sheldrake

I just wrote a fic. It's a short fic. It's not a particularly good fic. But it is something. A something written by me with my own eyes and fingers and brain. I'm posting it straight away without much careful checking or editing, because it's really just me proving I can still write words, which apparently I can. And that deserves a glass of wine, don't you think?

Title: After the Glorious Revolution
Fandom: The Ridiculous Russell Brand
Pairing: Matt/Russell
Warnings: I haven't put a great deal of thought into this. And it is stupid.
Disclaimer: This hasn't happened. YET!
Summary: Why Russell really shouldn't be allowed to organise an actual revolution.

( Up the Revolution! Or not. )

I am sitting around feeling apathetic and blah, which I have been mostly doing all day. The slightest bit more of this blah sitting around and I'm going to tip right over into self-pity land, and believe me - nobody wants that! But if I stand any chance of avoiding this I have to go and clean the kitchen or at least do the washing up which is waiting for me, adding to my blahness with its mere existence. I must do this now. I must also put the internet away. I already did this once, but I then got it out again.

I am a silly creature.

Out in the dark and the rain they are setting up for the fireworks and playing loud thumping annoying music over the sound system. Bastards. I wonder what the Mansion ghosts think of this nonsense, sniffling to themselves in the panelled corridors. Old men in portraits hunch themselves irritably, trying to turn their canvases to the walls. The Victorian Woman passes through a closed door, murmuring, "Adventures in Space is the theme this year, apparently... whatever next?" But the Laughing Maid just smiles, and peers expectantly through the raindropped window -- her favourite was the year they did Bond and had a helicopter. Behind her, the children shriek silently and run up and down and up and down the stairs.

Sadly, Leonora's cake tasted of nothing.

***

Everybody stood around awkardly with their tea. Sarah said, "I'm not into poetry," and just then, her phone rang. Stephen said, "That's a dinky thing. Are you aware you're trying to contact your mother on a cigarette lighter?"

***

The difficult bit was over. Afterwards, they walked together by the river, and it wasn't very long before Henry lost his temper again, because Thomas had said the wrong thing again. He always did say the wrong thing, Thomas, he was bloody-minded that way. Words floated to the top and had to come out. It perplexed people, the way Thomas just flung those words out into the world, willy nilly. It was as though he didn't really care. Even at the end, he didn't care very much, or at least that's what they say.

Henry said, his voice rising dangerously, "What, you really think I'd do that to you? Is that what you think, Thomas? Is that what you think of me?" He was like a bulldog, square-chested, large-hearted, wound up and spoiling for a fight.

Thomas looked at Henry, and Henry looked back at him, twitching under the skin like something waiting to be let out of a cage. But Thomas was statue-still, and his face was like the blank white sky. "Heaven forbid," he said. He spoke softly, slowly, as though to himself. "Heaven forbid." A little way off, there was a soft splash as something -- a rat, a bird -- launched itself into the water and swam swift and silent into the river's brown depths.

Thomas's pale hand was still curled like a comma over his heart. He looked down at it, as though noticing it for the first time. Then he turned and walked on ahead down the path. He'd made up his mind now, and all things would follow as they were meant to. As they were always meant to. The difficult bit was over.

***

Stephen said, "You have to look a bit for their graves, but when you find them, they lie side by side, as in life. And as in life, there is Imogen, peeping between their shoulders... Have you ever seen a picture of her? I saw her once, she popped up very suddenly from some shrubbery, tall and thin, with the little round specs, just popped up like that. She was like a heron. Sort of like a Mr Bean, like a Miss Bean coming up out of the shrubbery."

***

When terrible things happen, someone has to be to blame. Stands to reason. Like the time Robert was killed. Just a boy, Robert was. You know who was to blame, don't you? We all know it. Who even knows what they get up to, that lot? They don't belong here -- they never have. They've probably been getting up to all sorts. Richard ought to have sent them packing, years ago. But Richard's not here, is he? He's never here. Not even sure where he is half the time, always abroad somewhere, on some crusade or other. Well. If he won't take care of things back home, somebody'll have to. What they did to that little boy... We've been too soft with them -- I've said it before. They'll have to go. They'll have to get themselves gone, them and their nasty ways. Nobody wants them round here. If they don't take themselves off smartish, it'll all kick off. You mark my words. I won't answer for what'll happen. They've only themselves to blame, haven't they?

***

Title: Scenes from the End of the World, or The Last Kid on Earth (But One)
Pairing: Russell Brand/Noel Fielding
Summary: It's the end of the world; why not go on holiday?
Rating: R-ish
Warnings: Sex, violence, the end of the world and rude words.
Disclaimer: Harmless fiction. No claims made, no offence intended.
Notes: About time I got rid of this. I hear it's quite good if you actually post the stories when you've finished them.

( I can has apocalypse nao? )

Ok. So let me say first that absolutely none of this is my fault. It is entirely down to justwolf, and the fact that she is SICK. Ok, yes, I wrote it, but I used someone else's brain thoughout, thus ensuring that mine remains unsoiled.

Let us first get one thing clear. This fic is, hmm, 99% harmless fluff. The other one percent, however, is NOT FIT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION. Let us get another thing clear. This is a story featuring Russell Brand, Christopher Biggins, and the concept of sex. If, having read that, you are actively looking for somewhere to throw up, I suggest you move on, post haste! RUN AWAY WHILE YOU STILL CAN!

Right, have they gone? Welcome then, all three and a half of you, to my fic. Mind bleach will be required. :)

Title: Larger than Life
Pairing: Russell Brand/Christopher Biggins. Kind of
Rating (if you are justwolf): R for Really quite tame, actually, I'm afraid.
Rating (if you are other people): R for RUN AWAY RUN AWAY RUN AWAY!
Disclaimer: Oh, really. As if.
Warnings: SERIOUSLY DISTURBING IMAGERY, I'M NOT JOKING! Er... some senior members of the royal family may also be indirectly involved.
Less dramatic warnings: Come on, it's not that bad.
Summary: Christopher is a big fan of olive oil, you know.
Notes: Look, this only came about because of Russell's shameless flirting on The Big Fat Quiz of the Year 2007. It's all his own fault.
Are you sure about this: y/n?

( LAST CHANCE TO PREPARE THE MIND BLEACH! )

Title: Living With the Effects of Involuntary Temporal Slippage -- A Case History
Fandom: The Mighty Boosh RPS
Pairing: Noel Fielding/Julian Barratt
Rating: PG
Summary: Time is weird.
Disclaimer: None of this ever happened in any universe, and I wholeheartedly apologise.
Warnings: Contains little to no sense.

( What do you think time is, really? )

My head exploded. I hate it when that happens. Makes a right mess.

***

WHY THE HELL IS IT MONDAY TOMORROW? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? (multiply by forever)


And now! Poetry from the world of tiredness just for you you you you you!

( WARNING STRONG LANGUAGE FROM THE START OR SORT OF NEAR THE END )

Title: Something Close to Silence
Pairing: Master/Doctor, Master/Lucy
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC
Summary: This is probably a fabrication. Most things are. Set between Utopia and The Sound of Drums.

( Something Close to Silence )

Title: A Place Called Home
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Martha
Rating: G
Spoilers: Human Nature/The Family of Blood
Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who
Summary: What's so bloody special about being human, anyway?

( A Place Called Home )

Title: Counting
Fandom: Sort of Goth Detectives RPS
Pairing: Noel Fielding/Russell Brand
Disclaimer: None of this happened, I made it up for a cheap laugh, please don't hurt me.
Summary: It was just a threesome without one of the ones, that was all.
Notes: Written for the 'Julian's fridge' challenge at goth_detectives.

( Counting )