Femslash '06

Xena Season 2, episodes 12-22

steverogerson — Sun, 07 Aug 2011 15:36:24 GMT

Continuing my look back at Xena, including subtext:

Xena Season 2, episodes 12-22

callmesandy — Mon, 15 Jan 2007 18:23:01 GMT

callmesandy — Fri, 05 Jan 2007 04:06:35 GMT

Interested in femslash07?

Go here and vote! and pimp to your friends who might be interested!

ficlink: "Senseless" VMars - Veronica/Lilly - for sexonastick

wisdomeagle — Mon, 24 Apr 2006 00:55:41 GMT

Title: "Senseless"
Author: Ari
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Pairing: Veronica/Lilly
Other Pairings Mentioned: Lilly/Logan, Lilly/Meg
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Backup for sexonastick in femslash06.
Summary: In a different world, Lilly's still got Veronica asking questions that can't be answered.
Wordcount: 1113
Link: Senseless

"Loyalty" [TWW, CJ/Carol, R-ish]

ariestess — Sun, 16 Apr 2006 17:33:54 GMT

Title: Loyalty
Author: A. Magiluna Stormwriter
Author’s Email: stormwriter@shatterstorm.net
Recipient: netgirl_y2k
Rating: R-ish for language
Pairing: Carol/CJ
Category: "what if"/episode epilogue, angst
Date: 8-14 April 2006
Word Count: 1954
Short Summary: Who will take care of you when you've taken care of everyone else?
Rating/Warning: PG13, discussion of character death
Spoilers (if any): Up through "Election Day, Part II"

Disclaimer: “The West Wing”, the characters and situations depicted are the property of Warner Bros. Television, John Wells Productions, NBC, etc. They are borrowed without permission, but without the intent of infringement. This site is in no way affiliated with "The West Wing", NBC, or any representatives of Allison Janney or Melissa Fitzgerald. This site contains stories between two mature, consenting adult females.

Title Notes: The original concept behind this story was going to have sex. Basically your garden variety hurt/comfort sex in the wake of this surprising [for the characters] death. And that didn't work out. And all through the story, I kept seeing the theme of loyalty and support. And then I realized the title, and how well it just fit.

Author’s Notes: This story was written as a backup in the femslash06 ficathon for netgirl_y2k, whose requests were as follows:

Listed fandoms I request: (limit three, pairings optional):
Firefly (Inara/Kaylee, Inara/River)
Harry Potter (Luna/Hermione)
CSI
Wildcard fandoms I request: (limit three, pairings optional):
Star Trek Deep Space Nine (Jadzia Dax/Lenara Kahn)
Babylon 5 (Delenn/Lyta, Ivanova/Talia)
The West Wing (CJ/Carol)

mosca asked me to fill in as a backup for the femslash06 ficathon. Of course, I jumped at the chance. I was given so many good options for pairings for this one. I was thrilled. And oddly enough, I've been having a serious thing for CJ Cregg and the whole situation of these final episodes of The West Wing. Plus? CJ/Carol is always a fun pairing to play around with, even with all of the angst that can happen…

I started writing this originally before seeing "Election Day, Part II." Got about 600 words written, too. And then it didn't feel right based on the episode itself. So it changed to what it is now. This was quite a trip to write, and I'm ever so glad I got the opportunity. Now I just hope my recipient likes it…

My apologies that it took this long to get this backup written. I wanted to make sure it sounded right…

Beta: ctorres

"Loyalty"
by A. Magiluna Stormwriter

( She sits there, staring at the television without really seeing it. )

Scenes Of A Setup (Alias/Spooks, light R)

honeymink — Wed, 12 Apr 2006 16:57:59 GMT

Titel: Scenes Of A Setup
Author: Nina
Rating: light R
Pairing: Irina/Ruth, Katya/Peyton
Fandom: Alias & Spooks/MI-5
Disclaimer: Don’t own a thing.
A/N: For katjanka. I'm sorry I made you wait. I'm even more sorry if this isn't what you had in mind. Thanks to obsessive24 for the beta. You're awesome.

I. The Beginning

From the start Ruth Evershed hadn’t been thrilled about the plan and, in retrospect, she had to admit that this wasn’t anything that had changed at any point during or after its execution.

“You grow with your assignments,” Harry had stated succinctly, before adding, “Good luck!” and vanishing into his office.

The thing was she shouldn’t have to be on a mission in the first place. She wasn’t some agent Adam was running but an analyst. An operative working from behind a desk and not trained for the field. Still she had boarded that plane in Palma, which was supposed to take her back to Heathrow.

Five days on the island had been her first holiday in six years. Five days filled with taking in the culture of the place, strolling through umbrageous narrow alleys with their little shops and galleries then relishing the warm yellow sun while sitting outside in a little café sipping on a cool gin and tonic.

It could have been perfect. However, the anticipation of the flight home had been spoiling her mood to a certain degree.

Not that she was contrary to the idea of expanding her experiences. Anything to stay away from GCHQ. Nevertheless, to Ruth it seemed that asking her to meet with an internationally known terrorist on a plane was a little bit extreme. Even for Adam.

Clearly, he should have sent Fiona. Of course that last unfortunate mission took place only a few weeks ago and naturally Adam wanted her to rest and heal before sending her out in the field again. And he still should have sent Fiona because Ruth was not trained for this, Something that became painfully obvious now.

“In the face of them keeping us hostage for the last forty-eight hours I’m wondering what their demands are,” said the woman who had introduced herself as Laura.

But Ruth knew her real name. It was Irina Derevko. And judging by the Russian’s caustic smile Ruth figured that she didn’t buy her name was Susan either. It reminded her a bit of online dating where people still didn’t let go of their aliases when they met in real life. The comparison evoked a giggle Ruth had to suppress.

“What worries me, I’m not sure they have made any demands yet,” Ruth replied mutedly, her jaw tense.

After the hostile takeover thirty minutes into the flight, the plane had changed course for the Arabian Peninsula where they had landed in Aden to refuel. That was almost two days ago and to date nothing had happened. Fear were palpable in the muggy cabin. A few rows back a baby cried. Passengers were hanging in their seats, exhausted and dehydrated. The Russian, however, had never lost her poise, which commanded Ruth’s admiration.

Before, when they were conceded a scanty meal, she came to notice it for the first time. Watching her from the corner of her eyes, Ruth observed Irina peeling an orange, carefully taking the zest off in long cuts then dividing the fruit into perfect parts. No juice was spilt. Not even when Irina picked up the pieces with her graceful fingers and brought them to her perfect lips. Not when she put them into her mouth and took a sweet bite.

Suddenly Ruth became aware of her staring. It left her uncomfortable even though she hadn’t been caught. Instantly she looked back at the table in front of her. But the ragged paring on the tray was a sore reminder of her own ineptness.

“To tell you the truth, I can’t help thinking –” she started.

“That this has something to do with you being on board?” Irina finished for her, a certain amusement displayed around the corners of her mouth. “Now unless your superiors are so sick of you that they’re willing to risk a plane full of British tourists, I think the chances are pretty low.”

“You know very well I was talking about you,” Ruth whispered, agitated.

For a moment Irina turned her gaze away from the aisle and looked at Ruth, the middle and index finger of her right hand thoughtfully resting on her lips, her chin slightly supported by her thumb.

“The thought has crossed my mind,” Irina admitted, still watching closely.

It seemed to Ruth the Russian thought of her as incapable and somehow that bothered her. She could feel her facial features harden.

“So what do you intend for us to do about this situation?” she challenged boldly.

It wasn’t how she felt and secretly she was afraid Irina could smell her fear. Or at least feel the beads of perspiration that ran down her thigh that was pressed against the hot skin of the other woman’s leg. There was something lingering in the air between them, a certain friction that went way beyond dread. And it was hard for Ruth not to avert her eyes.

“I’m not sure there is anything left to do,” Irina finally said.

The muscles in her face softened a little, leading Ruth to believe that her impudent persistence had earned her some respect. But this satisfaction was short-lived. A sudden riot in the front of the cabin set off a distraction. Doors unexpectedly opened, the gangway was lowered. On board came a woman, dressed in military costume, her long black hair brushed back into a severe bun.

“Now listen to me carefully,” Irina continued, grabbing Ruth by the wrist. “The information MI-5 wants is on a hard drive in a black leather backpack. It’s in the overhead locker two rows ahead.”

There was an urgency to her voice that startled Ruth who, in a reflex movement, reached down for her handbag. But Irina’s grip tightened painfully around her wrist as she pulled her up.

“Keep the package,” she hissed, referring to the exchange goods. “You were right, this is about me.”

Ruth had never liked the plan. Not its beginning when she was persuaded to exchange intel with a terrorist without backup. Not its middle with them falling prey to hijackers. And certainly not its end where she had to witness a proud woman being beaten, humiliated and dragged off the plane.

But she sensed that what was the end of the story for her was only the beginning for others.

II. The Middle

By midweek Kelly Peyton wondered why it always started to snow when she was about to meet Katya Derevko.

Dirty white clouds raced past a velvet sky. The cutting wind froze her to stone, almost, and made her long for calm. It wasn’t anything she usually hoped for. By and large, there was no storm violent enough to scare her, no weather cold enough to compete with her nature. But the wait was dreary, the prospects dismal. There was nothing that gnawed more on her patience than boredom.

Lighting a cigarette proved to be difficult, but finally the flame stuck. As gravel gnashed beneath the feet of someone approaching, Kelly inhaled deeply.

"Last time we meet, your get-up was a lot more… appropriate," Katya said, scrutinizing the girl.

Insidious, these conversations started, and then engaged the senses.

"I was naked and knelt before you in the dirt," Kelly replied with a coquettish smile.

"Exactly." Her mien expressionless, one could still hear the hidden smirk in her voice.

And then there was no choice, and then there was no sense. Getting into the car and under Katya’s dress, Kelly was well aware of that.

Her hands slipped down the other woman’s backbone, then between her legs where they wished to do more violence. On the grate Kelly warmed her trembling fingers, searing the flesh until it was nice and juicy.
When Katya opened her mouth in pleasure, her teeth gleamed. She grabbed Kelly’s hair, just a handful, and pushed her face down. After months of imprisonment, it was an almost forgotten delight for Katya. And, as she assured Kelly later, sweeter than her niece’s chocolate that had burnt her throat and brought her to sickbay.

Then suddenly it was over. Kelly pushed herself up and leaned back in the driver’s seat.

There was no warmth between them. It reminded her not to forget that there were two sides about Katya Derevko. One was cordial and affable, with her loud laughter, telling anecdotes and tales, while the other was cold, calculating, never taking her eyes off the prize. It was this dilemma that made Kelly admire her. That transformed her into a rolemodel.

“We’re going to Sovogda,” Katya announced, buttoning up her dress.

Kelly’s brows rose in expectation as she looked at Katya, whose face was dark as night withholding a star.

“What do you think we’ll find there?” she asked, starting the engine.

Katya smiled almost intangibly. “The sister who survived.”

The road was as flat as a sheet of tin. Rime dimly glimmered on the lane as they headed towards ultimate destruction.

III. The End

“I suppose that's what happens in the end, you start thinking about the beginning,“ Sydney said softly, as if speaking up could wake Nadia from a peaceful slumber.

In fact, she was convinced her sister’s dreams were anything but peaceful. And undeniably she was to blame. At least to some degree.

So Sydney carried around a list of guilt she had written down in her mind:
One. She shouldn’t have deserted Nadia when she fell off the train.
Two. She shouldn’t have given their aunt the chance to inject Nadia with poisoned water.
Three. She shouldn’t have strangled Nadia with an iron chain even when their mother insisted.

Irina had killed Elena. And secretly Sydney had to admit there was an equally dark side in her too. One she, unlike her mother, couldn’t justify by revenge for daughters that had been abducted and brainwashed.

“I’m not good at turning the other cheek,” she stated as she lay her head on her sister’s shoulder. “Comes with the job. I guess I have to work on that.”

Then again, all she wanted was for someone to lift her burden. But whenever there was a knock at the door, it was her own heart, and nobody came to see them, and Nadia didn’t wake up.

Ends, naturally, were always shorter than beginnings. They were definitely shorter than the middle section. Sydney was well aware of that and yet she refused to believe that, not only was the chapter closed, but the story was finished. And maybe it wasn’t.

~Fin~

Kinds of Blood (Buffy the Vampire Slayer, VampWillow/Faith)

rysler — Mon, 10 Apr 2006 23:28:38 GMT

Title: Kinds of Blood
Author: rysler
Recipient: taskir, for femslash06. I'm sorry you had to wait.
Fandom: Buffy: The Vampire Slayer, Vampire Willow / Faith
Rating: Mature (Vampire Sex, Bad Language)
Notes: "The Wish" Universe

Summary: She was decked out like sadomasochism's rejected nightmare, and Faith didn't need to smell the decay on her. Vampires couldn't be more obvious. 
Kinds of Blood

Gotham Outcasts (Birds of Prey, Barbara/Helena)

tellitslant — Mon, 10 Apr 2006 06:20:47 GMT

Gotham Outcasts
by Kathryne, tellitslant@ livejournal.com
Fandom: Birds of Prey comicsverse
Pairing: Barbara/Helena
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: So very DC's.
Notes: Takes place in around BoP 75-77 – the inaugural flight of Aerie One. Written for mrswoman for a femslash06 backup.
Summary: Gotham outcasts have to stick together.

FIC: ...With Benefits (BSG/Desperate Housewives, Edie/Ellen, for sheepfairy)

fox1013 — Fri, 07 Apr 2006 04:50:21 GMT

Title: ...With Benefits
Author: Amy (alexia@innergeekdom.net)
Fandom: BSG/Desperate Housewives
Spoilers: Pre-"Tigh Me Up, Tigh Me Down"
Disclaimer: Ron Moore and Marc Cherry. Which, really, kind of speaks for itself.
Ship: Edie Britt/Ellen Tigh
Summary: Edie is a slut.
Notes: Back-up fic for femslash06 for sheepfairy. tellitslant and jennyo were, as per usual, forced into audiencing.
1,223 words

...With Benefits

FIC: numerology (Firefly/BSG, Inara/Laura, R)

kangeiko — Thu, 06 Apr 2006 09:40:33 GMT

A million apologies for the extreme lateness of this - I have not had internet access for the last week or so.

title: numerology
author: kangeiko
summary: in the language of the lords of kobol, eight is an inauspicious number.
rating: r

recipient: jennyo
request: inara serra (firefly)/laura roslin (BSG)

n/a: references include roger mcgough.

*

Read the fic

*

There's Nothing Here But The Ground, CSI, Catherine/Sara, NC-17

callmesandy — Thu, 06 Apr 2006 03:22:16 GMT

Title: There's Nothing Here But The Ground
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Catherine/Sara
Spoilers: post current series
Summary: The only longtime resident of Las Vegas is the sand. And Catherine and Sara.

This is for ariestess.

Available on the web here or below.

Notes and disclaimers: CSI and all characters are not mine. No profit garnered ever. For Ariestess. Thanks to circusgirl for awesome urgent beta work. Title from Kristin Hersh.

THERE'S NOTHING HERE BUT THE GROUND

They were the team that stayed together the longest and it only took six months for Catherine and Sara to be the only ones left. It was the way things went, Sara thought. She could hear Grissom saying that no one was a longtime resident of Vegas except for the sand. And none of them were sand. Not suited for the desert. But Catherine and Sara hadn't figured it out yet.

Work wasn't different. People still stole and killed and raped. Sometimes Sara went a whole week and didn't notice her friends had all moved on. Sometimes she barely went an hour.

Sara and Catherine did more interrogations with the two who replaced Sofia and Brass. The new CSIs weren't quite up to snuff. Catherine would look over at Sara and just lift her eyebrow less than a millimeter and Sara knew what to say next. The newbies had experience but they couldn't do that.

Catherine lingered one day in the locker room. She sat on the bench and watched Sara put on her jacket. Catherine said, "The house is so empty now. Empty nest, who knew?" Lindsey had gone away for college.

Kid off to college, it was like being done, Sara thought. And she thought of Lady Heather suddenly and how she hadn't been done at all. Catherine said, "What were you just thinking of?"

Sara frowned and said, "Lady Heather." She watched Catherine think of the same thing she had been thinking and said, "I'm sorry," quickly.

Catherine shook her head. "No, it's fine. It's always out there, isn't it? But you can't keep anyone safe, no matter how hard you try."

"No," Sara said. You couldn't. Sara still felt flushed. So she said, "Do you want to get breakfast?"

Catherine smiled. She looked old enough to have a daughter in college, but she also looked beautiful in a way that struck Sara as almost unfair. "I'm picking where we go," Catherine said, "And you're paying."

They had breakfast together after work three days a week after that. Like Catherine had been waiting to get Sara back. But they'd never really had each other, Sara thought.

*

Catherine's house did feel empty. Everything was neat. A few magazines, a few journals on the table and the remote was lined up right on the edge. Like Catherine came home and sat down in the same place every night, fired up the TV and then went straight to bed without moving anything at all. It looked like Sara's apartment.

"I'm not saying I'm a great cook or anything," Catherine said. "But I can make pancakes."

"That works," Sara said. She put her bag down on the corner of the couch. "You know, you don't have to."

"I know I don't," Catherine said. "But it's nice to actually set the table."

The pancakes had chocolate chips. Sara said, "These are really good."

"Lindsey's favorite," Catherine said. She ate three without talking. Then she mentioned one of their new team members and she and Sara spent twenty minutes detailing the new guy's weirdness. Alec was the least new of the new people; he'd been with CSI for seven months.

Sara repeated what Greg had written in his last email and Catherine told her what Warrick had told her in his last call. Like friends. Which they were now, Sara realized. Not the friendly teammates they were before everyone left. Catherine made pancakes. Sara looked up from her plate and said, "I make a mean omelette. Let's do that Wednesday."

Catherine smiled again. "As long as there's no olives. I once dated someone who always made eggs with olives. The taste." She wrinkled her nose. "Worse than the smell of a two day decomp."

"I like olives," Sara said. "But not with your eggs, I get it."

*

Catherine still knew Sara's buttons, the ones that got pushed. After a shift investigating two domestics, Catherine just showed up at Sara's apartment, carrying a white plastic bag that looked like it had take out. "Smells good," Sara said, leaning against the door.

"It's going to taste even better." Catherine looked over Sara's shoulder, not pushing her way in but not leaving either.

Sara stared and wished for her space. She wished she knew more people who didn't know her. Only Catherine would think to come here.

Catherine said, "We have to watch out for each other." She smiled.

Sara sighed. "You're not leaving, are you?"

"I saw your refrigerator yesterday. All you had was the food you made me."

"I can call for take-out." Sara had planned, though, to just go straight to bed.

Catherine took a step forward and Sara could smell the food, rich and garlicy something, and Catherine's shampoo. "Let me in, Sara, it's better than trying to sleep it off."

Sara stepped away from the door. "It's not like you'd go away."

"Hell, no. It's breakfast and conversation with you or microwave pizza and the View at home. I hate Joy Behar."

Sara smiled at Catherine's back and swaying hips.

*

They were getting breakfast at a bar when Sara said, "Who made omelettes with olives?" Three months of breakfasts and she was thinking she'd heard about all of Catherine's exes. Even Grissom, though Sara wasn't sure how Catherine classified Grissom in her head.

Catherine smirked. "Once upon a time when I was a dancer, I had a husband and a girlfriend. Before I got pregnant. So, actually, before I got married."

"A girlfriend?" Sara smiled. "Another dancer."

"Oh, yeah. She had an amazing body. So did I, back then. But she was something special. Got more tips than any of us. And she couldn't stand any of the guys who came in, even the nice ones. But she liked the girls. She liked all of us, in the end."

"So it wasn't a long relationship?"

"No." Catherine smiled. "But it was nice while it lasted."

"Where's the olive girl now?"

Catherine sighed. "She overdosed eighteen years ago."

Sara said, "You know, in college, I had a girlfriend."

Catherine smirked. "No, really?"

"Ha. I had a few boyfriends, too."

"I know you did." Then they were both smiling at each other. Catherine had that perfect smile and that perfect body.

*

Catherine kissed Sara first. Back to back shifts led to dinner for once and Sara could barely keep her eyes open over pasta. As they got into the car, Catherine leaned over and did it. Sara gripped Catherine's thigh and felt the heat of her through her jeans. It wasn't anything like a surprise. She was completely awake all at once.

Catherine pulled back and said, "I've been thinking about that."

"Me, too," Sara said. "Not often."

"Me neither," Catherine said, nearly laughing. "But you're beautiful, you know."

"Thank you." She blushed. "What do we do now?"

Catherine said, "I thought we could go back to my place."

"Just like that," Sara said. She started the car.

"Just like that."

Catherine undressed quickly and Sara wondered how many times it would be before she could ask for the professional version. She was already planning multiple times, she thought, toeing off her socks. She looked up at Catherine crawling up the bed, the way her breasts swayed and her firm thighs, and thought she'd be an idiot not to want multiple times. Hundreds of times.

She pushed Catherine onto her back and cupped her breasts. "All natural," Catherine said, arching her back, pushing herself against Sara. She ran her thumb over Catherine's nipple, her tongue over the other until Catherine bit her lip and muffled a grunt. No wonder Catherine had made a living showing her chest off.

"All natural," Sara said, smiling as she kissed a trail between Catherine's breast down to her stomach. Catherine's skin was pale and soft with tiny stretch marks. Every part of her was beautiful. She could feel Catherine breathing against her lips and Sara clenched her thighs together in appreciation.

Sara pushed Catherine's legs apart and licked little circles on Catherine's upper thighs. The smell of her was everywhere. Catherine said, "Come on," and pushed at Sara's head.

Sara smiled and pushed two fingers inside Catherine with no preamble. She could feel Catherine's whimper in her fingers. Between her mouth and her hand, she had Catherine bucking against the bed and nearly shouting. Sara used her free hand on herself and came a few seconds after Catherine did.

Catherine sucked Sara's fingers clean. She used both hands between Sara's legs, smiling around Sara's finger. Another smirk, Sara thought, and that was the sexiest thing. Sara felt sweat beading on the back of her knees and then she came again.

"All natural, too," Catherine said, kissing Sara's breast.

"I never had the body for a dancer," Sara said.

"Sure you do. But CSI's a better job." Catherine sat up and stretched. "Do you want to stay?"

She sounded hesitant. Sara blinked and said, "I do want to stay."

"Good," Catherine said. "I'd like that." She smiled.

*

It took six times before she convinced Catherine to undress like she was still a dancer. Sara let Catherine have a drawer in her bedroom and Catherine let Sara have two. Catherine's emptier house had more space to fill.

They were both sand, Sara thought. Longtime residents made for the desert.

THE END.

Second Sin (BSG 2003, Starbuck/Dualla) NC-17

leyenn — Wed, 05 Apr 2006 21:41:26 GMT

A thousand apologies for the lateness.

Title: Second Sin
Author: Leyenn
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Starbuck/Dualla
Spoilers: The miniseries and 33.
Summary: It's simply the end of the world.
A/N: Utmost thanks to Rachel for the beta. Written for Voleuse.

Second Sin

"Kara, Dee. Dee, Kara."

That was it. A nod and a smile; a cocky grin. Simple, really.

Simplicity is not Kara Thrace. Two months later and she's pressing that cocky grin against that smile and feeling it broaden, open with a laugh and draw her in.

(Actually it's two months, six days and a handful of hours into the early morning, but no one's counting.)

She hasn't felt this way since Zak. She's missed it. She hates it.

It's all impulse. Heat. They dive under the showers halfway through the night, bruises on shoulder blades and shuddered laughter and her hands drenched in black hair: fingers down her body and she pushes Dee back under the spray, and the sweat and scent of it washes away before she can believe it's real.

Nine months into their tour they share a grin or two over the mess table. Whatever they did and had is shoved down deep inside, just a few hours of surrender hidden away behind a smirk and a cigar. They're speaking; they're civil; they smile. Sometimes when she's not watching herself, she laughs just a little too hard.

It gets easier. Mostly it gets easier because they don't talk about it, so she can mostly forget she really cared that much.

She doesn't have it in her to care that much, and she mostly believes it.

Life comes in three parts, three spokes of the wheel, three frakking notches on her bunk.

Then.

(Zak. Caprica. Fresh tobacco. Letters from her father.)

Now.

(Her Viper. Her CAG. FTL jumps and an aching knee and her bunk is home.)

And in between, the end of the worlds.

"Hey."

"Hi." Dualla looks up at her entering the room, her towel slung over her shoulder. It's late. (Too late.) The showers are deserted. There's still eighty-five and more holes in their collected soul, eighty-five and more holes in those unwritten rosters that won't ever be filled.

"I was just leaving," Dualla says.

"Don't." It's out before she knows she's speaking. She looks over. "I mean. No need." Time ticks away on the wall, all of it, every second of it meaningless. "Right?"

Right on time, Dualla offers her a smile. She isn't sure what to do with it any more, so she passes it back.

She scrubs her face fast and strips off her shirt, pretending all the time not to see Dualla not pretending not to watch her in the mirror. She lays her hands across the flat of her stomach and drums a rhythm with her fingers, a rhythm like an old tune vaguely remembered.

The mirrors are too misted over to look herself in the eye as she goes for the hem of her sweats, but it's her mind that's too clouded (too late) to see the hand that grabs her wrist before she can.

Her head snaps around - it's reflex - and then she's moving, and kissing, and not entirely sure which arrived first.

She gasps hot and hard into Dualla's mouth as the water smacks her in the back, in the back of the neck and the hollow of her spine and plasters her hair darkly to her head. Fingers come up to rake it back, short fingernails pushing against her scalp and behind her ears. The water is hot, hot, hot and the clock is counting down meaningless time, and all the while she's still almost-dressed and Dualla, Anastasia Dualla -

"Holy frak," comes from her mouth, and although it's not a yowl it might do a passable impression of one. This is solely because Dualla - Ana - no, no, Dee, this is Dee gripping her hard and sucking hot, precious water from the hollow of her neck, and now she remembers the tune.

She drops her head back and shakes it hard. Water splashes against her eyelids, streaks her face, the only sensitive part of her already naked that she needs to cover, and she butts her head back against the tile.

"Frak," again, and almost again, as Dee gets lower. She's holding Starbuck's wrists behind her back, not-quite holding hands, pushing her to attention as that gorgeous mouth moves lower and leaves a pretty little bruised trail behind. Dee follows the line of her neck, the curve of her shoulder to her collarbone to the line of clinging Fleet-issue clothes almost black with water.

She's still wearing her sweat pants and bra, and she's still wearing them when Dee's head ducks beneath her breasts and Dee's tongue finds the muscles of her stomach, tracing each one. The water streams down her face, stings her neck, stiffens her nipples against wet fabric, runs the length of her stomach in rivers to fall on Dee's tongue, clean and fresh with just a hint of Starbuck. She imagines how that tastes.

She remembers how that tastes.

Dee's tongue gliding up her body, searching, seeking, finding, makes her groan at being licked through hot wet fabric plastered on her breasts. A swirl of tongue on the other side of cotton makes her nipple hard and her body shriek so loud, she bites her lip and feels it sting.

Her hands become free only when Dee's are on her ass and hauling her forward, with her shoulders pushed back for water to run and pool and spill out between her breasts. She moans over the faint taste of biting through her skin.

Dee bites her nipple through cotton and trickling water: she moans louder. To her own ears it sounds like she's laughing, and she only stops when Dee moves.

One hand down the curve of her ass, fingers splayed to curl into the seat of her pants and grip and now she's moaning, moaning hard when that other hand is between her thighs and rough, searching, seeking, wanting her. Wanting her.

She writhes to that hand, to those hands, digging her own into a waterfall of slick black hair to avoid self-serving temptation. The seam of her pants strikes home and she chokes out a cry and water splashes past her lips and she's drowning, drowning in this, in the fall of water and the waterfall, in the heat and the steam and Dee's hands and the tight hot wet dripping fabric tight against every part of her, clenched between her legs, rubbing against her clit, writhing with her as close as a second skin and wanting it just as much. Wanting the fierce hands that ride the seam of her pants up the line of her ass, the want digging deep into her own need and burning her bright. Wanting the mouth suckling her like life itself and the sharp crest of pleasure roaring up from the push and thrust of fingers and fabric between her soaked thighs.

Wanting Dee.

She shakes and groans and swears, again and again and again. She may drown in orgasm even if she can't drown in bliss because she shudders and writhes when she comes, mouth open wide, and pushes Dee's fingers harder when it starts to stop, wanting to ride it up and up again. She does - and a second time, and a third, until she wonders if she might bleed with pleasure and she has to let go or die.

Her chest is heaving. The world is almost red with the blood pounding in her ears. She's half drowned, barely standing. She never even undressed. No water now but a steady drop against the side of her neck and her own dripping skin; her nipples are hard in the sudden cold and her sweats are clinging to her, drenched and tight, painful and glorious just grazing her clit. She feels rough and raw and taken, and it feels great. It feels real.

"I don't know why I did that," Dualla says softly.

She grins. "Hey, it's the end of the world." She doesn't say the rest, doesn't say about the right time to repent our sins while she's grabbing Dualla's sodden fatigues in her pilot's hands. She slams on the spray a second time - frak rationing - and tilts her head up so that the water collects against the back of her throat, hot and light, mingling with that hint of her own taste until it dribbles between her lips.

Head down with grinning eyes and she gets less than nothing in resistance to a kiss; their mouths open and water spills between them like the liquid heat between her legs, like the heat that runs up her spine as Dee drinks from her mouth and moans.

In the now you live dangerously or not at all, and this is something Starbuck knows how to do.

FIC: Serendipity [SGA, NC17, Kate/Teyla]

flyingtapes — Wed, 05 Apr 2006 16:06:38 GMT

Title: Serendipity
Author: SA
For: bastet (sweetvalleyslut)
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: Teyla/Kate
Rating: NC17

When they kissed, the room got warmer. At first they thought it was just their bodies, generating heat between them. But as they came closer, as their hands and lips met skin, they realized, beneath the haze of their attraction, that something was not right.

Kate pulled away first, turning her head to keep from kissing Teyla again and again. Teyla panted against her side, and they both tried to kind some balance.

"This room--" Kate said finally.

"Yes," Teyla said. "There is something strange about it. I felt--warmer. When we--" She cut herself off and turned to look at Kate.

Kate's hand came up to caress her face. Then, as if she couldn't control it, she leaned in and kissed Teyla again, again.

They reclined on the couch, pressing into the soft material that gave beneath them. Kate's hand rested on the skin exposed beneath Teyla's shirt. Her skin was hot, as hot as the room, which felt as if someone had stoked a fire nearby. Teyla's hands slid beneath Kate's shirt and lifted it, freeing more of her skin to touch. The pads of Teyla's fingers felt lightning-hot against Kate's skin, and when Teyla trailed kisses along the side of her arm, following them with a cool stream of air, Kate's head fell backwards, exposing more of her throat to Teyla's mouth.

The room changed colors from the dark purple it was when they entered to a brighter red, a rose-red. It played across their bodies encasing them in a glow that matched the heat made between them. Kate nosed her way down, kissing Teyla's breasts, loosening the laces and freeing them from their confines. Teyla's fingers scratched lightly at Kate's back, and they moved together, legs fitting into place with ease.

It got warmer, ever warmer, and they were moved to shed themselves of the clothes that were so unimportant now. Teyla's fingers slipped into Kate, making her legs tremble and shake, her back arch, her skin glisten with sweat from the heat of the room and from Teyla. When Kate cried out, Teyla kissed her, swallowing her noises into herself, letting Kate ride out her orgasm on Teyla's fingers and pulling Kate's legs around her. They kissed for long minutes, Kate's normally well-kept hair loose and messy around her face, and when Teyla pulled free, Kate gasping at the loss, Kate pulled Teyla's fingers to her mouth and sucked on them. Teyla's breath faltered, and as her hand began to steal downwards again, this time for herself, Kate's sly smile stopped her.

Kate toppled them both over on the bed, which had once been a couch, in this room that was too-warm and too-red. Kate kissed Teyla, beginning with her lips and moving downwards, stroking her clever hands up and down Teyla's sides, making her shiver and curl her toes. Kate pushed Teyla's legs further apart and settled between them, pushing one testing finger inside her, just to see Teyla arch. Teyla's legs locked around Kate, and the look on Teyla's face spoke what she was thinking. Kate grinned again and knelt, giving a first tentative lick to Teyla's thigh.

As Kate pulled more of Teyla to her, the bed around them shifted to accommodate: Teyla was lifted so that she was nearer Kate's face, and it became easier to kneel in comfort as she sucked on Teyla's clit, relishing the breathy shouts Teyla made in response. She finally rested her head on Teyla's stomach, kissing around her belly button, and putting her hand against and into Teyla, watching the play of orgasm across her face and knowing her own face had reflected the same emotions.

They both came down slowly, resting against each other, arms twining and hair commingling, kissing every once in awhile but mostly resting. They didn't notice that the room became cooler until Teyla shivered slightly; and the bed re-formed slowly into a couch, leaving them pressed tightly against each other in the much smaller space. The room became the dark, dusky purple it had been before.

Kate and Teyla rose reluctantly, donning their clothes, and were startled when they heard a heavy knock at the door and Dr. McKay's familiar belligerence on the other side of the door. They looked at each other, then went to the door. It opened as they approached, showing a worried-looking Dr. Beckett, a threat-to-kill Lieutenant Sheppard, and an angry, red-faced McKay arguing with the local leaders that had welcomed them to the planet the day before.

"We thought you were trapped," Sheppard said, the relief apparent on his face.

"It figures something like this would happen on Dr. Heightmeyer's first trip offworld," Rodney said mulishly, waving away the patient alien leader with an imperial hand-wave.

"Well," Kate said, with a voice that sounded unused, "we didn't really notice."

"Yes," Teyla said, hiding her smile. "We found ways to amuse ourselves."

They grasped hands, briefly, and then parted, Kate going to meet with Dr. Weir's negotiating contingent. Only Sheppard looked speculative as she left, and when he turned to look at Teyla, she had her sweet, secretive smile in place.

"What exactly is the room for?" Dr. Beckett inquired.

"It is a recreation room," the solemn alien replied. "It has no set purpose but what those who enter make of it."

"Ah," said Teyla. "We thought it was simply a sitting room."

The leader looked at her. "It can be that. Or something else."

"Those crazy Ancients," McKay muttered.

"Indeed," Teyla said, bringing her hand to her lips to cover her smile.

Northern Stars and Air Pressure (Veronica Mars: Veronica/Mac)

sexonastick — Wed, 05 Apr 2006 07:46:37 GMT

Title: Northern Stars and Air Pressure
Author: Beth / sexonastick / perpetuallyfive
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Disclaimer: At least I didn't do anything to Logan? Um. I mean: it's not mine, or whatever.
Ship: Veronica/Mac
Rating: PG-13, I'm pretty sure.
Summary: Blame Canada.
Notes: for femslash06 for paranoidkitten.
2,624 words.

I'm incredibly sorry for the delay -- and, er, for the fake cut.

( If you lose something, there's only so much you can do. )

"Just Friends"--Grey's Anatomy (Addison/Meredith)

wildrosesings — Wed, 05 Apr 2006 05:48:04 GMT

Title: Just Friends
Author: wildrosesings
Recipient: quasiradiant
Email: thewildrosesings at yahoo [dot] com
Fandom: Grey’s Anatomy
Pairing: Addison/Meredith
Rating: R
Notes/Spoilers: Set following episode 2.21: Superstition. Feedback would be greatly appreciated.
Disclaimer: All of the beautiful characters and concepts of Grey’s Anatomy belong to Shonda Rimes et al., not to me. I’m making no money here!
Summary: Meredith needs to understand why Derek picked Addison.

(Just Friends)

I am so sorry about the delay in posting!

Driving Lessons (RPS: Gina Torres/Katee Sackhoff)

marenfic — Wed, 05 Apr 2006 03:50:16 GMT

Title: Driving Lessons
Author: Maren (marenfic)
Recipient: van
Fandom: RPS
Pairing: Gina Torres/Katee Sackhoff
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2128
Notes: One of the wildcard requests and my very first attempt at RPS, so be gentle. No not really-- all feedback including con crit welcome. Title inspired by the lovely Melissa Ferrick song, Drive. Thank you to callmesandy and mosca for not kicking me out when I said I couldn't post this until tonight. This is an awesome ficathon and you both have my thanks and admiration for running it.

**

Driving Lessons

The sharp edge of a chewed fingernail scrapes against the sensitive inner wall of her cunt and she bucks her hips off the bed in a futile attempt to get away from the shooting pain. The girl breaks their kiss to smile at her, triumphant, like her response had something to do with pleasure. She resists the urge to roll her eyes and grabs the girl’s wrist instead, guiding it away from her.

Fact is, things are moving too fast for her, she needs more finesse, more build up and it looks like she’s going to need to show the girl how to touch without bringing up memories of a gynecologist instead of a lover.

Gina doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing here but she does know one thing.

Baby needs a lesson in patience.

*

Gina was losing patience with the whole scene when the girl approached her table at the private bar the conference organizers had arranged for the talent at their upscale hotel.

Frankly she was tired of the Sci Fi con circuit, had been for a while now but her schedule was clear and it was a free trip to Tokyo so she said yes against her better judgment. Gina appreciated her fans and their support; most of the time interacting with them was even fun. But then sometimes it wasn’t and there seemed to be more and more every time she went to one of these things who didn’t quite realize that Gina Torres, actress, was not in fact a gun toting space cowboy with a penchant for calling men “Sir”.

She was ruminating over one such fan who’d been costumed as Wash and had tried to grope her during the signing when a fresh drink appeared in front of her.

“Hi. You look like you could use a refill.”

Gina looked up to see a girl with chin-length blonde hair giving her a wide, red-lipsticked smile. She was dressed in layered black tank-tops and a pair of low cut black pants, with a jean jacket slung folded over one arm. The pointed-toe high heels didn’t do much to take away from the tomboy attire; nor did the pronounced biceps evident above the bangle-bound wrists. The girl looked familiar and Gina tried to place her show, unsuccessfully. Her movie schedule had kept her too busy to pay much attention to the current crop.

She smiled back, close-mouthed, and nodded.

The girl held out her hand. “I’m Katee Sackhoff.”

*

“Wha. . .?” the girl protests as Gina threads her fingers with Katee’s and presses their hands to the fleshy curve of the girl’s hip. Gina shakes her head and smiles. . .

hush baby

. . . uses her leverage to push the girl on her back.

She jiggles a little as she settles, soft and lush in all the right places for all she looked boyish in those straight-line pants.

She giggles a little too, her mouth parting as she smiles wide, almost too wide to be strictly pretty but not quite. She’s got bright white teeth and even brighter eyes. . .

twinkle could call ships in from the sea

. . . that show every single thing that she’s feeling and right now the girl likes the turn of events.

It was definitely the eyes that did Gina in.

*

She could tell right away that Katee was attracted. Even if her body language wasn’t screaming look at me, her smoky eyes were drilling into Gina with the kind of attention that was reserved for animals who wanted to eat you and people who wanted to fuck you.

Gina wasn’t exactly surprised. Cons were notorious for hook-ups and back in her Cleo days Gina had actually looked forward to the events for that very reason. But it had been a while and she wasn’t as young and impulsive as she used to be. Marriage and a burgeoning mainstream career had made her more cautious. . . more to lose now than there used to be so it had been. . . a while.

Still, old habits die hard so when Katee smiled at her and let her eyes travel down Gina’s body, Gina looked right back. And when she asked if she could join her at the semi-circular booth, Gina said yes.

They bought two rounds and chatted. Katee was brash and a little loud in the way that young women who think of themselves as blunt can be, but Gina found her intriguing anyway.

When Katee edged so close to her that her right breast brushed up against Gina’s hand, well, that didn’t exactly surprise her either.

*
The girl’s nipples don’t so much pebble between Gina’s lips and fingers as they swell, thick and substantive like her own. Gina hums her approval around one and skims her palm over the other in smooth, measured movements. Katee’s fingers scrabble into Gina’s hair, kneading against her scalp as the girl murmurs something Gina can’t quite make out. Whatever it is, it isn’t no. . . . not with the way the girl’s pressing Gina’s head down and arching her chest up at the same time.

There’s a tightness in her own breasts, a fullness that aches and sends shivers. . .

quakes on the way, just keep it up

. . . down her spine when she brushes her own distended nipples against the ridges of the girl’s ribcage.

For the first time since she actually started considering doing this, Gina thinks maybe it was a good idea after all.

*
This is a bad idea, Gina thought as they continued to drink and talk and Katee continued to inch closer and closer.

It wasn’t just that she was married; she and Laurence had certain agreements and were happier for them. It was more that she had thought this part of her life was over, maybe that she had lost interest, definitely that she had more to lose if these activities became public knowledge.

But there was chemistry, definite attraction and Gina wasn’t entirely sure she had the willpower to turn this girl down. She twirled her wedding ring around on her finger with her thumb, and waited to see if Katee would take the hint and stop things for her.

*

The girl is slippery wet, pink and trembling and already so wide open that Gina could start with two fingers to the knuckle if she wanted, but this is a lesson in taking things slow so she rings the girl’s opening with the swipe of a single finger. Over and over, dipping in with shallow slips that become less and less shallow the harder the nipple that’s still in her mouth gets.

“Goddamn, what are you waiting for?” the girl whines. . .

Ooh, you took a wrong turn there baby

. . . then whimpers as Gina lets her finger retreat. She moves back up Katee’s body with fluid movement and kisses her, tangles their tongues for a brief moment before moving her lips to lily white skin of the girl’s neck. Gina gently places her finger on the girl’s slightly parted lips and rings them instead.

She gasps, then laughs when Katee sucks the finger into her mouth and licks it clean with strong undulations of her tongue.

Girl’s incorrigible, that’s what she is.
*

Gina excused herself to go to the ladies room, alone, but Katee either didn’t take the hint or she was just that relentless. Either way, Gina found herself in the small two-stall restroom with a girl who’d been eye fucking her all night and it wasn’t such a disappointment that she wasn’t alone.

Gina checked her profile in the mirror, smoothing the silk of her dress over the curve of her ass even though she already knew there wouldn’t be any lines there. She felt the weight of Katee’s stare and it made her blood simmer, so when she looked into the mirror to reapply her gloss, Gina met Katee’s gaze with some weight of her own.

“You’ve got some stray lipstick . . . here, let me,” Katee said in a husky voice when Gina turned around to face her again. It was such a thin pretext but Gina suddenly didn’t care.

One thumb, brushed against her bottom lip, was all it took to ignite the promised fire.

*

Two fingers, finally, now three. Knuckle deep, easy, just like Gina thought and she’s working her hard with firm strokes in just the right spot. Her other hand is moving in circles over Katee’s clit, the pads of her fingers wet and slippery and sliding just right she’s guessing.

The girl’s chest is flushed a beautiful shade of rose and the pulse in her neck is fluttering, blood flowing hard now and her breath is keeping pace. Gina has to admit she’s not far behind.

“Fuck . . . that feels . . . fuck.”

It’s called a manicure baby

But Gina’s not so worried about that anymore, not about scraped tissue or clumsy too-fast fingers because the pressured ache she’s feeling now is all about pleasure, and want.

*
Katee’s hips pressed Gina into the sink vanity, her breasts pressed against Gina’s breasts, and their lips had only parted briefly now and again to press kisses to chin, neck, ear.

“Fuck I want you,” Katee breathed into her ear, hot breath that sent incongruous chills down Gina’s spine. She reached up and grabbed the girl’s chin, tilting it up until their lips could mesh again. Gina hadn’t planned on this but it felt good and . . . . why not?

She asked Katee where her room was, because she might have actually been considering fucking the girl but there was no way in hell Gina was going to do it in a restroom in a hotel bar. It probably wasn’t the best decision she’d ever made but right then, with Katee’s hand skimming up her thigh under her dress, she felt like saying yes.

Things sped up quickly then, just a short trip to the elevator, then inside where Katee backed her up against the wall and pressed into her as their mouths clashed. They pulled apart just before the doors opened but there was no one on the other side, no one to see Gina quickly follow the girl into her hotel room.

*
The speed at which she comes is amazing. . .

rumbling through her like a freight train, go baby go

. . . a hitch of her breath that coincides with her hips grinding to a halt and then she’s full out gone, in the throes and the girl isn’t quiet about it. Her mouth is wet and wide again, bright eyes lidded and Gina watches, wide and wet herself, as every muscle in Katee’s athletic body goes rigid in a crashing wave. She can feel it from the inside and see it from the outside and she sure as hell can hear it.

It’s a goddamn show, couldn’t tear her eyes away if she wanted to and Gina thinks maybe she’s in the presence of greatness after all.

*

Gina began to regret it almost the second her cream silk puddled on the floor, but it was a little late now that the girl was slithering out of her pants as she sucked at Gina’s neck. It wasn’t that it didn’t feel good, because it did, but it just didn’t feel great.

Gina had been called regal, reserved, smooth, classy . . . she had never been called fast. Katee was the opposite, still so young, just a baby really and if she attacked her career the way she was attacking Gina right then, she just might be a star some day. Now though, it was a little too much, a little too forced, urgent hands and kisses that were driving her to the bed and down onto the soft sheets before her body had entirely caught up with Katee’s.

*
“Your turn,” the girl says, still panting from the force of that freight train, but the grin is back and she’s rolling Gina over with a deep kiss that starts on her mouth and quickly goes south.

That obscene mouth is on her, sucking her in whole and in pieces at the same time, those fingers holding her open and the chewed fingernails don’t matter at all anymore. Gina thinks the girl must have meant it was her turn to be schooled because what Katee’s tongue is doing to her is a lesson in what it takes to lose control, fast.

Fuck, baby, slow down I’m not gonna last. . .

And then Gina doesn’t think at all.

****End

Presense; Firefly: Kaylee/River

secondsilk — Wed, 05 Apr 2006 02:51:08 GMT

Title: Presence
Author: Rose Williams (secondsilk)
Recipient: proteinscollide
Fandom: Firefly.
Pairing: Kaylee/River
Rating: M (guidance recommened for under 15s).
Author's Notes: I think this is strange. This is my first Firefly fic. Any and all comments on any aspect of the fic is encouraged.

(Fake cut to journal)

September When It Comes; Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants: Lena/Annik

marginalia — Wed, 05 Apr 2006 00:29:11 GMT

Title: September When It Comes
Author: marginalia
Archive: .: marginalia :.
Fandom: Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants
Pairing: Lena/Annik. ish.
Rating: PG
Notes: Written for celeria in femslash06. One of the wildcard requests: "The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (Lena Kaligaris/Annik Marchand, or any of the foursome with someone not in the foursome)." Title & cut text from the song of the same name by Roseanne Cash. I'm sorry it's late; I have work-only computer access.

When the Sisterhood split up in the fall Bridget went to Brown, Tibby went to NYU, Carmen went to Williams in spite of (or perhaps because of) herself, and Lena went to the Rhode Island School of Design.

It felt backwards to be leaving each other in September. They were moving apart, and they weren’t taking the Pants with them. “Summer only,” Carmen had said, stowing them away, and no one was about to argue with her. Bee’s necklaces would have to hold them together, even though they didn’t know if or when they would be back. Sure, there would be Thanksgiving and other holidays, but it wouldn't be the same. Being together wouldn't be the norm anymore; it would be the exception.

And so it was bound to happen that their worlds grew bigger, filling with new people who began to learn each girl's language, and though no one else held such a strong place in their history, the Septembers were no longer as closely tied to each other's futures. They had, if not strictly secrets, parts of themselves that they held close and quiet, not real enough to be seen yet in the light of each other.

After all, they had long supported each other in everything, and in a way each knew the others better than she knew herself, but she also knew how she expected each to be. Expectations did not always conform to reality. There was something precious and amazing in taking steps away from each other, in experimenting with who else they could be, though they would always have the safety net of the Sisterhood.

:::

"You've got to take up some space, girl," Annik's words echoed in Lena's ears as she went through her first days at RISD. She tried out new phrases, new ideas, new assertions of opinion, taking up space and no longer waiting in the shadows. She thought of how different this Lena was from the one so many summers ago in Greece, hiding behind her sketch pad and her language. "I don't want them to accept me only because of how I look," she wrote in her journal, a good luck gift from Effie. "But I guess I should give them the chance to like me for something else." It was like being in a play or one of Tibby's movies, trying on the role of a Lena who could talk to new people, surprising herself when the role turned out to be the truth. She made new friends, discovered new bands, and danced nights away with both. As hard as she played, she worked even harder, throwing herself into coursework, studying other techniques and developing her own.

:::

The Sisterhood kept in touch better than could have been expected. Cell phones with free long distance, instant messages zinging across high speed dorm internet connections, and of course letters scrawled throughout boring classes kept them abreast of the basics. Thanksgiving and winter holidays were packed with happenings and hugs, stories that got lost in tangents and stories that were tangents to begin with. Certain names still were not spoken around Lena, and she found that she did not miss them. She had wondered vaguely if she would see Paul as Carmen's family grew larger and more complicated, but it didn't happen. Returning to Rhode Island, she did not feel as though anything had been lacking.

:::

Lena had brought a stack of old sketches, back from home, and late in January she began sorting through them. She was trying to make a clean start with the New Year, and better late than never. In the process, she came across last summer's sketch of Annik, and something about it made her stop and examine it. Impulsively, she hopped up from the floor and woke up her computer. She pulled up the Capitol Street School website, and saw that their spring break fell a week after RISD's. Excellent. As mid-March grew closer, she looked through her updated portfolio, trying to see it through Annik's eyes. She hoped she would be pleased.

Brushing off the inevitable family obligations, Lena borrowed her mother's car and got to campus just as the advanced figure drawing class was about to end. She paced, surprisingly nervous, until the students began to file out. Impatient, she slipped into the classroom where Annik was busy directing the monitor in clean-up. "Hey," Lena said.

Annik looked up and almost immediately propelled herself across the room. Lena bent to hug her. "How are you? You look fantastic! Is that your portfolio? Do you have time to get coffee?"

Lena laughed, and answered the last question. "Yes, of course!" She wandered around the classroom and looked at new student work as the monitor and Annik finished up, then walked beside her to a quiet coffee shop just off campus. She watched Annik's hands on the wheels, rings flashing in the sun, and they talked companionably over coffee until Ari called seeking Lena, or perhaps just the car.

"Here," Annik jotted down her number on a napkin. "Any time, really. If I can't talk, I don't answer."

"Thanks!" Lena pocketed it, hugged her, and picked up her portfolio. "You may regret…"

"Never," Annik promised.

:::

"Sorry," Lena said. "I know it's late, but I'm waiting for the bus and no one else is answering. I'm no good at inventing conversations to fool people on the street."

Annik laughed. "Not a problem."

"I'm on my way home from work. I took a job at a Greek restaurant, if you can believe it. Just for cash for things the scholarship doesn't cover. I don't dare tell my dad, though. He'll be irritatingly pleased by it." Lena chattered on about work, friends, and professors they had had in common. ("That one, he's just insane," Annik advised. "Best to just get through the quarter and not worry about it.") The ride back to campus flew by.

:::

One, two, three weekends in a row, and soon it became a tradition, Lena calling after her late shift, talking through the wait and the bus ride, and eventually quietly outside the door when her roommate was already asleep. They quickly moved past the teacher and student, the mentor and mentee. Lena was amazed at what she could share and learn, things outside of the world of the Sisterhood. Time fell away during calls, much like it did when she was drawing long poses, and sometimes when her roommate was gone she would rummage for her earpiece so she could talk and sketch at the same time. She drew their conversations, her history, Annik's stories, present and future.

One night she told Annik about Kostos. "It's strange," she said. "Telling about him was once such a huge thing, but now. Now it's not the big story of my heart, you know? I'm not the girl he loved anymore. I'm not the girl who loved him." She fell silent, and they listened to each other breathe for a while. "What an odd thing, to not be waiting for the past anymore. I suppose it's time to move into the future."

:::

Carmen was visiting for the weekend when she figured it out. She browsed through stacks of sketches and came across some of the late night conversations: heads bowed close together, Annik's face, her strong hands, the chair and all the complicated feelings around it.

"Were you going to tell us, Lenny?" she asked, then looked closer. "Does she know?"

"I think she knows," Lena said. "Really, I know she does. I just didn't know what you." She stopped, unsure.

"Lena," Carmen said, "Did you really believe we wouldn't love someone who makes you so happy?"

Lena flushed. "I guess I should have given you more credit."

"I guess you should have," Carmen laughed, and embraced her. "Now. Tell me everything." She grabbed Lena by the hand and pulled her towards the door. "I'll buy the ice cream. All you have to do is talk."

Unique Forms of Continuity in Space (Firefly, River/Kaylee)

tremblingmoon — Tue, 04 Apr 2006 21:53:03 GMT

Late, yes, but with permission. In any case though, heartfelt apologies for making you wait.

Title: Unique Forms of Continuity in Space
Author: tremblingmoon
Recipient: puppetoflove
Fandom: Firefly
Pairing: River/Kaylee
Rating: PG
Words: 1328

Author’s Notes: This is not the story I intended to write, but perhaps it was the story that wanted to be written. Nor is it really in my usual style, but more of an experiment, one I might have to revise and lengthen in the future. It’s AU in the sense that the story’s set somewhere in the middle of the first season (post-“Ariel”, pre-“Objects in Space”). The title is from an Umberto Boccioni statue of the same name.

*******

Prologue.

The parabolic curves of the engine’s rotation remind Kaylee of Spring: inevitable but fickle, infinitely intricate but so simple—life and death and breathing, round and round, and a soft hum that only she perceives as music, as language, as everything.

Of course, she doesn’t think about it in so many words. To her, it just feels like Spring—or what she remembers of Spring from back when the season meant something, was part of a cycle, was something she yearned for as much as a kiss from the boy next door (not always the same boy but each year the same kiss—brief and awkward and dry-lipped and beautiful all the same because it heralded the coming of wildflowers that poked up through the desert). In space, her experience of Spring is not perennial, but as capricious as Mal’s mood or the irregular ebb and flow their earnings. And although each job planetside Kaylee basks in the iridescence of summer-to-come (when she’s lucky enough that they’re timing is right), she doesn’t really miss it when she leaves. Not anymore.

Everything about Serenity’s rounded core—her rough, uneasy sophistication—is balm and temperance and security. And Kaylee is speechless because she can be. Words uttered through the simple act of fingers searching metal, and each time she touches the still-warm engine before disembarking (a ritual maybe, or a superstition), she envisions a vast grammar of connections, a complex etymology, and she knows things by heart that she has never fully understood.

1.

She does not need to think in complete forms. Her mind keeps telling her this, or the part of her mind that’s always aware of each slip, each fall from grace, each moment when a piece of her escapes the rest—be it the numbed corner of her right thumb, the unruly tendril—one strand or fifteen?—of hair at the crown of her head, or the fine machinery of her eardrum that throbs lightly every time Serenity falls into an orbit.

Some days River is hard-pressed to follow the panning focus of her own eyes; each object a lure for her gaze, she is fixated and every thing means nothing except itself. The illuminated bulkhead dull and brittle and arching forward to meet her, but as her body winds toward its smoldering pulse—preparation for an embrace, closer and closer, machinery and the sweet melody of blood and muscle—she’s distracted by the fact that the bedspread is staring, eyes so wide they encompass her, the room, the ship, the ‘verse, and she’s arrested by its mocking, open look until Simon comes in, hand on her shoulder, and she’s pulled back to the cool rhythm of her own breath, the toughening sheath of skin shielding the balls of her feet from the floor, the viscosity of human bodies in motion (in stillness that is motion even in the pause between heartbeats, and some days it frustrates her that nothing ever stops just so she can think).

Other days, all she sees is patterns. Everything is part, parcel, multiple, elemental, connected. Everything recalls something else and nothing has any meaning, depth, or value of its own. Singularity is specious, and everything is arbitrary except by association and, even then, she’s not so sure. These days, River is lucid but huge, taking in everything and knowing without question that her body is not her body but a function of how people perceive it or her or themselves. And they think she is psychic only because they don’t realize that boundaries are prescribed by perception. When each breath is an association and everything touches because nothing is separate, minds become very permeable things and nothing as culturally-constructed as privacy or individual thought matters much to her anymore.

These days, River is not a captive of her vision, of the sensory vehicle that is her body; rather, she is the variable in a masterful equation. Not a trite x or y, but n as it approaches infinity on the sharp wings of sigma, and her shifting magnitude sculpts the delicate equilibrium of its resolution.

2.

One of these days—a good day: she’s as big as the sky—River finds herself sprawled along the length of the engine watching the rippling currents of energy. She’s not supposed to be there and she knows and she doesn’t care because Serenity speaks a language as large as she is.

When Kaylee walks in, the engineer startles—the first time only, because every time after Kaylee expects to find River and Serenity side by side exchanging secrets, and she’s not sure if she should be jealous of their complicity, or afraid, or pleased that someone understands the ship like she does. But this first time, Kaylee startles and takes a breath and recovers, her head lilts to the side in thought and River knows, without any tricks of mental permeability, that she’ll be allowed to stay.

River sits up and Kaylee sits down beside her, the knee of her coveralls brushing cotton flowers—pink on white. And when she tries to speak, River’s finger is against her lips before she can even articulate a thought, let alone its vocal carriage. Her eyes widen, but not in protest, and she even smiles a little and shrugs, follows River’s gaze to the assemblage of parts that complete the rotation again and again.

Chaotic juxtaposition, disparate pieces melded to form a whole, but it works, River thinks, and she thinks how she likes that Kaylee takes the world at face value: crazy girl in her engine room, the startling clarity of fractal webbing and furtive circuitry, a head suddenly resting in her lap (Kaylee doesn’t question, just begins stroking her hair, and if River weren’t playing at being silent, she would sigh), and the snaps and purrs of Serenity whispering her atonal sonata in their ears.

3.

Kaylee smiles in her sleep and River watches. She imagines dreaming up a smiled sleep, dreaming of planets and excitement and the thrumming of engine heat. Not dreams filled with blue and white and glass and cold and pain so marked it screams for itself, but of wildflowers and cows and running through mud.

Speech is cumbersome, but Kaylee’s dream-smile is so easy River wants it for herself. For an instant, she can feel herself focusing, feel something slipping, feel herself lured, and then the part of her that is cognizant of these things is gone and all she can see is lips curved upward, a quiet mark of pleasure River can’t have. But wants.

Kaylee wakes while River’s crawling panther-like towards her (she can’t decide what do to with the smile when she gets it or whether it would best be devoured or savored, and what do smiles taste like anyway?). Kaylee barely has time for a startled breath before River kisses her, drinking her in (it’s what she decided would work best), and Kaylee doesn’t have time to push away (even if she wanted to) because suddenly River is gasping as the world crashes in, as continuity reasserts itself.

Signification is everywhere, and River tries to combat the rapidly shuttling neurons with speech. But Kaylee pulls her down, laying blanket over shoulders, before River can tell her that she wanted to eat her smile, to taste it, to make it her own. And now Kaylee is holding her (and River can feel the other girl’s anxiety, her concern, her desire, even a hint of a smile waiting in the wings behind a furrowed brow) and River realizes that she doesn’t have to decide between touching everything and fading into nothing. Realizes she can do both.

Behind her, Kaylee’s breaths are quick and careful, and together they listen to Serenity hum, the chatter of a million parts as one, chaos articulated as music. Kaylee doesn’t quite understand why, but she smiles against the back of River’s neck. And River learns she can even hear starlight.

for ariestess CSI Catherine/Sofia

mrswoman — Tue, 04 Apr 2006 21:45:35 GMT

Due to the enormous logistic exercise our leaders took on board, my expected assignment was different to the one I’d actually been given. I wrote for marenfic whereas the original master list had me writing for ariestess. I saw this, and because I’d written for you before ariestess I got this idea in my head and it wouldn't let go. I hope you’ll accept it as one of your stories from femslash06.

Sorry it's not Sara/Sofia but it is a Sofia centric, Catherine/Sofia piece, and there’s a little allusion to Sara/Sofia thrown in.

Title: Conviction
Author: mrswoman
Written for: ariestess
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Catherine/Sofia
Word Count: 2206
Rating: Um, much less than 18+, in fact probably teenage friendly, so let’s say 12+
Disclaimer: I own nothing within this story other than the idea, please forgive my treading on any toes, I do this for my sanity.
Spoilers: A Bullet Runs Through It, Parts 1&2
Summary: Sofia is slowly falling apart, who the hell can she talk to?

******************

Catherine saw Sofia hurtling out of Gil’s office. She looked awful; her hair pulled back, tears streaming down her face, and, from the vibes Catherine was feeling, the blonde was as angry as hell. Taking her life in her hands Catherine called out.

“Hey Sofia, wait up a second.” Catherine grabbed a hold of Sofia’s elbow and drew her back. “Are you ok?”

The anger radiating off her in waves, Sofia ground out, “No Catherine, I’m not. What’s it got to do with you anyway?”

“Hey! Just hold on a second. I only wanted to check on you. No reason why, just did.” Then she mumbled. “Kinda wish I hadn’t now.”

She turned to carry on her way, this time it was Sofia that pulled the older CSI back. “Sorry Catherine, those two in there,” she indicated back towards Sara in Grissom’s office, “just blew me off.”

“Ah, I see.” And Catherine did, it was obvious, an emotionally wrung out Sofia would have scared the living daylights out of both people in that room. She almost chuckled to herself but stopped just in time when she realized Sofia was still talking.

“I just wanted to talk to someone and I don’t know who. I’m not supposed to talk to anybody here but who the hell else is there?” Sofia rambled, obviously still lost in her memories.

Catherine remembered Sofia’s face during her interview with Ortega and took a chance. “Um, I’m supposedly off in a few hours, and Nancy’s taking Lindsey to school today, so, if you want, we could go for breakfast.”

Sofia looked at Catherine bemused.

“I might be a bitch sometimes but I can listen…” once again Catherine touched Sofia’s elbow, drawing the young woman’s gaze to her face, “… *and* I have shot a man.” The last was said quietly but sincerely; it was something she didn’t regret but despite everyone else’s belief to the contrary, it was something she still thought about.

“Yeah, I think maybe, I’d like that.” Sofia’s quiet admission was immediately overtaken by doubt, “Are you sure, what about my administration leave?”

“Oh bollocks to that, since when do I let rules get in the way of what I want to do?”

Both women chuckled and Catherine saw, despite the ragged look, how a smile still managed to light up Sofia’s face.

“See you in Betty’s Diner at 8?”

“Yeah, I’m away from here now, I’ll get a booth for us.”

Catherine continued on her way, before looking back over a shoulder and calling, “And just so it’s clear… I’m expecting a massive tip.”

Sofia watched Catherine walk away, smiling to herself, pleased that for one moment in time her mind had been somewhere other than on Officer Bell’s face. She turned to leave and bumped shoulders with Sara Sidle. The look she received was hostile and yet deep in Sara’s angry gaze Sofia spotted a hint of something that might actually be jealousy.

Sara muttered, “You’re going out with Catherine?”

The blonde detective gave Sara a secretive smirk, refusing to give her the satisfaction of an answer. There was definitely jealousy in Sara’s manner but, for now, Sofia was too angry to consider the wherefores in that scenario. She cold-shouldered Sara and walked away, putting the consideration to one side for a later date.

************

At 8.30am Sofia was beginning to think Catherine had changed her mind. Still haunted by the thoughts that she might have killed her colleague she stared hard at the Formica table and relived the action once more. It was like a video loop playing over and over behind her mind’s eye, every time, the split second she saw Officer Bell in her sights, the picture changed to one of him lying in a pool of blood, his life force already spent. She shuddered; the few moments between her spying him and his death forever lost to memory.

A warm hand touched her shoulder, “Hey, Sofia. Sorry I’m late, you know how it is. They want me back at 9.30, to go and follow up a lead on the missing gang member. More time with that idiot Ortega, time I could do without.”

Catherine took the seat opposite Sofia and indicated to the waitress for two more coffees.

As she waited for the waitress to return, Catherine took the initiative and began to talk.

“Ortega’s a buffoon, you know. I couldn’t believe how he pressured you in that interview. He needs to see that we have feelings too, we’re not all the pig-headed officer he obviously is.”

Sofia was pleased that Catherine was trying to take her mind off her thoughts, “Hey Catherine, he was only doing his job, he’s got to find out how Bell lost his life.”

“I know but there’s ways to do it. I remember the way he treated me, it’s really not necessary, when all you want to do is go home.”

“But I don’t, Cath, at home, it’s too much.”

Catherine looked up at the shortening of her name. It seemed that, recently, more and more people were shortening it, Sara had even dared to call her Cat, and surprisingly she liked it. Somehow, it made her realize she was once more a part of the team; since working on the Swing shift, it had taken time to get back to where she was before, she was back.

She smiled understandingly at Sofia as the waitress interrupted the pregnant pause, bringing not only coffee but blueberry pancakes too.

Catherine raised her eyebrow at her companion.

“Um, I ordered those before you got here. I remembered Sara once saying they were one of your favorites, and…”

Taking note in her head that Sara and Sofia obviously spent time together, Catherine murmured, “Hmm, thank you.” Then, seeing that Sofia really did look dreadful she brought the conversation carefully back to where Sofia needed it. “So, how you doing, really?”

Sofia almost whispered her reply. “Going a little crazy, you know.”

“Yeah, it’s the waiting, it’s hard Sofia, but once the waiting is over, it gets easier, honestly. I guess it’s just important along the way we never forget an officer lost his life.”

“I know. I don’t think I’ll ever forget.”

Sofia stared at Catherine, the confusion and the hurt painfully obvious, both in the tone of her voice and in the tears blurring the shine of her blue eyes.

“I’ve relived it so many times, Cath, I don’ know what’s real or not. I see him falling, laying there, his blood seeping. It’s like he’s looking at me, as if he knew.”

“Oh Sofia.” Catherine reached for the hand that Sofia was nervously tapping on the table, squeezing it gently in reassurance, “You’ve got to stop thinking like that. It’ll kill you.”

“How? How do I get the sight of Bell falling out of my mind, Catherine, how?”

“I don’t know, hon, you just do.”

Allowing her comment to sink in Catherine let the silence remain. After a few moments she released Sofia’s hand and made a conscious decision to try and take the detective’s mind of her trauma by lightening the mood.

“You could always get wasted or… better yet, get laid; never fails to clear my head.”

Catherine chuckled, hoping that Sofia saw it as the joke comment it was meant to be. Looking up into Sofia’s eyes, alight with disbelief, she wasn’t sure it had quite been taken in that way. Her hackles rising, despite admitting to herself that it was often just what she did to forget, for some reason she didn’t want Sofia to think that about her. As always attack was Catherine’s best form of defence.

“Oh come on Sofia, don’t look so innocent, you’ve been waiting for me to say that, probably agreed to meet me so I could validate you doing exactly that. I’m not deaf you know. I hear the young ones; you detectives. How everyone thinks I use my body to sell my soul. Hell, everyone heard what Sara had to say on the subject and I bet I know whose side you were on back then…” Catherine’s voice was hard and determined, “… but in this case Sofia it really fucking works, believe me.”

Catherine shrugged and gave Sofia a wry smile, waiting for the indignation that never came. Instead she was surprised to hear Sofia laughing out loud.

“You’re wrong, you know. I never thought that of you, though you probably don’t believe me. On day shift I always wanted to be like you; strong, defiant, devil-may-care, and here we are proving that I’m none of those.”

Seeing Catherine start to interrupt, Sofia held up her hand and continued. “Oh, I know I’m strong, you have to be when your mother’s a tough-as-nails police officer but underneath, there’s this woman looking out for confirmation.”

Sofia dropped her head, “If I’m responsible for Bell’s death, and at the moment I can’t get it out my head that I am, who’s going to tell me I was in the right? No-one; I’m going to be hung up on all the whys and wherefores, hesitant as anything, unsure, and no one will be able to convince me otherwise. I may be strong, Catherine, but I don’t think I can do this alone and I sure as hell do care what people think. But you, you’d just tuck this under your belt and get on with it.”

Sofia looked at Catherine. Catherine looked at Sofia.

“I wouldn’t you know. I really would go and get wasted and wake up the morning after with some unknown bimbo. Hell, that’s when the devil-may-care attitude comes in because remembering the sort of sex I dish out is far more enjoyable than remembering pain like you’re remembering,” Catherine winked at Sofia and started to rise from the table. “I’ve got to go, duty calls”

Sofia stood too, resting her hand against Catherine’s elbow, “Oh, ok. Thank you, thank you so much for this, I feel better somehow, still not sure I’ll sleep but you never know.”

Catherine chuckled once more and nudged her shoulder against Sofia’s, “Think about what I suggested, Sofia, you’re one hell of a lovely lady you’d have no problem with getting yourself a guy and it does work. Go for it.”

Sofia watched the departing woman and, not sure where the comment came from, she called after her, “Hell, Cath, I thought you were volunteering.”

Catherine turned with a dirty smirk on her lips, “In your dreams, Curtis, you couldn’t handle it.”

****

Later, Catherine was surprised to hear a whistle as she approached her car. Sofia walked up behind her and whispered, “I think *I* can handle it.”

Catherine spun around, smelling drink on the detective’s breath. “I’ve just pulled a double, heard one of my best friend’s shot his colleague, and you’re drunk. Go home, Sofia,” the redhead ground out through clenched teeth and started to climb into her car.

Sofia stayed her progress. “I’m not drunk but I have been dreaming about Bell. Please Catherine, come for a drink.”

“Sofia, I’m tired. Go home.”

“A drink, please?”

***

Later still, the two women stared into each other’s eyes, one pair of blue eyes; strong, defiant, hopeful, the other, strong, defiant, angry. Silence reigned. Twin JD’s graced the space between their taut bodies.

Catherine smiled sadly.

“You’re off the hook, Sofia, you don’t need this anymore, go home.”

“You of all people know it’s not that easy. Bell still falls dead whether I pulled the trigger or Brass did. His wife still has to bring a little one into this world without its Daddy.” Sofia touched Catherine’s hand. “Please Catherine, help me forget.”

“Sofia. Why me? Why not some nameless one night stand?”

“I don’t do that, I wouldn’t know how. *You* know what I need and why I need it, where would I find another woman…” the blonde watched Catherine to make sure *that* message had sunk in, “… but you? *You*, I trust. “

Catherine’s face looked at Sofia in disbelief.

“Yeah, without these few drinks I probably couldn’t have said this but Catherine, now, I need *you*. Maybe not tomorrow but definitely now and I think *you* can cope with that better than anyone else I know. So, please…”

Sofia got up and wandered across the bar towards the ladies room. As she reached the doors she mouthed the word ‘please’. Still in shock Catherine saw the plea and knew the decision was hers; leave with no qualms, leave and regret it, stay with no qualms, or stay and regret it.

She gulped down the remainder of her Jack Daniels; life was too short for regret so whatever she decided she would stand by her decision. She thought about her day, about Brass’s agony, about Mrs Bell’s agony, about Sofia’s agony, about her own agony and made her decision.

She stood and walked over to the rest-room.

Walking into the washroom she locked eyes with Sofia and sighed as the blonde pushed open the toilet door and held out her hand.

Catherine took a hold of the trembling hand and held on tight, locking eyes with the detective she spoke with conviction, “No! Not here…”

(... Have you decided?)

***
Hope that was ok, ariestess

Do or Die, BtVS, Faith/Buffy

agent_alpo — Tue, 04 Apr 2006 14:17:28 GMT

Saw I wasn't the only one, but apologies for the tardiness. Big storms here as well. Got home from work yesterday to discover home internet was out. Posting from work. Shhhh!

Title: Do or Die
Author: agent_alpo aka Talula
Recipient: tremblingmoon
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: Buffy/Faith
Rating: NC-17
Summary/Notes: Faith questions what Buffy gets out of slaying and ends up questioning what she gets out of it herself. Set early on in Faith's appearance on the show, probably shortly after they took out Balthazar. Sort of a variation on the scene from Bad Girls that starts with Faith asking Buffy if she ever had sex with Xander. Although things turned out much differently than I expected. Please be kind. I don't typically write fics of this type. In fact, it's my first NC-17 ever.
Disclaimer: All characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer belong to Mutant Enemy Productions and are the creations of Joss Whedon. I just borrowed them because I like playing god on occasion.

A usual night time crowd graced the streets of Sunnydale as two young women walked toward the cemetery, oblivious of the normal people around them. Their senses were tuned for anyone less than human; anyone else was just white noise.

"You're telling me never?" Faith asked, somewhat surprised. The other slayer shook her head. "Never ever?"

"For the last time, no, I have never had sex with Xander," Buffy replied with an exasperated grin.

"You can't tell me you haven't thought about it."

"No, I haven't. We're just friends," Buffy said as they entered the cemetery. She scowled a little bit, trying to get the thought of her and Xander out of her head. "It would be weird."

"Whatever. All I'm sayin' is fightin' evil side by side like that has gotta get you all riled up inside."

"Not really," Buffy replied. "I'm more concerned with not getting killed."

They made their way through the tombstones and past elaborately adorned crypts, still alert for evil. They weren't disappointed as they reached the MacDougal crypt. Two male vampires and a female vampire stood outside, seemingly planning a hunt. Had it not been for the demonic distortion of their faces, one might have initially thought they were simply late night mourners or some kids looking to vandalize a few headstones. When the trio noticed the two slayers, looks of hunger and anticipation spread across their faces. Faith nudged Buffy, who responded with a nod of the head as they prepared for a fight.

"I'm sorry. Was this a private party?" Buffy asked as the three turned to fight.

"Time to crash," Faith added.

With that the fight broke out. The female and one of the males took on Faith while the other male took on Buffy. For a brief moment, before the requisite punches and kicks were thrown, Buffy felt a pang of jealousy. Did these vampires think Faith was tougher than her? She felt guilty that she was getting competitive over slaying.

Life and death, Summers, she thought. Quit with the ‘I was the first slayer’ stuff.

The fight progressed full force, everyone putting their all into it. Buffy would later admit this was one of the tougher gangs of vampires she had fought. Faith would internally agree but lie and shrug the fight off like it was nothing. Neither of them even had much chance for sarcasm. As Willow would say, a good pun was what really put Buffy ahead of the slayers of the past.

The male vampire held Faith’s arms behind her back while the female got a few hits in, but Faith managed to use the female as a push-off to do a back-flip over the male and land behind him. She grabbed one of his arms and spun him away, causing him to tumble over a large tombstone. She wasted no time watching him attempt to recover as she caught the female with a low kick to the gut and a downward blow to the head. The male had just recovered when Faith launched the female into him, leaving the two of them in a heap.

There was less throwing and a lot more hitting going on in Buffy’s battle with the other male, who she mentally noted was in desperate need of a bath or at least some deodorant. She just resigned herself to dusting him as fast as possible to get rid of the stench. This was no easy task as he blocked every punch and kick she threw at him while a few of his own connected. As she ducked one of his back-handed swings she pulled Mr. Pointy from her jacket in preparation for the final dusting. She thrust upward but the vamp managed to grab her wrist with one hand and her throat with the other. He lifted her off her feet, a satisfied grin on his evil face as she struggled to break free of his grasp. It was like a bear trap. She would have to chew off a limb to get free.

She had just planned to plant her foot on the vamp’s chest to try to push herself away from him when he turned to dust and she dropped to the ground. She looked to see that Faith had managed to get away from her vamps long enough to hurl a stake into the back of Buffy’s vamp, direct hit to the heart. Faith smiled at her accomplishment just before the female vamp jumped her from behind. Buffy didn’t waste time recovering and hurried to help.

The two vampires were practically dog-piled on top of Faith, like they were even fighting each other over who got first taste. Buffy grabbed the male and pulled him away, causing him to stumble backward before she landed a couple good kicks that sent him sprawling to the ground. At some point during her struggle with the female, Faith managed to pull out a stake while still on the ground, and at the same time she and Buffy dusted the vamps. Buffy turned to see Faith brushing the dust from the female off as she stood.

“Hey. Thanks for the save there,” Buffy said. Faith looked to her with an excited expression on her face.

“You can’t seriously tell me you don’t get off on this. Sometimes you just gotta want a good uh,” Faith said with a grunt and a thrusting motion of her fist.

“I really seriously don’t,” Buffy replied. “One-track mind much?”

“Well, what about Willow?”

“What? Willow? I think I can honestly say that she doesn’t get off on this,” Buffy said. “After the crazy demon robot, I think she got her priorities in line.”

“That’s not what I was talking about,” Faith said, stepping closer to Buffy. Her voice had become lower and suggestive.

“Then what were you…?” Buffy noticed the expression on Faith’s face. It was almost predatory as the dark-haired slayer stepped forward. “Oh. Hey…you-you know I like you and all, but I’m not really into…with the…and-and the….”

“Come on, B. Haven’t you ever just got all hot and had to get it out of your system without carin’ who you did it with?”

Buffy looked at her for a moment, ashamed of what she was feeling at the moment. “No, I haven’t.”

“You hesitated,” Faith said with a laugh. Buffy shook her head and walked away quickly. As she was about to pass the MacDougal crypt, Faith grabbed her arm and she spun to face her. “You might not have done it, but you’ve thought about it. I can see it. Nothing’s better after a good fight. If you have to get a little unconventional, you do it. You have to do it.”

“Look, Faith, no offense, but you’re wrong,” Buffy said sharply. “I need to go.”

Faith let her go, but the smile never left her face. “Now I know why you’re wound so tight sometimes.” Buffy didn’t hear her, though, and Faith headed out to find a way to get this feeling out of her system.

* * *

It wasn’t long after the two slayers separated in the cemetery that Faith returned to her place at the motel alone. The Bronze had been a bust, and there weren’t really any other places to pick up someone willing to have a no-strings good time. Honestly, there were a few people at The Bronze that would’ve been prime candidates. Faith had even thought the blonde college girl she found standing alone by the bar might have gotten the idea of Buffy out of her head. She thought picking up a girl instead of her usual guys would do the trick. They danced in a less than PG manner, but when Faith looked at the girl’s face she only saw Buffy. She paid for the girl’s fruity mixed drink, apologized in a manner not typical of herself, and then left, disappointed.

She clicked on the television, tossed her jacket on a chair and flopped down on the bed. The grainy picture revealed some old horror flick that she didn’t really want to watch. She just leaned on her elbows, staring through the tv rather than at it. She thought about Buffy and knew this was a feeling of need. When she got an idea in her head, she needed to go through with it. There wasn’t much internal debate where Faith was concerned. It was do or die. In her mind, that was the only way she survived this long.

A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. She smacked the power button on the tv to turn it off and opened the door. Buffy was there looking more than a little nervous.

“Buffy. Hey,” Faith said. She gestured for Buffy to come in and closed the door behind her.

Buffy spun around when she reached the foot of the bed. Faith remained standing against the door. She wasn’t sure what to make of this visit. Something was definitely on Buffy’s mind, and while all Faith wanted to do was get this sexual tension out of her system, she knew she couldn’t just go after what she wanted. She didn’t want to do that to Buffy, which was a rare thought to enter her head.

“What if I said you were kinda right?”

“Depends on which part I’m kinda right about,” Faith replied.

“About the whole part,” Buffy said. Then she stumbled and corrected herself. “Well, not the Xander part. His part is…I never touched his part. I mean, I-I never thought…that never happened.”

Faith smiled but said nothing.

“But the rest of it…wanting more after slaying and not caring who…I just never acted on it.”

Faith stepped forward until she was less than a foot away from Buffy. “That’s why you came here? To tell me what I already knew?”

“Well, I thought…I figured it’d be easier if I just said it out loud to you or maybe I needed to hear myself say it or-”

Buffy was interrupted when Faith stepped forward, grabbed her by the arms and kissed her. The kiss was fierce, rough and lustful. It was a kiss of need, not want. Faith needed to do this. Do or die.

She pushed away and looked to Faith in shock. It was shock at what she was feeling and who she was feeling it for. They looked at each other a moment longer and then they met again, the kiss harder and less restrained. They were in this, no turning back.

Faith pushed Buffy back against the pipe she had padded to use as a punching bag and began running her hands up and down the other slayer’s body. She quickly pushed off Buffy’s jacket and pulled her shirt off, only parting their lips long enough to get it over her head. While Faith’s hands roamed all over her body, Buffy’s right hand gripped the pole above her head while her left hand was gripping at the padding near her back. Faith’s right hand traced up Buffy’s thigh and felt between her legs, satisfied to feel that she was wet.

She quickly removed Buffy’s bra and the blonde slayer gasped as she began sucking on her left breast, whimpering when she bit her nipple. She raked her fingernails down Faith’s back. Soon Faith grabbed Buffy by the arms again and pushed her toward the bed. In moments all their clothes were off. As the dark-haired slayer knelt over her, she ran her hand down Buffy’s stomach and over the soft patch of hair until she found what she was looking for. Buffy sucked in a breath as Faith began fingering her and closed her eyes. Faith grabbed Buffy’s right hand and brought it to her own body. Buffy opened her eyes and understood what Faith wanted and began to finger her as well. Do or die.

The pace was fast and their breathing was heavy as they continued to pleasure each other. Buffy kissed Faith and Faith kissed Buffy. At one point Faith bit Buffy’s neck and felt her tense, but when she heard her whimper and saw the look on Buffy’s face, she knew that was a good thing. They were kissing when Buffy came, and she bit Faith’s lip hard enough to draw blood. They ignored the metallic taste and continued, Faith wanting to prolong Buffy’s orgasm as long as she could. Soon she came as well and they both collapsed, satisfied with what they had done.

They slept side by side on the bed. Faith didn’t feel compelled to kick Buffy out like she had all the others. Buffy wasn’t like the others. The two slayers were the same. They knew what the big picture was, and they knew it was do or die.

FIN

Venn Diagram - SGA - (Weir/Cadman)

trixiesfic — Tue, 04 Apr 2006 06:44:45 GMT

So sorry this is a little bit late. We had big storms here and my internet connection's been down most of the evening.

Title: Venn Diagram
Author: C. L. Finn
Recipient: sarren
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: Weir/Cadman
Summary: Sometimes she felt she was a circle of one

Follow the fake cut.

Burst The Insulation - Roswell/BtVS (Liz/Faith)

voleuse — Tue, 04 Apr 2006 05:44:13 GMT

Title: Burst The Insulation
Author: voleuse
Recipient: marenfic
Fandom: Roswell/BtVS
Pairing: Liz/Faith
Rating: PG-13
Timeline: Post-series for both shows
Summary: A flush rising into my face, for a word.

LINK: 1,074 words

Coup de Torchon (Clean Slate) | Felicity/The L-Word | Felicity/Alice | PG

katjanka — Tue, 04 Apr 2006 05:32:24 GMT

Title: Coup de Torchon (Clean Slate)
Author: katjanka
Recipient: honeymink
Fandom: Felicity/The L-Word crossover
Pairing: Felicity Porter/Alice Pieszecki
Rating: PG
Word Count 2,442
Summary: She's tired of details. She wants a clean slate.
Spoilers: Through the end of season 3 of The L-Word.
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine.

1. August

One day next June, she will be asked about the first time they met.

She won't remember the details.

Forgetting is a skill she's been perfecting lately, wiping out bits of her memory here and there, cleaning out the sharper corners. But this particular late-August evening is remarkable because of the part that refuses to fade away and the part she can't bring back, no matter how she tries.

She will remember what she was thinking at the exact moment the girl said hello. That's the part she can't forget. The memory inside the memory, that's the picture Alice can remember just fine.

She was standing in the middle of a closet-sized gallery in Silverlake, but she wasn't looking at a painting. Instead, she stared out the window, up the road outside, the houses that lined the street at improbable angles. And she remembered a completely inconsequential morning: it was just a plain old Tuesday, and they were driving somewhere, and Alice had said, I want to live here when I grow up.

Dana had wrinkled her nose just slightly, as if to say, Within walking distance of a 99-Cent Store? Really? But she'd played along anyway. Oh, yeah? Which house?

Hmmm, said Alice, as Yo La Tengo started up on the radio. She'd lifted her foot off the accelerator just enough and said, That one.

Good choice. We'll get a dog and subscribe to the Times. Dana laughed. Can we go? I think these directions are totally wrong. Honestly, what is the point of MapQuest? We need a GPS.

Alice had looked at the house, and back at Dana, before heading toward a destination.

(The details of the route have long since disappeared.)

She hadn't driven down that street since, not even to rub salt in her own wounds during her regrettable stalker phase. Of all the things she'd managed to forget in the last few months, that memory came out of nowhere, just in time to knock her on her ass.

“Don't I know you from somewhere?"

She blinked. "It's entirely possible," she said, turning it on, extending her hand. This was the easy part. She was all about moving forward these days; it was so much more satisfying than looking back. "Or maybe you've just heard me on the radio? I'm Alice Pieszecki, I do 'The Chart' on KCRW?"

"Felicity Porter," the girl-—cute, younger, obviously straight—-replied reflexively. She shook her head, her brow furrowed as if this were a particularly vexing math problem. "And, probably not. I'm not from here."

"Well," said Alice, “I get around. Where are you from?"

"Well," she said, "Palo Alto originally, but then New York for a while, and then Palo Alto again, and now San Francisco, but not for very long, just—"

Alice raised an eyebrow. Maybe she'd been wrong. "How do you like it there?"

She shrugged. "I'm still getting used to it."

"You lived in New York," Alice pointed out.

"Yeah, and it's kind of like that, except even more crowded, or, I don't know, crowded in a different way. But the weather's nicer. And the one thing that whole experience taught me was that I can adapt to pretty much anything, so, yeah. Ask me again in four months. I love winter."

"What do you do?"

"I'm studying medicine."

"Wow, that's amazingly practical," Alice said. "My friends tend to fall into careers, myself sometimes included, so I'm always impressed by people who have it all figured out."

Felicity laughed, short and brittle. "I wouldn't go that far."

"In town for the show?" Alice asked nonchalantly, heading toward the paintings again.

A test. She followed.

"Among other things," Felicity said. "The artist is a friend of a friend of a friend from school."

"Oh," she blinked. "I'm here with a friend. First-tier." She motioned toward Helena. "She likes art."

"You don't?"

Alice shrugged. "Some."

"I love it. Sometimes I really regret that I..." She broke herself off, then met Alice's eyes with an apologetic smile.

"What?"

"Never mind."

"Oh, come on," Alice said. "You can tell me."

"I thought about becoming an artist. Seriously considered it, in college." A tight smile, then: "But you're right. This is much more practical. And I do love it."

"Sure," she said. "You can lose yourself in the details, right? Better than a blank slate."

"A blank canvas," Felicity corrected. "And... yeah. Something like that."

"Because," Alice continued, "with a blank canvas, you'd have to give too much of yourself. The details, on the other hand, are impersonal. Problems with solutions. It's probably a big relief."

Felicity regarded her curiously.

"I mean, it's not my philosophy. I am all about the blank canvas lately."

"I thought you didn't like art."

"I don't like this art."

They lingered awkwardly.

"Well, my friend is shooting me a death glare," said Felicity, nodding in the direction of a dark-haired woman with excessive eyeliner, currently engaged in conversation with the artist herself. "I should probably go rescue her."

Alice nodded, then: "Hey, Felicity?"

Felicity turned.

"We're on the Internet. KCRW.org. You should check it out."

She smiled over her shoulder. "Yeah, I definitely will."

Later, Alice will only remember staring at old houses and the families inside them, talking to strangers, and driving home alone.

* * *

2. December

It was a ridiculous thing to do, and Felicity knew it from the start. In fact, it went so far beyond ridiculous, it circled past quirkily impetuous and made a hard right turn into severely insane.

She found herself doing it anyway, just picking up the phone and dialing like it was nothing. Then it was ringing, and her heart was pounding. She couldn't have explained it if anyone had asked her at the time, but she did know that sometimes there are things a person just needs to do.

She kind of thought that would pass as she got older, but here it was, eight long years later and she hadn't changed at all.

The first phone call was so awkward that she immediately erased it from her memory and vowed never to listen to streaming radio over the Internet again, and certainly never to Google someone's phone number again, and if either of the first two things were to occur despite her most solemn vow, she would most definitely never call that person ever, ever, ever again.

Fifteen minutes later, Alice called her back.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It just took me a minute to remember you. But you live in San Francisco, and you regret not becoming an artist, right?"

"Oh, God." Felicity covered her face with one hand. "Yes. Sort of. That's me."

"Well, of course I remember you now. It's been a couple of months. What can I do for you?"

"Nothing, I just wanted to tell you that I figured out how I knew you," she said, the sound muffled through her fingers.

"Oh?"

"My friend and I went into a coffee house, like, the day before I met you and you were in line behind us. I don't know why I couldn't remember that. Of course, you didn't remember it either."

"Mystery solved," Alice said. "Putting your education to good use, I see."

"Well, the main thing I wanted to say was that I listened to your show the other day. I heard what you said about your friend. I just wanted to say..." She paused, listening to Alice's breath hitch over the line. "I know how it feels to lose someone you love, and there's nothing you can do about it. It's the worst."

No response.

"So, that was it. I just... I just wanted you to know that it affected me. That's all."

Finally, Alice said, "Well, good. That's what I was going for."

Silence.

"Okay," Felicity said, "now that I'm thoroughly mortified, I'm hanging up now."

"Wait," said Alice, and Felicity could picture her pausing, playing with the phone cord—-but of course that was completely random and implausible, because who still had a phone with a cord? "Who did you lose?"

"I just invested so much, so much time, and I loved him so much. I still feel like a part of me died when he left. I moved to New York for him, and we'd never even really talked. But he--"

"Oh. Well, my--my best friend, my girlfriend, she actually died, earlier this year." Felicity could feel the blood drain from her face. "Wasn't that clear?"

"No, God, I wouldn't have--you just said you lost someone, I didn't know, oh my God, I'm so sorry. It's--my thing is just so completely--you know, I'm actually hanging up now that I've made a complete ass of myself, okay?"

Alice laughed. "Hey, it's okay. It's okay. Breathe." She paused. "What are you doing this weekend?"

* * *

3. January (Part I)

Six nights later, they're walking down the sidewalk toward Felicity's apartment building, after an evening exploring the city, a long stop at a used bookstore, half an hour wasted on a bad folk singer.

"No, I just mean, I can't believe you never thought about it at all," Alice is saying, holding a cup of coffee like a life preserver. "I thought everyone thought about it at some point. Jesus, it's cold."

Felicity shrugged. "It just didn't occur to me."

"Okay," Alice says. "Didn't you have, like, way more Barbies than Kens?"

"Well, yes," Felicity admits. "But I have generally tried not to model my life after Barbie. I mean, I don't even have a cool car."

"No bulimia, no questionable fashion choices, no fair-weather lesbianism?"

"No," she says honestly.

Alice cocks her head. "Pity. You could stand to lose a few pounds."

Felicity laughs, too loud for the hour, but for once it doesn't matter.

Alice peers out at her beneath the brim of a ski cap pulled tight down over her forehead and asks, "So how do you like San Francisco in the winter?"

"Oh, now you remember."

"You know, fits and starts."

"I like it," she says, grinning like a fool, and Alice presses her lips against hers for the second time.

(The first time was on New Year's Eve, three nights earlier, but that, she reasons, doesn't count, because (a) she was drunk and couldn't really feel anything and (b) it was actually her idea, and (c) it lasted about five seconds before she passed out on someone else's couch. They didn't even talk about it after their matching hangovers subsided.)

She remembers Meghan's unsolicited Grand Confession, in the middle of the night, so many years ago now. For about two minutes, she had indeed considered what it might be like to kiss a girl--any girl, not necessarily Meghan--but she imagined that it would be like kissing the back of her hand, that she wouldn't feel anything except the friction.

Actually? Not so much. It's strangely slick, gloss against gloss, but after she gets used to that, she gets it. Alice's hands are insistent, but she's sensitive; this is like what everyone else did in high school, she thinks. First base? Second base? She could never keep them straight. But it doesn't matter, because she feels Alice's touch everywhere, and it might just be because it's been so long since--but no, this isn't like anything else, it's different. Not better, but different. Different, but fantastic.

And she needs more.

They don't separate, just fumble inelegantly toward the door in unison. They break apart long enough for Felicity to get the door open, and Alice looks at her in the dark like she's sure Felicity's going to change her mind.

Felicity says, "It's okay," and "Breathe," and they settle in for the night, somewhere on the floor between the living room and the kitchen.

* * *

4. Interlude

Around 6:45, Alice becomes aware of the cold surface beneath her, but Felicity's hand is on her stomach and her body is warm everywhere their limbs touch. So she doesn't mind, and she doesn't move, she just casually drifts back to sleep, with her fingers tangled in Felicity's hair.

She could be anyone else right now; it's like nothing in the past ever happened at all.

She's happy, and that might be the reason why.

In the morning, Felicity brings in breakfast from the coffee place down the street--thank God, she says, it's not a Dean & Deluca, whatever that means-—and presents coffee to Alice with about fifty sugar packets and enough cream containers to build a substantial pyramid. "I was a little tipsy last night, so I didn't remember how you liked it," she says.

"I like it just like this," Alice says.

(She can still remember the taste.)

* * *

5. January (Part II)

Later, they stand between the apartment and Alice's car, stuck in a reluctant farewell that lasts for hours.

"God, I love this," Alice says, gesturing at the city at large. "I want to live here when I grow up." And the words don't even taste that bitter, they don't get stuck in her throat; this is a new city, a new memory. A new Alice, loved a little by someone who knows virtually nothing about her. Yet.

It's a clean slate. (A blank canvas, Felicity corrects from somewhere inside her head.)

Felicity smiles. "So do I."

"It's a pact. We'll meet back here."

"Oh, God," says Felicity. "I'm never going to see you again, am I?"

"Well," Alice points out, "you can always track me down on the radio and hunt me down like a dog if I renege."

"Does anyone actually hunt dogs?"

"I'm quite the experienced stalker myself," she says, her smile faltering just slightly. "I'll make sure you hold up your end, too."

"Well, I'll see you then," she says.

Alice leans closer and whispers, "I imagine you'll see me before then."

To her own surprise, she even means it.

That's something she won't be able to erase from her memory.

"I'll buy you some paintbrushes," she says. "I want to watch you paint."

She doesn't mind.

* * *

6. June

Alice still does not remember the first time they met, but if she's lucky, one day someone will tell her the story, until the details become as familiar to her as memorized dialogue from a school play, as inescapable as the back of her hand.

She will remember the way Felicity pretends to be her when she recounts their first conversation, acting out all the roles herself.

And that's the kind of memory she wants to keep.

(For now.)

Pretty Things (The O.C., Marissa/Summer)

dirty_diana — Tue, 04 Apr 2006 04:42:09 GMT

Title: Pretty Things
Author: dirty_diana
Recipient: trakkie
Fandom: The O.C.
Pairing: Marissa/Summer
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers through 3:19 The Secrets and Lies. Beta love to skripka.

By the middle of the summer, Marissa is bored. Holly throws another party on another Wednesday night, and Summer drives them both over in her dad's Mercedes.

"What do you mean, bored?" Summer steps on the gas in Marissa's Jimmy Choo sandals, and Marissa toys with the lace on Summer's French Connection halter top that she's wearing, and shrugs. "You don't want to go back to school already, do you? Ew."

Marissa doesn't want to go back to school. She just wants to go somewhere new. Summer doesn't wait for an answer, only ejects Marissa's mix CD from the CD player and tunes in KIIS. She glances at the disc only briefly before tossing it into the glove compartment, making a face.

"Ugh. Coop, what are you listening to? It's loud."

"It's angry. I'm angry," Marissa says, and it comes out sounding lighter than she means it.

Summer smiles gently. "I'm angry. What is up with this traffic, Newport Beach?"

When Summer honks her horn, Marissa smiles back.

The party is a blur. Luke kisses her when he says hello, she'll remember that much, and he's warm and laughing and then he's gone, and Marissa pulls herself onto the kitchen counter, kicking off her sandals so that her bare feet dangle down.

"Hey, Coop." Summer tugs on her shirt, handing her another drink. "The party's over here."

Marissa shakes her head. Summer's daiquiris are way too strong, or just strong enough, and Marissa makes her way through four or five, or six or seven, before the room spins so hard that she slides off the kitchen counter, boneless.

"C'mon, Coop. We gotta go home."

Marissa doesn't want to get off the floor. Summer's not nearly strong enough to lift her, but she tries, and her skirt rides up against Marissa' back, and her hands are warm.

Summer lets out a small laugh, and Marissa laughs too, just to have something to smile about. "Seriously, Coop, it's late. Everyone else is going home."

Everyone else has a home to go to, Marissa thinks. When Summer gives up, laughing, she leans over Marissa with her hands on the floor. Marissa doesn't have to reach up that far to kiss her mouth. It's sticky and sweet like the lipgloss that she's wearing, and when her tongue meets Summer's, Summer's fingers tug briefly on her hand.

Summer giggles, and rocks back on her heels. "We are so drunk."

Marissa doesn't say anything, and she can trace the curves of Summer's fingers, as Summer lets go.

~~~

The summer that comes after is longer than the last one, and Summer tries to take her to the beach every day. Summer buys her strawberry milkshakes on the boardwalk, and tries to tell her that it wasn't ever going to work out anyway. Between her and Ryan.

"I'm over Ryan," Marissa says, and means it, the way that she means everything.

"Yeah, right," Summer says. "Just like I'm over Cohen."

"I thought said you were totally over him." The milkshake freezes Marissa fingers, and she thinks that no one will ever miss her for this long, for an entire summer break.

"I am so over Seth. I hope he stays in Tahiti forever. No, I hope he drowns. I hope his stupid boat sinks and he drowns." Summer scowls, or she smiles, and her eyes light up as she thinks of something new. "Want to go get manicures?"

~~~

When Marissa tells Summer about Alex, Summer pauses for a moment. For what seems like forever, with her glossy pink lips pressed together, and then she smiles.

Marissa would have understood if Summer had gotten mad. Summer hasn't been mad at her in years, not since that time in the fifth grade, but Summer is still the only girl Marissa could ever really stand. Before Alex, and maybe Marissa didn't like her that much after all.

~~~

Then the summer comes again, and her mom's lawyers all seemed to think she might actually have to go to jail. Sometimes Marissa worries about it, and lied when people asked her, but most of the time she didn't care either way. The gun had bucked hard when she'd fired, so hard that she had almost dropped it. Maybe she deserved to be in jail.

No one listens when she says that, though, so Marissa lies out in the sun on the terrace of Caleb's house, Caleb who never liked her and is gone now, like her dad.

Marissa is half-asleep when Summer comes over. She's got a long way to go until she's drunk, still, and the rest of the bottle hides in her Dooney and Burke, underneath the chair.

Summer leans over to kiss her cheek, Summer's mouth wrinkles at the smell, but she doesn't say anything. Just like she doesn't say anything when Marissa leaves her own chair to sit down beside her, and slides her fingers underneath the frayed denim hem of Summer's skirt.

"Wanna go to the beach?"

If she goes to the beach, to the mall, people will see her. The whole of Newport Beach will stare at her, the girl whose parents are always broke, the girl who hangs out with thugs, who might yet go to jail for shooting someone who totally deserved it.

Marissa works her hand up Summer's thigh, and shakes her head. Summer's gaze traces the tan lines left by Marissa's bikini straps, and their eyes don't meet.

"I don't want to go anywhere," Marissa says. "I want to stay here with you."

~~~

When Marissa and Summer fight in the school parking lot, Marissa can't figure out what she said wrong. Marissa can feel summer coming, in the days that are getting longer, and Marissa is bored already, of missing Johnny, of not thinking about Ryan, of fighting with Summer and hating everything. She wishes she was just a little drunker, drunk enough to put her hand between Summer's thighs and tell her that she's worrying about nothing.

But maybe sisters don't do that, maybe everything is changing now. Or maybe summer is coming, creeping in the way that it does every year, and nothing is changing at all.

~fin.