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crack_van2009-10-07 08:32 am
pargoletta.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2009-10-07 08:32 am
Entry tags:
Nonpareil by Grendelity (R)
Fandom: SHAKESPEARE -- TWELFTH NIGHT
Pairing: Olivia/Viola
Length: 405 words
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
grendelity
Author Website: Grendelity's fic tag
Why this must be read: Fic for the Comedies is somewhat rarer than fic for the Tragedies and the Histories. Femmeslash is even rarer in Shakespeare fandom. Grendelity has given us both, and gives us a brief, tantalizing glimpse at some of the implied possibilities and potential tragedies in Shakespeare's gender-bent play.
Viola never possessed the occasion to consider what she would do, once truly alone. It was never, she thought, to assume a lie as her own, or damn herself as she tears in two between loves. It was never to pursue a small, hard death in a corner of the lady Olivia’s manor, crushed into rich curtains as though trying to disappear in their heavy darkness.
The lady Olivia herself is no aging widow, no wintering harvest. She presses herself to Viola, her mouth hot and sweet, her hands questing and singular in purpose. “How now,” she breathes, “my youth has no clever words?” Her fingers tug at doublet sleeves, loosening belt and laces.
Nonpareil
Pairing: Olivia/Viola
Length: 405 words
Author on LJ:
grendelityAuthor Website: Grendelity's fic tag
Why this must be read: Fic for the Comedies is somewhat rarer than fic for the Tragedies and the Histories. Femmeslash is even rarer in Shakespeare fandom. Grendelity has given us both, and gives us a brief, tantalizing glimpse at some of the implied possibilities and potential tragedies in Shakespeare's gender-bent play.
Viola never possessed the occasion to consider what she would do, once truly alone. It was never, she thought, to assume a lie as her own, or damn herself as she tears in two between loves. It was never to pursue a small, hard death in a corner of the lady Olivia’s manor, crushed into rich curtains as though trying to disappear in their heavy darkness.
The lady Olivia herself is no aging widow, no wintering harvest. She presses herself to Viola, her mouth hot and sweet, her hands questing and singular in purpose. “How now,” she breathes, “my youth has no clever words?” Her fingers tug at doublet sleeves, loosening belt and laces.
Nonpareil