a fool's musings

Fool, said my muse to me, look in thy heart and write...

Warning: Adult Content achromatic unfinished fic graveyard recs journal new stuff recent stuff my back pages January 2004 December 2003 November 2003 October 2003 September 2003 August 2003 July 2003 June 2003 May 2003 April 2003 March 2003 February 2003 January 2003 December 2002 November 2002 October 2002 September 2002 August 2002 July 2002 June 2002 May 2002 April 2002 March 2002 February 2002 January 2002 December 2001 November 2001 the five Ws, or, all about me profile e-mail victoria my livejournal the original P&R comments current mood: "pathological and unbalanced" Items of Interest People LiveJournal folks Baraita bishclone claritylit Jintian Kat Allison Kit Mason metablog mix-tapes Neil Gaiman Nestra Sarah T. Seema Shrift Sundry Mourning zendom Music Walk On - U2 Thunder Road - Bruce Springsteen If I Can't Change Your Mind - Sugar Sick of Myself - Matthew Sweet Town Called Malice - The Jam One - U2 The Space Between - DMB Books Lord of the Rings Catch-22 The Neely Trilogy Absalom! Absalom! Possession: A Romance Foucault's Pendulum Dreamhouse LA Confidential I Capture the Castle Sandman Waking the Moon Shows Angel Buffy the Vampire Slayer (in reruns) Alias West Wing The Simpsons webrings < ? fanfiction ! > < ? writers ! > diaryreviews.diaryland.com NYC Bloggers Comments by Haloscan.com all links, if I haven't screwed up somehow, should open in a new browser window

12.31.02 - 10:29 p.m. Nothing Like the Sun, part deux LJ is being a bitch tonight. Just tried to upload my new Legloas and Eowyn icons, and it took *forever*. For those who are interested: and (Thanks, Khaki, for the Eowyn with sword pic) In keeping with that, I've begun "The First and Last Time", the Aragorn/Legolas/Eowyn PWP that Voleuse is encouraging shamelessly. I still haven't figured out how I'm going to get actual sex into an LotR story. It's just... wrong... Perhaps I should write in present tense? Sex always seems to work better then... Hmm... Meanwhile, speaking of sex, Hermione and Draco, part deux: His eyes were far away, his voice bitter. "What was I supposed to say? 'Sure, old pal. I'll tell her while I'm fucking her?'" He caught her fist as she tried to punch him. "Granger, please. Don't be tiresome." She was shaking with rage -- his calm indifference infuriated her -- but he held both her hands now; she wasn't able to reach for her wand. "That's better," he whispered, his warm breath sending delicious shivers down her spine. "Get angry." She flicked a quick glance around the pub then raised her eyes to his. "God, I hate you, Malfoy." "I know." A quick grin. "The feeling is mutual." He nipped at her earlobe, and laved away the sting with his tongue. "Let's get out of here." He tossed some crumpled bills onto the bar and led her out into the night. "It's not safe--" she began, but he stopped her, his mouth hard and hot over her own. She slipped her arms around his shoulders, fingers tangling in the silky blond hair at the nape of his neck, so different from Ron's fiery red. He tore his mouth from hers and she whimpered in protest; his lips trailed fire along her jaw and then down over her neck. "Not ... safe..." she repeated, before she lost coherent thought. He pulled back and grinned. It was at moments like these that she believed she almost liked him. "Round the corner," he said, and led her into an alley next to the bar. He muttered a spell and she nodded in approval. Anyone looking would simply see a couple in the throes of passion; embarrassing, but not identifiable. He pushed her back against the brick wall, and she let him, feeling a rush of moist warmth between her legs. His hands were already up underneath her jumper, cupping her breasts. His thumbs brushed over taut nipples and she moaned, arching into him. "Now," she said. There were no soft words of love exchanged. He slid his hands along her bottom, and she wrapped her legs around his hips. "Going commando, Granger?" he teased, brushing her wet folds with his cock. She cupped his face, her thumb tracing the high arch of his cheek, and thrust her hips at him. "Now, Malfoy," she demanded. Teasing was for long, lazy nights with Ron. He grunted in response and pushed his way into her, stopping only long enough for her to mutter a contraception spell. And then they moved in time. She drank it all in -- the scent of his hair gel, the brush of his stubble along her neck, the heat of his breath in her ear, and most of all, the hard push of his cock inside her body. As they pushed and pulled against each other, in-out, in-out, each trying to consume the other, memories flashed through her mind... --The first time she met Ron, his hair on fire from sunlight on the Hogwarts Express. --The first time Ron kissed her -- Christmas, fifth year, under the mistletoe, hurried, almost chaste, but with intention. --The first time they made love, after months of teasing and sneaking, fumbling hands. His lips on her body, his cock inside her, whispering, "I love you, Hermione" into her ear. It traveled to her heart, and set down roots, blossoming under his tender care. --The last time they made love, arguing about the contraception spell. She wanted to wait until Voldemort was defeated, couldn't imagine bringing children into the world as it stood now. She felt the tension build, spiraling tighter, as Draco lost his rhythm and came. His hand slid between them, circling her clit as she began to shudder. His mouth covered hers, swallowing her moan of pleasure as she climaxed, her hips bucking against him as the world burst into a million shards of light. "God," he panted when he finally broke the kiss. His hair shone silver in the moonlight, so different from Ron's fiery red. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, and she rested her chin on the top of his head. "Draco--" "Shh." He raised his face, kissed her softly, and she wanted to drown in the taste of him. She stared up at him, his eyes glittering in the dimness, and there was something, some indefinable emotion in them, and part of her wanted to hold him there until she could identify it. "Why?" But he kissed her again and then disapparated, leaving her tousled, bruised and boneless, her curiosity unsatisfied yet again. *** I'm not sure about those flashbacks in the middle of the sex scene. And there's another flashback, where she first remembers how the whole thing with Draco started, but I'm not sure about that either, so I'm not posting it. *g* At least this has a title now: Nothing Like the Sun. Hey, when in doubt, crib from Shakespeare. Also, anyone got a good HP reference site, where I can reassure myself of the color of Ron's and Hermione's eyes (I'm guessing blue is right for Draco)? You know what I'm enjoying most about writing this? I can make Draco a right prick and not feel bad about it, because I don't like him. I can make him do or say all the stuff that I change for Logan and Lex, because while they're bastards, I like them, and don't want to make them too mean. Draco, on the other hand, is an obnoxious little prat who needs to be locked in Wesley's closet (with bucket - I'm not totally heartless) and thrashed soundly by Justine... Hmm... now there's an idea... Draco gets sent to family in LA during the summer after GoF, and meets up with Wesley Wyndham-Price. No sex (ew! too young!) but a sound thrashing for Draco that helps improve his character... Someone must write this... Anyhow, my point, and I did have one, was that I can make Draco be snarky and nasty and just all-around unpleasant, and it's in character, especially if he's interacting with Hermione. So that's just a nice bonus of the weirdness swirling around in my brain. Now if I could just wrap my mind around Elf/Man/Woman sex, things would be peachy. And last but not least, Happy New Year, everybody! Have a happy and healthy celebration, and may that carry on through the whole year. Peace, ~victoria link [current mood: okay] [current music: Beyond the Sea - Bobby Darin] [random quote: should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind we'll drink a cup of kindness yet for auld lang syne] ~*~ 12.30.02 - 1:31 p.m. Why MPREG Legolas? Why, dear God? Why? I don't much care for Draco/Hermione, and not at all for most redeemed!Draco I've read, so god only knows where I got this gem from. Maybe it was a reaction to the bad D/H and redeemed!Draco I clicked on Friday while I was bored at work. Who knows? All I know is, I swore I wasn't going to do anymore HP, and I guess I'm forsworn. I'm also starting out by making my favorite character a faithless alcoholic and killing off my second favorite character, so what the hell do I know? This has no title, but I'm calling it "Enemies: A Love Story" in my head. Though technically, it's not a love story, and I guess they're only partially enemies. I'm not sure yet how bad Draco actually is. Hmm... *** The war was going badly. Hermione could admit that in the silence of her own head, even if she would never tell Harry. She slid onto a stool at the bar and ordered a vodka tonic. She wasn't planning on drinking tonight, but the pub looked so warm and inviting, she couldn't help herself. As she waited, she twisted the engagement ring on her left hand. It had been three months since Ron had disappeared, and she was starting to give up hope. Hope that he was alive, at any rate. Lately, she found herself hoping he was dead, that it had been quick and painless, far too often for her own comfort. She finished her drink quickly, and realized that one wasn't going to be enough. She caught the bartender's eye and tapped her glass. He winked and smiled, placing a new drink before her. "Courtesy of the gent at the end of the bar." She looked over, but saw no one she knew. She felt a quiver of ... something unfamiliar in the pit of her stomach. Here she was in Muggle London, drinking to forget her most-likely-dead fiancé, and strangers were buying her drinks. She could almost laugh at the absurdity of it. Didn't they know there was a war on? But of course, they didn't. And it was part of her job to make sure they never found out, since she moved easily between the two worlds. She smiled vaguely in the direction the bartender had indicated, raising her glass to salute whomever had bought the drink. Someone slid into the seat next to her, and she wondered if she was going to meet a stranger, and what would happen. "Drinking alone, Granger?" His voice was soft, but carried easily over the noise in the crowded pub. "Malfoy." She poured as much venom as possible into the word. He reached out and ran a thumb over her left hand, grazing the ring on her finger. "He's dead, you know." She gasped, closed her eyes, overwhelmed by nausea. Draco's grip on her hand tightened, reminding her she was not alone, not safe. She took a deep breath, fought back the tears, and opened her eyes, staring at his face. He met her gaze unflinchingly, ice-blue eyes softening only slightly. "He died well, Granger. And not in pain. I made sure of that." "Murderer," she hissed, and tried to pull her hand away, but he was stronger. "It was suicide. I offered him a quick, clean death in place of the torture my father and --" even here he wouldn't say the name, "the Dark Lord were planning for him." His voice was cold, unfeeling, and if she hadn't been looking at him, she'd have thought him completely unaffected. But his face was pained. She looked away. He was the enemy. She hated him, and wanted him dead, now. She ran through the Unspeakable Curses in her mind, and thought none of them were unspeakable enough for him. She took a gulp of her drink to buy herself a moment. Then, "Why should I believe you?" "Hermione." His voice cracked like a whip. He never called her that. Never. "Why would I lie?" "That's what you do, Malfoy. Your whole life is a lie." He inclined his head. "Point. However, this is what you wanted, isn't it?" She gasped again. "I wanted my fiancé back, you bastard." He ignored her interruption and continued. "At least you know, now. He died painlessly, he didn't give up any information, he kept you and his family safe." Draco's lips twisted. "His last words were for you. 'Tell her I love her.'" She swallowed hard. "Malfoy--" "What was I supposed to say? 'Oh, sure, old pal. I'll tell her while I'm fucking her?" *** So um, yeah. You can see where this is going. It's obviously years after GoF, which still makes me uncomfortable, because I can't help but seeing Emma Watson and Tom Felton, and eeww.... but I keep thinking James Marsters and Helena Bonham-Carter, and that makes it a little better. I'm going to the Special Hell. I really am. I just hope to get some more of this fic written before I do. And I'm asking for HP beta help now, so I don't have to scramble if I do finish this. I'll need someone good with the Britishy stuff, as well, and god knows, my gusys won't touch this with a ten foot pole. In L/R news, Jenn reminded me last night that I owe her stumpfucking for her birthday, which is now less than a month away, so I need to get cracking on PsychoKiller fic again. I hope I can do that. Hey, last year I was only six months late with her birthday fic. *g* This time she gave me six months warning and I'm still going to be late. I don't write well to deadline. Or rather, I don't write fiction well to deadline. I was queen of the all night term paper in high school and college. Just one question for all you folks who hit this diary on a search - why MPREG Legolas? Why, dear God? Why? ~victoria link [current mood: strange, creative] [current music: Someone Saved My Life Tonight - Elton John] [random quote: I want to scream at the top of my lungs...] ~*~ 12.29.02 - 5:42 p.m. They left out Sam's Box o' Dirt I know what I forgot - and Peter Jackson forgot as well: Sam's Box o'Dirt. How could they not give him his little box of Lorien dirt? Hmph. And were the belts attached to the knives Merry and Pippin got? Yeah, this was a completely pointless post. I went a little icon crazy this afternoon, the results of which will be in the LJ shortly. The Jets are winning, I think, which is cool. Though the Packers just scored. Sigh. I like Brett Favre. Like him a lot. But I'd like the Jets to get into the playoffs, and they need to win to do that... Oh, I know! The final version of Another Auld Lang Syne is up on the site. I also posted it to Level Three and Wild Coyote. I feel accomplished. Didn't go see TTT with my father and sister due to circumstances beyond my control, and I'm irritated. Not because I didn't get to see it again - I can do that any time. No, the circumstances irritate me. I'd elaborate, but it's not my story to tell, so...grrr... ~victoria link [current mood: irritated] [current music: Jets-Packers on tv] [random quote: If you're lonely you get lazy If you're lazy you get lonely They say you only get what you deserve] ~*~ 12.28.02 - 11:11 p.m. "You carry a heavy burden. Don't carry the dead as well." Just watched the FotR extended edition (finally) and I can understand why PJ made the cuts he did. I mean, the whole bit with Bilbo talking about hobbits was nice, but not necessary. Some of the other stuff I'd have liked to see left in - mainly the gift-giving in Lorien (and poor Boromir didn't get his belt. I cried again when he died. I feel so used. So betrayed. So guilty for preferring him to Faramir so far). I was so happy to see Gimli's stuff restored there. It's a precedent for his charming behavior in TTT, and I just love how he starts off all "I won't fall under her spell" and ends up adoring Galadriel. I also liked the slightly longer scene with Aragorn and Boromir, though I *still* would have preferred, "Here is the Sword That Was Broken" at the council. Speaking of which - Galadriel didn't give him Anduril nee Narcil - she gave him some kind of curly knife instead (the one he uses in the scene with Eowyn, in fact). So when will Anduril make its appearance. And she calls him Elessar, but doesn't give him the brooch. So is the thing I've been referring to as the Evenstar - the trinket Arwen gave him - is *that* the "Elfstone"? I thought that was supposed to be green like a beryl? Ah well, I'm just being a nitpicker now. I have a headache and I'm sick again. I'm allowed. I also am not sure about "I would not take the ring within 100 leagues of your city" because up until that point, in the book, Aragorn is considering going to Minas Tirith with Boromir, to lead his people in war. I'm not imagining it. I looked it up tonight. Also, was his temptation a bit longer? The whispering "Aragorn" wasn't in the theatrical release, was it? Because it makes him look a bit more tempted, as Gandalf and Galadriel were tempted. Though not Elrond, or Legolas, strangely enough. Elrond doesn't even mention he has Gil-Galad's ring. At least we saw Nenya, the Ring of Adam Ant. The funniest thing - both my parents were dozing in the living room at about 6:30, so I decided to put the movie in. We'd had a big discussion about watching it, and my mother vetoed it. So I load the movie up and she opens her eyes and says, "Did you think you were going to sneak this by me?" How do mothers *do* that? So I asked her if she was okay with my watching it, since they'd both fallen asleep, and she said fine, she was going to go down the basement and watch the football. Three and half hours later, she was asking me what happens next, and Gandalf isn't dead, is he? She read the books but doesn't remember them too well, which is funny, considering her love of most of the high fantasy series derived from LotR. That's one reason I want to go with my sister and father to the movie. I want to gauge the reactions of people who either haven't read (Marguerite) or don't remember (Daddy) the books. I really need someone normal (i.e., not overly invested) to tell me what they think of Faramir. I talked over in the LJ last week about why this bothers me so much, and it *does* bother me. I cried *again* tonight when Boromir died. I'm currently hoping Faux!Faramir gets shot full of orc arrows, too. And that twists me up inside. But how much did I love some of Boromir's extra lines - "You carry a heavy burden. Don't carry the dead as well." *meep* And Sean Bean's hottitude grows with every viewing, I swear. I wish *he* had played Faramir, and Wenham, Boromir. Sigh. I really need to get out more, don't I? ~victoria link [current mood: sick] [current music: Logical Song - SuperTramp] [random quote: still there's one thing that comforts me since I was always caged and now I'm free\" - \"Monkey Wrench\"] ~*~ 12.28.02 - 5:12 p.m. sudden death and demon dreams Giants in the playoffs... Giants in the playoffs... That said, I hate sudden death overtime in football. It's very unfair. Both teams should get a chance at the ball before the game is decided. That's how it is in every other sport. Here, all too often, the team that wins the coin toss (and damn Frank Pembleton, 'cause til this day I say "toin coss" half the time and it sounds right) wins the game, because they get the ball first and score. Anyway... last night I dreamt, well, a couple of things. First, that I was organizing a sleep-a-thon for charity. Now that's my kind of event - sleeping for money. I was going around trying to arrange everything and Pete was getting in my way because M'Rae's plane was late and he was worried. Meanwhile, I was going to stores and trying to get them to donate goods - pajamas, mostly - as prizes. The scary part - apparently, in my dream, Chris Robinson of the Black Crowes had his own women's sleepwear line, which included lots of skimpy t-shirt like nighties with feathered collars and sequined sayings like, "Rock Chick" emblazoned on them - they were *so* freaking tacky, I can't even begin to describe them. And then there were the political ones, with such gems as "Bush Is Rotten" in sequins on the panties. ::shakes head:: I fear my mind sometimes. Then I dreamt that my parents' bought my cousin's house and we were living in two places, and we were compiling a database of demons that we'd fought. I found an old PlaySkool desk with the chalkboard and the space to keep crayons and the magentic alphabet? You know what I mean, though apparently they don't make it anymore, or it was Fisher-Price instead of Playskool. Huh. This is as close as I can come. Anyhow, I found one in the attic and was cleaning it up for Tricia when this green, five-legged, one-eyed beastie showed up and started terrorizing everyone. I hid in the bathtub. My sister and mother turned it into a bat and then it got eaten by another beastie, which was then vanquished by my sister. And then I entered all of that into the database and asked my mother why we were living in two houses, and she said that it wasn't safe at the other house. And I said it didn't seem too safe in this house, either, and she said she understood that it was sort of daunting to never know when opening a book or a toy was going to free a demon (so I guess the green thing was my fault), but that we had a job to do, and we were going to do it, so get out of the bathtub and start updating the database. Then I woke up. And that's *without* any cold medicine. Why can't I have naughty-fun Legolas dreams? ~victoria link [current mood: giddy] [current music: football on teevee] [random quote: We are the NY Giants / don't you know we're great...] ~*~ 12.28.02 - 1:33 a.m. ChLex, draft 1 So all my whining about not-writing? Wrote this on the commute tonight. The whole ride was spent pouring this out onto paper. Yeah, I don't know what happened either, but I blame Käthe. And Dan Fogelberg. Title comes from a song of his, god help us all. ~*~ Another Auld Lang Syne Chloe hated New Year's Eve. She knew that was not only ridiculous, but horribly clichéd as well. Knowing didn't change her feelings, though. She looked around the newsroom, relatively quiet now that most of the staff had left to celebrate the holiday. She wasn't looking forward to the hangovers and tales of drunken revelry in the morning. She was alone, for all intents and purposes, and she preferred it that way. It wasn't that she didn't have parties to go to. She could have gone to Metropolis and watched Clark and Lois be the perfect couple in their perfect apartment, and hear all about their perfect life. She could have celebrated with Lana and Pete, Smallville's up-and-coming power couple, and various members of the town council, but she couldn't stand the way they looked at her. As if they knew how she had gotten her job. She had declined a startling number of invitations, knowing that it was better to be bitter while she was alone, and the sight of two, four, a dozen, a hundred couples sharing a kiss at midnight would only be pouring alcohol on her bleeding heart. She frowned at the melodramatic turn her thoughts had taken. She knew her friends loved her; she just hated being the token single person at every gathering, now that everyone had paired off. And she really didn't want to go through another round of set-ups. Her faced burned as she recalled the hopeful look on Lana's face every time another friend of Pete's 'just happened' to join them for dinner. At least Clark was up-front about the matchmaking. He still felt inexplicably guilty for not loving her in high school, and ten years later, was dedicated to finding her the perfect husband. Because despite all the odd things that surrounded Clark, his life was perfect. Hers was not. He didn't know that she'd outgrown her crush on him a long time ago. No, he didn't know that. He also didn't know -- no one knew -- she'd somehow managed to give her heart to someone who'd wanted even less than Clark had. A drink to ring in the new year seemed fitting. As midnight neared, she slipped into her office. Managing Editor of the Smallville Ledger at twenty-seven. The words on the glass door might as well have been etched with acid on her heart. She opened the small cabinet beneath her desk, took out two glasses. Their weight in her hand was a comfort and an anchor, dragging her down, back, into the past. She closed her eyes, but that only encouraged the memories-- his eyes laughing, his mouth curved in a secret smile before he pressed his lips to hers, tasting of fine, old brandy, a hint of lip balm, and him. No one else tasted like him, and she knew. She'd spent the last couple of months trying to find someone who did. She forced her eyes open. Reliving the past was pointless. The cheery clink of ice against the glass made her lips twist in a bitter smile. Philistine, he'd called her, for diluting fifty-year-old single malt scotch with ice. She didn't have anything near as fine in her little liquor cabinet; Managing Editors at small-town newspapers didn't make quite that much money, not even one who'd gotten her job at the whim of Lex Luthor. And she eagerly awaited the day that thinking his name didn't bring with it a sharp stab in the region near her heart. She did have a smooth twelve-year-old Glenlivet, though, and she inhaled the smoky scent as she poured the amber liquid into her glass. "Nothing surprises you, huh, Miss Sullivan." The bottle nearly slipped through her suddenly nerveless fingers. She set it on the desk with a thunk. "Not where you're concerned, Lex." She deliberately let his name roll off her tongue. He might pay her salary, and the whole town might think she was in his pocket now, but no one owned Chloe Sullivan, least of all Lex Luthor. He shrugged out of his elegant, black, wool coat, draped it across the visitor's chair. Then he picked up the bottle and spilled two fingers of scotch into the empty glass. "You shouldn't drink alone, Chloe." His voice was richer, deeper and more intoxicating than any liquor could ever be. Dammit, she was over this. "What do you care?" That slipped out before she could stop it. She bit her lip to prevent herself from saying more, from telling him how she felt, from asking why he'd done it. Her fingers tightened around her glass, smooth and cool against her palm, like his skin in the morning-- His voice was silky, smug. "I care about the health of all my employees." She couldn't let go of the glass. It was glued to her fingers. She was afraid she was going to break it. "Of course. As if I could ever forget who signs my paycheck." He shrugged, all cool calculation, and made a sweeping gesture indicating her office, the newsroom, the paper. "This was your choice, Chloe. It didn't have to be like this." She raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "I came to tell you I have no hard feelings. In fact," he leaned forward and she felt his eyes sweep over her body, "I think this arrangement could be mutually beneficial." Before stopping to think, she dashed the drink in his face. "Get out. Get out now." She was quivering with rage, and if he stayed to see her break down into tears, she would hate him forever. He wiped his face with a tissue from her desk, licked his lips and said, in a more natural tone of voice, "That was a waste of perfectly decent scotch." Chloe blinked. Lex collapsed into the chair and laughed, really and truly laughed, and it made her want to cry, but not from rage this time. She remembered that laugh washing over her as they made love, watched television, drove fast in one of his cars. Three short months together after almost ten years of casual acquaintance, linked only by their mutual friendship with Clark. It had started on another holiday, at the annual town Fourth of July picnic. Clark and Lois had been unable to make it, so Chloe had stuck close to Pete and Lana at first, and then naturally gravitated toward Lex, to avoid the matchmakers. A softball game, a twisted ankle from sliding into home, and Lex's deft, gentle hands assuring her it wasn't broken, but he'd take her home and put some ice on it anyway. The thrill of his touch on her skin, his lips on her forehead, had beguiled her into asking him to stay. To her delight, they liked the same nineteen-forties screwball comedies, and spent the rest of that afternoon watching Tracy and Hepburn fall in love over and over again. It had ended in silence, the title and bump in salary her payment for keeping quiet about the affair when his interests turned elsewhere. She would never be taken seriously now, regardless of how many exposés on LexCorp the Ledger ran. "What do you want, Lex?" she asked, suddenly weary of the game, if game it was. He reached out to stroke her cheek with his finger; she jerked away, and he slumped a little in the chair. "I wanted to say I'm sorry. I didn't think it would turn out like this," he said, his voice low, like raw silk against her ears. She swallowed hard, tears threatening again. She had to get rid of him, so she could cry in peace. She held up a hand. "Don't. Please." "I just want to make peace." He toyed with his glass, turning it round and round in his hands. "We were friends, once. I'd like to think we could at least be civil again." He held her gaze and she looked away first. "You made me feel like a whore, Lex. I don't think I can get over that with a fake apology and a 'let's be friends'." He stood so quickly he almost overturned the chair. "I what?" "You fucked me and you paid me off when you were done." She couldn't stop her voice from breaking. He slammed the glass onto the desk. "No. You used me to get the Managing Editor job. You made me lo-- You used *me*. I'm the injured party here." She was back on solid ground again, not at all ready to give into him on the strength of his lame apology. "Oh, sure. That's why as soon as Amélie Rothschild entered the picture, you didn't have time for me anymore, and to shut me up, you gave me this job." "Amélie is a business partner. That's all." He moved toward her with feline grace, a panther in black Armani. He took hold of her wrist, and she let him. "I can think of much better ways to shut you up, Miss Sullivan." His breath whispered across her lips, and she shivered. "You got me this job," she said. "No. I put your name up for consideration, and since I own the paper, the board felt obligated to interview you. My involvement ended there. You got the job on your own merits." "And you think I only wanted you for the job?" she asked, aghast. "It wasn't payment to keep me quiet?" "If it was, it didn't work." His mouth twisted in a bitter grin. "You've had the IRS, the FDA and the FCC breathing down my neck since you got this job. I couldn't understand why you hated me." He ran a thumb over her bottom lip. "And I certainly never intended you to feel like a whore." She resisted the urge to lick his thumb. "You stopped calling." Even to her own ears, it sounded weak. "You stopped answering." "Don't turn this back on me." "Chloe--" "I thought you thought I was beneath you." His grin widened, became genuine, wicked. "Now, there's an interesting thought." "Lex--" He walked backward, gently pulling her with him. "I'm sorry," he said again. She could feel his hand trembling as he slid it through her hair. Her heart was pounding in her ears, so she almost missed his whispered, "I think I love you." "I don't know what to say." "'I love you, too,' is the customary response." He continued to walk her toward the window. They looked out as the clock struck midnight, and fireworks shot off in the town square. "Happy New Year, Chloe Sullivan." "Happy New Year, Lex Luthor." She kissed him on the lips, soft and chaste. "I think I love you, too." He returned the kiss, deepened it, and she tasted him again -- Glenlivet, a hint of lip balm, and Lex. Maybe New Year's wasn't so bad after all. end *** Huh. Whore fascination raises its ugly head again, and is coupled with my need to rush the endings. I think they may have made up too fast. Not sure. Not sure at all, especially as it's my first time writing them as a couple, and I'm not sure that Lex isn't too apologetic, but... well, it is love, right? And it is holiday fic. Oh well. Bed now, I think. Comments welcome, as always. Giants-Eagles tomorrow. Go Giants! ~victoria link [current mood: tired] [current music: silence] [random quote: Self-deception is nature; hypocrisy is art. ~Mason Cooley] ~*~ previous - next DiaryLand Disclaimer: Reading this diary is not required by law. If you do not like or agree with the contents herein, or find them to be offensive on more than one occasion, please go elsewhere and don't come back. Management is not responsible for any adverse reactions to content within. The painting is "Boreas" by John William Waterhouse. Again, not a muse, but I like her. She suits the color scheme. The quote is from Sir Philip Sidney. This site is best viewed with IE4+ | 1024x768 | true color | verdana | tables