Reality is almost always wrong.

...

2005-12-01T05:39:52Z

I adore each and every one of you. I still stop by your journals from time to time to see what's going on in your real lives.

But my real life has become too chaotic for me to do anything like update regularly, or check in on y'all frequently. Not in a bad way. It's just the usual pattern of mid-twenties entropy. It's exciting, really.

So I'll be keeping this journal alive so I can comment occasionally. Aside from that, I'll be lurking.

Take care, everyone.

Love,
Nuala.

nualanightbloom @ 2005-11-30T23:21:00

2005-12-01T05:27:23Z

Title: Not Quite…
Author: Nuala
Pairing: Wilson/Chase pre-slash
Rating: Softish R.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not making any money.
Warnings: Canadian spellings. Timeline might be a little off. Pretty much AU after recent episodes. Spoilers for Season 1 and early Season 2.
Summary: Wilson wants to love and be loved. You can’t always get what you want, as the philosopher Jagger said, but sometimes you get what you need.
A/N: My entry for the houserareathon challenge, using prompts to generate a gen, het or slash fic that avoided House/Cmaeron and House/Wilson.

Prompt #44:

some small and clammy being
not quite yet an angel
is on my back
playing the strings of this nervous system
not quite yet a harp

- Albert Goldbarth

***

Some diagnoses are determined by elimination. If it's not this thing, or that thing, then it must be Diagnosis X. And this will be as close as anyone can get to certainty. Diagnosis by elimination.

Uncertainty can be a comfort. James Wilson knows this. Not dead is better than dead, even if it's only not yet. He deals with a lot of people whose only hope is not yet. It's a scanty and slender hope. Still. Better than none.

Wilson's marriage is entirely dead. Not not dead, nor not yet dead. Completely and utterly dead. The cancer has metastasized and spread to the lungs, the prognosis is nonexistent, the patient has flatlined. Julie's lawyer served him the papers two months ago. It's already finished. His first divorce took almost a year to complete. This one took less than six weeks. He's getting better at it, he supposes. Practice makes… well, not perfect, really, but it sure makes things go more smoothly once the shit hits the fan.

He figures he's a much better doctor than a husband. Percentage-wise, he keeps more cancer patients alive than marriages (not that that's saying much -- scoring higher than zero isn't much of a challenge).

Today he's not much of either. The sparsely furnished one-bedroom apartment he woke up in (alone) and the awful coffee he made himself (he still hasn't figured out the new machine) mock his failure as a husband. He misses his king-size bed, misses Julie's perfectly-made cappuccinos. When he gets to work, he finds that Rowan Chase has moved into the stage of actively dying. There’s not even any point in moving him into palliative care. There's nothing Wilson can do. There was little enough he could have done at any time. They found it too late, and it moved too fast. Wilson just wasn't good enough.

Wilson pages Chase fils to his father's room and leaves before he arrives, sensing that Chase will want privacy. In the office, he tries to work on a new paper but the stats he's looking at swim in front of his eyes. Caffeine, he thinks, closing the file.

The oncology lounge is filled with his staff, and he is just not in the mood to make small talk with them. He can't be charming all the damn time. Feeling restless, he wanders aimlessly for a minute before heading for the diagnostics department. House doesn't have any cases right now -- not that that's ever stopped his visits -- and Wilson feels the need for some bracing conversation. Between the hollow loneliness of his apartment and the hushed solemnity of the oncology department, Wilson is constantly on edge, his nerves quivering with tension all day long.

House isn't in the office, where Wilson sees Cameron opening mail. He waves to her through the glass, and heads straight to the meeting room next door. There he finds Chase, peering intently into a mug of coffee. He grips a pencil very tightly in one hand. He is sitting perfectly still, and Wilson is struck by the oddness of this. Chase always fidgets.

Wilson walks in.

"Chase? What are you doing here?"

Chase manages to look both listless and challenging. "Having coffee," he says.

"I paged you. Your father…"

"Is dying. Maybe dead. I don't… know."

"Chase. Go see him. It's the least you can do."

Chase's eyes flash with annoyance. "Actually, the least I can do it nothing."

Wilson sighs. "Will you just go?"

"He won't be conscious."

"No. But you will."

Chase fixes Wilson with a stare. Wilson can't identify the emotion in his eyes. Not quite yet anger. Then he pushes away from the table and stalks past Wilson, not quite knocking him with his shoulder as he goes by. After Chase is gone, Wilson investigates the coffee he'd left behind. Not hot, but tolerably warm. Wilson sips it experimentally, makes a face at the bitterness, and begins rooting around for the sugar packets he knows House keeps somewhere.

He hears the door open behind him, hears Cameron's soft footfalls. She opens a drawer by the window, pulls out several sugar packets and hands them to him.

"Thanks," he says.

"You're welcome," she replies automatically. Wilson sugars the coffee and stirs it with his finger. "Is he… did he… pass away?" Cameron asks hesitantly. "I have no right to know," she goes on hurriedly, "but I'm worried about Chase."

Wilson sips the coffee, and wishes caffeine worked faster. "Not quite yet," he says, his tone clipped. He strides past Cameron, her face a distraught moue, walks out through the balcony, somehow scrambles over the low divider without spilling the coffee, and goes into his own office.

He is able to sit at his desk and focus on the paper for about thirty seconds. Then Wilson's up again, through the hallway, and outside Rowan Chase's room. The blinds are drawn, but the door is open a few inches.

Wilson has seen a lot of death. He's seen a lot of people who are as good as dead, past the point of no return. Rowan Chase has been drifting in and out of consciousness for at least a week. When Wilson came in today, Rowan's organs were shutting down. It would be only a matter of time before the death rattle shook the life out of the man's skeletal frame.

That moment has come and gone. The room is silent. Wilson wonders if Chase even came, or if he let his father die alone. He pushes the door open and stops in his tracks.

With a pang, Wilson sees Chase standing in the corner of the room. He looks tired, and very young. His eyes are wide. He is staring intently at a point somewhere above Rowan's head.

"Chase," Wilson says.

"Seven minutes ago," Chase says. His expression never changes. "I called it."

Wilson's eyes widen. "You…"

Chase's eyes meet Wilson's. Wide eyes stare into wide eyes, crackling emotion hanging in the space between them. Chase's eyes are dry, to Wilson's surprise. Chase shrugs. "I was here," he says.

"Oh," Wilson says, helplessly. The familiar feeling washes over him, the need to heal and resolve issues, to make death better. He is drawn to Chase; the pull is actually physical. He catches himself making the motions to hug Chase, and stops himself in time, settling for clasping the younger man's arm. "I'm sorry," he says honestly.

Chase shrugs again, effectively dislodging Wilson's hand. "Thanks." He clears his throat. "I'd better get going. Everything's taken care of here. Um. Thanks." Shaking his hair across his face (obscuring his eyes) he walks around Wilson into the hallway.

Wilson sighs, and moves to pull the sheet over Rowan's face, covering the sunken eyeballs and protruding cheekbones. Let the dead rest in peace. The living certainly can't.

As Wilson walks back into his office, he gets stopped three times by residents seeking consults. He feels his nerves winding up again, like a harp strung too tight. Wilson wonders how much more he can take before something snaps.

The day passes slowly. Wilson's head begins throbbing midmorning. He refuses to take anything for it, even Tylenol. Coffee helps the headache, but makes the tension worse. He finishes half the paper, diagnoses two consult patients (neither terminal, or not quite yet), and makes the rounds of his ward.

Lunch with House is stimulating. His headache goes away, for a little while.

"I suppose Chase's daddy issues are now a thing of the past," House remarks as he limps to the elevator after they've finished eating.

Wilson shakes his head. "You really are an asshole. Can't you show even a little respect? The body's probably not even cold yet."

"Actually, Chase's body is particularly hot. Not that I'm into that sort of thing. Oh wait, did you mean Rowan Chase?" House raises his eyebrows, mocking.

Wilson sighs as he feels the twang of pain along the back of his head, nerves suddenly strung too tight again. "House, I am not in the mood today."

"You have to admit, Chase is pretty hot."

"House…."

"And I know for a fact that you're not too picky when you're drunk and lonely --"

"I have clinic duty now," Wilson interrupts. "You coming?"

"Much as I'd love to, there's a GameBoy in my office that needs tending to. Plus I feel it's only fair to warn Chase that you've got your eye on him. You're quite a libertine, and I'd hate to see you ruin his reputation." House hobbles out of the elevator, leaving Wilson to ride alone to the main floor.

That afternoon, Wilson puts in two hours at the clinic. Normally, he finds dealing with minor aches and pains to be calming. Today, it just makes the headache worse. After the clinic, he takes one last stab at finishing the paper. Five games of computer solitaire and two hours of staring at the same paragraph later, he sighs and gets up. Home is not likely to be more relaxing, but at least the TV and bed are there.

He picks up Vietnamese take-out on the way home. He automatically picks up enough for two, even though it’s just him tonight.

It's almost dark when Wilson pulls up to the squat little apartment building he's living in these days. Clutching the warm paper bag to his chest like a talisman, he fumbles with the lock. He just wants to get in, eat, zone out in front of the television, and go to sleep.

Wilson finally manages to get inside. As the door swings shut behind him, someone stops it with a foot wedged in the jamb. Wilson doesn't turn -- tenants aren't supposed to let uninvited people into the building, but Wilson just can't be bothered right now.

"Dr. Wilson?"

The accent and inflection are familiar, and startling enough to stop Wilson in his tracks. He turns. Chase doesn't look… he doesn't look like someone whose father just died. He doesn't look tired or pained. No slouch, no circles under the eyes, no drawn mouth. If anything, he looks angry. Wilson supposes Chase is here to yell at him. He sighs. Anger is part of the process, he reflects. He’s been yelled at enough in the last two months that he doesn’t really care anymore. Might as well let Chase get it out of his system.

“Chase. Are you all right?”

“Not really.” Chase’s tone is almost petulant.

“Okay. Do you want to come in?”

This elicits a startled look. An invitation was obviously not what Chase expected. “Uh. Yeah. All right.”

Wilson nods and leads the way to his apartment. He experiences a brief flash of embarrassment. This place is hardly luxurious. The walls of the hallway are painted cinder blocks, the carpet is an institutional brown, half the fluorescent lights are missing from the ceiling, and the place smells persistently of cigarette smoke and industrial cleaner. Not the kind of place a wealthy doctor would live in, unless that wealthy doctor was supporting an increasingly staggering number of alimony settlements and legal bills.

Chase glances at the missing lights, and keeps casting curiously accusatory glares at Wilson, but remains silent. Wilson is grateful. He lets himself into his apartment and motions Chase inside. He sets the bag with the food in it on the counter and toes off his shoes. Chase watches him from the doorway. He doesn’t look around the sparsely furnished apartment, but instead watches Wilson with a steady gaze.

“You can close the door,” Wilson tells him. “Have you eaten?”

Again, Chase looks startled. “No.”

“Do you like Vietnamese?”

“…I don’t know. It smells all right.”

“It’s a pretty good restaurant.” Wilson takes out two unmatched bowls from the cupboard, and a bunch of spoons from a drawer. “Can you use chopsticks?”

“Yeah.”

He hands Chase a set of little chopsticks from the bag. He fills one bowl with small amount of each dish and hands it to Chase. “Try that, see if you like it.” He serves himself, not taking much. He never has much of an appetite after work. “You want a beer?”

“No,” Chase says, unconvincingly. Then, “Yes,” sheepishly. And, “Thanks.”

Wilson nods and grabs a six-pack out of the fridge. The fridge contains nothing but beer and leftover takeout of dubious vintage. Snagging the six-pack with a thumb, hoisting his own bowl and grabbing the carton of Singapore noodles, he walks to the couch in the living room. “Come sit,” he calls to Chase. “Bring the rest of the food, will you?”

Chase silently gathers the cartons and sits on the far corner of the couch. They arrange the food on the coffee table. Wilson turns on the television. He flips to a show Julie always watched. Wilson used to hate it, but now he finds he was inadvertently sucked into the storyline. Now he seldom misses it. Tonight’s show is a repeat, but Wilson wants to see it anyway.

Chase snorts. “Gilmore Girls?” he asks.

“Is there something you’d rather watch?” Wilson asks, mildly embarrassed for the second time in less than twenty minutes.

Chase shrugs, and bites the end off a spring roll.

They watch in a silence that is not quite comfortable. It’s not like eating with House. House is chatty and relatively immobile. Chase doesn’t speak. He watches the show, but doesn’t react to it. And he fidgets. He plays with the chopsticks while he chews, twining them around his fingers. He taps his toes to some rhythm that only he hears. He flips his hair, he flutters his eyelashes, and he licks his lips. Wilson watches him out of the corner of his eye. Chase does all these things quite un-self-consciously, as far as Wilson can tell.

After Gilmore Girls, Wilson flips them to a multi-episode marathon of The Antiques Roadshow. Chase eats most of the food, for which Wilson compensates by drinking most of the beer. When they finish the six-pack -- rather, when Chase finally finishes sipping his second beer, after Wilson had impatiently downed four, Wilson brings another six-pack from the fridge. He also tosses Chase an ice cream bar from the freezer. Chase raises an eyebrow.

“Dessert on a stick,” says Wilson, alternating bites of his own bar with sips from his beer. “What? This isn’t the Ritz.”

Chase snorts. “Yeah,” he agrees, but the ice cream bar vanishes quickly enough.

Wilson drinks five beer. Chase has one. They watch ugly dressers and uglier china kittens and strange old umbrellas being assessed. When he finishes the six-pack, Wilson opens a bottle of whiskey that House gave him as a “divorce gift,” pours himself a glass. Chase is still nursing his beer.

By the time the show is over, Wilson is very drunk. He’s a blunt man when sober, but he does have some inhibitions. Alcohol removes the inhibitions but leaves all the bluntness intact.

“Shouldn’t you be mourning?” Wilson asks after the TV has been off for less than five seconds.

“What?” Chase asks, not quite angry in his utter astonishment.

“Don’t you have family to be with? Arrangements to make?”

Chase stiffens and glares. “Fuck you,” he says.

“I just think it’s odd that tonight, of all nights, you end up at my place, eating my food, drinking my beer…”

“Dammit!” Chase stands angrily and throws his beer can at Wilson. He misses, but there’s a few mouthfuls left in the can. Beer splashes on the couch, spatters the sleeve of Wilson’s shirt. “You… you’re worse than he is!”

Wilson doesn’t really need to ask who.

Chase goes on. “Everyone thinks he’s the asshole, but you’re worse. You’re a… a manipulative, mean bastard, but everyone thinks the sun shines out of your ass! Everyone thinks you’re the nice one. And you just let them, don’t you?”

Wilson shrugs and finishes the whiskey in his glass. Even drunk (very drunk), Wilson realizes it’s best to let Chase take out his anger and frustration now.

Chase snorts in disgust. “You’re pathetic, really. Worse than he is. At least he’s got the leg to deal with. You’re an asshole all on your own. I’m beginning to see why House is the only person who can stand being your friend.”

Wilson ponders pouring another drink, but it would probably just make Chase angrier. Wilson wants him to be able to get this out of his system.

“You’re bollocks as a friend, obviously. And bollocks as an oncologist. For God’s sake, my father died in your care!”

Wilson rolls his eyes. He’s used to survivors yelling at him.

Chase changes tactics. “And how many times have you been married?”

Wilson blinks. “Hey now…” he begins.

Chase isn’t stupid, and he wants to hurt Wilson. “This one was, what? Number three? You’re rich and good-looking, and you can’t even keep a woman.”

Wilson tries to tamp down his anger. He knows Chase is only baiting him. The alcohol is making it hard to maintain control, though. He can feel each nerve in his body singing with tension.

“Completely pathetic. I mean, there is nothing in your life that you aren’t failing miserably at.”

Without thinking, Wilson shouts “You let your father die alone!”

“I visited him!” Chase yells back. “I went to see him as often as I could! More often than I wanted to!”

“He was dying! I -- ” Wilson stops abruptly. He takes a breath. “Look,” he says. “All I’m saying is you really gave the impression that you don’t care.”

Chase stares down at Wilson, who is still on the couch. “I don’t,” he replies tonelessly.

“He was your father.”

“He was never part of my life.”

“Did that really matter?”

“Yeah. Of course it matters. I was a kid. My mother was helpless. He left. Nothing else matters.”

Wilson rubs the bridge of his nose. “I wish…”

Chase turns away. “Thanks for the food,” he says in a clipped voice.

Wilson sighs and hauls himself off the couch, swaying a little. “Wait,” he says. But Chase is already halfway to the door. Wilson lurches after him. “Just… wait.”

Chase stops and turns around, his expression petulant and haughty. Wilson struggles to remember what he had been about to say. The words have fled. He didn't think he was that drunk, but he can barely stand upright. Looking into Chase’s eyes, he feels the day’s tension tugging at his nerves, pulling them taught. Something in Chase’s expression touches that tension, somehow. He doesn’t ease it, that’s for sure. It’s as though Chase is running his hands, his elegant fingers, over the taught strings of Wilson’s nerves. Playing him. Making something that is not quite music.

Wilson stares at him, at a loss.

Chase snorts with something like disgust and walks away. He closes the door behind him. Wilson can hear him drive away. He sways and leans against the wall for support. What, he wonders, just happened here? He closes his eyes briefly, but the room spins invisibly around him.

He walks slowly and carefully to the bathroom. It’s nothing like the large, clean bathroom in the house he shared with Julie. It’s small and cramped, and Wilson hasn’t cleaned it since he moved in. But the water pressure’s decent, so it’s not too bad. Wilson turns on the shower. While he waits for the hot water, he strips, piling his clothes haphazardly on top of the hamper.

He turns the water as hot as he can stand, letting it roll over his head and shoulders, trying to relax. His back and neck are tense as a bowstring, the arrow digging into his brain.

Wilson washes carefully, hoping the motions will loosen his nerves. Instead, they just get wound more tightly. His whole body is completely rigid with it. Wilson looks down, almost against his will, and sees that his cock is hard. He’s even a bit surprised, given how much he’s had to drink.

His hand drifts unconsciously along the length of it. He shivers, despite the steam; his nerves tighten. He wraps his hand firmly around his cock, pulling harshly. Get this over with.

It takes a long time. He has had a lot to drink. But he needs this. Needs some kind of relief or he’ll never get to sleep tonight. He rolls through all his usual fantasies in his head. He tries out different mental images, memories of touches or glances, dreams and desires that only ever existed in his mind. He’s at the edge, right at the edge, his whole body stiff as stone, aching for release. He moans in frustration.

Then he thinks about Chase’s hands. His face. In an instant, Wilson imagines Chase spread on Wilson’s bed, spread for him, rosy lips open, begging. He imagines holding Chase down, fucking him from behind, pulling his head back to kiss him.

It’s enough. Wilson’s cock pulses in his hand, spurting ropes of come onto the tile. After, he shakes and can barely stand. The tension is completely gone. He barely remembers stumbling into bed and collapsing, not even bothering to pull on boxers and a tee-shirt, and falling asleep.

The next morning, Wilson recognizes this as a minor miracle. He hasn’t slept through the night in months.

At the hospital, Wilson goes through the day in a good mood. He charms all the nurses and residents. He finishes the paper he’d been working on. His consults go well, though the clinic is a welcome break. But even dealing with death isn’t so bad today.

All day, Wilson is aware of Chase watching him. It’s immeasurably uplifting. He doesn’t like Chase, not really. But having this young, unsure and arrogant child on his back makes things bearable. Chase will never soothe his strung-out nerves. But somehow, without (Wilson suspects) actually being aware of it, Chase plays his nerves, plucks them and plays them, making something not quite musical. He’s not quite an angel, and Wilson is not quite a harp, but absolute definitions are overrated as far as Wilson is concerned.

He meets Chase’s wide gray eyes. He scowls at being noticed and walks off. Wilson smiles as he contemplates the comforts of uncertainty.

***

My beta reader abandoned me at the eleventh hour! *glares at obscuranb* Wherefore art thou, Obscura? Naturally, any suckiness is entirely her fault. ;)

Jooster!

2005-10-15T04:12:20Z

I... can't believe I actually wrote this. But here it is. And I think I'm addicted. *wibbles*

Title: Jeeves and the Practical Demonstration
Author: Nuala
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster… God help me.
Rating: hard-ish PG-13.
Summary: A missing chapter, assuming that Bertie opts for the milk train rather than confronting the formidable Aunt Agatha at the end of "The Mating Season."
Warnings: Ostensibly, none.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Thanks: Humble gratitude and chocolate cake to blandine, privatetentacle and obscuranb for the aural beta. This is dedicated to peak_in_darien, whether she wants it or not.
A/N: I blame peak_in_darien. And Hugh Laurie, and Stephen Fry. In that order. P.G. Wodehouse -- God rest his soul -- is entirely blameless. I never, ever would have slashed these two, and I slash everyone. But then came Hugh and Stephen, too adorable for words, in the television series. I love them now as I loved them then, but I still wouldn't have slashed them. I think. At any rate, more recently I ran across peak_in_darien through the House fandom. I was quickly seduced to the dark side. All I can say in my defence is at least it's not RPS. Yet.
As a further note, I am aware that my prose style is nowhere near as fabulously brilliant as Wodehouse's. This is but a pale imitation of the master. Any criticism, the nitpickier the better, on language or tone would be very muchly appreciated.

***

The affair at Deverill Hall having been concluded satisfactorily on all counts, it was a distinctly chipper Bertram Wooster riding forth on the two-fifty-four milk train. Having escaped by the skin of one's teeth from betrothal to one Madeline Bassett will do wonders for a chap's constitution, despite the rather abrupt nature of one's departure. I had gotten, post-haste, quite over the ridiculous notion of giving Aunt Agatha the old Childe Roland treatment. After all, I had not the distinct advantage enjoyed by Esmond Haddock in his battle charge, that being the sensational effects of popular acclamation leading to a rather peppery outlook re one's aunts. With this lack in mind, I submitted to Jeeves's guidance and beat a hasty retreat from what was, ultimately, a lost cause. A Wooster never retreats, but oftentimes a strategic withdrawal in the face of certain defeat is the wisest choice.

The voyage back to one's own hearth, particularly after strenuous trials, is always restorative. Despite the late hour, and my unceremonious departure, I was cheered by contemplating the warm bed awaiting its master's return, the nightcap to hasten the sleep that knitteth up the ravelled sleeve of care, and the renewed attentions of Jeeves after his brief stint as Gussie's man.

That thought brought my happy reflections to a quick stop. Jeeves, of course, would not arrive until tomorrow. Until then, the tender care of yours truly would be entirely self-provided. While it was a sight better than having Catsmeat attending me, as I could personally witness, it was still a sore blow to realize that I would have to spend one more day without Jeeves. The man is dashed handy to have around, and I found myself missing him with the yearning of the hart for crystal waters.

By the time the train rolled into the station, I had managed to rally my spirits sufficiently to hie myself into a cab with as much pep and vigour as could be expected of a man just off the milk train out of Deverill hall.

As anyone can tell you who's been on the front lines of the war between the sexes, a tired warrior is suceptible to wild flights of fancy. Seeing things that aren't really there, you understand. Not an enjoyable experience, but one a seasoned warrior such as Bertram Wooster can generally handle. Still, it gave me a terrific start to see, from the back of the cab, Tuppy Glossop on an out-of-the-way street corner. Ordinarily, the sight of a fellow Drone on a London street would hardly be remarkable. It was still an obscenely early hour, of course, but many Drone missions hinge on an element of surprise attainable only by action at unusual hours.

No, the startling, might I say shocking thing about Tuppy's being on a street corner at this ungodly hour was the company he was keeping. And by 'company,' I mean a strapping young man in a smoking jacket. And by 'keeping,' I suppose I really mean 'locked in the kind of tender embrace which young men typically reserve for young ladies.'

They were half in shadow, but the singular shape of Tuppy's head is unmistakeable to an observant eye. Moreover, I recognized his blue suit and red waistcoat which I have heard Jeeves sigh over many a time when their paths chanced to cross. He was pressed into his young man with a passion I have seldom seen, despite my own frequent forays into the realm of romance.

If you had said, at that moment, that B. Wooster was one utterly and completely flabbergasted bird, you wouldn't have been far off. I believe my lower jaw actually connected with the floor of the cab as we drove past that shadowy corner. The mind reeled, and continued to reel as I pulled up, hoofed it up to the flat, and seated myself on the chesterfield with a hefty nightcap in hand.

The reeling did not cease until many more nightcaps had been quaffed. In fact, I believe the reeling stubbornly kept right on until I had crept onto the bed and nodded off.

Now typically, when sleep comes about because of a friendly relationship with strong drink just before the Sandman's arrival, I sleep undisturbed by dreams. Not so much as a ripple to interrupt the needful slumber, and I have to say that's the way I like it. When one sleeps, one wants to rest, you see, not be the leading man in a bunch of nonsense plays on the stage of one's sleeping mind.

Alas, tonight was not a night for the rest and restoration of the Wooster mind. I can only suppose that the odd vision of Tuppy and that young man on the street corner, combined the excitement of the last few days, had roused my brains to the point where they simply weren't willing to say, 'Well, my dear Bertie, you've certainly earned your forty winks tonight, we'll just let you alone until well after noon.' Instead, the fevered mind made a continuous parade of the most outlandish and arousing images. Decency forbids me to mention the details of said images, which would cause the most hardened sailor to blush like a young bride. All I need mention is that they involved one Bertram Wooster in similar circs to those in which I had seen Tuppy Glossop a few hours prior to the head hitting the pillow. Not at all, in other words, the long and healing rest I so sorely needed.

I believe I tossed and turned, shunning the horrid daylight and bemoaning the existence of my own brain (feeble as it is), for many hours before Jeeves finally arrived with the heavy luggage. I first became aware of his presence when he shimmered into the room with a Good Morning Sir and one of his marvellous morning-after draughts. I was almost tempted, for the first time ever, not to partake. Now you may be saying to yourself, 'What kind of supreme ass would refuse Jeeves's famous resorative upon waking after a night of traditional indulgence?' Truly, there is a first time for everything, and I can only say that I had no desire to clarify the image of Tuppy's Greek embrace in my mercifully opaque memory.

Still, in a moment of weakness, I downed it in one gulp. Sometimes the comfort of the body wins out over the peace of the mind.

After the usual starts and stops brought on by the draught, it all came rushing back, of course. My eyes nearly boggled right on out of their sockets, a thing which has seldom happened to me even before my morning tea. Jeeves, being a powerfully observant fellow, noted my distress immediately.

'Is something the matter, sir?'

'I should say something's the matter, Jeeves!' I replied with unaccustomed gusto.

'Indeed, sir?'

I frowned. 'Of all the times you have said "Indeed, sir" to me, Jeeves, this is above and beyond the most inappropriate. I am, in fact, hanging onto my hard-won sanity by a thread, and all you can say is "Indeed, sir"?'

'My apologies, sir. I was reflecting on the positive outcome of the Deverill hall affairs, and was under the impression that all had fallen in your favour. Might I inquire, sir, as to the nature of your current mental turbulence?'

'Well you might inquire, Jeeves! Do you know what I saw as I was driving home?'

'I'm afraid not, sir.'

'I should say not. On the way home, I saw -- you might want to sit down for this, Jeeves.'

'I prefer to remain upright, sir, if you don't mind.'

'Well, don't blame me if your knees give right out, then.'

'Certainly not, sir.'

'All right then. Here it goes: last night I saw… Tuppy Glossop,' I said, conferring the name with an ominous tone I'd only ever used for the blighter's father.

'Most alarming, sir.'

'No, no, Jeeves! You are deliberately misunderstanding me.'

'My apologies, sir.'

'Now pay attention, and I really must add that one ought to be seated for this kind of revelation. Last night I saw Tuppy Glossop standing on a street corner, and he was…' Now here was where the famed Wooster wit failed me, and I found myself at a complete loss for words. How to put into civilized terms what I'd seen? More to the point, how to do it so as to not shock Jeeves, not frail soul by any stretch of the imagination, but whose sensibilities might well be mortally scandalized by the mere mention of Tuppy's unmentionable indiscretion?

I glanced at Jeeves. It really would not do to shock him into a fit of apoplexy. The mind reels to consider someone as sensitive as Jeeves in the care of a sour old nerve doctor like Sir Roderick Glossop, which was surely the fate awaiting him if I didn't go about this the right way. My normal course of action in situations like these, that is to say, consulting Jeeves and relying on his typically flawless proposals, was obviously out of the question. Well, the Wooster wit is famed for a reason, and it was going to take every scrap of mental power at my disposal to come up with a solution.

'Sir?' Jeeves asked. He is normally the very picture of patience itself, but I could see that waiting to hear the dreadful thing I was about to tell him was testing him.

'Patience, Jeeves,' I advised. 'Trust me, you don't want this kind of thing introduced to you abruptly.'

'If you'll allow it, sir, I believe myself to be equal to any revelation you might have concerning Mr Glossop,' Jeeves said in a queer tone of voice.

'I say, Jeeves, that's rather hasty of you. This thing… that is to say, what Tuppy was up to… well, it's rather shocking,' I told him.

'Perhaps if you were to tell me, sir,' Jeeves said, rather pointedly, I thought, 'it would bring you some relief.'

'Well, it's not myself I'm worried about, now is it?' I asked. 'This is for your benefit, Jeeves, not my own comfort. It would make me much happier to just forget the matter entirely.'

'If you feel that way, sir, perhaps you ought not say anything,' Jeeves suggested.

'No, Jeeves, I think I am in more desperate need of your advice than ever,' I replied. 'I simply don't know how I shall ever face Tuppy again in light of… that is to say… what he was doing…'

'Sir?'

I frowned. 'You know, Jeeves, I am always quick with words.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And yet here I find myself at an utter loss! There are quite simply no words to describe what I saw Tuppy doing. It's really rather maddening.'

'I see, sir. Perhaps you could show me what he was doing, sir?'

'Show you? Good God, Jeeves!' I sputtered. 'That you would even suggest such a thing implies that you have absolutely no idea whatsoever as to the nature of what I saw Tuppy doing.'

'Indeed, sir,' Jeeves said in a strange tone, as though he didn't quite believe me.

'I tell you, Jeeves, your mind, sharp as it is, would boggle at the very suggestion.'

'I doubt that, sir.'

'Jeeves, you know not of what you speak.'

'I find speech to be a rather limited mode of communication in situations like this, sir.'

'Are you saying you want me to show you what Tuppy was doing?'

'I believe it would promote a greater understanding of your situation, sir, and this would allow me to serve you as best I can.'

There are times when I am convinced that Jeeves's wonderful brain is simply not worth putting up with his stubbornness. I was of half a mind to take up arms over it right then and there, and let him know that he was right out of line. It has often been said of Bertie Wooster that he is as bold as brass when it comes to upholding the feudal spirit, and he is not the kind of soft, stupid gentleman who is ruled by his butler. However, the hour was still exceedingly early, all things considered, and it had been a rather rough and startling night. One could tell that Jeeves was not prepared to back down without a prolonged verbal duel, and I chose at that moment to fly the white flag and oblige him.

No doubt I would regret it when Jeeves swooned from the shock and I would be forced to fetch the smelling-salts from the kitchen myself.

'Very well, Jeeves,' I said, 'you shall have your demonstration. Come here.'

'Here, sir?'

'Closer, right next to the bed. There you are.' I hauled my poor carcass out of the tangled sheets. I noticed Jeeves casting his eye over the master's clothes, the same suit he had been wearing when departing Deverill Hall the night prior. 'Never mind my clothes, Jeeves, let's just get this over with.'

'Yes, sir.'

'So, I saw Tuppy last night, standing on a street corner with a young man, and he was… well, he was doing this.' I put my arms around Jeeves's shoulders with some difficulty. He is remarkably tall and broad.

'Was this all Mr Glossop was doing, sir?'

'Not exactly, Jeeves.'

'Perhaps you ought to show me exactly what you witnessed, sir,' Jeeves said. 'If my perception is incomplete, then I will be in less of a position to advise you on dealing with Mr Glossop in the future.'

'I suppose you're right, as usual. Well, then.' I clasped Jeeves to my chest just as I'd seen Tuppy and his paramour doing, and placed a definite kiss on his mouth.

'There,' I said firmly. 'That was what I saw Tuppy doing.'

'Really, sir?' asked Jeeves. 'I must admit my surprise at your shock. A small peck on the lips of a dear friend or relation is hardly a scandalous event.'

'You say that because you weren't there, Jeeves. I can assure you, it was more than a "peck," as you put it.'

'Forgive me, sir, but I'm afraid I simply don't understand why such a thing would be so very disturbing to you, and as such I am in no position to offer advice.'

I sighed to indicate my annoyance at his wording. 'Very well, Jeeves,' I said, and leaned in again and this time I rallied the famous Wooster nerve and kissed him with gusto. The arms tightened, the breath quickened, the eyes fluttered shut. I realized, with a shock, that Jeeves had already had his tea that morning, if my sense of taste was to be trusted. I would have taken Jeeves to task about his taking tea before he even wakes his master, but my tongue was presently occupied.

You are to understand that we were pressed quite up against one another. I thought this only appropriate, as it reflected the relative positions of Tuppy and his young man. However, it was becoming apparent to me that these circumstances could not go on much longer. Certain aspects of the male physique are subject to stimulation during activities such as the one I was demonstrating to Jeeves, and in a moment or two Jeeves was going to become intimately aware of the demonstration's effect on his master.

Unfortunately, such stimulation has the side effect of drawing the blood away from the brain. My own brain being not entirely sharp in the first place due to a combination of shock, lack of sleep, and predisposition, was rather slow off the mark that morning. I had misjudged the timing of withdrawal from the demonstrated embrace, and the result was a pressing into Jeeves's leg of my reaction to the embrace.

In such situations, it is really imperative to terminate the proceedings with grace and dignity. My extensive experience with finacées had made that much obvious to me, and it was a lesson I was not about to forget simply because my collaborator was Jeeves. I attempted to pull away, intending to put the matter behind us. Jeeves's intelligence is matched only by his discretion, and I had no fear of that quarter at all. It was, I found it, impossible to pull away, for Jeeves had his impressively strong arms completely around me by that time, and showed no inclination to release me. In fact, he stepped closer to me in such a way that I found my physical condition was mirrored by Jeeves.

If you have been following my memoirs diligently, you will have noted my utter propriety at all times. The Woosters are clean-minded, and not given to indecent speech. As such, I find it is necessary to omit what happened next. I need only say that it was auspicious that this demonstration took place directly next to my bed, and that all aunts, friends and well-wishers were occupied elsewhere that morning.

That afternoon, Jeeves convinced me to take some air. I did not want to, of course, but he was rather desperate by that time to unpack the luggage and put the bedroom to order again. As I was in an obliging mood due to the morning's activities, I set off for the Drones at about half three.

Naturally, Tuppy was the first one I saw in the door. He was rather shocked that I insisted on buying him several rounds and toasting him repeatedly, but I felt I owed him a great deal, and a Wooster always repays his debts. Sometimes a practical demonstration is the greatest inspiration.

***

Jeeves cordially invites you to read and review.

Turkey Day!

2005-10-10T19:32:40Z

Happy Thanksgiving, Canada! And to the rest of the world as well.

I am grateful for so very much. All things considered, I have a blessed existence: Incredible friends, wonderful family (including the Best Husband In The World), work at a bookstaore that I really enjoy, a potential career in academia, most of my health intact, more financial security than a lot of folks. Despite my seemingly incessant grumbles, I am happy. Life is good.

May you all be as blessed. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

venting

2005-10-02T14:05:51Z

Things that suck about this week:

- I was diagnosed with a medical condition that messes up my hormones and makes me functionally infertile, which was a psychological blow. I can't afford the drugs needed to treat it and my insurance doesn't cover them. The cheaper drugs I'm taking as a stopgap measure (to prevent the condition from turning precancerous) are making me bloated and very irritable.

- I didn't get to see Serenity with the SVG on Friday. I still haven't seen it. I don't know when I'll be able to see it. I've already been spoiled by a co-worker who has never watched the show. My rl friends and flist are squeeing about it endlessly.

- I've been working at the bookstore so much trying to make ends meet that I can't finish my dissertation chapter, I haven't finished the homework for the one class I'm taking, I never see my friends and have little down time.

- I stupidly forgot to pay what I owe for tuition on Friday, which means a big fat late fee will be slapped onto my bill. Plus I don't know if I actually have the money for it anyway, after I pay rent, which was due Saturday.

Things that are good:

- I'm seeing The Arcade Fire live tonight, which is awesome.

- None of my problems are really that serious. They just suck. Things could be so much worse, and many people on my flist are dealing with far more problems with far more grace. Y'all are an inspiration to me. {h} Thanks for reading, sweeties.

meme!

2005-09-28T05:07:03Z

When you see this on your flist, quote Firefly.

Mal: "We're not gonna die. We can't die, Bendis. You know why? Because we are so... very... pretty. We are just too pretty for God to let us die."

...and indeed they are. *nods*

Smallville fic: "Switch" [NC-17] Clark/Lionel

2005-09-21T13:46:20Z

My poor, negelcted first lj fandom. It's okay, sweetie, I'm here now. *huggles* I've wanted to write this for a long time now. The challenge, for me, was how to make Lionel willingly bottom.

Title: Switch
Author: Nuala
Pairing: Clark/Lionel; other pairings mentioned
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: dubious consent
Summary: Red!Clark; bottom!Lionel. PWP-ish.
Disclaimer: The boys, and everything else from Smallville, are not mine. I'm not making money off them either, just playing around.
A/N: Thanks to the amazing obscuranb for the beta. Any remaining errors are mine, not hers.

***

Clark rode off on his dad's old motorbike. The anger he felt towards his parents -- how dare they try to control him, those ridiculous, pathetic hicks -- was fading before he'd gone more than a half-section. The fierce, mindless ecstasy of freedom ran through his blood. The sense of speed, of his own power, of this world's infinite possibility made him laugh out loud. He could do anything he wanted, he could take what he wanted as easily as plucking an apple from a tree.

What did he really want? He mused as the wind whipped his hair back from his face. Possessing things was boring; he'd found only a temporary joy that vanished as soon as he became bored. So, what to do?

Clark grinned wickedly. He could always do Lana. He contemplated that for a moment -- taking Lana, holding her down and using her, spending his pleasure on her soft, lovely body.

The idea held remarkably little appeal. Before, when he'd been the old Clark Kent, he'd thought that he wanted her. Now he had complete access to his own desires, no morals or delusions or lifelong habits to get in the way. He knew what he really wanted.

Lex.

Clark's grin returned, desire mixed with wickedness. He turned the motorbike towards Luthor mansion and picked up speed.

***

Lionel sat in the study, a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice in his hand. He sipped, savouring its sweetness on his tongue, sliding luxuriously down his throat. He might not be able to see anymore, but his other senses were still intact. Why not enjoy them? Lionel never took luxury for granted -- he knew what it was to be poor and desperate, to live on a subsistence level. He knew about pain, and abuse, and despair. Despite his background, he'd clawed his way to the top. Anyone who didn't claw his way up, Lionel suspected, was simply too weak, lazy or stupid to do so.

He knew what it was like on the bottom -- the powerlessness, the submissiveness of it. Distinctly unLuthor-like. He would fight like a tiger to keep himself on top.

He would also fight to protect Lex's right to be on top. Lex didn't know it, that much was obvious, but he was still a child. Luthors are always on top was the first and last lesson of his life. Lex would see, in time, that all Lionel had ever done was for Lex. To protect him, to secure his future. If Lionel had been harsh, well, the world was much harsher. Lex needed to learn how to survive and thrive in the cutthroat world of big business. He would thank Lionel some day, when he truly grew up. Lionel was a patient man; he could wait.

Lionel took another sip and turned his thoughts to Lex's current situation. It was … less than desirable. Relocating to Smallville had been Lionel's idea, true. Lex had needed to be removed from Metropolis, at least for a time. He'd needed to learn discipline, and to respect Lionel's authority. Instead, Lex had bucked that authority at every turn, even hesitating when Lionel himself lay trapped and injured in the storm. Lionel felt his mouth curl in a pleased half-smile. Every inch a Luthor.

At least Lex had abandoned most of his wilder pastimes. As far as Lionel -- and his fleet of surveillance personnel -- could tell, the only throwback to Lex's Metropolis days was his taste for secretly bedding a different woman at least once a month. Lionel frowned. He had a theory about why Lex felt the need to do this, and Lionel knew it would have to be corrected soon. Soon, but with the greatest care. Lex was proud, and probably in denial -- God knows Lionel had been, at that age -- but he would learn how to have his cake and eat it too. A desire for women and men was perfectly natural, as far as Lionel was concerned. It could even be indulged, discreetly, as long as one married a tolerant woman and got her with child regularly.

Lionel wondered how he would teach Lex this lesson. His infatuation with the Kent boy had gone on long enough already, and his denial of it through bedding every pretty girl he met during his day trips to Metropolis was going to backfire sooner or later (diamond earrings notwithstanding). Not that Lionel couldn't see what Lex saw in the boy. Body like a Greek god, expressive eyes that would make any woman jealous, and a lovely curved mouth that was simply formed for sex. Beautiful. Lionel swallowed the last of the juice with relish. At least Lex had inherited Lionel's refined appreciation for the male form.

Lionel's fascination was more than aesthetic, though. Aside from Lionel's own role in Clark Kent's adoption, the boy was something of an enigma. It seemed young Kent been involved in almost every significant event to occur in Smallville since the day of the meteor shower. Lionel's world had been torn apart that day -- his only known son brutally deformed, rendered helpless and laughably weak. Terrible. But it had led to meeting the Kents, which had given him the key to Smallville. More importantly, it had drawn his attention to Clark Kent and all the mysteries surrounding the boy. Lionel knew that mysteries could be a source of power. He had a number of specialists following the Kents and their son; in time, he would learn Clark Kent's secrets.

On that thought, Lionel heard the study's door thrown violently open and felt a gust of wind blow through the room. He rose to his feet, cane held in front of his body. "Who's there?" he shouted.

"Mr. Luthor?"

Lionel recognized the voice and lowered the cane. "Why hello… Clark, isn't it?" he asked, his tone light and pleasant.

"Yes," Clark said. Lionel cocked his head to one side. The boy sounded like he'd grown up overnight. There was a confidence in that voice that hadn't been there before. "I've come for Lex," Clark went on. "Tell me where he is."

Lionel was startled, but gave no outward indication. Clark's voice held an unmistakeable note of command. "I haven't seen Lex today." He smirked, tapping his dark glasses. "So to speak, that is." He kept his tone carefully light, betraying nothing. It was possible this boy was more dangerous than Lionel's lapdogs had given him credit for. "I think he's gone into Metropolis for the day."

"I want him. Now." A note of real threat had entered Clark's tone. Curiouser and curiouser, thought Lionel.

Lionel turned to where Clark's voice was coming from and took a step forward, confronting him. "Well, I'm afraid I'm the only one here, Clark. Is there something I can help you with?"

Suddenly, Lionel felt the oddest sensation, as though a ray of fire was sweeping over his body. A rippling heat touched him, lingering on his chest, moving over his thighs, then settling on his groin. What the hell, Lionel thought.

"Yeah," Clark said, his voice deep and rich and commanding, "there's something you can help me with."

Lionel shook off the sensation. "I'd be glad to help you, Clark," Lionel said, his voice steady and devoid of inflection. "Any friend of Lex's is a --"

Lionel's speech was cut off abruptly as he was grabbed by the shoulders and pushed. The sensation this caused was similar to the feeling of sitting on a Concorde jet during takeoff. Almost before his body could register the feeling of rock-solid hands connecting with his shoulders, Lionel was being pressed against the wall on the far side of the room.

It had to be Clark doing this, but the body pressing Lionel's into the wall was as hard as stone. Impossible, thought Lionel. No human body could be that hard. He was completely trapped between two unmovable objects. It was obvious that Lionel had no chance of escaping. His mind spun with the implications of Clark's speed and strength.

He had been right about some things, it seemed. In that, he was still several steps ahead of Lex. The thought pleased Lionel.

Then Clark shifted against him, pinning him to the wall with one thick arm. His other hand slid down the front of Lionel's chest. Lionel could feel the fabric tear, buttons giving way under Clark's hand. Clark's quickened breathing --he could hear it, could feel it on his cheek -- told Lionel in no uncertain terms what Clark's intentions were.

Luthors are always adaptive, adjusting everything from their tone of voice to their morals depending on the situation at hand. Lionel, the patriarch of the Luthor clan, decided at this point to stop analysing and try to make the most of the situation.

After all, it wasn't that Clark was bad-looking; far from it. He'd seen enough of the boy before he'd lost his vision. Besides, he could still feel Clark's body, young and impossibly hard, against his. He was… aesthetically pleasing. And Lionel had no qualms about the gender of the people he fucked. He did, however, take issue with being, as it were, the bottom in these affairs.

Lionel growled, thrusting his hips against Clark. He felt Clark hesitate at Lionel's unexpected participation. Then, with a low growl, Clark thrust back.

Clark's rough hand found one of Lionel's nipples and gave it a violent twist. Lionel gasped, arching. It had been years… decades since he'd been involved in this sort of thing -- a dalliance with another man. It was generally an activity Lionel regarded as an indulgence of the immature or insecure. But the strong arms across his chest and the thick fingers tweaking his nipple brought such a rush of crackling pleasure that Lionel was seriously reconsidering his stance on the matter.

He writhed against Clark's arms, not to escape but to challenge. Clark responded by grabbing his torso with both hands and holding Lionel's ribcage hard enough to leave bruises. Clark ducked his head down and sucked hard at the juncture where Lionel's neck met his shoulder. Lionel hissed, feeling the blood pool under the skin marked by the boy's mouth.

To level the playing ground, Lionel deftly slid his hand under the fabric of Clark's tee-shirt. Clark didn't stop him, didn't even seem to notice as he continued to maul Lionel's shoulder. Lionel slid his hand up to the neckline, hooked his fingers in the fabric and tugged as hard as he could. It would have hurt a normal person; but against Clark's steely muscle, the fabric tore easily. Lionel pulled it off completely, and ran his hands over Clark's bare skin.

It was better than Scotch, this. Clark's skin was almost hot to the touch, and so incredibly soft that Lionel, with his long experience of fine silk and velvet, was at a loss for comparisons. The muscle that rippled under his touch was hard as marble, but it rippled like water and gave under Lionel's fingers. Lionel quickly found Clark's nipples, and rolled them delicately with his fingers.

This had the desired affect. Clark gasped, pulling away from Lionel's neck and arching back. Clark's grip on Lionel's torso slipped lower, and he pulled them groin-to-groin, grinding hard. Lionel smiled. He could feel Clark's jutting erection against his hip, and his own desire began to coil and hiss and spring to life.

Clark leaned forward and took Lionel's mouth in a hard kiss. Forcing Lionel's lips open, he slid his tongue inside. Lionel was shocked, but as soon as he recovered he responded, giving as good as he got. Their mouths clashed, lips and teeth and tongues colliding in a thoroughly ungentle and completely arousing tangle.

Just as Lionel was really getting into it, Clark pulled away. Before Lionel could speak, or even draw a breath, Clark pushed him again. Faster than thought, he was being pressed into the back of the leather sofa he'd been sitting on before. He felt the dark glasses go flying off his face, and heard them shatter as they hit a stone wall. The leather of the sofa was sensuous beneath the bare skin of his back; Clark's chest against his was just as sensuous, but solid and unyielding. The sensation was intoxicating.

Clark's mouth met his in another wild, rough kiss. Soon, Clark pulled away quickly. Gripping Lionel's hips like a vise, he moved away. Lionel had time to gasp at the absence of that warm, hard chest pressed against his, and to wonder what the hell the boy was up to, when he felt teeth pull at the waistband of his trousers.

Surely not, Lionel thought in the split second before his trousers were ripped from his hips. It hurt -- Lionel wasn't in bad shape by any means, but his body was human, and the fabric required a fair amount of force to tear. He yelled in pain and struggled against the hands than held his hips in place.

The yell turned into an undignified squeak when Clark's mouth closed around Lionel's cock. The brief pain hadn't diminished his erection one iota, and he was dangerously close to orgasm within seconds. Clark was unbelievably talented. His mouth was fabulously hot. Lionel forced himself to focus, trying not to come like an inexperienced youth. He catalogued the sensations: the fever-like heat of Clark's mouth; the strange feeling not of wetness, but of living velvet, as though Clark's saliva was somehow different from an ordinary person's; the scent of sweat and sex; the unforgiving grip on his hips; the smooth leather behind his legs and ass; the tatters of his trousers around his ankles.

It even helped, for a short time. But Clark was so very good. More than not having a gag reflex, it was as though he didn't need to breathe. He had Lionel's cock fully in his mouth and throat, swallowing and humming. It was more than a man could take, really. When Clark's fingers crept from Lionel's hips to the cleft of his ass, he couldn't stop himself -- he started thrusting into Clark's mouth. He came within seconds, pouring himself out into Clark's mouth. It was the most intense orgasm he'd had in… well, a damned long time.

Clark kept sucking on his cock, still highly sensitized from orgasm. Lionel howled and bucked, but Clark held him firmly. The border between pain and pleasure crumbled, and Lionel writhed in agony or ecstasy. It didn't matter which. He clutched Clark's hair, pulling hard. It didn't affect Clark in the least. Lionel felt as though the entire world had narrowed down to this -- his cock and Clark's mouth, and infinitely overpowering pleasure-pain. Lionel experienced dozens of small orgasms, like aftershocks. They shook him to the core. It seemed to go on for hours. Only when Lionel's voice gave out and he was reduced to whimpering did Clark release him. His erection hadn't lost any vigour, despite the rough treatment; Lionel felt a dizzy pride at his own virility.

When Clark let go of his ass, Lionel slid to the ground, his legs no longer capable of holding him up. His mind went pleasantly blank for a few seconds, but then Clark took Lionel's face in his hands. His grip was not painful, but it was powerful -- certainly more than Lionel was capable of withstanding at the moment.

Lionel knew what was coming, even before he heard the short zip of Clark's jeans. Clark's fingers prodded his mouth open. Clark pushed the blunt tip of his erection into Lionel's mouth. Lionel almost choked just from that. He had never, never done this. It was strange and alien and completely un-Luthorlike.

Still, he drew himself up a little. He supposed that a blowjob worth doing was worth doing right.

Opening his mouth, he allowed Clark's cock to slide past his tongue to bump the entrance to his throat. Mercifully, Clark didn't try to push harder. His cock was hot, like his mouth had been. The skin was smooth. He could feel, on his tongue, that Clark was uncircumcised. Lionel could taste slick salt on the back of his throat. He struggled not to gag as he sucked and licked. He knew he wasn't doing nearly as well as Clark had earlier, but Clark seemed to be enjoying it nonetheless. He moaned wantonly and made shallow thrusting motions.

Lionel felt the soft curls below Clark belly brush his nose, smelled their warm musk. He breathed deeply, then sucked Clark's cock into his throat a little. His throat closed, and he gasped for air. But the noises Clark made -- high, keening, needy noises -- made Lionel tamp down his panic and concentrate on making Clark come.

Lionel moved one hand up to cup Clark's balls. "Oh, fuck yes," Clark ground out. Lionel rolled them in his hand, stroking them gently with his fingers. Clark moaned, a low shuddering sound. Lionel slid his finger back, stroking the soft folded skin behind Clark's balls. The noises coming out of Clark were incredibly arousing. He could feel Clark's muscles tensing, his balls pulling up in that tell-tale way, when Clark pulled out of Lionel's mouth with a wet popping sound.

One hand left Lionel's head, the other gripping it in place. Lionel could hear Clark jerking himself off inches from Lionel's face. It was so good, so sweet to hear that Lionel's cock spasmed in a sympathetic orgasm.

Suddenly Clark gave a wrenching groan, and his hot come hit Lionel's face.

To be more precise, it hit his eye.

Lionel gasped and tried to jerk away, but Clark's hand held him in place. Lionel flinched -- he knew this should hurt like a sonofabitch. Once, during his youth, he'd gotten come in the eye of a one-night stand. She'd screamed and clawed at her eye like he'd doused her with acid. Even after several rounds of water and half a bottle of eyedrops, her eye had been swollen and bloodshot. Lionel had even felt slightly guilty about it.

Miraculously, Clark's come did not hurt like a sonofabitch. It didn't even sting. It actually felt pleasant, like manna dropping into his eye.

With a satisfied sigh, Clark released Lionel's head. Exhausted, Lionel slumped back against the sofa. He could hear Clark zipping himself back up.

"Thanks, Mr. Luthor," Clark said, his voice rough and cocky. "I guess I didn't need to find Lex after all. Be seeing you," he said. Lionel heard him walk away, and heard the door close behind him.

He didn't hear much after that. He may have fallen asleep, despite the hard floor and the numerous bruises he now sported.

When Lionel regained consciousness, it was because of the bright sunset light shining in his eyes. Groaning, he raised his hand to cover his eyes and shield them from the light.

With a startled grunt, he opened his eyelids, the quickly narrowed them against the light. "Dear God," he whispered.

He could see.

The red-orange sunset flared through the stained-glass window and hit his face where he lay against the back of the sofa. He could see the office, the desk, his own feet with the remains of his trousers still around them. He could see his own hand as he used it to block the bright light from his sensitive eyes. Every detail of his vision was perfect. If anything, it was better than it had been before he'd lost his sight.

"Fascinating," Lionel muttered to himself. Yet another one of Clark's amazing abilities, and one he was betting no one else knew about, possibly not even the boy himself.

He hauled himself up with as much dignity as he could. It wasn't much -- he was naked, sticky, and sore from the day's activities. But still, he was a Luthor. He gathered up his torn shirt and trousers, and the discarded cane. Seeing the smashed dark glasses against the far wall, he picked up those too. Then he carefully crept to the office door and opened it silently. Seeing no servants around, he darted as quickly as he could to his bedroom.

A long shower and change of clothes, and Lionel was ready for the evening's supper with Lex. He was putting the finishing touches on his hair when he noticed another set of dark glasses on top of the chest of drawers. He hesitated, thinking hard. Coming to a decision, he slipped them on. Grabbing his cane as he left, he hobbled downstairs, pretending to feel his way.

Lex was in the dining room when Lionel arrived.

"Hello, father," Lex said to him as he poured Lionel a glass of orange juice. "Anything happen today?" Lex lifted Lionel's hand and pressed the glass into it.

Lionel sipped the juice, feeling it burn on his rather raw throat. "No, Lex," he said. "Nothing you need to know about." Lionel watched Lex's brow furrow from behind dark lenses. He gave a small smile. "Nothing at all."

***

Luthors don't read and review; you should.

in lieu of fic

2005-09-18T19:21:58Z

*glares at privatetentacle and obscuranb* Where's my beta???

Meanwhile, gakk'd from amazonqueenkate:

1. Reply with your name and I'll respond with something random about you.
2. I'll tell you what song/movie reminds me of you.
3. I'll pick a flavour of jello to wrestle with you in.
4. I'll say something that only makes sense to you and me.
5. I'll tell you my first memory of you.
6. I'll tell you what animal you remind me of.
7. I'll ask you something that I've always wondered about you.
8. If I do this for you, you must post this (the questions) on your journal. You MUST. It is written. (Well, it's written, but nothing's going to happen if you don't.)

new House fic! "Bird of Prey" Stacy/Cameron [NC-17]

2005-09-06T05:06:57Z

Slash! Finally! I blame blandine, obscuranb, privatetentacle and laceymcbain for inspiring me to finish this and post it. I should be asleep, but NOOOO, I had to finish and post this instead! *snerk* Thnx, ladies.

x-posted to house_slash and housefic.

Title: Bird of Prey
Author: Nuala
Pairing: Stacy/Cameron (other pairings mentioned)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: dubious consent, exhibitionism
Spoilers: 1st season, and spoiler-ish speculation for 2nd season
Summary: Cameron's working late, and hurting. So's Stacy.
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize is something I don't own. I am not making any money from this.
A/N: Every fandom needs more femmeslash, including this one -- the boys aren't the only ones who can have fucked-up relationships. Also, I don't necessarily think that Stacy is at all like this -- it's fiction, people -- but I think she has the potential to be similar to this.

***

Stacy wandered through the still-unfamiliar halls of Princeton-Plainsboro. The half-full paper cup of coffee in her hand -- sugar and no milk, these days -- was stone cold. Her head ached, and she was tired, but she knew it would be impossible for her to sleep. There was no real reason for her malaise. She loved her job here. Mark was healthy again.

But she knew what was bothering her. Seeing Greg again, now that the anxiety of Mark's illness was past, was… disconcerting. She hated not knowing where she stood with him.

She'd thought she'd come to terms with the end of their relationship. She had done the right thing, ending it, and Greg knew it, but both of them were too proud to forgive the things that had happened during those last, hellish weeks before the final breakup. Most of the time, she knew that it was over. It had less to do with her, and more to do with Greg's pride. And Greg's pain. The two things that were the driving factors in his existence, the things that didn't really leave room for another person. Stacy was mature enough, and had a high enough sense of her own worth, to know that whatever she'd had with Greg was over forever.

But she couldn't help…. Mark's personality had been shifting, ever since his illness. Their relationship was becoming more and more tense in that all-too-familiar way. She was wavering, and she hated herself for it. She would remember old lovers, comparing, and none had been as passionate and devoted as Greg. It was too easy to fall into the stereotypical pattern -- neglected wife fantasizes about lovers gone by -- and she resisted it.

In the flesh, anyway. At least she hadn't actually touched him, really. They danced around each other like nervous high school kids, never revealing too much, never fully retreating, always baiting each other. It was exhausting. It was beneath them both. Stacy resented Greg for being the cause of it, and hated herself for being weak enough to be drawn into it.

She delicately crushed the paper cup in her hand, the dregs of her coffee running over her skin. She cursed silently, looking around for somewhere to clean up.

She had dropped the ruined cup in a trashcan and was searching for the nearest ladies' room when a figure slumped over a machine in a glass-walled laboratory caught her eye. Stacy immediately recognized the sleeping figure as Dr. Allison Cameron, one of Greg's lackeys. The one who'd dated him. One of Stacy's conversations with James had revealed that the girl had left, and then returned. James hadn't speculated as to why she'd left or returned, and the girl herself hadn't exactly been forthcoming in their first conversation, but Stacy had inferred enough to know what had probably happened. Harassment on Greg's part was unlikely -- not with the way Greg acted around her, careful and distant, like she was either breakable or contagious. No, more likely she'd sacrificed herself, thinking it would make her more desirable, or him more accessible. And then Greg had lured her back, poor girl, Stacy was sure of it. If he'd hired her in the first place, it meant she was the best there was, and Greg would do anything possible to retain her.

So what had made her come back? What had Greg promised her?

Stacy opened the door silently and stepped into the lab. Dr. Camerson didn't move. The hospital was kept cool as a general rule, but this room was noticeably warm. Dr. Cameron wore only a thin blouse, no lab coat or even vest.

Stacy examined the slumbering girl. Fallen asleep over a re-examination of some patient's tests, apparently, trying to see something the others had missed. She sat in a chair, slumped forward to lean on the table, her hair obscuring her face. Even in this state, one could see that Dr. Cameron was undeniably very attractive. Stacy's eye took in the glossy hair, the graceful arms, the slender body of this bright young doctor. She had to be fiercely intelligent, to be working for Greg. Stacy knew she was also vulnerable and sensitive, and easily manipulated, from what she'd seen. It had been obvious to Stacy from the first glimpse she'd had of her why James's eyes softened when he spoke of her, why Dr. Chase followed her with nervous glances.

Suddenly Dr. Cameron looked up, peering at Stacy with mingled confusion and politeness. Stacy was struck by how very young she looked, blinking in the lab's soft light. There were dark circles beneath her eyes. Working late could do that. So could being in love with a wounded jackal.

"Can I help you?" asked Dr. Cameron, her voice thick.

Stacy held up her sticky hand. "Anywhere I can clean up?" she asked.

The girl blinked, then gestured with her chin toward a box of KimWipes on the counter. Stacy wiped her hand in silence. At least none had gotten on the sleeve of her dry-clean-only jacket. She was turning to leave, but instead she moved to face Dr. Cameron. Stacy tilted her head to one side. "What made you come back?" she asked.

"Excuse me?" Dr. Cameron's hand unconsciously smoothed back her hair.

"When you left. What did Greg offer you to get you back?"

Dr. Cameron closed her eyes. "My job," she said tersely, "is none of your business."

"I'm going to be working with Dr. Cuddy on your team's legal liabilities for the next several months at least," Stacy pointed out, "I'm being paid to make your job my business."

The younger woman's eyes opened, resentment snapping through her exhaustion. "Then I suggest you ask Dr. House." She efficiently shut down the machine she sat at. "It's late. I'm going home." She stuffed something into a file and brushed past Stacy, making for the door.

Stacy caught her arm. "Wait," she said. Dr. Cameron looked at her expectantly. Stacy decided to switch tactics. "I know how you feel," she said.

Dr. Cameron's eyebrows shot up, outrage temporarily beating back fatigue. "I beg your pardon?"

"I mean about Greg. I know how… fascinating he can be. I understand how you're drawn to him, how you want to help him. But please believe me, you'll only end up hurt."

"I don't think -- "

"He doesn't know how to be loved," Stacy interrupted softly. Dr. Cameron fell silent, the energy draining out of her almost visibly. They gazed at each other, unfathomable eyes meeting exhausted ones. Stacy marvelled at the strength she felt in the slim arm she still held. Somehow she'd expected Dr. Cameron to feel light and fragile, like a bird. But this was a woman who could turn an unconscious patient, who could cut through bone, who could pound a stilled heart back to life. She had muscle that didn't show until she used it.

She was using it now, pulling out of Stacy's grip. "You have no idea how to love him," she said flatly.

Stacy laughed at this defiant show of naiveté, but it was a sharp, humourless sound. How young this girl was! The enraged look Dr, Cameron shot her quieted the laughter. Stacy recognized the look from her own mirror. It was the look of a woman stripped of her dignity, unable to regain the footing she was once so sure of. It was disconcerting to see it on Dr. Cameron's face.

"Love has nothing to do with Greg's world," Stacy said gently. "He hates everything and everyone, including himself. If you make the mistake of involving yourself emotionally, all he'll do is drag you into his pain." Stacy was surprised at the raw pain in her own voice.

Dr. Cameron's eyes flickered. Her head tilted. "He hurt you," she remarked.

Stacy nodded. "And he'll hurt you. It's how he defends himself," she went on, "how he keeps people at arm's length. He'll never let you through, no matter how hard you try. And you'll carry that pain all your life."

"But you moved on. You loved again." Dr. Cameron's eyes were clouded, struggling to understand.

Stacy shook her head. As she did, she caught a dark shape in the hallway. Was that the figure of a man, standing in the shadows? Was that line of light reflected off a cane?

Stacy turned to Dr. Cameron. "He took a part of me. I'll never get it back."

"Oh." The syllable, more a sigh than a word, held understanding and utter fatigue. The young woman swayed where she stood, almost asleep on her feet. Stacy touched Dr. Cameron's arm again, steadying her.

"I can see what he's doing to you," she told the young woman. "I know he's attracted to you -- you're intelligent and beautiful," she said, raising her hand to delicately lift a lock of hair out of Dr. Cameron's face. She shot Stacy a startled look and tensed, but didn't pull away. Stacy stepped closer, kept her hand on the side of Dr. Cameron's face. Her cheek was soft and almost fever-hot. "I would hate to see you hurt."

"Like you were?" Dr. Cameron's voice was soft, like a child's.

"Like I was," Stacy agreed. Her other hand crept up to the doctor's shoulder, lightly rubbing. "I can feel how tense you are," she said, her voice low. She could see Dr. Cameron responding to the touch, and decided to take a calculated risk. "It's been hard," Stacy told her softly. "I sometimes think about maybe taking another chance on him." The younger woman's eyes widened, startled. "I know," Stacy sighed. "It's stupid. It's impossible. But Mark was sick for so long. And now. We don't… touch anymore. I guess I'm just…"

"Lonely?" Dr. Cameron asked wistfully.

"Yeah," Stacy agreed. She softly stroked the younger woman's shoulders. Stacy's eyes dropped. "I know it's pathetic. I have no reason to feel that way, really, but…"

"I understand," Dr. Cameron said. "Everyone gets lonely," she whispered.

"Allison," Stacy whispered. She dropped her arms to clasp the girl's slim waist, raised her eyes to look at Allison's face, inches away from her own. Her eyes were closed. The young doctor leaned heavily in Stacy's arms.

"I'm just so tired," Allison murmured.

"I know, honey," Stacy said soothingly. "It's been a long day."

"Mmm." Allison nodded. "I need to go home…" she said, pulling halfheartedly away.

Stacy slowly leaned forward, her eyes locked on Allison's slack lips. She pressed a soft kiss to them. The younger woman immediately pulled back, shock written on her features.

Stacy took a step back, murmuring, "God, I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me. Maybe I'm going a little crazy, working with Greg all day." Which was terribly true, of course. "And I can't count on support from Mark, not now. I don't have anyone to turn to…" Stacy said quietly, letting a hint of a sob steal into her voice.

"Oh," said Allison, another soft exhalation.

"I just thought… I didn't think. I just did what felt good, what felt right, and it was obviously the wrong thing. I'm sorry. Truly. I should go," Stacy said tremulously, turning to leave. She thought she saw a figure down the hallway retreat further into the shadows.

A hand on her arm stopped her. "Wait," Allison said, breathlessly. Stacy turned back to face her. The young woman's eyes were hooded, fatigue dragging her eyelids down. "Please don't feel badly," she went on in a concilliatory voice. "I'm not offended. Just surprised. I'm tired, and to tell the truth, I was a little angry with you before. I didn't know how much you were hurting, and you… took me by surprise. I know what it can be like when someone you love is sick, and I certainly know what it's like to try to deal with Dr. House. I'd like to be there for you, if I can."

Stacy smiled bravely. "I'd like to spend time with you," she said. "But right now, I think I want… I need more than a shoulder to cry on." She hung her head. "I… I'm so sorry. I'd really better go -- "

Stacy was interrupted by Allison's hands clasping her face, lifting her head. "Don't go," she whispered. "I understand. I can help…" Her voice trailing off, Allison seemed to steel herself, then leaned in and returned the chaste kiss of a few moments ago.

Stacy let her take the lead. Allison's lips were dry; she moved them so tentatively over Stacy's mouth that Stacy had to remind herself not to take over. Don't scare her off, she thought to herself.

Allison turned her head at an angle, opening her lips and deepening the kiss, closing her eyes. Stacy stole a quick glance back into the hallway before circling her arms around the younger woman's waist. Allison leaned into the embrace, allowing Stacy to bear up most of her slight weight. Stacy pulled her close, slowly, and began moving her arms up and down Allison's back, gently caressing.

Allison seemed to be soothed by this, relaxing even more into Stacy's grip. Her mouth softened beneath Stacy's, and Stacy, daring, slid the tip of her tongue across Allison's teeth. The intake of breath from Allison was not quite a gasp, and sounded like encouragement, so Stacy gently slid her tongue deeper, caressing, seducing.

After a moment, Stacy pulled back, still clasping Allison closely. Allison's eyes remained softly closed, her head lolled slightly, her breathing coming slowly and gently. Stacy allowed herself a small smile before leaning in to plant kisses along the smooth white skin of Allison's neck. This was so different from being intimate with a man, and Stacy felt drunk with the thrilling strangeness of it. The young doctor received her attentions passively, encouraging them only by a slight arching of her back and a series of soft moans almost too quiet to be heard.

Stacy decided to up the ante, shifting Allison's weight to one arm and reaching the other hand around to stroke its way up Allison's ribcage. She stopped just short of cupping her breast. Continuing to mouth Allison's neck, Stacy could feel lace and wire through the thin fabric of Allison's blouse. Carefully, slowly, she slid her fingers up and over the small, soft mound of the other woman's breast. This earned a louder moan, only half in protest, and a furrowing of Allison's brow.

Stacy murmurred, "Tell me to stop and I will," against Allison's skin.

"Mmmm," came the breathy reply.

It wasn't an obvious protest. Stacy moved her fingers up to where the low-cut blouse ended and the heated skin of Allison's chest began. She ran her fingertips lightly over the exposed skin, marveling at how soft and hot it was, before slipping them smoothly into the cup of Allison's bra.

Allison gasped softly and writhed weakly in Stacy's grasp. "Shhh, shhh," Stacy soothed into the girl's ear, allowing her lips to brush it the tiniest bit. She rubbed her fingers slowly around Allison's breast for long moments, until she was relaxed and calm once more, almost asleep in Stacy's arms.

Then Stacy began lightly rubbing Allison's nipple. Allison gasped again, moaned under her breath and arched her back, but remained essentially passive. Stacy continued to circle the hardening nipple with her fingertips, pulling the fabric of the blouse and bra down to expose it to the air. "You're so perfectly beautiful," she whispered in Allison's ear, before moving her mouth down, down to her exposed breast. She gently licked and sucked while her hand played with the other breast. Allison was silent and still, except for a deepening of the breath.

When Allison did move, it was to shift her hips slightly, thrusting them forward. Stacy pulled back and took Allison in both arms once more, pressing a deep kiss to her mouth before backing her gently against the worktable. She carefully lifted Allison until she was seated on the edge of the worktable and leaning against the wall behind it, then slid herself down. She pressed kisses to Allison's collarbone, her bare breasts, over her fabric-covered belly, and along the waistband of her trousers. Without pausing or slowing down, but without speeding up or increasing her intensity, Stacy opened the button and zipper and slid her hand gently in to stoke Allison through her panties.

Allison's breathing hitched, but she didn’t protest so Stacy kept caressing her. Without stilling her hand, she moved her face up to Allison's and kissed her, stroking her tongue inside Allison's soft mouth. The younger woman's eyes never opened.

Stacy's other hand began softly massaging one of Allison's breasts, her thumb going over the nipple again and again. She could feel the young woman's response, feel the wetness in her panties with the hand that ever stopped stroking between her legs. Stacy moved her mouth down to suckle at the other nipple. At the same time, she moved the crotch of Allison's panties to one side and slid her fingers into the soft, wet folds underneath.

Allison moaned, louder this time. "Wait," she said, her voice breathy. "Don't."

"Shhh," Stacy said into the soft flesh of Allison's breast. "Just let me."

Allison moaned and shook her head, but didn't say any more. Her breath was coming faster now, and she moved her body against Stacy's fingers. Stacy kept rubbing and suckling the girl's nipples, stiff under her fingers and tongue. She stroked deeper between Allison's legs, sliding on finger deep inside while her other fingers tickled and toyed with the hard little nub of her clitoris.

"Please… please…." Allison moaned breathily, her body moving in waves against Stacy. Stacy was unrelenting, expertly bringing Allison more and more pleasure. She could feel how wet the girl was, could feel her muscles pulsing and tightening around her finger.

Finally, Allison went perfectly still for one second. "Aaahhh, ah-ah-ah-ahhhhhhhhh…" she groaned, arching her body, pulsing hard against the finger Stacy kept still inside her. "Ohhhhh…" Allison sighed, her body slumping forward into Stacy's arm. She held Allison tenderly, carefully pulling her finger free and refastening her trousers. "Oh my God," Allison whispered brokenly into the crook of Stacy's neck.

"Shhh," Stacy said again. "It's okay, it's okay, you're wonderful," she murmured into Allison's hair. "Shhh. You're so tired. I know. It's okay. Let me drive you home."

"Ohhhhhhh," Allison groaned again, but she allowed Stacy to pull her to her feet. "Wait," she said groggily, "this file… I…."

"We'll drop it at the nurse's station on the way out," Stacy said soothingly. "Here, you can lean on me."

They walked slowly out of the building, Allison leaning on Stacy, who kept a steadying (or perhaps possessive) arm around the younger woman's waist. Stacy deposited the file at the nurse's station, then led them towards the parking lot where her car was. This took them past the shadowy alcove where Stacy thought she'd seen the shadow of a man earlier, but it was empty now. Stacy wondered, but kept walking.

Stacy took Allison to her car and drove them off, heading for the hotel where Stacy had been staying. Allison fell asleep in the passenger sat almost immediately. Stacy allowed herself a satisfied smile.

I hope we break his heart, she thought to herself.

***

Please read & review. Con crit especially welcome.

ETA: After posting this, I came up with a much better ending! As follows:

***

Stacy took Allison to her car and drove them off, heading for the hotel where Stacy had been staying. Allison fell asleep in the passenger sat almost immediately. Stacy allowed herself a satisfied smile.

You can't always get what you want, she thought to herself. But sometimes you find a way to get what you need.

***

Well, I like it better, but the ending has already gotten feedback in the comms, so I won't change it. Time may not be a rigid construct, but sometimes lj is.

friendship

2005-09-02T02:24:09Z

Friendship is sitting together in the middle of a university library reading NC-17 multi-pairing Harry Potter slash on a computer we've pulled three chairs around, trying not to laugh or blush too conspicuously. O_O I loff my friends!

Eep. There will be slash here soon. I hope.

blahg

2005-08-15T03:37:09Z

Before I sign off today, so I don't forget:

Several authors, including Neil Gaiman and Lemony Snicket, are auctioning off character names and other things from forthcoming works. The proceeds will go to The First Amendment Project (I'm not American, btw, but I still think it's a good cause). Check 'em out at http://cgi3.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewUserPage&userid=auctioncause. Neil Gaiman commands you!

Also: Snape Is Innocent. I can think of worse things to put on a tee-shirt. :)

Last, I know this is preaching to the choir, but it makes me feel better: Gakked from several people.

I am the girl kicked out of her home because I confided in my mother that I am a lesbian.

I am the prostitute working the streets because nobody will hire a transsexual woman.

I am the sister who holds her gay brother tight through the painful, tear-filled nights.

We are the parents who buried our daughter long before her time.

I am the man who died alone in the hospital because they would not let my partner of twenty-seven years into the room.

I am the foster child who wakes up with nightmares of being taken away from the two fathers who are the only loving family I have ever had. I wish they could adopt me.

I am one of the lucky ones, I guess. I survived the attack that left me in a coma for three weeks, and in another year I will probably be able to walk again.

I am not one of the lucky ones. I killed myself just weeks before graduating high school. It was simply too much to bear.

We are the couple who had the realtor hang up on us when she found out we wanted to rent a one-bedroom for two men.

I am the person whose genitals were deemed ambiguous when I was born. The gender assigned to me has never felt right, but I wonder if the parts of me they cut away would have.

I am the person who never knows which bathroom I should use if I want to avoid getting the management called on me.

I am the mother who is not allowed to even visit the children I bore, nursed, and raised. The court says I am an unfit mother because I now live with another woman.

I am the domestic-violence survivor who found the support system grow suddenly cold and distant when they found out my abusive partner is also a woman.

I am the domestic-violence survivor who has no support system to turn to because I am male.

I am the father who has never hugged his son because I grew up afraid to show affection to other men.

I am the home-economics teacher who always wanted to teach gym until someone told me that only lesbians do that.

I am the man who died when the paramedics stopped treating me as soon as they realized I was transgendered.

I am the person who feels guilty because I think I could be a much better person if I didn’t have to always deal with society hating me.

I am the man who stopped attending church, not because I don't believe, but because they closed their doors to my kind.

I am the person who has to hide what this world needs most, love.

Repost this if you believe homophobia is wrong.

home again, home again

2005-08-15T00:50:09Z

I'm back! And I have fic! That country air was good for the muse. I have Smallville fic (Red!Clark/bottom!Lionel), House fic (femmeslash! w00t!), and... I can't believe I'm even admitting this... I have Jeeves/Wooster fic. This is your fault, peak_in_darien! Curse you! Gah. Anyway, this'll all get posted after I put the finishing touches on and get a beta to look it over. Soon....

In the meantime, I'll be reading through the ol' flist. If anything big happened to anyone while I was away, please leave me a comment so I can be sure to check it out. I sure did miss y'all. {{{hugs}}}

away, away, away

2005-07-28T14:03:03Z

Gah. I've been a bad fandom girl lately. No inspiration whatsoever. But today I am off to the family farm, and after that to the beach cottage -- a two-week sojourn away from work and stress and such. I'm bringing my computer, so I hope to have a slew of lovely fics to post on my return. No Internet access, alas, but all the better to concentrate on production rather than consumption.

In the meantime, take care y'all. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. :)

everybody's doing it....

2005-07-22T03:24:15Z

No fic yet. Eep. Soon, I hope. Wherefore art thou, Muse? Instead, I choose to post about the new Harry Potter book. So, um, spoiler alert for the, like, 2 people on lj who haven't yet read the book and still care about being spoiled.

I work at my city's big bookstore, and that was where the action was the night of the 15th. The SVG, minus laceymcbain, were there. obscuranb was a fabulous Tonks (I'm talking pre-HBP Tonks), blandine was (being French) part of the Beauxbatons brigade, and privatetentcle was one of about six Professor Trelawneys (and, of course, the best *g*). I was dressed as Narcissa Malfoy, and our own corporalmonkey was Lucius Malfoy, and he managed to out-Malfoy Jason Isaacs and that takes CLASS, y'all. He is a Big Important Manager at said bookstore, and the whole launch party was pretty much his baby. Way to go, Corporal -- I told you it would rock.

The place was packed to the gills with costumed people. Lots of activities -- sorting hat, divination class, potion-making, themed restaurant, music, the works. The SVG and I were mainly crowd control -- directing people, or walking up and down the lineups administering quizzes and giving prizes. This was hugely entertaining. We all met a LOT of adorable kids in costume (and accompanying cranky growups out past their bedtimes), got a lot of photo requests on account of our kick-ASS costumes, and administered a lot of quizzes in bad British accents.

We'd been selling vouchers beforehand that could be exchanged for the book at midnight. Midnight rolled around, and the SVG was manning "Station 9¾", one of two voucher-for-book exchange points. Thanks to the Corporal's brilliant planning, and the natural prowess of the SVG :) we apparently exchanged about 400 vouchers in 15 minutes. We were a MACHINE.

So. It was fun. I can't wait till the next HP launch party, though I suspect the Corporal figures that never is too soon. :)

I finished the book within days. The last one, I had trouble getting through, but this? Was a breeze.

I don't think I can really say anything that my flist hasn't already said a dozen times. But, my two knuts:
- I totally called Dumbledore kicking it in this book, even before the cover art was released.
- I also called the HPB being Snape as soon as Harry opened the book, though I suppose so did everyone else.
- All the love stuff? Meh. I know everyone's been ragging all over it, and I don't like lovesick!Tonks any more than the rest of you, AND I've seen some very good analysis of it on lj and elsewhere. But I didn't think it was that bad. It was done with a relatively light touch and it didn't overtake the storyline. It was -- as most romance in novels ought to be -- a sidenote to the main plot. So, fair enough. It could have been worse, is what I'm saying.
- I was intrigued by the p.o.v. shift in the first two chapters. Until this book, unless I'm mistaken, everything was in a third-person voice and very definitely seen through the lens of Harry's mind. In the first two chapters, I though perhaps JKR had decided to abandon that perspective, but then the rest of the book (from the third chapter on) was back to Harry's p.o.v. So that was a neat trick.
- I was never that invested in any HP-verse ship, and I always figured that fanon and canon are naturally seperated by a more or less wide gulf. Apparently, not everyone thinks this way. Hee. Click the link, it's sad and hilarious at the same time.

What do I have to leave under my pillow to ge the Fic Fairy to come and leave me a plot bunny?

OKCupid! told me so

2005-07-14T03:29:48Z

My test results from the latest OKCupid! quiz should surprise no one at all. Gakked from obscuranb. rose_etta, if you're around I want to know what you scored on this!

HELL LEVEL 3
Raw score: 85%

There's a special place in Hell for you: the basement penthouse. You scored the nastiest possible on the Sexual Hell Test. You have no sexual restraint whatsoever. You'll take pleasure however you can get it, and my guess is you get it a lot. If for some reason you don't right now, you will soon, as people in your category only tend to spiral down ever deeper into the abyss of carnality and delicious sin. Congratulations.

I, personally, think that this category is the best. Paradoxically, sexual liberation and indulgence can only bring you closer to purity and honesty.

AVOID: all but level 3 hellions like yourself. You wouldn't want to ruin anyone, now would you?

My test tracked 1 variable How you compared to other people your age and gender:

You scored higher than 69% on hellish

Link: The Sexual HELL Test written by jason_bateman on Ok Cupid

spam!!

2005-07-13T06:12:42Z

Because I was sick of seeing my post about the London bombings on top of my lj, I bring you pimpage:

Go check out riverlight's post on fandom clichés. This is a great kind of discussion to be participating in. When I get together with rl friends who write fanfic, we talk about this kind of stuff. It's very rewarding for writers and readers alike. Helps you figure out what the significance of all this is -- and it is significant, in unexpected ways.

So, go. Read. Comment.

Watch this space for: Clark/Lionel (featuring redK!Clark), Cameron/Cuddy, and Wilson/Vogler.

:*(

2005-07-07T12:46:33Z

I most sincerely hope none of my flist or their loved ones were caught in the London blasts. *huggles flist*

another House fic!

2005-07-04T20:31:25Z

I promise I'll try to write some Smallville fic next! My poor, negelected first lj fandom. It needs some Clark/Lionel lovin'. Anyhoodle, here's some House fic. Enjoy.

Title: Slash in the Hizzy
Author: Nuala
Rating: PG-13, again.
Pairing: House/Wilson. Sort of. Actually, it's practically sub-subtext
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not making any money.
Warnings: Canadian spelling. Unbeta'd. Likely very inaccurate medical jargon and practices. Endemic silliness.
Summary: Cameron's a slasher. Somehow, that makes me like her better.
A/N: Follow-up to "TV Doctors", and twice as long. Eesh. Might not make sense if you haven't read it first. Cheers to arabwel and little_aphid for the inspiration for this follow-up, and to HL and RSL for being so goddamn sexy.

***

House hobbled quickly through the halls of Princeton-Plainsboro, cane in one hand, portable television swinging from the other. He muttered to himself as he went: "I do not have a crush on some tv doctor. What am I, a twelve-year-old girl?" A nurse gave him an odd look as he passed. House glared. "Seriously," he asked her, "do I look like a twelve-year-old girl?"

She gave him a once-over. "Ugliest twelve-year-old girl I ever saw," she told him.

Making a mental note that the nurses in radiology were a bunch of wiseguys, House pressed on. He had no intention of heading to the clinic, despite what he'd told Wilson. He stopped short when he realized that he didn't know where exactly to go now.

Sadly, the oncology lounge (which finally -- finally! -- was equipped with the long-promised TiVo) was out. Wilson would show up sooner or later, and House was still feeling pissy about his earlier comments.

This was a problem. In the last three days Cuddy rooted him out of cardiology, the emergency room, all three cafeterias, the PT rooms, and the CT scanner room with the really comfy chairs -- in short, all his favourite hiding spots were pretty much out.

House fingered the Vicodin bottle in his pocket and pondered his dilemma. Maybe the supply closet with the wheelchairs… no, he wasn't desperate enough to try to watch his tv sitting in a fold-out wheelchair in a closet. Yet.

There was always the chapel -- House considered it a minor miracle that Cuddy had never thought to look for him there -- but House had gone off the chapel. Last month he'd been watching The O.C. in the empty pews when a little blue-haired lady had taken offence to his programming choice. She'd chased him out, brandishing her own cane like a pro. House only hoped that when he was that old he'd be as good at using a cane as a deadly weapon.

None of this was helping him figure out a hiding spot. But maybe… maybe he didn't have to hide, per se. After all, it would be three hours before the Hep A guy's bloodwork would be ready and Chase and Foreman came running. And Cuddy was unlikely to bust him in his own office, since it was easy to fake doing work in there. A couple of Vicodins, a quick nap, maybe some GameBoy, then the tests would come back negative (House already knew -- he had a theory), he'd make a few snide remarks and schedule a liver biopsy, then home in time to catch tonight's Hizzy. Not too shabby.

He took the long way to the office in order to avoid passing the clinic and the boardrooms -- no sense in courting Cuddy's notice. His office, to his great aggravation, was not vacant. Cameron was sitting at the desk, obviously working on his daily pile of mail.

Giving vent to a long-suffering sigh, he pushed through the glass doors and glared. "Get out," he told her. "I need to… get some work done." He tried to imbue his expression with enough pain to get her to take pity on him, but not enough to encourage her concern.

Cameron raised her eyebrows. "What?"

"Work. It's very important. I'm a doctor, you see."

"I was just…"

"Opening mail. I know that's important doctor work too, but it can wait. Why don't you go hold the patient's hand? Spread a little bit of that sunshine around. Now," he added when she didn't move.

Pushing the papers on the desk into a haphazard pile, she stood. "Fine," she said, "I'll go see if Chase and Foreman are done those tests." After indulging in a long concerned look at him, she scurried off. He released the breath he'd been holding.

House gingerly settled himself into the chair behind the desk, carefully extending his protesting right leg. The tv went into his bag by the desk; the cane went over the arm of the chair; he popped two Vicodins -- lunch hadn't been that long ago, he reasoned -- and cast a disinterested glance over the pile of papers Cameron had left on his desk.

It was the usual business mail, requests for endorsements, and applications for recommendations, appointments or consults. Nothing he'd waste time on, not when there were naps and GameBoys to be had. But a sheaf of papers caught his eye. It was clipped together, no envelope, none of the usual indicators of business letters. It looked like a draft of something. His curiosity piqued, House pulled the sheaf out from the pile of papers and started reading:

Title: A Fine Romance
Author: HizzyLover79
Rating: NC-17
Paring: Hizzy/Watson
Summary: Dr. Hizzy finally embraces his true feelings for Watson with a little help from the beautiful diagnostics resident Dr. Morrison. But will Hizzy's emotional coldness drive Watson away forever?

House nearly fell out of his chair. He could feel his face take on the expression of a guppy fish at feeding time. He dropped the sheaf on the desk and pushed his chair away, staring at the papers. What the hell…?

House sat for several minutes, just staring at the papers on his desk, his mind actively sorting through what it had just been confronted with. After a few minutes he picked the papers up, carefully, as though they might bite, and skimmed the first pages. It was… a love story. About Hizzy and Watson. Jesus H. Christ, thought House. When he got to page eight, he realized it was a graphic love story. House's mind boggled.

When he finally got it -- Cameron, obviously a Hizzy fan like himself, was writing an erotic story based on the show, not at all like himself -- a slow, evil smile crept over his face.

A quick Google search initiated House into the world of "slash fanfiction." He discovered that it was amazingly prevalent. The Hizzy fan community was smaller than some but had a lot of very… creative people in it. He almost choked a couple of times, at some of the pairings and situations these weirdos thought up, but some of it was actually… arousing. He made mental bookmarks to look up when he got home.

"HizzyLover79" had quite a few pieces under her belt, though the one House had on his desk seemed to be unposted, and longer than the fics of hers he'd found at a popular archive. Schmoopy, fluffy stuff, and not the best he'd come across even in his short foray into the world of slash fiction. But not as hideously awful as he'd discovered some of it was. Still, House thought, as he leafed through the story, a little help wouldn't hurt.

He spent the next little while reading over "A Fine Romance," pen in hand, correcting typos, making wording and characterization suggestions ("Please," he'd muttered to himself at one point, "as if Hizzy would ever call anyone 'the inner destiny of my truest heart.' Gah!"), and highlighting the passages he liked. Actually, the sex bits were rather good, written with a sense of humour and a light touch -- he'd had no idea Cameron had it in her. What the hell was she doing working for him when she could be sharing her gift with the world? House had met a lot of good doctors, but good porn writers were damn hard to find.

When he'd finished, he popped the papers in a manila envelope, and carefully arranged himself on the floor for a quick nap. Beta reading was hard work.

He woke up when Chase nudged him with his foot. "Dr. House?" he said. "The tests were…"

"Negative," House said, rolling carefully so he could haul himself up. He looked blearily at Chase, Foreman and Cameron as they stood staring down at him. "Of course. I told you so." He stood slowly, making a face at the stiffness in his leg. "Are we ready to accept that we need a liver biopsy, children?"

Foreman muttered resentfully. House smiled grimly. "So happy we're in agreement. All is right with the world. Chase, schedule the biopsy. Foreman, test his blood iron levels."

"Iron levels? Why?"

"Just for shits and giggles," House told him jovially. Foreman glared, but followed Chase out into the hallway. House's smile broadened. He sat down at the desk, shuffling papers. "Cameron, go take the patient's history again. Ask about cirrhosis in the family."

She frowned. "You think it's alpha-1 anti-trypsin deficiency? The bloodwork…"

"Was looking for Hep A."

"But the patient's lungs…." Cameron's eyebrows went up. "Oh. We thought it was his childhood asthma..."

"Congratulations on your timely grasp of the obvious. Go take his history. Oh, and Cameron?" he added as she turned to go. "Here." He handed her the manila envelope.

Confused, she opened it and pulled out the contents. Her face drained of colour as she read the top page. She looked at him in alarm. "I… I… this…" she sputtered. Then she abruptly flushed a brilliant red. House grinned. It was nice to have something to hold over someone's head, he mused. Very satisfying. Like Vicodin for the soul.

"Don't get your panties in a knot," he told her. "Your smutty literary leanings are your own business. However, the fact that you mix up 'there' and 'their' is something I felt compelled to get involved in."

"You… you corrected this?" she asked, incredulous. She glanced through the marked-up papers. Her face was still crimson. She closed her eyes. "Oh my God," she said quietly.

"Please. It's not that bad," House said. "Really. In fact, that scene in the elevator after Hizzy's big confession, you know, the one with the blowjob…"

"Oh my God!" Cameron said, much louder this time.

"Yeah, that was Watson's line," House reminisced. "Not entirely original, of course, but effective."

Cameron hid her face behind the sheaf of papers. Her words were muffled, but House thought he heard her say, plaintively, "Why?"

House pondered the question. "Why did I read it? You left it on my desk. Why did I correct it? It was in dire need of some editing. Why am I torturing you with it? Because I'm just a 'people person', I guess."

Cameron lowered the papers, peering at them. "Wait a minute," she said. "You wrote that you think Watson's reaction is out of character." She glanced at House questioningly. "You… you've seen Hizzy?"

No use denying it, House thought. "Yep," he said. "Crap diagnostician, of course. But then, my standards are really high."

"You've seen Hizzy," she repeated slowly. "You've seen it enough to comment on Watson's character. To say that he's, uh," she glanced at the papers, "'too intelligent to fall for Hizzy's obvious lines.'"

House cleared his throat. "Well…" he began.

Cameron flipped a page. "And here you say Watson is 'complex and strong, very in character.' And here," she said, flipping again, "you crossed out 'brown eyes' and wrote that Watson's eyes are 'actually a subtle hazel colour: chocolate brown in the centre with gold bands radiating out, with a slight grey gradation at the edges of the iris.'" She looked stunned.

"Ah, yes," House said, uncomfortable and trying to hide it, "I have one of those high-definition sets at home, so I notice things like --"

"Dr. House," Cameron said incredulously, "do you have a crush on Dr. Watson?"

House scrambled awkwardly to his feet. "I do not have a crush on Watson!" he said peevishly. "Why do people keep saying that?" he muttered.

"Well, you know a lot about him," Cameron said reasonably. "And you seem to really like him, based on your comments. And, of course, he's so much like Dr. Wilson -- "

"What?" House practically shouted.

Cameron looked at him in confusion. "Are you saying you never noticed how much Watson is like Dr. Wilson?"

"No!"

"Or how much you're like Hizzy?"

House could feel the guppy expression slide into place for the second time that day. "Okay," he said slowly. "You think I'm like Hizzy."

"Yes," Cameron said uncertainly.

"And Wilson is… like Watson."

"Right."

House nodded. "And you… write Hizzy/Watson slash."

"I… oh." Cameron's expression would have been hilarious if House hadn't been convinced he was currently sporting a similar one. Then Cameron turned the tables on him by smiling suddenly. "Yes. Yes, I do," she said, her smile broadening. "I think they'd make a great couple, and are in a lot of denial, and…"

"…And Hizzy just needs to open his heart, embrace his feelings for Watson, blah blah blah, happily ever after, I throw up, the end. Puh-leeze," he said, pushing past her to the door. "I need a drink," he muttered.

"With Wilson?" Cameron asked, her voice gleeful and teasing.

"Y-- NO!" House said loudly. People in the hallway glanced over. He lowered his voice. "Go take the patient's history. Then check on the bloodwork and biopsy. I'm going to see Watson," he said unthinkingly. "Shit! I mean Wilson!"

"Oh, that's adorable," Cameron said, her eyes twinkling.

"Eugh! Why do people keep saying that?" House asked, rather pissed off. Rather than wait for Cameron's answer, he hobbled off as fast as he could for the elevator.

En route to oncology, Cuddy caught him. Literally. She grabbed him by the sleeve and wouldn't let go.

"Aren't we the pitbull," House muttered.

"You owe me more hours in the clinic than you're likely to live," she said, her voice conveying both annoyance and resignation. "You can at least give me the rest of the day while you wait for that liver biopsy."

"So glad to know that you're right on top of my cases," House retorted, still trying to pull his sleeve from her vise-like grip. She was stronger than she looked. "Sounds like you don't need me around at all."

"Clinic. Now."

"Can't. It's time for me to go home."

"To what?" It was an old barb, and had lost its power to sting. Besides, this time House actually had an answer.

"There's a new Hizzy on tonight. Can't miss it. Important research for my job, you know."

Cuddy's brow furrowed. Her grip didn't slacken (as House discovered as he again tried to pull away). "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Fantastic show. Main character's a crack diagnostician. Leads a team of brilliant young doctors as they solve a new and dramatic medical mystery every week."

"Is that the show you watched with Wilson today?"

Damn. How the hell did Cuddy find these things out, anyway? "It was important research, I told you. Besides, that was just a syndicated rerun. They've been running them right after General Hospital. But the new episode is on in an hour, and I have a feeling it'll really give me some insight into this new case, so…." He tried once, more, ineffectually, to pull his sleeve from her hand.

"You weren't heading for the door," she said thoughtfully. "You were on your way to see Wilson, weren't you." It wasn't a question, so House didn't answer. "What do I even pay you two for?"

"I'm pretty sure you pay Wilson to stand around and look good. I have no idea why I'm here."

Cuddy looked at him speculatively. "You think Wilson looks good?" she asked.

Refusing to take the bait seemed to be the only defence left. "Don't worry, you've still got better breasts," he said, but the snark was half-hearted at best.

Cuddy had the oddest expression on her face. House couldn't tell if she was annoyed or amused. He often had that effect on her.

She seemed to consider her next words very carefully. "If I let you off clinic duty -- for today only," she added forcefully, "you'll go spend some time with Wilson?"

House frowned. "I see Wilson all damn day. The guy spends more time in diagnostics than in oncology."

"But you were heading to his office."

House sighed. "You caught me. I just love hanging out with those wacky oncology nurses. They crack me up. Did you hear the one where the guy with metastasized bone cancer walks into a bar?" He trailed off. Even he wasn't about to pursue a cancer joke like that.

Cuddy seemed to be considering something. House could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. This never meant good news from him. He was formulating a pre-emptive argument for leaving right the hell now when Cuddy suddenly gave him a bland smile and said, "Fine. You're off clinic duty for today, as long as you go see Wilson."

"Go see Wilson?" he repeated. "Why?"

She was already walking away. "Just go, Dr. House, before I change my mind."

House shrugged. "Okay," he said to her retreating back. "But you owe me."

She just waved without looking back.

"Huh," he remarked to a man who happened to be walking by. The man gave him an odd look. "Well you have to admit that was weird," House said.

"Uh huh. Weird," agreed the man, who quickly walked off.

No sense in looking a gift Cuddy in the mouth, he decided. Humming happily under his breath, he made his way to oncology. Wilson was in his office doing paperwork. House rapped on the open door with his cane to get Wilson's attention.

Wilson grinned broadly at him, no doubt still amused by his "discovery" earlier that day. "Manage to tear yourself away from the gorgeous Dr. Watson?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows.

House raised his eyebrows. "In a manner of speaking, no," he said, relishing the confused look Wilson gave him. "I ran into Cameron this afternoon."

"You ran into one of your own staff? While at work? You're kidding!"

House ignored Wilson's attempt at sarcasm. "Did you know she's a writer?"

"She is?"

"Oh my, yes," House said with relish. "A good one, too."

"Are you actually complimenting one of your staff? Has hell frozen over?"

"I'm looking into timeshare ski lodges there after what I read today."

"What you read? …Cameron's writing?"

"Very perceptive, Dr. Wilson."

"Um, medical journal article?"

"Not even close." House grinned.

"Okay. So what then?"

"Porn."

Wilson snorted. "Right."

"Seriously. She writes gay porn."

"House."

"She does! I read it myself!"

"You read gay pornography?"

"Normally I prefer the lesbian variety. I'm particularly fond of the sorority house genre…"

"I'll bet."

"…but I made an exception for Cameron's masterpiece." House cocked an eyebrow. "Or perhaps I should say HizzyLover79's masterpiece."

"What?"

"Her nom de plume."

"'Hizzy lover'?"

"'HizzyLover79'."

Wilson just looked confused.

"Oh, didn't I mention?" House asked innocently. "The characters in her gay porn are Drs. Hizzy and Watson." House grinned to see Wilson's eyeballs nearly pop out of their sockets.

"My God. Are you serious?"

"You think I could make that shit up?"

"Hizzy and Watson. Porn."

"Yep."

"Well. I. Um." Wilson sat back in his chair, looking bewildered.

House, enjoying the feeling of smug superiority engendered by Wilson's confusion, decided to up the ante. "By the way, she said that you really remind her of Watson." This earned him a stare. "Oh, yes. Handsome, young, Head of Oncology, Jewish. I think Watson's even divorced, though he hasn't quite got your track record. But then, he's young. Give him time. You know, you even look kind of similar," House noted, tilting his head and peering at Wilson. "Brown hair, hazel eyes…"

"I do not look like that pretty boy!" Wilson said, more amused than offended.

"I disagree," House said. "You're very pretty."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "I suppose it never occurred to you how much you resemble the show's title character."

"It has been… pointed out to me."

"Hizzy's a cranky, disabled, brilliant older doctor. Now who does that remind me of…?"

"I'm much handsomer."

Wilson smiled at House, his eyes crinkling. "Yeah."

There was a moment of suddenly uncomfortable silence in which they stared at each other across Wilson's desk. House broke it by clearing his throat and saying, "The new Hizzy is on in less than an hour. That gives us time to pick something up from that new Thai place."

Wilson raised his eyebrows. "You know, as a 'Rules' girl, I really can't say yes to a date unless you ask me three days in advance."

"Hmph. I'll buy. I even have beer at home. Besides, you haven't seen Hizzy until you've seen it in HDTV."

"Sounds good," Wilson said, standing. "I get the feeling I'm going to like that show."

They passed by the benefactor's board on the way out. House happened to notice Cameron and Cuddy together on the stairway, peering furtively around the corner. Cameron was pointing to House and Wilson with a broad grin on her face.

House considered a moment, then linked his arm through Wilson's. "It's only polite to offer your arm to a crippled old man," he told Wilson, who rolled his eyes.

House glanced back at Cameron and Cuddy. They were both giggling. Well, this would certainly make things interesting around the hospital, House thought. He wondered how many days he could get off early claiming a "date" with Wilson.

As they walked out the doors, House leaned his head on Wilson's shoulder. Wilson let out a startled burst of laughter, but didn't push House off. In fact, he squeezed House's arm where it was linked in his.

House grinned. Very interesting indeed.

***

Feedback: Vicodin for the soul.

Happy Canada Day!!

2005-07-01T17:52:56Z

HAPPY CANADA DAY!!!
HAPPY CANADA DAY!!!
HAPPY CANADA DAY!!!

pimpage!

2005-06-28T06:49:11Z

Everyone, go read the quick little RPS drabble that brodeurbunny30 wrote for me! It can be found on her lj or here on the house_slash community. I normally shy away from RPS, but this is short, hot, and has RSL/HL!!! How could anyone resist?

100% Aussie, 75% Canadian... whaaaa?

2005-06-26T22:47:53Z

gakked from peak_in_darien. How about that, eh?

Your Slanguage Profile

Aussie Slang: 100%

Canadian Slang: 75%

Prison Slang: 50%

Southern Slang: 50%

British Slang: 25%

Victorian Slang: 25%

New England Slang: 0%

What Slanguage Do You Speak?

stormy weather

2005-06-23T02:44:10Z

We had another big, scary thunderstorm last night. There will in all likelihood be another big, scary thunderstorm tonight. *whimpers* We've had a very wet season here on the Canadian prairies. In the city, this means that the river is running high and fast, and everything is greener than usual.

Everyone keeps saying it's good for the farmers to have this much moisture, but all this rain has made matters worse in some places. Farmers are never happy about the weather, ever.

Eesh, I can't believe I posted about the bloody weather. Erm, more slash soon, I promise. First, a follow-up to the House/Wilson humour piece I posted last week; then an entry for the house_slash "Getting Caught" challenge; then a House/Vogler dark!fic; then something in the SV fandom, which I've been sorely neglecting.

feeling unappreciated?

2005-06-19T17:01:12Z

My aunt sent me to the Brawny Man website (brawnyman.com). Ladies, go click on "Innocent Escapes." I wish I could say that I enjoyed this on a purely ironic level, but really? The irony was pathetically low. Pathetically! Chalk up one more for the dork meme, y'all.

yikes

2005-06-18T03:11:23Z

I have a late entry for that "dork" meme:

I am very afraid during thunderstorms.

There is a great cracking thunderstorm right now. I'm all alone here, and shaking like a leaf. Lame. So. Very. Lame.

*hides under bed*

pimpin' and meme-in'

2005-06-15T18:12:07Z

First of all, everyone hustle over to obscuranb's lj to check out her ~~very tardily posted~~ entry for laceymcbain's "I can't Believe It's Not Butter" Smallville Fanfic Challenge. It's FUNNY! Perfect if you need a pick-me-up. Go. Read. Be happy!

Second: I wasn't tagged, but it's been making the rounds on lj, so I volunteered.

List 5 reasons why you are a dork. And make them good reasons. Justify them. Explain them. Be loud and proud about how big of a dork you are! Then pick the 5 biggest dorks you know and have them do the meme.

1. I have read and re-read Richardson's Clarissa. Even other eighteenth-century British novel specialists won't touch it with a ten-foot pole -- professional dorks think I'm a dork.

2. I sleep with a stuffed animal (a purple monkey named Purple Monkey Dishwasher -- if you don't get it, I can't explain it). I'm 25 years old. And married.

3. I laugh out loud and clap my hands at fireworks displays.

4. I dance in front of the mirror, often in my underwear, often to ABBA.

5. I plan to attend my local bookstore's midnight Harry Potter launch party in full costume. Sometimes, I need a break from Clarissa.

I should so tag each and every person I know. :) Anyone who volunteers will have my love forever, y'all. Officially, I tag five people whose dorkiness I have witnessed first-hand: privatetentacle, obscuranb, laceymcbain, brodeurbunny30, and rose_etta (who may decline if you're still beating off the wolves at the door).

Keep in mind that I adore dorks. *loves*