FIC: Kiss Trick (1/?)
Feb. 18th, 2011 03:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
the_ragnarokSo! Some people have asked for a sequel to Allowed. I've been writing bits and pieces of one for a while now (and also ngl I'm pretty easy), so there's a beginning of one.
So many thanks tozanzando for looking this over.
Kiss Trick, Arthur/Eames, NC-17, asexuality and relationship discussions and things.
A couple of young men are squirming and grunting on Eames' screen. He's watching them with a critical eye. It's not that he's unfamiliar with the steps of this particular dance, but he's been feeling himself go stale, in need of inspiration. There is, after all, such a thing as professional pride.
It's not that he means to use these moves, per se, where anyone is actually meant to watch. It's more that he needs to have the promise of them hidden under his skin.
Eames grins, suddenly, and thinks of his latest creation. She's a slim brunette with a Dushku-esque pout that he calls Alex, and until his very recent adjustments she was completely unremarkable. Fine for blending in with a twenty-something crowd, slightly more than reasonably attractive, but otherwise no better than dozens of faces he can pull off.
The memory of her stirs something in him. He shuts the laptop screen, slides it down to rest safely on the couch, and storms into the study, where he keeps all his working materials. He has drawings of her lying in a messy pile on the desk, quick sketches that wouldn't look like anything to anyone but him. He pulls a fresh sheet of paper, grabs a pencil, and sits down to add another sketch.
It's all in the range of movement, that's the secret. More basic than even body language; the minute changes in angle and speed as she raises her hand to aim a gun, the muscles in her calves when she walks in high heels. Things that signify danger, to Eames, and signify very different things to people with specific tastes.
He covers three more pages in the clean, swift lines he favors. The tips of his fingers are blackened with graphite. His eyes are burning, mostly because it's three in the goddamn morning. He ought to take a shower and go to sleep.
Instead he goes back to the couch, unfreezes the video and studies it. It's useless, really, he's too tired to even think, let alone properly analyze, set the things that mean sex apart from the individualities of this particular pairing. It's not work anymore and it's hardly entertainment.
What it really is is avoidant behavior, but if Eames thinks about that he'll end up despondent and generally useless. He places a hand on the laptop's cover, resolute to shut it, when he's drawn to look at the screen.
He would have thought it an accident, somebody leaving the camera on too long, but the people on his screen are clean of all the bodily fluids they were covered in only moments ago. One of them, dark-haired and lean, has his face tucked into the other's shoulder. Through the laptop's crappy built-in speakers, the contented sigh he makes is barely even recognizable as a human sound.
Eames turns the volume up. They don't talk, the two men he's watching, and there's nothing much to hear but heavy breaths slowly evening out as they curl around each other. Then the scene fades to black, and Eames is left blinking at the youporn "replay?" button.
This is ridiculous. He needs to go to bed. Eames rubs his eyes and sighs, cursing as he gets of the couch.
His phone vibrates. Eames stumbles and steadies himself on the couch, mouth already shaping into a grin. On one hand, he doesn't know who it is; on the other, who the fuck can it be at bloody half-past-three in the morning?
As it turns out, the text is from Arthur, and Eames allows himself a moment of completely unbecoming joy at reading it. Flight landed, taking a taxi home.
The sky is turning pale by the time Eames hears the key twisting in the lock. He's already resigned himself to staying awake and being utterly useless the next day.
Arthur wrestles his suitcase inside, then lets it drop on the floor as Eames sets on hugging him through the wall, if at all possible. Arthur's arms come to wrap around him, strong enough to strangle and so bloody welcome that Eames can't help a surge of affection. He kisses it into Arthur, trying to pass on the entire indignity of the situation to him, but to no avail. Arthur just pours it all back into him, until Eames has no choice but to push away and drag Arthur to bed with him.
He slaps Arthur's hands away when he tries to undress himself, too impatient to feel skin on skin, unbuttoning Arthur's shirt with the nimbleness one gains after a lifetime of petty theft. Eames is only wearing boxers and a ratty robe, so when Arthur is bared Eames only has to shrug the robe off and crawl into bed after him.
Lying on top of Arthur, eyes closed, Eames feels like he can breathe properly for the first time in six weeks.
Arthur's hand curls at the back of Eames' neck, proprietary. "Missed you, too," he says. It was probably meant to come out a lot drier than it did.
Eames leans up on an elbow, bending down to nose at the curve of Arthur's jaw. "Good," Eames says, "because I missed the fuck out of you, darling."
Arthur's laughter is shaky. He pulls Eames down for a kiss, and Eames goes happily. He could basically do this forever, taking in how Arthur's mouth is soft inside, beyond the first hard barrier of teeth, how his lips move against Eames', the spasmodic clutch of his hand in Eames' hair.
He can feel Arthur's cock stirring against his thigh. Eames feels a flicker of dismay warring with the torrent of affection still strong in him, a small voice in him whining Must he do this?
Arthur must have felt something, because he's flinching, retreating with a muttered "Sorry," and, no, this cannot be allowed to go on. Eames tightens his arms around Arthur.
This is a surprisingly effective method; Arthur, for all that the barest hint of rough treatment – biting beyond a nibble, scratching unless asked, hair tugging – these things all make him prickle without fail, but he is astoundingly amenable to manhandling. He relaxes in Eames' grip immediately, and Eames leans down to kiss him, because it's important to reward cooperation.
And also, admittedly, because he fucking likes to. But that's neither here nor there right now.
After the first moment, Arthur's arousal isn't a cause for apprehension or displeasure. Eames would be perfectly within his rights to ignore it utterly, or to request that Arthur take care of it elsewhere before they resume cuddling. But Arthur's frustration is almost palpable to Eames, a tangible thing, and he can't bear it any more than he could bear Arthur removing himself from his vicinity for any length of time just now.
Instead he takes Arthur's cock in hand, warmed at the sudden clenching of Arthur's hands on his shoulders. Mouths a kiss into Arthur's chest. "I'll just be taking care of that, darling, hmm?"
Arthur whimpers, and Eames grins in private victory, kissing his way down. Arthur's hands on his shoulder tremble and let go. Eames catches on of those hands in his own, entwining their fingers as he pulls Arthur's cock into his mouth.
Taken in and of itself, there is nothing about this act that Eames finds objectionable. Arthur's skin is lovely to feel, to rub against and taste, here just as in all of Arthur's other parts. A touch, a kiss in passing – Eames is glad to bestow those, and feels deprived when he can't. It's just that to offer Arthur satisfaction, Eames has to stay at the same point and move in fairly specific ways.
It's a labor of love, but it's labor nonetheless.
Still, Eames can't resent it when it makes Arthur quite this obviously happy, and Arthur obliges him by not taking his time about achieving climax quite as much as he could. Eames heeds the warning tug of Arthur's hand and backs away to pull Arthur through his orgasm by hand, kissing Arthur's thigh because it's there and it hasn't been in ages.
As Eames crawls back up, Arthur mumbles, "You know, I used to apologize for having a hair trigger like that."
Eames chuckles and smooths Arthur's hair back. Arthur pulls away for a minute to clean himself up. Eames patiently waits for him to be finished before wrapping himself securely around Arthur. "So how was the job?"
Arthur snorts. "Boring as fuck. We got another offer out of it, at least. Want a look?"
"In the morning," Eames says, firmly ignoring the fact that technically this is morning. Right now he wants to feel Arthur falling asleep in his arms, and he refuses to let anything distract him from that.
~~
Eames dreams about trees, and water.
He knows this place. It's a lake, a beautiful place they visited once when he was very young. That's his mum by the water's edge, in her yellow sundress and pink floppy straw hat. She's sitting in the dappled shade of the oak trees. Eames joins her.
When she turns her face at him, it's not the one he associated with this place and these clothes, but as he last saw them, weathered and sallow with sickness. He takes her hand, careful of the fragile skin there.
"We never came back here," he says, after a short while. "I always wondered why."
She laughs, and it's a young sound. "Oh, we couldn't," she says. "Don't you remember? When we left, you cried as if your heart was breaking."
"It was," he says. He'd wanted to stay, begged his father to buy the place for him.
His mother looks now just as she did then, amused and exasperated. "Whatever would you have done with it?" It's the same question she asked then.
"Kept it," Eames says, and the dream dissolves.
Eames wakes up feeling disoriented. His dreams have always been half-lucid, even before he first laid eyes on a PASIV. Come to think of it, that he's dreaming at all is a sign that he'd been too long away from real work. He wanted to take some time off, to wallow in his private creations and pleasures. Arthur, thus far, humored him, only half-heartedly dangling interesting jobs in attempt to catch his interest.
When Eames finally manages to drag himself out of bed, Arthur is sitting at the kitchen table wearing a robe and slippers, with a mug of coffee cooling next to him and the New York Times spread out in front of him. Eames kisses his shoulder and goes to make himself tea.
"How long have you been up?" he inquires as he tries to find his favorite cup among the piles of unwashed dishes.
"A few hours," Arthur says. Eames glances at the clock and winces; it's nearly four in the afternoon. "I'll wash the dishes soon, okay?"
Eames snorts. "The dishes are the least of my concerns. Have you eaten anything?"
Arthur makes a noise that Eames correctly interprets as Eating is overrated. "I'll just make some eggs, shall I?"
"You don't have to feed me," Arthur says.
"Only if I want you to eat," Eames agrees. He fishes the frying pan from the bottom of the dish pile, grinning when Arthur shoulders past him and unsubtly nudges him away. He watches as Arthur pushes his sleeves up and roots in the dirty water for the sponge.
Between the two of them, breakfast – brunch? Early dinner? – is soon enough arranged. Once they are both fed to to Eames' satisfaction and Arthur clears the dishes, Eames says, "So. About this job you mentioned."
Arthur pulls a file out of his briefcase, opening it to one of numerous bookmarks placed therein. "This is Alfred Bayliss," he says, pointing at a picture pinned to a bulletted list of factoids. "All the information about him is in here, but basically he's a CEO and the rival company wants to know what he knows."
This is bog-standard, far less intriguing than the prospects Arthur's been using to tempt Eames back into the field recently. "Positively plebeian, Arthur," he says, eyebrows rising. "Where is the catch?"
Arthur looks embarrassed. "There isn't one, really. I just thought it would be an easy job to pull solo, if you didn't feel like getting back into the field yet."
"Or with an unreliable team," Eames says. Arthur nods assent. He often picks these humdrum jobs as an excuse to test the merit of people new to their fields.
And yet, Eames has a feeling this may be more complicated than it looks. If only because Arthur suggested it to him, and Arthur's gut instinct is rarely wrong about these things. "I'll look at it," he says, trying for noncommittal and probably missing by a mile if Arthur's grin is anything to judge by.
So many thanks to
zanzando for looking this over.Kiss Trick, Arthur/Eames, NC-17, asexuality and relationship discussions and things.
A couple of young men are squirming and grunting on Eames' screen. He's watching them with a critical eye. It's not that he's unfamiliar with the steps of this particular dance, but he's been feeling himself go stale, in need of inspiration. There is, after all, such a thing as professional pride.
It's not that he means to use these moves, per se, where anyone is actually meant to watch. It's more that he needs to have the promise of them hidden under his skin.
Eames grins, suddenly, and thinks of his latest creation. She's a slim brunette with a Dushku-esque pout that he calls Alex, and until his very recent adjustments she was completely unremarkable. Fine for blending in with a twenty-something crowd, slightly more than reasonably attractive, but otherwise no better than dozens of faces he can pull off.
The memory of her stirs something in him. He shuts the laptop screen, slides it down to rest safely on the couch, and storms into the study, where he keeps all his working materials. He has drawings of her lying in a messy pile on the desk, quick sketches that wouldn't look like anything to anyone but him. He pulls a fresh sheet of paper, grabs a pencil, and sits down to add another sketch.
It's all in the range of movement, that's the secret. More basic than even body language; the minute changes in angle and speed as she raises her hand to aim a gun, the muscles in her calves when she walks in high heels. Things that signify danger, to Eames, and signify very different things to people with specific tastes.
He covers three more pages in the clean, swift lines he favors. The tips of his fingers are blackened with graphite. His eyes are burning, mostly because it's three in the goddamn morning. He ought to take a shower and go to sleep.
Instead he goes back to the couch, unfreezes the video and studies it. It's useless, really, he's too tired to even think, let alone properly analyze, set the things that mean sex apart from the individualities of this particular pairing. It's not work anymore and it's hardly entertainment.
What it really is is avoidant behavior, but if Eames thinks about that he'll end up despondent and generally useless. He places a hand on the laptop's cover, resolute to shut it, when he's drawn to look at the screen.
He would have thought it an accident, somebody leaving the camera on too long, but the people on his screen are clean of all the bodily fluids they were covered in only moments ago. One of them, dark-haired and lean, has his face tucked into the other's shoulder. Through the laptop's crappy built-in speakers, the contented sigh he makes is barely even recognizable as a human sound.
Eames turns the volume up. They don't talk, the two men he's watching, and there's nothing much to hear but heavy breaths slowly evening out as they curl around each other. Then the scene fades to black, and Eames is left blinking at the youporn "replay?" button.
This is ridiculous. He needs to go to bed. Eames rubs his eyes and sighs, cursing as he gets of the couch.
His phone vibrates. Eames stumbles and steadies himself on the couch, mouth already shaping into a grin. On one hand, he doesn't know who it is; on the other, who the fuck can it be at bloody half-past-three in the morning?
As it turns out, the text is from Arthur, and Eames allows himself a moment of completely unbecoming joy at reading it. Flight landed, taking a taxi home.
The sky is turning pale by the time Eames hears the key twisting in the lock. He's already resigned himself to staying awake and being utterly useless the next day.
Arthur wrestles his suitcase inside, then lets it drop on the floor as Eames sets on hugging him through the wall, if at all possible. Arthur's arms come to wrap around him, strong enough to strangle and so bloody welcome that Eames can't help a surge of affection. He kisses it into Arthur, trying to pass on the entire indignity of the situation to him, but to no avail. Arthur just pours it all back into him, until Eames has no choice but to push away and drag Arthur to bed with him.
He slaps Arthur's hands away when he tries to undress himself, too impatient to feel skin on skin, unbuttoning Arthur's shirt with the nimbleness one gains after a lifetime of petty theft. Eames is only wearing boxers and a ratty robe, so when Arthur is bared Eames only has to shrug the robe off and crawl into bed after him.
Lying on top of Arthur, eyes closed, Eames feels like he can breathe properly for the first time in six weeks.
Arthur's hand curls at the back of Eames' neck, proprietary. "Missed you, too," he says. It was probably meant to come out a lot drier than it did.
Eames leans up on an elbow, bending down to nose at the curve of Arthur's jaw. "Good," Eames says, "because I missed the fuck out of you, darling."
Arthur's laughter is shaky. He pulls Eames down for a kiss, and Eames goes happily. He could basically do this forever, taking in how Arthur's mouth is soft inside, beyond the first hard barrier of teeth, how his lips move against Eames', the spasmodic clutch of his hand in Eames' hair.
He can feel Arthur's cock stirring against his thigh. Eames feels a flicker of dismay warring with the torrent of affection still strong in him, a small voice in him whining Must he do this?
Arthur must have felt something, because he's flinching, retreating with a muttered "Sorry," and, no, this cannot be allowed to go on. Eames tightens his arms around Arthur.
This is a surprisingly effective method; Arthur, for all that the barest hint of rough treatment – biting beyond a nibble, scratching unless asked, hair tugging – these things all make him prickle without fail, but he is astoundingly amenable to manhandling. He relaxes in Eames' grip immediately, and Eames leans down to kiss him, because it's important to reward cooperation.
And also, admittedly, because he fucking likes to. But that's neither here nor there right now.
After the first moment, Arthur's arousal isn't a cause for apprehension or displeasure. Eames would be perfectly within his rights to ignore it utterly, or to request that Arthur take care of it elsewhere before they resume cuddling. But Arthur's frustration is almost palpable to Eames, a tangible thing, and he can't bear it any more than he could bear Arthur removing himself from his vicinity for any length of time just now.
Instead he takes Arthur's cock in hand, warmed at the sudden clenching of Arthur's hands on his shoulders. Mouths a kiss into Arthur's chest. "I'll just be taking care of that, darling, hmm?"
Arthur whimpers, and Eames grins in private victory, kissing his way down. Arthur's hands on his shoulder tremble and let go. Eames catches on of those hands in his own, entwining their fingers as he pulls Arthur's cock into his mouth.
Taken in and of itself, there is nothing about this act that Eames finds objectionable. Arthur's skin is lovely to feel, to rub against and taste, here just as in all of Arthur's other parts. A touch, a kiss in passing – Eames is glad to bestow those, and feels deprived when he can't. It's just that to offer Arthur satisfaction, Eames has to stay at the same point and move in fairly specific ways.
It's a labor of love, but it's labor nonetheless.
Still, Eames can't resent it when it makes Arthur quite this obviously happy, and Arthur obliges him by not taking his time about achieving climax quite as much as he could. Eames heeds the warning tug of Arthur's hand and backs away to pull Arthur through his orgasm by hand, kissing Arthur's thigh because it's there and it hasn't been in ages.
As Eames crawls back up, Arthur mumbles, "You know, I used to apologize for having a hair trigger like that."
Eames chuckles and smooths Arthur's hair back. Arthur pulls away for a minute to clean himself up. Eames patiently waits for him to be finished before wrapping himself securely around Arthur. "So how was the job?"
Arthur snorts. "Boring as fuck. We got another offer out of it, at least. Want a look?"
"In the morning," Eames says, firmly ignoring the fact that technically this is morning. Right now he wants to feel Arthur falling asleep in his arms, and he refuses to let anything distract him from that.
~~
Eames dreams about trees, and water.
He knows this place. It's a lake, a beautiful place they visited once when he was very young. That's his mum by the water's edge, in her yellow sundress and pink floppy straw hat. She's sitting in the dappled shade of the oak trees. Eames joins her.
When she turns her face at him, it's not the one he associated with this place and these clothes, but as he last saw them, weathered and sallow with sickness. He takes her hand, careful of the fragile skin there.
"We never came back here," he says, after a short while. "I always wondered why."
She laughs, and it's a young sound. "Oh, we couldn't," she says. "Don't you remember? When we left, you cried as if your heart was breaking."
"It was," he says. He'd wanted to stay, begged his father to buy the place for him.
His mother looks now just as she did then, amused and exasperated. "Whatever would you have done with it?" It's the same question she asked then.
"Kept it," Eames says, and the dream dissolves.
Eames wakes up feeling disoriented. His dreams have always been half-lucid, even before he first laid eyes on a PASIV. Come to think of it, that he's dreaming at all is a sign that he'd been too long away from real work. He wanted to take some time off, to wallow in his private creations and pleasures. Arthur, thus far, humored him, only half-heartedly dangling interesting jobs in attempt to catch his interest.
When Eames finally manages to drag himself out of bed, Arthur is sitting at the kitchen table wearing a robe and slippers, with a mug of coffee cooling next to him and the New York Times spread out in front of him. Eames kisses his shoulder and goes to make himself tea.
"How long have you been up?" he inquires as he tries to find his favorite cup among the piles of unwashed dishes.
"A few hours," Arthur says. Eames glances at the clock and winces; it's nearly four in the afternoon. "I'll wash the dishes soon, okay?"
Eames snorts. "The dishes are the least of my concerns. Have you eaten anything?"
Arthur makes a noise that Eames correctly interprets as Eating is overrated. "I'll just make some eggs, shall I?"
"You don't have to feed me," Arthur says.
"Only if I want you to eat," Eames agrees. He fishes the frying pan from the bottom of the dish pile, grinning when Arthur shoulders past him and unsubtly nudges him away. He watches as Arthur pushes his sleeves up and roots in the dirty water for the sponge.
Between the two of them, breakfast – brunch? Early dinner? – is soon enough arranged. Once they are both fed to to Eames' satisfaction and Arthur clears the dishes, Eames says, "So. About this job you mentioned."
Arthur pulls a file out of his briefcase, opening it to one of numerous bookmarks placed therein. "This is Alfred Bayliss," he says, pointing at a picture pinned to a bulletted list of factoids. "All the information about him is in here, but basically he's a CEO and the rival company wants to know what he knows."
This is bog-standard, far less intriguing than the prospects Arthur's been using to tempt Eames back into the field recently. "Positively plebeian, Arthur," he says, eyebrows rising. "Where is the catch?"
Arthur looks embarrassed. "There isn't one, really. I just thought it would be an easy job to pull solo, if you didn't feel like getting back into the field yet."
"Or with an unreliable team," Eames says. Arthur nods assent. He often picks these humdrum jobs as an excuse to test the merit of people new to their fields.
And yet, Eames has a feeling this may be more complicated than it looks. If only because Arthur suggested it to him, and Arthur's gut instinct is rarely wrong about these things. "I'll look at it," he says, trying for noncommittal and probably missing by a mile if Arthur's grin is anything to judge by.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-02-18 01:57 pm (UTC)*rolls around in it and re-re-reads*
no subject
Date: 2011-02-18 02:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-18 02:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-18 02:15 pm (UTC)This is the best part of really good writing. I have ideas about why this 'verse makes me feel this way, and isn't it something, when a story can reveal interesting things about characters but also about the reader? ♥ This is definitely why I love your work so much.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-18 02:23 pm (UTC)you may be feeling anxious on Eames' account, because it's not very obvious what he's getting out of this and it can seem like he's not entirely willing. also this is a little different from the way things are generally presented in fic, so you may be feeling a little out of your comfort zone (again, just my guess!)
I'm glad you're enjoying this, bb, and will strive to be as good to you as you are to me. <3
no subject
Date: 2011-02-18 02:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-18 02:39 pm (UTC)i just love it and am looking forward to the next snippet of them together!
no subject
Date: 2011-02-19 03:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-18 03:47 pm (UTC)I look forward to reading some more! :)
no subject
Date: 2011-02-19 03:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-18 03:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-19 03:07 pm (UTC)Thank you! hope you'll enjoy the rest as well. :D
no subject
Date: 2011-02-18 05:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-19 03:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-18 06:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-19 05:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-19 03:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-20 12:05 pm (UTC)Oh how I love this fic, let me count the ways! ...Actually I better not because dreamwidth probably has comment limits like LJ does and I'm trying so very hard to stay on the one comment per fic side of crazy. So, instead: highlights!
Not only do you give us Asexual!Eames, you give us Asexual!Eames POV!!! And he's studying porn! And having random bursts of inspiration and sketching, I love Eames being all sketchy! Plus this works as a lovely callback to Arthur's previous protestations for why Eames couldn't be asexual because he has a porn collection, he actually does use it for research! This makes me happy for reasons I can't even fathom!
I love that he's working so hard because he misses his Arthur and doesn't want to go to his lonely bed without him *heart melts*. And their reunion is such a wonderful combination of adorableness and hotness, it's very confusing to my hormones and I love it!
I also love that there's this little bit of Eames that finds Arthur's sex drive annoying. Not actively not even really as a conscious thing, but at the end of a long day when he's already tired and he finally has Arthur in his arms, to have him wanting sex makes him a little grumblesome and it's such a real reaction. I love how believably you write them. Each of their actions and reactions feel completely understandable and sympathetic to me. It really puts me in the middle of their relationship, seeing each side and being sad that they can't always jut be happy and love each other, because life is stupid like that.
Eames' dream *lip wibble* Vaguely upsetting dreams about something beautiful that he loved dearly but couldn't keep don't mean anything, right? ...Right? *pleading eyes*
I love that Eames decided to take time off to pursue his own artistic passions for a little while, and that in a way it's necessary for him, that stretching of his artistic muscles. I really like this characterization of him. I can easily see Arthur as the type who needs to be working all the time and only vacations reluctantly (usually when Eames makes him), but Eames has always had a bit more of the restless wanderer about him. Not so much that he must travel, his work provides that, but rather that he needs to take time for himself, he can't be tied down to a 9-5 because it would make him miserable. He needs to be able to go for walks in the middle of the day because he wants the air or take off randomly and go to a street fair because it's in town and the mood strikes him. That difference between him and Arthur is part of what draws me to the pairing, they need each other to force a balance into their lives that they only find together.
Anyway, enough babbling, on to chapter two! (I know, you're shocked that I'm still reading this ;P)
no subject
Date: 2011-02-26 07:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-26 10:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-26 11:00 pm (UTC)