让我一个人静静地萌一下all伏

就是任性!哪怕粮少我也很挑!不喜欢的绝对不放!
……unless it serves the purpose of increasing diversity...😎
For Voldemort and Valour!
仔细想了想,只有一种文是永远不会出现在我的推文里的,那就是语言烂到我这个外国人都无法忍受的文,标点符号乱打基本上是无法忍受的。嗯。或者中文小白文。
就是那种小白文啦!

每天都要赞美Eldritcher

我发现我半夜老是不好好睡觉,老是去翻我最爱的作者的文。她每一篇hp的文我都看了。为了看她其他文,我这两天已经扎进了Tolkien的海洋……

第一次为了看一个作者的同人去试图把自己挤进一个fandom~
她今天写完了Hungarian Dance。我真的好开心,好期待她下一篇文。我之前很喜欢她的里德尔三部曲,跟Abraxas的cp,那是我看的她的第一篇文~我一心觉得是阿伏……
后来,我问她Hungarian Dance里面是不是几乎有一点柏拉图式的情感,她以后会不会写apathetic!harry或tom时,她就回我说,其实“里德尔三部曲”那时的Tom就算apathetic。

是我邪恶了,老觉得阿布和汤姆最后还是搞起来了。实际上一直都没有(/ω\)


我觉得我读同人文这么久,对攻受这个问题一直想不明白,到现在也没想明白。


我一方面有自己的……偏好,另一方面又极其憎恨攻受这种“权力游戏”。对耽美同人的看法正巧折射了我对现实生活中男女关系的扭曲态度……(/ω\)


反正这个作者教了我很多。

这是Catullus 16里对性态度的一个对话,发生在老伏和小哈之间,
“Harry, I am involved in power games everyday. I don’t need to bring them to my bed. And I don’t desire them either.”
“Oh.”
“I am not eighteen, Harry. I don’t correlate aspects of power, masculinity and dominance to sex anymore.”

“哈利,我每天都陷在权力纷争中,我不需要把这些纷争带上床。我也不渴求它们。”

“哦。”

“我不是十八岁了,哈利。我已经不将性与权力、男子气概和支配地位联系在一起了。”


其实,这才是健康的面对性的态度吧(/ω\)

但更多的是一种wishful thinking了。


Hungarian Dance里主角似乎也是创伤后几乎性冷淡的小哈。不得不说这一篇文,继较为少见的伏格cp后和格哈暗示后,到了最后还有那么一点点哈伏倾向。
我真的是全心全意爱慕着这个作者(/ω\)

一个加分项是:这个作者基本上写的是老伏啊……
我知道有好多好多好多作者,读者,包括我,一开始都是被TR的颜给骗了的。同人文里超级常见的就是:老伏回收魂器然后一下子就二十几岁的小年轻了。这种我一开始看得很爽……
但后来我就不太乐意了。因为意识到:
1. 回来也是个七十岁的老头子了
2. 老伏独特的地方就在于他是老伏
3. ……其实重点是我被这个作者对老伏的描写给彻彻底底地带弯了审美观


不要问我为什么,我现在全心全意地觉得老伏貌美如花。

【萌clex的时候我萌得很勉强,因为很讨厌光头。我当时立下誓言,我永远也不会萌一个光头,不管他有头发的时候有多萌。

【世事难料。

就Hungarian Dance的倒数第二章,连sex都没有【小哈还性冷淡哦】,看完后各种脸红心跳(/ω\)

或者取决于对sex的定义吧【下面那段节选里说得更清楚】

小哈:大概只有插入了才算sex?我一点都不喜欢的sex。

老伏:可是我们不已经做了好几次了吗?你啥意思?

小哈:哦,原来那种亲亲抱抱也算吗?


我:哈哈哈哈让我先哈为敬。


然后这是最后一章的节选
【哈伏倾向有】
【没错,虚伪的我嘴上说着讨厌“权力游戏”,但我的内心还是很诚实地节了哈伏的部分】
【这时候大概尘埃落定两个人开始商讨恋爱关系细节了……】
“I didn’t have the chance to discover what you liked,” Voldemort said. “I didn't know if you hated the thought of sexual contact. I thought about your cock. I wondered what it would be like, if I took you in my hands, in my mouth, in me. Then I rid myself of fantasies, or strived to, because I realized that you did not welcome sexual intimacy in the little I knew of you.”
Harry had thought of sex a great deal on his travels. He had thought about sex, and about his past, about why he was so cold to the thought of physical intimacy.
“I don’t think I am functional, sexually,” Harry told him gently, not wanting to disappoint him, and yet wanting to be honest.
Voldemort blinked, and looked at him askance. Oh, he had not expected Harry to be broken sexually. He had only thought that it was a matter of time, perhaps.
Trying to find the right words, Harry said, “I don’t think I want to have sex.”
“What do you mean?” Voldemort asked. “We had sex, more than once.”
Harry thought of Voldemort splayed open on his sheets, surrendered to passion, and of how much joy the sight had brought him.
“Is it enough?” Harry asked, worried. “Don’t you need more?”
He knew what men did with men. Voldemort had not shown much evidence of abstinence or sexual dysfunction. He must surely want all of what was possible at some point.
“Whatever you wish to give me. Have I asked you for more?”
“No, but I thought you were being patient, and waiting for more.”
“I don’t know what you mean by more,” Voldemort told him acerbically. “I came to you, only knowing of sex and power. Whatever else I know of this, you showed me.”
“I am talking of sex,” Harry clarified, and placed his hand between Voldemort’s legs in emphasis. Voldemort parted his legs in invitation and let Harry explore at will.
“You have little drive or desire to wank. I don’t care. You find me erotic, whatever that means to you. I find you erotic. Your touches, your kisses, your gaze, your voice. Whatever are you concerned about?”
Harry was not concerned about anything then. He leaned forward, over Voldemort, and cupped his head, and kissed him many times across his face, across his cheeks and brow.
“Harry, Harry.”
“Good, I want to hear only my name, if you must speak at all,” Harry said fiercely, thinking of magic and castles, thinking of love and fate, thinking of the travels that had brought them here, of one following his grief and another following his heart.
“Take off your clothes. Your air-conditioning is still as good as it was. You will be warm. Take off your clothes. For me.”
And then he looked. Let the pilgrims believe what they wanted about the reincarnation of a saint who had written the greatest epic of their world. Harry knew the truth. He knew the truth of the man splayed underneath him, he knew of the truth of them.
Voldemort’s hands were in his hair, in his beard, tangled in his chest hair, and skittishly jumping across his skin in an undirected, uncoordinated manner.
“I find you beautiful,” Harry confessed, as Voldemort sunk into his touches as gracefully as he once had. “I find you a miracle hewn of magic and love.” He traced the contours of Voldemort’s body, finding it spare and thin, and yet supple and strong in form. “You once called me an eldritch creature. What am I to make of you then? I watched you born of blood and bones and flesh. I watched you rise from that lake having crafted my staff out of your wand.”
“You understood,” Voldemort whispered then, looking across Harry at the staff of yew.
It had taken Harry many months to understand. He had figured it out finally. It truly had been that lake. It had been Avalon. As the Lady had come out with Excalibur, Voldemort had come out with the staff of yew. Great magic came out of great sacrifices, and he had given up his wand.
“It was trivial,” Voldemort said. “I did not need a wand.”
It was not trivial, Harry knew. He had seen Riddle’s face in Ollivander’s shop. He had seen Voldemort cradling his wand as if he was welcoming a long-lost child, during that night of the cauldron.
“Shut up,” Harry told him. “All I want to hear, if you must speak at all, is my name.”
Voldemort lapsed into silence then, until it was broken by soft gasps and groans, as he surrendered to Harry’s care.
“If I had my way, I would have you like this, everyday.”
Voldemort was too far gone in his passion to react to Harry’s words, but react he did to Harry’s fierce kiss, crashing into Harry’s arms with his name spoken twice.
“You have your way,” Voldemort said, as they lay there on the yak furs, smelling of sweat and semen. Harry had been rubbing the sticky fluids firmly onto Voldemort’s skin, as silly as any juvenile lover could be.
“My way?”
Oh, then Harry remembered. Embarrassed, he shook his head.
“You do have your way, whenever you choose to,” Voldemort said sleepily. “And I prefer it so. We can return to your castle. Thy kingdom cometh, thy will be done.”


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