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thistle_dear, Bonnie fanfic
Feb. 17th, 2004 06:47 pmjamjarOkay, the first one doesn’t make sense unless you know Eddie Izzard, a UK stand-up comedian. People who watch his shows have a tendency to quote bits at odd times. Amongst my family, the cry of “Block of concrete!”, “I am an evil giraffe” or “Do you have a flag?” uttered at random can still make people laugh. And Bonnie would love Eddie, Izzard and would quote him.
Also, I’m a bit confused on husbands. I think Loki’s the vampire, and I think he’s English, but I don’t know which part he’s from, so I was a bit stuck for endearments. Is Bonnie pet, petal, treacle, my love, me lover, darling, babe, sweetheart, what?
“Cake or death? Cake or death?”
The fae crouched into the corner. “I, I… Cake! Cake!”
“Are you sure?”
The fae wasn’t, because the Wild Queen was crouching in the air above him, all teeth and mad grin and, and… “Yes!” he said, throwing his hands up in front of him.
“Very well,” Bonnie said, straightening up, still upside down. “You shall have cake.”
And then there was silence, long enough for him to regret his decision, and then he heard the clink of a plate on the floor next to him. He opened his eyes and extended a cautious finger, dipping into the icing.
Mmm. Buttercream. He rested his head on his knees and wondered if it would all make more sense if he just went insane.
±±±
“It’s your fault,” Ollie said.
Sting smiled. “Well, not really, but we’ve decided to blame you anyway.”
“That’s not—“
“What’s not fair is we’ve been doing the day shift and it’s almost fucking summer solstice,’ Ollie growled. “Your turn to pitch in, mate. Full moon’s two weeks away. We shouldn’t have to deal with this.”
Loki looked around for help and found none. “A little bit of comedy. How bad can it be.”
Sting smiled again. It was not reassuring. “I think you should find out for yourself,” he said. “Don’t let us keep you.”
He followed the trail, past a whimpering pooka and a bemused high fae lady. Past the werewolf with the éclair and the traumatised goblin with the slice of carrot cake. And there she was, standing like a mercenary or the bouncer to some east-end club in front of a bird-type pooka.
He shook his head at the sight. Bonnie had her arms crossed and was waiting for an answer. Her sword was prominently displayed at her side and she had a knife in her hands, already covered with icing and crumbs.
“Cake, please,” the feathered pooka said, with admirable grace under pressure, if you ignored the slight squawk at the end of the sentence.
Bonnie grinned. She’d been waiting all day for this. “Cake, huh? Well, we’re out of cake!”
The pooka blanched. “What! But then there’s no… How can you be out of cake,? You’re the Wild Queen!”
“Choose!”
“There is no choice! Cake or death and there is no cake and…”
“This is a bit more surreal than normal,” he said, putting his arms around Bonnie in a loose hug. He rested his head on her shoulder and smiled at the pooka. “Cake or death. Now is that a fair choice? Especially with the elves. They’re just not equipped to deal with questions like that. Torture or death, betrayal or death, yeah, but cake and death? You are not a nice woman.”
Bonnie smirked. “I am an evil gira—”
“You’re too impressionable, that’s what you are.” He smiled at the pooka and hugged Bonnie an bit tighter. “Come on, love. If you don’t calm down, bad things will happen to the DVD player.”
Bonnie scowled. He could practially see the words “They wouldn’t dare…” cross her mind. He changed his grip to less of a hug and more of a hold. “Cruel and surreal treatment of your husbands here. No more British stand-up until you learn how to handle it.”
“Fuck off! I’m the queen--“
“No talking in quotes, either,” he said firmly. “Back to reality, or the nearest equivalent.” He started to tug her away from the shaking pooka. “We’re going to sit you down with a nice cup of coffee and…”
“Covered in bees!”
“Yeah, you’re right, caffeine’s probably not a good idea.”
“Je suis le president de Berundi!”
He shook his head. “It’s gonna be a long night.”
The second one is a lot shorter and makes a lot more sense.
She doesn’t like her bones. They lack density. She changes to much, too often, too easily, and she thinks her bones are too fluid. They are pale and dry and dusty and deceitful, like the old bitch above her. She stretches her hand in front of her, and there’s just the concealing skin, false fleash and tendons and muscles giving shape without anything solid underneath. She hold her wrist, running her knuckles along the bone. She thinks she feels it give under the pressure.
Eyes watching her and follow her movement. Looking at her. Her judgement is good right now, so maybe she should ask him. Looking at her good enough to… “Can you see my radius?” She asks.
“I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,” he says. It sounds like a quote, though she doesn’t recognise it. He takes her forearm in his jaw and holds it lightly, enough so she can feel the strength he isn’t using. His teeth dent her skin, but do not break it. He looks up, his eyes grinning.
“Mmmm, ca-fi-yum,” he says in a muffled voice. He tugs her a little, a dog playing with a stick, then lets go. “Promise me, if you lose a limb, I get to suck the marrow from your bone,” he says.
It’s a funny sort of humour, especially when her humours are– funny, pulled up and high by the tug of the moon above her, but—
“Funny, that’s normally my line,” she says. She grins, licks her lips and knocks him on to his back. Her hand goes down to feel his crotch, and she likes a bad pun as much as the next girl.
Her boys know how to woo her.
Also, I’m a bit confused on husbands. I think Loki’s the vampire, and I think he’s English, but I don’t know which part he’s from, so I was a bit stuck for endearments. Is Bonnie pet, petal, treacle, my love, me lover, darling, babe, sweetheart, what?
“Cake or death? Cake or death?”
The fae crouched into the corner. “I, I… Cake! Cake!”
“Are you sure?”
The fae wasn’t, because the Wild Queen was crouching in the air above him, all teeth and mad grin and, and… “Yes!” he said, throwing his hands up in front of him.
“Very well,” Bonnie said, straightening up, still upside down. “You shall have cake.”
And then there was silence, long enough for him to regret his decision, and then he heard the clink of a plate on the floor next to him. He opened his eyes and extended a cautious finger, dipping into the icing.
Mmm. Buttercream. He rested his head on his knees and wondered if it would all make more sense if he just went insane.
±±±
“It’s your fault,” Ollie said.
Sting smiled. “Well, not really, but we’ve decided to blame you anyway.”
“That’s not—“
“What’s not fair is we’ve been doing the day shift and it’s almost fucking summer solstice,’ Ollie growled. “Your turn to pitch in, mate. Full moon’s two weeks away. We shouldn’t have to deal with this.”
Loki looked around for help and found none. “A little bit of comedy. How bad can it be.”
Sting smiled again. It was not reassuring. “I think you should find out for yourself,” he said. “Don’t let us keep you.”
He followed the trail, past a whimpering pooka and a bemused high fae lady. Past the werewolf with the éclair and the traumatised goblin with the slice of carrot cake. And there she was, standing like a mercenary or the bouncer to some east-end club in front of a bird-type pooka.
He shook his head at the sight. Bonnie had her arms crossed and was waiting for an answer. Her sword was prominently displayed at her side and she had a knife in her hands, already covered with icing and crumbs.
“Cake, please,” the feathered pooka said, with admirable grace under pressure, if you ignored the slight squawk at the end of the sentence.
Bonnie grinned. She’d been waiting all day for this. “Cake, huh? Well, we’re out of cake!”
The pooka blanched. “What! But then there’s no… How can you be out of cake,? You’re the Wild Queen!”
“Choose!”
“There is no choice! Cake or death and there is no cake and…”
“This is a bit more surreal than normal,” he said, putting his arms around Bonnie in a loose hug. He rested his head on her shoulder and smiled at the pooka. “Cake or death. Now is that a fair choice? Especially with the elves. They’re just not equipped to deal with questions like that. Torture or death, betrayal or death, yeah, but cake and death? You are not a nice woman.”
Bonnie smirked. “I am an evil gira—”
“You’re too impressionable, that’s what you are.” He smiled at the pooka and hugged Bonnie an bit tighter. “Come on, love. If you don’t calm down, bad things will happen to the DVD player.”
Bonnie scowled. He could practially see the words “They wouldn’t dare…” cross her mind. He changed his grip to less of a hug and more of a hold. “Cruel and surreal treatment of your husbands here. No more British stand-up until you learn how to handle it.”
“Fuck off! I’m the queen--“
“No talking in quotes, either,” he said firmly. “Back to reality, or the nearest equivalent.” He started to tug her away from the shaking pooka. “We’re going to sit you down with a nice cup of coffee and…”
“Covered in bees!”
“Yeah, you’re right, caffeine’s probably not a good idea.”
“Je suis le president de Berundi!”
He shook his head. “It’s gonna be a long night.”
The second one is a lot shorter and makes a lot more sense.
She doesn’t like her bones. They lack density. She changes to much, too often, too easily, and she thinks her bones are too fluid. They are pale and dry and dusty and deceitful, like the old bitch above her. She stretches her hand in front of her, and there’s just the concealing skin, false fleash and tendons and muscles giving shape without anything solid underneath. She hold her wrist, running her knuckles along the bone. She thinks she feels it give under the pressure.
Eyes watching her and follow her movement. Looking at her. Her judgement is good right now, so maybe she should ask him. Looking at her good enough to… “Can you see my radius?” She asks.
“I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,” he says. It sounds like a quote, though she doesn’t recognise it. He takes her forearm in his jaw and holds it lightly, enough so she can feel the strength he isn’t using. His teeth dent her skin, but do not break it. He looks up, his eyes grinning.
“Mmmm, ca-fi-yum,” he says in a muffled voice. He tugs her a little, a dog playing with a stick, then lets go. “Promise me, if you lose a limb, I get to suck the marrow from your bone,” he says.
It’s a funny sort of humour, especially when her humours are– funny, pulled up and high by the tug of the moon above her, but—
“Funny, that’s normally my line,” she says. She grins, licks her lips and knocks him on to his back. Her hand goes down to feel his crotch, and she likes a bad pun as much as the next girl.
Her boys know how to woo her.
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Date: 2004-02-17 04:09 am (UTC)I *love* you!
I've never listened to Eddie Izzard, and you're right, I didn't get the references, but still...LOVE! Lovelovelove. Love.
Mmmmm...bonnie!fic. Thank you sooo much.
And for the record, she's "pet". 'Cause it drives her nuts when he calls her that. ^_^
Re:
Date: 2004-02-19 06:55 pm (UTC)Is Loki a geordie? Inquiring minds want to know.
Has he ever used "man" as a suffix? Does he call Bonnie "Our Bonnie," Bree "Our Bree," or "Our kid".
Sorry it took so long to get this out- and that most of it was pretty incomprehensible. Just think of it as my subtle way of saying you need to watch Eddie Izzard(or listen to him).