Nonita challenge + A Sudden Wild Magic fic
SO, a few days ago I read a Nabokov parody by Umberto Eco called "Nonita" ("Granita" in English, for those of you who want to look it up.) It was about a man's attraction to an 80-year-old woman, and the eventual disappointment he felt when she ran off with another man and got herself plastic surgery and spa treatment until she looked much younger.
Reading this, it occurred to me that while the Lolita is a sexual stereotype, and fandom is full of chan, there are very few Nonitas around.
So hereby I issue the Nonita challenge: write me old people shipper fic - having sex, being objects of sexual desire, etc. If you want to involve young people, that's fine, but remember that the old person is sexy. No stories about old people desiring young people. Age limit is whatever you want it to be; personally I'd think anything under 60 is pushing it.
Obviously, I have to offer something of my own. Hence I've written a short fic based on the Diana Wynne Jones book A Sudden Wild Magic.
Yes, I know, I could have picked a more well-known fandom, but this was what first occurred to me.
If you're curious of the story but want to have a brief summary of the pairing, here it is: Gladys is a smart, respectless witch from Earth, Lawrence is a prim, tight-ass of a monk from an alternate universe. He also happens to be an exact copy of her dead husband (analogues, that's called). When they meet in the book, he dislikes her at sight and she's not very fond of him either, but the way I figure, another version of him used to be married to her, so there's got to be something going on there. :-)
If you want to read the book, that's a good idea too. After all, it has a gay centaur (not the one in my icon, that's from another DWJ book), and people save the world through kamikaze sex and dancing the conga. Fun for the whole... well, elder half of the family.
If you're not curious of the story, but want to participate in the challenge anyway, YAYNESS! Let me know when you've written something and I'll pimp it.
Now to the story.
Title: Gladys Goes Kamikaze
Rating: PG-13/R
Summary: Lawrence has forsworn women. Gladys has been a widow for years. Should be a perfectly safe situation. You'd think.
Lawrence had planted the last onion and was patting the ground firmly when a wolf whistle came from behind.
"That is one nice bottom!"
He stood up, turned around in what he hoped was a majestic manner, and stared down his nose at Gladys. "I beg your pardon?"
"My Len had one just like it, of course," Gladys said, smirking at him. "Most men your age have flabby bottoms - flabby or scrawny. But yours is lovely."
He felt his face heat. "Try to control yourself, woman!"
"Why should I? You're practically my husband, after all."
Not for the first time, Lawrence wondered why oh why the King had chosen to punish him in this fashion. Surely Arth hadn't been that poorly run? Even considering the problems caused by the way Arth had milked ideas from Otherworld, Lawrence had certainly tried his best, and to be forced to live alongside this batty old woman, with her insolent attitude and innumerable cats, was much too cruel. Not to mention those dresses she wore. This one was cotton, with little flowers all over, and it was Lawrence's decided opinion that she had chosen it specifically to pester him: the way her knees showed, and the colour matched her eyes, and the belt was placed at just the right place to accentuate her own... shapes.
"I most certainly am not," he said stiffly. "Need I remind you that the brothers of Arth are celibate?"
"Right," she said, looking unbelievably smug. "And you enjoyed that, did you?"
He opened his mouth, then realized that he had nothing to say and closed it again, settling for breathing out slowly through his nose.
She laughed. Laughed! "That's what I thought. My Len was just the same. You wouldn't know it from the sight of him, oh no, but once he got started there was no stopping him."
"Let me get one thing straight," he said, stepping closer. "I am not your Len. I do not wish to hear another word about your Len, especially not if we are to pursue..." He realized he had stepped a little too close. He could feel the warmth of her body next to his, and those eyes of hers were too blue for comfort.
"Pursue?" she prodded.
"You're not acting your age, you know."
"I'm not?"
"No. You behave like some shameless... wench."
"Hm," she said with a shrug. "Shame is better suited on young people. If we don't have fun now, when will we?"
Her words were starting to sound like sense, which was a sure sign he was spiralling out of control. Another sure sign was that he was kissing her - a deep, hard kiss that had her make a delighted little sigh and grab that bottom of his she'd been on about before.
"A bit bossy, are we?" she gasped, out of breath, when he let go. "That's good. My... Well. I like that in a man."
"You're a horrible woman," he muttered.
"Been dying for a shag, Lawrence." She leaned in even closer and whispered in his ear, low enough to send shivers down his spine, "Haven't you?"
"Hm," he growled, finding himself increasingly inarticulate.
"Ages since I had a good hard romp." She said the last three words in staccato. "Still may have some props around, though."
"Props?"
"Silk scarves. Riding whip."
He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining it. "Go get them."
The space her body left when she slipped away from his arms was almost too much to take, and he added, "wench," just to see her turn back, which she did, and give him a smile, which she did - accompanied by her tongue sticking out at him.
He watched her go inside and then shook his head slowly, running his fingers through his hair and trying to ignore those blasted cats giving him superior glances.
Well. He supposed if you were going to break a vow of celibacy, you might as well do it in style.
Reading this, it occurred to me that while the Lolita is a sexual stereotype, and fandom is full of chan, there are very few Nonitas around.
So hereby I issue the Nonita challenge: write me old people shipper fic - having sex, being objects of sexual desire, etc. If you want to involve young people, that's fine, but remember that the old person is sexy. No stories about old people desiring young people. Age limit is whatever you want it to be; personally I'd think anything under 60 is pushing it.
Obviously, I have to offer something of my own. Hence I've written a short fic based on the Diana Wynne Jones book A Sudden Wild Magic.
Yes, I know, I could have picked a more well-known fandom, but this was what first occurred to me.
If you're curious of the story but want to have a brief summary of the pairing, here it is: Gladys is a smart, respectless witch from Earth, Lawrence is a prim, tight-ass of a monk from an alternate universe. He also happens to be an exact copy of her dead husband (analogues, that's called). When they meet in the book, he dislikes her at sight and she's not very fond of him either, but the way I figure, another version of him used to be married to her, so there's got to be something going on there. :-)
If you want to read the book, that's a good idea too. After all, it has a gay centaur (not the one in my icon, that's from another DWJ book), and people save the world through kamikaze sex and dancing the conga. Fun for the whole... well, elder half of the family.
If you're not curious of the story, but want to participate in the challenge anyway, YAYNESS! Let me know when you've written something and I'll pimp it.
Now to the story.
Title: Gladys Goes Kamikaze
Rating: PG-13/R
Summary: Lawrence has forsworn women. Gladys has been a widow for years. Should be a perfectly safe situation. You'd think.
Lawrence had planted the last onion and was patting the ground firmly when a wolf whistle came from behind.
"That is one nice bottom!"
He stood up, turned around in what he hoped was a majestic manner, and stared down his nose at Gladys. "I beg your pardon?"
"My Len had one just like it, of course," Gladys said, smirking at him. "Most men your age have flabby bottoms - flabby or scrawny. But yours is lovely."
He felt his face heat. "Try to control yourself, woman!"
"Why should I? You're practically my husband, after all."
Not for the first time, Lawrence wondered why oh why the King had chosen to punish him in this fashion. Surely Arth hadn't been that poorly run? Even considering the problems caused by the way Arth had milked ideas from Otherworld, Lawrence had certainly tried his best, and to be forced to live alongside this batty old woman, with her insolent attitude and innumerable cats, was much too cruel. Not to mention those dresses she wore. This one was cotton, with little flowers all over, and it was Lawrence's decided opinion that she had chosen it specifically to pester him: the way her knees showed, and the colour matched her eyes, and the belt was placed at just the right place to accentuate her own... shapes.
"I most certainly am not," he said stiffly. "Need I remind you that the brothers of Arth are celibate?"
"Right," she said, looking unbelievably smug. "And you enjoyed that, did you?"
He opened his mouth, then realized that he had nothing to say and closed it again, settling for breathing out slowly through his nose.
She laughed. Laughed! "That's what I thought. My Len was just the same. You wouldn't know it from the sight of him, oh no, but once he got started there was no stopping him."
"Let me get one thing straight," he said, stepping closer. "I am not your Len. I do not wish to hear another word about your Len, especially not if we are to pursue..." He realized he had stepped a little too close. He could feel the warmth of her body next to his, and those eyes of hers were too blue for comfort.
"Pursue?" she prodded.
"You're not acting your age, you know."
"I'm not?"
"No. You behave like some shameless... wench."
"Hm," she said with a shrug. "Shame is better suited on young people. If we don't have fun now, when will we?"
Her words were starting to sound like sense, which was a sure sign he was spiralling out of control. Another sure sign was that he was kissing her - a deep, hard kiss that had her make a delighted little sigh and grab that bottom of his she'd been on about before.
"A bit bossy, are we?" she gasped, out of breath, when he let go. "That's good. My... Well. I like that in a man."
"You're a horrible woman," he muttered.
"Been dying for a shag, Lawrence." She leaned in even closer and whispered in his ear, low enough to send shivers down his spine, "Haven't you?"
"Hm," he growled, finding himself increasingly inarticulate.
"Ages since I had a good hard romp." She said the last three words in staccato. "Still may have some props around, though."
"Props?"
"Silk scarves. Riding whip."
He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining it. "Go get them."
The space her body left when she slipped away from his arms was almost too much to take, and he added, "wench," just to see her turn back, which she did, and give him a smile, which she did - accompanied by her tongue sticking out at him.
He watched her go inside and then shook his head slowly, running his fingers through his hair and trying to ignore those blasted cats giving him superior glances.
Well. He supposed if you were going to break a vow of celibacy, you might as well do it in style.