy, Dear Reader, on an earlier visit.)

Puddie gave a small nod of acknowledgement. “Indeed—having joined the ranks of the So Not Dead.”

“Ah.” Thorin said. “I cannot yet claim membership in that particular group.”

Guy, whose eyes had been transfixed by the sight of Thorin’s very large, gleaming, lethal-looking sword, lifted his chin and looked down his handsome aquiline nose at the dwarf king.

“It is a very exclusive club. Membership is earned—the hard way.”  Guy and Puddie looked at each other and gave a wistful joint sigh.

Thorin drew himself to his full height of (roughly) five feet, two inches, give or take a half-inch, and cleared his throat.

“I have no difficulty dealing with that which is hard, painful or dangerous, of taking on the most harrowing of challenges.  I am of the finest dwarven stock, after all.  The heir of Durin, uncrowned king under–”

Guy’s eyes quickly began to glaze over. “Yeah, yeah—I’ve heard it all, Oakenshield.”  He eyed Thorin’s blade once more.

“Nice weapon,” the Dark Knight said.  “Looks as if you spend a lot of time polishing it,” he added with a smirk.

Thorin’s mouth curled into what might have been deemed a smug smile.

“It looks as if your weapon is—non-existent?”

Guy’s face took on a thunderous appearance. “It just so happens I have an extremely large and shiny sword with a magnificent jeweled hilt.”

Thorin tilted his head, blinking slowly. “Oh, really? Where is it?”

Ah. The very question Guy did not wish to answer. Because, of course, Ladywriter had removed it once again just in case Guy got a bit—carried away. Which was horribly unfair.  What was a self-respecting dark knight to do?

“It is out—being sharpened. And—polished.”  Puddie suddenly piped up in her breathy southern accent.

Guy flashed his gleaming white teeth at Thorin as he gave the cat a small squeeze of thanks. “Yes. Exactly so.” He expelled a breath and raised a single dark brow. “We shall have to compare our weapons—later.”

Thorin gave a conciliatory nod. “Agreed. I must take leave now as it is, after all, Thorin Thursday and I do believe Ladywriter has more fanart of me to post? And I must see more of this annual . . . I bid you both farewell.”

And with a majestic air, Thorin turned on his booted heel and strode away, every inch the uncrowned king.

Puddie gave a small sigh. “He really does have the most amazing hair. I wonder how much time he requires for grooming every day?”

Guy sneered. “Pretty boy. Dwarfy pretty boy.”

Puddie glanced up at him. “But—you are the one wearing eyeliner, Gizzy. And—if I am not mistaken—a touch of eyeshadow, too?”

He sniffed. “But it just makes me look more magnificently virile and sexy.” His brow furrowed slightly. “Doesn’t it?”

Puddie smiled and butted her head against the Medieval Menace’s side.

“Of course it does, Gizzy. And now—some Blue Bell ice cream?”

Guy nodded. “Excellent idea. I could murder a bowl. It’s been, what?—two hours since I last ate . . .”

He flicked back his mane, his head held high. After all, he’d had the lustrous mane first. And the total glamour look. AND the big, shiny sword–

Somehow, Puddie suspected this wouldn’t be the last near-skirmish between her beloved Gizzy and the new Alpha male in town.

That little braid of Thorin’s really was most fetching . . .

Reflections on a diva named Puddie

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Some of you who have read my fanfics Dangerous to Know and Lost & Found are familiar with my cat, Puddin’ aka Puddie. She became a very important supporting character in those stories–a long-haired tabby of ample proportions and a lot of  “catittude.”  She gained her own little fan club, and she adored every minute of it.  A diva in fur, indeed.

Puddie’s health has been in decline in recent months.  She’s been losing weight steadily.  The cats all tend to lose a little weight in the hot weather, especially since our central air went out,  but nothing like this.

We’ve given her special nutritional supplements and bought the “good” cat food in hopes of tempting her. She still enjoys her canned food, but seems interested in little else anymore.  Slowly but surely she seems to be fading away before our eyes.

Tonight I picked her up and she felt like little more than fur, skin and bones.

And tonight, I finally asked what I just could not put into words before now. “She’s dying, isn’t she, Benny?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said softly, with kindness in his dear blue eyes, and gave me a hug. I commenced crying all over the poor cat, which hardly made her feel better.  Sometimes, you just can’t help it.

She proceeded to go over and eat a little canned food when I put her down, as if to say, “Hmmmmph. I am NOT done yet.”

We can’t remember just how old Puddie is.  She was a mostly wild kitten when we first encountered her on the back porch of my parents’ farmhouse–I don’t know, 15 or 16 years ago?  Slowly, we gained the orphaned kitten’s trust and ultimately her love.

She was a bit funny-looking early on. For a long time one eye was slightly larger than the other and her ears were so big we called her “Bat Cat.” She grew into her looks, however, and become a beautiful cat with the most delicious purr. Like that of a big V-8 engine–smoooooth.  Dare I say, a Richard Armitage sort of purr, were he a cat.

None of us can live forever, and our pets have far less time on earth than we do.  Goodness knows I have loved and lost so many animals in my lifetime, from accident and injury, illness, old age and even through the malice of others. Still, I don’t regret a moment of it.

I don’t know how much longer we will have her with us. Puddie isn’t in pain and this give me some comfort.  And I know she has already gained a sort of immortality.  In her own way, my big, beautiful, grumpy, funny, proud cat will be SND, too. And live on with the lads and Ladywriter in Sloth Fiction Land . . .

Puddie, in better days

What time is it (almost)? YOU know . . .

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“Lady Writer . . .” came the familiar chocolate rumble.

“Yes, Guy?”

“You know what tomorrow is, don’t you?” He was practically purring, the neckline of his Floppy Black Pirate Shirt untied, allowing a generous glimpse of that enticing smooth, pale flesh. It was enough to distract a girl . . .

“Uhmmmm. Oh, yes– tomorrow . . . is the start of a long Memorial Day weekend and it’s—the unofficial start of summer!”
She gave Guy a sunny grin as she clapped her hands together.

Guy paired a flick of a lustrous lock of raven hair with a disdainful manly sniff. He lifted a supercilious brow.

“Well, yes. But–there’s something else.”

Lady Writer furrowed her brow as if in deep thought. “Let me think . . .”

Guy folded his arms with marked impatience. “It’s Friday? It’s . . . you know what happens on Fridays.” His own brow crinkled, Sir Guy looked a bit distressed.

Lady Writer bit her lip. “Yes. I know. Of course I know. It’s–Guyday Friday time, it’s Guyday Friday time!!” She sang, waving jazz hands at Guy.

Guy gave another, happier sniff and lifted his chin. “I knew you hadn’t forgotten!”

Lady Writer gave a rather Guy-like smirk. “As if!”

Guy’s azure eyes narrowed as he rubbed the bridge of his rather magnificent nose. He had something else on his mind.

“Is there still any of that Tres Leches cake that Mr. Lady Writer baked?”

“You mean that ultra-moist and decadent dish to be eaten with fresh sweet blueberries from our own bushes, juicy strawberries and whipped cream?”

As she spoke, the tip of Guy’s pink tongue darted out to lick his Cupid’s-bow as those kohl-rimmed eyes widened again. Lady Writer was a bit sorry she had ended her description.

Sir Guy was soexpressive.“Yeah. That one.” Guy’s voice was definitely a deep, purring, delicious purr.

Lady Writer gave a sassy head nod in the direction of the kitchen. “Waiting for you on the bottom shelf of the fridge. Bring me a piece too, won’t you?”

Sir Guy gave her a courtly little nod. “As you wish, my lady,” and turning, strode out of the room.

Lady Writer could not fail to take notice of how well the Dark Knight’s Marvel of Engineering Trousers suited his own distinctive physique.

“Looks great coming–and going,” she said with a happy little sigh. “Ya gotta love him.”

Sir Guy, cereal and a rainy day

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“So—Lady Writer.”

“Yes, Sir Guy?”

He peered over the notebook computer open on Lady Writer’s lap, his beautiful hands clasped behind his broad back as he tried to see the screen. In spite of the numerous thunderstorms and torrential rains of the afternoon pushing the humidity right up there, his raven locks were as smooth and silky as ever. How did he do it?

“How are you, dear LW?”

She looked up from the screen into those azure eyes, rimmed in the midnight blue kohn pencil from Sephora she had given him as a gift–gosh, she never, ever tired of looking into those spectacular peepers!–and gave him a wry smile.

“Well, I can now understand why my knee was doing the Rice Krispies yesterday–snap, crackle and pop. The bad weather was preparing to cometh.”

Sir Guy folded his arms and nodded. “I would think it is much more pleasant to eat this cereal than to feel the–erm–sound effects?”

His eyes brightened as his lips curved into a delighted smile at the thought of food.  LW’s heart gave a little flip-flop. She never tired of Sir Guy’s sweet, disarming smiles. Now that he was SND, he didn’t go around with a face like thunder nearly as often.

He just ate her out of house and home and bickered with Porter, but even those two managed to bury the hatchet (and not in each other’s skulls) more often than not.

Sir Guy was still waxing rhapsodic about noisy breakfast food.

“I really like the Cocoa Krispies. With sliced banana. My Creator is very fond of choccie and bananas, you know.” He paused, gave a wistful little sigh, and tossed back an errant lock of raven hair.  “It’s a little early for our next repast, I suppose?”

Lady Writer bit her lip to refrain from chuckling. Sir Guy was a little sensitive about his extraordinary appetite.  He could be touchy at times, which is why she had given him the magic sword that only worked when she said so. After all, when you are the queen of your fanfic universe, you can do such things.

” Oh, an hour and a half, or so. There’s a bag of Gala apples in the crisper drawer of the refrigerator if you need something to tide you over, Sir Guy.”

He gave her a courtly little bow but did not seem in a hurry to exit. Arms still folded, Sir Guy cleared his throat and glanced down at his boots.

“Might I ask–am I still the most popular ChaRActer on your blog?” In spite of his studied nonchalance, the Dark Knight clearly was hoping to hear good news. It showed so clearly in those ever-expressive eyes as they met Lady Writer’s.

Lady Writer smiled up at him.

“Sir Guy, I think the ladies live for Guyday Friday. You are very much loved at The Armitage Effect. As are, of course, the other lads. And the Creator himself, of course.”

“Oh, of course, I know the others have their devoted admirers, too,” he replied graciously. Still, Sir Guy was unable to keep a rather smug little smirk from crossing his face.  Really, he wouldn’t be Sir Guy without one of those trademark smirks every now and again.

He turned on his booted heel to stride out the door, then paused.

“Is there anything else, Sir Guy?”

“Y-e-e-s . . . am I also still the most common ChaRActer featured in your new fanart?” He rumbled.

“Closing in on 250, Sir Guy. No one else really comes close . . .”

A naughty gleam appeared in those smoky eyes as he gave her a lop-sided grin. “Oh, that I know very well . . .”

He was rather incorrigible. And very much loved.

And not exactly hard on the eyes . . .

This one’s for Nietzsche . . . belated best wishes!

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Nietzsche is one of Sgt. Porter’s most devoted fans and she always left me such wonderful comments when I was writing Truce. Knowing that your writing efforts are read and appreciated and enjoyed means a tremendous amount.  It seems only fitting that Porter and Layla extend belated birthday greetings to Nietzsche!!

More Portah Pleasah . . .

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Happy Saturday to you all!  More Portah for your perusing pleasah, ladies.  (Pleasure sounds so much more–pleasurable said with a British accent, I think. Just as “leyshur” sounds sexier and more decadent then “lee-shur” somehow.  😉  ) And speaking of Portah and pleasah . . .

Our favorite fantasy sequence . . . hot, hot, HOT.

Loved the little addition of Porter giving Layla the once-over at the prison. Wonder if that look was scripted or simply an inspired addition by our clever, detail-loving lad?

And he’s a very good boy, too. Especially when he’s being bad.

I got a hankering for Porter last night and re-read several chapters of Truce, so I am feeling quite nostalgic  . . . what can I say?

I think you will all agree with the above sentiment.

Guyday Friday: A versatile subject

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One of the many things I appreciate about Sir Guy is the broad array of options I have when writing, vidding, or creating art about this character and Robin Hood. I can be angsty, I can wax poetic, I can get very, very steamy and I can be splendidly silly (come to think of it, I believe I was all of the above when I wrote Dangerous to Know . . . 😉 you’ve seen a little bit of everything in my Guyart today and I hope you have enjoyed it. Really, he’s such a wonderful subject with which to work.

My two cents on 50 Shades of Grey *Please note mature content in post*

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Cover of "Twilight (Two-Disc Special Edit...

Cover of Twilight (Two-Disc Special Edition)

Once upon a time there was an Englishwoman who fell in love with all things Twilight and decided to try her hand at fan fiction.

Her Twilight story, Masters of the Universe, was also an erotic romance. The writer had read 800 to 900 of such books on her commutes to work and wanted to try her hand at something similar with her favorite fictional characters.  And so her fan fiction, about a young whiz kid Super  Executive and his innocent and naïve love interest was a steamy, sexy tale that included B*D*S*M. Yup, kinky sexy as in handcuffing ankles and wrists together and using riding crops and canes and . . . you get the idea. It went places a lot of us have never gone.

This spreader bar is the type of device Christian keeps and uses on Ana in his playroom, which Ana calls "The Red Room of Pain."

Word-of-mouth made the fan fiction very popular online, and EL James—the pseudonym taken by the fanfic writer—eventually changed the names and other aspects of the story, renamed it 50 Shades of Grey, and published it as a trilogy for profit in England.

EL James reading a passage from her 50 Shades trilogy.

Vintage Books, an American publisher, heard the enormous buzz and inked a seven-figure deal with James, who went on to sell the film rights for $5 million and to secure casting and script approval. Not bad for a debut author.

50 Shades have been featured on the front page of Entertainment Weekly, written up in numerous print and online media and creating all sorts of buzz over who will play the roles of Christian Grey and Anastasia Steele in the upcoming film.

But—is it any good? Is it worth your while (and your $30 for the three Kindle editions or paperbacks) to read?  What are the strengths of Fifty Shades and what are its weaknesses?

Having read the entire trilogy now and discussed it a bit with dearest Dr. Servetus from Me+Richard Armitage, I am ready to share more of my thoughts and impressions. I won’t do it nearly so eruditely as she, but one can only try.

Popularity, of course, in books, films, television, art and music, does not necessarily equal worthiness or quality. We all know that. How else do you explain the cult of the Kardashians?

Keeping Up with the Kardashians

Keeping Up with the Kardashians (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Mediocre writers end up on bestsellers lists. Artists who can’t hit a note without Autotune have gold records. Go figure.

First of all, let’s get the sex out of the way. There is a lot of it, and it is frequently very, very hot, and I enjoyed that. I like to read and write erotic romance and I’ve been told I am pretty good at penning it.

However, I should also point out I am not into Pain + Sex = Pleasure.  What two consenting adults do in the privacy of their own bedroom is their business. I can get into naughty and playful.  A little light bondage, blindfolding and fun with sex toys is one thing; achieving sexual gratification from beating someone else is quite another and I can’t quite get my head around that. There’s consensual rough sex and then there’s–abuse? What do you call it if it’s consensual but obviously harmful?

Those darker, more twisted aspects of Fifty Shades I did find very disturbing.  On a more light-hearted but nonetheless irritating note I quickly tired of the constant referrals to my “inner goddess” and all that she was getting up to anticipation of sexy time. You could build a drinking game around all the appearances of the IG. There is also a tremendous amount of eye rolling taking place by various characters. I keep expecting them to say, “WhatEVER.”

Some who have harshly criticized the trilogy seemed to have been most troubled by the graphic sex. However, from my POV, that sex scenes were actually one of the better-written aspects of the story (minus IG) and the best reason to read it.

Certainly neither the plot nor character development are particularly strong. If you are looking for consistency, logic and psychological insight, hmmmmm—there could be a problem.

Let me introduce you to the hero and heroine of our tale. Christian Grey is a copper-haired, grey-eyed 27-year-old  filthy rich business mogul in Seattle and the middle of three children adopted by the Greys.

He’s handsome, he’s fit, he’s smart, he’s sexy and every female who isn’t a lesbian will start blushing and stammering the moment they are in his presence.  His family thinks he’s gay because he’s never seen in public with a woman or had a girlfriend as far as they know.

James' inspiration for Christian Grey. Finally, a photo of Robert Pattinson in which I actually consider him to be attractive.

In fact, he always has a woman at his beck and call—literally. Christian is a dominant and he makes plain the fact he doesn’t do hearts and flowers,  vanilla sex or “make love”. He “f**ks hard” and he gets off on “beating the s**t out of pretty little brown-haired girls.”

Anastasia Steele is the pretty  little brown-haired girl  with the bright blue eyes whom Christian meets cute at an interview where a nervous, blushing Ana is filling in for her ailing roommate, a journalism major on the staff of the college newspaper.

Ana, a bookish and self-described “scruffy” literature major, has hopes of pursuing a career as an editor with a publishing house.

Christian, on the other hand, has hopes of grooming Ana as his next submissive.  His controlling, sadistic ways are attributed to some early trauma that happened before he was adopted and which he doesn’t want to talk about.   There is  also his “f**ked up” relationship with his mother’s friend that started when he was 15 and “Mrs. Robinson” not only seduced him, she started beating him. Talk about carrying around some emotional baggage.

He’s an angry guy with violent tendencies, a hair-trigger temper of volcanic proportions and a control freak without parallel. And yet he is able to be the calm, cool and collected self-made multi-millionaire who has thousands of employees and can buy corporations at the drop of a hat—all this at an age when some men are still living with their moms.

How does he manage it? The problem is, James never really satisfactorily explains that.  I find it hard to believe this stuck-in-adolescence fellow who sometimes suffers from debilitating panic attacks, who is completely self-loathing and flies into rages over pretty insignificant matters is also able to be such a competent and successful businessman. It just doesn’t compute.

And then we have virginal Anastasia who adores Pride and Prejudice and Jane Eyre and who is a complete innocent when it comes to sex.

Kristen Stewart, the virginal heroine Bella in Twilight and inspiration for Anastasia in 50 Shades.

Apparently she has only kissed a guy once or twice in her entire life and never experienced “tingles.”. She hasn’t even attempted to self-pleasure.  She’s got more than one good-looking young man who is interested in her romantically, but it is as if her libido is completely in hibernation.

Only super sexy (and kinky) Christian can unleash her passions, it seems.

This isn’t the Victorian era and Anastasia isn’t Margaret Hale. It’s hard to believe she is as naïve as she is written here.

Margaret Hale

Margaret Hale (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Nor am I convinced someone so innocent would agree to even consider becoming Christian’s submissive and signing a contract stating in great detail all his expectations of her, right down to how often she eats, how much sleep she gets, personal grooming habits, workout schedules and so forth.  Granted, she never does actually sign it and she makes clear she has some limits—but I think I would have taken one look at all that frankly creepy fine print and headed for the door.

(She also doesn’t own a computer of any kind. I know she isn’t from a privileged background like her stereotypical gorgeous-and- popular roommate-who-makes-her-feel-scruffy, but nearly all college kids have a least a cheap laptop or desktop nowadays, don’t they?)

Sometimes Ana comes across as level-headed and prudent and other times she behaves in a very rash, immature manner. Her anger flares quite often. In fact, the couple seems to be arguing, screaming, sulking, brooding or fuming over something constantly. They use emails to converse and they both flirt and fume there, too.

It’s like kids in middle school who bicker and break up, and then make up, and then bicker . . . it’s exhausting to read it all.  I found myself growing impatient and wanting to say, “Oh, grow up already. Snap out of it!!”

We seem to have two adolescents here with raging hormones and tremendous mood swings. And access to handcuffs and weapons. It’s not really the healthiest of relationships.

They both can be quite charming and tender and flirtatious and they have a lot of hot and mutually satisfying sex, but what they can’t seem to do is to sit down and have a reasonable, rational conversation with one another.

There is plenty of physical intimacy, but very little communication and constant misunderstandings arise . . .  but after some more implausible plot twists (think heavy-duty soap opera), they get their happily (and kinkily) ever after.  Apparently the love of a good woman (who likes it rough) turns Christian’s life around.

There are several unsavory and/or just plain sad supporting characters in the story. And there’s Christian’s shrink whom I am not altogether sure is providing the proper treatment for his very troubled patient.

Christian has some serious issues and maintains some toxic relationships over the course of the three books. For a long while, he claims the woman who manipulated and sexually abused him “saved” him.

I don’t understand Christian. I am not sure the author understands him and therein lies a big problem.

She just keeps throwing new personality traits into the mix along with his ability to fly helicopters and play classical music. Will he be sweet, loving and tender, overly possessive and  demonically controlling or just plain mean and scary? Wait five minutes or a couple of pages and who knows which Christian you will get.

But hey, he sure looks great with his “just-f**ked” hair, those luminous grey eyes darkening with lust, those acid-washed jeans with the top button undone and the way they hang on his hips in such a tantalizing manner . . . I told you the sexy parts were the best thing about the books.

It isn’t great literature but it never aspired to be.

James has said she didn’t have high expectations when she wrote the fan fic or published the novel and “it is what it is.”

And I respect her for being candid about it. One thing she doesn’t appear to be is pretentious.

But I have to agree with Servetus: 50 Shades’ fanfic roots are definitely showing. As the mistress of my fanfic universe I can do anything I want to with the characters and it doesn’t have to be plausible or logical.

But when you move into the realm of mainstream fiction, little things like plausibility and logic and consistency of characterization and a strong story arc are important, at least they are to me.  You also need to be engaged with the characters and care about what happens to them. That didn’t really happen for me. I read all three books in hopes of getting more involved with the characters but to no avail.

I would have liked to have seen a good copy editor tighten up those indulgent references to “inner goddesses” and the much-repeated use of “holy crap” and “holy sh*t” throughout by Ana, who tells the story in the first person.

Not to mention removing all the Britishisms that don’t fit properly in a book about Americans living in an American city ( I haven’t seen the Vintage paperback versions of 50 Shades but I understand it has been tweaked since the Kindle edition).

One thing that I am wondering about is how many 50 Shades wanna-bes are going to be written in hopes of winning the jackpot? And how are they going to adapt  50 Shades for the big screen without it being borderline porn and possibly unintentionally hilarious?  In order to draw in a lot of the Twihards, won’t they need to tone down the sex in order to get a less restrictive rating?

There’s a lot more I could go into, but I am already at over 1,700 words and will save further discussion on the matter for another post.

Here’s my advice: if you were thinking of purchasing it, save your money. I think it would be worth purchasing for, say, $3.99 an installment but not for $9.99.  There are better reads you can get for $30.

As a matter of fact, there are better reads you can get right here in the RA community that include hot and steamy erotic romance  coupled with a good story and engaging characters and not pay a dime.

If you’ve got it and you haven’t read it yet, by all means, do. It’s not terrible. I just want you to go in forewarned. It is what it is.

But that’s just my two cents.  I would love to hear from anyone else who has read it and may have a very different spin on things.

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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)

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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

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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 . . .”