DVD commentary meme 3/2020
Mar. 17th, 2020 08:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skazkaDusting off the ol' DW for some fic DVD commentary! If you want a snippet to add to the pile, send me a <500-word passage or drop the title of one of my fics and get some thoughts on what I had in mind while writing it.
Disenchanted asked about "No Riband Wrought". (The Terror, Hickey/Gibson, Explicit)
The #1 thing you need to know about the process of writing this fic is that it introduced me to Douchie the safer sex mascot. The SFAF survey about the appeal of pain during anal informed this fic since people having fun during sex is not my wheelhouse.
You can see the fingerprints of that survey all over this fic, like Hickey's fingerprints all the fuck over Gibson. The sense of after-sex pain as a souvenir of a nice session, even if it interferes with Gibson's day-to-day boring life,
Gibson experiencing some level of shame about bottoming seems to be canon (or at LEAST Hickey thinks he does) so it was fun to delve into what he finds erotic and significant about practices he understands as dirty and stigmatizing, specifically bc of those aspects. (and bc he looks like a dude who bruises like a peach)
Also I became obsessed with trying to figure out the location and contents of Gibson's little sad man alcove. Hickey would love to bang him in An Alcove tbh. I sought out diagrams! I tried to learn what it is a steward does and how you become one! I tried to figure out whether it's possible to masturbate in a hammock (it is) and whether you can do so while thinking of Billy Gibson's alcove (sure).
Now on to the stuff that I didn't already just tweet out like a lunatic:
The memory of it kindles a sort of heat again -- how Hickey had taken him beyond the brink and past the point of bearing, how his fingers and prick and the weight of his body had pressed Gibson open. How the force of his thrusts had jostled him against the wooden railing, how it had made him cry out -- had it left a red line across his belly, has the pressure of it left an undisclosed bruise?
It interests me that Hickey and Gibson canonically have sex in such an unprepossessing environment, simply because it's there and it's private, and it's become an abiding Thing for me that Hickey thinks of having sex lying down in an actual bed as hopelessly luxurious because he's done all his fucking in public parks and basements and up against fences and in deadrooms. Gibson is horned-up for these various out-of-the-domestic-sphere settings for sex but the thought of Hickey getting emotionally and sexually close enough to enter into his own private and privileged dwelling is both erotic and scary:
Hickey could never take him here with only a slip of curtain to separate them from the common view -- it couldn't happen tonight, with even the stifled sound of their gasps and grunts loud enough to wake the men in their hammocks, with Hickey's hoarse broken voice panting vulgarities into his ear and his prick buried bruising-deep in Gibson's arse.
No, I don't know what sex position they're in where Hickey can fuck Gibson while also speaking into his ear, thanks for asking. Many people have improbable sexual fantasies!
RobberBaroness asked about "their smiles, their empty hands", a crossover between Hard Candy (2006) and American Psycho (2000).
"Did you know I do that now? I kill men now. Men who hurt girls."
"I'm not condoning that. I don't play video games," Uncle Patrick says, dredging up some disgust from deep below the layer of permanent narcotic calm he's braced with. There's something in his eyes, not lust, not hunger, but fathomless darkness with nothing at the bottom of it.
"Me neither. I'm going to go play cards with PJ now. Bye, Uncle Pat."
PJ has his dad's eyes and his mom's deep-seated psychological damage and he should be thanking his lucky stars that it's not the other way around.
The saga of Patrick Jr. is a journey I have traveled with fellow AmPsych enthusiast and minor character devotee Cygnes -- my interest in the character of Patrick Sr. stems to a large degree from the musical, where his family relationships are amusingly complicated, but PJ owes his existence to the American Psycho 2000 emails where his father has much to say about his appealing qualities. Literally anyone with Patrick Bateman for their father would be miserable, though, and Jean is only really a counterpoint to Patrick's worst qualities by comparison with him.
Also from the 2000 emails, relevant to Hayley's base of operations:
I do feel, however, that the boundaries of sexual behavior have been significantly expanded by the Internet in an inverse proportion to the anonymity that it provides. The joke, of course, is that Internet sex is not sex at all, only typing.
I wanted to play with the everpresent potential that Patrick Bateman is full of shit -- and the thought of him ageing into wildly unlikeable fatherhood more out of touch with what the hip young psychopaths are doing these days was really funny to me. While his interior monologue is pretty harsh, it's also pretty confused, and Hayley doesn't see him as remotely threatening -- maybe they have some of the same component parts or cultural heritage regarding violence, but she doesn't have any reason to view him with respect or fear as fundamentally different in kind from other men who hurt women. Even if he doesn't like, chainsaw women, he's still a brutal misogynist, and Hayley has never had any reason to see that as glamorous.
Hayley is a little shit, obviously, but she absolutely understands the game of telling people shocking things flatly, knowing they won't be quite sure what to do next. A bunch of stuff Hayley is up to in this fic is based on what I was doing in 2006-2009, which is wildly self-indulgent but who could possibly care?
Also it's fun to write banal boring WASPy family scenes for awful people -- the material culture and pop culture of Hard Candy is every bit as dated to an era now as that of American Psycho without the purposeful element of pastiche, but doped up assholes playing cards is eternal.
Disenchanted asked about "No Riband Wrought". (The Terror, Hickey/Gibson, Explicit)
The #1 thing you need to know about the process of writing this fic is that it introduced me to Douchie the safer sex mascot. The SFAF survey about the appeal of pain during anal informed this fic since people having fun during sex is not my wheelhouse.
You can see the fingerprints of that survey all over this fic, like Hickey's fingerprints all the fuck over Gibson. The sense of after-sex pain as a souvenir of a nice session, even if it interferes with Gibson's day-to-day boring life,
Gibson experiencing some level of shame about bottoming seems to be canon (or at LEAST Hickey thinks he does) so it was fun to delve into what he finds erotic and significant about practices he understands as dirty and stigmatizing, specifically bc of those aspects. (and bc he looks like a dude who bruises like a peach)
Also I became obsessed with trying to figure out the location and contents of Gibson's little sad man alcove. Hickey would love to bang him in An Alcove tbh. I sought out diagrams! I tried to learn what it is a steward does and how you become one! I tried to figure out whether it's possible to masturbate in a hammock (it is) and whether you can do so while thinking of Billy Gibson's alcove (sure).
Now on to the stuff that I didn't already just tweet out like a lunatic:
The memory of it kindles a sort of heat again -- how Hickey had taken him beyond the brink and past the point of bearing, how his fingers and prick and the weight of his body had pressed Gibson open. How the force of his thrusts had jostled him against the wooden railing, how it had made him cry out -- had it left a red line across his belly, has the pressure of it left an undisclosed bruise?
It interests me that Hickey and Gibson canonically have sex in such an unprepossessing environment, simply because it's there and it's private, and it's become an abiding Thing for me that Hickey thinks of having sex lying down in an actual bed as hopelessly luxurious because he's done all his fucking in public parks and basements and up against fences and in deadrooms. Gibson is horned-up for these various out-of-the-domestic-sphere settings for sex but the thought of Hickey getting emotionally and sexually close enough to enter into his own private and privileged dwelling is both erotic and scary:
Hickey could never take him here with only a slip of curtain to separate them from the common view -- it couldn't happen tonight, with even the stifled sound of their gasps and grunts loud enough to wake the men in their hammocks, with Hickey's hoarse broken voice panting vulgarities into his ear and his prick buried bruising-deep in Gibson's arse.
No, I don't know what sex position they're in where Hickey can fuck Gibson while also speaking into his ear, thanks for asking. Many people have improbable sexual fantasies!
RobberBaroness asked about "their smiles, their empty hands", a crossover between Hard Candy (2006) and American Psycho (2000).
"Did you know I do that now? I kill men now. Men who hurt girls."
"I'm not condoning that. I don't play video games," Uncle Patrick says, dredging up some disgust from deep below the layer of permanent narcotic calm he's braced with. There's something in his eyes, not lust, not hunger, but fathomless darkness with nothing at the bottom of it.
"Me neither. I'm going to go play cards with PJ now. Bye, Uncle Pat."
PJ has his dad's eyes and his mom's deep-seated psychological damage and he should be thanking his lucky stars that it's not the other way around.
The saga of Patrick Jr. is a journey I have traveled with fellow AmPsych enthusiast and minor character devotee Cygnes -- my interest in the character of Patrick Sr. stems to a large degree from the musical, where his family relationships are amusingly complicated, but PJ owes his existence to the American Psycho 2000 emails where his father has much to say about his appealing qualities. Literally anyone with Patrick Bateman for their father would be miserable, though, and Jean is only really a counterpoint to Patrick's worst qualities by comparison with him.
Also from the 2000 emails, relevant to Hayley's base of operations:
I do feel, however, that the boundaries of sexual behavior have been significantly expanded by the Internet in an inverse proportion to the anonymity that it provides. The joke, of course, is that Internet sex is not sex at all, only typing.
I wanted to play with the everpresent potential that Patrick Bateman is full of shit -- and the thought of him ageing into wildly unlikeable fatherhood more out of touch with what the hip young psychopaths are doing these days was really funny to me. While his interior monologue is pretty harsh, it's also pretty confused, and Hayley doesn't see him as remotely threatening -- maybe they have some of the same component parts or cultural heritage regarding violence, but she doesn't have any reason to view him with respect or fear as fundamentally different in kind from other men who hurt women. Even if he doesn't like, chainsaw women, he's still a brutal misogynist, and Hayley has never had any reason to see that as glamorous.
Hayley is a little shit, obviously, but she absolutely understands the game of telling people shocking things flatly, knowing they won't be quite sure what to do next. A bunch of stuff Hayley is up to in this fic is based on what I was doing in 2006-2009, which is wildly self-indulgent but who could possibly care?
Also it's fun to write banal boring WASPy family scenes for awful people -- the material culture and pop culture of Hard Candy is every bit as dated to an era now as that of American Psycho without the purposeful element of pastiche, but doped up assholes playing cards is eternal.
