jamie_dakin: (lom - sam_gene_brightred)
[personal profile] jamie_dakin
Title: At the Round Earth's Imagined Corners
Fandom: Life on Mars
Pairing: Sam/Gene, The Test Card Girl
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: You not see show, you not read fic
Words: 2,457
Disclaimer: Life on Mars belongs to Kudos and the BBC. Title and epigraph come of course from John Donne's Holy Sonnets VII and X, respectively.
A/N: For the 07' Life on Mars ficathon, written for [livejournal.com profile] m31andy who wanted the Test Card Girl, motivations and 'I never said it would be easy.' This is a sort of a splicing of two requests, sorry, I'm horrid at following instructions. God knows I’m usually nervous enough about the writing itself but then there was that whole added factor of writing for Andy… and, well, she and Fi renewed my interest in this fandom so... well, I hope you like it.

At the Round Earth's Imagined Corners

Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which yet thy pictures be

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die

The sun is losing its balance on the razor edge of morning and Gene is behind him, inside of him, moving too slowly, every imperceptible motion a poem of dulcet agony.

Sour, sloppy kisses as they couple achingly, just this side of unbearable and Sam's close - so close - but he can't focus, everything is scattered and disconnected and fuzzy, his nerves coated in mercury and the harder he tries to rein them the faster they slip from his hands. But Gene is too far gone now so Sam doesn't, doesn't ask him to stay, to hold off.

He's resisted the urge, until now, to bring his hand down from its terrible angle at Gene's neck and jerk himself smartly, expertly. Gene's wheezing already, he'll have to.

He's always late, Sam, always missing his cue, his mark, his era.

He doesn't want to though, wants to come just from this, just from Gene.

Just a little longer, he tries to say, but then he's never learned this language before; the one Maya gave up so quickly on teaching him.

Gene intercepts his hand before it can reach its destination. He's always so ashamed when he thinks Gene any less clever than he truly is. Because Gene will stay, of course he will, though that language is as foreign to his palate as the food Sam serves him. As Sam is to him.

It's like the sodding bedsit of Babel sometimes.

Gene pulling out snaps everything into focus and Sam opens his eyes for what seems like the first time since they stumbled through the door half an hour ago. The wires supporting his mattress strain as Gene maneuvers around him, bitten nails already digging under Sam's knee before Sam can figure out if what he really wants is to say no.

Gene's thin lips are drawn tightly in frustration as he struggles with the cap of the half-empty lube and Sam, though grateful because the first application is well beyond dry now, suddenly doesn't want to be doing this anymore.

He wants Gene to leave, wants Gene to be disgusted by this, by him - spread and sweating and filthy.

Wants Gene to quip, spitefully, that if he was going to do this with a subordinate it might as well have been Cartwright; sweet-smelling bright-eyed Annie who would have had the courtesy of faking at least twice by now, probably even once for real.

He doesn't want Gene to readjust aforementioned painful grip at his leg, doesn't want Gene to dip his head to press an awkwardly determined kiss to Sam's now faltering cock, chapped lips pricking at already sensitized skin while lube-slicked fingers slip into him with an obscene ease.

Doesn't want Gene to look at him like that as he licks a hot stripe up the stretch of Sam's belly.

Because it's too far into morning for this to still be ok, they've been doing this too long for this to still be ok and Sam can't help but think there is far too little drink in Gene's blood for him to be scraping his teeth at Sam's collarbone as he nudges Sam's thighs further apart.

It's arctic outside. The frost whips at Sam from the poorly insulated window and contrasts too sharply with the clammy film of unclean shared sweat between them. He shivers involuntarily as he swallows down the bile rising in the back of his throat and hates, hates that smug grin plastered on Gene's face now. He hates it all even more when the smugness dissipates but the grin is still there; an intricately painted shadow on a pocked canvas.

Because more so than anything else he doesn't want Gene to say anything right now, fingers curling slowly out of Sam and wiped unceremoniously on the nearby crumpled bedspread.

But Gene stays silent, mistakes the kaleidoscope play of light in Sam's eyes for something much warmer than it is and the faux reflection makes Sam fumble and drop all the hatred he's just collected so painstakingly. He imagines it ricocheting off Gene’s stained teeth, now bared as he hisses sharply, finally brushing against Sam again.

It's just that they don't do this. It's too close, too much.

He's raw and it hurts, Gene knows and for the briefest of moments Sam sees the hesitation pool behind his eyes but he doesn't stop and Sam is grateful he wasn’t asked if it’s alright.

The angle is deeper than before and Gene's arm shakes violently near Sam's head as it struggles to support his weight, threatening to snap and give out from under him and wouldn't that be a funny story to tell the lads eh? And Sam wants to say that, finally a language they both share but Gene moves to lean on his elbow then and the rattling of the loose screws in his bed frame stops, like a raucous refrigerator being silenced when you hadn't been aware it was making any noise.

Gene, he thinks, as the pain ebbs and mellows, is not dissimilar.

Sweat trickles from Gene's temple down to Sam's now that their foreheads are pressed together, plates of their skulls grinding as though they were butting rams.

In the darkness forged by Gene's overgrown hair as it hangs around them like an unwashed curtain they breathe recycled air from each other's mouths; Gene's wheezing grunts humid and spicy against his nose and Sam tells himself it's the carbon dioxide making Gene’s eyes glassy.

He's close again, moves to press the ball of his foot against the side of the mattress as he bends his already impossibly angled knee even more - anything, anything, to get Gene somehow further inside.

That might be the beginning of a sprain in his left ankle, the weaker one.

He closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on the smell of Gene's sweat, on his cock trapped under the press of Gene's belly and the way his bones feel too brittle to offer any contra to Gene's exhausted thrusts.


It's low pitched and urgent and Gene could have said anything, anything at all – thas' a good lad - but he says the only thing that Sam can't cut and paste and apply to anyone he might prefer to tell himself Gene is really fucking.

Gene licks his cheek then, an almost canine gesture that, though odd, is not unfamiliar -

"You mustn't close your eyes Sam, isn't this your favorite part?"

The sing-song of her voice and the texture of Gene’s tongue at his jaw swings at him from the dark like some bastard big right hook.

She's sat perched on the kitchen table, covering the clown's eyes with one hand and eating popcorn with the other, the rhythmic swing of her stocking-clad feet from under the red dress a blur of nauseating white.

And Sam can't, he can't, please not again – but Gene swallows the words and though Sam knows they are meant to pacify him, every kiss is just one more to the last.

It's the last time.


Please no.

And then Sam is blindly trying to push Gene out and off and away but it's too late, he's coming and there's blood trickling from Gene's mouth into his, choking him, drowning him, but Gene's too heavy and the blood balloons Sam's lungs as he comes between their vanishing bodies.

And though he always thinks he feels Gene smile against his muffled pleas, lost in the echo of shotgun rounds against cobblestone, he never knows for sure.

The delay on the air conditioner in his room starts up again and the rattling masks any name Sam might still be mouthing into his damp pillowcase an hour later as he finally nods off again.

* * * *

It’s dark when he wakes up again but then the shades are permanently drawn in the apartment these days and his biological clock is still, well, timelagged.
He checks his watch, closes his eyes and counts to five before checking again. Still 12:19. Not dreaming then.

Sam knows about dreams now; lucid, waking, night terrors. He smells Gene's cigarettes on a delivery boy (one of what seems like a small legion, bringing him the most exotic foods at the most ungodly of hours just because he can) and spends the next 4 hours reading about phantosmia.

He also knows about her now; her father the engineer, her sister with the missing teeth, the royalties she never got. At first he hopes that the sheer extent of his newfound knowledge might push her into exile from his mind.

But she remained and Sam has convinced himself she's what's holding up the phantom twisted corridors of his hallucinations, the flat heels of her patent leather shoes reverberating against their walls and creating the illusion of properly constructed tunnels lined with solid memories.

She's the one breathing air into the millions of tiny imagined moments and preventing them from collapsing in on themselves like proper dreams should.

Today he ends this.

* * * *

Finding her had been easy enough, too easy perhaps.

The house is unmarked, so generic he almost walks right past it, as though he were expecting it to be fashioned as a gargantuan television set or something.

He knocks on the door and waits, noticing he's only taking up half the doorstep because Gene should be there at his right.

She's heavy set, mousy brown hair streaked with unkempt gray, almost as if to match the white lines decorating her calcium-deficient nails. He knows it's her but asks all the same.

"Carol Hersee?"

She sizes him up, squinting against the mid-afternoon sun as the soft tendrils of smoke from her slim menthol cigarette curl around her face.

"You're not selling anything are you?"

"No I...."

"Stalker? Bubbles isn’t for sale."

"No, I'm a police officer. Detective Chief Inspector… Hunt."

She gives his offered credentials a cursory glance, nods and leaves him scrambling for the door as she turns around and invites him in over her shoulder. Just put the kettle on, she says.

Her house has all the trappings of a home, and yet it decidedly is not one. It's there in the furniture, the catalog art and the pristine and dusty volumes of obligatory classic literature.

What is it he expected to find, he berates himself as he mulls around the weakly lit living room. A glass and gold shrine to the sodding clown? He hears his inner psychotherapist cluck his tongue and scribble down a reminder to schedule a meeting with a real life counterpart.

He hears her puttering around the kitchen, remembers his prepared excuse. A spate of burglaries down the street, yes, they’re doing door-to-door inquires. No, no tea for him thank you.

Burglaries? How awful. No, she hasn’t heard anything. Sorry she can’t be of more help. Yes she’ll be sure to lock her doors.

He's halfway down the stairs to the front door before he works up the necessary anger – Isn’t this your favorite part? – to make a fool of himself.

“I was asked to say hello by a… colleague of mine, DCI Sam Tyler? Said you were old friends.”

Casual. Cucumber calm. Three tumblers of single malt before he came calm.
But there’s no recognition in her eyes, not even the tiny flicker he was taught to look for in the academy.

"I’m sorry detective, I can’t quite place the name. DCI Tyler you said?”

"Yes. No. Right, of course. Well, sorry to have bothered you."

He’s already moved his hand to the chipped doorknob when she says "Used to know a DI Tyler though, hope that extra letter improved his taste in wallpaper."

He turns and she's the same as she ever was, thin blonde hair and crooked teeth that were never straightened.

"Don't you like me better like this Sam, aren't I prettier?"

She's as he's never seen her before, yellow hair aflame and eyes leaking blue-tinted liquid ice down her pallid cheeks and onto her white lace collar and red dress in a violent orgy of Technicolor.

“No, you can’t… who…” He trips over the last step and stumbles back towards the nearest corner on heels and hands as she moves towards him.

"Oh but surely you don’t expect me to remember all my names Sam, I do have so many. But you know me Sam, why have you forgotten?”

She pushes aside coats and umbrellas and bends down to stroke his hair, smelling of persimmons and the musty quilt Gene kept in his office.

"I came for you so many times Sam, I read you a story when you had the mumps and I crawled into that dusty broken car and reached inside your lungs and bruised your heart trying to catch you but you're so very good at hide and seek. I grew so fond of you Sam; I've never had a friend I could play with more than once."

He's on his knees and her sharp little nails claw into his cheeks, staining themselves red with his blood like vinyl polish and she leans forward to finally kiss him, like she's always meant to since he was 12 and she broke his arm standing over him with her fist down his throat.

Her mouth is small and cold, like dry ice, and he's running away from her in the woods, sunlight reflecting off the wet leaves of the treetops.

'Where are you?'

No. No, he's running after her.

She's the girl in the red dress.

She's every girl in every red dress.

"How can I leave?" he asks, trembling but not terrified. How could he be when he's known her forever.

She smiles then, gently. "Oh Sam, how can you stay?"

"My mum…"

"I never said it would be easy Sam," she lisps, her fingers tracing sharp delicate patterns across his windpipe.

* * * *

She’s not with him when it happens like he wanted her to promise she would. The fall down is lonely and terrible, the impact less so.

* * * *

He knows where he is, Sam.

But then knowing is a far more flexible and fickle creature than its opposite.

Gene knows. He never says the words but they’re there, spelt out in Morse code against Sam’s tongue along with Gene’s forgiveness. Gene’s heavily bandaged leg and Sam’s apologies lying as dead weight between them.

Bracing himself on the sandwiched pine and plywood of his bed frame as he lowers himself onto Gene, Sam feels the splintered wood dig into his palms with every uneven upward thrust and smiles.

Later, with Gene's heartbeat thudding loudly against his ear and the whistling of cold wind spiraling upwards towards him finally drowned out, he thinks he smells persimmons.

- fin -

Date: 2007-09-06 12:10 pm (UTC)
loz: (Life on Mars (Sam 3))
From: [personal profile] loz
This was really interesting. It made me think a lot - my head now hurts like calculus. The description was wonderful, very lyrical and evocative. Thank you.

Date: 2007-09-08 03:24 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] jamie-dakin.livejournal.com
Calculus... *shudder*.
Thanks for the kind words and thanks again for running the damn thing, I am forever in awe of people who have the passion to get these things off the ground and see them through - as well as the logistical capabilities to do both.

Date: 2007-09-06 12:45 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] m31andy.livejournal.com

Love it, but brain is mashed. I'll comment properly when I can process again!

Thank you.

Date: 2007-09-08 03:28 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] jamie-dakin.livejournal.com
Yeah, headaches seem to be the popular reaction to this. I'm beginning to think I should've recommended taking some Advil before reading... ;)

Date: 2007-09-10 07:26 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] m31andy.livejournal.com
Right, I’ve taken time to process this and therefore here are my thoughts.

First off, I would like to say that when I found out who was writing for me, I squealed in delight. (Fi can testify to this one!)

Then the fic arrived and oh my. It’s wonderful. A beautiful lyrical quality to it that you can almost *sing*. The bitter/sour back-taste of ‘oh my Gods, this is just so wrong’ just perfectly sits with the vivid richness of the Sam/Gene interaction. Sam feeling so out-of-place, (like the prick should do) and the Test Card Girl. Oh my!

Then you manage to hit my lucid dreaming kink, which I’m pretty sure isn’t common knowledge and the ultimate horror moment, when you think it’s safe to breathe again after Sam has stirred the hornets nest. And the nest isn’t empty. *shudders* and it’s also a perfect explanation for why Sam jumped. Which I always appreciate!

Thank you so much for this, it’s fantastic.

Date: 2007-09-11 07:11 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] jamie-dakin.livejournal.com
I wasn't being entirely hyperbolic you know, like I told Fi the other day - I do see you guys as setting the bar that much higher for the fandom.

I'm really truly thrilled that you enjoyed this, god knows I had no idea it would end up the way it did when I started out (not to mention in the middle, when it was breaking my brain with such impressive flourish).

Ooh, I've been obsessed fascinated by lucid dreaming for quite some time now. In fact I suspect it's one of the reasons LoM resonated so deeply with me. That idea of dreaming as... well, just the completely unexplored potential of it all as a tool that can be honed to understand ourselves that much better.

Thanks again for the prompts, I highly suspect I may even end up revisiting them at some point.

Date: 2007-09-12 02:30 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] m31andy.livejournal.com
I must get that lucid dream I had about Sam Tyler down on paper at some point...

Lucid dreaming is just amazing. I just wish I could do it more often. It takes quite a lot of work to set up and it's a very fragile state. The idea of Sam's world being nothing more than a more stable form of lucid dreaming is intoxicating (especially as it's most likely true!)

I've got a couple of ideas for prompts from my two recipients which might make the light of day. Plus, it'll be fun to revisit the full list at some point. There's plenty of inspiration to be had there!

Date: 2007-09-06 03:01 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] echo-voice.livejournal.com
There is something hautingly beautiful about this, though I can't quite place it. Your description is truly wonderful: such a vivid and realistic portrayal of the sex in particular.
"Sour, sloppy kisses as they couple achingly, just this side of unbearable and Sam's close - so close - but he can't focus, everything is scattered and disconnected and fuzzy, his nerves coated in mercury and the harder he tries to rein them the faster they slip from his hands." - this was particularly brilliant.
I might have to read it again before I get my head around it properly, but this is a really great piece.

Date: 2007-09-06 03:04 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] echo-voice.livejournal.com
Oh, and I just have to add (completely unrelated) that I'm pretty in love with the Decemberists at the moment too!

Date: 2007-09-08 03:33 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] jamie-dakin.livejournal.com
Hee, you know you've done good if you've managed to please a Decemberists fan! Because seriously now, Colin Meloy has ruined me for all other writers.

Date: 2007-09-07 09:48 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] hambelandjemima.livejournal.com
I'm glad I read this a second time because it made more sense then. Subtlety can be wasted on me, lol.

Anyway, excellent fic. Very thought-provoking. I'm glad I didn't have to write for Andy ;)

Date: 2007-09-08 03:38 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] jamie-dakin.livejournal.com
I'm glad I didn't have to write for Andy.
Tell me about it, I nearly had a heart attack when we got the assignments...

Thanks for taking the time and I'm glad you liked it (even if it gives off the impression of having been written by someone on acid).

Date: 2007-09-10 12:10 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] m31andy.livejournal.com
I'm glad I didn't have to write for Andy

I'm slightly disturbed by that comment - am I that contrary?!


Date: 2007-09-10 03:05 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] hambelandjemima.livejournal.com
I'm slightly disturbed by that comment - am I that contrary?!

Contrary? Not at all. Slightly disturbed? Possibly.


Date: 2007-09-10 03:13 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] m31andy.livejournal.com

I should be upset by that remark, but it's far, far too good to be upset at!

Date: 2007-09-10 03:28 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] hambelandjemima.livejournal.com
Lol, if I'd thought you would be upset by it, I wouldn't have typed it.

Thought it, maybe...

Date: 2007-09-10 03:21 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] jamie-dakin.livejournal.com
Andy, Andy quite contrary,
How does your Hookerverse grow?
With Sammy's woes and angsty prose
And clients all in a row!

Date: 2007-09-10 03:29 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] hambelandjemima.livejournal.com
Hahaha - that's brilliant!

And ever such a subtle way of asking when the next instalment will be hitting our monitors...

Date: 2007-09-10 07:13 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] m31andy.livejournal.com
*dies laughing*

Well, I've just taken a whole weekend to plot bunny Fi into writing the next installment. Her eyes were alight with glee by the middle of the third pint, so I've got a strong feeling that someone is going to be even less happy than he is at the moment!!!

Date: 2007-09-08 06:48 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] miarr.livejournal.com
Oh, oh, oh, you. For all my bitching about the dearth of fic, this goes right up there with Sam's 'Absolute Beginners' as NUMBER ONE OMG. Utterly beautiful.

You write half-poetry. It's very queer -- I can't explain it otherwise -- but it's true. I keep on reading phrases and thinking 'this, this is taken, or invented, or made to be in a poem'. It gives your verse such lovely, lilting cadence, though -- I read it again and again, simply to enjoy the roll of the words in my brain and on my tongue. Your stories are more than prose: they are made to be recited, or sung.

Gene, he thinks, as the pain ebbs and mellows, is not dissimilar.

So beautiful. Like -- the sea, or the slow, rolling gate of a horse. I can feel your words echoing in my bones.

For a moment there I thought you added faux hauteur literary elements -- inserted the Hectaea, for instance, or made a reference to any number of ancient "woman" myths. If you did, though, it was too subtle for me (and do you terribly mind letting me in on it? *g*) -- you just used imaginings all your own, and it sounded to well-phrased, sinister, encompassing, it felt like something far older and more powerful. You know I love mythology, and you made the Test Card Girl sound like something out of American Gods -- an ancient goddess, now sunk and unkempt -- needless to say, my buttons were pressed. No, battered. Yesplz. ♥

(That said, I had a minor aneurysm when I realized you were essentially writing 9-year-old voyeurism. But again, you turned it on its head and made it good, and more than good, unsettlingly good, so major kudos to you. *bows*)

Lastly: the smut, oh god. I am left quite speechless. As a growing, learning girl, I am still in the process of discovering my kinks, and -- well, who knew; one of my kinks was YOU?

This story is better than 90% of the stuff you see on [livejournal.com profile] recs et al. It deserves laurels and diadems; I shall endeavor to pimp it at the soonest possible opportunity. Your love must be spread, baby. ♥


Date: 2007-09-08 02:08 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] jamie-dakin.livejournal.com
Aw shucks kid, you can't say things like that, it all goes to my already overselfinflated pompous ego...

But seriously, I'm really glad you liked it precious - after all, your opinion means the most to me.

And really, sometimes I can't believe that if you weren't the persuasive little minx that you are I never would have given this show a chance.

That said, I had a minor aneurysm when I realized you were essentially writing 9-year-old voyeurism.

Yeah I'm waiting to get TOSsed any moment now... ;)

Date: 2007-09-08 02:33 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] miarr.livejournal.com
All praise is fully deserved, as you well know. And I'm just glad I can use my evil little kappa claws to drag you into new fandoms. ;D Shine on, ye crazy diamond! *g*

Yeah I'm waiting to get TOSsed any moment now... ;)

Nonsense! What happened to artistic merit? I mean, LJ does have a BRAIN, doesn't it?


*inconspicuously shuffles fic into a supply closet* *shifty eyes*

Date: 2007-09-08 02:40 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] jamie-dakin.livejournal.com
That's actually sort of the plus side of being almost the complete opposite of a BNF or writing in bigger fandoms - LoM to an extent is itself a supply closet.

I'll admit though that sometimes I wish more people were into it so I could see some of the stuff here on [livejournal.com profile] recs or [livejournal.com profile] crack_van and so on, because there really are a few pieces here that deserve that kind of exposure but... well, such is the life of fangirls of obscure British shows.

Date: 2007-09-08 02:49 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] miarr.livejournal.com
(Speaking of which--bring History Boys tomorrow? Please? Pretty please? With handcuffed Sam Tyler on top? *PUPPY EYES*)

Mmm, supply closets.

Okay, okay, sorry--I mean, yeah, I totally understand that. Sometimes I wish I was a BNF just so I could bring people into my small, obscure fandoms. I'm not big on fandom התגבשות (since we're all a bunch of contrary fools, anyway), I'm there for the rec lists and ficathons; and that, sadly, only happens in the bigger fandoms. Which is a shame, because OMG, how can anyone see naked, tied-to-the-bed John Simm and not explode for joy want to pester their flist into writing fic? Mmm.

Hopefully it'll come with time, though, like Fry & Laurie or all the other small gay British fandoms. Plus, it's sure to pick up momentum once it reaches the US. Let's just hope it doesn't get infected with the QAF Syndrome--when the British/American versions are so horribly different--because OMG, I don't WANT anyone to take Sam and the Gene Jeanie any from me! *clings miserably*


Date: 2007-09-08 08:29 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] miarr.livejournal.com
Okay, all my ramblings about poetry and smut? Led to this. I just stuck to the good parts. *g* Uh, please don't hate me?

Date: 2007-09-08 11:36 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] saintvic.livejournal.com
Hello - just wanted to say that this was utterly compelling. Gorgeously written and a great combination of the physical, character insight and thought-provoking ideas. Thank you!

Date: 2007-09-09 06:27 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] jamie-dakin.livejournal.com
Glad you enjoyed it and thanks ever so much for taking the time to comment!

Date: 2007-09-10 12:48 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] sytaxia.livejournal.com
This, this was just spectacular. I love the smooth, poetic flow of your words and the way that the angst just bubbles up off of the screen; it's incredibly gorgeous and painful and just one of the most beautifully written things I've seen in any fan fic, and very disturbing, to boot. Sorry if the comment is a bit incoherent, but it's just really hard to describe... Anyway, I loved it!

Date: 2007-09-11 07:16 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] jamie-dakin.livejournal.com
Ugh, I'm such a div about these things sometimes - thanks so much for commenting!

Date: 2007-09-12 06:54 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] darthfi.livejournal.com
Having finally got around to commenting, I still can't say anything coherent.

This is just so sodding good! I could go through and pick out favourite bits, but I'd be reposting most of the fic...

You've been holding out on us, young Jamie, and clearly you must write much, much more fic in this fandom.

Date: 2007-09-13 08:04 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] jamie-dakin.livejournal.com
Seriously though, thank you.

We aim to please mistress, we aim to please... ;)

Date: 2007-09-12 11:51 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] bistokids.livejournal.com
Can't believe I missed this. (Still working ponderously through the Ficathon list, so I guess that's how).

This is - amazing. Superb. Deeply intelligent, and a piece that has to be read aeveral times to even hope to get the full impact. I've read a lot of slash, and I don't think I've ever seen any that deals so grittily with the grinding realism of what sex can sometimes be. This in itself was enough for me to see this as something out of the ordinary. And then - the direction you went in was just inspired.

'Well done' hardly seems adequate, but well done anyway!

Date: 2007-09-13 08:22 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] jamie-dakin.livejournal.com
Wow, don't know if I deserved all that mate (but then don't we always think our own stuff is shit?), but seriously - thank you.

*snuggles rec list*

Date: 2007-11-24 04:08 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] draycevixen.livejournal.com
Your ability to describe events at a visceral level is simply stunning. I'm sat here with a hollow ache in my chest. Lovely, absolutely lovely. Thank you!

Date: 2009-05-28 10:47 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] roga.livejournal.com
Oh, dude. So good, and so creepy, eeps. Wish I could be more coherent about this, but I'm really tired so I'll settle for wow, and yes, and creepy again.

(I admit: I was wary of leaving you a comment right now knowing it might look like I'm stalking you after not having gone to ST with you guys tonight*, but! I actually just got here via some post-finale [livejournal.com profile] crack_van surfing, so. Coincidence.)

(*This is said assuming you know who I am, and if not, forget I said anything :-))

Date: 2009-05-29 02:33 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] jamie-dakin.livejournal.com
Is it strange that I prefer 'this is creepy' feedback to almost everything else? Probably. I would pick a saner stalkee if I were you... ;)

And don't worry about missing Trek, if I have it my way I'll yet lure [livejournal.com profile] miarr to Tel Aviv for another viewing in the near future. Oh and, er, hi, btw.

Date: 2011-04-08 11:36 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] fadonapu.livejournal.com
That is really helpful. It provided me a number of ideas and I'll be placing them on my web site eventually. I'm bookmarking your blog and I'll be back. Thanks again!

Date: 2011-12-30 12:14 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] edzel2.livejournal.com
I love this! For all the reasons other people have given above, and then some. Seems I missed this first time round (on a back catalogue Ficathon read-through at the moment)but better late than never!

The imagery is gorgeous and I love the way the words flow...TCG is enough to make anyone jump, and what a brilliant use of her. Makes her wink at the end of S2.08 seem even creepier!
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