ellery_queen: (Default)
Title: Adamantine Bridles Don't Have To Be Literal
Author: Sherlockian

The impact rocked Eliot back on his feet and he stumbled and shook his head, trying to shake the stars from his eyes. It was getting harder to concentrate, the longer this fight went on. The other guy-- well, he looked about the way Eliot felt, though, so there was hope. Eliot took a moment to wipe a drip of blood from his forehead. "Why are we doing this again?" he asked, slurring the words a little. A concussion too? Great. The other fighter snorted, making a sound like a bull and just charged again.

That was okay. It wasn't as though Eliot really needed the answer. He thought he could feel Sophie's gaze, hot and hard against his bare back. He didn't bother to risk a look at her-- she was probably standing, as he'd seen her last, regal and smug. But even though he didn't give in to temptation, the momentary distraction led to an elbow to the face, and Eliot went skittering back.

The Nemeseia, Sophie had translated for Nate, was a festival to appease the Nemesis of the dead. She liked blood. Well, there certainly was a lot of it-- Eliot pulled himself to his feet and slammed his knee into the oncoming opponent. A hell of a lot of it. And somehow Eliot got the feeling that this wasn't just a job for Sophie. As his opponent collapsed, Eliot glanced up. Sophie didn't bother to hide her triumphant smile.
ellery_queen: (Default)
Title: This Is Why He Hates Communal Living
Author: Sherlockian

Logan, as was his morning ritual, dodged the kids vying for Corn Pops or whatever the hell sugary cereal Petey'd bought this month happened to be, and made a beeline for the fridge. A morning beer was necessary, vital even, for dealing with the craziness that went on at this school. He jerked the fridge open and reached for a bottle of Molson he'd left on the door. Instead of the beer that should have been there, his fingers passed through the empty space and hit the bottle of ketchup on the other side. "The hell?"

He stood up, and glared. One of the kids noticed and made a high-pitched sound, ducking behind her friend to avoid the look. Logan ignored her. "Who the hell moved my beer? And it had better been moved, because I'm gonna gut anyone who drank it." Half the teenagers took wary steps away from him-- Logan considered them as culprits but discarded the possibility as unlikely.

"Sorry man, didn't see your name on it." Someone came up behind him, and Logan barely stopped himself from slicing the person to pieces when the guy dangled a half-drank Molson bottle in front of Logan's face. "Problem with communal fridges, right? S'why I hate dorms." Logan snatched the bottle from the man and swung around, teeth bared in a snarl. The guy shrugged again and shoved a lock of hair out of his face.

Logan decided that it was just too damn early in the morning to deal with this shit, and took a swig of his beer. "Next time, remember the Molsons are mine," he grunted and stormed out of the kitchen.

"My name's Eliot," the guy called after him.