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Mar. 14th, 2006 04:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nnySo I owe my landlord five hundred quid and my parents seven, I have no job, I have a nasty steenking cold, it's grey and wet and gross outside.
And I'm in such a good mood. And if that sounds sarcastic? SO NOT. I am chirpy as a masturbating parrot. WTF?
First five people to leave me a prompt get something ficcy. I dunno how long it'll be, but. Whatever you want, man.
And I'm in such a good mood. And if that sounds sarcastic? SO NOT. I am chirpy as a masturbating parrot. WTF?
First five people to leave me a prompt get something ficcy. I dunno how long it'll be, but. Whatever you want, man.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2006-03-14 08:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-14 08:39 am (UTC)And now I potter off to write.
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Date: 2006-03-14 08:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-14 08:47 am (UTC)(Also: masturbating parrot? that so hurts my head)
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Date: 2006-03-14 08:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-14 08:49 am (UTC)And: *HUGS AND LOVES AND IS HAPPY YOU ARE A MASTURBATING PARROT YAY!*
(... and ok, of all the sentences I never thought I'd write. heh.)
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Date: 2006-03-14 08:51 am (UTC)*hugs the wanking parrot*
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Date: 2006-03-14 09:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-14 09:04 am (UTC)"Six, as a matter of fact."
"Six. Right."
Crowley was the very soul of elegance, his blazer and flannels rather darker than tradition dictated but immaculate, a straw boater pulled low over his eyes. He lounged back in his seat, watching the gentle jogging of the fielders with a curled lip.
"It's not as though they're putting their backs into it, is it?"
Aziraphale settled back in his own chair, fingers laced across his stomach, and beamed good-naturedly at the field.
"There's really no point, my dear. Once it's over the boundary, the six runs are theirs regardless."
"So why six? It's just a pointless number."
"All numbers are, in my experience."
"That'd be all that blasted Trinity rot. Three in one and one in three and three decimal point one four - yes, you may well blush. I know that whole pi thing was your idea, you contrary b-"
"Really, my dear." But Aziraphale's expression didn't quite match the touch of pleasure in his voice - he did so like it when his work was appreciated. "And it's not contrary in the least. It's keeping the mathematicians in gainful employment, at least, which is terribly important what with their constant discovering of laws and rules and nonsense."
"Laws of physics," Crowley said smugly. "Best work I ever did - I doubt if your side has got a single scientist. All the star charts and patterns, some of the most aesthetically pleasing graphology around, and it just looks as though it were designed by some amazing - " Crowley lifted one languid hand and gestured " - celestial painter - "
"That was almost poetic, you know."
" - and they take this as a reason not to believe in Himself. It's bloody hilarious."
Aziraphale scowled in response to Crowley's smirk.
"Yes. Well. Pi is doing an awful lot to redress that balance; speaking of which, weren't there supposed to be refreshments?"
"You're not interested in the cricket?"
Aziraphale looked down at the field again; figures all dressed in white going about their business, defined rules, sporsmanlike behaviour...
"Not particularly," he said, turning his back to it. "I prefer something with a little less predictability to it. So pie, I think, it is."
"Oh ha," said Crowley dryly, "de-bloody ha ha." But he matched his stride to Aziraphale's unconsciously, just the same, and they walked off the field together.
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Date: 2006-03-14 09:29 am (UTC)Will looked over at Gibbs, his hands stilling on the rope.
"Now you can't possibly tell me that those are bad, not with Mr Cotton wandering around so happily."
"Bad luck?" Gibbs let out a roat of laughter and slapped Will on the back, nearly sending him top over tea-kettle. "Not a bit of it, no indeed. Powerful good pets, are parrots, and they'll always do for supper in a pinch. No no, it's the Cap'n as won't abide talk of birds."
Will cocked his head to one side and frowned.
"And why is that, do you think?"
"Well," said Gibbs, inflating his chest like a pigeon and settling himself comfortably against a mast, "the story goes that the Cap'n, when he were little more than a boy himself - "
The story went, as the stories tended to, that Jack had been terribly corageous, and various of the military persuasion had been most thoroughly outwitted, and there had very nearly been a hoarde of treasure but for a parrot shouting out a map reference at a most unfortunate moment. Mr Gibbs had told the story with the utmost relish, and this one, in Will's opinion, had sounded almost plausible.
He was still turning it over in his mind when he ran across Jack a little later. The Captain was up on the poop deck, laying on his back with his legs almost vertical, crossed at the ankle and propped against the Pearl's figurehead. He was whittling something, turning it every now and again and holding it up to the light - he held the knife extraordinarily delicately, for such a deadly-looking instrument. He stopped what he was doing when Will approached, tilting his head up enough to blow the sawdust from his chest before squinting up at the new arrival.
"Why the parrots?" Will blurted out after a moment or two of silence - no man, in his opinion, ought to look nearly so annoyingly appealing while considered upside down.
"Eh?"
Jack made no move to sit up, so Will sat down instead, leaning against the for'ard rail.
"What is it about parrots that so offends you?"
Jack's face looked suddenly a good deal less sunny.
"It was Pearl."
Will looked confused.
"The Pearl?"
"Not the Pearl. She was a parrot, named after a ship. Bloody thing."
"Why, what happened?"
Jack struggled semi-upright, leaning back on his elbows, and quickly cast about to make sure no one was around. Will leaned forward, conspiratorially.
"'She'," Jack eventually whispered roughly, "was a he."
"...and?"
"And he was too bloody fond of a trinket I had in my hair, alright? Always said we should have got the bloody thing a mate."
It took a good couple of minutes, but eventually Will began to laugh, one hand trying desperately to stifle it. Jack's scowl deepened.
"Bloody thing made my head hurt."
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Date: 2006-03-14 09:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-14 09:50 am (UTC)Glad you liked.
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Date: 2006-03-14 09:54 am (UTC)I liked a great deal. Especially the referene to pi. ;)
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Date: 2006-03-14 10:03 am (UTC)Thank you. :)
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Date: 2006-03-14 10:03 am (UTC)"Yep," said Brian stickily, and grinned around another mouthful.
"It can't seriously taste good. I mean, it's sugar. That's it."
Wensleydale pushed his glasses up his nose with the knuckle of his forefinger, frowning at the jar in Brian's hand.
"Which is why," Brian answered happily, "it tastes so good." He held out the jar and jiggled it temptingly. "Go on, Wens. You know you want to. Your inner child is begging, man."
"You're inner-child enough for the both of us, thank you."
Brian shrugged and scooped out another fingerful, licking it off in quite a lascivious manner. Wensley cleared his throat and readjusted his glasses.
"You're going to be quite unbearable for the rest of the day, now. You know how you get when you've been at the sweets."
And even after knowing Brian so long, the pounce was still almost entirely unexpected. Wensley wriggled and squeaked a token protest, and Brian pinning his wrists to the floor was almost entirely the reason for the protest in the first place.
"You know how I get," he said, breathing warm sweet air in Wensley's ear, "when I've been at the sweets."
"I have a class," he argued faintly, and Brian just pulled back far enough that he could see his grin.
"You can't go until you've tried this." Brian leaned a little closer. "Heaven," he informed Wensley solemnly, "tastes like Fluff."
And then he leaned a little closer still, and dash it all if the little git wasn't right.
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Date: 2006-03-14 10:05 am (UTC)Oops?
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Date: 2006-03-14 10:12 am (UTC)Creases.
OR.
Bubbles.
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Date: 2006-03-14 10:22 am (UTC)It continued, its voice sounding like some kind of robot dirge.
" - O - A - S - T. Spell. Toast. T - O - A - "
"Okay, so ten points for initiative, Jez, but it spells toast. That's it, toast. I'm thinking this might just have a limited shelf life, whaddaya say?"
Jez, who was happily occupied with his screwdriver, didn't look up.
"I think it's broken."
"Oh, you think it's broken! Broken, hunh. I'd never have thought that maybe it might be - "
" - A - " said the toaster. " - S - T. Spell."
"- broken. And, for the record, it's starting to freak me out."
"Toasters," Jez told him earnestly, "are our friends."
"I don't care if they're our damned royalty, Jez, I am about this far from getting my damned toolbox and killing it with a - "
"H - " said the toaster. Dylan's mouth clicked shut, and he stared at it. " - A - M - M - E - "
"Oh holy shit," moaned Dylan. "It's reading my frickin' - "
"Spell. Hammer."
"Fixed it!"
"We're all gonna die," Dylan told him.
Jez rolled his eyes and got to his feet, dropping his hand to Dylan's head and ruffling his hair as he passed.
"I won't let the toaster kill you."
It was... somehow, strangely comforting.
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Date: 2006-03-14 10:27 am (UTC)Prompt: Space!
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Date: 2006-03-14 10:35 am (UTC)Run, Dylan, run! Heeeee. And "toasters are our friends" = ME DYING OF HYSTERIA. bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! And just, oh, hair ruffling and the potential for discovering evil toasters that obviously bear no resemblance at all to any other toasters that might be on TV are so why I love Shooting Fish. :D
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Date: 2006-03-14 10:51 am (UTC)He was always impeccably smart, suits looking freshly dry-cleaned and trousers perfectly creased, rather as though he'd just stepped out of a men's magazine.
Actually, Aziraphale mentally corrected himself, not a men's magazine. He'd had the misfortune to come across a couple of those, once, in the bottom of a box of books he'd bought. Crowley was wearing entirely too many clothes for that sort of publication. And was... rather the wrong shape.
One of the more discerning catalogues then, perhaps.
Aziraphale, on the other hand, was more of the all-round rumpled sort. His clothes never quite managed to look neat for more than two minutes together; at least, not - well, he always looked neat. It just happened to be a far more comfortable sort of neat. The sort of neat one gets when one tugs to straighten one's clothes and runs a hand through one's hair before coming to the dinner table, after spending almost the entirety of the afternoon on hands and knees in a bookshop.
Aziraphale was crumpled and rumpled where Crowley was creased. And it was almost annoying, it almost would be, were it not for one other consideration.
Angel complexions, apparently, were rather resilient things. Smooth-skinned and pink-cheeked and a little crumpled around the eyes when he smiled, perhaps, but free from all other blemishes. Whereas Crowley... Somehow he managed to keep his hair relatively neat, when he was sleeping. And he avoided dribbling in an unsightly manner, which was probably for the best for all concerned. But he did, when he wound an arm tightly around Aziraphale's waist, and pressed the full hot length of himself firmly against the angel's back before drifting off to sleep, always manage to wind up just on the edge of both pillows.
And managed to wake up with the most extraordinary creases scored into his cheek.
They faded during the day, certainly. And Crowley managed to look impeccable again in short order, and stayed that way. Even when the little brass bell interrupted - well. Even then, when Aziraphale emerged looking even more rumpled than ever and was shorter with the customers than usual.
It was almost annoying, and it almost would be, were it not for the other creases. Which would be back again, come morning, without fail.
The skin around Aziraphale's eyes crumpled, just a little, as he thought about it.
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Date: 2006-03-14 11:50 am (UTC)<333333333333333
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Date: 2006-03-14 12:07 pm (UTC)It'd be nice, Remus reflected occasionally, if he could read something into it. If it weren't the same with everyone; a casual arm slung around a shoulder, Sirius' large hand ruffling hair whether it be black or mousey blond or dusty brown already starting to get sprinkled with grey. It didn't seem to make a difference to him.
Or rather... it didn't make a difference that he was willing to acknowledge. Sirius was, perhaps, a little more careful with him than he was with the others, and it'd be nice if he could read what he wanted into that, and all. It'd be nice to think that Sirius was being careful with him, because he was never particularly well.
It'd be nice if he could ignore a thin white scar which barely showed up on the boy's skin but was a hell of a lot more noticeable on Padfoot's muzzle.
But just because there was no rough-housing as there was with James, no teasing pokes and prods like he doled out to Peter, it didn't mean he couldn't enjoy whatever it was he did manage to get. Didn't mean he couldn't lean into the arm that squeezed his shoulders, maybe turn his head a little to sniff Sirius' hair.
"What," Sirius whispered, "are you doing, Moony?"
He whispered, because they were in the library. The library, which was a public place, which meant - approaching full moon or not it was a dreadful slip. Remus pulled away, out of the circle of Sirius' arm, and leaned against the cool stone which brought the aisle they were in to an end.
"Nothing. Doesn't matter."
"Did you - did you sniff me?"
"It doesn't matter, I - Sirius what in hell's name are you doing?"
Sirius had no concept of personal space. It was only that, it must only be that, only Sirius had never buried his bloody nose in Remus' bloody neck, before.
"- so careful - " muttered Sirius.
"What?"
"Always so careful, with you. Didn't want - but if you know, then - I didn't want to ruin this - but... is it okay?"
Remus looked quickly at the entrance to the aisle, then cupped Sirius' chin in his hand, tilting his head up.
"It's okay. You won't break me."
Sirius still never rough-housed with Remus.
Not in public.
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Date: 2006-03-14 03:41 pm (UTC)*bounces*
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Date: 2006-03-14 04:43 pm (UTC)It'd be nice if he could ignore a thin white scar which barely showed up on the boy's skin but was a hell of a lot more noticeable on Padfoot's muzzle.
Oh. No wonder Padfoot's careful. (Must not start babbling about dominance issues. Must not. *is delighted, still*) You know, I have a sneaky suspicion that you might be a mind-reader, because I've been working on some S/R all day and I really needed something to inspire me into continuing. ♥
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Date: 2006-03-14 08:36 pm (UTC)Thankya!
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Date: 2006-03-16 12:27 pm (UTC)