Konnichiwa, minna-san

Day seven: JUDGEMENT DAY

2012-06-06T04:02:55Z

My dad's flying in tomorrow. This is the day I needed to get everything done.

In other news, I stumbled upon some Avengers fic and, while I was predisposed to woobify Loki to begin with (always my favourite Norse God, with Odin a far second for the whole trading his eye thing) now I have no choice.

Yes, I just cried over Avengers fanfiction.

orz

Things I need to get rid of:
Table
Chairs
Cabinet
Side Tables
Dresser #1
Dresser #2
Couch/futon
Entertainment stand
Bed
Pots and pans
Plates
~~Clothes~~
~~Books~~
The 3 remaining still-living plants

Total number of boxes I have packed: 16 (Sixteen)

Food I need to eat:
~~Full slab of ribs~~
2 1 Hamburgers
10 7 Chicken thighs
3 2 dim sum things
~~2 1 cheesecake (And~~ some ice cream)
~~Fruit (this shouldn't be a problem)~~

Things I need to do:
~~Host dinner party~~
~~Get the car serviced~~
~~Cancel my internet~~
~~Address changes~~
Visit my old clinic
Clean the fridge
Keep my place clean - super extra hard, will fail at this on a near-daily basis
~~Turn AC on before my dad gets here~~

~~Bruises~~ Injuries I have acquired: ~~Seven~~ ~~Five~~ Six bruises
~~Two sliced-open fingers. I think I'm due for a tetanus booster.~~ Basically all better.
~~One strained ligament over my medial malleolus, but that's my own fault for wearing crocks~~

Day five: Day six

2012-06-05T03:33:54Z

...yeah.

For the first time in my life, I can blame something on an overactive social life.

I'm not sure how I feel about this.

Things I need to get rid of:
Table
Chairs
Cabinet
Side Tables
Dresser #1
Dresser #2
Couch/futon
Entertainment stand
Bed
Pots and pans
Plates
~~Clothes~~
~~Books~~
The 3 remaining still-living plants

Total number of boxes I have packed: 16 (Sixteen)

Food I need to eat:
~~Full slab of ribs~~
4 2 Hamburgers
16 10 Chicken thighs
3 2 dim sum things
2 1 cheesecake (And some ice cream)
Cookies (I'm going to end up baking at least once. It's what I do when I'm stressed.)
Fruit (this shouldn't be a problem)

Things I need to do:
~~Host dinner party~~
~~Get the car serviced~~
~~Cancel my internet~~
Address changes
Visit my old clinic
Clean the fridge
Keep my place clean - super extra hard, will fail at this on a near-daily basis
Turn AC on before my dad gets here

~~Bruises~~ Injuries I have acquired: ~~Seven~~ ~~Five~~ Six bruises
~~Two sliced-open fingers. I think I'm due for a tetanus booster.~~ Basically all better.
~~One strained ligament over my medial malleolus, but that's my own fault for wearing crocks~~

Day four: Lemme alone, it's Saturday. :(

2012-06-03T02:54:45Z

There are a bunch of things that have to wait until Monday.

Well, either that or I'm just lazy.

Note to self: Kinkmeme discussion thread about original fic is not a dare.

Things I need to get rid of:
Table
Chairs
Cabinet
Side Tables
Dresser #1
Dresser #2
~~Couch/futon~~
Entertainment stand
Bed
Pots and pans
Plates
~~Clothes~~
Books
The 3 remaining still-living plants

Total number of boxes I have packed: 12 (Twelve)

Food I need to eat:
~~Full slab of ribs~~
6 4 Hamburgers
16 Chicken thighs
3 2 dim sum things
2 1 cheesecake (And some ice cream)
Cookies (I'm going to end up baking at least once. It's what I do when I'm stressed.)
Fruit (this shouldn't be a problem)

Things I need to do:
~~Host dinner party~~
~~Get the car serviced~~
~~Cancel my internet~~
Address changes
Visit my old clinic
Clean the fridge
Keep my place clean - super extra hard, will fail at this on a near-daily basis
Turn AC on before my dad gets here

~~Bruises~~ Injuries I have acquired: ~~Seven~~ Five bruises
~~Two sliced-open fingers. I think I'm due for a tetanus booster.~~ Basically all better.
One strained ligament over my medial malleolus, but that's my own fault for wearing crocks

Day three: Plus several community service announcements

2012-06-02T01:25:42Z

So... cannibals and zombies and body parts used as weapons and warnings. Discuss.

On a more practical note, fanfiction.net is going through a purge of fics that violate its TOS. Now, the stuff I write and post totally violates pretty much every TOS (or at least as many as I can manage without going out of my way) and everything of mine is still up. Maybe Code Geass and Kyou Kara Maou and Hikaru no Go aren't big enough fandoms for them to bother with. Or to have bothered with yet. Nevertheless, I've backed up all my stuff, just in case.

Things I need to get rid of:
Table
Chairs
Cabinet
Side Tables
Dresser #1
Dresser #2
~~Couch/futon~~
Entertainment stand
Bed
Pots and pans
Plates
~~Clothes~~
The 3 remaining still-living plants

Total number of boxes I have packed: 10 (Ten)

Food I need to eat:
~~Full slab of ribs~~
7 6 Hamburgers
16 Chicken thighs
3 dim sum things
2 cheesecakes (Have started the first one. YAY?)
Cookies (I'm going to end up baking at least once. It's what I do when I'm stressed.)
Fruit (this shouldn't be a problem)

Things I need to do:
~~Host dinner party (seriously? THIS was your priority?)~~
~~Get the car serviced~~
~~Cancel my internet~~ Fraud's only illegal if you get caught, right?
Visit my old clinic
Clean the fridge
Keep my place clean - super extra hard, will fail at this on a near-daily basis RESTORED! MOSTLY! As long as you don't open my closet
Turn AC on before my dad gets here

~~Bruises~~ Injuries I have acquired: Seven bruises
Two sliced-open fingers. I think I'm due for a tetanus booster.
One strained ligament over my medial malleolus, but that's my own fault for wearing crocks

Day two: Electric boogaloo

2012-06-01T01:25:31Z

Note to self: Alcohol may work as a muscle relaxant, to a very mild extent, but that's really no excuse and you're still sore the next morning.

In order to justify daily posting, I'm going to answer the question of the day as well.

If you could wipe one book, movie, or television franchise off the face of the planet (it never existed, nobody will remember it ever existing), what would it be and why?

There are a lot of really great candidates. Twilight, obviously. The Last Airbender movie, again obviously. But I think that the best movie to erase from existence, and the one that would improve the medium of movies as a whole, is Armageddon.

Because then Michael Bay wouldn't have done all the other crap he's done and maybe a good director/producer could have played with Transformers and Ninja Turtles and not destroyed my childhood.

Things I need to get rid of:
Table
Chairs
Cabinet
Side Tables
Dresser #1
Dresser #2
Couch/futon
Entertainment stand
Bed
Pots and pans
Plates
~~Clothes (note: Not all. I know it's summer, but even in Ontario people frown at full-frontal nudity)~~ This took pretty much all day :\
The 3 remaining still-living plants

Total number of boxes I have packed: 5 (Five)

Food I need to eat:
Full slab of ribs
10 7 Hamburgers
16 Chicken thighs
3 dim sum things
2 cheesecakes (Have started the first one. YAY?)
Cookies (I'm going to end up baking at least once. It's what I do when I'm stressed.)
Fruit (this shouldn't be a problem)

Things I need to do:
~~Host dinner party (seriously? THIS was your priority?)~~
Get the car serviced - Appointment tomorrow
~~Cancel my internet~~ Get my mom to cancel the internet that I've been paying for. :\
Visit my old clinic
Clean the fridge
Keep my place clean - super extra hard, will fail at this on a near-daily basis FAILED! Half my clothes are packed or gone to goodwill, the other half are all over the appartment
Turn AC on before my dad gets here

Bruises I have acquired: 7

MILD PROGRESS!

Things I need right now: Accountability

2012-05-30T21:17:22Z

Not fandom-related. Sorry, f-list, but... well, it's a long story.

I'm moving. In a week. And I'm WAY behind what I should have done and require a daily on-line reckoning to hold myself accountable.

Huh. That wasn't a long story at all. I'm a goddamn liar.

-¸o

Things I need to get rid of:
Table
Chairs
Cabinet
Side Tables
Dresser #1
Dresser #2
Couch/futon
Bed
Pots and pans
Plates
Clothes (note: Not all. I know it's summer, but even in Ontario people frown at full-frontal nudity)
The 3 remaining still-living plants

Total number of boxes I have packed: 2 (Two)

Food I need to eat:
Full slab of ribs
10 Hamburgers
16 Chicken thighs
3 dim sum things
2 cheesecakes
Cookies (I'm going to end up baking at least once. It's what I do when I'm stressed.)
Fruit (this shouldn't be a problem)

Things I need to do:
~~Host dinner party (seriously? THIS was your priority?)~~
Get the car serviced
Cancel my internet
Visit my old clinic
Clean the fridge
Keep my place clean - super extra hard, will fail at this on a near-daily basis
Turn AC on before my dad gets here

Skinnerian - BBC Sherlock, Sherlock, John, ensemble, R

2012-04-09T19:07:41Z

Title: Skinnerian
Characters: Sherlock, John, ensemble
Rating: Weakest R-rating ever. Should probably be PG
Warnings/Contains: Behaviour modification through negative reinforcement, nekkidness, kissing, medical... things (nothing too obscure, I hope)
Word count: 9500
Notes: B.F. Skinner is the founder of Radical Behaviourism. He's kind of a dick, but his research was actually useful, so that's something.

Whenever I read mystery novels, or watch mystery shows, I'm always surprised and impressed with the way the hero figured out whodunnit. This means that I'm not great at that kind of thinking. That'll, unfortunately, affect how I write the whodunnit parts of this. But that isn't the focus, so... I'm sorry about that in advance.

This should take place after series 1 but before Baskerville (because I can't see John being as reluctant as he is in this after Baskerville) and is AU for a lot of reasons, but mostly Molly.

Also happy Easter! And screw Passover for being so late this year that it'll be almost a full week until Easter chocolate is allowed. By which I mean, happy Passover as well. Next year in Jerusalem! :p

If Sherlock had an ultimate weakness (and, to John’s mind, there were several to choose from) it would probably be his pride.

“We did have a wager, Sherlock.” Mycroft sounded reasonable and not even a bit smug. Which probably meant that he was smugger than a bug in a rug (…whatever that meant. And was that the saying, even?) and purposefully pushing Sherlock’s buttons. But he also had a point.

“You cheated.”

“Well, yes. But you never stipulated that I couldn’t.”

“I see expecting fair play from you was the only real error I made.”

“Nevertheless, it was an error and we did have a wager.”

Sherlock sighed. “Fine. A month at your service. What would you have me do?”

John was honestly surprised that Sherlock was giving in so easily. But he had lost, and the only thing that would be more demeaning to him than admitting his loss would be arguing about it and then having to admit his loss. And Mycroft would hardly let him get away without at least the admission. They could be such children…

“Are we boring you, John?”

“No, I think Dr. Watson is highly entertained, if a little embarrassed by our bickering,” Mycroft said, smirking.

“It was sarcasm, Mycroft.” Sherlock threw himself down on the sofa, sulking (although he’d never admit to it). “Well? What? Join the ‘secret’ service? Root out some boring old terrorist plot? What bloody mess do you have that you needed to cheat to get me to deal with it?”

“Oh, do be civil for once in your life,” Mycroft snapped. As always, the lightning-fast transition from cool and controlled to irritable and petty made John tense. Mycroft may not have been as overall moody as Sherlock was, but his swings tended to be even more dramatic.

There was a loaded pause as everyone reset and Mycroft actually smiled. “In fact…” He reached into the bag he’d brought. “I think that will do nicely.”

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock demanded. Mycroft, rather than answering, simply held out his hand.

“Your wrist, please.”

After a short, wary pause, Sherlock raised his right arm. Mycroft reached out and swiftly clasped a strange metallic bracelet around Sherlock’s wrist, tightening it like a cuff before stepping back.

John couldn’t hold off his curiosity. “What…”

“A shock bracelet,” Mycroft said. “It delivers a small, irritating shock of electrical current when activated.” He took out another bracelet with a red central button covered by a plastic hood – some sort of trigger guard, John supposed. Mycroft flicked off the guard and depressed the button. Sherlock’s hand jerked, but he never made a sound, keeping a steady glare on Mycroft. “Not harmful in the slightest. Often used in behavioural conditioning.” He waved John over and fixed this bracelet around his left wrist, beside his wristwatch. “I trust you’ll use it appropriately.”

John laughed. “If you think I’m doing your dirty work and shocking Sherlock for you, then–”

“At your discretion, of course,” Mycroft interrupted smoothly. “You may decide that you don’t feel it’s appropriate at all, in which case the bracelets will be removed in one month’s time unused. But do make sure both bracelets are kept close together. More than five hundred meters apart and Sherlock’s bracelet will give off shocks every fifteen seconds until they’re back in range.”

He paused to make sure that John understood all that (which he did, it wasn’t brain surgery after all, which he also understood to a degree) and then nodded pleasantly at him, ignoring Sherlock. “Good day, then. See you in a month or so.”

The moment he left the flat, Sherlock jumped up and raced for the kitchen (where the tool box was. Of course) immediately working on opening his bracelet. John followed, noticing that Sherlock’s efforts seemed to be doing nothing but setting the bracelet off, over and over again. To Sherlock’s credit, he only cursed once.

“I’m not going to use it, you know.”

“Yes you will.”

John rolled his eyes. “No, I really won’t. This isn’t humane, treating you like this, like some kind of barking dog that needs to be trained. We’ll just pass these off as gaudy pieces of jewellery for the next month and then have Mycroft take them away.” It suddenly occurred to John that they had matching bracelets. That would clink together if they were to, hypothetically, hold hands. At least that made John the man in the relationship. He prepared himself to brace against the new wave of rumours.

Sherlock snorted. “I’ve driven better people than you to inhumane acts, and you’ve been driven to inhumane acts by lesser creatures than me.”

John took a deep breath and reminded himself that Sherlock actually knew more than he said and sometimes conclusions just slipped out. “I promise you, no matter how great an ass you are to me, I’ll never punish you with anything like this.”

That got Sherlock’s full attention for a moment, eye contact and everything, and then Sherlock nodded. “Appreciate it.” And returned to trying to pick open the bracelet.

John sighed. “Fine, you keep at it. See you in the morning.”

Sherlock grunted something, which was at least an acknowledgement. John smiled to himself as he retired to his room. Surely Sherlock would have the thing off by the morning and it would be a moot point.

DAY 1

Sherlock did not have the thing off by morning.

“Biolock mechanisms aren’t supposed to roll out until 2015. Trust Mycroft to cheat again.”

“…good morning to you, too.” John made a bee-line for the kettle. “Just tell me you don’t have electrical burns or permanent nerve damage.”

“I don’t have electrical burns. And I think the nerve damage is gradually wearing off.”

“Sherlock…” John set his jaw and concentrated on not lecturing his bloody stupid genius of a flatmate. “Tea?”

“Thanks.”

When John went to hand Sherlock his cup, he could see what Sherlock meant. There were small fasciculations on the radial aspect of his thumb and between the metatarsals of his hand, and every now and again a finger twitched. “You’re right-hand dominant, aren’t you?”

“Of course. I have, however, trained myself to use my left with only minimal loss of dexterity.”

John sighed and turned the handle towards Sherlock’s left hand. “If you keep this up, it’s just going to be inconvenient.”

“A cardinal sin, inconvenience,” Sherlock retorted absently, taking the cup and leaving John with the saucer. Probably just as well, the way his right hand kept spasming. “Might actually make the day more boring than it’s already shaping up to be.”

“Speaking of, I have a morning shift at the surgery.”

Sherlock nodded. “I am aware.”

John hesitated… “Um… that’s more than five hundred meters away.”

“I am aware of that as well.”

“Right. Well. Right then.” Sherlock would do whatever he did. It was a waste of time worrying about him. “I have to leave in about fifteen minutes, so… you’re probably aware of that as well.”

Sherlock took a sip of his tea. Noisily.

“Right.”

They shared a cab.

John hadn’t been in clinic for more than fifteen minutes when one of the nurses rushed up to him. “Dr. Watson, could you do something about your friend?”

John closed his eyes and stifled a groan and followed her to the waiting room.

“…furthermore, given your child’s propensity towards obesity which is clearly not genetic, I shouldn’t be surprised at your feeding him junk information along with junk food,” Sherlock ranted at some poor middle-aged woman whose adolescent son was John’s 9:45. John vaguely knew the kid – stocky but athletic and nervous about his weight. He’d probably convert it all into height at his next growth spurt, but Sherlock’s rant wouldn’t help his self-esteem.

The triggering bracelet on John’s wrist suddenly made itself known, somehow feeling heavier and more significant than before. John ignored it.

“Sherlock!” He pushed past patients, noticing one man in particular who looked close to jumping up and dealing more than mere words to Sherlock, and physically shoved Sherlock out the front door. To applause. This was humiliating.

Sherlock, of course, just looked mildly miffed at having been interrupted. “Honestly, a little sense and none of these people would have to suckle from the teat of the NHS.”

“Ah, so you do have political views,” John snapped, not surprised that Sherlock’s politics, such as they were, were as misanthropic as the rest of him. “Just… stop harassing my patients. You have a five hundred meter area of opportunity… go for a walk or something for the next four hours.”

Sherlock did not look pleased. “Within a square kilometre? Well, 0.785 of a square kilometre considering it’s a radius and not… For four hours?”

“There’s a park two blocks over.”

Sherlock, still, did not look pleased. “I was not ‘harassing’ your patients, I merely pointed out to them that gynecomastia is normal in thirteen-year-old boys and generally transient, so they didn’t need to waste their time, and yours, with doctor’s visits.”

John winced. His only hope was that… “Did they know what ‘gynecomastia’ was?”

“No.” Sherlock snorted. “No respect for root languages.” John sighed with relief. “So then I had to explain that too and–”

“You pointed out a thirteen-year-old boy’s breasts in front of an entire room of people?”

“John, don’t be ridiculous. They’re not, technically, ‘breasts’ and it wasn’t as if they weren’t blatantly obvious on their own.” Sherlock snorted. “Since the child doesn’t smoke marijuana or drink alcohol, the cause is clearly pubertal hormone shifts or simple oestrogen production from his excess adipose tissue.”

…or it could be a brain tumour or liver failure or heart failure or… but Sherlock was probably right. Still. “Do. Not. Talk. To. The. Patients.” John hated having to do this, but Sherlock seriously left him with no choice. He held up his wrist. “If I have to be called in to deal with you one more time, I will use this.”

Sherlock’s right hand twitched, an involuntary motion that even John caught. “I thought you said you wouldn’t.”

“That was if you were an ass to me. When it comes to my patients… and the nurses and the other doctors, I’m a little less tolerant.”

Sherlock huffed. “I see.”

“Oh, don’t get all pissy with me. All you have to do is bite your tongue for four hours. The rest of us have to do it our entire lives.” John took a deep, steadying breath, unintentionally demonstrating that very fact to Sherlock. “It’s just a few hours. If you stay here, then stay quiet. But you don’t have to – there’s the park and a few cafes and… just behave. For a few hours, Sherlock.” Please.

Either Sherlock read the desperate plea in John’s voice and on his face (and decided to respond to it) or he was as sick of arguing as John was. “Very well. But the moment you’re done, we’re leaving.”

John wondered when the surgery had become his retreat, his place to reset from being with Sherlock. It was only now, feeling petulantly disappointed at the realization that he couldn’t stay for tea with the nurses or chat with Sarah for a bit before leaving, that this opportunity to be (to play at being) ‘normal’ was something he treasured.

But it was unfair to expect Sherlock to make all the sacrifices.

“Alright. The moment I’m done with my last chart, we’ll do whatever you want.”

This would be the longest month ever.

DAY 6

Almost a week. They’d gone almost a week without John pushing that really tempting button through the simple expedient measures of keeping Sherlock at home (which meant giving up his clinic shifts – something that would have normally been less acceptable, were it not for the fact that keeping Sherlock away was a priority for the clinicians at the surgery as well) and as entertained as possible without interacting with other human beings.

He was civil enough to Mrs. Hudson, only occasionally abrasive and never outright insulting, and rather less civil to John. But he was getting bored and restless and John knew they couldn’t keep up this tentative peace for much longer.

And then Lestrade called.

John would have appreciated at least a moment’s hesitation on Sherlock’s part. After all, John had given up his job, his life outside their flat, for them. But the moment a moderately interesting murder showed up, Sherlock was dragging John out the door with him, practically giddy with pent-up energy.

Which would have been fine except that Sherlock wasn’t exactly ‘civil’ around half the cops that surrounded Lestrade. Or Lestrade himself, most of the time.

John took deep, calming breaths throughout the cab ride to center himself. It would be fine – all he had to do was pretend to himself that he didn’t have the power to stop Sherlock from doing or saying damaging things to people John considered friends (Lestrade) or acquaintances (Donovan… and Anderson, he supposed) with the flick of a finger. He just had to pretend that this was like every other crime scene and basically ignore Sherlock’s off-handed cruelty and callousness in favour of his equally off-handed brilliance.

By the time the cab dropped them off, John was feeling pretty good about it – and a little delighted to be out of 221B Baker St.

“Donovan, cum stain, left collar.”

John’s finger twitched as he smiled apologetically at Donovan. Now that his attention was drawn to it, he could see the slight discoloration. It could have been toothpaste, but Sherlock was almost certainly right, and Donovan’s angry flush certainly lent credibility to that.

Still, it was quite the inauspicious beginning to their first big outing since the bracelets.

“And?” Sherlock asked impatiently as soon as they reached Lestrade, interrupting a conversation the DI was having with one of the uniforms.

Lestrade turned. “Two bodies, male and female, in their early twenties. Found by an early morning jogger, the woman was stabbed four times, the man once. No sign of the weapon.”

It all sounded rather dull to John, and if John was bored, then surely Sherlock…

“Interesting. I assume Anderson’s already poked at them?”

Lestrade sighed. “They’re all yours.”

As Sherlock bent down to do his own poking at the bodies, John took Lestrade aside. “Look, I don’t mean to be dismissive, what with two young people dead, but how is this a Sherlock case?”

Lestrade shot a look at the back of Sherlock’s head. “D’you want to wait for it, or shall I spoil it for you?”

“Spoil me. Please.” John hated being the last to know anything.

“From the angles, we can tell that the woman’s wounds were probably caused by the male victim, but his is pretty clearly self-inflicted.”

“A murder-suicide?” Lestrade nodded. “That still doesn’t explain why Sherlock’s interested.”

“He’s not interested in what’s here, he’s interested in what’s missing.”

John frowned, running through his memory of the two bodies (all the pertinent body parts, fingers, clothing…) and the scene. “No murder weapon.”

“Dead people rarely dispose of their own murder weapons, and there’s a short list of people who’d pick up a bloody knife from a murder scene without at least thinking about taking that girl’s necklace.”

“Not a knife,” Sherlock interrupted, popping up beside them.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “I know you don’t think too highly of our forensic experts, but they do know bladework when they see it.”

“A blade; yes. A knife; no. At least not by any reasonable definition.” Lestrade’s eyebrow remained raised and he crossed his arms, his body language betraying complete and utter scepticism. Sherlock made a loud, exasperated noise. “Good lord, what do you do, just look at the injuries and call it a day? Have you even bothered to look at the bodies, around the bodies? Is myopia a prerequisite to join Scotland Yard, or just a perk?”

And he was already on a roll. John sighed. “…Sherlock…”

“I mean, I expect this from Anderson–”

“Oi!”

“–but you have an entire team of not-Andersons and they–”

“What’s with the matching bracelets?”

Donovan’s question managed to do the impossible – stop Sherlock mid-rant, his hands in the air, waving and gesturing wildly which was probably how she saw his bracelet.

John’s, on the other hand, had always been pretty clear from the moment he walked onto the scene, his right hand fiddling with the guard every time Sherlock opened his mouth.

Great.

Anderson, naturally, joined in. “Are they inscribed?”

“No,” John answered quickly, before Sherlock could. “They’re not. They’re not even ours, really, we’re just wearing them until we can get them taken off.” Everyone looked at him. “It’s an incredibly long and boring story and there are two dead bodies, so if we could all just focus on the more important things…”

“They’re caterers, they were bringing an ice sculpture to a party, they argued, the sculpture smashed, the man stabbed the woman with an ice shard, then himself, then the sculpture melted.”

John blinked. That was amazingly concise, especially for Sherlock. “Right. Well. Glad to be of assistance, feel free to call on us again, good morning!” He grabbed Sherlock’s arm and dragged him off.

“Wait!” Lestrade took out his notebook. “Details, Sherlock.”

“Matching caterer’s uniforms; wet grass around and under them, more than could be explained by dew; faint mild chilblains on the man’s right fingers and palm; wounds getting noticeably less fine as from the first wound to the last as the ice melted from inner body heat; his wound has signs of a blade going in, but not coming out.” Sherlock waved vaguely at the scene. “Find out who hosted a soiree last night in this neighbourhood and they’ll give you the catering company. And they’ll probably complain about the sculpture never arriving.”

Lestrade nodded, carefully noting down everything Sherlock said. “And those bracelets?”

Amid the sniggering of the team, John forcibly pulled Sherlock away before something unfortunate happened. The bracelets clicked together, a surprisingly light, musical sound, and John flinched.

The moment they got back to Baker St, John holed himself up in his room, grabbed a book, and ignored whatever Sherlock was doing outside his little sanctuary.

Three more weeks. And change.

DAY 9

Part of what made living with Sherlock possible was the opportunity for escape, to Sarah’s or even just for a long walk, when things got too unbearable.

After nine days, there wasn’t a long enough walk to handle this mess, and Sarah’s was right out of the question, given the range on the bracelets.

For the first time, John wondered if this was some sort of punishment for him.

Day 14

Mycroft, of course, cheated. Or lied, depending on your point of view.

Unless a fortnight was the new measurement of a month. John wouldn’t be surprised if Mycroft could somehow make that happen.

He was already in a bad mood (as he was most of the time now, and Sherlock wasn’t much better off) when he spotted Mycroft’s aide (…probably his aide) Anthea texting beside a loitering black sedan.

And his mood took a significant dip.

Home, as well as Sherlock, was less than a block away, but that thought didn’t give John any comfort. In fact, it actually made his stomach churn. This had to stop. He walked up to Anthea and waited for her to acknowledge him.

And waited.

After about two minutes, the driver got out of the car and opened the door to the backseat. Anthea didn’t react, so John just got in.

“Tea?”

“Ah!” He’d been so focused on Anthea that he hadn’t even noticed Mycroft already seated in the back. “Um. Thanks?” It took John a moment to remember that he was angry and frustrated and it was all Mycroft’s fault, and how had he managed to brew tea in a sedan?

“Electric kettle, outlet converter, it’s really quite simple,” Mycroft said as he poured, adding a dash of milk from what looked like one of those small restaurant creamer packets. “You look tired, John.”

“No thanks to you,” John retorted, not even caring that his brain-to-mouth filter seemed to be off-line. “When are you going to end this idiotic experiment?”

Mycroft smiled as he passed John his tea. “I could be like Sherlock and bemoan the lack of results, but I think I’d rather simply be honest and forthright and inform you that this isn’t an experiment.”

“Then what is it?” John demanded. “A game? Some form of juvenile taunt?”

“An opportunity.” Mycroft interjected smoothly. “For both Sherlock and yourself.”

John glared into his tea, refusing to ask.

“You must have noticed that in your time with Sherlock, he’s gradually become more… personable. Some of his rougher edges have been smoothed, and even when they’re not, you’re a moderating presence. Overall, you’ve been rather good for him.”

“That’s really not for you to decide.”

“If not me, then who?” Mycroft asked rhetorically. “He can hardly be trusted to put his own best interests first, or even to know what they are. He’s better now, but he’s still the same self-destructive brat he’s been since he hit puberty.”

Mycroft’s voice held an unmistakable fondness. John retreated into his tea for a moment.

“So… what kind of ‘opportunity’ is this supposed to be?”

“I understand Moriarty referred to you as Sherlock’s ‘pet’.” John flinched. “Yes. Well, I can’t say I agree, although every good taunt contains a measure of truth. But, if so, it goes both ways. One cannot have a pet without indulging its needs as well as your own, making accommodations for it.”

John laughed. “S-sorry, I’m just imagining you with a white Persian cat.” Like a Bond villain. Oh god, he needed to shut up. “Sorry. Go on.”

“Mmm, yes. The point I was trying to make is that Sherlock has trained you, somewhat, and accommodated you. Somewhat. Shouldn’t you have the chance to do the same?”

“…we can’t get more than five hundred meters away from each other. I can’t work at the clinic without him disrupting everything. How is that accommodating anyone?”

Mycroft waved to the bracelet on John’s wrist. “You have the means to pair accommodation with training. If Sherlock is behaving intolerably, then don’t tolerate it.” He leaned forward. “He’s not, as some might have suggested, a sociopath or a psychopath. Nor is he on the autism spectrum to a pathological degree, I assure you – his recognition and consistently effective use of sarcasm and irony more or less disprove that. Whatever psychological pathology he might have, he does not understand how normal people work because he chooses not to understand them. He considers it irrelevant. I’ve simply given you the means to make it relevant to him.”

John shook his head. “It’s wrong.”

“I don’t think you’ll find that that’s an argument that holds much weight with either me or my brother.” Mycroft shrugged. “But if you’re enjoying your endless cycle of frustration, by all means, continue to deny yourself.” He smiled and John’s door opened. “Just consider this, however. Should you snap and give into temptation without warning… wouldn’t Sherlock see that as a sort of betrayal? Worse than if you established rules and parameters beforehand?”

John froze. The number of times he’d almost… “I’m not… I mean, I won’t…”

“Then I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. Have a good two weeks, John.”

As the car drove away, John couldn’t help but feel he’d just lost something. He wasn’t even sure what. It wasn’t as if there had been an argument or even a debate, really.

He trudged back to 221B Baker St, with his entire left arm feeling heavier than normal.

He tried to convince himself it was the shoulder injury.

He failed.

DAY 17

“Ground rules?”

“Just so that there are no… misunderstandings.” Lestrade had called with another case and John knew that if he didn’t do something, he’d lose it with Sherlock. The past three days had been even worse than the preceding two weeks, with Mycroft’s words running though his head, and Sherlock obviously knowing exactly what had gone on and choosing to ignore it by being as obnoxious as he knew how to be – meaning composing at three in the morning, crap telly at all hours when John was around, more noxious experiments than usual that spread into the living area.

John couldn’t do this anymore. And he wouldn’t be able to sit by and watch Sherlock being wilfully uncaring and callous in public and bite his tongue and clench his fists. He needed an outlet.

Moriarty and Mycroft had used a pet analogy. John sometimes felt like it was more like what he imagined being a mother to a toddler or a teen must be like.

So. Ground rules. Boundaries that neither of them could cross without paying a price. It was as close to a compromise as John would allow himself, and if Sherlock behaved nothing would happen. It was up to Sherlock.

Sherlock shifted, clearly fighting between his desire to get out there, on the case, and his dislike of this conversation. As usual, his impatience won out. “Fine. What ground rules?”

“Observations limited to the case, as much as possible,” John said. “Otherwise, don’t start anything. You can retaliate, of course, but you start more than half the spats and you and Donovan get into without provocation, so as long as she’s civil, you lay off her.”

“And Anderson?”

John made a face. To be fair, most of Sherlock’s digs at Anderson were based on the fact that the man was substandard at his job which, from what John had seen, he was.

“Keep it professional and otherwise I’ll give you a warning if you’re pushing over him.”

Sherlock was practically jumping out of his skin he was so eager to get out. “Yes, fine, can we go now?”

John nodded, feeling like a giant weight had been lifted from his chest.

Sherlock noticed the bracelets first, of course, possibly before they were even in John’s visual range. The uniforms, the specialists, Donovan and… yup, there was Anderson – he had to pull up his sleeve to show it off, but it was there. John breathed a sigh of relief that Lestrade, at least, seemed above such petty taunting.

“We have a woman, forty-two according to her driver’s licence.” There was some snickering from behind their backs, but John focused on Lestrade. “Drowned.”

“Drowned? Where?” John asked. They were miles away from any body of water. “A bathtub?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Preliminary tests indicate salt water.” The rest of the team’s pettiness faded away as John looked down at the bloated face of some poor woman. “There’s more; the water’s been off on this street for two days for repairs, so never mind the salt, the water had to come from somewhere else as well.”

Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement. “Does this count?”

“What?” Lestrade and John asked at the same time.

“As retaliation rather than starting something.”

Lestrade’s look of confusion was rather unfairly amusing to John, considering how much he hated it when Sherlock did that to him. “As long as you stick to the bracelets, sure.”

“Do I want to know?” Lestrade asked, sotto voice. John couldn’t help smiling as he shook his head.

The body had no obvious signs of trauma, no odd-shaped lividity or post-mortem bruising to indicate that she’d been moved roughly, and no signs of anything other than full-body immersion in salt water.

“She’s been dead for… just over twelve hours,” John said, checking the rigour. “I assume tox screens have been sent off?”

“She’s blind.”

If Sherlock had been checking her eyes, John wouldn’t have even asked. But he was checking her left hand. John opened his mouth and then closed it. Sherlock met his eye and, with a small smirk, set about explaining his reasoning. “Calluses from walking with her dog, with a bar rather than a leash. Her right hand has different calluses from carrying a cane.”

It was amazing how much more tolerable Sherlock was during a case.

“Does that matter?” John asked, playing along.

“It depends. A blindfolded person would pay attention to sounds to try to orient themselves, but a blind person, one who’d been blind long enough to get a seeing-eye dog, would have likely learned to pay attention to all available senses. Given that there’s no sign of a struggle, and that the scent of salt water is unmistakable if one is paying attention, we can deduce that she was by, if not in, the water willingly.” Sherlock stood up. “Where’s the nearest spa?”

It was at the third place they went to (after Lestrade added public pools to the list of possible sites, ignoring Sherlock’s protestations that a middle-aged childless woman (how did he know she was childless? No one even bothered asking) would have no reason to be in a public pool) that they found the signs of her possibly having been there.

Dog hairs.

As the manager strongly protested the idea that she would ever let an animal into her spa (which started one of the uniforms on a lecture on discrimination against blind people, which turned into backpedalling and stuttering and drama the likes of weekday afternoon telly) John watched Sherlock sniff the clean laundry.

“Wedding ring not ostentatious enough for him?” Donovan asked carelessly.

John rolled his eyes. “How many times to I have to… we’re not like that.”

“Right. You’re just living together, with Sherlock freaking Holmes, the least tolerable man in the universe, wearing matching jewellery, and he checks in with you before opening his mouth now.”

“What? He does?” …he had been. “That doesn’t mean… what you think it means.”

“And neither, I suppose, do the smirks and smiles you’ve been trading over the dead body?” Donovan smirked herself. “We may not all be Sherlock freaking Holmes, but we’re not blind either.”

“Unfortunate choice of words,” Sherlock interrupted. “But you’re entirely correct. You’re not me. If you were, Lestrade wouldn’t need to call me, and we’d all be a lot happier.”

“…except you,” John muttered under his breath. But he had to admit, that was rather restrained for Sherlock. Donovan might be right – Sherlock was behaving. For John’s sake.

Or to avoid the pain of the shocks. It had taken three days for full function and complete dexterity to return to Sherlock’s right hand after fiddling with the bracelet. Either way, John wasn’t one to argue with results.

“Anything?” Lestrade asked, having just come from reassuring the spa owner that discrimination charges wouldn’t be brought against her.

“Find the dog and you’ll find the killer,” Sherlock said. “Golden lab, about five years old, male, neutered.”

“There must be hundreds of dogs like that in London,” Anderson protested.

“Trained to be a seeing-eye dog and without an owner?” Sherlock scoffed. “Honestly, must I stipulate that it was a quadruped as well? We’d be better off trading the dog for you.” His eyes flickered to John, then back to Anderson, clearly trying to gauge how far he could go. “At least the dog would made a decent companion for anyone other than Dono–” He cut himself off as his hands fisted and his jaw set.

He took a deep breath. “…find the dog and you’ll find the killer.”

John’s heart raced in his chest. He’d done it. He hadn’t intended to, hadn’t really wanted to, but outing an affair in front of a dozen people who were working very hard to look the other way was above the pale. So he’d done it. And Sherlock had… behaved.

It didn’t feel as horrible as he’d expected.

DAY 18

“So they caught the guy. A janitor at the spa. It was mostly accidental, but instead of calling for help he moved the body and took the dog, so…

“Donovan said the dog seemed happy enough once they got some kibbles into him. Guide Dogs UK took him back, and they’re probably going to give him to a fifteen-year-old boy.

“…if I apologize again, will you at least talk to me?”

Sherlock looked up from his laptop. “It’s not a valid apology if you’re not even sorry.”

John nearly wilted with relief. He’d missed that voice. “I am, though. Really, I am.”

“About shocking me, or about turning into Mycroft’s tool, or about upsetting me?”

…the last one, mostly. “All of them. I really… I never actually meant to.”

Sherlock stood. “You told me, when this started, to bite my tongue. That the rest of the world does so for most of their lives. I… I took it as a challenge. And I thought I was doing rather well…”

“You were!” …outside the flat. Inside, he was as abrasive as ever. When he was talking. “You really were, Sherlock. It was impressive. Even Donovan noticed.”

“And thought it was because we were–”

“Well, she was wrong about the ‘why’. But not everyone’s Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock cracked a small smile at that. “No. I suppose not.” He nodded to himself. “Guidelines are a good idea. I think we should have some for the flat.”

“No,” John said immediately. “No, this is your home. No rules here.”

“It’s your home too.”

John sighed. “How about this. No rules here, but wherever else we go – crime scene, the surgery, Bart’s – we’ll agree on rules before we leave. If we can do that, I promise that I can handle anything that happens here.”

“A decent compromise.” Sherlock held out his hand.

John reached out and took it, unable to stop his fingers from grazing the smooth metal of Sherlock’s bracelet.

For the first time, it didn’t seem alien and frightening.

DAY 21

“Have you called Sarah about returning to the surgery next week?”

“Not yet.” John frowned. “Since when did you keep track of things like that?”

“I assure you, I’m counting down the days until we can get these off.”

That’s not what I meant, John didn’t say. I meant ‘since when do you keep track of things that are important to me?’

“Don’t blame you,” he said instead.

DAY 25

“Ground rules?” Sherlock asked as he slipped on his shoes.

“Mike can hold his own, and you’re not generally a huge git around him, so that should be fine. Comments about technique are, as always, valid even if they’re harsh. Personal comments about any of the staff should be kept to a minimum. No repeats of the Jim ‘gay’ thing, please.”

Sherlock winced so briefly that John almost missed it. “No. Not on any level.”

“Speaking of… Molly.”

“What about her?”

John sighed and remembered what Mycroft had said – it wasn’t that Sherlock couldn’t understand people, it was that he didn’t usually bother. “Just keep in mind that she has a crush on you and be gentle. She’s nothing but kind and sweet to you, and most of your comments to her are, at best, dismissive.”

Sherlock frowned. “I should indulge her attraction when I don’t return it?”

“It’s not the attraction that’s the problem. A lot of people are attracted to you, but Molly actually cares. I’m not saying you should wear tight pants or undo a couple of buttons on your shirt, just that you consider her delicate feelings.”

“So gallant, John.” Sherlock shrugged. “Fine. Chivalry. I can manage that.”

“No you can’t,” John said, grinning.

It was a little less funny with Molly in the actual room.

“So… working on a case?”

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again. Twice. “No.”

“Oh. So this is something more personal?”

Jaw twitch. “Yes.”

“Need any help?”

“If I did, I would…” Sherlock took a deep breath. “Some agar, please.”

“Right!” Molly dashed off, with a bright, uncertain smile, and John felt more awkwardly uncomfortable than usual.

“What did you need the agar for?”

Sherlock shook his head, adding something yellow to the mixture he was concocting. “I didn’t, I just wanted her gone. This is more challenging than I expected.”

“Probably because you’re used to just lashing out at her.”

Sherlock glared at John over his experiment. “She’s not an idiot. Not a complete idiot, in any case. She’s noticed my attitude change and keeps… prodding.” Sherlock shook his head and returned to the experiment, measuring the temperature. “She’s being far more irritating than usual. And that’s saying something.”

John, honestly, couldn’t disagree. Molly was usually quite good at giving Sherlock space, even as her attention rarely wavered from him. But today she was crowding him, moving in closer than lab protocols would have deemed acceptable, never mind social etiquette. John had thought it was just because Sherlock wasn’t pushing her away verbally like he usually did, but if she was provoking him on purpose to get a reaction…

If Sherlock had suddenly started acting odd around him, John had to admit he might do the same.

“Look, I’ll run interference if you need, but–”

Molly walked in and John bit off his offer. “Agar.” She placed the container on the table and moved beside Sherlock, lifting one of the bottles he was using. “So… what’s this personal thing you’re working on?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “It’s actually something for John.”

“Oh?” Molly asked cheerfully, looking at John for the first time.

“Actually,” Sherlock said with a small laugh. “You might say it’s for John and me. Us.”

“Oh.”

Oh, please, don’t let him actually be playing that card…

“Indeed. I’m sure you noticed the bracelets.”

“…oh.”

Great. Now John was a… what was the opposite of a beard? And was Sherlock trying to give Molly a complex after outing her previous boyfriend as gay? (…and a psychopath, a real one, but that was altogether a separate issue.)

“I thought John was with… that tall girl.”

“Natalie.” It was rather sweet that she remembered. Better than Sherlock if the slightly furrowed brow was any indication. “That was about four months ago.” Dear lord, he needed to get laid. Or at least go out for a meal like a proper adult.

“Oh, so since then you…”

Sherlock grabbed Molly’s wrist. “Please stop fiddling with that.” His voice was cold.

John was at something of a loss. Sherlock hadn’t broken any ‘rules’ hadn’t stepped over any boundaries they’d placed, but he was clearly hurting Molly, dealing her a deeper and more permanent wound than any he’d dealt her before. “Sherlock, stop this.”

Sherlock turned to him, eyes suddenly blazing. “No, John, I don’t think I will. I’m following your rules like a good little boy, which is more than I follow the actual law and it’s hardly my fault they lacked creativity and completeness.”

Molly put down the bottle, backing up. “I… I don’t understand…”

“Oh, of course you don’t!” Sherlock snapped, turning on her. John flipped off the trigger guard. “You fabricate your own reality around you, ignoring all evidence that contradicts it.” John pressed the button and Sherlock’s shoulders tensed, but otherwise there was no reaction. “But it’s useless talking to you about it, since the key to delusions is that those suffering from them refuse to let them go, no matter what.” John pressed the button again. “At least it shows a modicum of creativity, even if it underscores a lack of intelligence.” The button again.

Sherlock whirled around, advancing on him. “And you. You sanctimonious prat. Waving around a sword of Damocles as if potential danger or pain could possibly be a threat to me. Full of high ideals and promises, but as weak in the end as any puppet. You so confidently dictate ‘proper’ and ‘improper’ that it never even occurred to you to consider which side your actions fall on.” John retreated, his hands falling to his sides as Sherlock crowded him against a wall. “Did you believe it, in the end? That you were the defender of some kind of ultimate moral good, protector of the little people? Your buttons are so easy to see, Mycroft must have had a ball pushing them, convincing you this was for the best.” Sherlock smiled, hard and mean. “For my own good, no? Your patronizing self-righteousness justified so cleanly by my harmful psychology.” He leaned in, even closer, his voice dropping to a threatening almost-growl. “And what of your own, John? The part of you that thrives not only on danger and risk, but on the destruction of the ‘other’. And the part of you that fools yourself into thinking you want a relationship, when you destroy almost every one you create; dating woman who want to build a life together with someone and lying to them until they see through your thin façade. The fact is you’re looking for the wrong kind of mate, John. You’re looking for strong, independent women, when what you really need is an immature girl who’ll be willing to take whatever abuse you dish out in return for warm meals and a place to sleep.”

John swallowed hard. “You mean like you?”

Sherlock jerked back, as if slapped. “I’m rarely left with vulgarity as my only appropriate outlet, but fuck you, John.”

As Sherlock stormed away, John closed his eyes and let his head fall back, hitting the wall with a dull thud. “I probably deserved that. All that.” He opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was Molly. “Oh…” She must be devastated… “Are you alright?” He rushed towards her, stopping just short of touching, British reserve trumping the impulse to comfort.

“Am I…” Molly gave a shaky laugh. “He said such horrible things–”

“I know, I’m sor–”

“–to you.”

“…what?”

Molly hesitated for a moment, then reached out, covering John’s hand where it rested on the table with her own. “I’ve never seen him like that. Oh, he can be dismissive and cruel and thoughtless, often even, but I’ve never seen him try to hurt someone the way he tried to hurt you.”

“I… that is…” He hadn’t simply tried, Sherlock rarely tried anything without success. “It’s not that simple. There’s a sort of… situation that…”

Molly’s fingers slid up John’s wrist, not sensuously at all, and tapped on his bracelet. “This, yeah?”

“Yeah. Sort of. It’s complicated.”

Molly smiled. “It’s not the seventies anymore.” She thought about that for a moment. “I mean… I wasn’t even alive back then.”

“It’s differently complicated,” John said, rather than protesting that they weren’t like that. After that blow-up, he wasn’t so sure anymore. “And I can’t say I didn’t deserve it, unlike you.”

“No one deserves that,” Molly said. “I know… this might seem out of line, but I had a friend who was in a sort of… troubled relationship and she got a lot out of support groups…”

John closed his eyes. “I am not in an abusive relationship with Sherlock Holmes.” He winced at how that sounded. “Actually, I should probably just have cards made out to that effect.” Molly laughed, then looked a little mischievously ashamed at laughing.

“You’re… different,” John noted. “When Sherlock’s not around, you’re more…”

Molly shrugged. “Crushes make everyone more awkward, don’t they? Well. Maybe not you and Sherlock, but most people.”

John had always thought of Molly as young, childish. He was beginning to see that she wasn’t really. If he’d known her better, before, maybe…

Molly yanked her hand away. “Ah. Best not continue that line of thought.”

No. On… so many levels. “Thank you, Molly. And, again, I’m sorry you got caught up in that.” It was a bit awkward, but if he didn’t offer now, John was afraid he’d forget. “Would you like to get dinner sometime?”

“I… ah, that’s very… um…”

“As a friend,” John added quickly. “I just realized these past few weeks that I don’t get out enough – out of the house, out of Sherlock’s way. And I… I could use another adult to talk to. One who understands him.”

Molly smiled. “Yeah. That actually sounds lovely.”

“Great.” John couldn’t take back what had happened, but he could do whatever he could to ensure it never happened again.

Molly looked like she had something else to say, when Sherlock burst back into the room. “I’m still running an experiment. You get out.”

“Right. I… sorry.” Sherlock didn’t even look at him, and John felt… bereft. Worse even than the day of silence after the incident in the spa. “I’ll just…” There weren’t any words to minimize what had happened. John turned and left.

Molly followed him, taking a deep breath once they were in the hall and shrugging at John’s curious look. “Technically he’s supposed to be under supervision if he’s using the facilities, but… I can’t be arsed right now.” John huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head. “Call me once everything’s settled, okay?”

“Will do. Thanks, Molly.”

John sighed and leaned against the wall as Molly walked off. Normally, if he’d been dismissed as useless to Sherlock, he’d go home or do some shopping or one of the numerous small chores that never really occurred to Sherlock to do. But there weren’t many shops within five hundred meters of Bart’s, and John couldn’t get his mind to focus on daily minutia or anything other than Sherlock, in the room across the hall, hurting.

…possibly. Actually, John had no idea if Sherlock even cared on any level other than his pride. That was, after all, Sherlock’s ultimate weakness.

Part of him hoped it was just that. Bruised pride could be fixed, and John was more than prepared to be made a fool of, to be surprised into outward shows of admiration, to be mocked, to be reminded of what a great man Sherlock Holmes was, over and over again, until the balance in their relationship was restored.

Even while part of him secretly hoped it was something deeper. That John meant more to Sherlock than bruised pride.

But that was ego talking, the part of John that he hated in himself, the part that lashed out at Harry just to see her hurt, to prove that he could hurt her. The part of himself that he occasionally saw in Sherlock’s cruelty, the part that made shocking him so cathartic, on so many levels.

Sherlock wasn’t wrong. He was a piece of work, alright.

There was a bench in the middle of the hall, wooden and hard, and too low for even John to sit comfortably on it. John considered it for a while before deciding to remain standing.

It couldn’t have been much more than ten minutes later when Sherlock walked back through the doors, stopping over two arms’ length away from John. John stood up straighter. “Well?” He tried to keep his tone neutral.

“The experiment failed. No point in staying here any longer.”

It suddenly occurred to John that the thing with Molly might have been the actual experiment, and the other stuff Sherlock had played with merely props. Sherlock snorted. “I didn’t come here simply to test our boundaries, I deplore collateral damage in experimentation.”

Right. Well, at least John hadn’t had to ask out loud. “So we’re going home then?”

Sherlock nodded. But he didn’t move. John waited.

“The… the impulse for destruction is not an inherently negative one. It’s often accompanied by a similar impulse for creation, like a brush fire.”

Dear lord, that was awkward. “I didn’t mean what I said either. And I don’t… I’m not going to… I should never have…” John took a deep breath. “I’m not your parent, or your owner, or even your pet. I’m your friend. And I never should have allowed myself to be placed in the position where I was dealing out punishments. That’s not how friendships work. I don’t know why you tolerated it as long as you have, and I don’t really want to know. I’m just sorry you had to. I won’t… no more ground rules. No more anything. Until these come off in five days, I’ll just ignore them.”

Sherlock nodded, jerky and graceless. He took a step forward. “I tolerated it because I trusted you. Not just to refrain from using it arbitrarily, but to use it to make me a better person. But the better angels of my nature disappeared rather quickly under mild irritation. I suppose that’s one of the flaws I was hoping you’d fix.” He reached out and brushed his fingers against John’s bracelet. “I placed an undue, unsolicited burden on you, as much as Mycroft did. The intent was good, but the result didn’t take into account… I don’t apologize, John, not even on the rare occasions when I’m wrong.”

“I understand…”

“I’m sorry.”

John had no idea why his legs felt weak. “Okay. Right. I… don’t really know how to react to that. Apology accepted?”

Sherlock took another step forward and their toes were almost touching and there was a wall at John’s back and John’s left arm jerked so that Sherlock’s fingers brushed against the back of his hand, sending a shiver of something down his spine.

“You weren’t wrong, at least not completely.”

“Hmm?” John asked, feeling a little slower than normal.

“I’m not a girl. The rest was more or less spot on.”

“…oh.”

Natalie had been five foot ten, so John wasn’t unused to kissing people taller than himself. He was, however, unused to kissing men taller than himself, and also unused to kissing Sherlock and… Sherlock was surprisingly bad at this.

Strangely enough, that made things easier. John reached up and cupped Sherlock’s jaw, soothing and stroking as he took control of the kiss, humming encouragingly whenever Sherlock did something that felt good and pulling away, shifting the kiss whenever he pressed too hard, too eager.

It was, John had to admit, a much better form of conditioning than shocks. And Sherlock seemed to be learning quite quickly.

They pulled apart, not far, just enough that they could comfortably look each other in the eye. “Warm meals and someplace to sleep?” John asked.

“That is what attracted me to you in the first place.”

John smiled. “Then let’s get back there, shall we?” He reached out with his left hand and laced his fingers through Sherlock’s, making the bracelets jangle as Sherlock returned the small embrace. “About time too. It was getting tiring explaining to everyone that we weren’t like that.”

“That’s why I left it up to you.”

“Lazy.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I felt your denials would be more honest.”

John looked up sharply at that. “How long…”

“Since Moriarty. I initially thought it was a stress reaction, but that hypothesis proved to be incorrect.”

“Oh.” John tightened his grip. “Good thing too.”

“Indeed.”

DAY 30

The front doorbell rang. John groaned and shifted, chasing the vestiges of sleep as they were torn from him. Mrs. Hudson could get it.

It rang again. Unless she was out. Ah well, maybe they’d just go away.

It rang a third time and John sighed, making his pillow shiver as his breath ghosted across a bare nipple.

Long, elegant fingers stroked over his neck and upper back, playing with the small tendrils of hair just over his nape. “That’d be Mycroft.”

“Hfza?” John asked, suddenly sharply and anxiously awake. “What the hell is he doing here at…” He checked the clock. “Ten in the morning? How did we sleep in so late?”

“Well, technically, we only went to bed at eleven. We didn’t actually get to sleep until four.”

John smiled. “So much for calling it an early night.” Sherlock’s hand slid lower down his back and John’s smile widened as he arched reflexively into that touch. “Your brother’s waiting downstairs for us.”

“Let him wait.”

John did manage to talk Sherlock out of showering (Mycroft must have been waiting nearly half an hour already) before dressing in yesterday’s clothes (they were in Sherlock’s room and nothing of Sherlock’s really fit him) and bracing himself.

He’d talked with Mycroft dozens of times. But never as Sherlock’s… whatever-they-were-now.

They should really discuss that at some point. Him and Sherlock. Not him and Mycroft, and he was going to meet with Sherlock’s older brother with these kinds of thoughts running through his head and his body still sticky and achy from last night (and this morning) and Mycroft was going to have him killed. Or worse. Knighted.

John couldn’t help it. The moment he saw Mycroft, he started snickering like a schoolboy.

“Oh, do grow up, John.”

He looked so… indignant. John carefully swallowed his snickers, before they could turn into full-blown giggles, and faced him. “Can I get you anything? Tea?”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m really just here to remove the bracelets, as promised.”

“Oh? Has it been a month already?” Sherlock asked casually.

“As far as an inexact measurement of time goes, yes,” Mycroft said, still genteelly peeved. “If there was another way to do this, I wouldn’t have bothered you, but the lock requires my DNA to open it. Even your clever attempts at short-circuiting it with diluted sulfuric acid to mimic biogenic sulphide corrosion wouldn’t have worked.”

Ah. So that was the experiment.

Sherlock shrugged. “Very well then. Shall we get on with it, or are you eager to drag this out?”

Mycroft sighed. “So ungrateful.”

Sherlock rounded on him, eyes blazing. “You are not taking credit for this.”

John stepped between them. “If we’re making time for a proper family row, I’m putting the kettle on.”

“No need,” Mycroft said, outright smirking. “If you’ll just present your wrists, this shouldn’t take more than a moment.”

Sherlock looked like he was planning on protesting again. John just shoved his arm at Mycroft. “Thanks.”

The locking mechanism was hopelessly complicated but Mycroft had it off in under a minute. He took a bit longer with Sherlock’s – possibly to annoy his younger brother, possibly because Sherlock kept impatiently squirming until John held his other hand. Feeling the tension drain out of Sherlock at his touch gave John a bit of a rush.

“There.” Mycroft pocketed the bracelets, looking satisfied. “That should do it. Ah, just one more thing.” He turned to John. “I understand there’s a tradition I should undertake, as the elder brother…”

John managed a weak smile. “You really don’t need to.”

“…no. I don’t think I do,” Mycroft said pensively. “Well then, as long as that’s understood, I’ll be off.”

“Goodbye, Mycroft. No need to make this a regular thing.”

John sighed. “Drive… ah, be driven safely.”

Mycroft smiled. “Indeed.” He paused at the door. “Do try to get out of the flat once in a while. Before you grow sick of each other.”

Sherlock’s hand slipped out of John’s and around his waist. John beamed. “I don’t think that’s likely to happen.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “…for a while, at least.”

After making sure that Mycroft actually did drive off, Sherlock let John lead him to the washroom for that shower.

“That was less awkward than I expected,” John admitted as they undressed. “I guess it helped that it was Mycroft, so he already knew everything.”

“Mmm…” Sherlock hummed in that irritating way that meant he was listening and filing that away, but wasn’t really processing it. “Should we get them replaced?”

“…the bracelets?” John asked, biting back a grin when Sherlock shot him a look of pure exasperation. Since when had his arrogance become endearing? “If you like.”

Sherlock huffed. “I phrased it as a question to gauge your interest.”

John laughed. “Alright then…” He actually thought about it for a moment. “I’d rather not wear anything on my fingers, at least not on my right hand.” He shrugged. “Might have to readjust my aim. Watch goes back on my left wrist, once we clean up and I can get properly dressed. A neckchain would work.”

“…a necklace?”

“Like for dogtags. As long as it’s thick enough it doesn’t even look inappropriate, and it fits well under shirts.” It seemed a reasonable compromise between nothing and something as ostentatious as the bracelets.

Sherlock shrugged and John lost a few moments just watching the play of muscles under his skin. “Come on, we can decide all that later. Right now I want to get you hot and wet.”

“Halfway there already,” Sherlock said, his hands smoothing over John’s back as John bent down to turn on the shower. John straightened and turned in Sherlock’s arms, reaching up to pull him down for a kiss.

“…how about earrings?” John asked against Sherlock’s mouth, smirking when that made his lip curl. “Or anklets. Ooh! Navel rings.”

“Shower.”

“Tattoos, then, if you’re not into piercings. Or hats!”

“No hats. Hats are just ridiculous.”

“Matching monogrammed handkerchiefs.”

“You, naked, in the shower.”

“…agreed.”

This is the last one, I swear. :p Concrit = love.

This entry was originally posted at http://elarielf.dreamwidth.org/33366.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

One letter, five characters

2012-04-02T19:46:24Z

RULES:

1. Leave a comment to this post, specifically saying that you would like a letter.
2. I will give you a letter.
3. Post the names of five fictional characters whose names begin with that letter, and your thoughts on each. The characters can be from books, movies, or TV shows.

shirogiku gave me the letter "L", probably for the second character on this list.

Start off with the obvious one?

1. Lelouch Lamperouge/vi Britannia from Code Geass

“I destroy the world and create it anew.”

I think almost everyone on my friend's list knows Lelouch and my thoughts on him. In general. But now I get to tl;dr and I never turn that opportunity down.

Lelouch is broken the entire time we see him, including flashbacks. I’m sure there was a point when he was happy and well-rounded, but then his mother was killed and his sister was crippled and blinded and he turned himself into his own tool for vengeance. He was nine at the time.

(I have a… thing for kids who don’t act kid-like. (Uwah! There’s a term for this!) More specifically, for kids who court and engineer death – assassins, avengers, children with powers they didn’t ask for. Lelouch (as well as Rolo) fits nicely in this category for me.)

One of the more interesting things about Lelouch, to me, is that his motivations are really quite simple – he wants to avenge his mother and he wants to protect his younger sister and give her a world in which she can be happy. Contrasting this with whatever Suzaku wants, and C.C.’s rather obscure way of achieving her motivation, and the freaking Ragnarok connection (killing god? Really?), and Lelouch is actually pretty clear-cut. And he follows through on those goals. Even though they occasionally (…almost always) conflict, everything Lelouch does can be traced back to one of those two motivations.

A lot can be learned about Lelouch through his geass. He has the power to make anyone obey him (once). Now, to me, this is a horrific power, but all the geasses are (Rolo’s excepted, actually) innately horrific – mind reading, memory erasing, and Lelouch’s mind control. But the fact that this is the power that Lelouch chose, the power to force obedience when he was raised as a prince, indicates to me that he’s still that prince; used to obedience and power, and feeling entitled to it. Does this make his geass less horrible? To me? No. To him? Probably.

I still feel like the ending to Code Geass was a massive cop-out. The entire series showed, through C.C. and Suzaku, that death isn’t the worst of all outcomes, and that it’s often harder to live than it is to die. A message that, while I may not entirely agree with on every level, is pretty consistent and well-presented. And then Lelouch dies, and it’s shown as this great sacrifice, this huge act of contrition which undercuts one of the major themes!

tl;dr? Lelouch is a Magificent Bastard (warning: TV Tropes link) who got his start quite early and got an ending befitting a hero in almost any other show, but one that doesn’t fit with the Code Geass philosophy.

2. Laurent from Captive Prince by S.U. Pacat

“Once every ten years… One night and one morning."

You’re not supposed to like this character at first. He’s arrogant and cold and antagonistic to the protagonist for reasons that are unclear if you don’t read between the lines and look a lot like a racist grudge.

I liked him. Quite a lot.

The thing about Captive Prince is that it uses an unreliable narrator. And uses him well. And Laurent? Isn’t that narrator.

The narrator is Damen, a powerful prince fallen to the status of slave (and given to Laurent as a gift) – and he hates Laurent pretty much from the moment they meet. And not without cause, as Laurent is an absolute bastard and a brat, lashing out at Damen with little, or often no, cause. Laurent is cruel and petty and childish, and set to inherit the crown in a few short months. God, what an awful king he’d make.

Except that that’s not Laurent at all. He’s actually brilliant, cold and occasionally ruthless, but driven and clever. He’s a fantastic fighter, a smart (if conventional) tactician, and he genuinely cares for the men who serve under him and the people he’s destined to rule over, as well as being a true diplomat to foreign envoys. And peeling away the pretty brat to reveal the ambitious soon-to-be-king is a wonderful journey, complete with hints of a dark past and clear signs that Laurent knows more than our narrator thinks he knows. ;)

Laurent starts out looking like a magnificent bastard – someone you might love to hate – but in the end, he’s really just… a hero. And a humble one at that. Character development at its finest.

3. Lestrade from BBC’s Sherlock

“You can't withhold evidence. And I didn't break in to your flat. It’s a drugs bust.”

Yeah, when it comes to DI Lestrade, I’m limiting myself to the BBC show. I’ve never seen such an awesome Lestrade. Rupert Graves is my default Lestrade, even though Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman, as much as I adore them, will probably never be my default Holmes and Watson. (Martin Freeman doesn’t even have a moustache! :p)

Lestrade is not simply a foil. He’s not a tool, nor is he an idiot. He’s a good cop, a great leader, and is one of the few characters who routinely checks his ego at the door (…not always :p). You get the feeling that this Lestrade actually solves cases without Sherlock’s help. And that Lestrade is as vital to Sherlock (possibly more so) as Sherlock is to him.

So, yeah. BBC Sherlock’s Lestrade – cool, competent, and kinda hot. (LOL, silver fox, LOL)

(Also, bonus quote from old-school Lestrade “We're not jealous of you, you know, at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we're proud of you.” – Jeremy Brett is my default Holmes.)

4. Lisbon, Theresa from The Mentalist

“Don't try to divert me with insults.”

‘Bout time I got a girl on this list. It’s kind of a sausage fest up in here.

The Mentalist is a kind of Sherlock Holmes ripoff (better than House on so many levels, and Castle is really more of an Agatha Christie ripoff) and Lisbon is an amalgam of Lestrade and Watson.

And she carries it well.

When people ask me about a male-protagonist, female-sidekick relationship (particularly in crime shows) that doesn’t end in romance, this is the example I give. Lisbon is not presented as a love interest on any level, except for the occasional joke (much rarer than BBC Sherlock’s John-and-Sherlock jokes). She’s allowed her sexuality, but her relationship with her colleagues and her Holmes (Patrick Jane) is purely professional, with a touch of a personal friendship.

And it’s done perfectly, and that’s in no small part to Lisbon herself.

She’s everything a Lestrade should be (competent, good with people, dedicated) and everything a Watson should be (supportive, compassionate, armed… apologetic for her abrasive genius, but not too apologetic), and she manages to be both while having boobs! She’s like a miracle of good characterization and two XX chromosomes (I’m kind of assuming that last bit, I haven’t done a chromosomal analysis on her).

5. This is a hard slot to fill. Lestat? Too old-school. Lucifer or Lilith? Meh, they never really caught my attention. I did notice I didn’t have any true villains, and that’s when it hit me. With the power of jumping off a train into a water tower to save the girl I want to kill… someday later.

Ladd Russo (and Lua Klein) from Baccano!

“I can’t wait to kill you.”

TRUE LOVE. or something.

Most villains are enjoyable despite being evil. They have a tragic backstory, or extenuating circumstances or look good in leather (I think you all know where that link is going). Something that makes their cruel actions understandable and relatable.

Not Ladd.

He’s just a bastard. Not a magnificent bastard, just a simple, everyday, unapologetic, violent OTT bastard.

And he’s so much fun.

Lua… I should hate Lua. She’s passive and pretty and exists solely to be fridged. She has basically no personality other than an obedient submission to Ladd and his wishes.

…but she seems so happy about it…

They’re so… perfect for each other. Just… a match made in heaven. And remarkably entertaining to watch. XD

This entry was originally posted at http://elarielf.dreamwidth.org/33041.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

Office Romance - BBC Sherlock, Molly+"Jim", PG

2012-03-30T04:03:40Z

Title: Office Romance
Characters: Molly and Jim. "Jim".
Rating: PG
Warnings/Contains: LIES. ALL LIES.
Word count: 1000
Notes: Molly's POV, off-screen scene during "The Great Game", lies. Poor Molly.

I never wanted to get into this fandom. I didn't even visit the kinkmeme. Why is this happening to me?

Molly likes Jim.

He’s not too bright, but he’s sweet and shy and cute in his way. And so eager, like a puppy. It’s adorable, really, and is this how Sherlock feels around her, no it mustn’t be because she would never be so cruel and dismissive and… oh.

He brought lunch. Salad, without dressing which makes it nearly impossible to eat, but at least he remembered the cutlery this time. If Molly were Sherlock, she’d snap at him and storm off to get her own dressing, but she isn’t. She’s Molly and Jim did try, the dear, so she smiles and stabs at the dry, bitter lettuce with her plastic fork and thanks him.

He smiles and ducks his head and he really is sweet. Even more awkward than Molly, and that’s saying something, but mostly just… sweet.

“I brought a treat,” he says, hiding a small brown bag that clearly holds two cookies, and it’s even cute that he’s trying to hide them. “I thought we could play a game…”

Another one of Jim’s childish, endearing games. Sherlock would be bored out of his skull playing with Jim, but for Molly it’s a chance to relax and take a break from the stresses of her job. Jim’s good at that, no matter what, at relaxing her.

“What game?” Entertaining or not, at least it would be a minor distraction from the nearly flavourless salad.

“I’ll start! Okay, who’s the tallest person you know?”

That’s a hard one. Molly works with men in her field, mostly, and almost all of them are taller than her. (Jim isn’t, not by much at least, like Sherlock’s friend… John something. Molly has to admit she finds that comforting.) Still, although he may not be the tallest man she knows, Molly knows exactly who pops into her head when she thinks about someone looming over her, larger than life, even giantesque.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“You mentioned him before,” Jim says, and it’s just like him to remember things like that, little details, as if what Molly says is important to him. “Whoever he is, he must be wizard at computers, ‘cause he never calls IT for anything.”

“Oh, no, he doesn’t work here,” Molly explains. “He just… comes. And does stuff.”

Jim frowns, and the expression doesn’t look right on him. He’s always smiling, or about to smile. “So… a personal friend?”

“Not a friend, exactly…” Molly sighs. “I don’t think he does friends. And if he did…” She laughs, nervously, and Jim’s lips twitch in sympathy. “I don’t think he’d consider me one.”

“One what?”

“One… anything.” And this topic turned depressing awfully fast.

Molly nearly jumps out of her skin as Jim lays a hand on the back of hers, his palm warm and soft as he gently squeezes in reassurance. “Hey, if you want to talk about things…”

For a moment, Molly is tempted. No one’s ever really asked after her and meant it before. Even her mother frowns when Molly gives any answer that’s not completely positive, and brings up her life choices (science, research, working in a mortuary with dead people, for goodness sakes) as reasons why Molly’s life isn’t perfect. But Jim seems to mean it, like he really wants to hear about her and maybe help if he can.

Like he actually cares.

But Molly’s bright enough to know that two dates and a lunch is too soon to open the pandora’s box that is Sherlock Holmes and Molly’s personal life. They haven’t even kissed yet.

…and now she’s blushing. Brilliant.

Jim’s smile warms and widens, his thumb traces small circles on Molly’s wrist, and for a single, shining moment, everything is perfect.

Yes, Jim isn’t the perfect man. But Molly’s hardly the perfect woman. But the moment, the connection between them, the understanding, is more perfect than Molly could have imagined.

In that moment, she can almost see her future, their future; their perfect, awkward life with perfect, awkward children. And, yes, two dates and a rather pathetic lunch (that is fast wilting, forgotten on the table between them) is far too soon for thoughts like this, but Jim just… fits with her. As if he’d been created just for that purpose.

“Molly?”

Molly snaps out of it with another nervous laugh, pulling her hand out from under his to fix her hair, gathering it up and capturing it in a ponytail on her right side. Feminine, but serviceable. And certainly not to cover up an attack of the nerves. “Would you like to go out tonight? For dinner and drinks.”

Jim blinks. “Ah… aren’t I supposed to ask you?”

“Pfft, old fashioned,” Molly teases, grinning at the way Jim’s cheeks colour at that – they match now. “But if you were thinking about it… does that mean yes?”

“Yeah. I mean, yes! Please. Um… thank you.” Jim shifts, his arm jerking to almost reach out and touch Molly’s hand again, but he stops himself. “Anywhere specific in mind?”

“The Fox?” Molly says. “About six?”

“Sounds great.” Jim’s grinning now, and it looks goofy and silly and altogether charming. Is this what falling in love feels like?

The door opens, breaking the giddy tension of the moment. “Molly, go check up on Sherlock and his shoes if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Right.” It’s a little sad that people just ignore Jim like that, but maybe Molly can do something about that. Make him stand out more. Somehow.

But for now she just turns to him. “Would you mind…”

“Cleaning up?” Jim’s smile is as cheerful as ever. “’Course. You just go and deal with your Sherlock.”

“Thanks.” Molly wants to be the kind of girl who could lean over and give Jim a peck on the cheek, just a token gesture of affection and gratitude for… well, for being him. But she’s not, so she turns to leave.

They’ll have other chances, after all.

:(

As always, britpicking and grammar-picking (argh, present-tense, argh) are more than welcome, as well as all other concrit.

This entry was originally posted at http://elarielf.dreamwidth.org/32837.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

Miscommunication - BBC Sherlock, John+Sherlock, PG

2012-03-28T06:09:51Z

Title: Miscommunication
Characters: John, Sherlock, mentions of Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Irene, and Moriarty
Rating: PG
Warnings/Contains: References to dominatrix things, possible pre-slash
Word count: 1818
Notes: This is almost a fix-it fic. But it doesn't exactly deviate from canon. And when I say 'possible pre-slash', that's exactly what I mean. John and Sherlock are not in a relationship, and possibly never will be. But. Hints. Of stuff. Well, more than hints.

John's a goof is what I'm trying to say.

OoO-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-OoO
Things I noticed in my second viewing of Sherlock:
• John’s jumpers really are awful. And I say this as someone who’d happily spend the rest of my days in jeans and a v-neck shirt. Actually, I think I have some sweaters similar to John’s. Don’t know what that says about either of our fashion senses, but probably nothing good.
• Sherlock can look both really handsome and really awkward. But holy crap that smile is AMAZING. It transforms his whole face. It may make him more adorable than John. Maybe. Close, in any case.
• Mycroft is probably more interesting than Sherlock. There, I said it. And not just because he’s played by Gatiss, although that helps. If Sherlock is a high-functioning sociopath (which I can get behind, although more of a narcissistic thing than an antisocial thing – they’re in the same family of personality disorders) then Mycroft is either a better actor, or he’s overcome those traits. I think he’s a better actor. I think he has just as much distain as Sherlock does and just hides it better. I think that makes him WAY creepier. XD
• First BAMF Lestrade ever (IMO). I haven’t seen/read/heard all Sherlock incarnations, though, so I could be wrong about the ‘first’ thing. Definitely a BAMF here, though.
• The more I see it, the more Donovan’s attitude towards Sherlock seems personal rather than reflexive or professional (Anderson just seems to hate him on principle). If my headcanon didn’t have Sherlock as a virgin (or at least chaste for the past decade or so) I’d think they had ‘history’.
• Moriarty is completely OTT. I kind of enjoy that about him. I bet that makes him hard to write, though, since OTT is frowned on in fanfiction.
• There’s a surprising amount of medical-fail for a show where one of the two protagonists is supposed to be a brilliant doctor. But then House had a lot of medical fail too and… actually this ties in with the fic. A little. XD
• Irene keeps getting more and more awesome on review. I have my issues (Sherlock Holmes as White Knight to her Damsel in Distress = DNW) but overall, she is made of awesomesause. I hope she comes back.
• Mrs. Hudson is Euphy. If you hate her, I judge you. (I want to give her a machine gun and just… watch.) XD

OoO-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-OoO

The confession was as awkward and embarrassing as it was sudden. Also, it wasn’t a real confession. Also, it was really only awkward and embarrassing for John.

As usual.

“I’m not into guys.”

It might have helped if they’d just escaped from some imminent danger, or discovered something so cleverly hidden that no one else would have been able to, or been drunk. Or at least in the same room.

But they weren’t. John was in the kitchen, not drinking the tea he’d just made, and Sherlock was looking out the window, ‘thinking’ as usual. There was no trigger, no reason, and John couldn’t really explain why he’d just blurted that out other than the fact that it was completely true. Well. Mostly completely true.

Sherlock looked away from the window, John’s exclamation apparently at least worth the effort it took to rotate his hips twenty degrees. “…neither am I.” He didn’t ask. Of course he wouldn’t ask, Sherlock never asked if he thought he could figure it out on his own.

…that thought was terrifying for John. He’d never been afraid of Sherlock deducing him before. He knew he was easy to read – Adler had read him in a second and…

“And look at us both.”

Sherlock frowned, and John had to admit that was somewhat gratifying. It was lonely being the only one completely lost. “What are you getting at, John?”

“I don’t rightly know.” At least that was easy enough for John to admit. He’d had practice. “I just thought… well, that is… I like girls. And you…”

It was the phone. Sherlock taking things wasn’t new, particularly around his cases, even when they were active (…especially when they were active) but he’d wanted Irene Adler’s phone and he hadn’t just taken it, he’d…

He’d said ‘please’. Taking wasn’t new. Asking (begging) was.

Sherlock had fully turned, facing John straight on, although he hadn’t moved from the window. John felt a strange rush of victory just from getting his full attention. That couldn’t be healthy.

“And I what?”

John swallowed. Hard. “If… if you wanted to talk. About… her. Or anything to get your mind off her. Anything at all…” Good lord, he sounded desperate. “I’m just saying I’m here. That’s all.”

“And you felt you had to precede this by clarifying your heterosexuality. Again.”

Oh, what the hell. Stupid Mycroft and his stupid questions about what lay in Sherlock’s stupid heart. “It’s just you never showed an interest in anyone else before, and you never got the chance to… And I’m just saying I’m not into guys, but if you wanted, I would… I wouldn’t say no. Is all. Just to get you over this.”

Sherlock moved towards him, and John tried not to tense up. “To get me over what?” He sounded genuinely curious, and a little amused. “What didn’t I get the chance to do?”

“You know…” John waved his hand helplessly in the air. “Stuff. I mean, I left you two alone in the apartment, but Mrs. Hudson said nothing happened, and then Mycroft’s man intervened and I…” John’s voice trailed off and Sherlock just stood there, waiting. Patiently.

“You know exactly what I meant, don’t you.”

“I assume so. If I assure you that I’m completely over her, and that any missed opportunities weigh very little on my mind, will that be enough to reassure you?”

No, because you’re a liar and probably the last person who can reasonably assess your own feelings. “I guess.”

“Well, then.”

John felt something unwind inside him, something that the tension had been keeping hold of. “So. You’re not heartbroken, then?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Oh, good. Because the last thing we needed was you running off to America.” The words came easily. Too easily. John felt out of control. “You know, racing after her like some obsessed–”

Sherlock slammed his hand on the counter and John jumped. In the span of two heartbeats, Sherlock leaned in, his eyes darting over John’s face, then sighed with relief. “Ah. You don’t know. Just a lucky guess.”

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock shrugged. “This conversation will doubtless continue in one form or another unless you get out what you actually want to say, John.”

John blinked. “Were you in love with her?”

“Don’t use the past tense. That rather gives the game away.”

John could feel himself flushing, although whether from embarrassment or frustrated anger, it was hard to tell. Games and pretences… “You knew I was lying.”

“Of course I did. A witness protection scheme? In America? They can’t keep common gangsters away from their targets, never mind actual masterminds. Even if she’d somehow gotten into one, she would have run off almost immediately – too risky.”

“She’s dead.”

“Again? That does seem to be a trend with her…”

“No, I mean she was probably dead soon after she sent her last text.” The horrible thought that perhaps that text wasn’t from her (Moriarty) crossed John’s mind and he hoped Sherlock couldn’t read it.

If he could, he ignored it. “So Mycroft thinks. At least that’s what Mycroft wants you to think he thinks.” Sherlock waved it off. “Don’t bother chasing for truths with him – it’s futile and frustrating at best.”

“Sherlock, she’s dead and you’ve known for weeks and you’re refusing to deal with it. I know you like to think you’re untouchable, but–”

“No.”

“…what?”

“No, I wasn’t in love with her. And she wasn’t in love with me although, for a moment there, I did have her convinced that she was.”

“…what?”

Sherlock smiled. “She played my game, John, and played it better than I could. So I played hers.”

“Oh…” That brought on a few… odd mental images. “But then… wouldn’t Mrs. Hudson have heard something?”

Sherlock’s smile vanished under an expression of pure exasperation and that, coupled with the idea of Sherlock wielding a riding crop against a not-dead body, made John’s lips twitch. “Not the dominatrix game, although there was a bit of that near the end… no, the game of seduction. But the problem becomes this, John – how do you seduce a woman who’s specifically and well guarded against that very line of attack?”

“…get her drunk?”

“Wrong idea, stab in the dark, but you’re not far off,” Sherlock said, openly amused. “Allow me to demonstrate. You miss wearing your army uniform.”

“No I don’t.” There were a lot of things about the military John missed. The uniform wasn’t one of them.

“Of course you do. You tend towards drab beige and greens for shirts, with exceptions proving that rule such as that thing you wore to the Christmas party. You don’t iron them regularly, just enough to maintain the scent of starch. Your jackets have more pockets than you need to compensate for the fact that your pants have fewer than you’re used to. You wear wool socks–”

“A lot of people wear wool socks.”

“–even in the summer, which you didn’t before you enlisted. Your pants, like your shirts, aren’t ironed on a regular basis, but they are slightly longer than they need to be for casual wear, as required by the military. You don’t like to wear hats, as they’re too similar to headdresses and you have to keep fighting down an impulse to salute, even a year since the last time you were in formal greens.”

John frowned. He hadn’t thought of it like that… “But those are just habits. They don’t mean I miss the uniform.”

“You scowl at scuffmarks on your old, brown, boots. You button up your shirt all the way and only then undo the top button. When you first moved in and saw anyone – policemen, servicemen, in person or on the telly – in uniform, you automatically looked at their rank insignia. Now, months later, your eyes wander over the entire outfit, starting and ending with their rank. You’ve even openly admired my brother’s shoes.”

“They’re nice shoes,” John said without thinking, holding up a hand to forestall Sherlock’s impatient sigh. “Fine, yes, I suppose I do miss it on some level. But what does that have to do with–”

“No you don’t.”

“…you’re giving me a headache.”

Sherlock’s grin was one of victory. “You don’t miss it at all. But you think I’m a genius, you think I know you better than you even know yourself. So I’m able to convince you that you feel something you don’t, simply by talking fast and with certainty, countering your arguments almost before you’ve made them. I made at least half that up. You’ve never even noticed Mycroft’s shoes.”

Now that John thought about it, all he could remember about them was that they were black. Probably. “So what was the point of that?”

“That’s what I did to her. Tell me John, as a physician, when I describe an elevated pulse, dilated pupils, what comes to mind?”

This was first-year med school physiology. “Sympathetic arousal.”

“And what would cause that?”

John shrugged. “Almost anything activating. Fear, excitement, waking up suddenly, running for a bus when you’re late, numerous drugs, withdrawal from numerous other drugs…”

“And if one were to ask, say, a dominatrix what would cause that…”

“Sexual arousal.” John was starting to get it now. “You made her think that a non-specific physiological reaction was her falling in love with you. But she couldn’t possibly have just believed you.”

“Not just with that. There was a lot of fast-talking like I just did with you. Even then she didn’t believe me so much as allow in enough doubt to lower her defences so that I could read her long enough to find out that she’d chosen an uninspired pun for her password.”

John cocked his head. “What?”

“Sher.” Sherlock snorted. “Her phone read ‘I am SHER-locked’. Low brow humour and a direct dig at me.”

John snickered.

“But for a moment, less than a full minute, she was convinced she might have done it out of some misguided affection. And that conviction told me that my guess was accurate.”

“So you beat her.”

Sherlock shrugged. “That round was mine, but ultimately…”

“Ultimately? She’s dead. That’s pretty ultimate.”

“John, what would you think if I used all the resources in my power to find her, fly to America, say, and rescue her from a gang set on her execution?”

“…that you were a lovesick fool?” Which was what John had been afraid of from the start.

Sherlock nodded. “Indeed. Considering how it all turned out, I’m willing to call it a draw.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Nevertheless.”

John sighed. “I’m never really going to understand you, am I?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Considering how you started this conversation, I think the feeling might actually be mutual.”

What? Oh, right… John winced. “Yeah, let’s just… forget all that.”

“Done.”

In that moment, John really wished he could erase embarrassing things that easily.

OoO-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-OoO
Concrit and, especially, Britpicking is welcome! I looked up the use of "guys" and apparently that's a common enough Americanism to pass (still, I am so open to better suggestions), but I still wonder if I should have used "sodding" instead of "stupid". Thoughts? XD

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For Rex's 1269th Birthday - Hikaru no Go, Akira, G

2012-03-22T20:20:28Z

Title: For Rex's 1269th Birthday
Characters: Touya Akira, *SPOILERS*
Rating: G
Warnings/Contains: Vague descriptions of go games by someone who can barely play on a 9x9 board
Word count: 1269 (because I assume that's your age. Right?)
Notes: Not a crossover! Also, a day late because for some reason I thought your birthday was the 24th. You're even closer to being an (awesome) Pisces than I thought!

Akira’s Korean was much better than his Mandarin. Nevertheless, when his father invited him on a trip to China during a rare lull after Akira was knocked out of the competition for the Ouza title, Akira accepted.

Shindou was furious, of course, that their games would be interrupted, but Akira promised him dozens of new moves to assimilate into their play – moves Shindou would have to improvise quickly to overcome. He was mollified by that.

The Chinese Go Institute was impressive in size, dwarfing the Japanese Go Institute, but otherwise quite dull in appearance. Not that architecture was that important, just that Akira had been under the impression that Go was taken seriously here.

That was probably just a childish fantasy – a dream of a place where the game was respected above baseball and video games. Akira smiled to himself, amused at his mild irritation and at the reaction it might have gotten had he shared it with Shindou.

“What you smiling at?”

The strangeness of hearing Japanese spoken with a heavy accent started Akira out of his thoughts. “Pardon?”

“You smiling. What at?”

The boy, a few years younger than Akira, seemed oddly familiar. But Akira was certain he’d never seen him before, the only Chinese go pros he knew around his age were from the Hokuto cups (both years he’d competed) and none of them had this child’s wide eyes and memorable spiked hair. Akira was certain he’d never seen him before, and yet…

“I admired the building,” Akira said in careful Mandarin, no doubt making errors. “It’s very…” curse his small vocabulary, “…big.”

The boy’s curious expression transformed into one of surprised joy, and he started talking at about the speed of sound, gesturing and waving his hands as Akira tried to understand what he was saying. He got a few words, here and there, (understand, Japanese, message, two years) and thought he heard something like “Isumi”, which wasn’t any Mandarin Akira had learned, and sounded rather Japanese, in fact.

He held out his hand, a fairly universal signal to indicate that he really didn’t understand that well, and waited for the excited prattle to come to a halt. “My name is Touya Akira.”

“Le Ping,” the boy replied, still smiling. “Are you staying here?”

Ah, right. That was why the building was so vast – it doubled as dormitories for the younger pros. Akira had misplaced his father somewhere, along with their guide, but he somehow doubted he would – there were usually a few free beds in some of the more elite go professional’s houses when a Touya came to visit and it was nearly impossible to refuse such invitations without sounding abominably rude. “Probably no.”

Le Ping’s face fell. “You don’t play go?”

“Of course I do!” Akira objected, sliding back into Japanese in his indignation. Not that it mattered; the words, and more importantly, the tone got through to Le Ping perfectly.

“Then come play!”

It was a tempting invitation, and wherever there was a chance to play, that was where his father would look for him first. Akira smiled. “Yes, thank you very much.”

The room he was led to was full of fairly young players, some too old to be insei, but most around their late teens, early twenties at most. Young pros, then. Akira wondered if Le Ping was a pro as well; it seemed likely given his comfort with using these facilities and his ease grabbing a free table as soon as it opened.

“Black or white?”

Akira smile. “White, please.” Shindou favoured black, so Akira had become used to white. Le Ping set their timers for ninety minutes and they started.

The game was interesting. Le Ping’s style was somewhat different from what Akira was used to, but the basics were the same, and familiar patterns started emerging. He itched to ask how old Le Ping was, to compare his strength with Akira’s at his age. He was stronger than Akira had been at twelve, but not as strong as he’d been once he’d become a pro at thirteen. Still, the game was interesting.

Five hands after Le Ping should have resigned, he sighed. “I have nothing.”

Akira smiled. “Thank you for the game.”

“Le Ping, you’re still too timid when attacking formations.”

“Well I can’t help that! He’s too xxxxxx.”

Akira frowned, wondering if he’d just been complimented or insulted. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand that last word.”

“Ah, Japanese!” One of the spectators said in fluent, if accented, Japanese. “Le Ping said you were intimidating. I think he was expecting a push-over like Isumi-san.”

“Isumi…” That name sounded familiar. “Ah, Isumi Shinichiro?” Akira remembered him now, tall and serious-looking, Kuwabara-sensei’s second favourite victim after Ogata-san (possibly favourite if Ogata-san won the Hoinbou title this year), often hanging around with Shindou and Shindou’s other friend… “Oh! That’s who he reminded me of.”

Le Ping’s eyes widened. “You know Isumi-san?”

“Ah, a little…” Le Ping was like a littler, happier, less annoyed Waya Yoshitaka. “He’s a colleague.” Le Ping made a face. “Um… he’s a pro, like me.” And hardly a push-over, Akira had played him a few times and his go was solid.

“You a pro? Then you can stay here!”

“That’s not…”

“Yang Hai still has open bed.”

“Oi, don’t volunteer my room.” The fluent spectator said. Yang Hai, Akira assumed. He turned to Akira. “I’m terribly sorry for this brat’s,” he roughly ruffled Le Ping’s hair, “presumption. But if you wanted another game…”

Akira smiled. “Thank you very much.”

He was in the middle of the game with Yang Hai (playing black and somewhat more aggressively than usual, hoping to draw out signature or interesting moves) when his father found him. The atmosphere in the room sharpened, and Akira easily hid his smile, used to that by now. At least Yang Hai didn’t seem affected, continuing to play well, if not overly imaginatively.

Akira won by three and a half moku and thanked Yang Hai for the game before turning to his father. “Is it time to leave?”

Before his father could answer, Le Ping latched onto his arm. “No! Stay! You can have my bed.”

Yang Hai laughed nervously. “Sorry about this. I think Le Ping just wants to adopt every pro from Japan.”

Akira smiled and waited for his father to make their excuses.

“Well… why not?”

What?

“It’s a generous invitation, Akira. What do you think?”

Akira thought about it seriously. Given the choice between a rough bed, a hyperactive young pro as a roommate, and dozens of new opponents who were clearly eager to play him next, versus what would almost certainly be a comfortable room to himself, surrounded by old men who talked over his head, and polite formalities that took up more time than game play… “I would be honoured. Thank you, Le Ping.” The choice was obvious.

“Yay!” Le Ping held on to him, possessively now. “Alright, who wants to play Akira-san next?”

Akira tried to feel insulted at being treated like a piece of meat, but really he just wanted to play. He smiled indulgently as Le Ping dismissed one of the challengers as “too weak, sit down”, herding Akira to one of the other tables. He met his father’s eyes and saw warm approval and more than a little amusement.

As Le Ping sat him down with a firm clasp on his shoulder and a “Don’t lose, now.”, Akira decided that of all the connections and alliances he could have made on this trip, this one would probably be the most important.

And the most fun.

Things this fic almost was:

1) A crossover with Yuu Yuu Hakusho where a dark magic practitioner needed Akira to summon Touya (one of the shinoubi youkai) because of the name similarities. This didn't happen because, even in my outline, Hikaru and Jin took over. Also, it's a pretty thin premise.

2) A crossover with Gravitation where Akira makes friends either with Shindou Suichi or Yuki Eiri. But then I remembered that I didn't actually like Gravitation that much and the only thing I could really remember were the voice actors who are completely different default characters in my mind (Yuki's default is Kakashi, but I didn't think that would help).

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Birthday fic for... me! (TIMING!) - Administration, Carnac, PG

2012-03-03T06:04:13Z

Title: First Impressions
Characters: Jean-Baptiste Carnac, Keir Warrick, Melissa not-yet-Warrick
Rating: PG
Warnings/Contains: Introspection, judgementalness, oblique references to sexual preferences, dialogue-light
Word count: 2109
Notes: I am not as smart, nor as observant as Carnac. But then again, considering what an ass he is, I'm okay with this, despite the fact that it may affect characterization.

Also, this is actually for SHIRO who wrote me amazing Aaron-fic! ♥

Jean- Baptiste met Keir first, of course.

It was purely professional, Keir was one of the ambitious new techies at Data Division, working on the Encryption Unit, and Jean-Baptiste had recently graduated and started working as a Socioanalyst. He was that rarest of distractions – an enjoyable one. Jean-Baptiste, for his part had been equal parts eager to prove his worth and disappointed at the lack of opportunities and the blandness of his assignment.

They met at a general department gathering, something with stale hors d’oeuvres and a two-drink maximum. Jean-Baptiste had intended to show up, make the rounds, stay for the socially appropriate length of time, and leave. An evening reading and finishing off the Bordeaux from last night sounded far more pleasant than rubbing elbows with the masses.

And then Keir.

They were introduced by Keir’s section manager, a man Jean-Baptiste had pegged as a sycophant and a pillow-biter within the first five minutes of their acquaintance. If the man had been more attractive, Jean-Baptiste might have even considered looking into it as a purely physical diversion. But he wasn’t.

Keir wasn’t what Jean-Baptiste would have considered ‘attractive’ either. Dark and fairly solid-looking, although clearly a desk-jockey, he held himself without arrogance or poise. Which was unfortunate, as better posture could only help detract from his rather obvious underling aura. His face was pleasant enough, but as elegant as his cheekbones were, they drew attention to a rather unfortunately large nose.

His lips were nice. Jean-Baptiste remembered thinking it was a pity nothing interesting was likely to come through them.

He also remembered his precise thoughts just before Keir Warrick spoke to him the first time. “Twenty-three minutes until I can leave.”

“Did you just graduate?”

The question actually took Jean-Baptiste off guard. When people were informed he was a Socioanalyst, they tended to stop looking at him as a person, and more as his job. He looked his age, no older, but that usually wasn’t enough for a new acquaintance to reason how new he was.

Also, it was uncommon, although not exactly rare, to find laypeople who knew just how old a new graduate Socioanalyst would be. Jean-Baptiste judged he had several years on Keir Warrick.

If the question had been asked with anything but the most casual politeness, Jean-Baptiste might have suspected a set-up. As it was, however, he felt he was a good enough judge of people to know that it was asked in fairly innocent, if astute, curiosity.

“Recently. This isn’t my first assignment, but every assignment brings new challenges.” It was a polite answer, politic and noncommittal. Keir nodded and moved to turn away, returning to his group. Jean-Baptiste smiled. “And you? Are you finding your job sufficiently… challenging?”

Keir’s eyes flickered back up to Jean-Baptiste’s face. Jean-Baptiste waited.

“Working for the Administration is a privilege in itself.” Keir’s answer was just as politic as Jean-Baptiste’s had been, if somewhat more guarded. “The level of challenge is… immaterial.”

So… no, then. Here was someone as bored as Jean-Baptiste was, someone who had the presence of mind to see as well as look. Also, his nose wasn’t that big, and his cheekbones and dark eyes balanced out his face well. Put him in a nice suit, stand him up straight, and Keir Warrick wouldn’t look out of place in a group of up-and-coming corporates.

Jean-Baptiste filled all this information away as he nodded and moved away. Demonstrating favourites never ended well, and an idle interest in someone wasn’t nearly enough to justify an office politics fiasco. Still, when he checked the reflection in the punch bowl and noticed Keir’s gaze following him, Jean-Baptiste couldn’t help but feel pleased. He was, after all, quite bored.

It wasn’t hard to arrange for casual meetings at lunch or walking in or leaving work at the same time. There were even a few honestly coincidental encounters, one right after Jean-Baptiste had left the gym flushed and freshly showered. He was nearly speechless at that, worried that it would come off a little overly obvious, despite it being pure chance. Keir, after a moment of unguarded appreciation, however, managed to remain completely professional, and Jean-Baptiste gave him the same courtesy.

That may have been the point that Keir started considering them friends. Or at least friendly acquaintances. Jean-Baptiste had, of course, realized that while Keir liked what he saw, he was otherwise engaged, and not the type to betray a commitment. Not that that was insurmountable, just that it would take more effort than Jean-Baptiste felt a romantic or sexual relationship should require. He was happy enough with Keir as a diversion.

A week later, Jean-Baptiste found himself invited to social gathering, outside of work. The invitation, oddly enough, had come from one of Keir’s friends rather than Keir himself. Jean-Baptiste hadn’t realized he’d made enough of an impact for Keir’s friends to think of including him. He found himself rather charmed. Perhaps he should spend more time around the other members of the Encryption Unit.

The party was small, informal, and much livelier than any gathering Jean-Baptiste had been to recently. There were perhaps twenty people in attendance, many of whom Jean-Baptiste recognized by face, if not by name, including Keir who was flanked by two lovely women – one of whom could be his female doppelganger, and the other who… well, who could almost be Jean-Baptiste’s.

Well. That was interesting.

Jean-Baptiste approached the three of them, meeting Keir’s eyes and smiling warmly. Keir pulled away from his (cousin, no, more likely sister with that body language) doppelganger, but kept his arm around the blonde woman (fiancée? No, not yet at least) as he held out his hand. “Jean-Baptiste, wonderful of you to come.”

“I was pleasantly surprised at the invitation.” Jean-Baptiste took Keir’s hand and held it just a fraction of a second too long. Keir’s sister (Jean-Baptiste would put money on it now) didn’t notice, but the other woman did.

“Ah, Jean-Baptiste, I’d like to introduce you to my sister,” of course, “Dillian, and this is Melissa.”

Keir’s voice warmed as he introduced ‘Melissa’. There was something there, more than lust, a kind of devotion that almost always led to either a broken heart or wedding bells. Or both. Jean-Baptiste smiled at them both.

Dillian’s gaze was warm and her body language made it clear that she was available. It was a pity that she had the wrong equipment, because otherwise her resemblance to her brother was remarkable. Jean-Baptiste hadn’t thought of Keir as feminine, nor was Dillian particularly masculine for a female, but somehow they managed to avoid androgyny and yet still reflect each other’s features nearly perfectly.

…there might be a paper in that.

Melissa’s body language was rather… less inviting. And not just because she was clearly with Keir. Jean-Baptiste wasn’t used to people instantly disliking him, or at least not without going to lengths to hide that dislike. Interesting.

Dillian suddenly gasped. “Keir, Cele is here!” She sounded inordinately excited. “Let’s go snatch her up before she gets lost.”

Melissa moved to follow, but Keir casually kissed her cheek and disengaged himself. “We’ll just be a moment.” His eyes danced with amusement, and Jean-Baptiste tried to hide his smile.

The dismissal was so obviously a cover-up for a tête-à-tête discussion for a surprise for Melissa herself that when she turned back to Jean-Baptiste with a wholly disgruntled expression, he wondered, not for the first time, if people were deliberately obtuse instead of naturally so.

“So. You work with Keir?”

“Not directly. I’ve been assigned a temporary position as a liaising Socioanalysist with his division, amongst others. I suppose I’d consider Keir more of a friendly acquaintance than a colleague.”

Melissa blinked rapidly and swallowed down her irritation, attempting a smile. Ah. There it was – the veneer of civility over her still present dislike. “That’s so kind. Keir so rarely gets to interact with people of your calibre.”

She shifted gears from resentment to flattery rather smoothly. Jean-Baptiste would have been impressed if he’d had any respect for that kind of talent. “A pity. He really could use more intellectual stimulation.” He smiled brightly at Melissa. “The Encryption Unit is a decent posting, and there are plenty of opportunities for advancement, but I’m certain he feels… stifled there.” Melissa’s expression soured. So, Keir had already discussed this with her. “He’d really be much more at home in academia.” Or developing his own commercial product. Either way he was wasted as a cog in the machine of the Administration.

“Perhaps. But it’s ultimately up to Keir,” Melissa said firmly. “It’s his life after all.”

“So it is.” And Jean-Baptiste was concerned that Keir would, as Melissa seemed to hope, keep his current job. It was steady and respectable, with a bright future, and he’d be bored to tears. But Keir was, Jean-Baptiste knew from hours of conversations, a man for whom practicalities could be overruled by his more ephemeral desires. And it had taken even less time – the span of a breath – for Jean-Baptiste to realize that one of Keir’s desires, probably the most prominent one at this time, was for Melissa.

It was a pity that her desire for him was less enduring and more mercenary. She was a strong woman – the type that Jean-Baptiste should have learned to respect, but mostly found tiresome. She knew what she wanted, and she knew how to get it. And she wanted Keir but, more than that, she wanted the status and respectability that came with him.

The story was too common for words. They would marry and Keir would let her rule his life for… a handful of years. Then he’d seek out his own challenges, probably quit his job and go into research or even start his own company. He wouldn’t cheat, he wasn’t that type of man, and he’d still love Melissa as much as he did now. But he wouldn’t be what she wanted.

After that… Jean-Baptiste gave it less than a year from Keir breaking away from her to a divorce. Anything could be the trigger – an affair, a failed conception license, financial issues, work hours – and it would be over. Keir would, naturally, be devastated, and Melissa would move on.

And Jean-Baptiste could prevent it all, with just a few words.

Melissa smiled over his shoulder, probably at Keir’s return. Jean-Baptiste turned to see a wide, natural smile cross Keir’s face, with just a touch of mischief. He sighed. He couldn’t destroy Keir’s dreams, not before they’d even had the chance to start. And Keir was one of the few men Jean-Baptiste had met who’d actually be able to see through his careful manipulations.

And, he had to admit, if Keir suspected a selfish angle on Jean-Baptiste’s involvement, he wouldn’t be far off.

Keir kissed Melissa’s cheek, looking quite pleased with himself. Melissa seemed caught between chagrin at the public display of affection, and preening at Jean-Baptise.

Jean-Baptiste smiled. Yes, I get it, he’s yours. It was a little tiresome to be sent the same social message dozens of times in a single interaction.

It wasn’t the possessiveness that interested Jean-Baptiste in any case. It was the coolness with which she returned Keir’s gesture. Habitual rather than pointed, it spoke of a natural reticence, a tendency towards discretion.

Basically, Melissa was a prude.

Jean-Baptiste mentally scaled back his estimates. As much as Melissa might attempt to ensure their social compatibility, she wouldn’t ever be able to step far enough out of the box to achieve a sexual compatibility with Keir. A pity, although not a great one. Keir had such simple, yet pervasive needs. Tying oneself to him through fulfilling those needs would have been simplicity itself, had it not been for Melissa.

Then again, Jean-Baptiste doubted even Keir, despite being one of the most self-aware and inwardly honest people he’d met, knew how deep and entrenched his needs were. Having a partner try to control your life was not the same thing as being dominated sexually. In fact, it was probably counterproductive – Keir’s cravings to be forced into submission were purely sexual, unrelated or perhaps even contrary to his natural social desires to maintain control and dominate.

There were dozen of theses written on the topic. Jean-Baptiste hardly wanted to rewalk well-trodden paths.

It was with genuine regret that Jean-Baptiste was forced to write Keir Warrick off as an interesting study in terms of his relationships. The intelligent and rational man who had so entertained Jean-Baptiste over coffees and lunches was unable to maintain that rationality when it came to close interpersonal affairs. A pity; he’d had such… promise.

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Like Father Like Son - Code Geass, Lelouch/Suzaku, Suzaku/Lelouch, Lelouch/Lelouch, NC-17

2012-02-28T00:34:45Z

Title: Like Father Like Son
Pairings: Lelouch/Suzaku, Suzaku/Lelouch, Lelouch/Lelouch, Lelouch/Suzaku/Lelouch, Suzaku/Lelouch/Lelouch. I think that's it.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Contains: INCUBUS! Threesomes, sexual teasing, incest(ish?), underage sex (again, ish), magical dubcon (to be on the safe side)
Word count: 10,000! Exactly!
Notes: Again, from Shiro's Incubus world which now has:
Shiro's fic: Nightmare and Sweet Dreams of One Suzaku Kururugi
My addition: More Than A Meal
Bard Linn's Sakura Kiss: Here and here
And Rex's: Red, Black, and White, which make up a mini-verse in themselves.

The best thing by far about the daytime shift was that it freed up Suzaku’s nights. That never used to be an issue, but Suzaku had never had someone in his life who was restricted to nighttime visits either.

…that wasn’t a euphemism. Except that it kind of was. After all, all they ever did together was have sex. But that wasn’t why they could only meet at night. That restriction was purely a factor of his companion’s inhuman state.

Suzaku was… dating (was that the right word? God, he hoped not, it sounded so wrong) an Incubus. Named Lelouch. Who was really good in bed.

It hadn’t always been smooth, of course. Apart from the fact that Lelouch couldn’t stay corporal when the sun was up, and the fact that Suzaku’s job sometimes had him working until after dawn, there was that one time with a curse (or something) someone had placed on Suzaku to keep Lelouch away. An onmyouji, Sumeragi Subaru, had since dispelled that curse and trained Suzaku to focus and balance his energies so that when Lelouch fed he took in as much energy, but only a little from each… energy food group? Suzaku was vague on the details, but he gathered that it was regaining the proper ratios of energies rather then the absolute amount that took so long to recover after Lelouch fed from him.

Lelouch was able to feed more often now; every other day at least. It meant that Suzaku saw more of him and that long night shifts sucked.

It also meant that after a long day, he could come home, shower quickly and either curl up in bed and wait, or call out to his demon lover. And he was really looking forward to seeing him later tonight.

…so much so that he was hallucinating him now, during the daytime. Only clothed. And carrying a school bag.

Suzaku blinked. Nope. Still there.

“Anya?”

His partner looked up from the files she was going over. “Yes, Suzaku?”

“D’you see that kid?”

Anya looked where Suzaku was pointing and frowned. “There are a bunch of kids there.”

“The one with the black hair and the red jacket. Walking south.”

“Yup.” Anya looked up at Suzaku. “Do you think he’s related to this case?”

“Not at all.” Suzaku stood. “I’ll be right back.”

By the time he caught up to the boy, it was two blocks later. “Lelouch!”

The boy turned around. “…do I know you?”

It was him. In every way, from his dark silky hair to his deep violet eyes to his low smooth voice… “It’s me. Suzaku.”

“That… doesn’t help. Suzaku who?”

“I…” There was no chance that this wasn’t his Lelouch, despite the distinct lack of tail or horns. The odds of someone who otherwise looked identical having the same name… “Is this a game?”

Lelouch’s eyes narrowed and Suzaku knew that look too. Frankly, it was a little arousing. “Look, I have no idea who you are or what you want, but I–” he cut himself off, eyes widening as he saw Suzaku’s badge hanging off his plainclothes shirt pocket. “You’re a cop?”

“A detective.” Lelouch should have known that as well. “Look, clearly there’s something going on here. I know you.”

“How much time do you have?” Lelouch asked suddenly. Suzaku felt his stomach flip at that; he was technically still on the clock, but he certainly had time for a quick– “To talk,” Lelouch added, glaring. “You seem to be under a misconception.”

Suzaku couldn’t believe he was blushing. Damn sex demon… “Not a lot. Can I meet you after my shift?”

Lelouch eye-raked him. It wasn’t subtle. “When do you get off?” He smirked. “Off work, that is.”

“You have a horrible sense of humour.” Sex jokes. Suzaku was less than surprised. “Six.”

“Hmm… meet me back here at seven. Without the badge.” Lelouch licked his lips and turned away and Suzaku… watched him. Lelouch was generally either walking towards him (stalking towards him, more like) or flitting away mysteriously before the sun rose. He rarely got to enjoy the view as that short red jacket just barely brushed up against the top of Lelouch’s well defined buttocks encased in nicely-fitting black pants and…

Waitasec. It was the middle of the day; late afternoon in fact. And sunny. And… Lelouch slipped around a corner and Suzaku snapped out of it. He’d have his answers later this evening. If Lelouch could walk around in the day as well, he had some long stretches of time to make up for when Suzaku was working a rota of nights and furiously jerking off on his own because Lelouch wasn’t–

“I paid the bill,” Anya said calmly from about a foot behind Suzaku. “So you suppose we can go back to interviewing witnesses?”

“Sure.” Suzaku took a deep breath to compose himself before turning around. “I’ll get the next one.”

Anya just nodded. “Yes, you will.” It was nice having a partner who didn’t ask overly nosy questions. Especially ones Suzaku wasn’t sure he could answer.

OoO-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-OoO
Suzaku was nearly ten minutes early, showered and changed into casual clothes – jeans and a t-shirt, nothing fancy. He certainly hadn’t spent most of his time after work trying to balance out which shirts showed of his physique too much and which just looked frumpy. It took him nearly half an hour to look like he wasn’t trying too hard.

That probably said something.

Lelouch was already there, still in the same clothes from what Suzaku could tell, minus the school bag. “Hey.”

…brat. “Where did you want to go?” Suzaku asked. “To talk, I mean.”

Lelouch smirked and pushed off the wall he was leaning on, placing his hand gently on Suzaku’s arm and leading him towards a restaurant. “Your treat.”

They took a booth for slightly more privacy and Lelouch started going through the menu. Suzaku stared at him until Lelouch lifted his eyes.

“…what?”

“You said we could talk,” Suzaku said, exasperated. “So talk.”

Lelouch just sighed and returned to the menu. “After we eat. Until then… how about this weather, huh?”

He was dragging this out for some sadistic reason. Suzaku set his jaw. “It’s been really sunny lately,” he said pointedly. “I notice you don’t have a tan.”

“I don’t tan; I burn.” For some reason, Lelouch found that funny, snickering slightly to himself. “Never mind. I’m just not an outdoors person.” His eyes flickered up to Suzaku again, his gaze appraising. “You look like you spend more time outside.”

Suzaku did. Before Lelouch had come into his life, he’d spent every free moment running or physically training or studying to make himself a better officer. He didn’t apply for promotions – that wasn’t the point. But there was nothing else worth spending his time on.

Since Lelouch, of course, Suzaku had learned to grab power naps when and where he could. He’d been told that the sun was his element and he should use it to help replenish and balance his energies and it seemed to be working. But even if it was easier to feed the Incubus, it was still draining, and there were nights that he got almost no sleep at all in favour of staring into amused or appreciative violet eyes as they put his endurance to the test.

“Wow. You’re just a brilliant conversationalist, aren’t you?” Lelouch muttered, putting aside the menu with some disgust. “Is there any topic that won’t have your mind flitting off to sex?”

That was blunt. “It’s your fault for avoiding it.” It really was on Suzaku’s mind.

Lelouch laughed and it wasn’t quite the dark amusement that Suzaku was used to. It was more boyish, charming almost. “I avoid it, so you dwell on it. Lovely.” He leaned back, arms crossed, and looked nothing like the Incubus who’d been haunting Suzaku for months. Suzaku blinked and turned away, snickering at the irritated teenager in front of him. He looked like a cat whose fur had just been ruffled. It was adorable and attractive in ways that had nothing to do with sex.

Well. Almost nothing to do with sex.

Lelouch glared at him, not taking well to the mockery. “It you want your answers, you’ll get them after you’ve paid for my meal. That’s only fair compensation for my time, isn’t it?”

It wasn’t like Suzaku had much of a choice. He needed to know. “Fine. Just order already.”

The meal was actually pleasant once he got over the fact that Lelouch was eating physical food (rather than…) and Lelouch was actually a decent conversationalist once Suzaku dragged his mind out of the gutter and engaged him in actual conversation.

He acted and articulated himself more maturely than his apparent age. Suzaku wondered just how old he was.

When the waiter asked if they wanted dessert, Lelouch waved him off, grinning at Suzaku.

“After this, we’ll go for a walk and you’re going to buy me ice cream.”

“…what is this, a date?”

Lelouch laughed. “Say that a bit louder, Suzaku. Maybe there’s someone here who’s not now wondering what a thirty-something year old man is doing with an adolescent boy.”

Fuck. “There is no way you’re a teenager.”

“But I do look like one.” Lelouch leaned forward. “And as to what I am… isn’t that the question that you’re going to all this trouble to answer?” Suzaku glared. “I’d think that you’d be reluctant to jump to conclusions, considering.”

There was NO WAY Lelouch was just an ordinary teenager. No matter what he insinuated. Suzaku grabbed the bill the moment the waiter returned and paid, in a foul mood all of a sudden. Lelouch’s reactive cheeriness in no way made him feel better.

Lelouch ordered mint ice cream. Suzaku just got a soft vanilla and tried not to meet the vendor’s eyes as Lelouch hummed with contentment after the first bite. God, he sounded just like that after the first taste of–

Lelouch slapped the back of Suzaku’s head. “No sex thoughts.”

Suzaku kind of hated him a little.

They went for a walk by the river. Lelouch paused in the middle of a bridge and looked out at the lengthening shadows. It wasn’t dusk yet, not for at least half an hour, but it was coming.

“I’m human.”

Suzaku almost missed that. “What?”

“I’m human.” Lelouch turned to him, an amused smile playing at the corner of his lips and he really really looked like… “My name is Lelouch Lamperouge. I’m fifteen years old, and I attend Ashford Academy… when I feel like it. I like reading and chess and visiting my sister occupies most of my time.” He took another long lick of ice cream and looked at Suzaku, expectantly. “Any questions?”

At that point, Suzaku might have just resigned himself to the conclusion that he was insane. But… who said ‘I’m human’ when describing themselves? “How come someo–something that looks just like you and has your name crawls into my bed on a nearly nightly basis.”

Lelouch laughed. “I doubt he ‘crawls’.” The amused expression died down to something close to worry. “He told you his… our name.”

“Yeah.”

“That idiot.” Lelouch sounded genuinely upset, but fond. “Why?”

Suzaku stared at Lelouch. “I… don’t know.”

Lelouch sighed. “What else do you know?”

There wasn’t much. Between the hints the demon had dropped and some rather disturbing internet research (he did not need to see the S+M pictures that popped up) and what Sumeragi-san had imparted (“At least the male body has a warning system in place; if you can’t achieve an erection, he’s feeding too much.”) with even tones and just the hint of an embarrassed flush, Suzaku knew basically what the Incubus was and what he wanted. He still had no idea what the interest in him specifically was about.

When Suzaku was done explaining, Lelouch sighed. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“…what?”

“Why didn’t you do something about him after that first night? I mean…” Lelouch threw his arms up, nearly dislodging his ice cream. “A demon steals his way into your home, feeds off you in an very intimate way, and disappears. And you just, what? Shrugged it off as ‘one of those things’?”

Suzaku scowled. “I left the apartment.” It wasn’t like he just stayed there, waiting for Lelouch to return. “I don’t exactly know a whole lot of exorcists off the top of my head.”

“Yeah, well, when your sink explodes do you walk away because you don’t know any plumbers?” Lelouch shot back. “And how long did it take for him to find you, hmm?”

“…the next night.”

Lelouch glared at him. “You’re an idiot.” His eyes narrowed further. “Or just suicidal.”

Suzaku remembered Lelouch purring into his ear about the risks of staying awake… and how it might be worth it. He also remembered deciding that that wasn’t how he wanted to die, but that he took risks everyday and that being aware and being with Lelouch was, at least, worth the risk.

“He hasn’t killed me yet.” Suzaku smiled fondly. “And I think that’s why he told me his name.”

“Because you’re both idiots and you can bond over that?” Lelouch still sounded disgruntled, but he calmed down enough to return to his ice cream. “Honestly…”

Suzaku’s fond smile shifted to the teenager. Rude and irreverent and kind of adorable. And nothing really like the Lelouch who’d visited Suzaku before. “What’s your connection, then? You both have the same name and you look like him–”

“He looks like me,” Lelouch corrected. “I’m not sure if you know this about Incubi, but they don’t exactly live on the same plane as the rest of us. He needed an anchor and a physical form, so he used me for both.”

Suzaku gaped. “That’s horrible!”

Lelouch rolled his eyes. “With my consent, of course. It’s not like demons can just randomly take semi-permanent forms on a whim.” He thought about that for a moment. “Well… not Incubi in any case.”

“Still…” Suzaku was having trouble absorbing this. “He took your form? So physically he’s like you? In every way?”

“Minus the horns and tail and occasional wings, yes.”

It was immature, but then again Suzaku was hanging out with a fifteen year old. “So… I’ve essentially seen you naked.” And how.

The shock and embarrassment (and adorable bright red blush) were entirely expected. The flaily easily countered attack was less expected, but inept enough that Suzaku was able to grab Lelouch’s wrists without so much as dislodging what was left of his ice cream cone. Suzaku took a moment to be grateful he’d already finished his. Lelouch didn’t stop there, though, sputtering incoherently as he fought against Suzaku’s grip and kicked his shin (which kinda hurt, dammit!) and generally proving that he didn’t take jokes well.

He also didn’t take to being restrained well, struggling even more as Suzaku held him. “Lelouch, it was a joke! Quit it!”

Lelouch growled something unintelligible and tried to scratch at Suzaku’s hands. Suzaku, having had more or less enough, had to chose between an effective hold that would probably hurt Lelouch (nothing much, just some bruises and sore joints) or a less effective hold that wouldn’t. He briefly wished he was a harsher man (and maybe he would have been before the other Lelouch’s visits – he’d had little to stir his emotions before that) and rather than twisting Lelouch’s wrists and straining his shoulder; he stepped forward, pushing Lelouch off balance, and pinned him with his hips against the bridge rails, pulling his hands over his head.

That didn’t immediately calm Lelouch down, despite his inability to do anything in that position. He still writhed and bucked against Suzaku’s hold, making Suzaku bite the inside of his cheeks to stop his body from reacting. He made the mistake of looking at Lelouch’s flushed, irritated face, and very nearly groaned aloud.

This was ridiculous. The boy was beyond reason at this point. And over such a silly joke (although perhaps Suzaku’s obvious ease at restraining him had worsened his rage). Of all the ideas Suzaku had for calming him down, there was only one that would both work fast and be relatively painless.

He’d just meant the kiss as a shock – the press of lips on lips just enough to embarrass and still Lelouch. What happened was more like a kiss, half due to the poor timing of Lelouch opening his mouth to complain and half due to how familiar that mouth felt. Suzaku did groan this time as he deepened the kiss from the damp sharing of breath to a caressing tongue probing into Lelouch’s mouth.

It tasted minty.

Even after Suzaku pulled away from a gratifyingly quiet Lelouch, the full impact of what he’d done didn’t hit him. For a long moment, he just enjoyed the stupefied look on Lelouch’s face and licked his lips, tasking the minty aftertaste of the kiss. With a fifteen year old boy.

His eyes flew open and he stumbled back. “I… I… I…”

“Yeah,” Lelouch agreed faintly. He closed his mouth with a faint click and blinked a few times. “What… just happened?”

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking and I didn’t mean it to be like that and… your ice cream is melting.”

Lelouch tossed the ice cream over the bridge. “That was my first kiss!”

“What, really? I mean… I’m really sorry! I… is there anything I can do to make up for it?”

Lelouch looked at him thoughtfully. “Maybe. Take me back to your place, my hand is sticky.”

Suzaku carefully didn’t think any perverted thoughts regarding sticky hands and nodded shakily, awkwardly leading Lelouch to his place.

It was close and they were just over a block away when it occurred to Suzaku that it would probably have been more efficient to grab some wipes from the ice cream place. It was too late to do that now, and mentioning it would make him look like even more of an idiot, so he simply unlocked the apartment door and let Lelouch to the bathroom.

There were only a few minutes until the sun was officially set. The thought of being caught by Lelouch with… Lelouch in his apartment was not something Suzaku was looking forward to.

Lelouch, for his part, made a beeline to the bathroom, and Suzaku could hear the water running as he ran through the worst possible scenarios, from jealousy to demonic protectiveness to demonic whimsicality. In most scenarios, Suzaku ended up rather worse off.

By the time Lelouch was done, Suzaku had imagined his own death, castration, crippling, de-soulening (if that was even a word…), and a brief fantasy regarding a cat-fight between the two Lelouchs. He was rather jumpy, and made sure to keep a close eye on Lelouch as he walked from the bathroom to where Suzaku had waited for him, right by the door.

“Well. This was… something.” Suzaku opened the door. “So. I’ll maybe see you around. Or. Not.”

Lelouch looked at him curiously, clearly contemplating something. Suzaku had just enough time to worry about what he might be plotting when Lelouch moved forward, disturbingly fluidly, and pressed his lips gently against Suzaku’s, in something too gentle to really be called a kiss, but long enough that it couldn’t be called anything else.

He’d even closed his eyes, dark eyelashes fluttering as Suzaku tried to focus on them and not on the fact that Lelouch kissed like a tentative virgin. Which… he was.

This was so wrong.

The look on Lelouch’s face, half satisfaction, half wonder, didn’t change Suzaku’s attitude. He looked so very beautiful, so very delicate, so very, very fuckable, and he was a goddamn kid!

“…the hell was that?”

“A good-bye kiss,” Lelouch answered smoothly, but the light flush in his cheeks spoke to his inexperience. “After all, we’re practically lovers at this point.”

There were few things that Suzaku mentally shied away from out of fear. The memory of his father’s bloody corpse, the first child rape case he’d busted, Gino’s eternal cheerfulness. And now, he realized, he’d have to add that his demonic lover had the nearly hairless childish body of a teenager to the list.

And that it aroused him like nothing else ever had.

He had to stop this before it started. “We are not lovers. I’m a food source for your pet demon doppelganger. You’re a high school kid. Not. Lovers.”

Lelouch smirked. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Kururugi.” He patted Suzaku’s cheek and sauntered out the door.

Suzaku closed it behind him. Then locked it. Then closed and locked all his windows (despite the fact that that would hardly keep the Incubus out if he wanted in) and took a cold shower and a couple of drinks before crawling into bed, trying desperately to fall asleep before his demonic lover decided to pay him a visit.

The last thing he wanted, despite his cravings earlier that day, was to deal with the Incubus Lelouch.

OoO-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-OoO
Fortunately, the Human Lelouch felt the same way. At least about Suzaku meeting with the other Lelouch. He hurried home, making it just before the sun set, and set up the incense and pre-made magic circle that called to the Incubus.

It didn’t compel him because Lelouch, for all his ingenuity and brilliance, hadn’t an ounce of measurable magical power.

But it didn’t have to. It was more like an invitation, one that the Incubus always answered. They were, after all, bound by alliance.

“You rang?”

“Damn straight I did!” Lelouch started in immediately. “When I agreed to be your corporeal anchor, what two conditions did I give you?”

The Incubus blinked, clearly not expecting that. “That I never feed off you without your permission…” he smirked, “clever caveat there, especially for a ten-year-old, and that my feeding should never affect your life.”

“And what part of never affect my life didn’t you get?”

“…I don’t understand.”

“I met Suzaku.”

“Ah.”

Lelouch glared. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“You needn’t sound quite so peeved,” the Incubus retorted. “It’s not like I planned for this to affect your life.”

“You fed off a police officer, whose job it is to patrol and orient himself to the neighbourhood, who lives not even ten blocks away, allowed him to see you, told him our name, and practically married him.”

“…that’s an exaggeration.”

Lelouch couldn’t believe it. “You’re at his house more nights than you spend here!”

“You refuse to feed me, dear,” the Incubus purred.

“Not the point!” Lelouch felt the cumulative effects of every single humiliation and misstep of that evening gather up in him. “Your freakish demon life has spilled over into mine. Fix it!”

The Incubus pursed his lips and stepped out of the circle, winding his arms around Lelouch’s neck. “Would you have me kill him, child?” Lelouch could feel the passage of air from the Incubus’s words ghost over his lips, but he knew that he was safe; the Incubus had given his word. “He is special to me, unique in mine eyes, but I would, for you my precious boy.”

“N-no…” Lelouch stammered, hating how the physical proximity of this creature stirred even him. He knew that it was the same body that looked out at him from the mirror, but the way it was worn, used… the way the Incubus moved… Lelouch had to admit he wore it with more confidence and sensuality.

The endearments didn’t help either. Merely annoying when Lelouch was ten, they were now their own form of stimulation.

The Incubus dropped his head on Lelouch’s shoulder, rubbing like a cat. Lelouch could feel the heat through his shirt. “Then what would you have me do?”

Lelouch sighed, his hand absently moving up to pet this bratty ancient creature, taking care to avoid the horns. “Can’t you erase his memory? Make him forget you and just feed off him like normal prey?”

“No. I’ve never bothered to learn how. My Kiss has always been sufficient.”

“Then why the hell didn’t you use that?”

“I did.” The Incubus looked thoughtful. “He broke through it the first night and…” a small smirk at the memory. “Such fury and fear and passion, all turned into lust as he thrust into me… it was a feast.”

Lelouch shoved the demon away. “He broke through your Kiss? And you didn’t kill him?”

“I thought I might,” the Incubus said thoughtfully. “At first by accident, then on purpose after the second time he caught me…”

“What?”

The Incubus chuckled and gently stroked Lelouch’s cheek. “Don’t fret, child. He is truly enamoured of me. Even when given the tools to protect himself, he chose to return to me.”

“Oh, that’s reassuring,” Lelouch huffed. “Now we have a policeman who knows our name and has access to and knowledge of arcana that affects you. Is that how he was able to break the Kiss’s enchantment?”

“No.” The Incubus smiled pensively. “I have no idea how he managed that. Nor how he fought it off when I kissed him again. All I know is that he chose to remain awake to experience my feeding consciously rather than allowing me to put him to sleep.” He smirked slightly. “I did my best to make it worth it.”

“…I don’t want to hear about it.” Lelouch shuddered. “Honestly, between the two of you I’ve heard more about sex today than my entire adolescence.”

The Incubus looked at Lelouch curiously. “I thought you’d just run into him. You two… conversed?”

Lelouch winced. “Don’t make it sound dirty. I just needed to know if he was a risk.”

“Oh…” The Incubus smirked. “What did you think?”

“I…” Lelouch looked away, flushing and hating it. “I think you have horrible taste. He’s stupid and uncouth, and he might get all dopey when he thinks about you now, but give him time to figure out what you are and he’ll betray you. Us.” Lelouch licked his lips nervously. “I think he’s more of a risk than he’s worth.”

The Incubus stepped closer, one hand lightly cupping the back of Lelouch’s neck as he brought their lips close, barely an inch apart. “Then why, when you think of him, does your scent turn irresistibly mouth-watering?” Lelouch shuddered. “Could it be that you’re growing up, little boy?”

“It was just a kiss!” Lelouch blurted, startling the demon. “It was… he kissed me first! I didn’t…”

The Incubus burst out laughing. “Oh, precious one. Your body betrays you.” His hand slid down Lelouch’s neck, passing over his chest to rest just below his navel. “I could help you with that…”

“No!” Lelouch stumbled back, one hand outstretched as if to ward the Incubus off. It would have been ineffectual if it hadn’t been for their previous contract. Lelouch was breathing hard, hating the way his heart raced in his chest and the way he’d exposed a vulnerability to his demonic ally, and hating, above all else, that this had to happen now and over that man. “Leave me alone!”

It wasn’t an order; Lelouch didn’t have enough power to make it an order. Even Suzaku was more spiritually powerful than he was. But it was enough to make the Incubus pause rather than push his luck to get his contractee to relent. “Is that all you wanted then? Am I free to feed?”

Lelouch shook his head, his mind already racing as it slowly came back under his control. “Don’t go to Suzaku tonight. Please, I don’t want him to…” to think of me while he’s fucking you.

The Incubus raised his eyebrow in curiosity. “I haven’t seen him in almost a week. I…” he frowned, as if searching for the right words. “…miss him.” He didn’t seem entirely satisfied with the ones he’d chosen.

“Just one night,” Lelouch persisted. “Feed somewhere else tonight.”

“I’m too soft on you.” The Incubus sighed. “Very well, dear one. I will slake my thirst elsewhere tonight, but mark my words…” Lelouch looked away, disturbed as always by the way his body merged into a collections of flickering lights. “…this isn’t over yet.”

OoO-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-OoO
He’d promised his adorable little human that he wouldn’t feed off Suzaku. He’d never promised that he wouldn’t pop in to see him.

Suzaku was asleep, which was always an inspiring sight, but Lelouch was full. Rather than waking the man up and risking the temptation to break his word, Lelouch simply crouched at the side of his bed and looked at him.

He was lying on his stomach, half covered in his bed sheet, with his arm over his face, snoring. It didn’t look comfortable (or something, who needed excuses?) so Lelouch shifted his arm and brushed his hair aside to get a look at his face.

Or at least the one eye and part of his nose that wasn’t buried in the pillow.

“You smell of alcohol,” Lelouch observed, mostly to himself. Suzaku had essentially stopped drinking after they’d become… regular. This was an interesting reaction. “Did young Lelouch bother you so much?”

At the sound of Lelouch’s name, Suzaku shifted, muttering something. Lelouch cocked his head and watched as Suzaku slowly but unmistakably started fucking the mattress. Oh, this was too rich… to find his favourite prey in the midst of an erotic dream. Lelouch smiled, the moonlight glinting off his sharp canines.

“–louch…”

Lelouch chuckled, low and amused. This could be fun. Chances were good that Suzaku was thinking of him and not the boy, but this opportunity was golden.

He moved swiftly around the bed, careful not to disturb Suzaku’s dream (yet) and settled behind him, as light as a feather, but as firm as reality. Suzaku reacted to his presence with a soft groan and a restless shifting of his hips. Lelouch smiled at the position; he’d never fucked Suzaku, not with his cock at least, but Suzaku seemed far from adverse to the possibility.

…this wasn’t the time for that. For now…

“Just like that…” Lelouch murmured, his hand tapering lightly over Suzaku’s hips. “You want it, don’t you?”

Suzaku groaned in agreement. Lelouch grinned.

“In fact… you want him, no?” Suzaku’s hips continued to thrust unabating and Lelouch continued. “Imagine him, under you, his virginal flush colouring his cheeks.” Suzaku sped up minutely and Lelouch grinned wolfishly. “His cries as you touch him, kiss him… press inside him…”

Suzaku always smelled delicious as his arousal built up, but this was different. Perhaps because he was insensible, perhaps because he wasn’t thinking of a demon, but rather of another human… Lelouch liked it.

“You’d be his first and he’d feel so good… so tight and eager for you.” Suzaku was close, Lelouch could tell. The temptation to touch him was nearly overwhelming, but he’d promised. “He’d cry out your name at his climax and you–”

Lelouch could feel Suzaku’s orgasm resonate through him. It was like ambrosia and, for a moment, Lelouch basked in it.

But… he had promised. With a regretful sigh, he released the energy to disperse throughout the room, most of it returning to Suzaku. A significant portion of it was sucked up by the two plants Suzaku had in the room and Lelouch chuckled. It wasn’t like they needed it, but given the fact that he fed off their owner as many nights as not, they certainly could use it. Life energy had so many uses.

The post-orgasm peace that settled over Suzaku was nice, but boring. Lelouch caressed his skin for a moment as his thoughts raced, then stood up. He had a plan.

It would require great sacrifice and restraint on his part, but if it worked out…

Suzaku shifted, not in arousal as before, but as if he were about to leave the dream state and return to consciousness. Lelouch considered kissing him, then decided it wasn’t worth it and transformed, wisping away before Suzaku could wake up.

He had a plan to put into motion.

OoO-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-OoO
Lelouch hadn’t come.

The Incubus, Suzaku meant, not the human boy. In fact, he’d seen Lelouch around a few times since their first encounter, playing truant or walking home from school. He did his best to ignore him and, as far as he could tell, Lelouch didn’t even notice him.

Which was all very well and good, but Suzaku hadn’t had a nighttime visit in… weeks. He was just getting off a series of nightshifts and planned to remedy that tonight.

“You seem antsy.”

Suzaku looked up from where he was seated to Anya’s almost-concerned expression. “Do I?” …it wasn’t actually that far to look up.

“You do.” She cocked her head to the side. “Should I ask Gino to talk to you…”

“No!” God, she could be terrifying with her threats when she wanted to. “It’s nothing. Just… I’m glad we’re back on days.”

Anya looked at him oddly. “Why? You don’t have a family or any close personal friends. Why would your schedule bother you?”

…ouch! “Sleeping habits,” Suzaku decided to answer. “I have finicky sleeping habits.”

“Hmm… you’re in the wrong line of work,” Anya pointed out.

Suzaku grabbed his jacket and didn’t disagree.

He toured his apartment before doing anything. Everything was clean (apparently freak cleaning was a side-effect of sexual deprivation) and the bed had new linens and the lights were dim enough that when the sun set the lighting would be romantic.

Everything was set up. Suzaku made a quick supper for himself, double checked his energy levels (they were primed, as they’d been weeks ago) and sat on his bed, waiting for the sun to set.

The moment the last tendrils of light slipped over the horizon, Suzaku licked his lips and opened his mouth, breathing in to call out to his personal creature of the night.

…only to choke on the intake of air as he recognized the nude silhouette in his doorway.

Lelouch chuckled. “What a wonderful first impression after all this time.”

“Le – Le…” Lelouch leaned forward slightly, moving some of his body into the dim hallway light, and Suzaku could finally see the soft pale skin, the contours of those lean legs and elegant wrists, the dull shine off his dark hair and the brighter shine off his inhuman eyes. “Oh, damn, Lelouch…”

He was up in an instant and across the room in another, reaching for Lelouch.

Lelouch was no longer there.

A long arm draped over Suzaku’s shoulders and a lean body pressed against his back. “Miss me?”

Suzaku bit back a growl and whirled to grab the demon, only to turn to see him lounging on Suzaku’s bed, the dim light from the hall casting shadows on his naked body.

He looked sexy. He looked like sex. Suzaku closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “What the hell are you playing at?”

He could hear Lelouch chuckle and it make his half-erect cock jump. “I missed you. It’s been a while and you’re just brimming with vitality.”

Suzaku cracked an eye open and managed to face Lelouch. “Want some?” It was worth it to see something like humour light up those eyes.

“I do…” Lelouch rolled over and started crawling towards Suzaku, before pausing. “But, sadly, that would go against the wishes of my most beloved.”

It took Suzaku a moment to realize who he was talking about. “That kid? What does he have to do with anything?”

Lelouch shot him a look. “He’s hardly a child, Suzaku.”

“No, he really is.”

“Ooh?” Lelouch smiled. “His body has matured, and as for his mind…” The smile turned into a fond smirk. “It holds the most fascinating ideas.”

Suzaku frowned, not sure why that made him feel as uncomfortable as it did. “Why are we talking about this?”

“Because he’s requested that I abstain from feeding from you.” Lelouch pouted. “Pity. You smell ravishing.”

“Then… why are you here?”

Lelouch looked at him, his innocent expression contrasting with his lewd appearance and position on Suzaku’s bed. “I told you. I missed you.”

Suzaku sat down heavily, almost all of his arousal gone. Lelouch’s hands landed on his shoulders, massaging them. “What are we supposed to do? Talk?”

Lelouch chuckled and his hands slid down, tugging Suzaku’s shirt off. “If you like. There are other options, however.”

“Oh?” Suzaku supposed it wasn’t normal to get more relaxed, the more a sex demon touched you. But the sensual glide of Lelouch’s hands against his shoulders…

“I could drive you mad with desire, and leave you on your own.” Lelouch’s hands glided smoothly over Suzaku’s chest, his lips pressing fleeting kisses against Suzaku’s neck. “I could make you beg and plead, desperate for me to finish you off, then watch as you suffer.” He bit down and Suzaku gasped.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Suzaku asked, bucking under Lelouch’s hands as they opened his pants, freeing his erection.

Lelouch smirked against Suzaku’s skin. “Because… if I push you far enough, perhaps you’ll order me to feed.” Lelouch lightly dragged his claws over Suzaku’s cock, careful not to draw blood as he shifted around in position beside Suzaku to easily straddle him. “I do have to obey you, Suzaku.”

“Hmm, that’s…” Lelouch’s words pierced through the heady daze of his actions. “Order you? But that’s…” Suzaku’s nose wrinkled in disgust. Ordering someone to have sex with him was… well, it wasn’t even really thinkable.

Lelouch stopped everything, the gist of Suzaku’s hesitation coming through clearly. “Seriously? You really are a boy scout.”

“…because I’m uncomfortable with the idea of raping you?” Suzaku demanded incredulously. At least he wasn’t really hard anymore, the thought of what Lelouch had suggested killing his arousal.

Lelouch rolled his eyes. “Don’t be more naïve than you can help. I’m an Incubus, Suzaku.”

“That doesn’t mean…” Suzaku had seen prostitutes raped often enough to know that that wasn’t an excuse. “Look, it’s just wrong.”

Lelouch stared at him. “That’s the problem!” He looked ecstatic. “Your idiotic sense of morality! That’s why you haven’t…” He bent down and kissed Suzaku quickly on the lips. “I’ll have to work on him then.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry.” Lelouch smiled brightly at him as he coalesced into stardust. “I’ll have this fixed in no time!”

Suzaku stood staring at the space the demon had occupied moments before for a few minutes before mentally writing off the entire night as one of those things that sucked about having a demonic lover.

He then went to the bathroom to have a long hot shower and deal with the other thing that sucked.

OoO-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-OoO
“Lelouch!”

Lelouch looked up from his homework. “You’re back early. It’s barely ten.”

The Incubus materialized and bounced up to him, his tail moving sinuously in his version of wagging. “I figured out the problem.”

“With what?”

“With you and Suzaku!”

“…there is no me and Suzaku.”

The Incubus rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous; I’ve sent you both dreams, and you’ve woken up in a panic more nights this week than not.” He grinned. “Not used to wet dreams, are you?”

Lelouch just glared. “That was you?” He snorted. “I should have known. Ah well…” he leaned back in exaggerated relaxation. “It’s good to know that I don’t actually have a thing for him.”

“Of course you do, silly boy. Now hurry up.” The Incubus grabbed Lelouch’s wrist and tugged him up, into a tight embrace, his arms and legs and tail winding around Lelouch’s body.

Lelouch didn’t take that without a fight. “What the hell are you…” The world around him faded, as if suddenly obscured by a veil, and then he was in a different room, a hallway that looked vaguely familiar.

“What are we doing at Suzaku’s?” He hissed.

The Incubus laughed softly. “I do love how you immediately recognise it.” He took Lelouch by the wrist and tugged him towards the bathroom. Lelouch could easily see the light from under the doorway, and hear the running water of the shower, and knew full well that whatever was about to happen, he didn’t want to be a part of it.

“Let me go.” He tugged at the grip on his wrist, hating that everyone seemed to be stronger than him. In his dreams, Suzaku’s arms barely strained as they held him down, caressing him and spreading his legs and pinning his arms like he had on the bridge…

They were just outside the bathroom now, and Lelouch briefly prayed that the door was locked. Given the fact that he’d made a contract with an unholy creature of darkness, he was less than surprised when that prayer was unanswered, and the Incubus opened the door.

“Oh.”

Lelouch barely heard his own voice, the involuntary exhalation of surprised appreciation as his blood started thudding through his veins. Suzaku stood under the cascading water, completely nude and unselfconscious, one hand propped against the wall, the other working his erection hard and fast. His hair, even soaked, curled around his ears and neck, and his eyes were closed, his lips parted and red and…

“He’s so lovely. Don’t you think?”

Lelouch couldn’t do anything but nod, his eyes fixed on the vision of Suzaku working himself mercilessly, his muscles moving under his skin as he brought himself closer and closer to…

“Lelouch…”

Lelouch fell to his knees, overcome with a kind of desire he’d never even imagined before. He wanted to taste that skin, those lips; feel that cock inside him, press just as deeply into Suzaku; drink in every moan and sigh and whispered name that Suzaku offered to him; watch his eyes as he came, over and over, again and again until he collapsed into unconsciousness, and then he would be, truly, Lelouch’s…

He was still panting when his room reformed around himself, his homework still waiting for him on his desk, and no Suzaku in sight.

“What did you do?”

The Incubus smiled. “Nothing, dear heart.” He stroked over Lelouch’s hair, his touch worsening the fire that ran through Lelouch’s body and pooled in his loins. “It’s all you.”

“Make it stop. Please.”

“Very well.” The Incubus stepped back. “Remove your clothes.”

Lelouch was too far gone to argue, practically tearing off his shirt and fumbling embarrassingly at his pants until he finally managed to kick them off. He was hard, naturally, and leaking, and it almost hurt to look at it.

“Now, lie back on the bed.”

As soon as his head hit the pillow, Lelouch felt wet heat envelop his aching erection, and an immediate hard suction, as if the Incubus was trying to suck his orgasm from him. It felt so good it was painful and Lelouch cried out without restraint, grabbing the Incubus’s hair and holding on for dear life.

“May I feed?”

“Yes, yes, just don’t stop, don’t–” Lelouch’s begging was cut off with the return of that suction, forcing him to resort to wordless screams of ecstasy as he spilled down the Incubus’s throat, harder than any orgasm he’d ever experienced, harder than any orgasm had the right to be, completely overpowering his senses.

When he regained his sense of self, he could feel something moving inside him, stretching him and preparing him. He looked up fuzzily, meeting the Incubus’s wicked smile with a look of confusion. “What are…”

“You have so much left, my precious, my love.” The Incubus lifted Lelouch’s legs up. “Don’t worry, sweet one, you’ll still be able to walk tomorrow.”

The sensation of the Incubus pressing into him made Lelouch tense up reflexively, even though there was a large part of him that wanted it so badly… The Incubus smiled as if he knew exactly what Lelouch was going through and found it too amusing for words. “Shall I kiss you and make it easier?”

“No.” That was the one thing Lelouch was sure of. He wasn’t Suzaku with his odd immunity, an Incubus’s kiss would leave him vulnerable and helpless. “No, just fuck me.”

The Incubus smiled brilliantly, and Lelouch wondered if he was ever that gorgeous. “That’s my boy.” The Incubus pressed in deeper, making Lelouch gasp. “My beautiful, beautiful boy.”

“…egotist.”

The Incubus’s laugh made Lelouch writhe with sensation. “Oh, my dear, even in the depths of inflamed passion, your dry wit comes out. This is why I love you so.” He slid in, completely sheathed. “And I do love you. So very dearly.”

“Then fuck me, please. Feed from me, make me normal again.”

“You have never been, nor will ever be, normal.” But the Incubus did as Lelouch asked, starting with slow and deep thrusts, gradually speeding up. Lelouch arched against the bed, his entire body contorting to take every thrust and make it count, crying out orders and pleas, his hands scrambling for grip against the smooth sheets of his bed.

The Incubus leaned forward, changing the angle and making Lelouch cry out wordlessly, over and over, with every thrust. “Open your eyes, Lelouch. Look at me.”

Lelouch did as ordered, staring into the face he saw every day in reflections as he felt the first wave of his second orgasm break over him. He cried out and tried to turn away, but the Incubus wouldn’t let him, cupping his cheek and gently keeping Lelouch looking right at him, staring into violet eyes and his own face, contorted into a deeply satisfied smirk as wave after wave of pleasure crested over him. He could feel his energy spilling into the Incubus just as he could feel himself spilling into the space between their bodies. His bodies. Overwhelmed, he arched up and pressed a kiss to the Incubus’s lips.

He woke up just before dawn.

“Clever. I could have kept you at the apex of ecstasy for hours if you hadn’t done that.”

“Done what?” Lelouch asked, feeling sore and heavy and so deeply satisfied there were no words for it.

The Incubus didn’t answer, instead running his fingers through Lelouch’s hair. “Ah, my romantic one. It will take you a few days to recover, I’m afraid. But once you’re ready, shall we visit Suzaku?”

Just the name made Lelouch’s stomach clench, despite the fact that the idea of sex right now was the last thing Lelouch wanted. “I don’t think…”

“You will.” The Incubus laughed as he disappeared with the first rays of sunshine. “Give it a few days and you most certainly will.”

OoO-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-OoO
“If you’re seriously going to tell me that we can’t fuck and you’re just here to see me, I will…”

“You’ll what?”

Suzaku searched for an appropriate response. “…be very, very frustrated.”

Lelouch laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m here to fuck.” His tail slid down the front of Suzaku’s pants as his hands worked on getting Suzaku’s shirt off. “You smell divine.”

“Please tell me that’s a compliment and you’re not comparing me to actual gods,” Suzaku managed to get out before his voice dissolved into a groan of desperate pleasure. “How are you so good at that with a tail?”

“Practice.” Lelouch got Suzaku’s shirt off and pushed him towards the bed, yanking off his pants impatiently and crawling on top of him. “I have a surprise.”

“…good surprise or bad surprise?”

Lelouch pouted. “You can seriously ask me that while I’m straddling you? What a suspicious character you are.”

Suzaku grabbed his hips. “Let me inside you and I’ll be as naïve as you like.”

“Hmm…” Lelouch rolled his hips, the friction making Suzaku moan. “You actually already are. Naïve, that is, not inside me.” The sound of a door closing just barely made its way into Suzaku’s consciousness, something that would normally alarm him, but now just made him irritated over the distraction. Lelouch smirked. “And now the stage is set.”

Suzaku managed to tear his eyes off the predatory demon on top of him as a somewhat less predatory teenager walked towards the bed from the closed door, pulling his shirt off over his head as he approached.

“Hello again, Suzaku.”

“Lelouch…”

He lacked horns and a tail, but his eyes shone the same, unnatural, colour in the dim light as he crawled onto the bed, shedding his pants. “It’s been a while.” Lelouch bent down and kissed Suzaku’s lips, something the Incubus rarely did just in case Suzaku’s ability to fight off the Kiss didn’t hold true every time.

It was nice. Suzaku liked kissing. It was the one thing he’d missed since Lelouch had become his lover. The Incubus, not the boy. The boy was fifteen.

The boy was fifteen.

Suzaku tore his head away, gasping for air. “Stop. This is… you shouldn’t…”

Both Lelouchs laughed, darkly amused. The Incubus slid off Suzaku, rolling to his other side, sandwiching Suzaku (on his back and feeling rather helpless at the moment) between them. “You should know by now, Suzaku, that ‘shouldn’t’ has no place in our divertissements.”

Lelouch, the human one, cupped Suzaku’s face and kissed him lightly, sliding a leg over Suzaku’s. “I prepared myself before I got here.” He kissed him again. “I’m ready for you to fuck me.”

And Suzaku had been so hopeful that he’d misinterpreted ‘prepared’. “I can’t. Lelouch you’re fifteen…”

“So?” Lelouch smiled and his hand trailed down from Suzaku’s cheek, down his neck and chest, over his abdomen and pelvis, nestling gently in the hairs of Suzaku’s groin. “I’m very mature for my age. My teachers all say so.”

The Incubus laughed against Suzaku’s skin, sounding perfectly delighted.

“This is so fucked up.”

It was Lelouch’s turn to laugh at that. “You’ve been willingly feeding an otherworldly demon, one with the body of a teenager, desperate enough that you actually had a protective spell removed so you could continue doing so, and it takes me to make this ‘fucked up’? I don’t think so.”

“I’m not having sex with a kid.”

“I bet you are.” Lelouch kissed him again, and this time fire raced through Suzaku, taking his breath away with how suddenly and how powerfully it hit him. He grabbed Lelouch’s shoulder, squeezing until the boy gasped softly in pain, and then rolled on top of him, chasing that fire with everything he had.

Lelouch’s legs wrapped around his hips, and it felt so familiar to Suzaku; the pressure of bony knees, the arc of the thin, long limbs; that Suzaku found himself responding as if he’d had the demon under him, thrusting into Lelouch without any ceremony or care, used to a partner who could take it.

Lelouch gasped and clenched, his inexperience blatantly obvious as Suzaku found himself beyond control, pushing past his resistance, deeper into Lelouch’s tight, hot body. Warm hands soothed over Suzaku’s back and ass, pressing inside him and making him hesitate, just for a second, just long enough for Lelouch to catch his breath and relax under Suzaku’s intrusion.

“There. I told you I’d fix everything.”

Buried balls deep into someone Suzaku had just promised not to have sex with, Suzaku found himself nevertheless aching for more than the fingers moving inside him. He should have felt ashamed, or at least confused, but at the moment all he wanted was to fuck and to be fucked.

And the Incubus, always attentive to his needs, obliged.

It was everything Suzaku had dreamed about (although he would deny those dreams to his dying breath). Lelouch under him, so hot and tight and lovely with his flushed face and dark eyes and lips that begged to be kissed. Lelouch inside him, thick and hard and so deep it felt like he was trying to drive through rather than merely into Suzaku. Both of their voices mingling in the air with his, their desperate cries echoing each other as they drew closer and closer to completion.

Suzaku tried to hold off as long as he could, wanting this to last forever, knowing that once it was over he’d have some soul-searching to do. (If he still had a soul.) But under him, Lelouch was getting tighter and his voice was rising to a desperate pitch and then he was coming, his knees digging painfully into Suzaku’s sides, his body clamping down around him as every muscle clenched with his orgasm. Behind Suzaku, the Incubus was still pounding into him, relentless and merciless and Suzaku couldn’t hold back any longer, spilling into Lelouch’s body before the boy even finished spasming.

And then the soft sigh of satisfaction from the demon who had orchestrated everything.

OoO-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-OoO
Lelouch awoke first, overly warm between the heaviness of Suzaku’s body covering his, and the energy that saturated the room. Most of it his, which he gathered back up, but much of it Suzaku’s.

That was for the Incubus.

Suzaku was still unconscious, or asleep, after Lelouch wiggled out from under him and Lelouch took a moment to just look at him, simply enjoying gazing into that lovely face. “He really is special.”

“Mmm.” The Incubus slid behind Lelouch and spooned against him, rubbing his cock against Lelouch’s ass until he settled in comfortably. “He is. But so are you, precious.”

“You don’t call him by any silly endearments.”

“That’s because I love you best, mon petit chouchou.”

“…stop that.”

The Incubus laughed. “You did well. I’m so proud of you, the way you inflamed his desire, driving him past the point of reason.” He kissed the back of Lelouch’s neck. “You should take your reward, and feed as well.”

“Feed?” Lelouch asked, frowning. “I don’t…” A dark suspicion began to form. “What do you mean you’re proud of me? Why pride?”

“Clever, lovely, quicksilver child.” The Incubus’s hands ran over Lelouch’s body as he peppered his skin with kisses. “My precious jewel, most brilliant Cambion.”

Lelouch flipped over, wincing only slightly as that agitated the pain in his lower half, facing the Incubus. “Cambion? Since when?”

“Since I visited your mother, fifteen years ago.” The Incubus smiled. “Well. Sixteen, almost.”

“Oh god, you…” Lelouch pulled away, sitting back on his ankles and staring down at the preening sex demon. “You’re my… and you…”

The Incubus reared up, kissing Lelouch viciously and pressing his tail into Lelouch’s ass. “Never has a father been so proud.”

Horror and anger and betrayal rushed through Lelouch, coalescing in a heat that suffused his entire body, hardening his cock and taking away his breath. “Why am I…”

“All your passions turn to lust, now that you’ve matured.” The Incubus kissed down Lelouch’s jaw, biting hard enough to leave marks as Lelouch started fucking himself on the tail. “You’ll be insatiable for the next few years, and I will be there to revel in your rebirth.”

Lelouch laughed, low and dark. “I’m still angry, father, but somehow…” He pushed the Incubus down, spreading his legs. “Not as angry as I should be.”

A choked-off groan drew both their attention to the other occupant of the bed. Suzaku stared at them, halfway to sitting, propped up on one arm as he watched them disbelievingly.

The Incubus pulled his tail out of Lelouch and Lelouch moaned pitifully. “Suzaku. Oh, Suzaku, please…” He arched his back, presenting his ass as enticingly as he could, relying on the fact that Suzaku was really only half awake. “I need you, Suzaku.”

Half awake but fully hard, Suzaku took Lelouch at his word, settling behind him and grabbing his hips, pulling Lelouch down on his cock in one smooth movement. Lelouch reached behind himself and grabbed at the back of Suzaku’s head, holding on as Suzaku immediately started a fast, deep rhythm. “Oh, yes, that’s…” Suzaku’s lips dipped down to Lelouch’s neck, kissing and sucking at the skin there, and Lelouch groaned. “You’re so perfect. Why are you so perfect?”

A chuckle came from between Lelouch’s legs as the Incubus looked up at him, watching the show from a very exclusive angle. “I have fantastic taste.” And he swallowed Lelouch down, his tongue twirling around the head of Lelouch’s erection, letting Suzaku’s thrusts push Lelouch’s cock down his throat.

Suzaku, perfectly able to see everything from his vantage point, groaned and sped up, already close. “Lelouch, I… I…”

“Oh, just do it! This isn’t an endurance competition!”

With that somewhat exasperated blessing, Suzaku thrust twice more and came, hard and deep in Lelouch’s body. Lelouch followed him almost immediately, grabbing the Incubus behind his horns and yanking his head back to spurt into his mouth and over his face. The Incubus grinned and swallowed.

Lelouch and Suzaku fell back, limbs tangling, both breathing hard. Lelouch basked in the energy before taking it in, as his ‘father’ had instructed. He laughed. “What does it say that I wanted to see my own face covered in my own cum?”

“Too deep for me,” Suzaku decided, still waking up. “Wait. Did we just…”

“You’re still inside me. Figure it out.” Lelouch sighed contentedly. “It’s a good thing it’s Sunday. I don’t want to move for the next few hours.”

“I suppose you’ll be missing church services today.”

Lelouch rolled his eyes, then rolled away from Suzaku. “Let’s start again. Good morning.”

Suzaku frowned. “Is it morning? I mean, the sun isn’t up yet.” Lelouch hit his arm. “Ow! Fine, good morning. …I don’t suppose you aged three years overnight?”

“Nope. Still jailbait.” Lelouch grinned and leaned in, intending to place a teasing peck on Suzaku’s lips. He ended up crawling over him and trying to count Suzaku’s teeth with his tongue.

Suzaku managed to tear his head away. “Lelouch, I… hng, I’m really not ready for a round three. Just… hah! Just cool it.”

“Sorry,” Lelouch said breathlessly. “I just want you so badly…”

“Insatiable.” The Incubus smiled benignly, well-fed and satisfied. “I’ll do my best to curb his appetite, Suzaku, but… I think he likes you.”

Lelouch laughed against Suzaku’s skin. “Very much.” He shot an arch look at the Incubus. “Don’t you have to be somewhere?” The sun would be rising in a few minutes. Lelouch could feel it.

The Incubus smiled. “I’ll leave you two alone then.”

“Wait!” Suzaku’s cry came far too late as the Incubus transformed and flew away. Lelouch propped his head up on Suzaku’s chest and smiled at him. “…what?”

He sounded so suspicious. Lelouch’s smile widened. “You know… I think I’m developing an interest in a career in law enforcement.”

“…what?”

Now Suzaku just sounded confused. Lelouch smiled and idly traced the lines between Suzaku’s muscles. “I just need a mentor in the field. A big, strong expert to show me the ropes.” He pressed a kiss just over Suzaku’s clavicle. “Or tie me up in them.”

“No. No, you’re not…”

“You could fuck me over your desk, just a short, fifteen-minute break from paperwork,” Lelouch said conversationally. “Or in the lock-up, while I cry and scream and everyone will think that you’re capable of anything.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Lelouch shrugged. “Fine then. We’ll start slower.”

Suzaku looked down at him, still suspicious. “Slower?”

“There’s a lovely little crêperie by the riverfront.” Lelouch arched over Suzaku’s body, smiling as Suzaku’s eyes betrayed his interest. “Take me on a breakfast date.”

“A date?”

Lelouch smiled and kissed Suzaku gently, softly. “I think, after coming inside me twice, you should probably get to know me better.” Suzaku’s hand slid up Lelouch’s arm and Lelouch smiled. “I’m really very nice.”

Suzaku rolled them over, hovering over Lelouch for a long moment before kissing him in return. “I’m not sure I believe that.”

Lelouch grinned, and he could feel his eyes flash with the energy he’d fed off from Suzaku. “No. But you don’t want ‘nice’, do you?”

Suzaku settled between Lelouch’s legs, any reluctance he might have had melting in the desire that was rising up within him. “Not really, no.”

Lelouch laughed.

This entry was originally posted at http://elarielf.dreamwidth.org/31614.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

Seven things!

2012-02-19T03:08:40Z

A gift to me in my boredom from mouselyhamless. (PS: Questions require question marks, dear)

1) What mediocre work of fiction would be awesome if someone overhauled the ending? ~~Code Geass~~

Actually, I'm more of a fan of Code Geass's ending than I am of the lead up to that ending so...

The Anita Blake Vampire Hunter series. It starts out with a tough-as-nails celibate zombie animator who moonlights as a police consultant and semi-flirts/semi-antagonizes the local baddies. As the books progress, she gets stronger, magically, she ends up with a harem (no, seriously, a harem) of guys (guys only  WHY?) and the mysteries and vampire hunting pretty much get shafted.

I don't mind porn. (I know, this is a shock.) But I DO mind porn where I was expecting an interesting plot and decent characterization. I also mind romanticized rape, and NO ONE will ever be able to convince me that Micah isn't a rapist, no matter how fluffy and cuddly he is in the following books.

So how would I fix it? (Not part of the original question but mouselyhamless is a demanding taskmaster.)

First of all, more humans, particularly Edward. Sociopathic assassin with a family he cares about? SO UP MY ALLEY. The other humans (cops, feds, lawyers, etc...) are interesting characters rather than walking dicks with some sort of supernatural power and designer-brand clothes (hello every new character since Obsidian Butterfly). Also, less sex. Not no sex, but less than 2/3 of the book dedicated to it. And, for goodness sakes, MORE JASON. He is moral, intelligent, witty, and (as hot as he is for Anita - as is required to be in this series) he doesn't let his cock drive him nearly as much as he thinks he does.

Basically, as much as I enjoyed Anita up until Narcissus in Chains, I think she no longer has the qualifications (ie: being able to keep her legs closed long enough to boil an egg never mind solve a case) to be the main character in a supernatural mystery series. Doyle and his team should join up with Edward, with Jason for the supernatural kick they might need, and deal with the things the first books focused on.

2) If the world ended tomorrow what continent would you be pissed you never got to visit?

Africa. It's either that or Asia and, honestly, despite Israel and Japan, I'd rather go to South Africa for a trip. I feel like I shouldn't, but I do. XD

3) If you found out that you could fly at will, but only if you agreed to never read another book ever, would you do it?

HELL NO. If I want to fly, I'll take up sky diving which only costs thousands of dollars. I'm not giving up reading for ANYTHING. Seriously, if I had to choose between literacy and general mobility, I'd pick literacy.

4)If you were forced to eat dinner with a celebrity that you hated and they wouldn't remember the encounter would you be a) Pleasant but distant, b) Pleasant, and do your best to make a connection, c) Rude, and let them know why they piss you off, c) Rude, but without explaining why d) Just stare at them creepily over the bread.

It depends. If it was Ron Paul, for example, I'd try to be as engaging as possible. I think, in general, his ideas are horrific, dangerous, and lack any degree of empathy (also, the fact that he would (sorry, might, under the right moral circumstances that he gets to make up) give a "shot of estrogen" (yup, estrogen) as a treatment for rape makes me curious as to how the hell he can still consider himself a doctor) but he presents them in a way that would make for interesting discussion. And, honestly, I do agree with him on some points - like non-interference of nations with other nations without a serious reason.

If it was Rand Paul, (or most other misogynistic, racist, homophobic, asshats) I'd be rude or creepy. Not that Ron Paul is a better person, just that he's more interesting.

And then, if it was someone like Chris Brown, I'd want an option e) for actual physical violence. Also, a bat or something. I don't honestly think I could take him mano-e-mano

So! It depends. But most likely c).

5) What celebrity came to your mind first in the above questions?

Ron Paul. I get the feeling I would seriously enjoy a conversation with him. He's still a heartless creep.

6) Is there someone from Code Geass you wouldn't mind working with on a regular basis (in the real world, not in the series)? ~~No. They're all creepers~~

This is hard. I'm seriously trying to think of someone. Even Gino would be hard to take for a long period of time, although we would have SO MUCH FUN screwing with everyone else...

I would love to have Shirley as a support - like a secretary or a nurse or something. She's got a wonderful balance of sweetness and hard-assery that would keep my rather judgemental goofiness in line. Somewhat (no one can fully tame that beast!) XD

7) Cast yourself in Battle Royale/The Hunger Games, if you were the winner how would you dispatch your enemies. If you were the loser, how do you go down?

I WOULD DIE. SO MUCH. AND SO EARLY.

Overall, I'd probably be best with ranged weapons and traps. I have some (not much) training with both. And maybe poisons.

But I would most likely die before I could use either to any effect. I would expect my death to amount to pretty simply being run down and butchered by anyone with decent stamina. I do so hate to run.

That's that! If anyone wants seven questions, or disagrees that Gino would be fun but impractical or wishes to defend the Anita Blake series, I'm open to all comments and requests!

This entry was originally posted at http://elarielf.dreamwidth.org/3679.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

One Year Anniversary!

2012-02-01T02:02:55Z

Today is the one year anniversary of my first posted fic (not including anonymous kinkmeme posts)!

I should do something. Cheesecake and hot chocolate. (Or maybe actually checking out my Friends Page. :p)

Back home!

2012-01-10T21:36:16Z

I just landed (about an hour ago - getting from the plane to home takes time) and I didn't hate this flight as much as I usually do. Second row seat, empty seat beside me, and on-timeness helped.

Also, I highly recommend wearing slippers if you're not walking outside the terminal. SUPER comfy.

But the big news is my apartment. I turned the heat off but left the blinds open for my plants. I figured they'd get a little sun and the coolness would slow their growth enough that they wouldn't miss me watering them.

Nope.

It's been so warm here that I needed to open my patio door to cool everything down, and my plants are really unhappy. Possibly dead. Probaby dead.

Ah well, a little water and TLC and they'll... probably stay dead. But we'll see. The point is that it's warm. SUPER warm. XD

This entry was originally posted at http://elarielf.dreamwidth.org/3449.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

I should be sleeping - I have to be on a plane in 7 hours.

2012-01-10T06:59:06Z

999999999, <<<<<<<<<, kukukukukukukukuku, MBWAHAHAHAHA!

2012-01-09T07:28:49Z

IE crashed and ate this post. Seriously. I didn't just make that up for the pun.

2012-01-08T08:05:23Z

The puns on the previous posts? Not quirks. Not at all.

2012-01-07T19:41:15Z

Day sex (yes, the puns are getting worse)

2012-01-06T09:42:06Z

Day One: Ten things you want to do some day.
Day Two: Nine things about yourself.
Day Three: Eight qualities you think are awesome in other people.
Day Four: Seven (semi)interesting things you've pondered or thought about recently.
Day Five: Six things you are glad you did.
Day Six: Five books/movies/tv series/etc that you'd recommend
Day Seven: Four silly quirks
Day Eight: Three pet peeves
Day Nine: Two things for which you're proud of yourself.
Day Ten: One secret plan.

Number one: Anime: Code Geass

Yes, this one was probably obvious. I think everyone should give it a try - dub lovers, sub lovers; shonen fans, shojo fans; character-focused watchers, plot/action-focused watchers... this is an anime that tries to be everything for everyone and works on a lot of levels. On its own merits, it manages to be an interesting, visually stunning show, with philosophies in varying shades of grey with the occasional black and white. This is a very accessible show but, like more artsy and pretentious shows, you really get out of it what you put in.

Number two: TV show: Community

This show is brilliant. It's funny, it's clever, it's sweet, it's disturbing... it's a parody of itself...

It's everything I love in a comedy TV show times a thousand, done really well. This may be what finally replaces Scrubs (which you should also watch) as the show I most look forward to watching and then re-watching. And I didn't think anything could measure up to Scrubs. I think it's the honesty that not taking yourself completely seriously allows you, which is missing in a lot of other dramas. *cough*House*cough*

Number three: Book(s): The Chronicles of Amber

This is a close tie with Hunger Games for the best books I read recently. I would have added the Dresden Files as well, but I can't seem to keep going with those, although I really enjoy reading them.

But The Chronicles of Amber is classic fantasy. It's got fascinating world-building, brilliant characters, twists and surprises, and well-paced plot. I really think it's the characters that make this series, though, and that's what I'd sell it on.

The only "issue" I have with it is the lack of good female characters, but that's probably a function of the times and the male author and blah blah blah. The guys are awesome enough to make up for it, and I'll read other things to get my feminist fix.

Number four: Manga: Anything by Minekura Kazuya but mostly Saiyuki

This is still, and will probably always be, the best manga I've ever read. The anime is visually horrific (and the pacing isn't ideal) although I enjoyed it, but the manga is a work of art.

The characters are amazing. The plot twists are stomach-wrenching. The style is one I don't typically like (it's not as clean and pretty as I generally prefer) but it fits the story perfectly and has become one of the selling points of the manga to me (seriously, check it out online - it's gorgeous).

It's a retelling of one of the oldest stories (The Journey to the West) but it's more a subversion of that story with some mindfuckery on the side. It is, story-wise, one of the best I've ever read and, even after reading The Journey to the West, I have no idea how things will turn out.

I hate to say it, because it sounds anti-intellectual, but I found it even more enjoyable before knowing the legend it was based on. I re-read this series at least once a year, and I don't think I'll ever stop.

Number five: Movie: Ink

I don't do movies. I don't think they tell stories as well as TV series or books do (see X:1999 as a perfect example of this) simply because of time restraints. I rarely feel as attached to the characters, and the plots generally feel forced or rushed.

This movie is an exception to all of the above.

It worldbuilds, makes me care about (almost) all the characters (the ones with names, at least), and takes its time with a story that flows as naturally as the rhythm the pathfinder follows and manipulates.

A lot happens, in a short time, and there's a lot of pressure, but it never feels rushed. There are moments to catch your breath, pauses during which we get a better feel for characters we're already pulling for.

It's indie, but the production values are good enough to suspend my disbelief, and the acting works well, with each character seeming sincere in what they are. I honestly had no idea how it would turn out, and not because of a plot twist (Darth Vader is Luke's father?) but simply because I felt that anything could happen while remaining true to the narrative.

There aren't many things that work that well for me, and almost no movies. There are also very few movies I rewatch on my own. This is one of them, and probably the best of the lot.

This entry was originally posted at http://elarielf.dreamwidth.org/1653.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

Day five. It's go time.

2012-01-05T06:28:13Z

Just Another Dreamwidth Post (Fourth day)

2012-01-04T08:09:34Z

Day One: Ten things you want to do some day.
Day Two: Nine things about yourself.
Day Three: Eight qualities you think are awesome in other people.
Day Four: Seven (semi)interesting things you've pondered or thought about recently.
Day Five: Six things you are glad you did.
Day Six: Five books/movies/tv series/etc that you'd recommend
Day Seven: Four silly quirks
Day Eight: Three pet peeves
Day Nine: Two things for which you're proud of yourself.
Day Ten: One secret plan.

This kind of goes from chipper to less chipper. I assure you, that's because the less chipper things are less on my mind.

Number one: The nature of Geass

This might be cheating, since someone else brought it up and it was a short discussion on the kinkmeme (not just for kinks!). But it's something that both bothers and impresses me, how truly vague the attributes of geass actually are while still having such strict and arbitrary rules attached to them. Anywhoo, as far as mythologies go, it's poorly explained which makes it fun to play with. XD

Number two: The depiction of children in media

This is all madamevert's fault. We were discussing how to write children well, without sounding twee, and I realized that there is no real medium or show I'd point to to describe kids done well.

Avatar: The Last Airbender (the cartoon, not the movie) comes close, but gives its characters too much maturity out of necessity. But the kid moments ring true to me.

It's weird. I can point to more examples of women done well, or homosexuals, or blacks, or really any other group (apart from transgender people, I've yet to see that done well) over children. And it's not like they aren't everywhere. I just found that... odd.

Number three: Rewarding people for not being jerks

I don't think this should happen. There shouldn't be rewards for not being sexist or racist or transphobic when the opportunity arises, just as there shouldn't be rewards for not killing someone just because you're holding a knife.

But, on the other hand, negative reinforcement is a piss poor motivator compared to positive reinforcement. It just seems like rewarding the absence of bad behaviour punishes those who are already good.

I guess I'm the "loyal son" from the prodigal son parable, but I've never been fully convinced that killing the fatted calf was the right thing to do.

Number four: The joys of eating cereal at two in the morning

It's fantastic. I don't know why I don't do it more often.

Number five: Homophones that mean the opposite thing (Janus words)

Raise and raze. Seriously? Efferent and afferent. Do you want to confuse us? Sheesh.

Number six: ~~the despair of eating soggy cereal at five past two in the morning~~ Cancer

Nothing really specific, just... I've been thinking about cancer lately. In general. It's your own body trying to kill you. Which, granted, allergies and autoimmune diseases are too, but cancer is special (?) in that it does so in such a selfish and greedy way, taking away resources from everything else to feed itself. *insert witty, yet poignant comparison with human beings on planet earth. Or not*

Fuck cancer.

Number seven: I often dislike, or mistrust, characters who share the same traits I'm proud of in myself.

Does that mean I'm a bad person? I don't think so - frankly, a lot of the things that bother me about those characters aren't things that would bother me about them as people. It's more how they and their actions and decisions affect the narrative.

Does that mean I hate myself? Maybe. At least as a character. I think I'd find myself boring and occasionally cruel, without the appropriate come-uppance I'd deserve and no real redemption arc. But, on the other hand, as someone living my life instead of watching it, I'm really quite glad I don't have the self-sacrificial drive of Suzaku, or the gentle forgiveness of Honda Tohru, or even the dynamic drive of *insert shonen character here. Maybe Naruto*.

I've often heard people in the Dr. Who fandom gush about how wonderful it would be if he came for them. I think I'd just decline, because my life is fine without overblown adventure and I just don't think I'm the type who'd make a good character (or companion).

I wouldn't watch myself, but I don't have to. So it's all good! XD

This entry was originally posted at http://elarielf.dreamwidth.org/1033.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

Dreamwidthing looks weird. Like Dream-wid-thing. Day three.

2012-01-03T09:33:48Z

Day One: Ten things you want to do some day.
Day Two: Nine things about yourself.
Day Three: Eight qualities you think are awesome in other people.
Day Four: Seven (semi)interesting things you've pondered or thought about recently.
Day Five: Six things you are glad you did.
Day Six: Five books/movies/tv series/etc that you'd recommend
Day Seven: Four silly quirks
Day Eight: Three pet peeves
Day Nine: Two things for which you're proud of yourself.
Day Ten: One secret plan.

Number one: Intelligence

Or the ability to fake it well. I don't dislike stupid people and, frankly, they are some of the nicest people in the world, but I do find them dull. Chances are if I've talked to you more than once, you're not stupid, at least in my opinion. This is incredibly snobbish of me, but this is about other people.

Number two: Tact/Grace

These kind of go hand-in-hand. Tact is not saying that jerky thing you're thinking, and grace is dealing well with the fall-out if you do. Both are traits that I admire in other people because I find them embarrassingly absent in myself, grace more than tact.

Number three: The ability to just have fun

I have trouble letting go. I've always admired people to whom that seems to come easily.

Number four: Creativity

I have an analytical brain, primarily. This makes me a decent meme filler and a horrible idea generator. I usually need a starting point from someone else, and then I can find ways to make it happen. I'm horrible at brain-storming sessions, and greatly admire people who just generate things from nothing. It's like magic to me.

Number five: Beauty

Sort of. I like looking at pretty people, but I'm already judging them as likely lacking #1, #2, and possibly #4. Before even talking to them. But I still enjoy looking at them, so I guess this counts, despite my idiotic prejudices.

Number six: Kindness

It's underrated. Genuine, honest kindness it possibly the greatest, most powerfully good thing in the world. I can fake it, but there are people who realy, truly live it. I'm not Catholic or Buddhist, but I can believe in saints and bodhisattvas when I see those people, and I've been blessed to meet several.

Number seven: Faith

This... is a tricky one. Faith can be both powerfully good and powerfully evil, while it is innately neither. But it's something that, when I see it in people I like, I admire. It's something absent from my life that I don't really miss, but it can give such strength and sense of purpose to others that I find truly admirable. Even if I don't agree with the object of faith, or the philosophy behind it, the ability to believe in something is something I admire.

Number eight: The ability to teach

This probably comes from having a mother and sister who are teachers, and naturally born to be so. Almost everything in this list can be taught, and the ability to impart these traits and others to other people is powerful and compelling, and a responsibility that I shy away from. Anyone who embraces that responsibility has my respect and admiration.

This entry was originally posted at http://elarielf.dreamwidth.org/868.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

Trick the second (aka I'm Dreamwidthing!)

2012-01-02T09:15:28Z

Day One: Ten things you want to do some day.
Day Two: Nine things about yourself.
Day Three: Eight qualities you think are awesome in other people.
Day Four: Seven (semi)interesting things you've pondered or thought about recently.
Day Five: Six things you are glad you did.
Day Six: Five books/movies/tv series/etc that you'd recommend
Day Seven: Four silly quirks
Day Eight: Three pet peeves
Day Nine: Two things for which you're proud of yourself.
Day Ten: One secret plan.

Number one: I am tall

It's not my defining feature, exactly, but it's what everyone uses to describe me. Even if I'm sitting down. I'm not even "tall for a girl", I'm just tall.

Number two: I hate throwing up

More than pain, more than itching, more than the worst headache ever, I hate the sensation of throwing up. Fortunately, I rarely find that I need to.

Number three: I don't drink

Like, at all. Not for any religious reasons, or a past or family history of alcoholism, just because I don't drink. I don't like the taste of alcohol, even added to drinks I enjoy, and often even the smell turns my stomach. Add to that how much I loathe throwing up and the thought of getting drunk is really revolting to me.

Number four: I've been high. It was meh

I get why people do drugs. The feeling I had after getting my wisdom teeth out was amazing. And I never want to feel that way again. But I understand why other people might enjoy it, even to extremes. It's just not for me.

Number five: The more languages I learn, the more I adore English

It is at once the most ridonculous and versatile language in the world. Maybe. At least as far as I know. I like the way other languages sound or roll off my tongue, but English will always be just a joy to play with, like an old battered toy that I'm not afraid to break because it's been broken so many times before.

Number six: When I'm watching or reading something dull, I mentally cross it over with something (usually Buffy the Vampire Slayer, because it's so maleable) to make it more interesting

Citizen Kane is epic in my memory too. Just not for the same reason it's epic in most people's memories.

Number seven: I write fanfiction

A lot. And some of it might get me in trouble if it was found out. But probably not, and mostly it's just stupid fluff.

Number eight: I could survive in the wild

Fires, shelters, berry lore, snares, how to find water... between Girl Guides, my mother, Cadets, and simple exposure, I could probably survive anywhere in North America on my own, for at least a few months.

Number nine: I overanalyze things

I'd blame fandom, but this tendency of mine predates that. Whatever, fandom is where I've found that this really annoying trait of mine can be tolerated and even appreciated in certain contexts. Certain, specific contexts.