The Soon To Be Catch All Post
For the five-sentence fic memes. And of course the first two are more than five sentences, but...bleh. We'll see how the rest go.
For lotus0kid, who asked for: How about something with Noser and exotic problems? Either his take on what Wendy and her boss get up to, or encountering one of his own.
“Be cool, Nose,” she’d smiled, sweet as ever and not quite as sad, as the bossman nodded wordlessly and signaled him to stay in place while they climbed down the rickety stairs to the waterfront.
He grunts to himself; there ain’t no cool to be in this situation. A stack of chubbies is a stack chubbies, but maybe the reservation price of his services could use some revising, given the new definitions of said services seem to take on every day.
The staccato of over-grown claws on aged, damp wood draws his attention away from basic economic calculations, and his hold on the gun tightens automatically.
At the first flash of wet, brown shell, he pulls the trigger and watches bullets tear through the thick exoskeleton to the fresh meat underneath with a grim smile.
He’s always bleepin’ hated lobsters.
*
For nina_ds, who suggested, How about Vindici/Lussurioso "honour", because I am really readily equipped to try and capture 17th century speaking patterns as translated into 21st post-apocalyptic Liverpool.
“And you know it is said, sir, that there is no honour among villains.”
“Thieves, my lord.”
“Thieves?” he tilts his head and perceives what would by all accounts class as a helpful smile, and a sure nod.
“Thieves.”
He takes a moment for quiet reflection, and laughs.
“What makes that us, then, sir?”
“Us, my lord?”
“Thieves, and honourless?”
“Speakin’ purely of myself, my lord,” the man gives him another, broader smile, eyes bright in the reflected light. “I’ve taken naught that was not oft given, and for a lower price,” he pauses, and the daggers-gleam of one steely eye blinks out, and then back. “Implicitly.”
“Implicitly?” he laughs again, wine-warmed, and pats the presences beside him companionably on the shoulder. “A man after my dear brother’s heart, then.”
“Or, perhaps, your own.”
Quiet words, a lighter’s glimmer in the moonlight, and Time itself stills as Lussurioso blinks.
And laughs, as the other man does, and nods in precise amity. “Perhaps you are right, dear sir, but then we are all apples from the self-same tree, aren’t we?”
His glance to the right reveals a carefree shrug and a shadow-painted form, and he continues. “I hope it will serve us better than it did them. For I without your guidance would be…desolate.”
“And I, without your presence, purposeless,” the shadow speaks, and Lussurioso knows it to be true. Implicitly.
*
And unfortunately the rest will have to wait for...a while. But keep in mind: Great Plaude Rewatch!
Better late than never: for englishmuffin2, who asked for: Because I'm watching Iron Chef: Claude, Peter, and learning to cook.
“Let the boy breath, Sarah.”
“Quiet, you,” she laughs, but pulls away anyway. “He can regenerate, what’s the worst that could happen?”
Peter laughs in return, as the woman pulls away further, hands on his.
“Oh, let me look at you, Pete,” she glances over him carefully, still beaming. “You look wonderful, just amazing. Been taking good care of him?” a quick glance to Claude before her eyes return to Peter’s.
“Still alive, isn’t he?” Claude mutters, from his vantage point against the wall. “Not that it wasn’t a close thing, a coupla times…”
“Wasn’t talkin’ to you, mate,” and she gives another small chuckle. “Still as ornery as ever, then. Been makin’ sure he eats properly? None of this…fries and…and hot dogs business?”
“Just on special occasion,” Peter smiles back, and Sarah giggles, giving his hands one last squeeze before letting go.
“Like tonight?”
“Well, maybe, but that’s not what we’re having.”
“Oh? What are we havin’, then?”
“Italian. Home-made.”
Sarah gives a mock-impressed expression and Claude rolls his eyes.
“Claude helped,” he offers, and Sarah laughs again, brightly.
“Teaching him, are you?” she steps closer and links her arm with his, as they walk back into the kitchen. “Bet he’s a wonderful student.”
*
“So…” she’s beaming at him again, and god help him, but he does smile back, and shrugs.
It’s too hard not to, sitting in the living room, with a full stomach and a cup of fairly decent coffee warm in his hand, Sarah’s red hair clashing wonderfully with the blue walls.
“He really does look well,” she says, running a distracted hand over the sofa cushion and nodding towards the kitchen, from where the sounds of Peter washing dishes at a purposefully slow rate can be heard. “Put on a bit of muscle, which I’ll be grateful for as he’s not thin as a rail anymore and not bother thinkin’ about how it is you got it there.”
“Ah, he was all right,” and he mostly had been. Hadn’t actually needed to resort to more drastic measures again, and in a sense he was glad of it.
“And you?” she’s giving him a very serious look now, and he realizes he’s walked straight into the sort of questions he’s always looking to avoid, and hasn’t quite gotten used to being able to answer.
“Still here, aren’t I?”
She shakes her head. “Not what you tell him though, is it? Because frankly, mate, that’s just the sorta thing that’ll land you on my doorstep again. And really, much as Lee and Abby and the rest miss you…” she grins, and winks. “And your cookin’, o’ course, they’ve so missed that…”
He blushes. Can’t believe it, but can’t even stop once she starts laughing again.
“Haven’t told him, have you?”
“Well, he…”
“Likes havin’ the chance to push you around a bit, every once in a while?” she gives another snort and leans back on the couch. “Can’t say I blame him. Bet you had quite a time getting that flour into his hair.”
Another wink and he’s blushing again, like some sort of bloody school kid, and she starts giggling again.
*
The soft murmurs of conversations occasionally interrupted by Sarah’s loud snorts of laughter and Peter smiles to himself, putting away the last plate and glancing carefully around the kitchen, making sure all of the traces of earlier have been taken care of.
“What’s so funny?” he says, coming out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a dishtowel before flopping down on the couch next to Claude.
Sarah just waves, a gesture of “don’t worry about it”, and Claude shakes his head as Peter turns to look at him, giving another small chuckle as he brushes trace of flour off his neck, and follows the gesture with a quick kiss to the same spot.
For c_quinn, who asked for, Peter/Claude: Pride and Prejudice.
“You still on about that?”
Peter frowns, and doesn’t look up.
“Pete-“ he hears the man sigh, obviously trying to retain patience. “You know I didn’t mean it, right?”
“Didn’t mean what?” he mumbles, turning a page.
“Peter…”
“Yeah?” he looks up, and Claude’s clearly about to break.
“You…” Claude rolls his eyes. “You’re not actually gonna make me say it, are you?”
He blinks at Claude once, mildly, and then looks back down.
Another sigh, and the glimpses of body language he’s picking up peripherally are much more interesting than what’s in front of him.
Which is why he doesn’t really care that much when the book is pulled out of his hand a few seconds later.
Not that he doesn’t protest, and frown disapprovingly, and complain about losing his place.
“You’ll remember where you were,” Claude murmurs, low and warm, and Peter holds back a smile.
“Still,” he says instead. “That was rude.”
“You’ve seen worse,” Claude points out, and he shrugs.
“Yeah, from-“ and then Claude is being really rude, and vulgar, and inappropriate, and all sorts of other awesome things, with his tongue and his hands and his thoughts, god, those were really, really lacking in social refinement.
“Peter,” Claude says, seriously, looking down at him with a more-than-normal intensity, which is saying a lot, and Peter struggles to do anything except gasp.
“Yeah?”
“Sorry I implied you were an unlettered hedonist,” and then he grins, and jumps off of the couch.
“Claude!” Peter groans, as the man just keeps grinning and toss the book back to him.
“Keep provin’ me wrong, then,” Claude laughs, and goes back into the bedroom.
Peter lasts about five minutes before going after him.
Because it’s a…well, everyone knows, make-up sex is the best kind.
For lotus0kid, who asked for: How about something with Noser and exotic problems? Either his take on what Wendy and her boss get up to, or encountering one of his own.
“Be cool, Nose,” she’d smiled, sweet as ever and not quite as sad, as the bossman nodded wordlessly and signaled him to stay in place while they climbed down the rickety stairs to the waterfront.
He grunts to himself; there ain’t no cool to be in this situation. A stack of chubbies is a stack chubbies, but maybe the reservation price of his services could use some revising, given the new definitions of said services seem to take on every day.
The staccato of over-grown claws on aged, damp wood draws his attention away from basic economic calculations, and his hold on the gun tightens automatically.
At the first flash of wet, brown shell, he pulls the trigger and watches bullets tear through the thick exoskeleton to the fresh meat underneath with a grim smile.
He’s always bleepin’ hated lobsters.
*
For nina_ds, who suggested, How about Vindici/Lussurioso "honour", because I am really readily equipped to try and capture 17th century speaking patterns as translated into 21st post-apocalyptic Liverpool.
“And you know it is said, sir, that there is no honour among villains.”
“Thieves, my lord.”
“Thieves?” he tilts his head and perceives what would by all accounts class as a helpful smile, and a sure nod.
“Thieves.”
He takes a moment for quiet reflection, and laughs.
“What makes that us, then, sir?”
“Us, my lord?”
“Thieves, and honourless?”
“Speakin’ purely of myself, my lord,” the man gives him another, broader smile, eyes bright in the reflected light. “I’ve taken naught that was not oft given, and for a lower price,” he pauses, and the daggers-gleam of one steely eye blinks out, and then back. “Implicitly.”
“Implicitly?” he laughs again, wine-warmed, and pats the presences beside him companionably on the shoulder. “A man after my dear brother’s heart, then.”
“Or, perhaps, your own.”
Quiet words, a lighter’s glimmer in the moonlight, and Time itself stills as Lussurioso blinks.
And laughs, as the other man does, and nods in precise amity. “Perhaps you are right, dear sir, but then we are all apples from the self-same tree, aren’t we?”
His glance to the right reveals a carefree shrug and a shadow-painted form, and he continues. “I hope it will serve us better than it did them. For I without your guidance would be…desolate.”
“And I, without your presence, purposeless,” the shadow speaks, and Lussurioso knows it to be true. Implicitly.
*
And unfortunately the rest will have to wait for...a while. But keep in mind: Great Plaude Rewatch!
Better late than never: for englishmuffin2, who asked for: Because I'm watching Iron Chef: Claude, Peter, and learning to cook.
“Let the boy breath, Sarah.”
“Quiet, you,” she laughs, but pulls away anyway. “He can regenerate, what’s the worst that could happen?”
Peter laughs in return, as the woman pulls away further, hands on his.
“Oh, let me look at you, Pete,” she glances over him carefully, still beaming. “You look wonderful, just amazing. Been taking good care of him?” a quick glance to Claude before her eyes return to Peter’s.
“Still alive, isn’t he?” Claude mutters, from his vantage point against the wall. “Not that it wasn’t a close thing, a coupla times…”
“Wasn’t talkin’ to you, mate,” and she gives another small chuckle. “Still as ornery as ever, then. Been makin’ sure he eats properly? None of this…fries and…and hot dogs business?”
“Just on special occasion,” Peter smiles back, and Sarah giggles, giving his hands one last squeeze before letting go.
“Like tonight?”
“Well, maybe, but that’s not what we’re having.”
“Oh? What are we havin’, then?”
“Italian. Home-made.”
Sarah gives a mock-impressed expression and Claude rolls his eyes.
“Claude helped,” he offers, and Sarah laughs again, brightly.
“Teaching him, are you?” she steps closer and links her arm with his, as they walk back into the kitchen. “Bet he’s a wonderful student.”
*
“So…” she’s beaming at him again, and god help him, but he does smile back, and shrugs.
It’s too hard not to, sitting in the living room, with a full stomach and a cup of fairly decent coffee warm in his hand, Sarah’s red hair clashing wonderfully with the blue walls.
“He really does look well,” she says, running a distracted hand over the sofa cushion and nodding towards the kitchen, from where the sounds of Peter washing dishes at a purposefully slow rate can be heard. “Put on a bit of muscle, which I’ll be grateful for as he’s not thin as a rail anymore and not bother thinkin’ about how it is you got it there.”
“Ah, he was all right,” and he mostly had been. Hadn’t actually needed to resort to more drastic measures again, and in a sense he was glad of it.
“And you?” she’s giving him a very serious look now, and he realizes he’s walked straight into the sort of questions he’s always looking to avoid, and hasn’t quite gotten used to being able to answer.
“Still here, aren’t I?”
She shakes her head. “Not what you tell him though, is it? Because frankly, mate, that’s just the sorta thing that’ll land you on my doorstep again. And really, much as Lee and Abby and the rest miss you…” she grins, and winks. “And your cookin’, o’ course, they’ve so missed that…”
He blushes. Can’t believe it, but can’t even stop once she starts laughing again.
“Haven’t told him, have you?”
“Well, he…”
“Likes havin’ the chance to push you around a bit, every once in a while?” she gives another snort and leans back on the couch. “Can’t say I blame him. Bet you had quite a time getting that flour into his hair.”
Another wink and he’s blushing again, like some sort of bloody school kid, and she starts giggling again.
*
The soft murmurs of conversations occasionally interrupted by Sarah’s loud snorts of laughter and Peter smiles to himself, putting away the last plate and glancing carefully around the kitchen, making sure all of the traces of earlier have been taken care of.
“What’s so funny?” he says, coming out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a dishtowel before flopping down on the couch next to Claude.
Sarah just waves, a gesture of “don’t worry about it”, and Claude shakes his head as Peter turns to look at him, giving another small chuckle as he brushes trace of flour off his neck, and follows the gesture with a quick kiss to the same spot.
For c_quinn, who asked for, Peter/Claude: Pride and Prejudice.
“You still on about that?”
Peter frowns, and doesn’t look up.
“Pete-“ he hears the man sigh, obviously trying to retain patience. “You know I didn’t mean it, right?”
“Didn’t mean what?” he mumbles, turning a page.
“Peter…”
“Yeah?” he looks up, and Claude’s clearly about to break.
“You…” Claude rolls his eyes. “You’re not actually gonna make me say it, are you?”
He blinks at Claude once, mildly, and then looks back down.
Another sigh, and the glimpses of body language he’s picking up peripherally are much more interesting than what’s in front of him.
Which is why he doesn’t really care that much when the book is pulled out of his hand a few seconds later.
Not that he doesn’t protest, and frown disapprovingly, and complain about losing his place.
“You’ll remember where you were,” Claude murmurs, low and warm, and Peter holds back a smile.
“Still,” he says instead. “That was rude.”
“You’ve seen worse,” Claude points out, and he shrugs.
“Yeah, from-“ and then Claude is being really rude, and vulgar, and inappropriate, and all sorts of other awesome things, with his tongue and his hands and his thoughts, god, those were really, really lacking in social refinement.
“Peter,” Claude says, seriously, looking down at him with a more-than-normal intensity, which is saying a lot, and Peter struggles to do anything except gasp.
“Yeah?”
“Sorry I implied you were an unlettered hedonist,” and then he grins, and jumps off of the couch.
“Claude!” Peter groans, as the man just keeps grinning and toss the book back to him.
“Keep provin’ me wrong, then,” Claude laughs, and goes back into the bedroom.
Peter lasts about five minutes before going after him.
Because it’s a…well, everyone knows, make-up sex is the best kind.