Fanfiction, oh the shame.
So I saw The Spirit. Because I HATE Frank Miller less than I LOVE Will Eisner, I actually shelled out cash for it.
It's a terrible movie, on it's own...however, if you take it as a Parody/Homage to the ridiculousness of The Spirit, then it's fucking amazing. It inspired me to go back and read through some of The Spirit I have and then write a fanfic.
Yeah, I know.
I've been all up in Iron Man, Booster Gold, and Batman for nigh on a year(s) now and I haven't written more than a single chapter of a 2 or 3 chapter installment of Batman. I know.
Beh, here's some Ellen cause she never gets enough facetime and is easily the Worst/Best girlfriend in Comic Book History.
Title: Liebestraum No. 3
Length: ~600 Words
Rating: Uh..G? PG?
Chapter: 1/1
Notes: OH SPIRIT.
“I didn't know you could play.”
His voice was like black velvet laced with heroine-smooth, indulgent, and addicting. She could never quite manage to prepare for it, despite how often she heard it. It slipped over her, wound through her, and vanished leaving an acute emptiness in its wake. Her fingers stilled on the ivory keys briefly before she caught herself and continued to play. The dulcet tones of the upright piano reverberated against the wall.
“I took lessons when I was a girl,” Ellen responded.
His weight settled on the end of the long bench, and Ellen's eyes slipped closed. He was warm, despite how long he spent in the cold, running through the night, and it poured off of him in waves. It might have been the sudden warmth that made her shiver, or just the sheer force of his proximity-the latter made Ellen feel just a bit too...dependent for her own good. She ignored her reaction and continued playing-several bars passed before he broke the tender silence.
“What is it?” He prompted and Ellen's eyes opened again. She took a deep breath and the scent of him-cold outdoors, wet asphalt, and a metallic smell that she could never identify-almost caused her to skip a note.
“Liszt,” she answered in measured monotone, “Liebestraum number three.”
“You don't need the sheet music.” It wasn't a question.
“I played it at my first public recital.” She didn't elaborate further and he didn't ask.
The piece concluded after a few of the longest minutes in Ellen's life. The final tones hung in the air as her fingers stilled, lightly, atop the starting positions at middle C. She tried to summon up all of the sheet music she'd memorized over the years, but failed. It felt like she was grasping at threads in the air-she could swear she saw them, and then they drifted away from her as she moved. Eventually, she gave up and pulled her hands back from the piano. Her elbow grazed his hip. She didn't turn to face him.
“What do you need?” He never simply paid her a visit, not in the traditional sense. He'd never set foot in her condo before. Silence hung between them as she waited for his answer. In the interim, as her question faded but before he would answer, she could imagine that he was here for her.
“I need access to specific medical records.”
It was unethical, illegal, and all out wrong. It went against everything she believed and every code she'd ever sworn. He knew she would do it for him, and so did she.
“Vetting new girlfriends?” Ellen prompted with a flat, caustic edge. He didn't take the bait.
“Arthur Conroy, Micheal Brahm, and Isaac Leroux,” he rattled off softly and Ellen took all three names to heart. “Any similarities between the three, or relation to Westfield Medical.”
“Come back tomorrow,” Ellen answered, her voice lined with resignation.
The air shifted as he turned to face her; his heat burned against her left side. His gaze scorched her face and he leaned in so closely that Ellen could feel his breath against her cheek. He hesitated, thought better of his actions, and was gone as abruptly as he'd arrived.
The room was cold as Ellen started to play Liszt again.
It's a terrible movie, on it's own...however, if you take it as a Parody/Homage to the ridiculousness of The Spirit, then it's fucking amazing. It inspired me to go back and read through some of The Spirit I have and then write a fanfic.
Yeah, I know.
I've been all up in Iron Man, Booster Gold, and Batman for nigh on a year(s) now and I haven't written more than a single chapter of a 2 or 3 chapter installment of Batman. I know.
Beh, here's some Ellen cause she never gets enough facetime and is easily the Worst/Best girlfriend in Comic Book History.
Title: Liebestraum No. 3
Length: ~600 Words
Rating: Uh..G? PG?
Chapter: 1/1
Notes: OH SPIRIT.
“I didn't know you could play.”
His voice was like black velvet laced with heroine-smooth, indulgent, and addicting. She could never quite manage to prepare for it, despite how often she heard it. It slipped over her, wound through her, and vanished leaving an acute emptiness in its wake. Her fingers stilled on the ivory keys briefly before she caught herself and continued to play. The dulcet tones of the upright piano reverberated against the wall.
“I took lessons when I was a girl,” Ellen responded.
His weight settled on the end of the long bench, and Ellen's eyes slipped closed. He was warm, despite how long he spent in the cold, running through the night, and it poured off of him in waves. It might have been the sudden warmth that made her shiver, or just the sheer force of his proximity-the latter made Ellen feel just a bit too...dependent for her own good. She ignored her reaction and continued playing-several bars passed before he broke the tender silence.
“What is it?” He prompted and Ellen's eyes opened again. She took a deep breath and the scent of him-cold outdoors, wet asphalt, and a metallic smell that she could never identify-almost caused her to skip a note.
“Liszt,” she answered in measured monotone, “Liebestraum number three.”
“You don't need the sheet music.” It wasn't a question.
“I played it at my first public recital.” She didn't elaborate further and he didn't ask.
The piece concluded after a few of the longest minutes in Ellen's life. The final tones hung in the air as her fingers stilled, lightly, atop the starting positions at middle C. She tried to summon up all of the sheet music she'd memorized over the years, but failed. It felt like she was grasping at threads in the air-she could swear she saw them, and then they drifted away from her as she moved. Eventually, she gave up and pulled her hands back from the piano. Her elbow grazed his hip. She didn't turn to face him.
“What do you need?” He never simply paid her a visit, not in the traditional sense. He'd never set foot in her condo before. Silence hung between them as she waited for his answer. In the interim, as her question faded but before he would answer, she could imagine that he was here for her.
“I need access to specific medical records.”
It was unethical, illegal, and all out wrong. It went against everything she believed and every code she'd ever sworn. He knew she would do it for him, and so did she.
“Vetting new girlfriends?” Ellen prompted with a flat, caustic edge. He didn't take the bait.
“Arthur Conroy, Micheal Brahm, and Isaac Leroux,” he rattled off softly and Ellen took all three names to heart. “Any similarities between the three, or relation to Westfield Medical.”
“Come back tomorrow,” Ellen answered, her voice lined with resignation.
The air shifted as he turned to face her; his heat burned against her left side. His gaze scorched her face and he leaned in so closely that Ellen could feel his breath against her cheek. He hesitated, thought better of his actions, and was gone as abruptly as he'd arrived.
The room was cold as Ellen started to play Liszt again.