vulgarweed (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
vulgarweed) wrote2008-09-28 04:32 pm
vulgarweed) wrote2008-09-28 04:32 pm
Comment fic round-up
Haven't been very "post-y" but I haven't been idle. Muses are creeping back, in dribs and drabbles, so I've been leaving a lot of comment fic lying about lately.
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quantum_witch did a post a little while back involving anagrams and the full names of all four members of the competing US Presidential tickets. Lots of interesting results, including this.
The Manichaean Candidate
Crossover: Good Omens/US Politics RPF
Mostly gen, rated G
Ask a cherub, I am a snob…
***
The Candidate had encountered so many odd things coming at him during this whirlwind year-and-change since the long strange trip started, he only blinked for a moment to see a very out-of-place-looking tweedy English gentleman sitting in his office with no announcement.
Before he could speak, said gentleman rose and extended a manicured hand, "Please pardon the intrusion, Senator," he said, "but, although this isn't quite my jurisdiction technically, I really thought, circumstances being quite...extenuating...you could do with a bit of a warning about the things that are being said in, er, high places."
Very gay and very smart, the Candidate thought, in his quick way of landing on an angle. "Thank you for your concern, sir, but I'm quite aware that there are smears out there, and I'm confident the American people are smart enough to..."
The visitor shook his head. "I'm afraid you don't understand the magnitude of this, sir. There are emails going around. My people, the, er, Host--I'm sorry to say, that well, this Interweb is a new invention, and there are those who should know better, but just sort of...intrinsically...there is a predisposition to accept What is Written."
To the Candidate's credit, it took just a moment for the penny to drop. "Are you telling me that..." he blinked and stammered for a moment, "even in Heaven..."
"They have not discovered Snopes yet, I'm afraid."
The Candidate sat down at his desk, pressing one long elegant hand to a rapidly creasing forehead.
The angel rushed to extend a comforting hand. (The Candidate really was quite an attractive man.) "Now, now, of course we know you're not really a Muslim. We keep very precise records on that sort of thing. But certain of us, well, due to certain past events, are quite sensitive to suspicions of Pride, and the Cherubim are especially, er, credulous, being that Faith is their essence, so I fear the 'elitist' charge may have some traction...but--" and here he looked about him nervously, though unlike the usual human gesture, he looked up and down instead of laterally around. "But I'm a Principality," he whispered. "Matters of state are the area I must attend to, and, well, over the centuries one comes to observe certain tendencies and acknowledge certain necessities...I think perhaps it can be countered."
"How?" asked the Candidate, raptly attentive.
"Well," said the angel. "You may soon be contacted by someone I hesitate to call an associate. More of a counterpart. Perhaps you've seen him already: handsome chap, rather flash, good cheekbones, dark glasses."
"That sounds like most of my Secret Service detail," said the Candidate. "But I did think there was one more than usual yesterday."
"That'll be him, then. I cannot openly endorse his methods of course, and neither should you, but I will tell you I've observed a very effective persuasiveness about him and his ideas."
"Hm," said the Candidate, openly agreeing to nothing at all, but his dark eyes filled with a conspiratorial glee.
The pregnant silence was shattered by the Candidate's cell phone. "Pardon me," he said and took the call. He nodded, though the person on the phone couldn't possibly see him do it. "Of course, hon."
"That was my wife," he said. "Since I don't have any campaign events today, it's my turn to take Malia to her piano lesson. If you'll excuse me."
"Piano?" said the angel, a little worriedly. "Isn't that a rather...elite instrument?"
"Not the way she plays it," the Candidate grinned.
~
These next two are for the IJ Porn Battle, so, assume adult ratings.
The Nature of Nature
Naomi Novik's Temeraire series
Temeraire/Laurence
(warning: As the pairing should make obvious, interspecies or bestiality depending on your definition.)
Here, in the desolate landscape far from the civilization even of heathens, Laurence had far, far too much time and silence in which to think.
When the silence was broken, it was by large wet splashings and slappings, as Temeraire enjoyed himself rather wantonly in the water. It set Laurence’s thoughts to wandering in such a direction that he wondered if his honor was now hopelessly compromised.
How could he have imagined that Temeraire’s sensual pleasures were completely innocent? He was, after all, an animal. And yet, was there not an innocence of a certain type in that state? Was not shame in what is natural a curse reserved for Adam and Eve’s descendents only?
His face still burned hot when he remembered his reaction when Temeraire asked him matter-of-factly if he did not prefer the pleasure of Jane’s body to that of, oh, rocks? And that revelation that, having courted and mated with a lady of his own kind, Temeraire’s body would remember and crave…
Oh heavens. Temeraire wasn’t pining for Mei as he ought, and Laurence wasn’t pining for Jane as he ought, because, Laurence had to conclude, he was now so far removed from what is right and natural in human affairs that his longings were soothed and almost, almost satisfied by the caress of scaled skin, that long, strong neck he sat astride, that bond that he had always believed was reserved only for man and wife, and yet he had felt it only with…
A greater abomination than any unnaturalness conceived of among humankind? Or just the logical bending of the heart in strange circumstances and odd society, to the dearest friend, the kindred spirit?
If only it were so pure. No, when Laurence closed his eyes and leaned back against the scraggly tree, he saw shining black scales undulating against the sky, dripping with clear river water; he felt the power of those mighty foreclaws that could snap his spine in an instant but held him as gently as a tender girl with a kitten; he heard the roaring flap of great wings and the comfortable rumble of a giant heart. Intelligent eyes piercing, slim forked tongue flickering. The tension that wracked his body was not that of a mere friend, no, nor was the inexorable creep of his hand to a part of him that craved touch in in its own right even when there was no proper partner.
So wrapped in his own pleasure, his guilty heat and his dragon dreams was he that he snapped his eyes open, too late, as water dripped upon his bare chest, his exposed hips and taut manhood in his hand, and a huge head stared down at him. Behind it, a noble and serpentine body thrashed eagerly.
“Why did you hide this from me?” asked Temeraire, a little hurt perhaps, but his slitted eyes mostly wide and lusty. “If it brings us both joy, I can’t see how there’d be harm in it, if we’re very careful.”
Laurence could see it. Or he knew he ought to be able to see it. But he didn’t want to see it, so he closed his eyes and made it go away as he leaned his hips wantonly towards Temeraire’s tongue.
The wonder of that slithering organ of sense, the rumbling wet heat, the heady dragon-musk, and most of all, a maddening miasma of love and danger made Laurence buck and spill with embarrassing speed, like a schoolboy, and left him eager to get his revenge as Temeraire fondly chuckled.
“I’m glad you’re not a fire-breather, my dear,” Laurence muttered as he moved along the long body (so, so beautiful) to encounter that alien, reptilian organ of generation, nearly as long as he himself was tall, seeking for a way to address it that would not merely frustrate his beloved—or kill Laurence himself. But with Temeraire, even anatomy was an obstacle they would find their way around.
~
Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle
Crossover: Battlestar Galactica/Doctor Who
Kara Thrace/Martha Jones
“So you’re really from Earth. It’s really true.”
Martha nodded. “London, specifically.”
“Fraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak,” muttered the other woman, drawing deep on a cigar that smelled like the TARDIS overheating and shaking her head with that seen-it-all, done-it-all, might-as-well-hang-it-up-now way.
Some things were universal, wherever there were people. Spirits, for example. Despite its name, Martha thought Ambrosia tasted like Glasgow rotgut that even that little chavette chippie would turn her nose up at. But this hotshot, this Kara, slugged it like water in a desert. Which space was, in a way, especially when you were lost and the ragtag fleet wasn’t much of an oasis.
“And I’d love to take you there, but that doesn’t seem to be an option right now,” said Martha, taking another drink and finding it went down a little easier the second time. Probably it would on the third as well. She was sure she’d find out.
“Left you, did he?” sneered Kara. Her derision wasn’t aimed at Martha. “Frakkin’ men. Won’t ever ask for frakkin’ directions.”
“He’s not even really a—“
Kara turned around in sudden attention. “Oh. I had a couple of those too. No difference really, godsdammit.”
“Well, he’s not a Cylon, if that’s what you’re thinking.” It had taken Martha a little while to really understand that complexity of that issue – oh, the Cybermen-looking creatures were straightforward enough, but the fear that the others inspired gave her a shiver. She could almost sympathize with that “skinjob” and “toaster” business, if it hadn’t struck her as tastelessly racist. Still, identity politics took on vast new dimensions once you left the nursery of Earth and started seeing divisions among humans for the playground rubbish it really was.
“Didn’t think so. You can’t really tell though. Not until it’s too late. Learned that the hard way.”
Martha made a noncommittal noise and reached for the bottle again, to see Kara’s glazed but bright eyes gleaming wickedly.
“Does he frak like one anyway?”
“What?”
Kara rolled her eyes.
“No!” Martha cried. “I mean…we haven’t…”
“Yeah? No shit. They’re all out for just one thing—humans, skinjobs, whatever your flyboy in the blue toilet stall is. But,” Kara grinned. “Ya know, that’s alright. Because I’m out for the same thing half the time. And they do it pretty good, I gotta admit. That’s one way you can tell. Their spines light up. Bein’ a girl, you don’t get to do ‘em from behind really, but if you twist around just right, you can see it. It’s wild.”
“Really? Is…the…er….you know, all the parts…the same?” Martha’s medical education sometimes failed her utterly when alcohol, hormones, and contact embarrassment were involved.
“Yeah. Yeah. It’s real hard to tell. Hey, how do I know you’re really a human?”
“I don’t think my spine lights up. I’ve never looked. I’ve only got one heart…not like the Doctor.”
“Why do you call him that?”
“I don’t have anything else to call him.”
“Ha, you got in the bunk with him, you’d come up with all sorts of things. So if you’re really a human, why don’t you show me?”
“What?” Martha blinked, able to feel her own eyes going wild and something in her treacherously hoping she hadn’t misunderstood.
Kara lunged, twisting sinuously, and catching Martha up underneath her, soldier’s hands wild but skilled in Martha’s spiky hair, undoing that style she worked so hard to make look casual. Her mouth tasted of smoke, and ambrosia, and machine oil, and it wasn’t unpleasant at all; it was the taste of one of those sleek, efficient, fast ships.
It was the sort of situation you didn’t let yourself think about. Martha just slipped her slim hands under Kara’s tanks, feeling firm breasts that rode high on a sound frame of muscle and scars. A boxer’s instincts. Martha never had a chance, but she tried—with grappling over skin that grew slick with sweat, with scrambling to get Kara’s knickers off first as calloused fingers invaded her own and smeared her wetness up her thighs, pushing her apart and open as they writhed.
“You’re frakking gorgeous, you know that,” panted Kara, pushing her thigh in between Martha’s, searching for the urgent friction that would make the Earth woman arch and scream. They wrestled across the damp sheets, all hair and muscles and nails and mouths—rough and raw and human and homeless, female and complete.
So there's that. *is pleased*
quantum_witch did a post a little while back involving anagrams and the full names of all four members of the competing US Presidential tickets. Lots of interesting results, including this.The Manichaean Candidate
Crossover: Good Omens/US Politics RPF
Mostly gen, rated G
Ask a cherub, I am a snob…
***
The Candidate had encountered so many odd things coming at him during this whirlwind year-and-change since the long strange trip started, he only blinked for a moment to see a very out-of-place-looking tweedy English gentleman sitting in his office with no announcement.
Before he could speak, said gentleman rose and extended a manicured hand, "Please pardon the intrusion, Senator," he said, "but, although this isn't quite my jurisdiction technically, I really thought, circumstances being quite...extenuating...you could do with a bit of a warning about the things that are being said in, er, high places."
Very gay and very smart, the Candidate thought, in his quick way of landing on an angle. "Thank you for your concern, sir, but I'm quite aware that there are smears out there, and I'm confident the American people are smart enough to..."
The visitor shook his head. "I'm afraid you don't understand the magnitude of this, sir. There are emails going around. My people, the, er, Host--I'm sorry to say, that well, this Interweb is a new invention, and there are those who should know better, but just sort of...intrinsically...there is a predisposition to accept What is Written."
To the Candidate's credit, it took just a moment for the penny to drop. "Are you telling me that..." he blinked and stammered for a moment, "even in Heaven..."
"They have not discovered Snopes yet, I'm afraid."
The Candidate sat down at his desk, pressing one long elegant hand to a rapidly creasing forehead.
The angel rushed to extend a comforting hand. (The Candidate really was quite an attractive man.) "Now, now, of course we know you're not really a Muslim. We keep very precise records on that sort of thing. But certain of us, well, due to certain past events, are quite sensitive to suspicions of Pride, and the Cherubim are especially, er, credulous, being that Faith is their essence, so I fear the 'elitist' charge may have some traction...but--" and here he looked about him nervously, though unlike the usual human gesture, he looked up and down instead of laterally around. "But I'm a Principality," he whispered. "Matters of state are the area I must attend to, and, well, over the centuries one comes to observe certain tendencies and acknowledge certain necessities...I think perhaps it can be countered."
"How?" asked the Candidate, raptly attentive.
"Well," said the angel. "You may soon be contacted by someone I hesitate to call an associate. More of a counterpart. Perhaps you've seen him already: handsome chap, rather flash, good cheekbones, dark glasses."
"That sounds like most of my Secret Service detail," said the Candidate. "But I did think there was one more than usual yesterday."
"That'll be him, then. I cannot openly endorse his methods of course, and neither should you, but I will tell you I've observed a very effective persuasiveness about him and his ideas."
"Hm," said the Candidate, openly agreeing to nothing at all, but his dark eyes filled with a conspiratorial glee.
The pregnant silence was shattered by the Candidate's cell phone. "Pardon me," he said and took the call. He nodded, though the person on the phone couldn't possibly see him do it. "Of course, hon."
"That was my wife," he said. "Since I don't have any campaign events today, it's my turn to take Malia to her piano lesson. If you'll excuse me."
"Piano?" said the angel, a little worriedly. "Isn't that a rather...elite instrument?"
"Not the way she plays it," the Candidate grinned.
~
These next two are for the IJ Porn Battle, so, assume adult ratings.
The Nature of Nature
Naomi Novik's Temeraire series
Temeraire/Laurence
(warning: As the pairing should make obvious, interspecies or bestiality depending on your definition.)
Here, in the desolate landscape far from the civilization even of heathens, Laurence had far, far too much time and silence in which to think.
When the silence was broken, it was by large wet splashings and slappings, as Temeraire enjoyed himself rather wantonly in the water. It set Laurence’s thoughts to wandering in such a direction that he wondered if his honor was now hopelessly compromised.
How could he have imagined that Temeraire’s sensual pleasures were completely innocent? He was, after all, an animal. And yet, was there not an innocence of a certain type in that state? Was not shame in what is natural a curse reserved for Adam and Eve’s descendents only?
His face still burned hot when he remembered his reaction when Temeraire asked him matter-of-factly if he did not prefer the pleasure of Jane’s body to that of, oh, rocks? And that revelation that, having courted and mated with a lady of his own kind, Temeraire’s body would remember and crave…
Oh heavens. Temeraire wasn’t pining for Mei as he ought, and Laurence wasn’t pining for Jane as he ought, because, Laurence had to conclude, he was now so far removed from what is right and natural in human affairs that his longings were soothed and almost, almost satisfied by the caress of scaled skin, that long, strong neck he sat astride, that bond that he had always believed was reserved only for man and wife, and yet he had felt it only with…
A greater abomination than any unnaturalness conceived of among humankind? Or just the logical bending of the heart in strange circumstances and odd society, to the dearest friend, the kindred spirit?
If only it were so pure. No, when Laurence closed his eyes and leaned back against the scraggly tree, he saw shining black scales undulating against the sky, dripping with clear river water; he felt the power of those mighty foreclaws that could snap his spine in an instant but held him as gently as a tender girl with a kitten; he heard the roaring flap of great wings and the comfortable rumble of a giant heart. Intelligent eyes piercing, slim forked tongue flickering. The tension that wracked his body was not that of a mere friend, no, nor was the inexorable creep of his hand to a part of him that craved touch in in its own right even when there was no proper partner.
So wrapped in his own pleasure, his guilty heat and his dragon dreams was he that he snapped his eyes open, too late, as water dripped upon his bare chest, his exposed hips and taut manhood in his hand, and a huge head stared down at him. Behind it, a noble and serpentine body thrashed eagerly.
“Why did you hide this from me?” asked Temeraire, a little hurt perhaps, but his slitted eyes mostly wide and lusty. “If it brings us both joy, I can’t see how there’d be harm in it, if we’re very careful.”
Laurence could see it. Or he knew he ought to be able to see it. But he didn’t want to see it, so he closed his eyes and made it go away as he leaned his hips wantonly towards Temeraire’s tongue.
The wonder of that slithering organ of sense, the rumbling wet heat, the heady dragon-musk, and most of all, a maddening miasma of love and danger made Laurence buck and spill with embarrassing speed, like a schoolboy, and left him eager to get his revenge as Temeraire fondly chuckled.
“I’m glad you’re not a fire-breather, my dear,” Laurence muttered as he moved along the long body (so, so beautiful) to encounter that alien, reptilian organ of generation, nearly as long as he himself was tall, seeking for a way to address it that would not merely frustrate his beloved—or kill Laurence himself. But with Temeraire, even anatomy was an obstacle they would find their way around.
~
Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle
Crossover: Battlestar Galactica/Doctor Who
Kara Thrace/Martha Jones
“So you’re really from Earth. It’s really true.”
Martha nodded. “London, specifically.”
“Fraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak,” muttered the other woman, drawing deep on a cigar that smelled like the TARDIS overheating and shaking her head with that seen-it-all, done-it-all, might-as-well-hang-it-up-now way.
Some things were universal, wherever there were people. Spirits, for example. Despite its name, Martha thought Ambrosia tasted like Glasgow rotgut that even that little chavette chippie would turn her nose up at. But this hotshot, this Kara, slugged it like water in a desert. Which space was, in a way, especially when you were lost and the ragtag fleet wasn’t much of an oasis.
“And I’d love to take you there, but that doesn’t seem to be an option right now,” said Martha, taking another drink and finding it went down a little easier the second time. Probably it would on the third as well. She was sure she’d find out.
“Left you, did he?” sneered Kara. Her derision wasn’t aimed at Martha. “Frakkin’ men. Won’t ever ask for frakkin’ directions.”
“He’s not even really a—“
Kara turned around in sudden attention. “Oh. I had a couple of those too. No difference really, godsdammit.”
“Well, he’s not a Cylon, if that’s what you’re thinking.” It had taken Martha a little while to really understand that complexity of that issue – oh, the Cybermen-looking creatures were straightforward enough, but the fear that the others inspired gave her a shiver. She could almost sympathize with that “skinjob” and “toaster” business, if it hadn’t struck her as tastelessly racist. Still, identity politics took on vast new dimensions once you left the nursery of Earth and started seeing divisions among humans for the playground rubbish it really was.
“Didn’t think so. You can’t really tell though. Not until it’s too late. Learned that the hard way.”
Martha made a noncommittal noise and reached for the bottle again, to see Kara’s glazed but bright eyes gleaming wickedly.
“Does he frak like one anyway?”
“What?”
Kara rolled her eyes.
“No!” Martha cried. “I mean…we haven’t…”
“Yeah? No shit. They’re all out for just one thing—humans, skinjobs, whatever your flyboy in the blue toilet stall is. But,” Kara grinned. “Ya know, that’s alright. Because I’m out for the same thing half the time. And they do it pretty good, I gotta admit. That’s one way you can tell. Their spines light up. Bein’ a girl, you don’t get to do ‘em from behind really, but if you twist around just right, you can see it. It’s wild.”
“Really? Is…the…er….you know, all the parts…the same?” Martha’s medical education sometimes failed her utterly when alcohol, hormones, and contact embarrassment were involved.
“Yeah. Yeah. It’s real hard to tell. Hey, how do I know you’re really a human?”
“I don’t think my spine lights up. I’ve never looked. I’ve only got one heart…not like the Doctor.”
“Why do you call him that?”
“I don’t have anything else to call him.”
“Ha, you got in the bunk with him, you’d come up with all sorts of things. So if you’re really a human, why don’t you show me?”
“What?” Martha blinked, able to feel her own eyes going wild and something in her treacherously hoping she hadn’t misunderstood.
Kara lunged, twisting sinuously, and catching Martha up underneath her, soldier’s hands wild but skilled in Martha’s spiky hair, undoing that style she worked so hard to make look casual. Her mouth tasted of smoke, and ambrosia, and machine oil, and it wasn’t unpleasant at all; it was the taste of one of those sleek, efficient, fast ships.
It was the sort of situation you didn’t let yourself think about. Martha just slipped her slim hands under Kara’s tanks, feeling firm breasts that rode high on a sound frame of muscle and scars. A boxer’s instincts. Martha never had a chance, but she tried—with grappling over skin that grew slick with sweat, with scrambling to get Kara’s knickers off first as calloused fingers invaded her own and smeared her wetness up her thighs, pushing her apart and open as they writhed.
“You’re frakking gorgeous, you know that,” panted Kara, pushing her thigh in between Martha’s, searching for the urgent friction that would make the Earth woman arch and scream. They wrestled across the damp sheets, all hair and muscles and nails and mouths—rough and raw and human and homeless, female and complete.
So there's that. *is pleased*
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And the GO/RPF was delicious. This was particularly brilliant:
here he looked about him nervously, though unlike the usual human gesture, he looked up and down instead of laterally around
Little things like that are what make me love your writing so, so much. <3
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Temeraire is my new great book-series addiction. It has dragons! Ships! The Napoleonic Wars! Exotic locales! Great characters!
Thanks so much...I just saw that whole scene with the Candidate so, so vividly. And it gave me much hope. :D
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I grinned particularly at the notion that a) Crowley infiltrated the Secret Service detail; b) Obama noticed....
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I think that Crowley, like the Secret Service itself, is often a very poorly kept secret. Though I imagine he'd be good at it - after all, if he can turn paintball guns into real guns, I'm sure he can do the reverse. :)
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Okay, I realize that I'm really late with this comment, but I totally want a fic about this now. Do you know if anyone's written it?
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Hilarious! I loved this. Your Aziraphale was just perfect. *wipes tears from eyes*
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I liked that image a lot too. I found this very cathartic to write back during that long stressful period that ended so happily last night. :D
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LMAO. xDDD Also, I loved "Interweb." I'm making futile efforts not to continue laughing out loud in the middle of this public computer lab...
Great job. :D
Miracle of miracles!
(Anonymous) 2008-11-15 06:20 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
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oh, aziraphale. STOP CRUSHING ON OBAMA, CROWLEY WILL GET JELUZ.
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