I think authorial intent is compounded in fandom, where you're quite likely to know a given author, and perhaps have read their analysis or critique, so you know their take on a character even outside the context of fic. Worse, you may know if they have a particular hobby-horse they like to ride, and that knowledge may make you hypersensitive to certain issues in the story that maybe aren't intended to be so easily discernable.

"A Handful of Dust."

I think that's it. I think that was also one of the first pieces of feedback I ever sent.

In those cases, much of the pain comes from the way that the different characters act and react--there is respect for and acknowledgement of the characters' loves, hates, hopes, fears, quirks, virtues, and flaws.

In this respect, well done darkfic should be no different than well done anyfic. I mean, the dark has to feel as earned as the happy, for me.

I have no idea if that makes any sense.

(Though, I've seen technically well-written stuff that's considered darkfic that I didn't buy, but that's mainly because the darkness was the wrong sort of darkness for the character in question. Or, why I'm the only person on the planet who didn't seem to like Slightly Darker than Black or Burn. I tried. I read them three or four times each in an effort to like them. They failed me.)

I mean, the dark has to feel as earned as the happy, for me

Yup.

For myself, I don't care how well written the darkfic is, if at the end the characters are emotionally flayed/terminally fucked up/whatever and all the future holds is continuing to drag that fucked-upness around with them, polluting everything they do without them being able to move past it or incorporate it into at least acceptance, then it's not something I want to read. I don't even care if they die horribly, I want to them at least be at peace with themselves dying horribly, even if it's just being able to mutter one more "fuck you" at the fates. To go completely me-me-me, if I want angst and worst case scenarios etc., I'll wait till the next time I'm in an emergency room with my husband.

This is really fascinating to follow--glad ya'll are chatty today. Only downside is that you're making me want to write really dark fic that breaks its characters in new and interesting ways.

Jenn's story...um...crap, I've forgotten the title, because it scared me and I never finished it. "A Handful of Dust."

Yes. Ow. God.

I recently read a story in popslash that kept me flinching away from the screen, because it hurt, hurt, hurt the characters and didn't even try to fix them. And oh, it was good. I was interested in my own reaction, because I enjoyed every minute of skull-numbing pain and angst. Why do we like to hurt the characters so much? I mean, you've talked about this a little, but why does it work, as writers, to tear down characters? And even more so, when there's no set resolution? I often like those the best, the ones where there is no right answer, because I've been there.

This is really fascinating to follow--glad ya'll are chatty today. Only downside is that you're making me want to write really dark fic that breaks its characters in new and interesting ways.

If I write it for ya, do ya still have to?

t /taunting SA

t (for now)

I mean, it's a canon dystopia I'm working with, really...

fucking tease.

::sticks out tongue::

Wait wait, so... you didn't finish 'Handful of Dust'? But... but that's the only way to get any closure at all! Not, you know, very healthy closure, but fuck healthy.

Actually, I just feel personally involved because I proofread it. At the first F2F, as it happens!

You proofread "A Handful of Dust" at the first F2F? I feel like I'm missing something there.

And I didn't actually finish it, no. I made people tell me the end, and then I ran away and read some happy smut or something.

I was a little worried that my favorite badfic author was losing her touch, since the only thing that amused me in her latest chapter was this:

“Hi, I’m Nikita Wirth… officer?” She asked, smiled and brought an instantaneous hard on to the stoic Monarch’s groin.

Damn he was too horny to do this whole thing without first finding relief; he should have taken the stewardess up on her offer. “Captain Michel Samuelle.” He added and she extended her hand to greet him.

Seymour who was having trouble controlling the dipping he was accustomed to offering Michael motioned with his hand and bowed his head for the man to follow him. Carla was serving the orange juice and coffee decided to set another place for breakfast. Walter and Jason stood from the table the moment Michael walked in and bowed in his presence, Michael smiled at the two and simply said hi, his accent and tone like honey to the women’s ears.

But then I checked the other story she's simultaneously writing:

She could have been totally nude and it would not have turned both men on as much as the glimpse of the silver string between two perfect cheeks, the fragile knot that held the sides of the bottom with strategically placed bows and the top that covered only the nipples.

---

Nikita went to move towards the man’s outstretched hand and Michael simply held her tighter, hurting her, rubbing himself against her hardly clad body and whispering, “No.” He slapped Nikita in the ass, immediately establishing dominance and started fondling her right there in front of the salivating Moroccan.

To say that Nikita was taken aback by Michael’s actions would be an understatement, Michael looked at her and sucked her lower lip into his mouth adding, “The other room, NOW, MOVE.” And then to the man, “Make yourself at home, we’ll be a couple of… err…a while.”

---

Michael threw Nikita on the bed, her body bouncing when it hit the mattress; she was so stimulated by this display of machismo superiority that she almost reached an orgasm with the simple moves.

Riiiiight. Because you know how us women are. So stimulated when men throw us around the room.

---

Michael held himself over Nikita, watching her expression of total ecstasy before the time they had spent apart could be reduced to memories and replaced by sexy sex and lust, nothing more. She mouthed as she watched him grab the different strings of her bikini with his mouth and open her like a most precious gift on a holiday morn, “Sarah my ass… you are mine.”

Not just sex... sexy sex.