Case against polgarawolf
Please see this post for complete case information.
ETA: Updated May 28th 2011 to include another example
Due to the word limit I was unable to include the direct comparisons to the report case.
The following are 13 examples of the copied works taken by polgarawolf, original story excerpt first and following with the copied portions in italics.
Examples 1 - 5 are all from the story ’When the Doctor Met the Captain: Ten Times’.
#1 A Split Second by Joolz
A young man walked down the corridor next to Rose, a broad smile on his face. The Doctor frowned at the movie star good looks and the RAF uniform. Where had Rose picked up this one, then?
The man held out his hand as he took the last few steps to reach the Doctor. “Good evening!” he said, “I hope we’re not interrupting.”
In accordance with the local customs, the Doctor automatically shook the man’s hand.
10 Times the Doctor.. by polgarawolf
There's a young man walking down the corridor next to Rose, a broad smile on his handsome face, flashing deep dimples quite becomingly. The Doctor frowns automatically at the combination of RAF uniform (greatcoat swirling dramatically around the man as he strides purposefully along) and classic good looks, the smile dazzling and perfect as that of some old-fashioned movie star idol. He has just enough time to wonder where Rose managed to pick this one up, and then the dark-haired, blue-eyed man is holding out his hand (expectation in the gesture, as much as simple politeness or greeting) as he takes the last few steps to reach the Doctor. "Good evening!" he enthuses, so much strength and vitality in him that, despite the rather grim surroundings, he nearly burbles with excess energy. "I hope we're not interrupting."
In accordance with the local customs of the time, the Doctor makes himself move to shake the man's offered hand
#2 A Split Second by Joolz
Finding himself again in the hospital corridor was a bit disconcerting, and not even a second had passed. He was shaking the hand of the young man in the RAF uniform, with whom he’d just lived a whole life and then some.
The details were already starting to fade. This man would be important to him, but exactly how was becoming muddled.
The same thing had happened to the Doctor once before, when he was a child and had met the boy who would be his best friend for many years, and his enemy for even more. He’d been terrified for a moment, he remembered, but then had forgotten all the particulars. Only the sense of connection had remained.
Slipping back into the moment, he looked into oddly familiar blue eyes. The young man introduced himself. “Jack Harkness.”
10 Times the Doctor.. by polgarawolf
Abruptly finding himself in the hospital corridor again is more than a bit disconcerting, even though not even a second has, subjectively, passed. He's still just starting to shake the hand of the young man in the RAF uniform, with whom he's just lived whole lifetimes and then some. The details, fragmented as they are, are already starting to fade. This man will be vitally important to him, he knows, with the same bone-deep certainty that he knows how to sense the ebbs and flows of the ever-changing webs and loops and dissolving pathways of the timelines that make up the enormously flexible fabric of Time, but exactly how is becoming muddled. The human's possible future is far too closely tied to his own personal timeline-to-be, and so he can't see him clearly, too close in some vital way to be able to sense the shape of the man's future.
The same thing happened to the Doctor once before, when he was but a child and initially met the boy who would first be his best friend for several years and then his enemy for far and away more decades. He'd been absolutely, abjectly terrified for a moment, he remembers, but then he'd swiftly forgotten all the particulars of the (awful) (awesome) visions, with only the inescapable sense of connectedness/connection remaining to bind him to that Gallifreyan boy.
Slipping back into the moment, he looks into oddly familiar bright blue eyes. Still smiling that dazzlingly charismatic smile, the undeniably striking young man lingers over his hand and introduces himself as, "Jack Harkness. I've been hearing all about you, on the way over."
#3 Choices by RobinC
“This man is joined to me and mine. My hand is placed over him in protection, in all places an’ in all times, for the rest of my lives.”
10 Times the Doctor.. by polgarawolf
"I declare this man joined to me and mine. In placing my hand over him, in protection, I choose to claim him, in all places and in all times, not only for the whole of my lives, but so long as Time may endure."
#4 Emergent Properties by DameRuth
Humans weren't telepathic by nature, but Jack had experience and training, so he did his best to spread his thoughts, brushing the fringes of his self affectionately against the soft presence that enveloped him. The Doctor's mind was insubstantial as air, but Jack, having seen tornadoes and hurricanes in action, could guess what a lie that softness was and what terrible steel lay beyond. That was nothing to do with him, though, and he felt no fear.
10 Times the Doctor.. by polgarawolf
The gentle touch of the Doctor's mind comes, then, familiar enough after so long, after so many similar touches, that the sensation of vast, restrained power is comforting, and he automatically closes his mouth (biting back words of protest and pleas for clearer explanations) and eagerly spreads his mind open, affectionately brushing the fringes of himself up against the presence that's so delicately surrounding him. (Around him, the Doctor's mind feels as insubstantial as air; Jack, though, having seen things like tornadoes and hurricanes in action, can guess what a lie that gentleness is and what terrible energy lies within. That's nothing to do with him, though, and - despite his body's continued discomfort with hands anywhere near his temples - he has no real fear.
#5 More Than True by DameRuth's
Jack came from a long line of sailors, equally at home on the sea or in space, so from his earliest childhood he'd absorbed the stories and superstitions relating to ships and the way they sometimes seemed more like more live things than inanimate objects, capable of being lucky or unlucky, loving or jealous, even of expressing the collective soul of their crews. It was a concept woven into the very deepest parts of his consciousness, even though he'd long since chalked the whole idea up to human wishful thinking and anthropomorphism.
Until now.
It was less a revelation than a shift in perception, as if he'd finally noticed a constant background noise he'd been tuning out. From the first moment he'd boarded her, the TARDIS had been singing; he just hadn't realized it.
He heard her song now, and it was stunningly beautiful.
He stared into the glowing column, entranced . . . and the TARDIS stared back, every bit as aware and alert and measuring in her own alien way as the Doctor was in his. She saw Jack, she knew him, and she accepted him, allowing his touch as some great, wild beast might let him stroke its flank.
"Oh," Jack said, unable to formulate anything better. This was the ancient dream of The Ship made real, and it hit him hard. Every inch of skin on his body was alive and tingling, not with fear, but with wonder, pure and unadulterated, the impossible accepted completely.
10 Times the Doctor.. by polgarawolf
Jack comes from a long line of explorers, of sailors, equally at home on the sea or in space, and so, from his earliest childhood (when he was still part of something that felt like a real family), he's absorbed stories and superstitions related to ships and the way they somehow seem far more than mere inanimate objects, like living beings, even, capable of being lucky or unlucky, loving or jealous, even of expressing the collective soul of a good crew. It's a concept woven through the deepest part of his consciousness, sunk so deep in the core of his being that he's never quite been able to uproot or erase the idea, even though he's long since logically relegated the whole notion to mere anthropomorphism and wishful thinking on humanity's part (as well a more than a few other sentient species with the yen to travel) . . . before meeting the TARDIS. The TARDIS is that ancient dream of the living, ensouled ship, made undeniably and gloriously real. From the moment he stepped aboard her and heard her stunningly beautiful song, humming away in the back of his mind, and the whole of her attention focused on him, gently but insistently making herself known, asking permission to take a closer look at him and to help him, if she could do aught for him, he was hit hard, completely and utterly charmed, taken, every inch of skin on his body alive and tingling, not with fear but with wonder, pure and unadulterated, the impossible completely accepted, his heart open and aching in a way not known since childhood.
#6 Everyone You Know by cherryice
Jack was a Time Agent for ten years. He has a, at various times, been shot, stabbed, tasered, poisoned, drugged, blasted, run down by a bus, and was on one memorable occasion attacked by a polar bear.
He has a single, pale scar at the base of his right thumb. It's not that long, but the wound was deep.
If he had lived in any other time, his body would have been a map of scars, whispering his failures to everyone who touched him. Not that there would have been as many - bullet wounds are only appealing to a certain percentage of the population, a percentage he can charm anyway.
Jack knows where every blow landed, knows where each mark would be. He took a knife between the ribs once, and it missed his heart by inches. Whenever someone touches him there, he shivers.
He has a small, silver scar at the base of his right thumb, and he doesn't remember how it got there.
It's the little things that get him. The familiarity of the taste of a fruit he's sure he's never seen before. Pulling Rose into a dance and realizing half way through he never learned the steps. Names and dates that fall from the Doctor's lips and strike him with unexpected and painful familiarity.
He's always been able to lose himself in smiles and hands and the curve of another's neck, the joy of the chase and the knowledge that he put THAT look on someone's face, like they finally know they're beautiful.
It's an escape that's barred to him here, on the TARDIS - the ship is a little more than slightly telepathic, and she knows the difference between relationship and companionship. He may flirt and banter, but it's a difference he knows as well. If he didn't, he doesn't think she would have allowed him to stay.
10 Times the Doctor.. by polgarawolf
The man who calls himself Captain Jack Harkness was a Time Agent for nearly a dozen years, linear (and far longer, counting all the time spent trapped in time bubbles, in time loops, and in times that were wiped out of existence by his actions, technology and wits alone managing to throw him clear and preserve his life even as time wiped bits of itself out of reality). He has, at various times, been shot, stabbed, speared, grazed by a crossbow bolt, pierced by a barbed arrow, knocked unconscious, beaten nearly to death, stoned badly enough to shatter bones, poisoned, drugged, blasted, tasered, garrotted, strung up by his neck, strangled, smothered, drowned, run down by a caravan, and even, on one memorable occasion, attacked by a prehistoric and rather gargantuan ancestor of the larger, nastier bears native (in certain milieux, anyway) to Earth.
He has a single pale scar at the base of his head, where the skull joins the neck, the raised skin completely hidden within his hairline. It's not a very big scar, but the wound, apparently, was quite deep, and went without proper treatment for a significant amount of time.
If he'd lived in any other time, he knows, his body would be a map of scars, whispering of his failures to everyone who tried to touch him. (Not that there would have been as many of them, then - scars from things like bullet wounds are only appealing to a certain percentage of the population, and it's a percentage he can charm through other means, without the aid of scars.)
He has a small, raised, silver scar at the base of his skull, though, where the head meets the neck, and he cannot remember (no matter how hard he tries) how it could have gotten there.
It's the little things that get him, really. The nagging familiarity of the taste of a fruit that he's sure he's never seen before. Pulling Rose into a dance and realizing approximately halfway through that he can't consciously remember ever learning the steps, even though his body seems to know them very well. Hearing a new language at a distance in an alien marketplace and having understanding of the words and more bubble up within him, in answer, only to have his tongue tie itself in knots as the last instance, his brain unable to remember what the words mean or how to process them. Names and dates and references to places and events that fall from the Doctor's lips and strike him with unexpected and painful familiarity, for no discernable reason.
Whenever it would become too much to bear, before - the pain of his body somehow knowing things, even when his mind was unable to consciously remember them - he's always been able to lose himself in smiles and hands (or appendages of approximate nature) and the curve of another being's neck, the arch and sway of a living body, the joy of the chase and the knowledge that he's managed to put that look on someone's face, like only then has that being finally realized his or her or its true beauty. It's an escape that's barred to him here, though, on the TARDIS. The ship is a little more than slightly telepathic, and she knows quite well the difference between relationship and companionship. He may flirt and banter with Rose (and enjoy himself unabashedly and occasionally even enormously while doing so, too), but it's a difference he knows, too. If he didn't, he doesn't think she would have allowed him to stay, not knowing what she does (and what he does, too) of the Doctor's desire for him.
#7 Steven Brust's unofficial Firefly novel, My Own Kind of Freedom
He always smiled when Serenity first kissed atmo.
That was the moment that separated pilots; a sloppy entry cost fuel, a perfect entry saved fuel, and the difference could be the difference between a healthy profit and a disastrous loss. When you kissed atmo, it was all touch; suddenly the number of variables increased by an order of magnitude: the shape of the ship, the tilt of her nose, the attitude adjusters, speed, direction, the density and exact composition of the upper atmosphere-all of it.
Mal never noticed, of course; none of them noticed. They'd only notice if he did it badly; then he would, no doubt, get all sorts of looks and remarks. And it would cut into his profits as it would the rest of the crew's.
But none of that was why he made his entries as close to perfect as humanly possible: he did it because it was what he loved doing. The challenges to a pilot in the black were rare, and usually involved some form of terror. But the first touch of atmo on a new planet, setting up the slide, the deceleration, balancing skin heat with fuel cost, inert-damp with gravity-feeling part of the boat in a way even Kaylee, bless her heart, could never know-those were the moments of living. That was the best.
He was aware of the first hint of rudder to port, and nose up, and then the thrust control was under his right hand; and after that for a while he could no longer follow the details, because he was no longer using controls-it wasn't cause and effect, it was just one long effect as distinctions blurred. Pilot to control, control to boat, boat to atmo, atmo to gravity, gravity to pilot: they were all the same thing as Serenity sang the song only Wash could hear. After an interminable twenty seconds that was over so quickly it may never have existed, the decisions were made, the hard part past, and everything was, alas, easy again. It was morning on this part of Hera.
From the co-pilot's chair, Mal said, "How's the entry?"
"It's an entry. They're all the same."
"How long are we looking at?"
"Twenty minutes, give or take. Unless I accidentally flip us over and lose control and send us smashing into the ground to a fiery demise. That would be quicker."
"Okay. Well, don't do that."
"All right."
Wash smiled as Serenity slid fully into atmo.
Serenity: Dreaming a Brand New by polgarawolf
He always smiles when Serenity first kisses atmo.
That's the moment that separates the real pilots from the wannabe fly-boys; a sloppy entry costs fuel, a perfect entry saves fuel, and the difference can be the difference between a healthy profit and a disastrous loss. When you kiss atmo, it's all touch; suddenly the number of variables increases by an order of magnitude: the shape of the ship, the tilt of her nose, the attitude adjusters, speed, direction, the density and exact composition of the upper atmosphere - all of it.
Mal never notices, of course; none of them notice. They would only notice if he were to do it badly; then he would, no doubt, get all sorts of looks and remarks. And it would cut into his profits, just as it would the rest of the crew's.
But none of that is why he makes his entries as close to perfect as humanly possible: he does it because it's what he loves doing. The challenges to a pilot in the black are rare, and usually involve some form of terror. But the first touch of atmo on a new world, be it planet or moon or artificial station, setting up the slide, the deceleration, balancing skin heat with fuel cost, inert-damp with gravity - feeling part of the boat in a way even Kaylee, bless her heart, could never know - those are moments for truly being alive, moments when life thrums and sings in his veins like the siren calling his name. That's the best, the absolute best thing, about being a pilot.
He's aware of the first hint of rudder to port, and nose up, and then the thrust control is under his right hand; and after that for a while he can no longer follow the details, because he's no longer using controls - it isn't cause and effect, it's just one long effect as distinctions blur together. Pilot to control, control to boat, boat to atmo, atmo to gravity, gravity to pilot: they are all the same thing as Serenitysings the song only Wash can hear. After an interminable twenty seconds that is over so quickly it may never have existed, the decisions are all made, the hard part past, and everything is, alas, easy again. When they land, it should be early afternoon at the Companion Training House.
From the co-pilot's chair, Mal asks, "How's the entry?"
Wash shrugs easily. "It's an entry. They're all the same."
"How long are we looking at?"
"Twenty minutes, give or take. Unless I accidentally flip us over and lose control and send us smashing into the ground to a fiery demise. That would be quicker."
Usually a quip like that will give the Captain at least a little bit of pause, but this time Mal doesn't even blink before saying (with entirely too much cheerfulness for a man who knows he's walking into a trap, in Wash's considered opinion, even for the sake of a fine woman like Inara Serra), "Okay. Well, don't do that."
"All right."
Wash smiles as Serenity slides fully into atmo.
#8 A novel Ombria in Shadow by Patricia A. McKillip
She moves unconsciously, effortlessly, like a musician moves through music, tuning it note by note with every breath, every touch, dark eyes at half mast, a dreamy smile upon her face, head cocked to the side as though listening to a voice whispering instruction only she can hear, and the effect is so eerie (they seem to be traveling back through time, as they move further and further down into the Palace, wandering haphazardly through layers of history that change at random and are never quite consecutive - a certain type of garment worn by a figure in a painting evoking an entire epoch of Alderaan's past; a change in the style of a chair leg signaling some momentous change within the Royal House, such as a death or coronation - until finally they pass through a series of cleverly hidden doors and passageways to arrive at a subterranean level where the artwork is so old that it verges upon artless, all strange landscapes and animals, the vaguest suggestion of the streets of some settlement, blurred faces glimpsed in a glittering fog, depicted in murals and friezes that take up whole sections of wall).
Choosing to Shine:Saving Benighted Souls by polgarawolf
She moves unconsciously, effortlessly, like a musician moves through music, tuning it note by note with every breath, every touch, dark eyes at half mast, a dreamy smile upon her face, head cocked to the side as though listening to a voice whispering instruction only she can hear, and the effect is so eerie (they seem to be traveling back through time, as they move further and further down into the Palace, wandering haphazardly through layers of history that change at random and are never quite consecutive - a certain type of garment worn by a figure in a painting evoking an entire epoch of Alderaan's past; a change in the style of a chair leg signaling some momentous change within the Royal House, such as a death or coronation - until finally they pass through a series of cleverly hidden doors and passageways to arrive at a subterranean level where the artwork is so old that it verges upon artless, all strange landscapes and animals, the vaguest suggestion of the streets of some settlement, blurred faces glimpsed in a glittering fog, depicted in murals and friezes that take up whole sections of wall)
#9 A novel In Conquest Born (copyright 1986) by C.S. Friedman's
He was tense; he had always been tense. But now his tension wound like a cord around his heart,strangling his very soul. Anger poured from him in torrents and reverberated between the mock-ancient walls, drowning him in a cacophony of rage.
He had lost! No, he had not lost. That was important: He could not lose. The others, with their pitifully compassionate natures, trusting women and underestimating their enemies, their own colleagues . . . they might lose, and see their plans die the eternal death. Not him. Only for the moment was life's aspect bleak, only for the single, temporary moment . . . he squelched his anger as well as he could, forcing himself to promise himself:
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will have my vengeance.
So Much For Outbound Flight by polgarawolf
The tension wound about him is like a cord around his heart, strangling his very soul. Anger pours from him in torrents to reverberate between the walls of the ship, drowning him in a cacophony of rage. He has failed to uphold his promise, he has lost in his game of wits with Mitth'raw'nuruodo! No, no, he has not lost. That is important. He can not lose. Other beings, with pitifully trusting natures, no control over their emotions, and no imagination to speak of, to let them envision what their enemies might truly be capable of, they might lose, and see their plans all die ignominious and eternal deaths. Not him. Only for a moment is life's aspect bleak, only for this single, temporary moment . . . Taking a deep breath, he takes his anger into a strangling hold and then pushes it back, forcing himself to tell himself (even though he knows that it is not true), Tomorrow. I will have my vengeance tomorrow and be quit of this all!
#10 The Definition of Inexperienced
Hermione suddenly felt hyperaware of every physical sensation: the heat of Ginny's shoulder beneath her hand, the delicate, hesitant feel of Ginny's hand coming to rest on her left hip, the tickling, feathery sensation of Ginny's hair falling forward into Hermione's face as the kiss deepened. She felt everything, and it felt wonderful.
And Ginny kissed her.
A million thoughts rushed into Hermione's head and then disappeared as quickly as they had come. Ginny's lips were soft, and the skin around them was soft, and her tongue gently plied its way into Hermione's mouth and the slick slide of it warmed her entire body.
Only a Dream? By polgarawolf
A million thoughts rush into Versé's head, only to disappear again as quickly as they've come. Cordé's lips are soft, the skin around them is satiny-smooth, and her tongue gently plies its way into Versé's mouth, the slick slide of it warming her entire body through and through. At that touch, so intimate, so insistent, Versé quite suddenly feels hyperaware of every physical sensation: the heat of Cordé's body from where she is standing, so close that her warmth is lapping all up against the front of Versé's body; the delicate, hesitant feel of Cordé's left hand coming to rest on Versé's right hip; the tickling, feathery sensation of Cordé's satiny hair falling forward into Versé's face as she leans in closer and the kiss deepens. She feels everything, and it feels wonderful and warm and solid and real. Not dreamlike at all. Real.
#11 The Greatest of These by tmelange
With proof, the rest is a mere technicality and can proceed according to a foreseeable plan of action. Long discussions about mutual interests, accommodation where once there was only acrimony, an invitation to dinner at a neutral location and then to the Manor. A studied thoughtfulness. A gift to show his regard. In return he learns what it feels like to be favored of the sun, to have an object around which to revolve, that only wants to pull him closer, sweetly, gravitationally. Knowing inside, in the dark places where his nightmares reside: whoever can love like this can be saved.
Agent Shaw versus the Plan bypolgarawolf
With proof (in the near disaster of their first ferocious kiss and everything that follows afterwards) that it's not just Daniel - that the attraction is, miracle upon miracles, mutual, the affection reciprocated, the interest returned - everything else becomes a mere technicality and can proceed according to a foreseeable plan of action. Long discussions about mutual interests, accommodation where once there might only have been thinly veiled acrimony, invitations to lunch, to dinner, to breakfast, to brunch, and as many visits as possible to Daniel's apartment. A studied thoughtfulness. A gift to show his regard. And, in return, he learns what it feels like to be favored of the sun, to have an object around which to revolve, to have someone who only wants to pull him in closer, sweetly, gravitationally. Knowing inside, in all the dark places where his nightmares and insecurities reside, that whoever can love like this can be saved.
#12 By any Other Name by switchknife
When Draco's cock enters him, it is slick and hot and smooth, a long, wet slide that stretches him and makes him ache and shiver in his own skin--so familiar by now that the dull edge of pain feels more like a slaked thirst to him than pain at all, and he arches as he lifts himself up and lowers himself down again, taking that cock within him until he's resting on Draco's thighs, and he's filled so good and he's hurting so sweet, and he wants to lean down to kiss Draco, to taste that gasping, sweat-salty mouth, but he knows that Draco doesn't like kisses.
So he braces both hands on Draco's chest and undulates in slow circles, letting his head fall forward until his black hair partially obscures his sight--but then Draco's hand is there, warm and moist and cupping his face, stroking the damp hair away until it flattens obediently, much more obediently than it does when dry. Draco is trembling beneath him, a long, pale expanse of glistening skin--and the sight of it, the mere sight of it, is enough to make him quiver with pleasure.
'Harry...'
He loves the way Draco says it--all quiet, sobbing desperation--and when he hears it he almost thinks that this is love, that this is need, that he and Draco are doing this because it was fated to be, because Draco comes to him, only to him, though there are so many others he could have chosen--because Draco's body and his arms and his chest and his cock are made for this, only for this, and oh he fits inside so beautifully.
Thwarting the Revenge of the Sith, Book III by Polgarawolf
he's sliding down over Obi-Wan, slick and hot and smooth, Obi-Wan entering him in a long, wet slide that stretches him and makes him ache and shiver in his own skin, shaken and shaking, the sensation familiar enough by now despite its impossibility that Anakin no longer even stops to think about it, only takes it in, greedy as a man in a desert slaking his thirst after nearly perishing for lack of water, body bending like a drawn bow as he lifts himself up and lowers himself down again, taking Obi-Wan within him until he's resting on Obi-Wan's thighs, filled to perfection, and can lean down to kiss Obi-Wan, to taste that gasping, sweat-salty mouth, plumb those widened lips again, kissing once again as necessary as breathing, until the next point of fracture, bodies dumbly demanding oxygen, ripping mouths made for each other apart once again. But that's alright, that's grand, that gives him the excuse to brace both of his hands on Obi-Wan's chest and undulate in slow, breath-shuddering circles, letting his head fall forward until those loose golden curls partially obscure his sight, at least until Obi-Wan's hand finds him, fitting to the curve of his cheekbone, warm and moist, palm cupping his face, fingertips stroking the loose hair away until it finally catches, obediently, behind the sea-shell curve of an ear. Obi-Wan is trembling beneath him, a long, pale expanse of glistening skin, and the sight of it, the mere sight of it, of him, is enough to make Anakin quiver with pleasure, body poised on the edge of arching, arcing, again, already skating the edge of too much power and emotion, love and the Force sparking in him like flame in dry tinder.
And oh, he loves the way Obi-Wan says his name, all quiet, sobbing desperation, loves the way that Obi-Wan is so manifestly made for this, for him, and oh he fits inside Anakin, he fits to Anakin, so perfectly, so beautifully!
#13 This is How by Aine Deande
It's the taste of the longing... the taste of too little. The way a finger barely strokes the skin, just to feel the current of air move below. The same way a hand will reach out at the retreating figure of a woman. The back rigid and cocked, like a man's.
There seems to be little warmth between us. I have given you little reason, of course. I would laugh and you would cry... just a grin for me, neck tilted back, eyes closed.
Tears for you, eyes open and controlled. Your back curved like a dancer's, tears upon your face. Tears for the pillow, so wet upon your departure. The bed still warm from where you lay.
I lay you... I lay you down. Your voice is dry as you cry, echoes travelling the hallway like footprints in the dark. We sleep in separate compartments, but I can always hear you.
Here we go round, at five o'clock in the morning.
You are shapeless in your sleep and tasteless in my dreams. I like you awake, when I can keep you inside me. When your bedroom eyes break the sunlight into twin spears of laughter and lust. In your sleep, you are motionless, but your eyes shift behind their lids, so you must be dreaming.
I wish I could taste you in your sleep, but I could never near you in your rest. As still as your head lays in the pond of my lap, I dare not touch you. I could touch you without emotion, without fear, but I would rather breathe over you. You are fairer more when you raise your eyes to mine, when your voice bends to me... so sweet, so sweet.
Another night, I fit your dress. There are no eyes here; the silence speaks alone, broken into fragments. Sightless, unless provoked. Here I tie you up into manifold reflections. Here I lace you in with tin and fur. Here I fail you fast and flawless. Here I wait inside your dress, the clockwork turning, until the moment you come home.
Leaning together in this cobweb of scent... of not knowing the other, of wanting more. You may cry in your sleep, but you come to me for comfort. Diamond eyes, weighting, measuring. Still heavy from pain previous, yet they are sheltered to my flesh. Holding you down. People lie... they lie all the time. To themselves most of all.
Lies give reality its cutting edge. Truth makes its blade come down and cleave your life in two. I would rather dangle, suspended in stillness, where you are near to touch and far to feel. This way, I don't fall.
This way, I die slowly, at your hands and your call. Things are only true so long as your eyes are open.
There are no eyes here. We will end, as does the world when your lids are shut. You will bend away from my lying form like a dancer's, your back will greet me in turn. You will marry your betrothed and I will flee this dead house and travel a thousand landscapes, until I find sanctuary. My hope is empty, between emotion and response. Only alive in your absence, for when you are with me there is only you.
In this last of meeting places, we grope together and avoid speech. I paint you darker still, until the shadows fit you. We find each other in the dark. Life is very long. And in this lack of light there is only the ebbing of you. Tears dry beneath my fingertips.
The tryst, the trysts, the endless trust, and thrusts and, o, my darling... Goodbye lasts only till morning. But let me lie a little longer, hollowed in the dawn.
Before this conclusion, a last trembling thought. It is nearly morning; the prelude to goodbye is solidified. We hold each other. You let pass a little sigh between your lips.
This is the way the world ends; not with a bang, but a whimper.
What Matter as the Ends of Days by polgarawolf
Peter is the taste of the longing . . . the taste of too little. Endlessly, always, forever. Too little. Not too late. Just too little. The way fingertips can skim across the surface of another's skin without ever quite touching, the sensation of touch nothing more than the current of air moving across the sensitive hairs below. The way a hand can reach out after a retreating figure, longing in every line of the gesture, and yet never quite make contact with the back curving so rigidly away.
He is aware that there seems to be little warmth between them. But then, he has given Peter little reason for warmth, of late. He would laugh and Peter would cry . . . no warmth but a small sliver of a smile for him, neck turned back, face tilted up, eyes closed tight to let their dark fringe of eyelashes lie shivering upon cheekbones defined less by their height than by Peter's too little weight. Rivers of tears, eyes open and controlled. Peter's back curved like a dancer's, tears upon his too-pale, flower-like face.
The bed still warm from where he lay, those days when they shared an apartment, sheets clandestinely crawled within once he had departed to cocoon, for a time, in the warmth and scent and ghostly impressions of touch and taste and feel (of the silken slide of phantom skin, satiny hair) left by the cradle of his body.
He carried Peter up to bed and then he lay . . . he lay him down.
Peter had been shapeless in his sleep and tasteless in his dreams and O but he preferred him awake, when those break-taking, twilight-touched, sky-stained bedroom eyes break the sunlight into twin spears of laughter and life and glimmer in them can almost be mistaken for love, for lust. In sleep, insensate, Peter had been motionless but for his eyes, which shifted restlessly behind their lids, making him hope (in vain, most like) that Peter was dreaming of him. He'd wanted to taste him in his sleep, had tried in vain to win proper entry between those sleep-slackened lips, but had not dared to draw near enough to him in his rest to do more than taste, too wary of rousing him to eat and drink of that mouth as he'd wished. As still as Peter's head had been, spilling back against the pillow, he had not dared to touch with enough force to truly feel. He could have touched him then without emotion, without fear, without feeling, but he would've rather simply breathed quietly, softly, over him.
There are no eyes here. They will end, as does the world, when his lids are shut. Peter will bend away from his lying form like a dancer, the curved bow of his back greeting him in turn.
And in this, the last of their meeting places, they finally grope together and avoid speech. Grief paints Peter darker still, until the shadows fit him like another skin. They find each other in the dark. And though the moments are fleeting (Life is very long), in the lack of light there is only Peter, Peter, Peter&Harry, again and always, and the pain all falls away. Tears warm and dry beneath his fingertips as he finally makes the connection, palm curving to cup the flower-shape of Peter's face, and O, connection, completion, complete
The tryst, the trust, finally and forever, trysts and the endless trust and thrusts and O, best beloved, dearest one . . . Goodbye lasts only the breadth of time in which eyes are shut.
A last trembling thought arises just before conclusion can catch them as they tumble down together. It's nearly morning and the prelude to goodbye is solidified, and so they simply hold onto each other. He lets pass a little sigh between his lips while tears like April rain fall from Peter's eyes down onto his honey-skin.
#14 Star By Star by Troy Denning
They appeared without warning from beyond the edge of galactic space: a warrior race called the Yuuzhan Vong, armed with surprise, treachery, and a bizarre organic technology that proved a match - too often more than a match - for the New Republic and its allies. Even the Jedi, under the leadership of Luke Skywalker, found themselves thrown on the defensive, deprived of their greatest strength. For somehow, inexplicably, the Yuuzhan Vong seemed to be utterly devoid of the Force.
Star by Star by polgarawolf
They appeared without warning from beyond the edge of galactic space: a warrior race called the Yuuzhan Vong, armed with surprise, treachery, and a bizarre organic technology that proved a match - and, too often, more than a match - for the New Republic and its allies. Even the Jedi, under the leadership of Luke Skywalker, found themselves thrown on the defensive, deprived of their greatest strength, for somehow, inexplicably, the Yuuzhan Vong seemed to be utterly devoid of the Force.
As a side note I wanted to convey my thanks to all members for respecting the communities rules by not making personal comments against the accused and for keeping quite calm.
Thank you to my co-mod misscam and also to a number of comm members who were very helpful in finding and reporting other information. Thank you to lindenharp, dshael, wendymr and edgefire.
ETA: Updated May 28th 2011 to include another example
Due to the word limit I was unable to include the direct comparisons to the report case.
The following are 13 examples of the copied works taken by polgarawolf, original story excerpt first and following with the copied portions in italics.
Examples 1 - 5 are all from the story ’When the Doctor Met the Captain: Ten Times’.
#1 A Split Second by Joolz
A young man walked down the corridor next to Rose, a broad smile on his face. The Doctor frowned at the movie star good looks and the RAF uniform. Where had Rose picked up this one, then?
The man held out his hand as he took the last few steps to reach the Doctor. “Good evening!” he said, “I hope we’re not interrupting.”
In accordance with the local customs, the Doctor automatically shook the man’s hand.
10 Times the Doctor.. by polgarawolf
There's a young man walking down the corridor next to Rose, a broad smile on his handsome face, flashing deep dimples quite becomingly. The Doctor frowns automatically at the combination of RAF uniform (greatcoat swirling dramatically around the man as he strides purposefully along) and classic good looks, the smile dazzling and perfect as that of some old-fashioned movie star idol. He has just enough time to wonder where Rose managed to pick this one up, and then the dark-haired, blue-eyed man is holding out his hand (expectation in the gesture, as much as simple politeness or greeting) as he takes the last few steps to reach the Doctor. "Good evening!" he enthuses, so much strength and vitality in him that, despite the rather grim surroundings, he nearly burbles with excess energy. "I hope we're not interrupting."
In accordance with the local customs of the time, the Doctor makes himself move to shake the man's offered hand
#2 A Split Second by Joolz
Finding himself again in the hospital corridor was a bit disconcerting, and not even a second had passed. He was shaking the hand of the young man in the RAF uniform, with whom he’d just lived a whole life and then some.
The details were already starting to fade. This man would be important to him, but exactly how was becoming muddled.
The same thing had happened to the Doctor once before, when he was a child and had met the boy who would be his best friend for many years, and his enemy for even more. He’d been terrified for a moment, he remembered, but then had forgotten all the particulars. Only the sense of connection had remained.
Slipping back into the moment, he looked into oddly familiar blue eyes. The young man introduced himself. “Jack Harkness.”
10 Times the Doctor.. by polgarawolf
Abruptly finding himself in the hospital corridor again is more than a bit disconcerting, even though not even a second has, subjectively, passed. He's still just starting to shake the hand of the young man in the RAF uniform, with whom he's just lived whole lifetimes and then some. The details, fragmented as they are, are already starting to fade. This man will be vitally important to him, he knows, with the same bone-deep certainty that he knows how to sense the ebbs and flows of the ever-changing webs and loops and dissolving pathways of the timelines that make up the enormously flexible fabric of Time, but exactly how is becoming muddled. The human's possible future is far too closely tied to his own personal timeline-to-be, and so he can't see him clearly, too close in some vital way to be able to sense the shape of the man's future.
The same thing happened to the Doctor once before, when he was but a child and initially met the boy who would first be his best friend for several years and then his enemy for far and away more decades. He'd been absolutely, abjectly terrified for a moment, he remembers, but then he'd swiftly forgotten all the particulars of the (awful) (awesome) visions, with only the inescapable sense of connectedness/connection remaining to bind him to that Gallifreyan boy.
Slipping back into the moment, he looks into oddly familiar bright blue eyes. Still smiling that dazzlingly charismatic smile, the undeniably striking young man lingers over his hand and introduces himself as, "Jack Harkness. I've been hearing all about you, on the way over."
#3 Choices by RobinC
“This man is joined to me and mine. My hand is placed over him in protection, in all places an’ in all times, for the rest of my lives.”
10 Times the Doctor.. by polgarawolf
"I declare this man joined to me and mine. In placing my hand over him, in protection, I choose to claim him, in all places and in all times, not only for the whole of my lives, but so long as Time may endure."
#4 Emergent Properties by DameRuth
Humans weren't telepathic by nature, but Jack had experience and training, so he did his best to spread his thoughts, brushing the fringes of his self affectionately against the soft presence that enveloped him. The Doctor's mind was insubstantial as air, but Jack, having seen tornadoes and hurricanes in action, could guess what a lie that softness was and what terrible steel lay beyond. That was nothing to do with him, though, and he felt no fear.
10 Times the Doctor.. by polgarawolf
The gentle touch of the Doctor's mind comes, then, familiar enough after so long, after so many similar touches, that the sensation of vast, restrained power is comforting, and he automatically closes his mouth (biting back words of protest and pleas for clearer explanations) and eagerly spreads his mind open, affectionately brushing the fringes of himself up against the presence that's so delicately surrounding him. (Around him, the Doctor's mind feels as insubstantial as air; Jack, though, having seen things like tornadoes and hurricanes in action, can guess what a lie that gentleness is and what terrible energy lies within. That's nothing to do with him, though, and - despite his body's continued discomfort with hands anywhere near his temples - he has no real fear.
#5 More Than True by DameRuth's
Jack came from a long line of sailors, equally at home on the sea or in space, so from his earliest childhood he'd absorbed the stories and superstitions relating to ships and the way they sometimes seemed more like more live things than inanimate objects, capable of being lucky or unlucky, loving or jealous, even of expressing the collective soul of their crews. It was a concept woven into the very deepest parts of his consciousness, even though he'd long since chalked the whole idea up to human wishful thinking and anthropomorphism.
Until now.
It was less a revelation than a shift in perception, as if he'd finally noticed a constant background noise he'd been tuning out. From the first moment he'd boarded her, the TARDIS had been singing; he just hadn't realized it.
He heard her song now, and it was stunningly beautiful.
He stared into the glowing column, entranced . . . and the TARDIS stared back, every bit as aware and alert and measuring in her own alien way as the Doctor was in his. She saw Jack, she knew him, and she accepted him, allowing his touch as some great, wild beast might let him stroke its flank.
"Oh," Jack said, unable to formulate anything better. This was the ancient dream of The Ship made real, and it hit him hard. Every inch of skin on his body was alive and tingling, not with fear, but with wonder, pure and unadulterated, the impossible accepted completely.
10 Times the Doctor.. by polgarawolf
Jack comes from a long line of explorers, of sailors, equally at home on the sea or in space, and so, from his earliest childhood (when he was still part of something that felt like a real family), he's absorbed stories and superstitions related to ships and the way they somehow seem far more than mere inanimate objects, like living beings, even, capable of being lucky or unlucky, loving or jealous, even of expressing the collective soul of a good crew. It's a concept woven through the deepest part of his consciousness, sunk so deep in the core of his being that he's never quite been able to uproot or erase the idea, even though he's long since logically relegated the whole notion to mere anthropomorphism and wishful thinking on humanity's part (as well a more than a few other sentient species with the yen to travel) . . . before meeting the TARDIS. The TARDIS is that ancient dream of the living, ensouled ship, made undeniably and gloriously real. From the moment he stepped aboard her and heard her stunningly beautiful song, humming away in the back of his mind, and the whole of her attention focused on him, gently but insistently making herself known, asking permission to take a closer look at him and to help him, if she could do aught for him, he was hit hard, completely and utterly charmed, taken, every inch of skin on his body alive and tingling, not with fear but with wonder, pure and unadulterated, the impossible completely accepted, his heart open and aching in a way not known since childhood.
#6 Everyone You Know by cherryice
Jack was a Time Agent for ten years. He has a, at various times, been shot, stabbed, tasered, poisoned, drugged, blasted, run down by a bus, and was on one memorable occasion attacked by a polar bear.
He has a single, pale scar at the base of his right thumb. It's not that long, but the wound was deep.
If he had lived in any other time, his body would have been a map of scars, whispering his failures to everyone who touched him. Not that there would have been as many - bullet wounds are only appealing to a certain percentage of the population, a percentage he can charm anyway.
Jack knows where every blow landed, knows where each mark would be. He took a knife between the ribs once, and it missed his heart by inches. Whenever someone touches him there, he shivers.
He has a small, silver scar at the base of his right thumb, and he doesn't remember how it got there.
It's the little things that get him. The familiarity of the taste of a fruit he's sure he's never seen before. Pulling Rose into a dance and realizing half way through he never learned the steps. Names and dates that fall from the Doctor's lips and strike him with unexpected and painful familiarity.
He's always been able to lose himself in smiles and hands and the curve of another's neck, the joy of the chase and the knowledge that he put THAT look on someone's face, like they finally know they're beautiful.
It's an escape that's barred to him here, on the TARDIS - the ship is a little more than slightly telepathic, and she knows the difference between relationship and companionship. He may flirt and banter, but it's a difference he knows as well. If he didn't, he doesn't think she would have allowed him to stay.
10 Times the Doctor.. by polgarawolf
The man who calls himself Captain Jack Harkness was a Time Agent for nearly a dozen years, linear (and far longer, counting all the time spent trapped in time bubbles, in time loops, and in times that were wiped out of existence by his actions, technology and wits alone managing to throw him clear and preserve his life even as time wiped bits of itself out of reality). He has, at various times, been shot, stabbed, speared, grazed by a crossbow bolt, pierced by a barbed arrow, knocked unconscious, beaten nearly to death, stoned badly enough to shatter bones, poisoned, drugged, blasted, tasered, garrotted, strung up by his neck, strangled, smothered, drowned, run down by a caravan, and even, on one memorable occasion, attacked by a prehistoric and rather gargantuan ancestor of the larger, nastier bears native (in certain milieux, anyway) to Earth.
He has a single pale scar at the base of his head, where the skull joins the neck, the raised skin completely hidden within his hairline. It's not a very big scar, but the wound, apparently, was quite deep, and went without proper treatment for a significant amount of time.
If he'd lived in any other time, he knows, his body would be a map of scars, whispering of his failures to everyone who tried to touch him. (Not that there would have been as many of them, then - scars from things like bullet wounds are only appealing to a certain percentage of the population, and it's a percentage he can charm through other means, without the aid of scars.)
He has a small, raised, silver scar at the base of his skull, though, where the head meets the neck, and he cannot remember (no matter how hard he tries) how it could have gotten there.
It's the little things that get him, really. The nagging familiarity of the taste of a fruit that he's sure he's never seen before. Pulling Rose into a dance and realizing approximately halfway through that he can't consciously remember ever learning the steps, even though his body seems to know them very well. Hearing a new language at a distance in an alien marketplace and having understanding of the words and more bubble up within him, in answer, only to have his tongue tie itself in knots as the last instance, his brain unable to remember what the words mean or how to process them. Names and dates and references to places and events that fall from the Doctor's lips and strike him with unexpected and painful familiarity, for no discernable reason.
Whenever it would become too much to bear, before - the pain of his body somehow knowing things, even when his mind was unable to consciously remember them - he's always been able to lose himself in smiles and hands (or appendages of approximate nature) and the curve of another being's neck, the arch and sway of a living body, the joy of the chase and the knowledge that he's managed to put that look on someone's face, like only then has that being finally realized his or her or its true beauty. It's an escape that's barred to him here, though, on the TARDIS. The ship is a little more than slightly telepathic, and she knows quite well the difference between relationship and companionship. He may flirt and banter with Rose (and enjoy himself unabashedly and occasionally even enormously while doing so, too), but it's a difference he knows, too. If he didn't, he doesn't think she would have allowed him to stay, not knowing what she does (and what he does, too) of the Doctor's desire for him.
#7 Steven Brust's unofficial Firefly novel, My Own Kind of Freedom
He always smiled when Serenity first kissed atmo.
That was the moment that separated pilots; a sloppy entry cost fuel, a perfect entry saved fuel, and the difference could be the difference between a healthy profit and a disastrous loss. When you kissed atmo, it was all touch; suddenly the number of variables increased by an order of magnitude: the shape of the ship, the tilt of her nose, the attitude adjusters, speed, direction, the density and exact composition of the upper atmosphere-all of it.
Mal never noticed, of course; none of them noticed. They'd only notice if he did it badly; then he would, no doubt, get all sorts of looks and remarks. And it would cut into his profits as it would the rest of the crew's.
But none of that was why he made his entries as close to perfect as humanly possible: he did it because it was what he loved doing. The challenges to a pilot in the black were rare, and usually involved some form of terror. But the first touch of atmo on a new planet, setting up the slide, the deceleration, balancing skin heat with fuel cost, inert-damp with gravity-feeling part of the boat in a way even Kaylee, bless her heart, could never know-those were the moments of living. That was the best.
He was aware of the first hint of rudder to port, and nose up, and then the thrust control was under his right hand; and after that for a while he could no longer follow the details, because he was no longer using controls-it wasn't cause and effect, it was just one long effect as distinctions blurred. Pilot to control, control to boat, boat to atmo, atmo to gravity, gravity to pilot: they were all the same thing as Serenity sang the song only Wash could hear. After an interminable twenty seconds that was over so quickly it may never have existed, the decisions were made, the hard part past, and everything was, alas, easy again. It was morning on this part of Hera.
From the co-pilot's chair, Mal said, "How's the entry?"
"It's an entry. They're all the same."
"How long are we looking at?"
"Twenty minutes, give or take. Unless I accidentally flip us over and lose control and send us smashing into the ground to a fiery demise. That would be quicker."
"Okay. Well, don't do that."
"All right."
Wash smiled as Serenity slid fully into atmo.
Serenity: Dreaming a Brand New by polgarawolf
He always smiles when Serenity first kisses atmo.
That's the moment that separates the real pilots from the wannabe fly-boys; a sloppy entry costs fuel, a perfect entry saves fuel, and the difference can be the difference between a healthy profit and a disastrous loss. When you kiss atmo, it's all touch; suddenly the number of variables increases by an order of magnitude: the shape of the ship, the tilt of her nose, the attitude adjusters, speed, direction, the density and exact composition of the upper atmosphere - all of it.
Mal never notices, of course; none of them notice. They would only notice if he were to do it badly; then he would, no doubt, get all sorts of looks and remarks. And it would cut into his profits, just as it would the rest of the crew's.
But none of that is why he makes his entries as close to perfect as humanly possible: he does it because it's what he loves doing. The challenges to a pilot in the black are rare, and usually involve some form of terror. But the first touch of atmo on a new world, be it planet or moon or artificial station, setting up the slide, the deceleration, balancing skin heat with fuel cost, inert-damp with gravity - feeling part of the boat in a way even Kaylee, bless her heart, could never know - those are moments for truly being alive, moments when life thrums and sings in his veins like the siren calling his name. That's the best, the absolute best thing, about being a pilot.
He's aware of the first hint of rudder to port, and nose up, and then the thrust control is under his right hand; and after that for a while he can no longer follow the details, because he's no longer using controls - it isn't cause and effect, it's just one long effect as distinctions blur together. Pilot to control, control to boat, boat to atmo, atmo to gravity, gravity to pilot: they are all the same thing as Serenitysings the song only Wash can hear. After an interminable twenty seconds that is over so quickly it may never have existed, the decisions are all made, the hard part past, and everything is, alas, easy again. When they land, it should be early afternoon at the Companion Training House.
From the co-pilot's chair, Mal asks, "How's the entry?"
Wash shrugs easily. "It's an entry. They're all the same."
"How long are we looking at?"
"Twenty minutes, give or take. Unless I accidentally flip us over and lose control and send us smashing into the ground to a fiery demise. That would be quicker."
Usually a quip like that will give the Captain at least a little bit of pause, but this time Mal doesn't even blink before saying (with entirely too much cheerfulness for a man who knows he's walking into a trap, in Wash's considered opinion, even for the sake of a fine woman like Inara Serra), "Okay. Well, don't do that."
"All right."
Wash smiles as Serenity slides fully into atmo.
#8 A novel Ombria in Shadow by Patricia A. McKillip
She moves unconsciously, effortlessly, like a musician moves through music, tuning it note by note with every breath, every touch, dark eyes at half mast, a dreamy smile upon her face, head cocked to the side as though listening to a voice whispering instruction only she can hear, and the effect is so eerie (they seem to be traveling back through time, as they move further and further down into the Palace, wandering haphazardly through layers of history that change at random and are never quite consecutive - a certain type of garment worn by a figure in a painting evoking an entire epoch of Alderaan's past; a change in the style of a chair leg signaling some momentous change within the Royal House, such as a death or coronation - until finally they pass through a series of cleverly hidden doors and passageways to arrive at a subterranean level where the artwork is so old that it verges upon artless, all strange landscapes and animals, the vaguest suggestion of the streets of some settlement, blurred faces glimpsed in a glittering fog, depicted in murals and friezes that take up whole sections of wall).
Choosing to Shine:Saving Benighted Souls by polgarawolf
She moves unconsciously, effortlessly, like a musician moves through music, tuning it note by note with every breath, every touch, dark eyes at half mast, a dreamy smile upon her face, head cocked to the side as though listening to a voice whispering instruction only she can hear, and the effect is so eerie (they seem to be traveling back through time, as they move further and further down into the Palace, wandering haphazardly through layers of history that change at random and are never quite consecutive - a certain type of garment worn by a figure in a painting evoking an entire epoch of Alderaan's past; a change in the style of a chair leg signaling some momentous change within the Royal House, such as a death or coronation - until finally they pass through a series of cleverly hidden doors and passageways to arrive at a subterranean level where the artwork is so old that it verges upon artless, all strange landscapes and animals, the vaguest suggestion of the streets of some settlement, blurred faces glimpsed in a glittering fog, depicted in murals and friezes that take up whole sections of wall)
#9 A novel In Conquest Born (copyright 1986) by C.S. Friedman's
He was tense; he had always been tense. But now his tension wound like a cord around his heart,strangling his very soul. Anger poured from him in torrents and reverberated between the mock-ancient walls, drowning him in a cacophony of rage.
He had lost! No, he had not lost. That was important: He could not lose. The others, with their pitifully compassionate natures, trusting women and underestimating their enemies, their own colleagues . . . they might lose, and see their plans die the eternal death. Not him. Only for the moment was life's aspect bleak, only for the single, temporary moment . . . he squelched his anger as well as he could, forcing himself to promise himself:
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will have my vengeance.
So Much For Outbound Flight by polgarawolf
The tension wound about him is like a cord around his heart, strangling his very soul. Anger pours from him in torrents to reverberate between the walls of the ship, drowning him in a cacophony of rage. He has failed to uphold his promise, he has lost in his game of wits with Mitth'raw'nuruodo! No, no, he has not lost. That is important. He can not lose. Other beings, with pitifully trusting natures, no control over their emotions, and no imagination to speak of, to let them envision what their enemies might truly be capable of, they might lose, and see their plans all die ignominious and eternal deaths. Not him. Only for a moment is life's aspect bleak, only for this single, temporary moment . . . Taking a deep breath, he takes his anger into a strangling hold and then pushes it back, forcing himself to tell himself (even though he knows that it is not true), Tomorrow. I will have my vengeance tomorrow and be quit of this all!
#10 The Definition of Inexperienced
Hermione suddenly felt hyperaware of every physical sensation: the heat of Ginny's shoulder beneath her hand, the delicate, hesitant feel of Ginny's hand coming to rest on her left hip, the tickling, feathery sensation of Ginny's hair falling forward into Hermione's face as the kiss deepened. She felt everything, and it felt wonderful.
And Ginny kissed her.
A million thoughts rushed into Hermione's head and then disappeared as quickly as they had come. Ginny's lips were soft, and the skin around them was soft, and her tongue gently plied its way into Hermione's mouth and the slick slide of it warmed her entire body.
Only a Dream? By polgarawolf
A million thoughts rush into Versé's head, only to disappear again as quickly as they've come. Cordé's lips are soft, the skin around them is satiny-smooth, and her tongue gently plies its way into Versé's mouth, the slick slide of it warming her entire body through and through. At that touch, so intimate, so insistent, Versé quite suddenly feels hyperaware of every physical sensation: the heat of Cordé's body from where she is standing, so close that her warmth is lapping all up against the front of Versé's body; the delicate, hesitant feel of Cordé's left hand coming to rest on Versé's right hip; the tickling, feathery sensation of Cordé's satiny hair falling forward into Versé's face as she leans in closer and the kiss deepens. She feels everything, and it feels wonderful and warm and solid and real. Not dreamlike at all. Real.
#11 The Greatest of These by tmelange
With proof, the rest is a mere technicality and can proceed according to a foreseeable plan of action. Long discussions about mutual interests, accommodation where once there was only acrimony, an invitation to dinner at a neutral location and then to the Manor. A studied thoughtfulness. A gift to show his regard. In return he learns what it feels like to be favored of the sun, to have an object around which to revolve, that only wants to pull him closer, sweetly, gravitationally. Knowing inside, in the dark places where his nightmares reside: whoever can love like this can be saved.
Agent Shaw versus the Plan bypolgarawolf
With proof (in the near disaster of their first ferocious kiss and everything that follows afterwards) that it's not just Daniel - that the attraction is, miracle upon miracles, mutual, the affection reciprocated, the interest returned - everything else becomes a mere technicality and can proceed according to a foreseeable plan of action. Long discussions about mutual interests, accommodation where once there might only have been thinly veiled acrimony, invitations to lunch, to dinner, to breakfast, to brunch, and as many visits as possible to Daniel's apartment. A studied thoughtfulness. A gift to show his regard. And, in return, he learns what it feels like to be favored of the sun, to have an object around which to revolve, to have someone who only wants to pull him in closer, sweetly, gravitationally. Knowing inside, in all the dark places where his nightmares and insecurities reside, that whoever can love like this can be saved.
#12 By any Other Name by switchknife
When Draco's cock enters him, it is slick and hot and smooth, a long, wet slide that stretches him and makes him ache and shiver in his own skin--so familiar by now that the dull edge of pain feels more like a slaked thirst to him than pain at all, and he arches as he lifts himself up and lowers himself down again, taking that cock within him until he's resting on Draco's thighs, and he's filled so good and he's hurting so sweet, and he wants to lean down to kiss Draco, to taste that gasping, sweat-salty mouth, but he knows that Draco doesn't like kisses.
So he braces both hands on Draco's chest and undulates in slow circles, letting his head fall forward until his black hair partially obscures his sight--but then Draco's hand is there, warm and moist and cupping his face, stroking the damp hair away until it flattens obediently, much more obediently than it does when dry. Draco is trembling beneath him, a long, pale expanse of glistening skin--and the sight of it, the mere sight of it, is enough to make him quiver with pleasure.
'Harry...'
He loves the way Draco says it--all quiet, sobbing desperation--and when he hears it he almost thinks that this is love, that this is need, that he and Draco are doing this because it was fated to be, because Draco comes to him, only to him, though there are so many others he could have chosen--because Draco's body and his arms and his chest and his cock are made for this, only for this, and oh he fits inside so beautifully.
Thwarting the Revenge of the Sith, Book III by Polgarawolf
he's sliding down over Obi-Wan, slick and hot and smooth, Obi-Wan entering him in a long, wet slide that stretches him and makes him ache and shiver in his own skin, shaken and shaking, the sensation familiar enough by now despite its impossibility that Anakin no longer even stops to think about it, only takes it in, greedy as a man in a desert slaking his thirst after nearly perishing for lack of water, body bending like a drawn bow as he lifts himself up and lowers himself down again, taking Obi-Wan within him until he's resting on Obi-Wan's thighs, filled to perfection, and can lean down to kiss Obi-Wan, to taste that gasping, sweat-salty mouth, plumb those widened lips again, kissing once again as necessary as breathing, until the next point of fracture, bodies dumbly demanding oxygen, ripping mouths made for each other apart once again. But that's alright, that's grand, that gives him the excuse to brace both of his hands on Obi-Wan's chest and undulate in slow, breath-shuddering circles, letting his head fall forward until those loose golden curls partially obscure his sight, at least until Obi-Wan's hand finds him, fitting to the curve of his cheekbone, warm and moist, palm cupping his face, fingertips stroking the loose hair away until it finally catches, obediently, behind the sea-shell curve of an ear. Obi-Wan is trembling beneath him, a long, pale expanse of glistening skin, and the sight of it, the mere sight of it, of him, is enough to make Anakin quiver with pleasure, body poised on the edge of arching, arcing, again, already skating the edge of too much power and emotion, love and the Force sparking in him like flame in dry tinder.
And oh, he loves the way Obi-Wan says his name, all quiet, sobbing desperation, loves the way that Obi-Wan is so manifestly made for this, for him, and oh he fits inside Anakin, he fits to Anakin, so perfectly, so beautifully!
#13 This is How by Aine Deande
It's the taste of the longing... the taste of too little. The way a finger barely strokes the skin, just to feel the current of air move below. The same way a hand will reach out at the retreating figure of a woman. The back rigid and cocked, like a man's.
There seems to be little warmth between us. I have given you little reason, of course. I would laugh and you would cry... just a grin for me, neck tilted back, eyes closed.
Tears for you, eyes open and controlled. Your back curved like a dancer's, tears upon your face. Tears for the pillow, so wet upon your departure. The bed still warm from where you lay.
I lay you... I lay you down. Your voice is dry as you cry, echoes travelling the hallway like footprints in the dark. We sleep in separate compartments, but I can always hear you.
Here we go round, at five o'clock in the morning.
You are shapeless in your sleep and tasteless in my dreams. I like you awake, when I can keep you inside me. When your bedroom eyes break the sunlight into twin spears of laughter and lust. In your sleep, you are motionless, but your eyes shift behind their lids, so you must be dreaming.
I wish I could taste you in your sleep, but I could never near you in your rest. As still as your head lays in the pond of my lap, I dare not touch you. I could touch you without emotion, without fear, but I would rather breathe over you. You are fairer more when you raise your eyes to mine, when your voice bends to me... so sweet, so sweet.
Another night, I fit your dress. There are no eyes here; the silence speaks alone, broken into fragments. Sightless, unless provoked. Here I tie you up into manifold reflections. Here I lace you in with tin and fur. Here I fail you fast and flawless. Here I wait inside your dress, the clockwork turning, until the moment you come home.
Leaning together in this cobweb of scent... of not knowing the other, of wanting more. You may cry in your sleep, but you come to me for comfort. Diamond eyes, weighting, measuring. Still heavy from pain previous, yet they are sheltered to my flesh. Holding you down. People lie... they lie all the time. To themselves most of all.
Lies give reality its cutting edge. Truth makes its blade come down and cleave your life in two. I would rather dangle, suspended in stillness, where you are near to touch and far to feel. This way, I don't fall.
This way, I die slowly, at your hands and your call. Things are only true so long as your eyes are open.
There are no eyes here. We will end, as does the world when your lids are shut. You will bend away from my lying form like a dancer's, your back will greet me in turn. You will marry your betrothed and I will flee this dead house and travel a thousand landscapes, until I find sanctuary. My hope is empty, between emotion and response. Only alive in your absence, for when you are with me there is only you.
In this last of meeting places, we grope together and avoid speech. I paint you darker still, until the shadows fit you. We find each other in the dark. Life is very long. And in this lack of light there is only the ebbing of you. Tears dry beneath my fingertips.
The tryst, the trysts, the endless trust, and thrusts and, o, my darling... Goodbye lasts only till morning. But let me lie a little longer, hollowed in the dawn.
Before this conclusion, a last trembling thought. It is nearly morning; the prelude to goodbye is solidified. We hold each other. You let pass a little sigh between your lips.
This is the way the world ends; not with a bang, but a whimper.
What Matter as the Ends of Days by polgarawolf
Peter is the taste of the longing . . . the taste of too little. Endlessly, always, forever. Too little. Not too late. Just too little. The way fingertips can skim across the surface of another's skin without ever quite touching, the sensation of touch nothing more than the current of air moving across the sensitive hairs below. The way a hand can reach out after a retreating figure, longing in every line of the gesture, and yet never quite make contact with the back curving so rigidly away.
He is aware that there seems to be little warmth between them. But then, he has given Peter little reason for warmth, of late. He would laugh and Peter would cry . . . no warmth but a small sliver of a smile for him, neck turned back, face tilted up, eyes closed tight to let their dark fringe of eyelashes lie shivering upon cheekbones defined less by their height than by Peter's too little weight. Rivers of tears, eyes open and controlled. Peter's back curved like a dancer's, tears upon his too-pale, flower-like face.
The bed still warm from where he lay, those days when they shared an apartment, sheets clandestinely crawled within once he had departed to cocoon, for a time, in the warmth and scent and ghostly impressions of touch and taste and feel (of the silken slide of phantom skin, satiny hair) left by the cradle of his body.
He carried Peter up to bed and then he lay . . . he lay him down.
Peter had been shapeless in his sleep and tasteless in his dreams and O but he preferred him awake, when those break-taking, twilight-touched, sky-stained bedroom eyes break the sunlight into twin spears of laughter and life and glimmer in them can almost be mistaken for love, for lust. In sleep, insensate, Peter had been motionless but for his eyes, which shifted restlessly behind their lids, making him hope (in vain, most like) that Peter was dreaming of him. He'd wanted to taste him in his sleep, had tried in vain to win proper entry between those sleep-slackened lips, but had not dared to draw near enough to him in his rest to do more than taste, too wary of rousing him to eat and drink of that mouth as he'd wished. As still as Peter's head had been, spilling back against the pillow, he had not dared to touch with enough force to truly feel. He could have touched him then without emotion, without fear, without feeling, but he would've rather simply breathed quietly, softly, over him.
There are no eyes here. They will end, as does the world, when his lids are shut. Peter will bend away from his lying form like a dancer, the curved bow of his back greeting him in turn.
And in this, the last of their meeting places, they finally grope together and avoid speech. Grief paints Peter darker still, until the shadows fit him like another skin. They find each other in the dark. And though the moments are fleeting (Life is very long), in the lack of light there is only Peter, Peter, Peter&Harry, again and always, and the pain all falls away. Tears warm and dry beneath his fingertips as he finally makes the connection, palm curving to cup the flower-shape of Peter's face, and O, connection, completion, complete
The tryst, the trust, finally and forever, trysts and the endless trust and thrusts and O, best beloved, dearest one . . . Goodbye lasts only the breadth of time in which eyes are shut.
A last trembling thought arises just before conclusion can catch them as they tumble down together. It's nearly morning and the prelude to goodbye is solidified, and so they simply hold onto each other. He lets pass a little sigh between his lips while tears like April rain fall from Peter's eyes down onto his honey-skin.
#14 Star By Star by Troy Denning
They appeared without warning from beyond the edge of galactic space: a warrior race called the Yuuzhan Vong, armed with surprise, treachery, and a bizarre organic technology that proved a match - too often more than a match - for the New Republic and its allies. Even the Jedi, under the leadership of Luke Skywalker, found themselves thrown on the defensive, deprived of their greatest strength. For somehow, inexplicably, the Yuuzhan Vong seemed to be utterly devoid of the Force.
Star by Star by polgarawolf
They appeared without warning from beyond the edge of galactic space: a warrior race called the Yuuzhan Vong, armed with surprise, treachery, and a bizarre organic technology that proved a match - and, too often, more than a match - for the New Republic and its allies. Even the Jedi, under the leadership of Luke Skywalker, found themselves thrown on the defensive, deprived of their greatest strength, for somehow, inexplicably, the Yuuzhan Vong seemed to be utterly devoid of the Force.
As a side note I wanted to convey my thanks to all members for respecting the communities rules by not making personal comments against the accused and for keeping quite calm.
Thank you to my co-mod misscam and also to a number of comm members who were very helpful in finding and reporting other information. Thank you to lindenharp, dshael, wendymr and edgefire.