(no subject)
Not really planning on keeping a journal here much (don't feel much compelled to) but I will copy my fic over here and re-link to my photobucket http://photobucket.com/albums/f235/BellaitiBella/, which has some rare cheno photos (rare enough that I'm convinced that a few pic sinful_caesar posted are from there). Dude, I think I've contributed to the cheno epicentre!
LJ cuts to my two fics
Glinda perched on the edge of her bed, playing with the pleats in her skirt and contemplating. This was not an activity she was well practiced at. Introspection was not her domain and Galinda had always considered it a hazardous pastime, not to mention one at which her roommate far outstripped her.
Glinda, however, seemed to have little choice in the matter. Thoughts, (in whole trains!) drowned out gossip and lectures and the well meaning chatter of the “charmed circle”. Glinda thought and thought and thought.
Mostly she thought about Ama Clutch and Doctor Dillamond. Poor, undeserving, faithful Ama Clutch. And, of course, Elphaba who rarely stayed out of Glinda’s thoughts for very long. Her mind exhausted and wrung out over days largely spent mulling over Ama Clutch and Glinda’s part in her fate, Glinda decided to pay herself a kindness, however undeserved, and allow her thoughts to linger on Elphaba awhile. The unusually-absent Elphaba who was off on some unknown venture.
For the first time in years, possibly ever, Glinda was questioning how she felt about things, re-examining priorities that had seemed so very important and now seemed nothing more than misguided fancies. And she was thinking about Morrible and the world, though admittedly really only so much as directly affected her. Not everybody could be Elphaba thinking in grand scheme and huge causes all the time. Elphaba approved of Glinda when she thought and Glinda found herself wondering if that approval didn’t encourage her more, perhaps, than it strictly ought.
For who was her difficult roommate, really? Of greater standing and probably more wealth than any of the “society” friends she’d so diligently made. Prickly and wonderful in her way, promise of something great and maybe terrible spilling out of her every spiky move and horribly truthful remark. Talented, especially at spotting the real Glinda, a skill she herself was lacking in.
Ever since she’d been old enough to realise there were expectations held for her and that approval could be won by meeting them, Galinda had focused her energies upon clearing each hurdle and learning each new pretty move. So long engaged in playing the role society and her vague if loving parents asked of her, Glinda now found herself adrift, old priorities unimportant and unsure of whom she actually was.
She liked architecture. Otherwise, nothing seemed certain. Maybe she truly liked clothes and society pastimes but, these days, Glinda wondered if caring if this navy scarf better offset her cream curls than that bottle-green one was a habit born out long-term meeting of expectations rather than any particular personal interest.
Her thoughts wandered, oddly enough, to sex. Well, maybe not so very oddly since sex seemed the sole concern of a great many of the male students and, in subtler and more giggly ways, the female ones too. She no longer felt as she had that sex was a thing to be thought of later, out of propriety since propriety, nowadays, seemed so very unimportant.
She'd had experiences, if not an extensive amount thereof. A suitably dashing Gilikin boy who’d pushed her against the Natural Sciences building, hands roaming and over-wet tongue lapping at her mouth, when she was sixteen. Boq. Shiz students, often, with lecherous looks she preened at, inwardly finding them exciting and outwardly displaying amused displeasure. She enjoyed the last one the most. She’d always loved receiving compliments and always felt so very deserving. Her actual experiences had been disappointingly unexciting; Glinda recalled feeling removed from the action, somehow. Certainly her heart had never pounded fast and hard nor had she felt lost in an embrace. Glinda wondered if her engaged cousin hadn't been overstating for effect, but then she remembered the looks the sweethearts exchanged over the family dinner table and the way they seemed unable to go any time without touching each other, in some small way, even in public. She'd never felt that.
She wondered why.
And where was Elphaba? It grew late, as the dark sky and Glinda’s smarting feet informed her. She stood and thumped across the tiled floor, stomping the pinpricky pain out.
This question of desire hung and, for once, Glinda was not going to abandon a line of thought just because no answer was forthcoming. Elphaba’s influence.
She masturbated, of course, in the bath where there was a lockable door and no possibility of green invasions. What was it she thought about? Skilful kisses, on various parts of her anatomy. Bodies pressed into hers, fingers grazing here, there, through her hair. Doing these things places she could get caught. Getting caught and shocking everyone. Glinda grinned at the thought of Miss Milla’s small bejewelled face. Bowing out totally, by doing so, of acceptable society. She wondered if that wasn’t the appeal. The Philosophy Club, Glinda’s notions of what went on there.
Maybe she’d stumbled upon an answer; she desired forbidden things.
The other figure, the one lapping greedily between her legs outside the Three Queens Library, remained frustratingly shadowy. Galinda had always supposed the other figure was shadowy because she hadn’t met him-the rich, possessing of good bloodline, kind and soft-handed man she would marry- yet. Or anyone else who made her hum with desire like whispered conversations at girlish sleepovers had promised she would.
But why hadn’t she?
Where, in Lurline’s name, was Elphaba? It was really late, Glinda realised with a start. A small thread of worry wound its way through Glinda’s chest and made her stomach clench but worrying about Elphaba, or at least, showing you had been was…not allowed somehow. Elphaba imagined nobody noticed when she disappeared, a notion so incorrect Glinda could not fully articulate it.
She distracted herself by preparing for bed, flitting around nervously and with jumpy fingers, unsettled and a little aroused.
Damn Elphaba, never paying any heed whatsoever to anyone but herself. So essentially selfish.
Glinda settled herself in bed, wearing one of her more gauzy nightgowns, a move that seemed unwise, cold as it was. Not that she was feeling the cold, in her state; so unusually aware of her body with its soft, heavy curves, her thoughts flitting back to that imaginary encounter outside Three Queens, to those looks that made her choose slightly too low necklines, Elphaba’s thin fingers grazing up her sides and along the line where breast met chest.
Oh.
Interesting.
It seemed to Glinda fair consideration of what, exactly, she’d just realised was better done when rested and clear headed, of which was currently neither. Allowing her old ability to lock away difficult things to return, just temporarily, seemed a kind favour to pay herself.
Where in Oz was the wretched girl? Curling comfortingly around herself, Glinda allowed her thoughts to drift. Elphaba. Elphaba’s beautiful hair swinging across Glinda’s back as they kissed softly and deeply. To begin with, at least. Open mouth kisses all over, long bony fingers planted deeply. Going down on Elphaba in the buttery. Glinda grinned at the thought of Elphie trying to keep her breathing even and attempting to not betray anything to the Shenshen’s and the Pfannee’s surrounding as Glinda brought her closer and closer to release.
Sweet Lurline departed, she still hadn’t returned! On one level, Glinda was glad of the privacy this had awarded her for her wandering thoughts, about which Elphaba would surely, at some point, have asked. Probably, the annoyingly aware girl would’ve asked at that last point and Glinda thought that responding “just thinking about publicly giving you oral sex” would likely to be problematic, to say the least. She should have been back long ago and Glinda was truly worried, now.
Leaping out of bed, she discarded the gauzy nightgown, pulling back on her messily discarded skirt and, after a moments thought, one of Elphaba’s ugly, itchy wool jumpers, Glinda stormed out of their room, shivering pleasurably at the friction of the jumper against her sensitised nipples.
Quickly returning to their room for some shoes, Glinda hurried out of Crage Hall, blindly heading toward the Suicide Canal. Planless and acting on instinct, she clattered quickly along the cobbled path, desperate to spot the narrow girl returning from wherever it was she had been. Where was she? Hurt? Dillamond danced through her thoughts. Glinda quickened her pace.
And whumped soundly into her roommate.
“Headed somewhere?” the dry voice came as Glinda tried to reorientate herself.
“You were so late, I was…I was…worried” the blonde replied trailing off, voice breathless and oddly small.
“Well, I’m sorry you worried, my sweet” Those thin, cold fingers wrapped themselves around Glinda’s wrist and Elphaba invisibly quirked an eyebrow at Glinda’s jump and her high-pitched squeak.
They clattered silently back towards Crage hall, ducking low past windows and pulling the large door carefully and slowly, as Glinda had not.
They stumbled into their room, Elphaba finally dropping Glinda’s wrist. Elphaba briefly found herself solely concerned with unwrapping her many layers. Still, out of the corner of a slanted eye, she trailed the movements of the hyper blonde.
Glinda had been anything but hyper in recent days and watching the scurrying figure something suddenly dawned on Elphaba.
“Is that *my* jumper?”
Title: Recovery.
Bookverse
Hmm. Pg-13, I guess.
Summery; Elphaba and Tibbett in the Cloister of Saint Glinda.
Tibbett lay, thin limbs crumpled as if broken, shivering in his five blankets. Sister Saint Aelphaba hesitated to go nearer, inwardly surprised at her own conventionality and superstition. What he has is not a thing she can catch.
Thank whomever. Better he than I, she thinks, idly, watching him from the door. He shifts and a large section of skin falls off his emaciated shoulder. The tired, demanding kindness of the maunts has not really rubbed off on her, but then, empathy for humans had never really been amongst her skills. She played the holy role acceptably but the Unnamed God was no more in her heart than he was in the hearts of the unfortunate, ugly and sometimes dull girls that made up much of Cloister of Saint Glinda’s numbers.
Or whom she was one. The dullness had been creeping, but long years spent silently obeying seemed to have left her bereft of Thought. She does not miss it. Nor does she miss the outside world, or those in it she’d previously loved.
She’d certainly been fond enough of Tibbett, envying him some his high spirits and light-heartedness. He and Crope, indistinguishable. She didn’t feel anything looking at him now. Whatever had once been her heart was clearly long gone. She entered the cell-like room, settling in the corner.
And so she sat, rainbow illusions from the harsh western sunlight hitting her veil dancing at the edge of her vision. She tries to catch them with her eyes, but the rainbows bullfrog away. That always used to happen with Galinda’s carefully chosen jewels, too.
Her job, as assigned, is to sit and watch Tibbett die. Offer comfort, as can. So she waits.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
His eyes have gone to shit, of course, but the placid and statuesque Maunt in the corner is Elphaba. He’s sure of it. Harsh Elphaba sitting there, a resting Angel of Death in her black veils. How appropriate. He’s pleased to see her, he’s surprised to realise. It has been awhile. But he is, or at least he is as pleased as this fucking stank diseased body lets him be anything. Mostly, these last few lonely and painful years, he’s just drifted along, muscles twisted by his bitterness, resentful taste always in his throat. Resent and the acrid taste of pills mixed with his own bile.
He resents most his total inability to see any good in the world as he sees it for the last time.
“Distract me, Elphaba”. His voice is hoarse, his vocal cords strings, but he is audible enough.
She does not respond. She gives the impression of having been sat there, silently, for many years. How many? When Crope still visited and could still look him in the eye, he’d once mentioned seeing Elphaba in the Emerald City. Many years ago, now, though. He himself hasn’t seen her since Shiz. He hates thinking of Shiz, when he had so long a future, almost the most of all. Only thoughts of Crope hurt more.
“Just smash my skull in dearie, there’s a good Maunt”. Elphaba makes no move but a catlike blink, still and superior. Bitch.
“Here, maunty maunty maunty” Nothing.
“Look, my leg is already falling off; just give it a good yank, if-you-please. It weighs me down and I so want to fly”.
“What is it you hope to achieve?” Her voice emerges strong, surprising him. He’d been wondering if he wasn’t imagining her.
“What I have done, a response. I burn for conversation.”
Elphaba regarded him coolly, as a hunter would caught prey, deciding how much bite the creature still holds.
“The weather has been fine, of late” the witchy creature responds.
Small, vicious smiles appear on both faces.
“I don’t believe, and certainly don’t hope, that I have many hours of conversation left in me. Therefore, Elphaba, the topics will be mine.”
She nods.
Then, a year ago, pale invalid Tibbett was carted to the Home for the Incurables. He wasn’t too far gone to recognize her even behind her veil and silences. Weak, unable to shit or piss without help, his skin failing in rags and parchment, he was better at life than she was. He selfishly required that she be an individual, and he addressed her by her name. He joked, he remembered stories, he criticized old friends for abandoning him, he noticed the differences in how she moved from day to day, how she thought. He reminded her that she did think. Under the scrutiny of his tired frame she was re-created, against her will, as an individual. Or nearly.
Page 227.
LJ cuts to my two fics
Glinda perched on the edge of her bed, playing with the pleats in her skirt and contemplating. This was not an activity she was well practiced at. Introspection was not her domain and Galinda had always considered it a hazardous pastime, not to mention one at which her roommate far outstripped her.
Glinda, however, seemed to have little choice in the matter. Thoughts, (in whole trains!) drowned out gossip and lectures and the well meaning chatter of the “charmed circle”. Glinda thought and thought and thought.
Mostly she thought about Ama Clutch and Doctor Dillamond. Poor, undeserving, faithful Ama Clutch. And, of course, Elphaba who rarely stayed out of Glinda’s thoughts for very long. Her mind exhausted and wrung out over days largely spent mulling over Ama Clutch and Glinda’s part in her fate, Glinda decided to pay herself a kindness, however undeserved, and allow her thoughts to linger on Elphaba awhile. The unusually-absent Elphaba who was off on some unknown venture.
For the first time in years, possibly ever, Glinda was questioning how she felt about things, re-examining priorities that had seemed so very important and now seemed nothing more than misguided fancies. And she was thinking about Morrible and the world, though admittedly really only so much as directly affected her. Not everybody could be Elphaba thinking in grand scheme and huge causes all the time. Elphaba approved of Glinda when she thought and Glinda found herself wondering if that approval didn’t encourage her more, perhaps, than it strictly ought.
For who was her difficult roommate, really? Of greater standing and probably more wealth than any of the “society” friends she’d so diligently made. Prickly and wonderful in her way, promise of something great and maybe terrible spilling out of her every spiky move and horribly truthful remark. Talented, especially at spotting the real Glinda, a skill she herself was lacking in.
Ever since she’d been old enough to realise there were expectations held for her and that approval could be won by meeting them, Galinda had focused her energies upon clearing each hurdle and learning each new pretty move. So long engaged in playing the role society and her vague if loving parents asked of her, Glinda now found herself adrift, old priorities unimportant and unsure of whom she actually was.
She liked architecture. Otherwise, nothing seemed certain. Maybe she truly liked clothes and society pastimes but, these days, Glinda wondered if caring if this navy scarf better offset her cream curls than that bottle-green one was a habit born out long-term meeting of expectations rather than any particular personal interest.
Her thoughts wandered, oddly enough, to sex. Well, maybe not so very oddly since sex seemed the sole concern of a great many of the male students and, in subtler and more giggly ways, the female ones too. She no longer felt as she had that sex was a thing to be thought of later, out of propriety since propriety, nowadays, seemed so very unimportant.
She'd had experiences, if not an extensive amount thereof. A suitably dashing Gilikin boy who’d pushed her against the Natural Sciences building, hands roaming and over-wet tongue lapping at her mouth, when she was sixteen. Boq. Shiz students, often, with lecherous looks she preened at, inwardly finding them exciting and outwardly displaying amused displeasure. She enjoyed the last one the most. She’d always loved receiving compliments and always felt so very deserving. Her actual experiences had been disappointingly unexciting; Glinda recalled feeling removed from the action, somehow. Certainly her heart had never pounded fast and hard nor had she felt lost in an embrace. Glinda wondered if her engaged cousin hadn't been overstating for effect, but then she remembered the looks the sweethearts exchanged over the family dinner table and the way they seemed unable to go any time without touching each other, in some small way, even in public. She'd never felt that.
She wondered why.
And where was Elphaba? It grew late, as the dark sky and Glinda’s smarting feet informed her. She stood and thumped across the tiled floor, stomping the pinpricky pain out.
This question of desire hung and, for once, Glinda was not going to abandon a line of thought just because no answer was forthcoming. Elphaba’s influence.
She masturbated, of course, in the bath where there was a lockable door and no possibility of green invasions. What was it she thought about? Skilful kisses, on various parts of her anatomy. Bodies pressed into hers, fingers grazing here, there, through her hair. Doing these things places she could get caught. Getting caught and shocking everyone. Glinda grinned at the thought of Miss Milla’s small bejewelled face. Bowing out totally, by doing so, of acceptable society. She wondered if that wasn’t the appeal. The Philosophy Club, Glinda’s notions of what went on there.
Maybe she’d stumbled upon an answer; she desired forbidden things.
The other figure, the one lapping greedily between her legs outside the Three Queens Library, remained frustratingly shadowy. Galinda had always supposed the other figure was shadowy because she hadn’t met him-the rich, possessing of good bloodline, kind and soft-handed man she would marry- yet. Or anyone else who made her hum with desire like whispered conversations at girlish sleepovers had promised she would.
But why hadn’t she?
Where, in Lurline’s name, was Elphaba? It was really late, Glinda realised with a start. A small thread of worry wound its way through Glinda’s chest and made her stomach clench but worrying about Elphaba, or at least, showing you had been was…not allowed somehow. Elphaba imagined nobody noticed when she disappeared, a notion so incorrect Glinda could not fully articulate it.
She distracted herself by preparing for bed, flitting around nervously and with jumpy fingers, unsettled and a little aroused.
Damn Elphaba, never paying any heed whatsoever to anyone but herself. So essentially selfish.
Glinda settled herself in bed, wearing one of her more gauzy nightgowns, a move that seemed unwise, cold as it was. Not that she was feeling the cold, in her state; so unusually aware of her body with its soft, heavy curves, her thoughts flitting back to that imaginary encounter outside Three Queens, to those looks that made her choose slightly too low necklines, Elphaba’s thin fingers grazing up her sides and along the line where breast met chest.
Oh.
Interesting.
It seemed to Glinda fair consideration of what, exactly, she’d just realised was better done when rested and clear headed, of which was currently neither. Allowing her old ability to lock away difficult things to return, just temporarily, seemed a kind favour to pay herself.
Where in Oz was the wretched girl? Curling comfortingly around herself, Glinda allowed her thoughts to drift. Elphaba. Elphaba’s beautiful hair swinging across Glinda’s back as they kissed softly and deeply. To begin with, at least. Open mouth kisses all over, long bony fingers planted deeply. Going down on Elphaba in the buttery. Glinda grinned at the thought of Elphie trying to keep her breathing even and attempting to not betray anything to the Shenshen’s and the Pfannee’s surrounding as Glinda brought her closer and closer to release.
Sweet Lurline departed, she still hadn’t returned! On one level, Glinda was glad of the privacy this had awarded her for her wandering thoughts, about which Elphaba would surely, at some point, have asked. Probably, the annoyingly aware girl would’ve asked at that last point and Glinda thought that responding “just thinking about publicly giving you oral sex” would likely to be problematic, to say the least. She should have been back long ago and Glinda was truly worried, now.
Leaping out of bed, she discarded the gauzy nightgown, pulling back on her messily discarded skirt and, after a moments thought, one of Elphaba’s ugly, itchy wool jumpers, Glinda stormed out of their room, shivering pleasurably at the friction of the jumper against her sensitised nipples.
Quickly returning to their room for some shoes, Glinda hurried out of Crage Hall, blindly heading toward the Suicide Canal. Planless and acting on instinct, she clattered quickly along the cobbled path, desperate to spot the narrow girl returning from wherever it was she had been. Where was she? Hurt? Dillamond danced through her thoughts. Glinda quickened her pace.
And whumped soundly into her roommate.
“Headed somewhere?” the dry voice came as Glinda tried to reorientate herself.
“You were so late, I was…I was…worried” the blonde replied trailing off, voice breathless and oddly small.
“Well, I’m sorry you worried, my sweet” Those thin, cold fingers wrapped themselves around Glinda’s wrist and Elphaba invisibly quirked an eyebrow at Glinda’s jump and her high-pitched squeak.
They clattered silently back towards Crage hall, ducking low past windows and pulling the large door carefully and slowly, as Glinda had not.
They stumbled into their room, Elphaba finally dropping Glinda’s wrist. Elphaba briefly found herself solely concerned with unwrapping her many layers. Still, out of the corner of a slanted eye, she trailed the movements of the hyper blonde.
Glinda had been anything but hyper in recent days and watching the scurrying figure something suddenly dawned on Elphaba.
“Is that *my* jumper?”
Title: Recovery.
Bookverse
Hmm. Pg-13, I guess.
Summery; Elphaba and Tibbett in the Cloister of Saint Glinda.
Tibbett lay, thin limbs crumpled as if broken, shivering in his five blankets. Sister Saint Aelphaba hesitated to go nearer, inwardly surprised at her own conventionality and superstition. What he has is not a thing she can catch.
Thank whomever. Better he than I, she thinks, idly, watching him from the door. He shifts and a large section of skin falls off his emaciated shoulder. The tired, demanding kindness of the maunts has not really rubbed off on her, but then, empathy for humans had never really been amongst her skills. She played the holy role acceptably but the Unnamed God was no more in her heart than he was in the hearts of the unfortunate, ugly and sometimes dull girls that made up much of Cloister of Saint Glinda’s numbers.
Or whom she was one. The dullness had been creeping, but long years spent silently obeying seemed to have left her bereft of Thought. She does not miss it. Nor does she miss the outside world, or those in it she’d previously loved.
She’d certainly been fond enough of Tibbett, envying him some his high spirits and light-heartedness. He and Crope, indistinguishable. She didn’t feel anything looking at him now. Whatever had once been her heart was clearly long gone. She entered the cell-like room, settling in the corner.
And so she sat, rainbow illusions from the harsh western sunlight hitting her veil dancing at the edge of her vision. She tries to catch them with her eyes, but the rainbows bullfrog away. That always used to happen with Galinda’s carefully chosen jewels, too.
Her job, as assigned, is to sit and watch Tibbett die. Offer comfort, as can. So she waits.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
His eyes have gone to shit, of course, but the placid and statuesque Maunt in the corner is Elphaba. He’s sure of it. Harsh Elphaba sitting there, a resting Angel of Death in her black veils. How appropriate. He’s pleased to see her, he’s surprised to realise. It has been awhile. But he is, or at least he is as pleased as this fucking stank diseased body lets him be anything. Mostly, these last few lonely and painful years, he’s just drifted along, muscles twisted by his bitterness, resentful taste always in his throat. Resent and the acrid taste of pills mixed with his own bile.
He resents most his total inability to see any good in the world as he sees it for the last time.
“Distract me, Elphaba”. His voice is hoarse, his vocal cords strings, but he is audible enough.
She does not respond. She gives the impression of having been sat there, silently, for many years. How many? When Crope still visited and could still look him in the eye, he’d once mentioned seeing Elphaba in the Emerald City. Many years ago, now, though. He himself hasn’t seen her since Shiz. He hates thinking of Shiz, when he had so long a future, almost the most of all. Only thoughts of Crope hurt more.
“Just smash my skull in dearie, there’s a good Maunt”. Elphaba makes no move but a catlike blink, still and superior. Bitch.
“Here, maunty maunty maunty” Nothing.
“Look, my leg is already falling off; just give it a good yank, if-you-please. It weighs me down and I so want to fly”.
“What is it you hope to achieve?” Her voice emerges strong, surprising him. He’d been wondering if he wasn’t imagining her.
“What I have done, a response. I burn for conversation.”
Elphaba regarded him coolly, as a hunter would caught prey, deciding how much bite the creature still holds.
“The weather has been fine, of late” the witchy creature responds.
Small, vicious smiles appear on both faces.
“I don’t believe, and certainly don’t hope, that I have many hours of conversation left in me. Therefore, Elphaba, the topics will be mine.”
She nods.
Then, a year ago, pale invalid Tibbett was carted to the Home for the Incurables. He wasn’t too far gone to recognize her even behind her veil and silences. Weak, unable to shit or piss without help, his skin failing in rags and parchment, he was better at life than she was. He selfishly required that she be an individual, and he addressed her by her name. He joked, he remembered stories, he criticized old friends for abandoning him, he noticed the differences in how she moved from day to day, how she thought. He reminded her that she did think. Under the scrutiny of his tired frame she was re-created, against her will, as an individual. Or nearly.
Page 227.