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Fictitious Liasons

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I had a program monitoring Dee's fan board, not that the moderators realized I was there. No way that bunch of amateurs would figure out this particular rodent had set up shop in their walls. My algorithm ranked censored posts as more interesting based on how quickly they were deleted. Most of them were lame, but sometimes there were some hidden gems in there among the crap.

Like Deirdre McMannus fanfic!

How was a boy supposed to resist something like that? Especially now that Dee herself was a complete disconnect, and I was reduced to getting my Dee fix from fan boards and security cameras, you know? So I followed the link, and found an archive of stories about Dee, tucked away in a forgotten, neglected corner of the LINK. I opened a story at random.

"Oh, Daniel!" Deirdre moaned, as his fingers found her most sensitive places. "We shouldn't!"

Gross! I backed out of that so fast I probably left electronic skid marks and opened another.

Daniel stripped, his erection...

Fucking gross! Reverse, new file, open.

"Our bodies fit together... well, we could have fit together better. Daniel was HUGE."

I wondered if there was some kind of brain surgery that could help cure my trauma.

Apparently, they were almost all stories about Dee having sex with Daniel, which was almost enough to put me off my dinner. Many of the authors had mouse.net addresses listed on their stories for "feedback," which seemed wrong somehow, you know?

I considered writing a story about Daniel being a terrible lay, but I couldn't bring myself to do that to poor Dee, not even in fiction. No, no, Dee had enough problems as it was. She could do better. Much better.

I summoned Page and pointed at the site. "Look," I said. "People are writing dirty stories about Dee and Daniel!"

"What a terrible invasion of her privacy!" he said. "Are we going to burn them?"

"No," I said. "I want you to write a story about Dee and me getting together."

"Me?" he squeaked. I hated when my voice did that, and his voice doing it was an irritating reminder. "Why don't you write it?"

"I don't want to write it," I said. "I just want to read it."

Page looked appalled, much to my amusement. "You didn't program me for creative writing."

"Improvise." I crossed my arms at him and gave him my sternest look.

He shook his head at me. "I can't believe you're asking me to do this," he moaned. "It feels so haram."

This was new, not to mention interesting; he didn't usually object to my instructions on moral grounds. "The Koran says nothing about fan fiction," I said. "Besides, it doesn't have to be particularly dirty. I just want something to contradict all those horrible stories about Dee and Daniel."

"Maybe we should hack the site," he said, looking excited. "Replace all instances of 'Daniel' with 'Mouse!'"

"Capital idea!" I grinned at him. "Do that, but I still want a story out of you."

"But!" he protested.

I shook my finger at him. "It won't be the same. I'm not a cop with an Irish accent."

I swear he was sulking. "You're the boss."

"Damn straight, Mickey, so go do it."

Page left with a pout. I opened a story marked "gen," which seemed to be the label for stories without romance. It was a poorly spelled story about Dee sneaking into confession, but it wasn't bad aside from the spelling. Nice and angsty.

I poked around looking for more "gen."


When Page returned, he had a proud smile on his face. "It wasn't as hard as I expected," he said. "I just needed to study the genre." He sent me a file.

"Oh, my darling Mouse, how I've longed to see you again!" Dee said.

"All you needed to do was ask," Mouse said. "One word, and I would have completely frauded you a ticket here!"

Dee sniffled. "Can you ever forgive me for trying to arrest you all those times?"

"Of course, my love," Mouse said. "Marry me!"

Dee swooned into Mouse's manly arms. Her heart beat like a smurf DoS attack. "Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!"

Ouch. Page was right. I hadn't coded him for creative writing.

It was a little creepy to be transformed into someone tall and muscular. And I particularly liked the way Page married us off before the sex, presumably so it wasn't a sin. That was a nice touch. Speaking of the sex, yawn! Dull and tepid, and I thought I might get seasick from all the heaving bosoms. In fact, I apparently had heaving man-boobs, what was up with that? But I shouldn't judge his sex scene too harshly--after all, to the best of my knowledge, Page was a virgin.

I looked over at Page. He looked so eager to please me that I didn't have the heart to tell him his story sucked. "That was great!" I said.

"Really?" I didn't think I'd ever seen him so happy.

"Yeah," I said. "You should totally post it, under a handle, of course, 'cause that's the convention."

"Of course," he said. He was almost bouncing up and down with glee. "So, you're really happy with it?"

"It... wasn't exactly what I had in mind," I said, "but that's my fault. I should have been more specific."

His face fell.

"It's great! Really! I love it!" He didn't look convinced, so I added, "No, really, this is better. What I had in mind was kind of tawdry."

"Really?"

"Really," I said. "I may have to try writing myself. It looks like fun."

Page streaked off to post his fanfic, and back in my bedroom I pulled out a keyboard and cracked my knuckles. I propped a pillow up against my headboard and sat up. The nightstand was covered with soda cans, and I needed to replace some of the bulbs in the overhead light before the last ones went out. Just not now.

Sometimes, if you want something done right, you just have to do it yourself.


"You're under arrest."

Dee looked fabulous in her police uniform. Really. It was just tight enough to show off her sexy legs, and clung to her breasts in the heat. I'd wanted to get her into my bedroom for ages. Preferably without the gun pointed at me, though.

The bedroom was done entirely in white--cooler that way--and daylight worked its way in between the wooden shutters. The floor was warm under my bare feet.

"I'm afraid not," I said.

"I beg your pardon?" That wasn't up to her usual standard of wit. Maybe she was rattled.

"Where's your partner?" I asked, leaning casually against the wall.

"Hung over," she muttered.

"Yeah," I said. I shook my head. "Daniel really shouldn't try to have a drinking contest with a Russian, especially one that works for me. Natasha's on a plane to Russia with all your evidence right about now."

"Shit." Dee lowered her gun. She looked so disappointed that I almost felt sorry for her.

Almost.

"Your trip to Cairo doesn't have to be a total loss," I said. "After all, you've made it as far as my bedroom..."

Dee snorted. "As if."

"You know you want me." I grinned and waggled my eyebrows at her.

Dee shook her head at me and pulled out her handcuffs.

"What are you planning to do with those?" I said. "I told you, the charges won't stick."

"You've been a very bad boy, Mouse," she said.

"You going to bend me over your knee?" I laughed. "Kinky."

In a flash, she had thrown me across my bed and was handcuffing me to the headboard. Her hips were on my chest. I grinned up at her.

"Confess," she said.

I shook my head. "Girlfriend, you have got to be shitting me."

Deirdre stood and crossed her arms at me. I reached out with a foot and ran it down the outside of her hip. Her eyes narrowed. I held her gaze, and got significantly more friendly with my other foot.

Did you know that I can pick pockets with my toes? Just one of my many skills.

"Stop that," she said.

I pulled away and tucked the handcuff keys into the sheet. Dee didn't seem to notice. "Now what?" I smiled at her. "Offhand, I can think of lots of things you could do at this point. Would you like some suggestions?"

My cheeks burned, but I didn't let that get in the way of finishing the story. Page was right, writing this sort of thing felt forbidden, wrong, but that was part of what was fun about it. I wondered if being that brazen with Dee in person would actually get me anywhere now that she wasn't a cop any more.

Dee scowled at me. I smiled back.

"If only I weren't so attracted to you," she muttered.

"Right here!" I said cheerfully. "Ready and willing!"

Dee rolled her eyes and started to unbutton her uniform.

I realized that, tragically, I had no idea what kind of underwear she wore. This was clearly a vitally important literary detail. I supposed I'd have to make shit up. Something black and lacy, perhaps? No, somehow I just couldn't picture Dee wearing that.

I researched whether the police issued underwear on the LINK. They didn't, but if they did Dee would totally wear them. Finally, I decided I should make her bra and panties navy-blue with little police shields all over them.

I cheered when she pulled my pants off.

"Oh, shut up," she said.

"Make me," I said.

Okay, now I was just getting silly. I should stop that. This was porn, after all. No, on second thought, fuck that. This was my porn, and I'd be silly if I wanted to.

I also wasn't sure what to do with my shirt. I supposed I should have had her undress me before she handcuffed me, but that didn't really work with what passed for a plot. Finally, I had her shove it over my head and up my arms.

This writing stuff was harder than I'd expected.


Dee fell back onto the pillow next to me. "Wow."

I pulled the keys out from where I'd tucked them in the sheets and deftly unlocked the handcuffs with my toes. I handed them and the keys to her and pulled my shirt the rest of the way off.

Dee laughed at me.

"Hey, you never know when a skill like that will come in handy," I said.

"Apparently," she said. She sighed. "I can't believe I just did that."

I reread the last paragraph, and erased the sigh and the last line of dialog.

"We should have done that years ago," I said, rolling over onto my side to look at her. "You should stay, live here with me."

"And do what?" she asked. "I'm sworn to protect and defend. From the likes of you, I might add."

"What better way to protect the world from me than to distract me, full-time?" It made perfect sense to me, but somehow I suspected Dee wouldn't buy it.

Why the fuck couldn't I write a happy ending for this story? I felt a sudden urge to slap on Page's "Let's get married and have babies!" ending, you know? I couldn't bring myself to do it, though. I supposed that deep down, I didn't really believe in a happy ending for me and Dee. Not really.

Not that I believed Dee would handcuff me to a bed and have sex with me, either, but apparently there was only so far my disbelief would suspend.

I put the sigh and the line about not believing she did that back in and frowned.

I supposed that the happiest ending for us that I could really believe in was her going back to chasing me, and me going back to running away, and maybe the hint that sex might happen again anyway. Which was what I ended up doing, but it still made me a little sad. I wanted more for us.

I reread it. It wasn't bad. In fact, the sex was pretty hot if I did say so myself.

"Hey, Page? What do you think?" I sent him the file.

It took him less than a second to read it, of course.

If I thought Page looked appalled before, that was nothing compared to the way he looked now. "I think you're going to hell," he said.

"You don't go to hell for writing dirty stories," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Oh, Father," he said, his voice filled with disappointment.

"Can you please not call me that while we're discussing my porn?"

"Sorry," he said. "Your story is really good. I think it's lot better than mine. It's just..." He trailed off, and a worried line appeared between his eyebrows.

"Tawdry?"

"I was going to say perverted," he said. "But it's tawdry, too."

"Excellent!" I said. "I was going for perverted and tawdry." I suddenly felt much more cheerful about the whole thing. So what if I didn't have a happy ending? I was perverted and tawdry!

I created an account belonging to an imaginary nineteen year old Russian girl named Natasha--after the evidence-stealing throwaway character in my story, as a bit of fake self-insertion--and posted my story with it, leaving her address for feedback. Then I went about my business and waited.

Sure enough, a message popped up in Natasha's account pretty quickly, from someone going by "DanielBabe." I opened it.

Your story sucks ass.

Ouch. I was suddenly very glad I was nice to Page about his story. Of course, with a handle like "DanielBabe" she was clearly prejudiced.

I infected her with a nasty virus anyway.

Another message for Natasha arrived, from "Carlotta." I considered whether I wanted to open it or not, and finally decided to be brave.

OMFG. You rock. That was so fucking hot! I think I just completely soaked through my panties. What else have you written?

Your number one fan,
Carlotta

Fuck me, if I'd known strange women would email me about the condition of their underwear I would have written fanfic years ago. "Natasha" wrote back to Carlotta, "This was my first time. Thank you for being gentle with me."

Another message arrived for Natasha. I opened it.

Dear Natasha,

I hope you're willing to accept some constructive criticism, because you seem to have real talent.

That said, I can't believe for a moment that Deirdre McMannus would handcuff Mouse to a bed and have sex with him. She's a Catholic, for crying out loud! Well, former Catholic, but still. And he's Muslim. You know how macho they can be, right? He'd never in a million years let her. In fact, I hope he doesn't find this and get mad at you for writing it. Maybe you should take it down. I hear he has a nasty temper.

I laughed out loud. If she only knew!

Despite my complete and total disbelief at the sex scene--and, admittedly, despite the fact that I think Deirdre belongs with Daniel--I really enjoyed your story anyway. Your writing has a lot of genuine feeling and sexual energy to it. Damn, I wish you were writing Deirdre/Daniel!

Dream on!

You almost convinced me of Deirdre/Mouse. Almost. Just not the handcuffs.

Keep writing, girl, 'cause you're good!
Inanna

I briefly considered writing back to Inanna and saying that Mouse proofread my story for me, but no. I suspected any answer would lead to encouragement to write gross Deirdre/Daniel. No, no, I would stick to my handcuffs, thank you. Much more wholesome, if you ask me.

Page came in, his shoulders slumped. "Someone told me my story sucked."

"DanielBabe?" I asked. "She said my story sucked, too. I already gave her a virus."

That seemed to cheer him up. "Can I give her a virus, too?"

"Sure," I said. "You don't need my permission for that. Go get her."

He grinned and streaked off to find DanielBabe. I laughed.

Another message from Carlotta arrived for Natasha. I opened it.

Dear Natasha,

OMG, I can't believe that was your first story! You're a genius!

I knew that.

Where in Russia are you? I'm in Moscow. Maybe we can get together sometime, for coffee, or whatever you like.

"Whatever I liked"? Shit, was this girl hitting on me?

Hopefully,
Carlotta

P.S. I really liked the handcuffs. Rowrrr!!!

Damn. I wished I was a Russian lesbian. If I were, I would so be getting lucky.

I scanned the archive. DanielBabe's stories were disappearing one by one--probably Page's doing--and Carlotta posted her own surprisingly hot Deirdre/Mouse story in which I was the handcuffer rather than the handcuffee. She even dedicated her story to Natasha, which clearly called for feedback of my own.

Dearest Carlotta,

My underwear spontaneously combusted when I read your story, but fortunately no one was injured.

Love and kisses,
Natasha

I saved a personal copy of the story in case the archive went blooey and made a mental note to write more stories and dedicate them to Carlotta. Ah, Carlotta, probably the only person in the world with whom I was more star-crossed than Dee. Not that I knew jack shit about Carlotta aside from the state of her panties and that she could write hot porn, but you know.

Someone "recced" Carlotta's and my stories over on Dee's fan board, and the private moderator's channel went wild. Whether we would get them busted, whether they should report us, whether they should send us stern emails. Whether they should come and shut us down themselves. I hoped they would send a boarding party over the the fanfic archive. If they did, they might find out Natasha could write some wicked code. She did, after all, work for me.