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31_days2010-03-31 10:35 pm
ladyairy.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2010-03-31 10:35 pm
[Amnesty Day] March 9th and 14th: Dangerous Liaisons
title: The Art of Losing
day/theme: 9. Desire was born early, as was regret
fandom: Dangerous Liaisons
characters: Merteuil, mentions of Tourvel and Valmont
rating: PG
The Marquise de Merteuil is mistress of many things, words included. She takes great pleasure in selecting the exact words to form a phrase describing the specific sentiment she wishes to convey-- a luxury more readily available when one is composing a letter than in actual conversation, more's the pity.
She likes her words perfectly categorized and exact. Unfortunately, there is one little word that defies categorization and definition, continually escaping her grasp and understanding.
Love.
It was an excuse for weakness, a name for madness, a symptom of a greater disease. She hates the excuse and finds the madness profoundly irritating. At the same time, it was a necessary tool for her profession, a lubricant to nature, and an almost comforting ideal. The Marquise considers herself quite knowledgeable on the subject of love, or at least on what people call it. What love actually is continues to escape her.
The Marquise had not considered any of this in any great detail since she was married. Love was a joke she tossed out to frighten and amuse her companions on occasion. The Vicomte, always quick to frighten and emphatically declare his disgust, was a frequent target.
A visit to the countryside, ostensibly to visit Madame Rosemonde, had changed that, leaving a very private and personal part of the Marquise reeling.
Madame de Tourvel, she noticed, was a woman who wore her heart on her sleeve. It was a quality that the Marquise detested in a woman, but she found it rather charming on a man, so she understood how men could see it as appealing. From a purely logical standpoint, she assumed that was why Valmont had chosen Tourvel for his next battle. The Chevalier Belleroche had much the same appeal.
Logic did nothing to explain, however, the sick twist in the Marquise's gut when she watched Valmont exchange longing glances with Tourvel-- looks that she was only too familiar with. Several of those specific expressions, in fact, were ones that had warmed her own heart upon occasion.
The Vicomte is, she has to admit (if only to herself), exceptional at his chosen vocation. The fact that she even wanted to know whether he had meant it when he looked at her or if he meant it now-- well, it was truly impressive what he could achieve, wasn't it? Of course it meant nothing, unless it was I can see you in my bed already, and I like what I see.
Her own thoughts are repulsive; love is not something the Marquise is a victim of. This kind of confusion was clearly the result of mixing business and pleasure. The purity of her friendship with the Vicomte was tarnished by their earlier relationship: the fact that they both desire a resumption of relations proves that such a friendship was impossible in the first place. A wise woman, the Marquise realizes, would break it off.
A wise woman, the Marquise knows, does not fall in love with the Vicomte de Valmont.
title: I'm A Stranger Here Myself
day/theme: 14. How do you redefine something that never really had a name?
fandom: Les Liaisons Dangereuses (1959)
characters: Valmont, Juliette Merteuil-Valmont
notes: set in Roger Vadim's film specifically
rating: PG
The part Juliette hated the most was waiting for him to come home afterwards. When she could help it, she made sure they were in at least different cities, if not different countries while one of them was having an affair. There was nothing that sickened her like watching him walk through the door with that smug smile that meant someone else had gotten the benefits of her husband's attentions.
It wasn't because his infidelities hurt her. When she married Valmont, Juliette had known full well what she was getting herself into. It was hardly marriage as their friends would consider it-- that was a title they used for convenience, and because it pleased Valmont when she used his name.
She lit a cigarette as the jangle of keys signaled her husband's return. "How was it?" she asked mechanically, avoiding eye contact.
"Enchanting," he replies, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead.
"She didn't seem particularly exceptional to me," Juliette said sharply, taking a drag on her cigarette.
"That's probably because she wasn't," Valmont said, amused. Removing his shoes and jacket, he moved towards her, but she stood up and went to the window. "Don't be upset with me, love, I'm sure you'll find someone new soon. Meanwhile--" he put his hand on her arm "I'm still here."
Juliette said nothing, but allowed his touch to linger. She made a brief sound of protest when he plucked the cigarette from her fingers, taking a drag on it himself before extinguishing it in a nearby ashtray.
"Don't do that," she murmured as Valmont snaked his arms around her.
"I don't know what you mean, love," he said cheekily, kissing her.
"I won't be your sloppy seconds."
He gave her a wounded look. "Not at all: you're the dessert that I've been waiting for the entire meal."
Juliette pulled away sharply. "I said no."
"You didn't mean it."
"What makes you so sure?"
"You're my wife," he replied, as if it were obvious. "More, even."
"More?" Juliette reached for another cigarette. "What does that mean?"
Her husband made a frustrated noise. "I don't know! What does it matter?"
She shrugged. "I think we should know." Still, she leaned back into him.
Valmont shook his head wearily. "You are a strange woman."
day/theme: 9. Desire was born early, as was regret
fandom: Dangerous Liaisons
characters: Merteuil, mentions of Tourvel and Valmont
rating: PG
The Marquise de Merteuil is mistress of many things, words included. She takes great pleasure in selecting the exact words to form a phrase describing the specific sentiment she wishes to convey-- a luxury more readily available when one is composing a letter than in actual conversation, more's the pity.
She likes her words perfectly categorized and exact. Unfortunately, there is one little word that defies categorization and definition, continually escaping her grasp and understanding.
Love.
It was an excuse for weakness, a name for madness, a symptom of a greater disease. She hates the excuse and finds the madness profoundly irritating. At the same time, it was a necessary tool for her profession, a lubricant to nature, and an almost comforting ideal. The Marquise considers herself quite knowledgeable on the subject of love, or at least on what people call it. What love actually is continues to escape her.
The Marquise had not considered any of this in any great detail since she was married. Love was a joke she tossed out to frighten and amuse her companions on occasion. The Vicomte, always quick to frighten and emphatically declare his disgust, was a frequent target.
A visit to the countryside, ostensibly to visit Madame Rosemonde, had changed that, leaving a very private and personal part of the Marquise reeling.
Madame de Tourvel, she noticed, was a woman who wore her heart on her sleeve. It was a quality that the Marquise detested in a woman, but she found it rather charming on a man, so she understood how men could see it as appealing. From a purely logical standpoint, she assumed that was why Valmont had chosen Tourvel for his next battle. The Chevalier Belleroche had much the same appeal.
Logic did nothing to explain, however, the sick twist in the Marquise's gut when she watched Valmont exchange longing glances with Tourvel-- looks that she was only too familiar with. Several of those specific expressions, in fact, were ones that had warmed her own heart upon occasion.
The Vicomte is, she has to admit (if only to herself), exceptional at his chosen vocation. The fact that she even wanted to know whether he had meant it when he looked at her or if he meant it now-- well, it was truly impressive what he could achieve, wasn't it? Of course it meant nothing, unless it was I can see you in my bed already, and I like what I see.
Her own thoughts are repulsive; love is not something the Marquise is a victim of. This kind of confusion was clearly the result of mixing business and pleasure. The purity of her friendship with the Vicomte was tarnished by their earlier relationship: the fact that they both desire a resumption of relations proves that such a friendship was impossible in the first place. A wise woman, the Marquise realizes, would break it off.
A wise woman, the Marquise knows, does not fall in love with the Vicomte de Valmont.
title: I'm A Stranger Here Myself
day/theme: 14. How do you redefine something that never really had a name?
fandom: Les Liaisons Dangereuses (1959)
characters: Valmont, Juliette Merteuil-Valmont
notes: set in Roger Vadim's film specifically
rating: PG
The part Juliette hated the most was waiting for him to come home afterwards. When she could help it, she made sure they were in at least different cities, if not different countries while one of them was having an affair. There was nothing that sickened her like watching him walk through the door with that smug smile that meant someone else had gotten the benefits of her husband's attentions.
It wasn't because his infidelities hurt her. When she married Valmont, Juliette had known full well what she was getting herself into. It was hardly marriage as their friends would consider it-- that was a title they used for convenience, and because it pleased Valmont when she used his name.
She lit a cigarette as the jangle of keys signaled her husband's return. "How was it?" she asked mechanically, avoiding eye contact.
"Enchanting," he replies, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead.
"She didn't seem particularly exceptional to me," Juliette said sharply, taking a drag on her cigarette.
"That's probably because she wasn't," Valmont said, amused. Removing his shoes and jacket, he moved towards her, but she stood up and went to the window. "Don't be upset with me, love, I'm sure you'll find someone new soon. Meanwhile--" he put his hand on her arm "I'm still here."
Juliette said nothing, but allowed his touch to linger. She made a brief sound of protest when he plucked the cigarette from her fingers, taking a drag on it himself before extinguishing it in a nearby ashtray.
"Don't do that," she murmured as Valmont snaked his arms around her.
"I don't know what you mean, love," he said cheekily, kissing her.
"I won't be your sloppy seconds."
He gave her a wounded look. "Not at all: you're the dessert that I've been waiting for the entire meal."
Juliette pulled away sharply. "I said no."
"You didn't mean it."
"What makes you so sure?"
"You're my wife," he replied, as if it were obvious. "More, even."
"More?" Juliette reached for another cigarette. "What does that mean?"
Her husband made a frustrated noise. "I don't know! What does it matter?"
She shrugged. "I think we should know." Still, she leaned back into him.
Valmont shook his head wearily. "You are a strange woman."