ellery_queen: (Default)
Title: The Weather Today is Slightly Sarcastic
Author: Sherlockian

Sometimes, just for kicks, Teddy shapeshifted into Jean-Paul Beaubier. Before they had gotten together Billy had a crush on Northstar. But Ted's terrible French accent cured him of it and, after a while, he found he only liked the idea of Northstar in his bed when he rolled his "r"s like a Spaniard (because the only other languages Teddy knew were mediocre Spanish and a few dirty phrases in really terrible German). Nevertheless, Northstar was an attractive man, and Billy wasn't about to complain when his boyfriend chose to spice up their sex with life-size sex-doll versions of other superheroes.

Except, of course, on the handful of days when he got cornered by the damn paparazzi, and peppered with questions about life as an out superhero. Sure, it was nice to get the attention, and knew for damn sure that before he became a hero (and came out) he sometimes clung to the idea of out celebrities like they were life rafts.

But it tended to get irritating after the third round of questions about whether his parents knew (about being gay: yes. about being a hero: also yes), whether he knew other gay heros (also yes, although only the young and less known heros were out, and if the press didn't want to do the research, Billy wasn't going to make their lives easier) or whether he'd ever been protested by anti-gay rights activists (that was a funny story, actually. He'd ended up saving Fred Phelps from a rampaging stegosaurus. Not that the guy had thanked him or anything). And, of course, there were the questions about Northstar. The inevitable fucking questions, as though he hadn't answered them fifteen thousand times on blogs, in exclusive interviews and every time someone had asked him for the past three years. Yes, he knew Northstar, sure, he liked the guy, yes, he'd had a huge damn crush on him when he was younger. He and Hulkling, and every other out hero, owed Northstar a debt for being a trailblazer. And no, for the last time, he and Hulkling didn't feel like they were in Northstar's shadow because of it.

Unable to extricate himself from the crowd, and his temper fraying, Billy very nearly lost it and slugged the smarmiest reporter when she eyed him up and down and said, in what was possibly the most smug tone he had ever heard in his life, "well, you certainly owe your fashion sense to him. Do you diet to look like him too?"

Thankfully Billy was saved from trying to come up with a response that didn't involve swearing himself blue in the face by Kate grabbing him by the arm and telling the reporters there was a fire downtown, and the team needed their magic user now, please and thank you. If he didn't think she'd laugh in his face, he would have kissed her.

Which was all to say that, after the jewel store robbery, and the paparazzi and a fire downtown, the last thing Billy wanted to see when he crawled into bed was Jean-Paul's smug face (his abs were less unwelcome, but the point stood). He swatted at Teddy's chest and turned over, curling himself around a pillow. "You are never getting laid again," he mumbled, the words muffled by the pillowcase.

The flash of skin in the periphery of his vision was green as Teddy wrapped his arms around Billy, pulling him so that his back was against Teddy's chest. "Long day?"

"The longest," Billy said and rubbed his cheek against Teddy's Skrullishly lizard-like skin. "Do I look like Northstar?"

Teddy paused a moment, seeming to realize that there was more to that question than there really should have been-- or maybe Kate had told him what she'd interrupted. Either way, he weighed his words. "Nah, he's way uglier than you." Billy couldn't help the hiccup of laughter and Teddy's arms tightened a little. "Does that sound mean I'm going to get laid sometime in the next century?"

"That sound means that you might even get laid tonight." Billy sighed, letting all of the tension of the day flow out of him as he turned and snuggled up against Teddy's chest.

"Zat is ze best news I haff heard in a long time," Teddy said, in a terrible fake-French accent. Billy kicked him.
ellery_queen: (Default)
Title: Fuck You, Walter Mosley
Author: Sherlockian

If there was one thing Dean hadn't expected after all of the struggles, death, and supernatural crap that they'd put up with, is was for Lucifer to wander out of the light and smoke looking a little dazed and wearing-- well. A blue evening gown cut down to here and slit up to there. It clung seductively, revealing a pale and pretty expanse of chest and a swathe of smooth leg that Dean had trouble keeping his eyes off of. Which made it all the more disturbing when he realized that, androgynous features and heart-shaped lips aside, Lucifer was still a guy.

"Hey there, sailor." Lucifer's voice was rougher than Dean had thought it would be. "Fancy meeting you here." His lips turned up in a smile and Dean had to force himself not to flinch-- the familiarity in that expression reminding him of how meat hooks and flails felt in his hands. His emotions must have shown on his face, because Lucifer laughed and patted his cheek. "Don't worry, I'm not done with you yet. Now, go tend to your angel. He looks like he's about to have a fit."

Lucifer didn't turn into a cloud of mobile black smoke, but the dress melded into his skin and a small snake slithered off-- more quickly than any snake Dean had ever seen. He glanced at Castiel.

Castiel glared and tried to stop turning purple from rage.
ellery_queen: (Default)
Title: Hook a Canuck
Author: Sherlockian

"We are the American Gods," Magneto said, his voice rising and his eyes intense. Logan barely had to pay attention to hear the zealotry in the words. He really wasn't paying attention, to be honest. He was too busy gazing out at his teammates-- Bobby was pinned down by Toad, slimed to his knees, Ororo was fighting Lorna, trying to stay out of the tiny metal box Magneto's daughter had prepared for her. Remy was failing to take down the Blob, throwing cards that really did no damage. And Scott, he was in the same situation as Logan, stuck to a wall by an I-beam, courtesy of Magneto's powers.

"You know," Logan said, and gritted his teeth against the magnetic pressure brought to bear on his skeleton, "I'm Canadian."

Remy, who was close enough to hear, but jumping like a flea back into the fray, laughed. Unfortunately, Remy got pinned with another I-beam for his trouble. "I think we may need to take advantage of yer health care after this. Want to get married, mon cher?"

Scott groaned.
ellery_queen: (Default)
Title: Just... Don't
Author: Sherlockian

Of all the emotions Kon figured he'd feel upon confronting his once-and-future best friend after dying horribly in front of the entire cape community, embarrassment was so far down the list he'd never even considered how to handle it. Bart was at his back, and making supportive facial expressions (or he might have just been bored. You never knew with Bart). The Brainys were off in a corner, talking amongst themselves and studiously ignoring the irate Robin. "Uhm. Hi?" Kon coughed and managed what he hoped was a charmingly sheepish expression.

Tim continued to glare.

"I'm... back?" His voice squeaked on the last word. Kon had died. Wasn't dying supposed to bring great wisdom from beyond the grave, or something? The only great wisdom Kon could summon up at that moment was 'don't piss off tiny guys in brightly-colored spandex. They have kryptonite.'
ellery_queen: (Default)
Title: With a Map And An Open Mind
Author: Sherlockian

The TARDIS really was bigger on the inside than it was on the outside. It wasn't as though Donna hadn't known that before, but what with all the running around and nearly dying and getting married, there hadn't been time for exploring.

The Doctor showed her to her room, halfway down a corridor that looked like the hallway of a posh hotel, with muted colors, a blandly pretty carpet and soft lighting. She'd asked him who stayed in the other rooms, but he just shrugged and said that they were "just in case". Just in case of what she didn't know, but it wasn't worth asking, so she let him scarper off back to the front control room or whatever he called it, dropped her luggage in her room, and set about doing some good old-fashioned investigation.

After the twelfth right and seventh left, Donna was getting a bit turned around. She'd found the kitchen (it was tiny), the bath (it could have doubled as a swimming pool), and the library (it looked cozy until she walked inside and realized she could get lost entirely in that room). But the halls twisted and turned, and changed architecture seemingly at random, so that one minute she'd be wandering around an Egyptian palace and the next a colorful art deco-inspired home. She finally gave up and leaned against a Greek column while she tried to get her bearings and figure out how to get back to her room.

"You could," she said to no one, or maybe to the TARDIS' empty corridor, "at least have a map or something. Why does the ship have to be so confusing?"

She looked around, still not sure if she should take the next left or the next right. The hallway was lit with walk looked like natural sunlight and on either side of the path were gardens filled with flowers that looked unearthly. The glare of the sun got into her eyes a bit, though and she had to glance away.

There was an odd humming sound, like a choir singing just too low for her to hear, and Donna shaded her eyes to peer out into the gardens. At the end of the corridor was a small stand she hadn't seen before. She stood up and stretched, heading towards the stand-- a map. Donna covered a laugh with a cough. "Oi, thanks."
ellery_queen: (Default)
Title: Shed A Little Light
Author: Sherlockian

"Get out of my chair, House." Wilson hoped he didn't sound as resigned as he felt. Unfortunately, House was a bloodhound for weakness, and just settled more comfortably into Wilson's already extremely comfortable office chair, clearly secure in the knowledge that Wilson probably wouldn't take any particularly bloody retribution. Probably-- Wilson was sure that one day he would snap and take House down with him. Maybe the rest of the hospital too, although Wilson was sure he'd feel guilty blowing up the little kids in the pediatric ward.

"Are you imagining lighting me on fire?" House didn't sound upset about the prospect, and Wilson shook himself out of his daze.

"You're still in my chair." It wasn't an admission of guilt, although it was a nicely ambiguous comeback, if Wilson said so himself. "Some of us actually have patients to deal with." He leaned on the desk. Looming over House should be easier than this; the man was tall, but skinny, and he was sitting down. Somehow, though, House always seemed a foot taller than he actually was. Wilson gave up the attempt as a loss, and sat on the edge of his desk instead. House gave a shit-eating grin and nudged a pile of patient files towards Wilson's hand. "I'm not going to do my paperwork while you're sitting in my chair." He was lying to himself again.

House shrugged and toyed with a cactus that one of Wilson's patients gave him to make his office seem "cheerier". The planter was painted a garish sparkly pink with cheery yellow suns. "Guess you're not getting any work done today. Hm. This has too much personality to be in here." He leaned over to toss it in the waste bin, but Wilson rescued the defenseless plant before House could drop it in. "Of course you like it. It makes you think that not everything about watching people die slowly is soul-sucking."

Wilson set the cactus back down in a patch of sun. "There's cheerleaders too," he said after a moment's consideration. House snorted.

Someone knocked on Wilson's door and, without waiting for an answer, opened it. "Wilson, have you seen Hou-- Oh," Cuddy's gaze locked onto House. "You had clinic duty a half an hour ago!" House pulled himself out of Wilson's chair, presumably to have a better angle from which to launch into the familiar argument. Cuddy didn't bother to close the door when they left, but Wilson decided, as he settled himself behind his desk, that didn't really matter much. He'd still have at least another half an hour before House came back.
ellery_queen: (Default)
Title: Guide to Survival
Author: Sherlockian

Morgana knew something was wrong when Uther stopped talking. Uther never just stopped talking, not when there was even the slightest chance he could win the argument (even if he had to end it with "I'm the King and I say so.") He had fallen silent, chin on his hand, watching Arthur's posturing bravado. "I'm going to save Merlin," Arthur said, chin lifted and shoulders back. He looked, she mused absently, like a poppet someone had posed to look like the Perfect Hero. The over-exaggeration would have been funny if Merlin hadn't been in such deadly trouble, and Arthur hadn't been so deadly earnest.

Still, Morgana had to suppress the urge to laugh, if only so she wouldn't scream. She'd forgotten to take Gaius' sleeping draught the night before, and images of Arthur being torn slowly apart by a creature so awful she didn't dare name it swirled in her head. She pressed her palms to her eyes in a vain attempt to scrub away the thoughts, and when she looked up, Uther was looking at her instead of Arthur.

"Do you have something to say?" he asked, low voice thrumming with the knowledge that she did have something to say. Morgana opened her mouth, but shook her head quickly. What could she say? That she had dreams, awful dreams, which sometimes came true? As much as she knew Uther had only the kingdom's best interests at heart, she also knew that where magic was concerned-- even something so incidental as a dream, although the dreams never felt merely incidental-- all common sense went out the window. Uther frowned at her and Morgana fancied that she could feel the pull of Uther's will, trying to force the information from her lips. She lifted her gaze again, meeting his eyes, and his frown deepened.

Uther turned back to his wayward son, and the argument started back up. Arthur was going, whether Uther liked it or not. Uther was going to throw Arthur in the dungeon. Neither would change their mind. Morgana stood, wearied suddenly by the exchange, and, ignoring Uther and Arthur's startled looks, fled to the safety of her room. Maybe she couldn't stop seeing Arthur die horribly, but at least she wouldn't be tempted to kill herself for him too.
ellery_queen: (Default)
Title: A Sad State of Affairs
Author: Sherlockian

"You know what your problem is, birdy?"

"I'm all alone in the world, and the only person I talk to about anything besides work is an immature ex-villain who pisses off my big brother and wouldn't know common sense if it bit him on the nose?" Tim sucked up some of his strawberry milkshake, looking strangely unconcerned by the dire state of affairs.

Owen paused. "I was going to say that you're a workaholic, but that's about it, yeah." He sprawled in the Waffle House booth and Tim tried not to imagine what Bruce would have said (if Bruce were alive) about meeting the fuck-up ex-villain son of Captain Boomerang, while in civvies and in the middle of broad daylight. Owen picked up a fry and looked at Tim with a thoughtful expression, as though he was trying to decide what the chances were of getting away with throwing it.

Slim to none was the answer. Tim quirked an eyebrow and went back to his milkshake. Owen's treat, since he'd lost the bet with Tim about how long it would take the Titans to round Jericho up again.

"Are you sure you don't want help with the whole 'Gotham is going crazy' thing?" Owen popped the fry in his mouth instead of chucking it at Tim's head. "Gotham," he intoned, trying to sound dark and foreboding, "is in dire straights. With Batman gone, who will fill the Dark Knight's cowl? How will the Batfamily keep chaos from taking over?" Tim opened his mouth to retort and then decided that there wasn't really anything to be said. He took another sip of his drink instead. "C'mon, I'm good for it, and you're probably a better boss than Waller."

"Oh, is that it? Gotham's dark, crazy and chaotic, but I'm better than the Suicide Squad?" Tim reached out and flicked a fry at Owen's face. Owen caught it and took a bite.

"Pretty much, yeah. You're the light at the end of my tunnel, birdboy."

"You're more fucked than I can say."
ellery_queen: (Default)
Title: A Candle For The Darkness
Author: Sherlockian

"You're the light that keeps the darkness at bay," he said.

"What?" I said. Master of the witty retort-- that's me. Marcone just gave me a dry look, expression bland, as though he wasn't thinking I was a complete idiot. He was, though, he could quite hide the amusement in his eyes.

If I could have chosen anyone to be stuck in a dark basement with, Gentleman Johnnie Marcone would have been about third from the bottom-- right above Queen Mab and right below a hungry alligator. At least the alligator wouldn't talk.

I checked to make sure the wards were still sealed. The candle that I'd used as an anchor flickered a little, but was only about halfway burned, so we had a couple of hours more, at least. It also meant that the demon out there probably wasn't screwing with Marcone's head. Which meant he was probably screwing with my head.

Marcone leaned back against the wall, with only the slightest wince of discomfort. He'd broken a few bones, I was sure, but he waved away the help I'd reluctantly offered. "That's a bit melodramatic," he said thoughtfully. "And you've always been the dramatic type. Maybe I should let you handle the melodrama from now on." His eyes half-closed, but he watched me from under his lashes. His eyes were dark.

Too dark. "John," I asked, "when did you hit your head?"

"Don't call me--" he sighed. "Probably about the time it threw me into a wall and I cracked a rib. I'm fine."

"You have a concussion," I told him.

"Well, I guess you'll have to find a way to break through the darkness-demon outside so I can get to a hospital. Do you think this will help?" He slid something long and heavy across the floor to me. A flashlight. "Or do you think you'll break that too?"

Break one little cellphone (and about twenty security cameras, and a couple of semi automatics) and the guy thinks he's got your number. Even with a concussion, Marcone was a pain in the ass.
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.
ellery_queen: (Default)
Title: Small Victories
Author: Sherlockian

It's not as though Remy had never dealt with morphs before. Hell, he and Courier had very nearly had sex back when Jacob had gotten stuck as a woman. But nothing really prepared him for Logan as a woman. It's not that she was stunning-- she didn't have Ororo's ass or Jean's legs or Betty's figure. She was flat as a guy, broad-shouldered, and muscular. She still stood, feet planted, like she thought someone was going to throw a chair at her and she wanted to be ready to tear their spine out.

"The hell're you looking at, Gumbo?"

The glare she gave Remy made his pants feel tight, and Remy shrugged. Falling at Logan's feet and promising to make her feel better than she had ever felt before was probably a bad idea. "Nothing, mon ami. Just thinking that none a' your clothes are gon' fit right for a while. Maybe you' should ask Stormy to take you clothes shopping."

Logan swore virulently and crossed her arms over her chest (a little more self-consciously than she probably wanted to admit), but didn't rip Remy's spleen out. That, Remy figured, was probably a victory.

Now he just needed to figure out how to get Logan's shirt wet in a way that wouldn't get him killed. With a cheery wave, Remy left Logan's charming company and went to find Bobby.

April 2010

111213 14151617


RSS Atom

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags