Fic: Bone New World (G)
So, you ask. What have I been doing with myself?
I'm ashamed to say that the answer is: writing crack fic featuring new British Prime Minister David Cameron. *hangs head* He is a filthy Tory. I am ashamed, I know. But I have an obsessive compulsive urge to catalogue all my fic in one place, so into the journal it goes.
NB: I am not 'leaving' Trek fandom! I have just been smitten by a madness brick, obviously. I blame uk_lolitics and, specifically, the lolitics_meme.
Title: Bone New World
Characters: David Cameron, PETER BONE, CONSERVATIVE MP FOR WELLINGBOROUGH
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Oh, man, I hope this happened. But sadly I think I made it up.
Summary: I quote, 'CAMERON WAKES UP TO FIND PETER BONE CONSERVATIVE MP FOR WELLINGBOROUGH LEANING OVER HIS BED DOING THIS [a terrifying] EXPRESSION. Please see prompt to perhaps understand the madness.
On May 14th, Cameron woke to a nightmare.
Perhaps the situation might have been less inclined to escalate the way it did had he not also been waking from one. The face that loomed above him, while undeniably craggy and shockingly unexpected, was not, after all, either fanged, bloodless, or actively disintegrating. But the anxieties of the past weeks were reaping their dues from Cameron in his sleep, and after a long seven hours of Tony Blair's jeering face and an undead Thatcher determined to haul him down to the underworld, this was really not what was wanted. The domed forehead bulged above him like the slope of some devilish egg. The sinister quirk to the lips suggested untold horrors. It did not take much for Cameron's overworked mind to repaint the picture in the colours of death.
"Don't kill me," he panted, throat working, eyes roving frantically for signs of his wife, an aide, anyone who could save him from certain death at haggard hands. "Whatever it was, I didn't do it. Benefits are unchanged. I haven't done anything yet; I've only just been invested!" He grappled at the bedsheet, pulling it up protectively to his chin. "Look, I'll do anything you like. I'll throw open the doors to illegal one-legged gypsy lesbians. I'll ban the Daily Mail. I'll - "
"Excellent, Prime Minister," interrupted the grotesque vision. "In that case, may I - "
He leaned back, extracting a sheaf of papers from his bag. Cameron's eyes were wide and round with horror.
The creature laid the papers on the bed, and proffered a pen. "Bone," he said, and for a moment, Cameron's mind's eye was filled with desecrated cemeteries and human thigh-bones hanging inexplicably from box hedges. Then the man continued, "Peter Bone, MP for Wellingborough. I am sorry to impose upon you so early, sir, but I had urgent business in the City. I wondered whether you might be interested in financing the Cambridge Methodists Cricket Club..."
He shook the pen, thin lips twitching in a parody of a smile.
Cameron sighed heavily, blood rushing to the surface of his skin and then dissipating again as, with a sense of dull resignation intermingled with relief, he took the pen from Bone's long-fingered hands.
"Of course," he said, flatly, passing a hand across his forehead. "Of course."
The house staff would be getting fired for this, he told himself, grimly, as he wearily set pen to paper. Responsibility began at home.
Bone was smiling down at him, fingers interlaced serenely as he watched. Cameron sighed again, ducked his head, and submitted.
I refuse to acquire an appropriate icon. I will not, I will not.
I'm ashamed to say that the answer is: writing crack fic featuring new British Prime Minister David Cameron. *hangs head* He is a filthy Tory. I am ashamed, I know. But I have an obsessive compulsive urge to catalogue all my fic in one place, so into the journal it goes.
NB: I am not 'leaving' Trek fandom! I have just been smitten by a madness brick, obviously. I blame uk_lolitics and, specifically, the lolitics_meme.
Title: Bone New World
Characters: David Cameron, PETER BONE, CONSERVATIVE MP FOR WELLINGBOROUGH
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Oh, man, I hope this happened. But sadly I think I made it up.
Summary: I quote, 'CAMERON WAKES UP TO FIND PETER BONE CONSERVATIVE MP FOR WELLINGBOROUGH LEANING OVER HIS BED DOING THIS [a terrifying] EXPRESSION. Please see prompt to perhaps understand the madness.
On May 14th, Cameron woke to a nightmare.
Perhaps the situation might have been less inclined to escalate the way it did had he not also been waking from one. The face that loomed above him, while undeniably craggy and shockingly unexpected, was not, after all, either fanged, bloodless, or actively disintegrating. But the anxieties of the past weeks were reaping their dues from Cameron in his sleep, and after a long seven hours of Tony Blair's jeering face and an undead Thatcher determined to haul him down to the underworld, this was really not what was wanted. The domed forehead bulged above him like the slope of some devilish egg. The sinister quirk to the lips suggested untold horrors. It did not take much for Cameron's overworked mind to repaint the picture in the colours of death.
"Don't kill me," he panted, throat working, eyes roving frantically for signs of his wife, an aide, anyone who could save him from certain death at haggard hands. "Whatever it was, I didn't do it. Benefits are unchanged. I haven't done anything yet; I've only just been invested!" He grappled at the bedsheet, pulling it up protectively to his chin. "Look, I'll do anything you like. I'll throw open the doors to illegal one-legged gypsy lesbians. I'll ban the Daily Mail. I'll - "
"Excellent, Prime Minister," interrupted the grotesque vision. "In that case, may I - "
He leaned back, extracting a sheaf of papers from his bag. Cameron's eyes were wide and round with horror.
The creature laid the papers on the bed, and proffered a pen. "Bone," he said, and for a moment, Cameron's mind's eye was filled with desecrated cemeteries and human thigh-bones hanging inexplicably from box hedges. Then the man continued, "Peter Bone, MP for Wellingborough. I am sorry to impose upon you so early, sir, but I had urgent business in the City. I wondered whether you might be interested in financing the Cambridge Methodists Cricket Club..."
He shook the pen, thin lips twitching in a parody of a smile.
Cameron sighed heavily, blood rushing to the surface of his skin and then dissipating again as, with a sense of dull resignation intermingled with relief, he took the pen from Bone's long-fingered hands.
"Of course," he said, flatly, passing a hand across his forehead. "Of course."
The house staff would be getting fired for this, he told himself, grimly, as he wearily set pen to paper. Responsibility began at home.
Bone was smiling down at him, fingers interlaced serenely as he watched. Cameron sighed again, ducked his head, and submitted.
I refuse to acquire an appropriate icon. I will not, I will not.