Welcome to AresJoxerCupidStrife

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Title: AGAIN?!
Author: Scribe
Fandom: Multifandom Marysue
Pairing: implied
Rating: r
Summary: I'm not blaming this broken arm on Strife, but other people
are.
Archive: Mailing lists and WWOMB
Feedback: poet77665@catlover.com
Status: WIP
Sequel/Series:
Disclaimer: I did not create the characters here, I don't own them.
I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for
the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them.
Websites: and

Warnings:
Notes: Well, it happened AGAIN. This is just to make myself feel
better. Oh, and any typos or spelling errors--blame 'em on the
broken arm. Yeah, the arm... That's the ticket...

AGAIN?!
By Scribe

*munchmunchmunch*

*Cupid, looking a little tired, enters the House of Love* *Strife is
sprawled comfortably on a couch, watching television and eating a
variety of snack foods*

Cupid said, "I thought that Zeus had decreed that you weren't to
watch the idiot box anymore, since he was tired of trying to keep up
with anachronistic cultural references."

Strife ate a bite of Frito pie. "Yah. So?"

"Good point." Cupid flopped down beside him. "Whatcha watching?"

"Tha Sentinel."

Cupid looked interested. "Oo, that's the one with several different
flavors of hot guys, right?"

Strife snorted. "One of 'em. Scribe recommended it ta me. She's a
fuckin bloodhound when it comes ta sniffin out subtext. In fact," he
consulted a list, "next up on tha viewin schedule is somethin called
Navy NCIS..."

"Not CSI?"

"Naw, that's tha one with tha blonde guy with hair even cooler than
mine. That, an' somethin called Crossin Jordan. Anyways, she recced
Tha Sentinel cause she claims that both tha lead characters must
belong ta me. I'm startin ta agree. I ain't nevah seen any two
individuals get caught in so much shit in my life--not even Herc and
Iolaus, or Xena and Gabby. I mean, tha Freaky Foursome travel around
LOOKIN fah shit. Shit just sorta GRAVITATES toward Jim an' Blair.
Whoops!" Strife cackled. "Ellison dropped his gun AGAIN! Sucker
oughta superglue it to his palm. In fact..."

Strife suddenly sat bolt upright, eyes going wide in shock and
horror. His bowl went flying. "Ew, Strife!" complained Cupid. "Do
you have any idea how hard it is to get chili stains off white
feathers?"

Strife gave him a beseeching look. "I din't do it! You're my
witness, Cupe. I been sittin right here. I ain't been anywhere near
tha mortal realm."

"Didn't do what?"

"I swear on my baby's head I had NOTHIN ta do with this one."

"Strife, you're scaring me. What's up?"

He swallowed hard. "Scribe broke anotha bone."

"WHAT?!"

"IT WASN'T ME!"

Cupid took a deep breath. "I believe you, babe, but I'm not sure
anyone else will."

*FLASH* *bonk* "SHE HAS ABOUT THREE DOZEN WORKS IN PROGRESS, AND
YOU BREAK HER ARM?" *bonk* *FLASH*

Cupid blinked. "What was that?"

Strife was rubbing his head. "A pissed off Muse. I'm afraid that's
just tha beginnin."

*bangbangbang* A voice called, "Police, open up!"

Strife gaped. "I beg yer fuckin pardon?"

Another voice called, "Jim, man, this is a little out of our
jurisdiction, huh?"

"Like I give a flying fuck at a rolling donut, Blair."
*pause* "Donuts..."

"Don't zone, Jim. Think of Scribe."

"Right. Open up, Strife. You and me are going to have a serious
discussion about how you choose your targets."

"Better do it, man. He's in Blessed Protector mode, and the longer
the ass-kicking is delayed, the worse it will be. Jim, why don't we
send in the spirit animals? Midnight can hold him down, and Lobo can
pee on him. Where that wolf pees, no grass grows."

Strife grabbed Cupid. "Run interference, babe. Tha only way I'm
gonna survive this is ta find out who really did it an' turn 'em ovah
ta tha posse."

"What posse?"

*brrrzzzzzapt* Bliss came in, wide-eyed. "Daddy Stwife, I think
that boy in the bathin' room wants you."

"What makes ya say that, kiddo?" asked Strife.

"Well, he SAID so, an' when I asked him what was the name of that
funny thing he crawled out of was, an' he said it was his ARSE."

"Shit! Now Scott Evil is aftah me, an' he has access ta all of his
dad's weird ass weapons."

Bliss said, "Maybe Unca 'Sidon is mad, too. There's big ol' mutated
sea bass in the bathin' pool now."

Strife groaned. "It has begun. I'm outta here."

*FLASH*

*bangbangbang* "OPEN UP!"

"Jim, put down the gun. You know damn good and well that one of
three things will happen--it'll jam, you'll shoot ME, or you'll drop
the gun."

Cupid sighed, taking Bliss' hand. "Come on, hon. Let's go get Imp."

"Okay," said Bliss agreeably as they started toward his sister's
room. "Why?"

"Because these are Scribe's versions of Ellison and Sandburg, which
means they're kid sensitive. They'll be less inclined to tear Daddy
Strife limb-from-limb with a couple of cherubs present. I hope."

Title: AGAIN?!, 2/?
Author: Scribe
Fandom: Multifandom Marysue
Pairing: implied
Rating: r
Summary: I'm not blaming this broken arm on Strife, but other people
are.
Archive: Mailing lists and WWOMB
Feedback: poet77665@catlover.com
Status: WIP
Sequel/Series:
Disclaimer: I did not create the characters here, I don't own them.
I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for
the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them.
Websites: and

Warnings:
Notes: Well, it happened AGAIN. This is just to make myself feel
better. Oh, and any typos or spelling errors--blame 'em on the
broken arm. Yeah, the arm... That's the ticket...

AGAIN?! 2/?
By Scribe

*bangbangban...*

"Oh, for goodness sake, open the door, already!" someone called from
inside the House of Love.

Ellison and Sandburg exchanged looks. "Jim? You DID try the door
before you started banging on it and screaming, right?"

"Um... Well... I'm PRETTY sure I did."

"Jim..."

"Gimme a break, Blair. I'm a little distracted here." Jim tried the
handle on the door. It swung open easily. "All right! I'm
coming..."

"I have kids in here. If you come in with a drawn gun, you'll leave
with it holstered somewhere VERY personal and uncomfortable," warned
the voice from inside.

"I'd listen," Blair advised. "I mean, most of the people up here ARE
sort of divinities, and as bad-ass as you are, it's hard to complete
with the sparkly-power thing."

"Fine." Jim holstered his gun (after dropping it, then picking it
up). The entered.

An exceedingly fine looking blonde man, wearing a sort of kilt, had
an equally blonde little boy standing beside him, and a girl toddler
hanging onto the hem of the kilt, thumb tucked neatly in her mouth.
The man said, "I'm Cupid," he indicated the children, "and these are
my kids--Bliss and Impetua. I take it you're looking for my husband?"

"Huh?"

Jim looked at Blair, puzzled. If his Guide had been reduced
to 'huh', it was a noteworthy occasion. Blair was staring at the
man, mouth hanging a little open. Jim looked from Blair, to Cupid,
to Blair, to Cupid, to Blair... His teeth gritted, and he felt a
different sort of anger begin bubbling up.

The little girl, looking far too sly for someone of her age, giggled
sweetly. Cupid looked down at her and scolded, "Imp! Stop that
right now! We have enough trouble as it is without you exercising
your godhood." The little girl pouted, poking out her bottom lip,
but Jim felt the new irritation begin to fade. "Sorry about that.
She's learning that she can INCITE jealousy, and since for her it's
like a combination of eating chocolate and being tickled, she does it
more than she's supposed to."

Now it was Jim's turn. "Huh?"

Cupid sighed. "I guess I should have done full introductions. I'm
Cupid, God of Romantic Love. This is my son, Bliss--God of Innocent
Joy, and this little hellion is my daughter Impetua--Goddess of
Jealousy and Envy. I'm afraid she takes after her birth daddy some
times. You were just directed in a bit of I am sure undeserved
jealousy." Jim looked doubtful. "Trust me--I'm the one who set you
guys up. Blair, why were you staring at me?"

"I've just never seen a guy wearing so many white feathers unless it
was a drag queen with a feather boa," said Blair, "and what with the
wings, I'm beginning to believe I need to watch Dogma again."

"Okay, I know that you're here because you think that Strife had
something to do with Scribe's latest accident," said Cupid
briskly. "Shame on you for jumping to conclusions."

Jim blushed. "Given past history..."

"Given past history, specifically dating, both of you should be
chasing the nearest nymph right now," Cupid pointed out. "And yeah,
a lot of the time Strife IS responsible for some of the nastier acts
of Fate. But he isn't responsible for ALL of it--not consciously.
For goodness sake, don't you people have a saying on a bumper sticker
that covers this?"

"Shit happens," said Blair.

Bliss covered his mouth, giggling. "Daddy Stwife says that a lot.
Specially when he changes Imp's diapers." Imp swatted at him. "Oh,
huh, Imp. I KNOW you useta make sure you'd tinkle an' poop at
diff'rent times soes they'd hafta change you TWICE."

The little girl giggled, twisting back and forth coyly. Cupid shook
his head. "Strife couldn't deny her even if he wanted to. Anyway,
Strife was nowhere near the mortal realm when the accident happened.
I checked his power signature, which doesn't lie. And BELIEVE me,
after that hip incident, I'm not about to let him get away with
something like this. He took off to do his own investigation, so if
you really want to be helpful, you'll go back and pitch in. The
sooner whoever did this is caught--the better." Cupid cracked his
knuckles. "Someone screws with Scribe, they screw with the lives of
a WHOLE lot of people who can make THEY'RE lives very miserable--
starting with me. Their love life will resemble that of a ninety-
year old hunchback with a bad case of bad-breath and BO, but me and
Mom will make sure their libido is still going like that of a sailor
on leave who has stumbled on a cache of Viagra. And when I'm through
with them, Ares would probably like a turn. After all, Scribe just
got Joxer through the birth of their first child, and she hasn't
written them any post-baby sex yet."

"Glad to hear it," said Jim. "We'll go back and see what we can do
to help."

They shook hands. As Jim and Cupid shook, Impetua stared at Blair,
green and gold flecks seeming to swirl in her eyes. As they walked
away Blair started whispering to Jim, and Cupid heard Jim,
exasperated, saying, "No, he DIDN'T shake hands way longer than he
needed to."

Cupid rolled his eyes. *IMP!"

*giggle*

Title: AGAIN?!, 3/?
Author: Scribe
Fandom: Multifandom Marysue
Pairing: implied
Rating: r
Summary: Strife begins his hunt for who is responsible for Scribe's most recent broken bone. He goes to some fairly obvious choices. Well, obvious if you're a slash fanfiction writer, anyway...
Archive: Mailing lists and WWOMB
Feedback: poet77665@catlover.com
Status: WIP
Sequel/Series:
Disclaimer: I did not create the characters here, I don't own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them.
Websites: and
Warnings:
Notes: **References the first two stories I wrote in the Poetic Series--Little Cat Feet, and Summer Redundant. Can be found at

AGAIN?! 3/?
By Scribe

In the Basement of the J. Edgar Hoover Building, and don't EVEN try to fit any of this into a canon timeline...

"Dammit, I wish Scully was here."

Krycek crooked an eyebrow at Mulder. "I thought we were settling in pretty well as partners."

"We're doing okay."

"Judging from what we're doing right now, I'd say we're on more than friendly terms, so why do you want Scully?"

"Scully is a doctor, and she's always prepared for everything. Scully would HAVE lube and condoms."

"Yeah, but she wouldn't be able to fuck you, now would she?" *squeeze*

*groan* "I dunno, I've never seen her naked. Y'know we ran into this really unusual sect of sort of... They weren't exactly Amish, but we finally figured out that their mating habits were even more strange, and..."

"Okay, I can't screw you, but there are other uses you could put your mouth to." *push* *glmmmf* "Muuuuuuch better."

*FLASH* "Yowza!"

*squeak!"

Krycek yelped. "Son of a BITCH! Will you PLEASE not startle him when he's doing that?"

Strife, who had appeared sitting cross-legged on the free desk, giggled. "Hang out a sign, dude." He held up his hands, as if framing something. "BLOWJOB BEING ADMINISTERED BY SKITTISH FEEB. PLEASE KNOCK." Mulder was picking himself up off the floor against the far wall, where he'd flung himself when Strife appeared. Strife fluttered his eyelashes at him. "Fellatious interruptus?"

Krycek was zipping up. "It was damn near an impromptu circumcision, and since I had a PLANNED one shortly after birth, that could have been awkward to say the least." Krycek glanced at Mulder. "Oh, put the gun away. It's just Strife."

Mulder (who didn't have Jim Ellison's seemingly genetic inability to hold onto a gun any time but when cleaning it or at a shooting range) didn't lower his aim. "Krycek, a weird looking guy in leather just appeared out of nowhere..." He frowned. "Interrupting the first sex I've had in ages, I might add, so if he ISN'T an X File, he's STILL a fucking annoyance."

Strife sighed. "Okay, HE'S clueless. Where's tha lil redhead? She can usually whip him inta some semblance of competence."

"I'm partnering Mulder now," said Alex. "Dana is... off doing the FBI equivalent of make-busy work, I think. Consulting on obscure forensics that would baffle most Nobel Prize winners, and have about as much practical significance as the latest issue of People Magazine... No, wait--sometimes People has coupons..."

Strife clapped his hands. "Hey, so, Alex, that means you an' Sulky are currently at tha start of yer Poetic saga, right?"

"This time around."

Mulder was looking back and forth between them. "What the hell are you two talking about?"

Strife sat back in surprise. "You don't know?"

Alex patted Mulder on the shoulder. "Scribe has agreed to let him stay in the dark." His grin was shark like. "Why take the surprise out of a relationship?"

Strife started giggling. Mulder said suspiciously, "What?"

Alex gave Strife a warning look, and the Mischief God waved it away. "He's clueless--he won't get it. Yo, Foxy, I got two songs I want ya ta remembah fah latah." He cleared his throat. "A Foggy Day In London Town, an' Summah Days.**"

Mulder looked puzzled. "London? But I attended Oxford years ago, and the Bureau isn't likely to want to use me on sensitive foreign matters any time soon."

Strife shrugged. "It's tha only song I can come up with about 'fog' right off tha top of my head." He glanced at Alex. "Any idea why she picked fog fah that story instead of rain?**"

Alex shrugged. "She was going on poems instead of songs, the prompt needed a weather condition, and someone had already done rain.**"

"Makes as much sense as anything else she's evah done, I guess. Ya heard what happened, ha?" Both FBI agents shook their heads, so Strife gave them the Reader's Digest Condensed Version. "So I'm tryin ta haul my butt outta tha crack, an' hopefully wedge whoever IS responsible in it."

"Let me get this straight," said Mulder. "You expect me to believe that there are multiple layers of reality--indeed, multiple universes, and that many of them are controlled by rabid fans of television and movies, who manipulate these realities and the lives of those within to satisfy their own often graphically sexual fantasies, displaying them for the pleasure of thousands of other equally twisted readers on the internet--and that one of these people, who has devoted a lot of time and attention to my own sexual exploitation, needs my help?"

Strife nodded. "Pretty much."

"Okay."

Strife grinned at Krycek. "He's so easy."

Alex sighed. "On some things." He returned the grin. "But he's also worth the effort on the other things. We're ready and willing to help."

"Suggestions?" said Strife.

"I'd say we hit the Lone Gunmen first," said Mulder. "They may be able to help. And even if they can't, if I didn't pull them in on something that looks like THIS big a conspiracy..." He trailed off.

"Make yer life miserable?" asked Strife.

"Strife--they're computer geeks. Hello? Credit ratings?"

Strife winced, then smiled. "I knew there was a reason I recruited so many of 'em. Okay, you two go check in with tha Trippy Trio. I'm off ta wrangle more help."

"Where to?" asked Mulder.

Strife cackled. "Somewhere there's enough weirdness ta keep you happy, enough sleaze fah Ratboy here, an' so much mischief all at once that I'm gettin a buzz just thinkin about it." He lifted his hands. "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas my ass!"

*FLASH*

Title: AGAIN?!, 4/?
Author: Scribe
Fandom: Multifandom Marysue
Pairing: implied
Rating: r
Summary: Evidence is going to need to be analyzed, and Strife is going to want someone to put Scribe in a good mood. He knows his girl.
Archive: Mailing lists and WWOMB
Feedback: poet77665@catlover.com
Status: WIP
Sequel/Series:
Disclaimer: I did not create the characters here, I don't own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them.
Websites: and
Warnings:
Notes:

AGAIN?!, 4/?
By Scribe

Las Vegas Forensic Lab, Night Shift

Greg sighed. "Look, Sarah, I just interpret the DNA and report. It's not my fault if the results don't fit into your concept of possible reality."

The brunette frowned, staring at the sheet of paper the blond lab rat had handed her. "But Greg--a wombat?"

"I'm telling you that the hair you found in the Jello mold is from a wombat--yes. And you're welcome."

Sarah ignored the hint, as usual. "What I don't understand is why you even considered testing for... wombatness."

"Well, I eliminated all the suspects, eliminated humans, eliminated all common domestic animals and readily available furs, then moved on to indigenous animals..."

"Wombats aren't indigenous to Nevada. Do we even have one at the zoo?"

Greg held up a finger as if to illuminate a point. "Ah! There's the interesting thing. They have several, and the vet was recently called to check one of them out, because..." He paused, eyebrows raised.

"I haven't had any caffeine for hours, Greg."

"It turned out that the little critter was suffering from over eating--fruit cocktail. Didn't you say that there were obvious empty spaces in what was left of the Jello mold?" Sarah stared at him. "I didn't say it made any sense, I just said it was interesting."

"But what possessed you to even THINK about wombats?"

"Someone suggested them."

"Grissom?" Greg jerked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the door that led into the hall. Sarah peered in that direction. The door to the teeny office across the hall was open. A plumpish woman with frizzy hair, wearing a T-shirt that was graced by a cat wearing a bandana, Stetson, and cowboy boots, was currently bent over a keyboard, typing away with a look of almost fierce concentration, mixed with near glee. "No. No, you did NOT take the suggestion of a wacked-out computer geek Internet smut writer."

"Please, you're talking about my girlfriend, and Mozell prefers the title 'Smut Goddess', thank you. And she was RIGHT, wasn't she?"

"But how on earth...?"

"She said that she'd dealt with a lot of weird situations in her writing, and in her experience, wombats were sometimes a good bet." He shrugged. "I was getting nowhere, so I figured it couldn't hurt."

Sarah sighed. "Okay, so it's a wombat hair. Now I have to figure out how the hell wombat hair got into a Jello salad at a Shriners' convention, and how it might tie into the death of the trash talk comic they hired to MC the thing."

*FLASH* "Mebbe he was allergic?"

Greg and Sarah both yelped, staring at the slender, leather clad, crazy looking man who was now poking among the test tubes on a nearby table. Greg pointed at him. "Touch those and I'll..." He caught sight of the dagger hanging on Strife's belt. "I'll have Grissom give you SUCH a talking to!"

Strife shrugged. "Threaten me with bein saddled with Sidestep. That'd be almost as effective as threatenin me with havin Gabby tied ta my back fah an extended period."

Sarah frowned. "My name is Si-dle, not... Wait a minute." She squinted suspiciously. "Do you know someone named Mozell McClain?"

"In a manner of speakin. I know wunna her alternates."

"What's...?"

Mozell peeked into the lab. "Oh, m'gawd! Joel Tobeck? I didn't know there was a convention in town."

Strife grinned at her. "Ain't him, kid, though I DO get that in some dimensions."

She clasped her hands, eyes wide with joy. "Strife?"

"One an' only."

"Coooool. I KNEW you'd have to show up here eventually. Too damn much weirdness going on for you not to."

"Wait," said Sarah. "Strife? As in Xena, Warrior Princess?"

Strife shook his head. "Ain't nevah been in Xena. Kinda like ta keep my balls attached, as I'm rathah fond of 'em. All of ya listen up--I'm only gonna explain this once." He pointed at Mozell. "First off, evah considahed tha chance that yer a figment of someone's imagination?"

He talked. When Sarah tried to sidle (I'm sorry, I had to) out, she found her way blocked by what appeared to be a faint shimmer over the door. She noticed that Greg and Mozell were listening closely, nodding occasionally. "You two aren't buying this, are you?"

Mozell shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"

"But it would mean that you aren't real."

"Define 'real'. I look at it this way," she spread a hand over her bosom, looking smug, "I'm someone's fantasy."

"So," said Strife, "I need all tha help I can get in this. Greg, will ya come help look fah clues, and *cough* sorta... comfort Scribe?"

Mozell hugged Greg. "Aw, my honey-bunny gets a chance to save the day--and get some nookie."

Sarah gaped. "Wait a minute! I happen to know what 'comfort' means to you Internet smut readers. You're sending your boyfriend off to have sex with a strange woman?"

"No, I'm sending him off to have sex with another version of myself. Wait--that DOES qualify, since I AM a strange woman." She put her chin on Greg's shoulder and batted her eyelashes at him.

He kissed her. "That you are, and I thank God for every odd little atom of you. Sure, I'll help any way I can."

"Just remember, stud," Mozell warned, "that version of me is feeling sorta achy-breaky right now." She rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Shave before giving oral sex. Whisker burns on the inner thighs are NOT fun."

Sarah groaned. "I really didn't need to know about that."

As Strife and Greg disappeared together, Mozell was telling, "The state of your love life, Side Reaction? I'd think you'd need all the inspiration you could get..."

Title: AGAIN?!, 5/?
Author: Scribe
Fandom: Multifandom Marysue
Pairing: implied
Rating: r
Summary: Strife contacts Scribe in order to assure her of his innocence, and that he is on the job.
Archive: Mailing lists and WWOMB
Feedback: poet77665@catlover.com
Status: WIP
Sequel/Series:
Disclaimer: I did not create the characters here, I don't own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them.
Websites: and
Warnings:
Notes:

AGAIN?!, 5/?
By Scribe

A Nice Manufactured Home in Rural SE Texas

There was the sound of quiet swearing from the back bedroom, then a plaintive voice said, "Inga, quit guilting me, would you? I've told you a dozen times, I CAN'T lift you up on the bed. I only have one functioning arm, and the way you're built, I just can't balance you right now."

*whine*

*sigh* "Fuck it. I'll try one more time. C'mere. Stand up, and put your front paws on the side of the bed." The woman sitting on the side of the bed, left arm held protectively against her body in a sling, bent down, slipped her right hand under the weenie dog's belly, and hefted quickly. *yelp!* *The yelp was NOT of the canine variety*

The dachshund was resting on the mattress next to the woman, who was now clutching her arm, pale faced. The little dog put her front paws up on the woman's leg, stretched up, and licked her face. "You're welcome, Inga. Oh, shit. I left the Vicodan in the bathroom."

*FLASH*

Strife and a companion appeared in the middle of the room. Scribe pointed at the Mischief God. "So help me, Strife, if your sparks set fire to anything in here I'm going to use YOU to smother the flames!" *sigh* "Right. Like I'm up to that right now."

Strife gave her a wary look. "Is that all yer mad at me for right now?"

She waved at him. "Oh, I'm not mad at you--I'm just pissed at the world and Fate in general right now." She pointed to the sling. "Life has been a bit pissy of late."

Strife looked relieved. "Then I don't hafta convince ya that I ain't responsible fah that particular bone snap?"

"What? No, of course not. Not after that incident with my hip. Besides, I can FEEL it when you're involved in one of my little life hiccups, and this one was nothing but sheer bad luck and my own lack of co-ordination." She gave him a shrewd look. "But not everyone else believes that, eh?"

"Got it in one, sweetheart. Yer Mary Sue fanfiction characters are aftah my ass, an' not in tha standard fun slash way."

"I'll tell them you aren't responsible."

"That'd help, but they're just gonna figure yer bein kind."

*violent giggle* "Please don't make me laugh now. It shakes the arm, and makes it hurt worse."

"Well, ya ARE kind--on occasion."

"Don't spread it around. I'm trying hard to overcome that 'sweet and nice' reputation that was cemented to me in high school."

"Any ways, I'm tryin ta exonerate myself." He paused, grinning thoughtfully. "Exonerate myself. Sounds kinky, don't it?"

"You'd find a box of Whitman Sampler kinky, Strife."

"Excuse me, but it can be VERY kinky, if used properly," said the young blonde man.

Scribe looked at him, then squeaked. "Greg Sanders?"

He bowed. "In the flesh."

"Being that this is probably a fanfiction, that's debatable, but since when have I ever let logic interfere with a good yarn? What are you doing here? Not that I MIND, you understand, but I feel obligated to ask. Damn that exposition."

"I'm gonna need him ta help me interpret any physical evidence I find," said Strife.

"Okay, I can see that. But he can hardly do it HERE, Strife. I don't own sophisticated, state of the art forensic equipment. I have an outdated VCR, a barely adequate computer, a TV set that won't work for the remote, a broken dishwasher, a refrigerator/freezer that's stopped automatically making ice, dammit to hell, a toaster oven, a George Forman grill, and does ANYONE really believe that he wrote all the recipes that come with it? Now, the 'rents have been hitting the casinos a lot lately, and they've acquired a rotisserie, a wall clock, and a combination coffee maker/toaster oven/grill, but I don't think that any of these things would be of much use in analyzing evidence."

"The coffee maker could come in handy," said Greg. "Lab techs need massive amounts of caffeine."

"You're welcome to make some. I don't drink it, so I can never remember how to make it. Personally I stick to..."

"Diet Pepsi. I know."

She blinked at him. "How do you know?"

"I snatched him outta Gorgeous Stud," Strife informed her.

*squeak!* "Strife! I haven't been able to shower since my accident, and with just one arm, the sponge baths have been sketchy, and I haven't been able to wash my hair since then, either. It now can't decide to be limp, straight, or frizzy, and since the weenie dog likes to get on my pillow, and she has BO like you wouldn't believe, I'm, shall we say, less than fresh, and you bring MY version of Greg to see me when I'm like THIS?!"

Greg took her hand and kissed it. "Yep, this is my Mozell, all right." He wiggled his eyebrows at her. "I'm available as personal body slave."

"Uhhh..."

Strife rubbed his hands together. "Okay, so he'll keep ya company till I need 'im. Ya want me ta go get yer Vicodan before I leave?"

Greg had continued kissing her hand. Now he'd turned it over and was kissing her palm. There was a little tongue action going on. Scribe's expression had gone dreamy. "That's okay," she said vaguely. "I think I've found a better pain reliever."

Strife giggled just before he flashed out. "Yah, but knowin you, it might be more addictive."

Title: AGAIN?! 6/?
Author: Scribe
Fandom: Multi-Mary Sue
Pairing: Several implied
Rating: Um... let's say R
Summary:
Archive: Mailing lists and WWOMB
Feedback: poet77665@catlover.com
Status: WIP
Sequel/Series:
Disclaimer: I did not create the characters here, I don't own them. I derive no
profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners,
and the actors and actresses who portray them.
Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and
http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver
Warnings:
Notes: I have a question to ask the readers. You may have noticed that I've
written a good number of shorty fics revolving around interacting with the
characters in relation to my fairly spectacular run of accidents. What do you
think of my tying them together as a series? Like, maybe, the Oop! Series. Or
the Unconventional Orthopedic Therapy Series, or something? Suggestions
welcomed, if not acted on. Y'all have weird senses of humor, too, and I'd love
to pick your brains.

AGAIN?! 6/?
By Scribe

Boston ME Office Lab

"Nigel, get off the computer. I want to look something up."

"Sod off, Bug. I think I'm about to talk someone into cyber sex."

Bug blinked, then leaned over Nigel's shoulder to peer at the screen. "Is Dana
a girl, or a boy?"

"I think it's a girl, but frankly since we're on opposite ends of the
information highway, it hardly matters, does it?" Bug pulled a chair up where
he could sit and comfortably watch the screen. "Voyeur."

"Exhibitionist. You know, being bi is very convenient--it automatically doubles
your chances of finding someone to get kinky with." Nigel, typing busily,
didn't answer aloud--but he nodded. "I DO get a little brassed off when some
bigoted American thinks anyone with a British accent is automatically gay."

"Well, you have to admit we don't exactly make it easy to deny. I mean, perhaps
they have a boy named Sue, but we're the nation who names some of our men
Beverly, Vivyan, Shirley, and Evelyn."

*Flash* "Funky names are wunna my favorite buzzes." Nigel and Bug (who had
both jumped back from the computer when there was a shower of blue
sparks--neither one willing to risk being fried, even if Dana WAS in the middle
of confessing a fantasy about a threesome with two of her co-workers, though
guys named Fox and Ratboy weren't exactly inspiring in the mental image
department) gaped at the slender, pale man in black leather. He grinned back at
them, pointing to Bug. "Yours, f'rinstance. I get an tingle every time some
poor schmuck tries ta pronounce it."

Bug looked indignant. "My name isn't all that hard--Mahesh."

"I ain't talkin about that one, kiddo. I mean tha
last--Vijayaraghavensatyanaryanamurthy."

Now Nigel blinked. "Bugger me..." Strife grinned. "Let me rephrase that.
Good lord. Bug, I believe he got it right. When was the last time anyone, even
one of your relatives, managed that mouthful on the first try?"

"No one has," Bug admitted. "All through school I could pretty much doze during
roll call. I just waited till the teacher paused a long time, with a dazed look
on her face, then called myself present. How did you do that?"

Strife buffed his nails on his leather. "I'm special. Besides, this is a
fanfiction. Yer just lucky Scribe din't do what she did with tha
inter-dimensional pixie dude in Career Girl Blues. She never could remember tha
spellin of his name, so he went through fifty-eight chapters as 'Mixedpickles'.
Tartarus knows what she would've come up with fah you if she hadn't been
connected to tha net an' looked up tha cast list."

Both men blinked. "Huh?"

"I ain't got time ta explain it. Shove ovah." Strife sat at the computer,
peering at the screen. He cackled. "I'm savin a copy of this chat an' emailin
it ta Skinner. Should give him an' Red somethin ta talk about. Now, lemme just
call up Scribe Scribbles." He typed. "I'm bookmarkin this for ya. Ya might
have a hard time explainin it if tha head honchos have wunna those spy programs
on yer computah, but it they did, I expect they'd have called ya on tha nookie
talk sessions by now. Okay, lessee... where to start?" He giggled. "Why not
with tha Love and Mischief Series? Might as well toot mah own horn. I think
that 'Imp gets babysat' chaptah in What a Difference a Deity Makes is a good
place ta start."

Nigel and Bug bent down and started reading. They exchanged looks. They read
again. Bug picked up a report and fanned himself. Nigel tried to loosen his
collar. This was difficult, since he was wearing a T-shirt under his lab coat.
After a minute Nigel said quietly. "Uh... wow."

Bug was staring. "Wow would just about cover it."

"An' if ya think it's fun ta read, imagine what it's like ta live it. Plus
she's got tons of othah stuff available, an' churnin out more all tha time--when
she ain't too bunged up."

Nigel was clicking on links. He frowned. "Austin Powers smut?"

"She uses Scott Evil--tha Seth Green charactah? Puts 'im with such honeys as
Alex Krycek, Benton Fraser, Oz..." Strife was ticking off on his fingers.

"Wait a minute," said Bug. "Oz and Scott? Two Seth Green characters together?"

"Yah. She manages four of 'em--throws Dwayne Cody from Rat Race inta tha mix,
too. I think she's workin on tryin ta figure out a way ta put in a fourth Green
charactah. She's shooting fah some sorta record."

Nigel twitched with interest. "Well, why hasn't she done it yet? How long will
we have to wait?"

Strife explained the author's alarming tendency to break bones, and the current
situation. "So I'm huntin tha real culprit. Can I enlist you guys fah possible
interpretation of evidence?"

"I thought you said you got that Greg Sanders person?" said Nigel.

"He's currently busy *cough* amusin Scribe."

Bug piped up. "How about dropping him back in the lab and bringing us over to
entertain her?" Nigel patted him on the shoulder.

Strife shook his head. "Nah. She's developin an interest in you two, but
nothin specific on tha MarySue front just yet."

"But she WILL if she can get back to writing regularly?" asked Nigel.

"Probably," said Strife. He smirked. "She ain't really good at resistin when a
plot bunny from a new fandom nips her."

Nigel and Bug whispered together for a minute, then Nigel said, "We'll be happy
to help--on one condition--we get an introduction later."

"Fine by me, as long as I actually catch tha snot responsible fah this fiasco.
If I don't, believe me--ya ain't gonna wanta use me as a reference. See ya when
I have somethin for ya."

*Flash*

They turned back to the monitor, muttering to each other that it was a good
thing it was a slow night. *clickclickclick* Nigel brightened up. "Oh, look,
Bug--Dracula slash! And she includes Renfield. I wonder if she has him doing
his insect munching? Want to read it?"

Bug made a face, then shrugged. "Sure. I wasn't planning on eating lunch,
anyway."

Title: AGAIN?! 7/?
Author: Scribe
Fandom: Multifandom Mary Sue
Pairing:
Rating: R
Summary: Shit happens--again.
Archive: Mailing lists and WWOMB. Others ask.
Feedback: poet77665@catlover.com
Status: WIP
Sequel/Series: Oh, Bugger! Series
Disclaimer: I did not create the characters here, I don't own them. Except Scribe. She's copyrighted, and MINE! I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them.
Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver
Warnings:
Notes: Between chapter 6 and chapter 7 I landed in the hospital for over a week with rapid and irregular heartbeat. Art imitates life.

AGAIN?! 7/?
By Scribe

Scribe's Mom KNEW she should have been frightened when a strange--make that VERY strange--leather clad man walked out of her daughter's room. But living with Scribe, she'd learned to take certain things in her stride. It was a lot easier on the blood pressure. "She isn't here."

"I was just about ta ask ya about that," said Strife. He peered around. "I passed tha potty on tha way, an' I can see clearly inta tha kitchen an' livin room from here. Those are her usual hang outs, so where is she?"

"Hospital."

"WHAT?! No--no. C'mon, lady, sit down. Breathe, breathe. That's it. Hang on." *runs glass of water and hands it to Scribe's Mom* "Drink that. I'da given ya a whiskey, or at least wine, but if I remembah correctly yer some sorta denomination that don't do alcohol."

"Southern Baptist, and after that I think a little nip would be excused, but thanks anyway." *sipsip* *blink* *deep breath* "Oooh-kay. Please don't do that again. I would have feared for any plane passing overhead."

"Harpies got nothin on me when I get goin. Now, what were ya sayin?"

"She's in the hospital agai--"

"-WHAT?!-"

"I ASKED YOU NOT TO DO THAT!"

"Eep! Tha 'Mom' voice! She means business. Okay, I'm calm." *pause* "But--really? Tha hospital? I was just here."

"What are you talking about? She's been there for almost a week. Her heart rate was far too rapid, and they're trying to get it regulated." Her eyes narrowed. "I suspect it might have something to do with that young blond man, but Scribe swears it isn't so. I can't help but think a man clad in underwear, found in a nice single girl's bedroom has something to hide."

"Not if it's a thong, he don't. Look, I'd love ta stay an' chat, but I gotta scram ovah there an' check on her. At least this one no one can blame on me. I don't DO heart disease." He gave a nasty, thoughtful smile. "Well, maybe yellin BOO at select people..."

*FLASH*

Scribe's Mom blinked away blue sparks, and murmured, "And they say that it's the teenage years when you have to worry about the weird friends."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

"Greg, you're a sweetie. I love you dearly. Get away from me with those powdered eggs or I'll rip off the connecting pads and strangle you with the wires from my heart monitor."

Greg laid the spoon back on the tray. "Feeling better, are we?"

"I'd be better off trying to eat the styrofoam peanuts they use to pack electronics. At least THEY might have some flavor."

"Or at least more spirited."

"I understand about the no salt on the tray, but I'm allowed pepper, and what the fuck am I supposed to season with that one teeny paper pack? I might be able to season a french fry--IF I WAS ALLOWED FRENCH FRIES! If all I can have is pepper, whey don't they give me ENOUGH pepper? Who the hell decides how they season this swill? Someone whose idea of spicy food is the fine cuisine of, oh, Wisconsin?"

"You're sarcastic. You're going to be all right."

"Bite me."

"I knew it would be dangerous to limit your Diet Pepsi intake."

"I'm hunting down the top researchers, kidnapping them, and holding them hostage till they come up with a salt substitute that doesn't just taste like chemicals."

"You could use Mrs.--"

"IF I WANT HERBS, I'LL ASK FOR FREAKIN' PARSLEY ON MY TRAY! AND DON'T YOU -DARE- TELL ME TO SQUEEZE A LEMON OVER ANYTHING!"

*FLASH*

Strife sighed in relief. "Oh, good. She's all right."

"I think they'll release her tomorrow--that is if the psychiatrist doesn't want to hold er for observation," said Greg.

"If I have one more beef-and-textured-vegetable-protien hockey puck, I'm going to kill someone," Scribe declared. "They seem to think that putting a different sauce over it makes it a different meal. IT DOESN'T! Soy is the same damn thing under tomato sauce or brown gravy."

Strife looked at Greg. "I'm so relieved. If she's bitchy, she's all right. It's when she gets real quiet that ya gotta worry about her."

"Excuse me, I have to go to the can. Eyes off the split in the back of the gown," she warned, climbing out of bed. She had an IV in her arm, and she gripped the pole, rolling the stand after her. "I feel like a damn pit bull--tethered up and ready to bite somebody."

Once she had closed the bathroom door, Strife said, "She ain't blamin me, is she?"

Greg shook his head. "Nah. She said this has been coming on for awhile. She's been feeling steadily more rotten. I feel like such a dope. At first I thought I was what was making her breathless. I felt like king stud of the world."

"About tha time frame. Her Mom said somethin about her bein here a week, an' I thought I was only gone..."

"Fanfiction?"

"Yah, right. I should know bettah, but sometimes I wish tha insanity was a little more consistent. It'd make it easier ta keep track." Scribe came out. "No flush?"

"They're measuring it, God preserve us."

"An how are ya doin?"

"I'm peeing like a racehorse, which is what they want, but a damn inconvenience when I have to trundle this rack along with me."

"Ya know, ya can really tell yer a writer from yer elegant an' refined phrasology."

"Stuff it."

*FLASH*

Cupid appeared. "Here you are! I left the kids with Dad, so I'm free to help you. Hey, Scribe."

"Cupid, as glad as I am to see you," she said, "have you considered the possible effect of a man with white wings being spotted in a cardiac care unit?"

"Oops. I guess I'd better head out quick. Gimme some sugar." He gave her a quick hug and a little-bit-more-than-platonic-friends sort of kiss. "I'll go check with Scott to be sure his idiot Dad didn't have a hand in this." *FLASH*

The door opened, and a nurse bustled in. "Your heart rate just jumped significantly. What's wrong?"

Scribe licked her lips. "Nice daydream."

The nurse checked the monitor. "Well, it seems to be okay now." She caught sight of Strife, and hesitated. "Did you...?"

"If ya dare suggest I'd do anythin ta hurt my girl, there, you'll nevah have a pair of pantyhose go more'n five minutes without a run," he warned.

"Oh-kay. Are you through with your tray, Miss Feazell? You haven't eaten much."

"I thought I was supposed to be keeping my blood sugar lower and trying to lose weight," Scribe said.

"Well, yes, but you don't want to take it too far, either. Be sure to eat all your lunch." She left.

Scribe laid back and pulled the covers over her head. "Suddenly I understand the old saying about damned if you do, damned if you don't. And the lesser of two evils. Maybe I can do like I did back in grade school--drink my milk, then stuff the crappy stuff in the carton..."

"You gonna be all right ta stay with her for awhile?" asked Strife.

"Let 'em try and get rid of me. They tried to tell me that I couldn't stay over night."

"How'd ya get past 'em?"

"Lied and said I was a relative. I got a funny look when they came in at night to take her blood pressure and found us cuddled in bed."

"Not too funny, I bet."

"How'd you know?"

"One of her pet peeves. This is Texas, an' it's wunna tha few places left in America were ya can legally marry yer cousin. I think they got some Olympic ties. Take care of her, an' I'll get back ta ya as soon as I can."

"Where are you going?"

"Fuck if I know. I'm makin this up as I go along."

*FLASH*

From under her sheet Scribe murmured, "Welcome to the wonderful world of stream of conscience writing..."

Title: AGAIN?! 8/?
Author: Scribe
Fandom: Multifandom Mary Sue
Pairing: Implied only
Rating: R
Summary: A previously untouched fandom makes itself known.
Archive: Mailing lists and WWOMB. Others ask.
Feedback: poet77665@catlover.com
Status: WIP
Sequel/Series: Oh, Bugger! Series
Disclaimer: I did not create the characters here, I don't own them. Except
Scribe. She's copyrighted, and MINE! I derive no profit from this effort. I
mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses
who portray them.
Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and
http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver
Warnings:
Notes: Forgive me, JRRT. I finally succumbed.

AGAIN?!
By Scribe

Part Eight

Legolas Greenleaf loosed an arrow at the Balrog. His aim was true (duh), but
the shaft bounced off the beast's hide with no more effect than a spit
watermelon seed. The Balrog roared something that probably translated as, "Puny
mortal!" Hey, no one ever accused a Balrog of being overburdened with brains.
Though maybe Legolas DID qualify as mortal. Though no one could remember any of
them dying of old age, one occasionally did pop off through the efforts of Orcs
or other nasties. There was just something about the cool, beautiful
superiority of elves that really pissed off the grottier beings--sort of the way
it was for cheerleaders in high school.

In any case, Legolas didn't hesitate. He sent another, and another arrow after
the first. They had just as much effect, but hey--he had to at least look like
he was trying. If those Hobbits were going to try to jab the Balrog in his toes
with their toothpick swords, then he had to hold up elvish valor. Aragorn and
Boromir were trying to herd the Hobbits away from the beast, while Gandalf
tossed blasts of white energy at it, and Gimli did what he did best--swore. At
least he hadn't tripped over his beard any time lately.

*FLASH*

There were blue sparks, and a tall, pale man in black leather appeared.
Everyone was so startled that they froze, including the Balrog. Boromir gasped,
"One of Sauron's minions!"

The man cackled. "That pussy? Hardly." He looked over at Legolas. "Yo,
Blondie. I need ya ta come with me."

"Fool!" hissed Legolas. "Can you not see that we battle for our very lives?
What could persuade me to abandon the fray now?"

"Scribe needs ya."

Legolas slung his bow over his shoulder. "Sorry, my friends, but..."

"We understand," said Aragorn. "Tell her that Lord of the Rings fanfiction
isn't poison, you know."

"And ask her what she has against Hobbit slash!" piped Merry. "She knows very
well that Pippin an' I are a couple."

Strife waved his hand. "Hell, everyone knows that. Tha only more obvious
couple is Sam an' Frodo." Sam and Frodo exchanged furtive looks. "My guess is
she just figured it was too easy a target. She pretty much considers it canon
since she saw Tha Return of tha King."

The Balrog blinked, and made a muttering sound. Strife made a face. "She's
written some weird shit, includin plant sex an' horny stuffed animals, but I
don't think she'll be writin any Balrog Boogyin any time soon."

*ROAR!*

Gandalf swept his arms wide and grasped his staff. "Go!" he thundered, "Before
yonder foul and sexually frustrated beast changes the plot lines in ways we'll
all regret. And Legolas--tell her that just because I have snow on the roof
doesn't mean that the furnace in the basement is dead."

Strife grabbed Legolas. "Hold onta yer tights, cutie." Just before he flashed
out, he shouted at the Balrog, "Maybe I WILL mention ya ta Scribe. She ain't
evah done any Hitchhiker's Guide ta tha Galaxy slash, an' there's always tha
Ravenous Bugblattah Beast."

*FLASH*

They appeared in the hospital room. The woman in the bed squeaked, "Orlando
Bloom! Joel Tobek! But that deal for you to play Golum and Smeagol didn't work
out, dammit!"

Legolas frowned. "She looks differently than I imagined."

"That's cause it ain't Scribe," said Strife. "Ya got us wrong, lady. Scribe
don't write Real Person Fic. Not fah public consumption, anyway. Where's tha
gal who was in here before?"

"Search me," said the patient. "No, really--go ahead. Search me. Thoroughly."

"No time, but ya got good instincts. C'mon, Pretty Boy. We gotta find out
where she is now." They went out into the hall, and Strife flagged down the
first nurse he saw. "Yo, what happened ta tha dame ya had in that room tha last
time I was here?"

The nurse frowned at him. "I remember you. She got out over a month ago. What
sort of a time warp have YOU been in?"

"Yer tryin ta be sarcastic. Tha effect is sorta spoiled when yer accurate.
She's home."

He grabbed Legolas. The woman in Scribe's old room could see them through the
door. She started hollering, "Kiss! Kiss!"

*FLASH*

Blue sparks spewed. *Yipe!* Pills sprayed.

"DAMMIT, Strife!" Scribe scolded. "Now I'm going to have to pick those out of
the carpet. Do you have any idea what medication for someone my size would do
to a mini-weenie dog if she ate it, and Inga WOULD eat it if she found it,
and..." *pause* *silent stare* "That isn't who I think it is."

"Wanna bet? An why hasn't Sanders hauled his ass in here ta see why ya
yelled?"

"It's been almost a month since we heard from you, doofus. I sent him on."

"Back to yer othah self?"

"No. Actually, he was headed out to Boston to consult with Bug and Nigel about
a fur sample he found caught on my front steps." *clears throat* *points at
Legolas, who is staring at her with a small smile* "What's he doing here?"

"Well, I figured he could spell Sanders on watchin aftah ya, since it's startin
ta look like whoevah is responsible might have hinky powahs. Guess it's a good
thing I DID bring 'im along."

"But what's he doing among my Mary Sue characters? That fandom is particularly
notorious for badly written Mary Sues. Lots of gorgeous half elves with
Elfquest sorts of names--Mary Sues who have powers special even among the elves.
Mary Sues whose main virtue are dying valiantly--which means just plain DYING.
I haven't written any Lord of the Rings Mary Sues. "

Strife laughed. "Sure ya have."

"Have not!"

"Ya just haven't showed it ta anyone. It's on yer hard drive."

"Is not."

"Do I hafta give ya directions? Folders in ordah--My Documents, Save,
Fantasies, Misc, an tha file is named elvish.doc."

"YOU'VE BEEN DIGGING THROUGH MY SMUT... I MEAN WRITING!"

"Duh. Kinda cute how ya managed gettin ta Middle Earth. Visitin tha ladies
potty aftah leaving tha second movie, havin tha powah go off, an' steppin out
inta a forest insteada tha lobby. Then gettin surrounded by elves, an'..."

"You can stop right there."

"I don't blame ya--he's hot." Elves do not grin, but Legolas was coming close.
"There's just somethin about a blond guy with a bow..."

"I never got around to anything," she cut her eyes at Legolas. He smiled at
her. "Interesting."

"Nope, ya been devotin almost all yer 'classic fantasy smut' writin skills
toward Xenaverse stuff, meaning lots of nookie fah me an' Cupid, bless ya."
Strife clapped Legolas on the back. "Mebbe ya can persuade her ta devote a
little time ta yer fandom, Blondie." He whispered in the elf's slightly pointed
ear. "It'll keep her distracted an' amused."

"Happy to try."

"Strife!" Scribe protested. "You can't leave him here! It was hard enough to
get Mom to let Greg stay over a few days, and he didn't have pointed ears!"

Scribe's Mom came in. "Scribe, I thought I heard voices, did you...?" She
stopped, raising an eyebrow. "Visitors again?"

"Uh... oh, hell. Mom, you've met Strife. This is Legolas Greenleaf."

Legolas took Mom's hand and made her an elegant bow. "Noble woman, to have
produced such a daughter."

"Um, thank you," said Scribe's Mom. "We like her. Say, do you go to those
Renaissance Fair things my son Dudley has told me about?"

"That's right, Mom," Scribe said quickly. "There was a fire in his apartment
while he was in costume, and all he has now is what he stands up in. Dud
wondered if he could stay with us for a few days, till things settle down."

"Of course, dear," Mom said agreeably. "It would be the Christian thing to do."

Legolas looked puzzled. "Christian?"

Scribe shook her head quickly. "Don't start!" she whispered to Legolas. "My
brother's Dungeons and Dragons phase worried her enough."

"We're off to the casinos. I'll leave sheets out for the bed in the front
bedroom."

"R-i-i-i-g-h-t." Mom looked at Strife suspiciously. He looked at the ceiling
and whistled.

When she left, Scribe hissed, "If you keep that up she'll try to get me into a
convent--and we're Southern Baptist!"

He pinched her cheek. "Yer cute when yer pissed. I gotta go, Toots." He
leered. "Have fun. Do ev'rything I'd do."

*FLASH*

"I can't!" she yelled. "I'm not equipped." She looked up as Legolas sat beside
her on the bed. "Um... Hi. Look, I don't know what exactly people in your
fandom expect from me..." He took her hand gently in his. "I mean, sure, I
read the books back when I was in high school, but to be honest, I remembered
very little of them till they started coming out with the movies, and..." He
kissed her hand. "...and while I HAVE written a lot of fanfiction in fandoms I
haven't seen much of..." He turned her hand over and kissed her wrist.
*shiver* "Ack! I've thought that's the sexiest move possible for two fully
clothed persons ever since I saw Daniel Day-Lewis pull it on Michele Pfeiffer in
The Age of Innocence."

"We invented it."

"Yes, as I remember, modesty is not an elvish trait. Then again, millions of
screaming, drooling fangirls and boys would not tend to inspire humbleness." He
started kissing his way up her forearm. "Gomez, before this goes any farther, I
have a question."

"Yes?"

"In the movie, you went for days without a bath or even a Wet Nap, you slept
rough, you battled... Everyone else ended up grubby, covered in dirt,
greasy-haired, stubbly jawed, covered in twigs and grass stains... and you had a
single tiny smudge that accentuated your high cheekbones. How did you manage
it?"

"The same way you've gone through all your Mary Sue adventures and come out
still a virgin."

"Ah. Suspension of disbelief. I can live with that..."

tbc