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[starbolts]

the ic show some love meme

how to:

this is very similar to a roulette meme. first, go here and utilize the random number generator to the right. put '1' as the minimum and '10' as the maximum, then generate a number. reply to fellow posters according to this table:

1. a kiss on the cheek.
2. a kiss on the mouth (can be chaste or amorous).
3. a hug (brief, romantic, friendly, etc).
4. spoon (don't know what spooning is? direct your attention here).
5. gift them something (i.e. chocolate, roses, jewelry, swords).
6. compliment them.
7. profess your undying love.
8. massage them.
9. make it awkward. cheese it up.
10. your pick!


Stolen from pretty much everywhere, slightly edited for content. As always, if it gets sexy enough to scar the kidlets, take it to your journals.

Comments

[standaloneshell.livejournal.com]

"Usually," she replies amicably, and really she wouldn't understand his chagrin. The smell isn't overpowering— it's already fading under the busy attentions of the automatic micromachine network. She doesn't slur, or stumble, those functions corrected automatically by software inimical to the design of her shell, it's only that there's a gentle haze around her perception, nice and dreamy. It doesn't take much to pickle what is essentially a brain in a jar.

"Tell me to leave," her voice is just beside his ear, but she's looking at his screen, reading his files. One hand leaves the comfortable perch along his collarbone to touch a control, to set the display scrolling at a reasonable rate, "Tell me to stop, and I will."

[crusades]

He huffs when she interferes with his work. He can't read at that pace and she knows it. Still, at least he can feel justified in sinking back in her arms his chair.

"And where would you go?" he replies curiously, an eyebrow arching as he tried to crane his neck far enough around to read her expression, "You work here unless there's a security breach. You rest here, too. The only thing you don't do here is drink and that's already seen to."

[standaloneshell.livejournal.com]

"Maybe I just haven't found something in the city that's to my tastes."

Liar. It was true, nothing in the city was up to her expensive standards, but the most important aspect was impossible to find. Even back home, she'd chosen an apartment that was within sight of her real home.

Neuropathy was comfortable enough for her.

"What's your excuse?"

[crusades]

"I don't drink," is the wry retort.

[standaloneshell.livejournal.com]

"Mhhh," she lets it go, tilting her head slightly as she abruptly stops the flow of data, corrects some small detail, then sets it moving again. Her head is tilted ever so slightly against his; with sharp hearing, he might be able to hear the so-soft tick of her neck servos, pumping oxygenated fluid past the last few lonely brain cells.

"I can't taste it anyway."

[crusades]

Bruce hears like a bat. Of course, he has earpieces in the cowl to thank for it.

"It's my understanding that taste isn't really the point," and he'd feel a lot more vindicated in abstaining if he weren't watching her take the control he daren't lose to alcohol away from him. And right under his very nose, too, "But perhaps you should consider cultivating some other hobby."

[standaloneshell.livejournal.com]

"I've got a few," aside from folding cranes and killing terrorists, she means— though stalking doesn't count, does it? "It's convenient is all; full-conversion cyborgs can't become alcoholics."

Taking control is what Motoko does, it's her lifeblood an standard mode of operation. That she can do it to Bruce so easily is what makes it fun. Watching the stoic, collected Batman forget himself is like teasing Togusa: it never gets old.

[crusades]

"As convenient as goading me?" he asks irritably, folding his arms and almost pouting with petulance.

[standaloneshell.livejournal.com]

"You haven't asked me to leave," she pointed out mildly, turning her head to give him a sidelong look. Dangerous ground, this, and she only narrowly quashed the swell of fear that threatened to kill her buzz.

She didn't want adrenaline right now, dammit. She wanted to forget.

[crusades]

"No, I haven't."

It's not an admission Bruce wants to spell out, but he'd already dodged the question once. Being even more evasive probably isn't wise when she could easily convert the nest of her arms draped around his shoulders into a chokehold.

[standaloneshell.livejournal.com]

He'd said it himself— the point wasn't the taste, it was the alcohol. That was true, for most people, but for a cyborg like the Major, taste was the only genuine high left.

She could only taste a narrow band of flavors; actually she was surprised he hadn't caught on to it yet. It wasn't much of a secret.

Damn, but he was a buzzkill; Motoko unwound herself to retrieve glass from where she'd set it on the console opposite Bruce's back. He hadn't asked her to leave, so she'd gone anyways. A long drink re-stimulated the micromachines, and in a minute she didn't give a damn any more.

[crusades]

It isn't so much that he hasn't noticed there are things she can't taste, even if that's a feat in itself when ninety percent of the food available on the ship is a tasteless protein paste anyway. And while he can imagine that there are applications for a combat cyborg with a limited palette, he hasn't yet afforded himself the time to put any thought into it.

He hadn't meant to be a buzzkill, either. She didn't poke the bear without expecting a reaction.

[standaloneshell.livejournal.com]

It's not a feature, Bruce, it's part of the cost.

"You don't drink. Any particular reason?"

[crusades]

"I've been poisoned a few too many times for any form of intoxication to be all that appealing," is the noncommittal reply. Of course, he'd never even started drinking.

Some turn to drink because they believe it helps them cope with trauma. One could say that coping wasn't something that Bruce ever wanted to do with his.