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The first TEN people to comment in this post get to request a drabble or a sketch of any pairing/character (from one of my usual fandoms). Original fic is also allowed--you can toss names, photos, descriptions of personalities at me--with the provision that none of the characters be from any works in progress. In return, those ten people have to post this in their journals, regardless of their ability level.
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ani_bester
(crossed out the orig fic one because I can't do drabbles for characters I don't know).
Usual fandoms= Avengers, Daredevil, PotC, Three Musketeers, Mag7, bookverse!Bond, DCU toonverse, Tombstone, Watchmen, Lonesome Dove: TOY, and anything else you can think of that I've written or that you know I've read.
meme taken from
ani_bester(crossed out the orig fic one because I can't do drabbles for characters I don't know).
Usual fandoms= Avengers, Daredevil, PotC, Three Musketeers, Mag7, bookverse!Bond, DCU toonverse, Tombstone, Watchmen, Lonesome Dove: TOY, and anything else you can think of that I've written or that you know I've read.
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ETA: err... Happy Hank and Jan please! After that fanmix I need some Hank/Jan lovin's *hugs*
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Slightly kinkier than I meant it to be, but in a fluffy way
This time, he ddidn't flinch when she said no, didn't ask why not.
"But we're living in sin," he said, fingers digging into the muscles of her back, between her wings. "Wouldn't you rather be respectable, honey?"
"In this room?" Jan groaned as Hank's thumb dug hard into a pressure point that wasn't there when she was full size. "We're practically June and Ward Cleaver."
The hotel room had a pair of narrow twin beds in it, not exactly a honeymoon sweet by any stretch of the imagination, but they'd let Luke, Danny, and Jessica take the room with the kingsize bed, and Steve and Tony and Peter and MJ were sharing the room with the two doubles, which was bound to be an interesting experience for all concerned.
There were ways to cope with narrow mattresses, in their case. Jan's down pillow spread out around them like the biggest, softest bed in the world.
"It's been three years," Hank pressed. The fingers on her back stilled, and then Hank was slipping an arm around her waist and nuzzling at the patch of extra-sensitive skin on her forehead where one of her antennae would have been had she chosen to let it manifest -- not that she ever did, but Hank had sworn they would be useful someday and was still dilegently trying to duplicate a pair for himself.
Jan shivered, goosebumps tightening her skin, and leaned back into Hank, turning her head to catch his mouth with her own. She didn't have to worry about her wings being crushed, not with Hank; he fitted himself around and between them automatically, with the ease of long practice.
"Three years," she agreed, when she finally broke the kiss. "Let's not jynx it." She kissed him again, this time on the side of the neck, just below the corner of his jaw, and added, "So, we're in a hotel room in Vegas, living in sin. Tell me, Blue Eyes, am I your ridiculously expensive mistress, or am I the debauched and jaded socialite hooking up with the handsome stranger she met in the casino?"
Hank moaned, his eyes going half lidded -- pheremones, not strong enough to work on a full size human, or possibly not the right kind to affect a normal human at all, though Scott Lang had, embarassingly, also been able to sense them. So could Spiderman, which was why he and MJ were sharing a room with Steve and Tony and not with the two of them.
"Maybe you won me in a poker game," he suggested.
"You shouldn't have bet more than you could afford to lose," Jan purred, wriggling around so that she was facing him, stradling his lap with his arms still around her waist. "Now you belong to me, to do whatever I want with. Carry my shopping backs. Escort me out to dinner. Anything I can think of." She reached down and squeezed, and Hank's breath started to come faster, his hips jerking sharply underneath her.
"Anything," he agreed.
"Because," she prompted, letting her wings beat lazily a couple of times. Once a year, Hank asked her to marry him. After the last time, she'd finally figured out that it wasn't actually legal formalities he wanted.
"Because I belong to you."
"Yes," Jan said, "you do. And don't think, Henry J. Pym, that I'm going to let you forget that just because I'm not going to marry you again."
"Trust me," Hank gasped, shuddering underneath her, "I won't."
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It was the perfect amount of kinkiness :D
and the ending~ it was beautiful and filled me with a nice kind of hope that current canon isn't coming close to doing-- All i could think was "poor Hank" before reading this- but now i think i'll go back and hide in fanon and backcanon like i do for Steve and Tony and then everything will be all better :D
Thanks again for sharing- i loved it lots
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Re: It was the perfect amount of kinkiness :D
Current canon is dead to me -- like the Crossing and any and all James Bond books that were written by John Garner or Sebastian Faulks rather than Ian Flemming. It doesn't exist.
Also, there are only three Star Wars movies. Three. And all the Extended Universe books are fanfic and fanon, not canon.
I'd maintain that Dumbledore isn't gay, too, just out of spite, but I kind of like the idea of Dumbledore/Grindelwald.
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Re: It was the perfect amount of kinkiness :D
and about the Harry Potter thing, we can at least agree that the epilogue didn't happen... right? >.>
oh and feel free to prompt me back :D
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You read Ex Machina, right? Some Bradbury/Mitchell if you ship them, or solo!Bradbury if you don't.
If not Ex Machina, anything Steve/Tony will do. :D
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Ex Machina ficlet, part 1
The political side of things was not Rick's job -- not something he especially cared about, either -- but even he could tell that this was going to be a media nightmare and cost Mitch God knews how much in terms of approval ratings.
Mitch, being Mitch, just turned a blank, innocent face on Wylie and whomever his long-suffering chief of staff was this week and said, "Of course I'm going to be there. They've invited me, and it's an important civic occasion. I'm also going to be at the West Indian Day Parade, the Puerto Rican Day Parade, and the Coney Island Mermaid Parade."
"That reminds me," Wylie held up one finger. "There were two petitions from concerned citizens regarding the amount of public nudity at the Mermaid Parade last year. You might want to send someone to have a word with-"
Mitch's face went from naive and innocent to mildly annoyed. "It's legal in New York State for women to be topless in public as long as it's not part of a business venture," he interrupted.
"Yeah, I know," Wylie sighed, with the air of a man who has had to face topless protestors with a straight face once too often. "People have been arguing that parade *is* a business venture, considering the amount of tourists it brings in to Coney Island, and topless women covered in blue glitter don't fit into most tourists' concepts of a family friendly event."
Rick was pretty sure at least half the tourists came *because* of the topless women, the same as with Mardi Gras in New Orleans, but he didn't comment. He didn't mention the gaping security flaws parades always entailed and the high likelyhood that someone at at least of these "important civic events" was going to try and repeat the last wannabee assassin's stunt with the bow and arrow, either. Mitch wouldn't have listened.
"I went to the Halloween Parade last fall," Mitch was saying, "and the St. Patrick's Day Parade."
"Yes," the new chief of staff piped up, emerging from behind his clipboard. He'd used a Blackberry for the first week. Then Mitch had gotten irritated over something-or-other and made it explode, and he'd switched to paper and pencil like everyone else. "And that was very good for your approval ratings. Going ahead and holding the Halloween Parade in spite of 9/11 was a good thing. This," he stabbed a ballpoint pen in Mitch's general direction, "will be very, very bad for your approval ratings. And your chances of getting the education bill pushed through the city council next week. Councilman Serrano is a devout catholic, and you need his support. We've discussed this, Mayor Hundred. Don't you remember discussing this?"
Chief of staff number three spoke to Mitch like he was a twelve year old. Rick had a bet with Journal that he would be gone by the end of the month.
"It's just the Gay Pride Parade," Mitch protested. "They have it every year. And if I go to all the other major parades and civic celebrations in the city and not to this one, people are going to start saying I'm homophobic."
"And if you go," Rick put in, "they'll all start saying you're gay again."
Every head in the room swivelled in his direction, and the chief of staff's bushy eyebrows went up in surprise, as if Rick were a piece of furniture that had suddenly gained the ability to speak.
continued in second post
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Ex Machina ficlet, part 2
Probably because he'd been on one date with a woman in the past three years, and because he'd never actually given anyone who asked him about his sexuality a straight answer, including Rick. And there was his stunt with Wylie's brother, and the additions to the state domestic partnership bill he got pushed through the city council (If you were a public employee in NYC these days, the health insurance and family leave rights granted people in a domestic partnership were somewhat more... robust.. than the ones the state granted).
Display any interest in or sympathy for gay rights, and in the absence of conspicuous evidence of heterosexuality, your own sexual orientation would become suspect. Rick had learned that a long time ago. Don't make waves, don't draw attention to yourself. If anyone brings up fags or don't ask don't tell, make sure to mention your ex-wife.
He'd been good at it before he went into the army. He was damn near perfect at it, now. It helped that nobody ever suspected big, tattoed, ex-military, ex-NYPD guys with buzz cuts of being anything other than painfully straight.
Mitch was suprisingly good at keeping secrets, but painfully bad at lying, which might be why he always dodged the "Mayor Hundred, is it true that you're gay?" question. He hadn't displayed an real interest in either men or women in all the time Rick had known him, though, so Rick's working hypothesis now was that Mitch was asexual. Maybe he always had been, or maybe the explosion that had given him his powers had done something to him, or the powers themselves had.
Maybe if Rick were a robot or a computer or something, he'd have been able to get Mitch's attention.
"Because you keep pulling stuff like this," Wylie said bluntly. "I owe you for what you did for my brother, but don't you think this is pushing it? We could dig up some other vital civic event being held somewhere in the five burroughs on the same date, and you could go to that."
"I'm going," Mitch said flatly. "End of story. Now, what did the teachers' union want from me again?"
"Total dominion over the entire city budget," Rick muttered. No one was listening to him, which was probably for the best. He stored his suggestion that they stick the head of the teacher's union and the head of the transit workers union in a steel cage and have them fight barehanded for who got the largest number of ridiculous concessions from the city up to mention to Mitch in the car later. Wylie had a deap-seated loathing of the teacher's union that was equaled only by his conviction that school vouchers violated seperation of church and state and that charter schools sucked public funds away from public school and just perpetuated the problem under the guise of helping a few select children, and it was better not to give him an excuse to start venting.
"You think it's a mistake, too," Mitch said, hours later, while Rick drove him home - the cage match comment had gotten him a smile, just as he'd known it would.
"Would it make the slightest bit of difference if I said yes?"
Mitch's lips twitched. "No," he said.
"Didn't think so. Anyway, if you start picking and choosing which parades you're going to go to now, you might decide not to go to the Mermaid Parade, and watching all those girls dance around in nothing but gauze and body paint was going to be my reward to myself if I manage to keep you alive and intact until June." Guys in body paint, too, but he didn't say that, of course.
The Germans were still out there, with God knew what designs on the inside of Mitch's head, and then there were the crazies, the people Mitch's abilities seemed to attract like flies, just as many of them now as there had even been when he'd still been the Great Machine. Except now Mitch didn't have a jetpack, and he didn't have a helmet or costume that doubled as body armor, and he didn't have any weapons other than his voice. He just had Rick. And Kremlin, whether either of them wanted to admit it or not, but Kremlin was as much a hindrance as a help these days.
cont'd again
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Ex Machina ficlet, part 3
That was worth looking away from the road for a moment, to give Mitch the full benefit of his best unimpressed stare. The spidery scars on the side of his face, the ones that looked like circuitry and probably were, flickered with green light; he was using his powers on something, maybe important, maybe not. They looked like they'd feel hard, like little wires laid into the side of his face, but they didn't; they felt like any other scar tissue. Rick had checked Mitch for skull fractures and other assorted head injuries often enough to know.
"I'm gonna consider us lucky if the list of people who try to kill you between now and June is only in the single digits," he said. "You just seem to inspire something in people."
"Admiration?" Mitch deadpanned.
"Homicidal rage."
"But you still love me, right?"
Rick turned back to the road, where the traffic had suddenly lessen dramatically as the stoplights blinked a bright, friendly green all along their immediate route. "Don't bet on it, boss," he shot back. This wasn't a moment for the truth. There might never be the right moment for it.
"You guys love me, though, right?" Mitch asked, very quietly but in that special tone of voice that always made Rick's filling buzz.
The car radio, which had been playing Johnny Cash at a barely audible level, emitted a bust of static. When it cleared, it was playing jazz.
"So, was that a yes, or did my car's electronics just break up with you?"
"I think they want to 'just be friends.'"
"I hate to break it to you, boss, but I suspect you make a better friend than you do a boyfriend, considering your record." Which was pretty shakey on both counts, actually, but if friendship was measured in trust, then what he and Mitch had definately counted. He made sure to remind himself of that occasionally, and to remind himself not to push for too much and screw things up.
On the worst day of their lives, when thousands of lives had been at stake and Mitch had, from what Rick could tell, truly expected that he might die, he'd used one of the tiny fragments of concentration he could spare to call Rick and say goodbye.
That meant something. Maybe it just meant that Rick had been the only person left whom he *could* call, but he didn't think so.
He wasn't sure Mitch could even do romance anymore, but he'd take what he could get.
The Mermaid Parade is real, BTW. You couldn't make that kind of thing up.
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Re: Ex Machina ficlet, part 3
Mostly I share your views re: Mitchell being asexual, he probably was before the accident, but now he definitely is in my head. It's just that sometimes I ship them. :D
The Mermaid Parade is real, BTW.
New York is awesome.
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Re: Ex Machina ficlet, part 3
We really need to go to the Mermaid parade this year -- I only moved here in July, so I missed the 2008 one.
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Re: Ex Machina ficlet, part 3
I demand pictorial evidence.
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Re: Ex Machina ficlet, part 3
Some good ones:
Not quite topless, but close (http://www.flickr.com/photos/augfw/2603320285/in/pool-mermaidparade).
bodypaint awesomeness (http://www.flickr.com/photos/martinpalmer/2647619198/in/pool-mermaidparade).
Captain America and Robin have something vaguely to do with Mermaids, right? (http://www.flickr.com/photos/istolethetv/2599823177/in/pool-mermaidparade)
Toplessness, with seashell pasties (http://www.flickr.com/photos/georgebaier/2602644361/in/pool-mermaidparade).
no one's sure how this woman was able to walk in that outfit (http://www.flickr.com/photos/nbphotoflash/3275553284/in/pool-mermaidparade)
We're not mermaids, but we are ALMOST TOTALLY NAKED (http://www.flickr.com/photos/dschaub/2602767856/in/pool-mermaidparade)
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Everyone who knows the comics at all seems to agree that that moment in the movie (the the cigarette under the glass) was total and utter blasphemy. (I've even seen people who haven't read the comic decrying its lameness. "Dude, your lungs are magic now. You should be chain-smoking four packs a day just out of spite.").
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If not, I'd also kill father and son relationship type fic between Torch and Toro.
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Toro had heard a lot about how wonderful Paris was. Thus far, it was doing a better job of living up to expectations than he'd hoped for.
"To Paris," Bucky said, and toasted Toro with the half-empty champagne bottle they had liberated from a former Nazi officer's quarters. It had probably been very expensive, once. Bucky and Cap worked with the Howling Commandoes as often as they did with the Invaders, and Nick Fury's guys always knew where to find the good alcohol.
"To Paris!" Toro echoed. "To pretty French girls just waiting to give their liberators a kiss."
Bucky laughed, his eyes bright with champagne. "I bet you've never kissed anyone in your life. Let alone a French girl."
"I've had more dames than you'll ever know." It wasn't exactly a lie. There had been one or two girls back before Jim had found him, when he'd still been with the circus. It had never gone any firther than kissing -- he'd barely been more than a kid then, after all -- but it was something. After that... the fire was harder to control when he was excited. Girls tended not to like that.
"Yeah?" Bucky asked. "I don't believe it from you anymore than I do when Cap says it. You both blush just the same way."
"Yeah," Toro returned. "If you were a girl, I could make your head spin faster than..." inspiration ran out, "well, let's just say you'd be begging for more."
Bucky grinned that slightly manic grin that always made Toro think of machinegun fire, and said, "Prove it."
So Toro did.
When he woke up in the middle of the night, hours later, the inhuman screams of men burning to death ringing in his ears, Bucky was still sound asleep next to him, his head on Toro's soulder, one hand settled posessively over his hip.
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And Bucky's machinegun fire grin, that's a great description.
The last bit kills me. Oh dear lord -_-
Thank you so so much!
I love these two and it's great to get more fic for them ^__^
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because Jan playing dress-up with her teammates never gets old
It was worth every penny. No man every failed to look goaod in a tuxedo, and since this one had been specifically designed to both flatter Peter's somewhat short and skinny figure and to perfectly match and compliment MJ's dress, Jan would have been extremely disappointed in herself if Peter hadn't looked good enough to eat.
"Think of yourself as a walking advertisement," she advised him. "Like a billboard that reads 'Van Dyne can design mens' formal wear just as well as Armani can,' only less expensive and more subtle."
"Last time I wore a tuxedo to one of these thing, people thought I was with the catering staff and kept handing me their empty glasses and crap the whole night." Peter tugged at the hem of his jacket, doing his level best to ruin the line of the suit and not succeeding.
"Trust me," Jan told him. "You won't have that problem this time."
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With Felix. Of course.
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Okay, so Dakota's not actually interacting with anybody in this, but she's present...
It was like going to visit Mila, in the hospital that she was probably never going to leave, the one she was trapped in because of him, and that only made the guilt worse.
Foggy's hand was on his shoulder, steering him down the hallway in that high-handed way that Foggy does sometimes, and Matt was grateful for it. The touch grounds him -- the sound of Foggy's breathing, the smell of his aftershave, of the coffee he'd gulped down for breakfast, the scent still present on his breath.
"She's out of surgery already," Foggy was saying. "They say the bullet went straight through."
She'd asked too many questions, Matt thought. Or asked the wrong ones. He should never have gotten Dakota involved.
He should never have gotten involved with Dakota. Elektra, Karen, Foggy, Mila; everyone he gets too close to suffers for it.
Sounds echo off the tile floors and cinderblock walls, just like in Rikers, making it hard to judge distance, to tell how far away things are. When they reach Dakota's room, he can hear machines beeping, whirring, hear her breathing and smell antiseptic and wound dressings and blood and the heavy taint of anesthetic and painkillers in her sweat, and it makes the whole thing real.
Blood is very red, he remembers that. Matt doesn't dream in images as much as he used to when he was younger, but when he does, his dreams are always entirely black and white except for the blood, which is always bright, deep, primary-color red. It doesn't smell red, though. It smells like raw meat and metal and pain.
"She looks good," Foggy said. "A little pale, but good." He squeezed Matt's shoulder, and added. "The doctors say she ought to wake up any time now."
Touching would have been inappropriate, so Matt closed his eyes and listened to the sound of Dakota's breathing, of her heartbeat, and tried not to wonder when he'd learned to pick that particular rythym out in a crowd. The way he could with Foggy's. The way he'd been able to with Mila's. With Karen's.
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Money was not an issue, not with the tribute the Pirate King was paid, and not with the funds her father had left her, and ready cash and a good line of credit went a long way towards giving Will Turner's wife and child a veneer of respectability.
It didn't go far, though, and Elizabeth was cold and lonely at night. She was a woman grown and married, a mother, and yet the only time she'd ever known a man's touch was that one glorious hour on the beach with Will (Jack's lips under hers, his body against hers as she snapped the manacles around his wrists didn't count, though she had to remind herself of that often).
James was nine, nearly ten, before he ever saw his father, and Elizabeth was nearly thirty, lines forming at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth, before she saw Will again.
He hadn't aged a single day in ten years. Even the scar over his heart was still red and livid, as if it had barely finished healing.
Will went back to his ship, and Elizabeth went back to Port Royal, back to pretending to be respectable for her son's sake while pirate gold paid for their clothes, the servents' wages, and the horses and carriage.
When Jack showed up at the next new moon, sneaking into Port Royal in a tiny and bedraggled little sloop in the dead of night, also not a day older than he'd been ten years ago -- if anything, he seemed younger, the faint lines around his eyes that the khol had always only mostly hidden gone now -- and presented her with a glass vial of water and a bargain, she didn't hesitate.
The Pirate King would step out of retirement and arrange for Jack to get the Black Pearl back from Barbossa (again; that ship seemed to change hands more often than some of the smaller Windward Isles, which had been French, Spanish, Enlish, and Dutch in turn) and Captain Jack Sparrow would lend her the use of his compass and the only ship in the world that could outrun the Flying Dutchmen.
Will couldn't set foot on land but once every ten years. No one, Jack pointed out, had ever said anything about the Captain of the Dutchmen's lady wife setting foot aboard his ship.
The water he insisted they drink to seal the bargain was the clearest and purest Elizabeth had ever tasted, and made her skin tingle from the inside out. When Jack waggled his eyebrows and suggested that there were also other, more intimate ways to seal bargains, she answered yes to that, too, and shrugged away any guilt.
Will had given her his heart in a box, and she would keep it safe until she died, but he was also as married to his ship and his duty as he was to her. And ten years alone is a long time.
It wasn't until she looked in the mirror the next morning, and saw the face of a woman who hadn't existed in a decade staring back at her that Elizabeth realized what Jack's water had done to her.
James took to the sea with an ease that would have made both his grandfather and his namesake proud, and Will welcomed Elizabeth and Jack both with a stunned laugh and open arms, but it was still a very long time before she completely forgave Jack for what he had done to her.
No woman should have to watch her son grow old and die while she remains young.
She understood, though; the Flying Dutchmen crossed paths with the Pearl at least once a year, and every year, there were fewer of the Pearl's old crew left, until eventually, the only men and woman left alive who'd seen skeletons walk in the moonlight and fought the Kracken were Will, Elizabeth, and Jack. And Barbossa, wherever he was. It never did well to leave him out of one's reckoning.
Jack might only see them every few months, but when the three of slept in a tangle in the Pearl or the Dutchman's captain's quarters, there was always a satisfied and completely peaceful smile on his face, and o Will's.
No one likes the idea of spending eternity alone.
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True that!
Fabulous piece, thank you again!!
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I love the trick Jack played on Elizabeth.