drabble and a mini update.
literature from a different point of view
Literature was unnecessarily celebrated.
There were good things in it - there were good books out there. However, most of what he read tended to fall into the same category as 'paint rags' and didn't stick in his mind for more than a few days after finishing the book. The quotes he could remember were never assigned to their proper books. He'd have been blessed if he could remember one character from any one book he'd read.
Singularity among novels not in a series was a worrying thing. Originality was quite unfashionable (so Grell told him) and maybe that was the problem - maybe it was merely a case of following fashion; seeing what sold and what pleased and copying it until the general populace found another thing to suckle dry. It boggled, really. So much literature, and so little of it sensible literature.
"I don't get the idea of the hero. Most of them seem like morons, to me."
Sharing opinions like this was far better suited for desk-filled classrooms with plain, empty black boards for writing upon, but a bed in a dark room, with the rain humming against the window panes, was too comfortable to pass up. His head rested, with worrying ease, on Grell's chest. His hand was wrapped around the other man's fingers - he was choosing to ignore it. As far as watchful eyes were concerned, he was nothing more than a pillow; a pillow with unusually sharp teeth and an uncanny way of finding nipples to bite when Grell's slap-dash attitude got a bit too grazing and harsh.
"What about Tristan?" Lazily, Grell's voice slipped and slurred sleepily, though the most of it was aesthetic; his eyes were wide open, in the dark, uncovered and staring straight at something on the ceiling. "He was a fabulous hero."
"He randomly took an Irish maiden off the streets to give to his king and then drank a love potion," William lifted his head, pulling a corner of Grell's pillow to pad it out on his shoulder, then settled it back down. "Not to mention he was shagging another man's wife. That's dishonourable." A dry sniff followed.
Grell chuckled, curling his fingers in the sweat-damp hair at the back of William's neck. "So proper and British. You'd suffer in France."
In the darkness, William's face creased into an expression of disgust. "Ugh. The French. They're never satisfied with what they have. You don't see us complaining because we're overworked - or chopping off the monarch's head. It's distasteful - that level of disrespect should be punished."
"It's romantic, though," Grell rolled onto his side. The rain beat harder, the wind trickled in through the gaps between wall and window. "Just think - in two hundred years, people will still be talking about it."
"In two hundred years, they'll probably still be revolting," William said darkly, shifting with the redhead near at the same time, as though anticipating the move. "And maidens have weak legs. They all faint in literature. I think it's ridiculous, to have us believe that the slightest bit of excitement will have their legs giving way."
Grell's laughter was softer than the rain, when it was sleepy. Unconsciously, Will noted this down, and slid his arm around his waist from behind, pressing his face to his shoulder. "What's so funny?"
"I just remembered the one and only time you fainted," Grell replied. Automatically, William's fingers curled into his stomach, as though reaching for something to grab - anticipating the worst scenario, Grell reached down and pulled his hand safely away to his chest. "You bruised me. You're all hard and bony - you're practically a man-cactus hybrid."
"You are so bloody bizarre," William grumbled, twisting his hand free. He pushed himself up on an elbow, glaring down at the gentle undulation of Grell's spine, highlighted by shadow and faint smudges of moonlight.
Grell chuckled again, and turned, offered his chest. Will pinched his side, squeezing soft skin between his fingertips, ignored the lash of filed nails over his back as retaliation, and hid his face from the light, using his throat in lieu of pulling the sheets over his head.
At least, that's what he told himself.
So. I knocked my cat off my windowsill this morning. My room is relatively low - on the second floor - but she made such a horrendous sound, and now she seems so quiet and weak.
I really hope that's just her way of getting revenge.
Literature was unnecessarily celebrated.
There were good things in it - there were good books out there. However, most of what he read tended to fall into the same category as 'paint rags' and didn't stick in his mind for more than a few days after finishing the book. The quotes he could remember were never assigned to their proper books. He'd have been blessed if he could remember one character from any one book he'd read.
Singularity among novels not in a series was a worrying thing. Originality was quite unfashionable (so Grell told him) and maybe that was the problem - maybe it was merely a case of following fashion; seeing what sold and what pleased and copying it until the general populace found another thing to suckle dry. It boggled, really. So much literature, and so little of it sensible literature.
"I don't get the idea of the hero. Most of them seem like morons, to me."
Sharing opinions like this was far better suited for desk-filled classrooms with plain, empty black boards for writing upon, but a bed in a dark room, with the rain humming against the window panes, was too comfortable to pass up. His head rested, with worrying ease, on Grell's chest. His hand was wrapped around the other man's fingers - he was choosing to ignore it. As far as watchful eyes were concerned, he was nothing more than a pillow; a pillow with unusually sharp teeth and an uncanny way of finding nipples to bite when Grell's slap-dash attitude got a bit too grazing and harsh.
"What about Tristan?" Lazily, Grell's voice slipped and slurred sleepily, though the most of it was aesthetic; his eyes were wide open, in the dark, uncovered and staring straight at something on the ceiling. "He was a fabulous hero."
"He randomly took an Irish maiden off the streets to give to his king and then drank a love potion," William lifted his head, pulling a corner of Grell's pillow to pad it out on his shoulder, then settled it back down. "Not to mention he was shagging another man's wife. That's dishonourable." A dry sniff followed.
Grell chuckled, curling his fingers in the sweat-damp hair at the back of William's neck. "So proper and British. You'd suffer in France."
In the darkness, William's face creased into an expression of disgust. "Ugh. The French. They're never satisfied with what they have. You don't see us complaining because we're overworked - or chopping off the monarch's head. It's distasteful - that level of disrespect should be punished."
"It's romantic, though," Grell rolled onto his side. The rain beat harder, the wind trickled in through the gaps between wall and window. "Just think - in two hundred years, people will still be talking about it."
"In two hundred years, they'll probably still be revolting," William said darkly, shifting with the redhead near at the same time, as though anticipating the move. "And maidens have weak legs. They all faint in literature. I think it's ridiculous, to have us believe that the slightest bit of excitement will have their legs giving way."
Grell's laughter was softer than the rain, when it was sleepy. Unconsciously, Will noted this down, and slid his arm around his waist from behind, pressing his face to his shoulder. "What's so funny?"
"I just remembered the one and only time you fainted," Grell replied. Automatically, William's fingers curled into his stomach, as though reaching for something to grab - anticipating the worst scenario, Grell reached down and pulled his hand safely away to his chest. "You bruised me. You're all hard and bony - you're practically a man-cactus hybrid."
"You are so bloody bizarre," William grumbled, twisting his hand free. He pushed himself up on an elbow, glaring down at the gentle undulation of Grell's spine, highlighted by shadow and faint smudges of moonlight.
Grell chuckled again, and turned, offered his chest. Will pinched his side, squeezing soft skin between his fingertips, ignored the lash of filed nails over his back as retaliation, and hid his face from the light, using his throat in lieu of pulling the sheets over his head.
At least, that's what he told himself.
So. I knocked my cat off my windowsill this morning. My room is relatively low - on the second floor - but she made such a horrendous sound, and now she seems so quiet and weak.
I really hope that's just her way of getting revenge.