Various bits of fic
Nov. 6th, 2007 02:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nineveh_ukI’ve just realised that I forgot to request Barbara/Paul for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
yuletide. Never mind, I am very happy with the requests I did make, and Barbara/Paul can remain a threat for future years.
I have been collecting various small pieces of fic that have been scattered around LJ comments over time, and that are not going to grow into anything else. I shall call this collating rather than recycling…
Good Omens, first line challenge meme.
“How many miles to Babylon?” Crowley gasped in horror.
“478,” said the shepherd. “And you’re heading in the wrong direction.”
Crowley swore sulphurously, regretting it instantly as the leather on the steering wheel startled to curdle. “I knew I shouldn’t have let the angel put bloody Satnav in the Bentley.”
*
First seen here, prompted by theomniocular Badfic challenge.
"Crikey, Hermione, you look different!" said Ron.
"Of course, I do," Hermione snapped back. "That's what treatment with high dose steroids will do for you. And don't even think of making a crack about my clothes. It's not my fault my trunk fell off the new luggage van, and the only things that would fit belong to Madam Rosmerta's BUNAC barmaid."
*
Barbara gets her just deserts, dead!Ron style.
The pretty golden and white girl was no more. Her hair had been cut off, lest it harbour the infection, and her lips were blue and flecked with a bloody froth. For an hour now she had been unconscious, and the laboured breaths that raked her throat were growing slower.
Peter Wimsey had arrived earlier that morning. Someone – and Bunter intended to find out which someone and deal with them later – had sent the telegram to his lordship, and his lordship, awake unusually early, had read it and called for the car. It was only by chance that Bunter himself was about and in time to jump in. Now Lord Peter sat beside the bed, holding her limp hand in his. It would not be long.
“Peter?” It was barely a choke in her throat, but he heard and looked up. She had opened her eyes and was looking at him as if, as if – Bunter turned away.
“Yes, it’s me. How are you feeling?”
“Better now.” The bloody mouth curved at the corners in a feeble smile. “Peter – I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Nor did it. She was gone.
*
From an early draft of Unnatural Death.
In the dim light of dawn, Parker lay rigid between the lavender-scented sheets of the pub bedroom, and wished fervently that Peter were not so inclined to sprawl, and particularly that he were not inclined to sprawl just there. He shifted himself a little sideways and carefully nudged Wimsey's hand out of the way before stiffening involuntarily as the tranquil breathing was interrupted by a grunt. Peter blinked drowsily, removed himself politely to his own half of the bed, and closed his eyes.
“Now for God's sake, Charles,” he muttered, “won't you just jerk yourself off and go back to sleep. Or do I need to do it for you?”.
*
Definitely the fault of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tree_and_leaf
"Peter, what are you doing to that book?"
His lordship looked round, smiled at his wife, and turned back to the treasured volume lying on a sheet in the scullery sink. He raised the wineglass and took aim.
The ruby liquid arced through the air and hit the pages with a slosh.
"That should do it, don't you think Bunter?"
"Yes, my lord."
"But, Peter - "
"Ah - I've never mentioned the annual libing ceremony, have I? An old chap taught it to me years ago - slosh a glass of wine on the incunabula, and they'll eat out of your hand all year. It does wonders for one's luck at auctions - they spread the word, doncheknow."
"Peter?"
"Yes, dearest?"
"Have you gone completely mad?"
His lordship considered the possibility. "I don't think so. I got it years from a wizened old chap in Prague, name of Pince. I'm not sure where he picked it up. It does work. Look! They're completely dry, no staining or anything. They lap it up."
Harriet frowned.
"Peter, has it never occurred to you that this is, well, a little odd?"
"Not at all - it's only magic. And you know I believe in that."
*
Spawned by remarks ofankaret.
Harriet Vane was depressed. Funny, rich, intelligent Lord Peter Wimsey might have saved her from the gallows last year, but even he couldn't raise her battered self-esteem. Besides, he had a big nose, and whatever they might say about men with big noses, it couldn't make up for the embarrassment of being seen with them. As if life wasn't bad enough, Harriet had spent the last year in London sitting at her desk eating doughnuts when she had writer's block, or being taken out for dinner by Lord Peter, and as a result could neither fit into her Peter Jones tweed suit nor afford a new one. Things would have to change.
"Why don't you go on a walking tour," said her best friends Sylvia and Eilunedd, sloshing more cheap red into her glass. "You could work some of the lard off your arse, start on the new book, and you might meet a cute hiker. And it'll make Lord Peter even crazier about you if he doesn't know where you are."
"It's all right for you to say," said Harriet. "Being 1930s inverts, you don't have to worry about men not liking you because your sex life's all over the gossip columns. But a hiking tour sounds like a good idea. I'll go to the south coast." It would also be an excuse to by some new shoes.
*
And as Mills and Boon...
As other couples joined them on the dance floor, Peter pulled Harriet against his body. The masculine aroma overlaid with verbena bath salts dizzied her, and she tripped over her own feet.
“Awfully sorry,” he said. “Come a bit closer.”
She pressed herself against his manly chest. They were dancing as she had never imagined she would dance again. She felt the hard length of his arousal through his Armani trousers and her red silk frock, and slipped her hand down his spine to caress his taut buttocks.
“Let’s get you out of that dress,” he murmured.
*
A two-minute challenge courtesy ofaervir
'But Scotland, Peter? Fishing?'
Wimsey shrugged.
'I admit I am hardly a champion angler, but I can hold my own. Besides, it allowed me to miss Helen's pre-season matchmaking stakes.'
'I'd have thought being married was a good enough excuse for that.'
'You don't know Helen,' he muttered darkly. Harriet gave up.
'Very well, Peter. If you feel obliged to go to Kirkudbright, you shall go. Bunter shall accompany you. I love you very much, dearest, but I have a book to finish, and it is time I lived up to my station. I shall be spending the next month in Mentone.'
*
And last, a wholly new one from His Dark Materials.
It had become much easier for Will to keep his appointment with Lyra on midsummer day at noon once he had a job and could simply take a day’s leave rather than have to skive school, lectures, exams, or – on one memorable occasion when he had broken his leg on the rugby field – escape from the hospital ward. He had enjoyed his six months stint in Hong Kong, and now he was returned to a beautiful, blistering June. He paid his entrance fee and made his way meandering through the Botanic Garden. Past the fountain, the basin still lacking the goldfish that all human feeling said ought to be there, further beneath the crab apple trees and past flower beds in full bloom, towards a wooden seat under a spreading low-branched tree.
A tree that was not there. Instead, a tattered notice read, “The Acer campestre that formally stood here has been removed, having become unsafe through rot. A replacement will be planted in the Autumn.”
Will sighed. It was a lot easier to look inconspicuous when talking to oneself under a tree than in plain view. He fished in his bag for his mobile phone and hung the hands-free headpiece over his ear. That would have to do instead. He had to admit, thinking back to his adventures with Lyra, that of everything that had happened the only thing he wished to have done differently would have been to think of a way of meeting that didn’t make him look quite such an utter pillock.
yuletide. Never mind, I am very happy with the requests I did make, and Barbara/Paul can remain a threat for future years.I have been collecting various small pieces of fic that have been scattered around LJ comments over time, and that are not going to grow into anything else. I shall call this collating rather than recycling…
Good Omens, first line challenge meme.
“How many miles to Babylon?” Crowley gasped in horror.
“478,” said the shepherd. “And you’re heading in the wrong direction.”
Crowley swore sulphurously, regretting it instantly as the leather on the steering wheel startled to curdle. “I knew I shouldn’t have let the angel put bloody Satnav in the Bentley.”
*
First seen here, prompted by the
omniocular Badfic challenge."Crikey, Hermione, you look different!" said Ron.
"Of course, I do," Hermione snapped back. "That's what treatment with high dose steroids will do for you. And don't even think of making a crack about my clothes. It's not my fault my trunk fell off the new luggage van, and the only things that would fit belong to Madam Rosmerta's BUNAC barmaid."
*
Barbara gets her just deserts, dead!Ron style.
The pretty golden and white girl was no more. Her hair had been cut off, lest it harbour the infection, and her lips were blue and flecked with a bloody froth. For an hour now she had been unconscious, and the laboured breaths that raked her throat were growing slower.
Peter Wimsey had arrived earlier that morning. Someone – and Bunter intended to find out which someone and deal with them later – had sent the telegram to his lordship, and his lordship, awake unusually early, had read it and called for the car. It was only by chance that Bunter himself was about and in time to jump in. Now Lord Peter sat beside the bed, holding her limp hand in his. It would not be long.
“Peter?” It was barely a choke in her throat, but he heard and looked up. She had opened her eyes and was looking at him as if, as if – Bunter turned away.
“Yes, it’s me. How are you feeling?”
“Better now.” The bloody mouth curved at the corners in a feeble smile. “Peter – I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Nor did it. She was gone.
*
From an early draft of Unnatural Death.
In the dim light of dawn, Parker lay rigid between the lavender-scented sheets of the pub bedroom, and wished fervently that Peter were not so inclined to sprawl, and particularly that he were not inclined to sprawl just there. He shifted himself a little sideways and carefully nudged Wimsey's hand out of the way before stiffening involuntarily as the tranquil breathing was interrupted by a grunt. Peter blinked drowsily, removed himself politely to his own half of the bed, and closed his eyes.
“Now for God's sake, Charles,” he muttered, “won't you just jerk yourself off and go back to sleep. Or do I need to do it for you?”.
*
Definitely the fault of
tree_and_leaf"Peter, what are you doing to that book?"
His lordship looked round, smiled at his wife, and turned back to the treasured volume lying on a sheet in the scullery sink. He raised the wineglass and took aim.
The ruby liquid arced through the air and hit the pages with a slosh.
"That should do it, don't you think Bunter?"
"Yes, my lord."
"But, Peter - "
"Ah - I've never mentioned the annual libing ceremony, have I? An old chap taught it to me years ago - slosh a glass of wine on the incunabula, and they'll eat out of your hand all year. It does wonders for one's luck at auctions - they spread the word, doncheknow."
"Peter?"
"Yes, dearest?"
"Have you gone completely mad?"
His lordship considered the possibility. "I don't think so. I got it years from a wizened old chap in Prague, name of Pince. I'm not sure where he picked it up. It does work. Look! They're completely dry, no staining or anything. They lap it up."
Harriet frowned.
"Peter, has it never occurred to you that this is, well, a little odd?"
"Not at all - it's only magic. And you know I believe in that."
*
Spawned by remarks of
ankaret.Harriet Vane was depressed. Funny, rich, intelligent Lord Peter Wimsey might have saved her from the gallows last year, but even he couldn't raise her battered self-esteem. Besides, he had a big nose, and whatever they might say about men with big noses, it couldn't make up for the embarrassment of being seen with them. As if life wasn't bad enough, Harriet had spent the last year in London sitting at her desk eating doughnuts when she had writer's block, or being taken out for dinner by Lord Peter, and as a result could neither fit into her Peter Jones tweed suit nor afford a new one. Things would have to change.
"Why don't you go on a walking tour," said her best friends Sylvia and Eilunedd, sloshing more cheap red into her glass. "You could work some of the lard off your arse, start on the new book, and you might meet a cute hiker. And it'll make Lord Peter even crazier about you if he doesn't know where you are."
"It's all right for you to say," said Harriet. "Being 1930s inverts, you don't have to worry about men not liking you because your sex life's all over the gossip columns. But a hiking tour sounds like a good idea. I'll go to the south coast." It would also be an excuse to by some new shoes.
*
And as Mills and Boon...
As other couples joined them on the dance floor, Peter pulled Harriet against his body. The masculine aroma overlaid with verbena bath salts dizzied her, and she tripped over her own feet.
“Awfully sorry,” he said. “Come a bit closer.”
She pressed herself against his manly chest. They were dancing as she had never imagined she would dance again. She felt the hard length of his arousal through his Armani trousers and her red silk frock, and slipped her hand down his spine to caress his taut buttocks.
“Let’s get you out of that dress,” he murmured.
*
A two-minute challenge courtesy of
aervir'But Scotland, Peter? Fishing?'
Wimsey shrugged.
'I admit I am hardly a champion angler, but I can hold my own. Besides, it allowed me to miss Helen's pre-season matchmaking stakes.'
'I'd have thought being married was a good enough excuse for that.'
'You don't know Helen,' he muttered darkly. Harriet gave up.
'Very well, Peter. If you feel obliged to go to Kirkudbright, you shall go. Bunter shall accompany you. I love you very much, dearest, but I have a book to finish, and it is time I lived up to my station. I shall be spending the next month in Mentone.'
*
And last, a wholly new one from His Dark Materials.
It had become much easier for Will to keep his appointment with Lyra on midsummer day at noon once he had a job and could simply take a day’s leave rather than have to skive school, lectures, exams, or – on one memorable occasion when he had broken his leg on the rugby field – escape from the hospital ward. He had enjoyed his six months stint in Hong Kong, and now he was returned to a beautiful, blistering June. He paid his entrance fee and made his way meandering through the Botanic Garden. Past the fountain, the basin still lacking the goldfish that all human feeling said ought to be there, further beneath the crab apple trees and past flower beds in full bloom, towards a wooden seat under a spreading low-branched tree.
A tree that was not there. Instead, a tattered notice read, “The Acer campestre that formally stood here has been removed, having become unsafe through rot. A replacement will be planted in the Autumn.”
Will sighed. It was a lot easier to look inconspicuous when talking to oneself under a tree than in plain view. He fished in his bag for his mobile phone and hung the hands-free headpiece over his ear. That would have to do instead. He had to admit, thinking back to his adventures with Lyra, that of everything that had happened the only thing he wished to have done differently would have been to think of a way of meeting that didn’t make him look quite such an utter pillock.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-06 02:47 pm (UTC)Thanks for bringing some much needed cheer into my rather grey and dreary afternoon!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-07 06:10 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-06 03:09 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-06 03:21 pm (UTC)Which is to say, yes, please do!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-06 03:11 pm (UTC)MM
(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-07 06:11 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-06 04:51 pm (UTC)And the "Harriet decides to go on a walking tour" is also marvellous. I wish I had the wit to write such stuff! Just excellent.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-07 06:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-06 04:52 pm (UTC)*chokes on spit* :D
Love these!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-07 06:20 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-06 05:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-07 06:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-06 07:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-07 06:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-09 05:09 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-10 10:18 pm (UTC)Againt his better judgement, Peter is a Mills and Boon hero in his dreams...
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-11 07:30 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-13 04:09 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-10 10:17 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-13 04:46 am (UTC)What next? Poirot/Hastings? Wolfe/Archie and/or /Fritz?
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-25 11:04 pm (UTC)A tasty little grab-bag of assorted treats (sort of Bertie's Beans without the risk of vomit-flavored ones).