darththalia (darththalia) wrote in tpm_flashback, @ 2004-07-30 01:17:00 |
|
|||
Original poster: kyuuketsukirui
Okay, I know there was just the big thing on MA and so everyone's probably just read this, but it was going to be my first rec (was planning to ask Ruth to unlock it and everything) and since this is supposed to be a resource that people can come back to whenever they're looking for something to read, or for someone new to the fandom, or whatever, I'm reccing it anyway. :p
Bit of an introduction first. Hullo, my name's Grace. I've only been reading TPM for about a year and started because it was a good source of Ewan!fic. Honestly, I'm not all that keen on the sci-fi part of it, so my recs are just as likely to be AUs as canon-ish stuff. And I'm pretty much a Q/O shipper, so you won't be seeing a lot of other pairings from me as I don't tend to read them much.
Title: Slacker
Author: Ruth and Hilary
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Qui/Obi
Warnings: If you consider anything underage to be chan, then this is chan, but Ben is 17-almost-18, so not really an issue, IMO.
Author's e-mail, web site and/or LJ id:
Ruth: telesilla, telesilla @ gmail.com
Hilary: padawanhilary, padawanhilary @ hotmail.com
Link to story: http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memori
Reasons for recommending: I love AUs. Love, love, love. And I do like teacher/student provided it can be done convicingly, which this is. Ben is mature enough that you can see why Jon would fall for him, but he still acts enough like a kid that it's not unbelievable. There's angst, but not the sort of piled-on mess you so often find, where it's obvious that the author is just trying to draw things out by having one misunderstanding after another. It's good angst, realistic, not forced, and it doesn't overwhelm everything else.
Just a note, this fic is finished. There may be an epilogue someday, but it's essentially complete as it is.
Quote from story: Uh...this is long, but it's actually my favorite bit. I love the description of Ben.
*
He is a complete slacker. He's leaning on the outer wall of the boys' bathroom on the south end of the building, catching the last of fall's sunlight. He's smoking casually, as though someone weren't about to come around the corner of the building and snatch the cigarette right out of his hand, yelling at him to go to detention--again. He's in a ratty denim jacket covered with ink drawings, his own personal graffiti, tattoo designs, safety pins, zippers. Trent Reznor's signature graces the pocket just inside. The jacket never gets washed. It almost never gets taken off.
Under the jacket is an obscene t-shirt depicting two skeletons engaged in a questionably-positioned sex act. He'd get sent to detention for that, too, and frequently does. His pants are so dark olive that they're almost ebon, and they hang on him. The tops of his hipbones could likely be seen if only he would tug up the hem of the t-shirt. His shoulders are against the wall but they're all that's touching it; the rest of his body slumps outward, hips thrust provocatively forward. His legs are crossed. His Visions are covered in the same inkwork his jacket is; most of the drawing is done on the instep when he gets bored in physics or Algebra II.
He never, however, gets bored in World Economics. His pale green eyes have settled on Dr. Jon Quenton, a man far too educated to be teaching a core class in a bad high school. Dr. Quenton is leaning in his doorway in a pose as blatantly uncaring as that of his student. He is crisply dressed, his hair pulled into a low tail at his nape, his beard immaculately trimmed, his white shirt and khaki slacks pressed sharply. One leg is crossed before the other and his arms are folded over his chest as he regards his student, who never studies but manages to pull nineties and hundreds on every test he takes. Quenton should be the one snatching the cigarette away and sending the boy to detention, where they will replace the t-shirt yet again with something tame and unprovocative. He should demand more, explain that such potential in one so young and so very intelligent should never be wasted. He should admonish the boy to try harder, do more. He should, by all rights, be spouting the same nonsense the rest of the administration does. He should, but he does not.
He looks at the cant of slim hips and the huge, green eyes and can't bring himself to change anything about the illegal tableau in front of him.
*
More: I like my fic to have a happy ending, but I really like when it's a happy ending that they have to work for, and Slacker definitely fits that category.