omg feed me fic

[bantha_fodder]

i am at work. you should feel free to drop comment fic, of whatever
quality and whatever length as you see fit. any fandom, any pairing,
but i'd really love to see some stealth, or some xmen (OMG PIOTR/KITTY
OR ROGUE/PYRO ALKSASF) or, you know, whatever takes your fancy. i
don't mind. one sentence or two hundred rambling words.




i'll start:


Three days after CJ's fifty-second birthday, in amongst the bills and
referrals and pleas for sponsorship, she finds a postcard with a
picture of a bull on it. The postmark is Spain, and there are no words
to describe the joy she feels at the smiley face drawn over the bull's
own.

Comments

[annaalamode.livejournal.com]

...And then CJ and Toby had sex and lived happily ever after. The end.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

That is indeed an EXCELLENT ending.

[annaalamode.livejournal.com]

I worked very hard to make it just right.

I told you you'd be sorry.

[hobviously.livejournal.com]

Brushing her silken midnight hair away from her delicate face, Penelope Banthington-Swotswell looked up at the sky and sighed. It was a beautiful day out in Merrie Olde Englande, as most days were because of course England is God's paradise on earth and every morning the sun rises sweeter and warmer than the last. Beyond the garden wall, well-read gentlemen said "Pip pip!" to each other jovially on the streets, except for the sinister ones who merely nodded whilst plotting their nefarious schemes. A quintessentially British day, and Penelope was stuck inside, unable to enjoy any of it.

She sighed again. Her father, the Lord Fitzwilliam Banthington-Swotswell, was England's premier silk magnate, and fiercely protective of his daughter and heir. As a result, Penelope's childhood had been spent almost entirely behind walls: the rose-trellis-y walls of the estate garden, the imposing gates of her school, Miss Pickleby's School For Refined Young Ladies of a Certain Social Class, and the candy-pink walls of her bedroom. Penelope was not allowed to listen to music, watch moving pictures of any sort, or socialize with friends. All she had to entertain herself were the books that had once belonged to her mother, who'd died before Penelope was even born. Her favourites were the well-worn copies of the Chronicles of Narnia. As a child, she had often pretended that Banthington-Swotswell Mansion were the Professor's house, and she would fling open every wardrobe in the house expectantly, waiting for the wide open spaces of Narnia to free her. Her dreams never came true, and it was often, as now, as a twenty-something inexplicably still under her father's authority and in preparatory school, that she sat in silent reverie, mourning over the confinements and woes of her life's times.

On this afternoon, however, Penelope's bittersweet thoughts were not to go uninterrupted, for soon, they were interrupted. They were interrupted by a frisbee or whatever brits use instead of frisbees flying over the garden wall and landing in the koi pond. "Oi!" a young male voice yelled. "Anyone there?"

"I am!" Penelope called. "Have you lost your whatsit?"

"Yes, sorry, I just bought it and had to test it out right now. Could you toss it over?"

Penelope crouched at the edge of the pond and reached as far as she could, but the thingummy was out of her reach. "It's a bit hard to get to!" she shouted. "Sorr—AUGHASDHJAFDHKJLKASD!!!!11" And with a great splash, she fell into the pond, face first.

"Hello? Hello?!" The voice screamed frantically, but Penelope was under water, unable to find up due to all her lustrous raven tresses being in the way. She swallowed water, and scrabbled for purchase in the briny pond's depths, but found only more water. She flailed. What an ignoble end for the Banthington-Swotswell fortune, especially since Penelope had swum daily at Miss Pickleby's for years.

Just as Penelope's vision began to darken, and not just from her coal-dark locks, strong hands grasped her around the waist and hoisted her out of the pond. She gasped for air, but could not breathe. Her saviour pumped her chest and gave her mouth-to-mouth. It was sort of sexy. It was also sexy to breathe again, and as Penelope gazed into the greenish eyes of the boy who had saved her, she felt a strange emotion, one that had visited her only briefly and rarely in her sorrowful life.

That sensation, Penelope realized dreamily, was freedom.

"Hi," the boy said. "I'm William."

"I'm Penelope Banthington-Swotswell," she said, happily. "How did you get in?"

"Oh, that gate over there," he said, pointing to a gate that Penelope had never noticed. In the garden where she pined for freedom every day for twentysomething years. He smiled brilliantly.

"You're such a prince," Penelope said, before realizing that she was sitting in dripping clothes practically on his lap. "What is your last name?"

He laughed. "You really don't know who I am?"

"No!"

"I'm William Moseley. I recently starred as Peter in the movie version of The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe. It was very successful."

"I've never seen a movie," Penelope explained. "But that sounds lovely."

PEN/WILLIAM PT. 2: THE SORRYENING

[hobviously.livejournal.com]

"It was," he whispered huskily, "though not as lovely as you." Penelope blushed. King Peter the Magnificent thought she was lovely! Perhaps she had died in the pond and gone to heaven, like the Pevensies that one time, except for Susan. "Well, I must be going."

Penelope and William walked to the gate together, his frisbee thing floating forgotten in the pond. As he turned to go, Penelope emboldened herself and caught his hand. "I'm sorry," she breathed. "I just...never thanked you for saving my life."

"Love means never having to say thank you," William said, and kissed her passionately.

Then they grew up to join the RAF and have hot pilotsex a lot.

THE END.

Re: PEN/WILLIAM PT. 2: THE SORRYENING

[bekkypk.livejournal.com]

I know somebody like that. Uh, has hot pilotsex a lot, obviously...
:D
xx

Re: PEN/WILLIAM PT. 2: THE SORRYENING

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

I AM SAVING THESE TO READ AT WORK TOMORROW.

I AM SO NOT SORRY, EITHER.

Also, I can't remember what I was going to be sorry for, but I do remember there was my little dog too!

[bekkypk.livejournal.com]

Sometimes you're losing time and lost in eternity. Sometimes you look up after 3 years and say,

"Why am I still in the bath?!"

But it's always, always, with you...

(no, I don't have a clue what I'm on either ;) some kind of ibuprofen I assume...)
xx

[fahye.livejournal.com]

Not that I can live up to Tris' work of genius, but whatever. Let's see what happens.

~

After a while she begins to catalogue places by the drinks they order. Like so many things, it becomes a game. She reads the cocktail menu and orders the one that looks most like a hangover in a glass, and Ben flashes his eyes at the nearest waitress and makes up the name of a drink on the spot. When the glasses arrive they pass them across the table, dodging cheap sputtering candles and bizarre centrepieces and paper napkins, and tease each other until someone caves and takes a sip.

She holds maraschino cherries between her teeth and worries them with her tongue. Ben collects umbrellas in every shade of the rainbow.

If she stops to think about it -

Don't think.

Drink.

And they do, with subtle flicks of their forefingers against the slippery glasses, just another form of code. They don't toast, because it feels too obvious and looks too romantic. Ben can't attract his accustomed stream of women if they look like they're a couple; actually, she corrects herself ruefully, he probably can.

If they have names, she never learns them. She doubts he does either. There's that redhead from the night they were drinking vanilla vodka shots and that petite Asian that she remembers because they were in Singapore doing Singapore Slings, the sweet cherry hitting the back of her throat with almost enough force to shove down the familiar taste of resentment.

Paris is dirty skies and mimosas and Ben's chuckle as he charms his way through the city in an abominable scattering of schoolboy French. Chicago is Long Island iced tea, which is probably ironic, and the orange stain that Ben refuses to remove from the cuff of his dress jacket because he claims to like the trigger for nostalgia.

(She fingers the neatly pressed seams of her own pristine uniform as she sits outside the office of yet another Navy official who wants to patronise her whilst pretending to be impressed. Oh, she's rising. Up on a pedestal as white and prefect and in many ways as fake as the seam down the back of her trouser legs.)

Spain is a blur of black olives and tequila and Ben's eyes far too blue in such a place, his gaze far too piercing. One night he sits too close; she forgets to be careful and puts her head on his shoulder and tells him everything, everything about the meaningful looks and the military doubletalk and the places she's being sent, the things the Powers That Be want her to see. He rests a hand on her elbow, silent, and kisses her temple when she's done and sees her back to her room.

"Mañana, chica." He leans against the doorframe and she hates him for being so casual. The Navy is built into her bones, steel down her spine.

"Fucking mañana," she says before she can stop herself, because the hate is like salt and lime in her mouth. "Mañana and mañana and mañana, Ben. Is that all you've got?"

And oh, she should have known better, she really should have, and his lips are only on hers for a brief harsh moment and so the taste can't register, just the heat. But it's enough.

"It's your tomorrow I'm worried about, Kara," he says when he pulls back, and he doesn't sound casual at all.

She wants to tell him that tomorrow can go and fuck itself. She wants to tell him not to think. She wants to pull him inside and drink him down.

"You know I'm right," he whispers against her forehead, and then his shoulder slips from under her hand and he's gone.

[pathstotread.livejournal.com]

Um.

Okay.

I LOVE YOU.

*rereads like a mad thing*

[angualupin.livejournal.com]

In the darkness she whispers, "What was death like?"

"Empty," he says, large body half-way through her.

"That's not fair," she says back, making a hand solid to bury in his hair. "It was empty here too, without you."