behindthec | so press repeat, i'll start again with "once upon a time."

lookit me, all fangirling red's lyrics. ♥

so, this kinda doubles as the start of my outline, more for my benefit than anything else; it's slightly spoilery and hella rambly, so don't read if you don't want, but if you're following the development of this fic, you may find it interesting.

things we now know about "19th century scottish peasant AU":

- it is now irish. :P

-

j_plash is now my official partner on this. i'm going to be doing the primary writing (though i may beg bits of scenes/lines from her), since i may want to adapt this into an actualfax novel someday. but it looks like she's going to do most of the plotting and organization because our brains appear to be about 95% on the same wavelength for this and my ideas are all over the place, whereas she seems to have clear images, like she can put into words everything i want to do. she's done *research* on slave fics, knows everything about them and how to keep them from being cliche and cringeworthy. how do i get so lucky to work with people like this?!

- brendon is... some kind of instrument repair dude, who plays (guitarish things?) on the street for cash. (or possibly some kind of piano-maker's apprentice?) not sure if he's technically homeless, but he's street-smart and plucky. jack dawson-esque. he later gets rich by developing his own piano-making business (this is apparently actually lucrative), and maybe starting a music studio of sorts. shane his business partner. jon is the 19th century equivalent of a tech at the cabaret where ryan is eventually taken (jon has no idea the performers are slaves; it's just a job for him -- ETA: or maybe he does know and he's secretly helping the slaves, like, bringing them things like food and books and goodies all the time, and working underground with one tom conrad on a plan to seize this joint and set everyone free at some point? just idealist enough to be jon :/), and eventually helps ryan and brendon escape. SHANE, ngh, gets to have a sexy spanish accent. fucking HELL yes. :D

- ryan plays the harp, or dulcimer (undecided). it's locked in the attic, it was his mother's, i think she died in childbirth (hence ryan's dad's resentment toward him). can you teach yourself the harp?

- has been concluded that they have one kiss before ryan is ~taken. ryan is taken b/c his father is going to be whisked away to debtor's prison if he doesn't pay up, so... i guess he sells ryan? or they take him? idk how it works, either way ryan's dad kills himself within days after ryan's taken.

- his dad is a blacksmith, and ryan tries to make all the armor and weapons pretty with his ~artsy designs and stuff, which pisses his dad off, obv. will expand more on this, lol.

- very clear images of when brendon buys ryan for a night. "he's pricey." brendon replies tightly, "i can manage." "of course, sir. but i must warn you, he's also a bit... feisty." b smiles smugly, all his hatred toward ryan's master wrapped up in one smirk. "i can manage that too." UNF, i love rich-powerful-no-BS-but-still-really-decent-person!businessman!bden.

- ryan possibly needs a new name. a stage/courtesan name. or a slave name he went by all these years, given him by his first master. something that brendon would still recognize though. it'd be his favorite flower, "lily." his mother's name. so when brendon asks what That Boy's name is, not 100% sure it's ryan, he'll still get it. or. something. idk. this brings us back to the tattoo question i posted on my twitter. i think it's feasible he could have one (an image of a lily, something for brendon to recognize him later when he sees him for the first time in 8 yrs and can't be sure). the lily will be a running motif throughout, though, in various forms.

- i have this other line, for after brendon finds him and ryan just can't believe brendon actually found him, and brendon whispers, "even in death, i would find you" -- SEE NEW ICON. :D icon illustrates the scene when brendon buys ryan for a night, but there are a couple hours between purchase time and the time he actually gets to see ryan, so he's sitting in his hotel room, as seen here, angsting and just trying to breathe, and reminiscing about the ryan he knew when he was 15-16. i half stole it from an episode of xena, i think she said, "even in death, i'll never leave you." whatever, i'm using it as my tagline. though it implies one of them might die in the end, and i can't do that in fic, not to you guys. i might do it if i adapt it into a novel, though.

- there are four ~stages to ryan's journey: year 1, he spends in a slave house where new captures are taught to be... this sort of slave. it's grueling and traumatizing and everything you'd think it'd be. year 2, ryan is bought by spencer's dad and he and spence start up a heartbreaking but deep friendship that actually gives ryan some hope. year 3, something Happens and spencer's dad sells him /o\ to the first guy who'll pay a decent price, who happens to be the cruelest master ryan will ever encounter. this is the year that breaks him. year 4, he's bought by the guy who runs the uber-high-class cabaret/brothel, it's a very underground sort of thing, but very well known in the right circles. he's going to be a fascinating character to create and write, because he's going to be hard to just hate outright. he's very fucked in the head, has an intense personal attachment to ryan, treats him very "well" (assuming ryan behaves), but has this delusion that he's doing these boys a favor, giving them this high-class life and protecting them from the world. it's really sick, but devastating too. i can't wait to explore his character. anyway, so for four years, he schools ryan in performance and high class hookerdom. this is the big turning point: ryan slowly shuts down and turns into this cold, jaded, haughty figure, almost viciously cold-hearted unless you're paying (and you're paying a LOT) -- a shell, almost no memory of his past, no hope, no belief in anything good left in the world. he's become brilliantly talented at what he does and well aware of it, making a 180 from broken, listless surrender to instead using his skills to his advantage, making himself valued and needed and craved and adored, even if he hates it. he uses it as a sort of power. it's heartbreaking, but kind of amazing. by the time brendon returns, ryan doesn't even believe brendon's come to save him.

- more details are in this and all the other threads she and i have in that entry. seriously, they are endless.

so. yes. \o/

if anyone has photoshop skills and cares to do something with these pics, go for it. i'm not looking for anything specific, just something i could use as a banner maybe, or just for fun. that's how i see the two of them in this fic (in both their peasant and courtesan/businessman stages, respectively). i'm also looking for a title as we speak (can't start a fic without the title; i work the entire fic around it). i generally use lyrics, or lines from poetry, so if anything inspires you, throw it my way. i'm really not as lazy as i seem; i just like my fics to be interactive, and it seems like you guys like it too. speaking of,

maddylonglegs has already completed some artwork for the fic, and it's gorgeous. all artwork welcome, from anyone who feels inspired. there is going to be a lot of visuality in this fic, a lot of striking imagery. i can describe any scene you feel like drawing in intense detail. i have a lot of clear visuals for this. there's lots of fancy costumes, too. god, i wish i could draw/paint/anything.

i probably won't start actually writing for months, though. it'll take a lot of research and very intense planning. it's going to be very complex and intricate and rich and epic, way more so than anything i've ever tackled. i'm probably going to have to read -- shudder -- actual books from/about this era, so i can get a feel for what i'm doing. still, i'm excited.

all thoughts/questions/comments welcome. i kind of love talking about this fic.

for now, i'm going to take advantage of all my free time and go do some yoga. *yawns and stretches* i leave you all with recs.

http://miss-begonia.livejournal.com/221200.html
really, really beautiful words; she has an amazing way with language. love the style too. still, to me this is one of those AUs that feels more like original fiction than fic; i don't really see a lot of the RL boys in this, really, but nonetheless it's a gorgeous piece of writing.

http://reni-days.livejournal.com/26251.html
reni never disappoints. ever. her stuff is so fucking enjoyable and readable and fun, always such a treat. i ~sekritly want to prompt her every day and have her write me things forever. *hides under confessionrock*

http://moku-youbi.livejournal.com/24917.html
pirates. PIRATES. also the only fic i've ever read where i was totally OTPing joncer. usually they don't intrigue me at all because they just seem so easy, no room for angst/complexity, but this totally sucked me in (lol). she has a tendency to do that. "saturation" was the one gsf (well, threesome, whatever) fic that totally changed my views on polyamory forever; no going back.

speaking of moku, i've been pimping this out lately in hopes that the powers that be (i.e. you all) will bring more spyro into the world. *bden puppy eyes?* i've been craving it like mad lately. any spyro at all, any era, any genre, even non-porn, anything so long as they ain't chicks.

j_plash is helping with the spyro revolution, one commentfic at a time. she's spoiling me so hard i'm never going to actually get around to writing any of this fic. i'll just let her randomly improvise all the most exciting parts. XD

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Soooooo...picking up where yesterday's left off :)

***

It starts much like it always starts. Spencer had managed to sneak down not long after breakfast, not long after the gates had closed behind his father’s cart. He’d come armed with the book they’ve been reading this week, and another in case they manage to finish — they’re quite close. They both read — Ryan when there’s plenty of light and time, or Spencer reads to him when there’s not — Ryan reads better than most small town poor, and certainly better than most slaves, but not as well as Spencer, not yet. It cheers Ryan up, or distracts him at least, and he’s proud of what reading he can do, which is more than enough to make it worthwhile — Ryan isn’t really proud of anything else. It gives them things to talk about too, which is indispensible, for Spencer at least, because Ryan’s life doesn’t bear talking about, and Spencer’s involves him, which makes it equally bad.

So they read, poetry or novels or sometimes the critics, and they talk about them, or rather Ryan talks about them, and Spencer listens, and reflects on how blatantly unfair it is that someone as smart as Ryan clearly is is--here. Like this. And not at a school somewhere. Not writing his own books. No one should be like this, but...but especially not someone as brilliant and intelligent and creative and interesting and impossible and wonderful and stupid and perfect as Ryan. Especially not Ryan.

He doesn't say that. Ryan spiels on with his thoughts on the purpose of art and poetic composition and literature and life and any number of other things, and it's so easy to let himself pretend that this is all Ryan is, all he has to be, himself, beautiful and strong.

Eventually, though, something always shifts, a moment of quiet that isn’t waiting for more words — usually when Ryan starts fiddling with his hands and Spencer knows he’s thinking, thinking about something else, not about poetry or clever theories.

It takes a few moments for the silence to be long enough — for the conversation to be over. Then there’s another minute of quiet, of peace, mostly, of breathing into each other, in and out, relaxing into the moment, watching the sunlight just touch the top of Ryan’s hair, turning the top strands to a muted bronze-gold. There’s a few moments where they both know what’s coming, and Spencer reminds himself of his rules, and Ryan thinks unreadable thoughts, and neither says a word. And then. It's a few baited moments of silence before Ryan looks up, down again, shifts forward a little, licks his lips and murmurs "Spence? Can I..."
Spencer just smiles a little, less awkward than he was a few weeks ago, resists the nervous impulse to look down, because Ryan needs to see his face, and whispers "Always," easy, just so Ryan knows, just so one day, just maybe, Ryan'll stop questioning and believe.
For a moment, Ryan looks just slightly uncomfortable, like he always does when Spencer makes promises like that, and Spencer doesn't question it. If Ryan has trouble believing in always, then Spencer doesn't need to question, just to keep trying. And if it's not that, if it's the other thing — that maybe Ryan doesn't want him for always...then Spencer has no right to question it. It doesn't matter. Ryan's here now. And if he looks uncomfortable for a moment, it doesn't last; he looks up again, smiles, just a little, and—and then he nods, barely, and—and that’s new. He smiles, really smiles, just small, but there, and nods twice, looking right into Spencer's eyes. And it’s just another afternoon, a good afternoon, after a good morning reading and talking, a good day because he’s gone, a good day because it’s peaceful and sunny, but it’s not just another afternoon, not really, because for the first time in all these months, Ryan nods, and when he does, his eyes look like maybe, just maybe, he’s doing more than trying — maybe, just maybe, this is all going to work, somehow, and maybe one day, Ryan’s going to believe again, in something good.

And that — that's more beautiful to Spencer than Ryan could ever be helpless and broken.

(cont. next comment...)

(continued from last comment...)

Ryan doesn't ask any more questions after that. He begins the same way he always does — up on his knees so he's just taller than Spencer sitting on the floor, hands balled in his lap, leaning forward with precarious balance until they're a breath away from touch, eyes open, the way they always stay until they both forget, and Spencer's never been so glad to have his mother's eyes. Ryan always pauses just a second - and Spencer's never sure whether Ryan's afraid that he won't be able to do it, or that Spencer will pull away — and then presses forward, closed mouth still against Spencer's, just pressing — absorbing, breathing it in — until finally Ryan draws back just enough to shift forward again and begin in earnest, lips moving tentatively, Ryan cautious, Spencer more so, eyes wide open, watching each other not pull away.

It's slow today, and slow is good — slow means Ryan's not fighting, means there's enough peace in his mind that he doesn't need frantic distraction. It's slow and it's warm and when Ryan's fingertips come to rest tentatively on Spencer's shoulders, he lets his eyes slip closed, bad idea or no. Spencer never touches, not when they're doing this, but Ryan does, sometimes, and those days are the hardest for Spencer to keep his hands gripping his trouser legs and not reaching out, not drawing Ryan closer, the hardest to pretend he doesn't want more than this. They're the best days too, though, the days Ryan is happiest, and Spencer lets his eyes fall closed with a sigh, feels the way his shoulders shift a little under Ryan's hands, shivers all the way to his toes when Ryan makes a barely audible sound of satisfaction into his mouth, sucking lightly at Spencer's top lip.

That's as far as the touching's ever really gone—Ryan's wiry hands, too big for his body, long, long fingers like a musician or an artist, lightly touching for balance then firmer as the minutes dissolve into quiet sounds and slow lips and the tips of tongues, or soft on his face, or squeezed tight in his own hands, fingers locked together. It’s brilliant and blinding and more than Spencer could ever hope for — Ryan’s hands gripping his shoulders like he’s not afraid, one palm slipping up toward his neck enough to make him arch into the touch, a moment of loss as the heat of Ryan’s fingers disappears then the last lingering touches of the hate and filth of everyday shuddering from his body like a melting shadow as Ryan’s hands reach out for his own, fingertips brushing his knuckles, and he lets go the holding point of his own trouser fronts, and holds on, holds on to Ryan, like he’s the only thing that matters, and knows it’s ‘cause he is.

It’s incredible and intoxicating and stupidly difficult to think through, validating and real and one incarnation of everything he thinks he’ll ever want, but...that’s as far as it goes. Ever.

And it's that that makes it rather more blindingly obvious than one might think when Ryan shifts forward again, hands held tight, shifts forward to press harder, closer, tongue slipping out to lick along Spencer's bottom lip — oh god the want — when Ryan shifts forward, closer, closer, and — oh. And just like that, Ryan’s shifted too close, because — because that's Ryan against Spencer's knee. That's — touch. And that's — that's not Spencer and Ryan curled together under the window. That's — that's Ryan's cock. One of those parts of Ryan's body Spencer just doesn't think about. And — and fuck. Ryan's hard. Hard enough that when he shifts forward, want and need and involuntary motion, when he shifts too far, the contact jerks his hips forward further, an involuntary thrust against Spencer's knee that makes him shake.

And then Ryan's not there anymore at all, because Ryan's two feet away, back against the wall, and Ryan's shaking, and Ryan's not looking at him, and...shit.

;alserjfpoijapwoj34opaiwjfpojiop!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

i am going to srsly never speak to you again if you KEEP STOPPING RIGHT THE FUCK THERE, DUDE. OMGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG.

ASL34KJRPOFUPAWOU34APW4

BRAIN: *MELTS FROM BODY*

DYING. finish this. omg. so beautiful. the line about the melting shadow just kind of made me slump in my chair and sigh dreamily and go, "...ah."

&you;

replying on this one first so i can use my spyro "ALWAYS" icon!!!!!!!!

/super lame fangirl

so press repeat, i'll start again with "once upon a time."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject