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So Chris's cousin gave the kids a little toy truck that plays either "Low Rider" or "Sweet Home Alabama" when you push a button on the front. Ian's sitting here playing with it, and when he starts to hear "Sweet Home Alabama" he'll push the button again to turn it off, then hit it again to turn on "Low Rider", and start dancing around and waving his hands. Goofy kid.
Jun. 2nd, 2011
So Chris's cousin gave the kids a little toy truck that plays either "Low Rider" or "Sweet Home Alabama" when you push a button on the front. Ian's sitting here playing with it, and when he starts to hear "Sweet Home Alabama" he'll push the button again to turn it off, then hit it again to turn on "Low Rider", and start dancing around and waving his hands. Goofy kid.
This entry was originally posted at http://changeyourstars8.dreamwidth.org/346653.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
This entry was originally posted at http://changeyourstars8.dreamwidth.org/346653.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Just Another Day at the Office
Bond/Moneypenny ficlet
She walks into the crowded ballroom, and his blue eyes lock onto her like she's the only woman there.
They're on this undercover assignment to spy on a suspected money launderer, but he hasn't arrived yet, and so they have a few moments to themselves.
She moves into his arms. Normally their relationship is words and words alone. Now neither of them speak, words unnecessary as they dance. Her body pressed tightly against his, his hand at the small of her back, is the best feeling in the world.
Well, she thinks. Maybe not the best.
Maybe the money launderer could turn out to have violent associates, and she'd actually keep her head, prove herself to be useful in situations other than filing endless paperwork, and the two of them could team up and defeat the bad guy and all without getting her hair mussed, because as long as she was fantasizing, might as well go for everything.
No, she decided. Something like that was more along the lines of Fantasy #26.
"Let's get out of here," she whispers, sounding exactly like one of those femme fatales from a 40s Hollywood classic. Rita Hayworth. Or no, Lauren Bacall.
Oh well. That part wasn't important right now. What was important was them leaving the dance, going upstairs to her room and they'd barely gotten the door shut before he was kissing her and then--
"Moneypenny?"
"Huh?" She startled, nearly knocking over her tea. The computer keyboard it would've spilled on cost more than her apartment.
"Fantasizing about me, were you?"
She felt an actual blush coming to her face for the first time in years. "A little full of yourself today, James?"
Her tone was so uncharacteristically sharp that he was taken aback. But, being James, only for a second. Then he grinned. "You were."
He walked off, still grinning, and Moneypenny fought an incredibly juvenile-- and yet, she was sure, incredibly justified-- urge to crumple a piece of paper and fling it at the back of his head.
Bond/Moneypenny ficlet
She walks into the crowded ballroom, and his blue eyes lock onto her like she's the only woman there.
They're on this undercover assignment to spy on a suspected money launderer, but he hasn't arrived yet, and so they have a few moments to themselves.
She moves into his arms. Normally their relationship is words and words alone. Now neither of them speak, words unnecessary as they dance. Her body pressed tightly against his, his hand at the small of her back, is the best feeling in the world.
Well, she thinks. Maybe not the best.
Maybe the money launderer could turn out to have violent associates, and she'd actually keep her head, prove herself to be useful in situations other than filing endless paperwork, and the two of them could team up and defeat the bad guy and all without getting her hair mussed, because as long as she was fantasizing, might as well go for everything.
No, she decided. Something like that was more along the lines of Fantasy #26.
"Let's get out of here," she whispers, sounding exactly like one of those femme fatales from a 40s Hollywood classic. Rita Hayworth. Or no, Lauren Bacall.
Oh well. That part wasn't important right now. What was important was them leaving the dance, going upstairs to her room and they'd barely gotten the door shut before he was kissing her and then--
"Moneypenny?"
"Huh?" She startled, nearly knocking over her tea. The computer keyboard it would've spilled on cost more than her apartment.
"Fantasizing about me, were you?"
She felt an actual blush coming to her face for the first time in years. "A little full of yourself today, James?"
Her tone was so uncharacteristically sharp that he was taken aback. But, being James, only for a second. Then he grinned. "You were."
He walked off, still grinning, and Moneypenny fought an incredibly juvenile-- and yet, she was sure, incredibly justified-- urge to crumple a piece of paper and fling it at the back of his head.
Just Another Day at the Office
Bond/Moneypenny ficlet
She walks into the crowded ballroom, and his blue eyes lock onto her like she's the only woman there.
They're on this undercover assignment to spy on a suspected money launderer, but he hasn't arrived yet, and so they have a few moments to themselves.
She moves into his arms. Normally their relationship is words and words alone. Now neither of them speak, words unnecessary as they dance. Her body pressed tightly against his, his hand at the small of her back, is the best feeling in the world.
Well, she thinks. Maybe not the best.
Maybe the money launderer could turn out to have violent associates, and she'd actually keep her head, prove herself to be useful in situations other than filing endless paperwork, and the two of them could team up and defeat the bad guy and all without getting her hair mussed, because as long as she was fantasizing, might as well go for everything.
No, she decided. Something like that was more along the lines of Fantasy #26.
"Let's get out of here," she whispers, sounding exactly like one of those femme fatales from a 40s Hollywood classic. Rita Hayworth. Or no, Lauren Bacall.
Oh well. That part wasn't important right now. What was important was them leaving the dance, going upstairs to her room and they'd barely gotten the door shut before he was kissing her and then--
"Moneypenny?"
"Huh?" She startled, nearly knocking over her tea. The computer keyboard it would've spilled on cost more than her apartment.
"Fantasizing about me, were you?"
She felt an actual blush coming to her face for the first time in years. "A little full of yourself today, James?"
Her tone was so uncharacteristically sharp that he was taken aback. But, being James, only for a second. Then he grinned. "You were."
He walked off, still grinning, and Moneypenny fought an incredibly juvenile-- and yet, she was sure, incredibly justified-- urge to crumple a piece of paper and fling it at the back of his head.
This entry was originally posted at http://changeyourstars8.dreamwidth.org/347117.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Bond/Moneypenny ficlet
She walks into the crowded ballroom, and his blue eyes lock onto her like she's the only woman there.
They're on this undercover assignment to spy on a suspected money launderer, but he hasn't arrived yet, and so they have a few moments to themselves.
She moves into his arms. Normally their relationship is words and words alone. Now neither of them speak, words unnecessary as they dance. Her body pressed tightly against his, his hand at the small of her back, is the best feeling in the world.
Well, she thinks. Maybe not the best.
Maybe the money launderer could turn out to have violent associates, and she'd actually keep her head, prove herself to be useful in situations other than filing endless paperwork, and the two of them could team up and defeat the bad guy and all without getting her hair mussed, because as long as she was fantasizing, might as well go for everything.
No, she decided. Something like that was more along the lines of Fantasy #26.
"Let's get out of here," she whispers, sounding exactly like one of those femme fatales from a 40s Hollywood classic. Rita Hayworth. Or no, Lauren Bacall.
Oh well. That part wasn't important right now. What was important was them leaving the dance, going upstairs to her room and they'd barely gotten the door shut before he was kissing her and then--
"Moneypenny?"
"Huh?" She startled, nearly knocking over her tea. The computer keyboard it would've spilled on cost more than her apartment.
"Fantasizing about me, were you?"
She felt an actual blush coming to her face for the first time in years. "A little full of yourself today, James?"
Her tone was so uncharacteristically sharp that he was taken aback. But, being James, only for a second. Then he grinned. "You were."
He walked off, still grinning, and Moneypenny fought an incredibly juvenile-- and yet, she was sure, incredibly justified-- urge to crumple a piece of paper and fling it at the back of his head.
This entry was originally posted at http://changeyourstars8.dreamwidth.org/347117.html. Please comment there using OpenID.