Femslash Ficathon 2007

femslash08 pre-poll action!

2008-03-13T04:44:05Z

Spring is springing, and we're asking for some preliminary input on femslash08. Suggest fandoms for the list here and join femslash08 for future ficathon updates!

femslash 08?

2008-01-10T04:46:37Z

femslash08 will start after Memorial Day (may 31st! Thank you pene for reminding me I wasn't being clear). We decided to move the ficathon to a time when one of the mods isn't insanely busy with her non-fandom life.

Check out femslash08 for the poll and future announcements.

Thank you thank you back-up writers!

2007-03-21T02:03:39Z

mosca and I ended up needing 15 other writers, along with ourselves, to make sure everyone had a story so we wanted to say thank you, THANK YOU! to those wonderful people. So we posted to our friendslist and! under the cut, is a bunch of goodies for these awesome back-up writers. And! under the second cut is a list of the back-up writers' requests from femslash07 that we weren't able to get goodies for by today. If you'd inspired to write a ficlet or make an icon for these awesome people, feel free to post in the comments and I'll update, etc.

rysler
oxoniensis made an icon!

musesfool
femmenerd wrote 1100 words of girl!Dean/Faith, SPN/Buffyverse x-over!!!

thrace_
kyrafic wrote 2100 words of Karen/Pam, the Office!!

mosca
oxoniensis wrote a ficlet!!
Like Phyllon When Spring Blossoms
(Firefly, Inara/Kaylee, pg-13, for mosca)

You know there's something on her mind long before you confront her.

She hovers in the corridor as though she's waiting, then turns tail and runs when she sees you coming. At mealtimes she sits on the far side of the table, and sneaks glances at you, sidelong and quick. She laughs at Jayne, then claps her hand over her mouth as though the sound is too loud. She's never worried about being too loud before; she's always shrieked and laughed her joy. It's one of the things you love about her.

She eats less, and that's just wrong, because Kaylee loves food, especially when the shepherd cooks.

You don't think she can be sick. She does her job as well as ever, and Serenity flies smoothly. The few times Kaylee's been ill that you remember, Serenity still flew on, but you felt the difference, everyone did; the ship flies better with Kaylee's touch. So she isn't sick, just distracted, and you're quite certain it has something to do with you.

Eventually you corner her in the engine room and ask her. Directly, because this is Kaylee, and she isn't one for clever games.

She stutters and stammers and won't look you in the eye, but eventually she answers.

"I didn't know you—I didn't know folks like you slept with ladies too."

"Does that bother you?" you ask, although you think you already know the answer.

"Oh, no, of course not," she says, touchingly eager to reassure you.

"In my own time, I chose who I wish to be with, Kaywinnit Lee Frye." And you hold out your hand. Palm up and open, for her to grasp.

She rests her own hand on it, as though she's too startled not to, then lets go and pulls back.

"I'm all greasy. I'll—I'll get your fine silks grubby," she says, and she looks so distressed you can't even think of talking her out of worrying.

"I'll be in my shuttle. Will you come over, in a few minutes, please?" You're surprised by how much you want her to say yes.

She nods, uncertainly, and that's not enough.

"Promise you'll come," you add, and this time she looks you in the eye.

"Yes," she says, and smiles shyly.

The knock ten minutes later is hesitant. It couldn't be anyone else.

She walks in and then exclaims, her face alight with wonder: "Oh, Inara, it's lovely."

You've lit incense and candles, dozens of them, and she's radiant in their glow. She's in a simple floral cotton dress, and you're quite certain she has no idea how lovely she looks in it. You tell her.

"You're beautiful, baobei," you say, but you can tell she's not convinced.

"You're like the stars, 'Nara," she says, wistfully, looking around and standing carefully, so as not to touch anything. "I'm just some grubby little backwater planet circling you."

You sit her down on your bed, and sit beside her, her hands in yours. She's washed them, and they're still cold from the water and red from scrubbing.

"Some of the little planets are beautiful too, you know. There's Phyllon, for example. Have you ever been there?"

She shakes her head.

You lay her down on the bed, and start to unbutton her dress. The buttons are too big for the buttonholes, as though they're clumsy replacements for the originals, but your fingers are deft and you barely need to take your eyes off her face.

You continue to tell her about Phyllon as you undress her.

"In winter it's shimmering ice as far as you can see. And in the spring it comes to life, trees covered in the most amazing pink and white blossoms and fresh young grass that looks too green to be real." You lean in and nuzzle her belly, feeling her tremble under you. "It smells as sweet as anything you could imagine, and later in the year, the fruit harvest is justly famous." You kiss her breasts, sweet and round and ripe.

She blushes, and you think maybe now she believes you.

*

michellek
oxoniensis made TWO icons!

bluflamingo
awesome oxoniensis made TWO icons!

alixtii
raqs wrote a ficlet!
Saffron and River were used to staring down gun barrels, though not necessarily each other's.

"I don't want to kill you," River told her.

"That's funny, 'cause it wouldn't bother me any to kill you," Saffron spat back.

"Yes it would," said River, looking puzzled, as if Saffron had just insisted that the sky was orange when it wasn't.

"No it--" But Saffron's lower lip, though far from trembling, looked open and moist and gave her face a look that was fairly far from the idea of sudden murder.

"Look, I can save you a lot of time." River tossed the gun in her hand to the other hand so fast that Saffron didn't even have time to blink, much less pull her own trigger. "I do know what you're thinking about. And yes, I will. If you want to. But not with you holding a gun. In fact I think there would have to be some sort of prearrangement about guns and NOT having them anywhere near us. Not if you want me to pay attention." And River's head quirked to the side and one corner of her mouth turned up, as if she knew a really good secret. "And you DO want me to pay attention."

*

amatia
julie122 wrote a ficlet!
Title: Anyhting Easy Has Its Cost
Fandom: Scrubs Elliot/Molly
Credit: Title taken from the Barenaked Ladies song "Falling For The First Time."

"So do you want to stay here tonight? I mean it’s pretty late," Molly continued when Elliot didn’t answer. "And you have had a lot to drink."

Elliot couldn’t argue with that. One drink after work had turned into three and then two more after they left the bar for Molly’s apartment. They’d been gossiping and giggling all evening. It’s what Elliot imagined junior high would have been like if she’d actually been popular or had even one friend. Being with Molly was so easy it surprised Elliot. She didn’t have to prove herself with Molly like she sometimes felt like she had to with Carla.

"Sure, unless you think Trevor will mind." Elliot hadn’t questioned Trevor’s absence, but she imagined he would be back at some point. She never felt comfortable around Molly’s deadbeat boyfriends.

"Oh, he moved out four days ago," Molly airily waved off Elliot’s concern. "Well, I should say his parole officer came by to pick up his stuff and store it until he serves out his sentence."

"Sorry," Elliot wasn’t sure how sympathetic she should be. It’s not like everyone who had met Trevor hadn’t seen it coming. But still, Molly was her friend.

"No, it’s okay. Well actually it’s not okay for Trevor. But I’m fine. We were more roommates than lovers after the first few days." Molly sighed sadly. "I really thought he was going to make it."

"I don’t get you, Molly. You could have any guy you want, and I mean any," Elliot dragged out the last word. "All the doctors at work are in love with you, and you keep hooking up with these losers."

“They’re not that bad. Except for maybe Ronnie. You remember Ronnie don’t you? He was the one. . ."

"The one with the fetish," Elliot finished shuddering. She’d rather not remember Ronnie.

Molly laughed, but then turned serious. "You see I spend so much time helping people who want desperately to fit into society that I’m really attracted to people who are happy not fitting in. But then the psychiatrist thing kicks in, and I start trying to fix them. Either they rebel like Trevor, or it works and then they’re just boring."

"JD always followed my rules." To anyone else the comment may have seemed to come out of the blue, but to Elliot it made perfect sense. She knew JD had a crush on Molly, but based on Molly’s "type" he didn’t stand a chance. The petty part of Elliot, and that could be a very big part, was glad. She’s mostly forgiven JD, but she didn’t want him to be happy yet. Not until after she was happy, and Elliot didn’t see that happening any time soon. So who could blame her for subtly pointing out JD’s unsuitability to Molly? Elliot was counting on Molly being flighty enough to follow her logic.

"Johnny likes to please people. He’s still looking for approval," Molly nodded sagely.

That was the one thing Elliot hated about Molly. She was so scattered. Her clothes and her hair were always going in different directions, and her conversations were harder to follow that Elliot’s. But she could look and sound so freaking wise when she wanted to. Wiseness must come with the psychiatry license. When ever Elliot tried to sound wise she came off like a snobby know-it-all.

"Well, that was one of the best things about JD before he convinced me to end the one relationship that actually had a chance of going somewhere to be with him. Only after I ditched Sean he decides he doesn’t really love me and we should just be friends." Elliot took a deep breath and tried to calm down. She was talking too fast and too loud like she always did when she was upset. It was way too easy to get carried away bitching about JD’s betrayal, but she was supposed to be past all that. "Well before all that, JD was really good about following my rules."

"Now Elliot, you know no one can convince you to do something you really don’t want to do."

Elliot was so caught up in the sing-song quality of Molly’s voice that it her a minute to realize what Molly had said. "No psycho analyzing outside the hospital," she responded shrilly pointing at Molly.

"Sorry, bad habit," Molly replied easily. "So what rules did you have for Johnny?"

"Well, there was the bathroom rule."

"No talking," Molly added knowingly.

There was no need for Elliot to elaborate. Anyone who spent more than a few hours with her knew about the no talking when she was in the bathroom rule. "Then there were," Elliot lowered her voice and looked around to make sure no one else was listening. "Sex rules."

"Sex rules," Molly almost squealed. "Do tell." She pulled her legs up so she was sitting cross-legged. Molly wiggled a minute before settling with her eyes shining and her spine impossibly straight.

Elliot thought she should look like she was going to mediate, but instead she managed to radiate excitement. Elliot shook her head. She should have known Molly would ask for details. Molly loved to gossip about sex. "There are the basic rules like when, where, how long, what positions are allowable. Of course you have to establish guidelines for when lights are on or off, eyes are open or closed, and clothes are on or off.," Elliot paused and blew her hair out of her eyes. "If fantasies are involved there are special rules for costumes and accents. Most importantly, there are strict confidentiality and nondisclosure rules for anything out of the ordinary."

"Elliot stop," Molly was laughing and holding her stomach. "Sex is supposed to be fun and spontaneous. You don’t need all those rules. You just need to let it happen and follow where your body wants to take you." Molly’s smile was sweet and understanding.

Elliot opened her mouth to tell her she was wrong. Sex was messy and complicated and dangerous. Rules were important. Without the rules, sex could take over her life and then she’d be just like her mother. Elliot took a deep breath, but before she could say anything Molly cut her off with a kiss.

And not just any kiss. This was a kiss with tongue. Once Elliot got over her shock she really needed to tell Molly that she didn’t allow tongue during the first kiss unless it was with a complete stranger. But in order to tell her that she would have to stop the kiss, and Elliot wasn’t sure she wanted to do that. Then Molly slipped her hands under Elliot’s shirt and pushed back until she was laying flat on the couch, and Elliot forgot all about her rules.

*

callmesandy
oxoniensis made FOUR icons!

queenzulu & jennyo see comments! For icons!!

ariestess
Listed fandoms I request: (limit three):
1. Battlestar Galactica :: Laura/Maya, Laura/Kara, Roslin/Six, Caprica!Six/D'Anna, Roslin/D'Anna, Kara/Cain, Gina/Cain
2. CSI (Vegas) :: Sara/Sofia, Sofia/Lady Heather, Sofia/Wendy
3. Law & Order: SVU :: Alex/Olivia
Wildcard fandoms I request: (limit three):
1. Poltergeist: the Legacy :: Alex/Rachel
2. The West Wing :: CJ/Ainsley, CJ/Abbey, CJ/Kate
3. BSG/West Wing crossover :: Laura Roslin/Abbey Bartlet

*

mrswoman
Listed fandoms I request: (limit three):
CSI Las Vegas: Catherine/Sara, Catherine/Sofia, Catherine/Meg Cunningham (aka Dina Meyer’s character)
DCU Comic: Huntress/Oracle, Renee Montoya/Kate Kane, Renee/Oracle, Kate/Huntress, Oracle/Catwoman
Wildcard fandoms I request: (limit three):
Law And Order: Trial By Jury: Tracey/Kelly
Law and Order: Criminal Intent: Barek/Eames
ER: Kerry/Abby, Kerry/Courtney

*

molotovcoqtiz
Listed fandoms I request: (limit three):
1) CSI - Catherine Willows/Lady Heather
2) X-Men Movieverse - Rogue/Mystique, Kitty/Rogue, Mystique/Jubilee, Mystique/Callisto
3) Harry Potter: Pansy Parkinson/Hermione Granger, Narcissa/Bellatrix, Pansy Parkinson/Narcissa
Wildcard fandoms I request: (limit three):
1) X-Men comics: Emma Frost/Tessa Niles (Sage), Jean Grey/Emma Frost, Mystique/Rogue
2) NCIS: Abby Scuito/Ziva David

*

Name/LJ Name: Lily/lilysaid
Listed fandoms I request:
1. Stargate Atlantis: Teyla/Sora, Teyla/Elizabeth
2. Battlestar Galactica: Kara Thrace/Sharon
3. House: Cuddy/Cameron
Wildcard fandoms I request:
Stargate Atlantis/Stargate SG-1: Vala/Elizabeth, Vala/Cadman

Name/LJ Name: sheepfairy
Listed fandoms I request:
1. Battlestar Galactica: Caprica/Boomer, Ellen/Anybody
2. Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Drusilla/Darla, Anya/Buffy, Anya/Lilah
3. Grey's Anatomy: Izzie/Bailey, Addison/Bailey
Wildcard fandoms I request:
1. Commander in Chief: Jayne/Anybody, Sarah/Anybody, Grace/Nora
2. Fullmetal Alchemist: Riza/Olivier Mila Armstrong, Riza/Gracia, Riza/Winry, Riza/Lust
3. Ugly Betty: Wilhelmina/Christina

*

Name/LJ Name: Celievamp
Listed fandoms I request: (limit three):
Battlestar Galactica (2003) - Roslin/Six
Doctor Who ("new" Who only: Nine/Ten/Torchwood/Sarah Jane Adventures) - Gwen/Sarah Jane Smith
Stargate SG-1 Sam/Vala
Wildcard fandoms I request: (limit three):
BSG/SG1 - Replicarter/Six or Three or Eight
Farscape - Aeryn/Chiana
West Wing - CJ Cregg/Kate Harper

Fic: Stops Along the Way (SGA, Elizabeth/Teyla)

2007-03-19T12:46:35Z

Title: Stops Along the Way
Author: amatia
Recipient: selenay936
Word count: 1,550
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Pairing: Elizabeth Weir/Teyla Emmagen
Rating/Spoilers: PG-13, no spoilers
Thanks to: havocthecat for again being my super beta!
Summary: Elizabeth and Teyla on Earth, waiting to go home.

Tonight, we make up our own legends. - Fatima Lim-Wilson, "The Beginning of Things"

i.

“I want you to listen to what I have to say.”

Dr. Elizabeth Weir, former UN negotiator, former head of Stargate Command, former leader of the Atlantis expedition, looks out at the general assembly, calm in her simple black suit adorned only with an enamelled pin. Unlike the people she's facing, her pin is not a single country outlined in gold, but rather a detailed representation of Earth. She's composed at the podium, no notes before her, just her hands folded on the wood.

“I have spent the last four years living and working in an entirely different galaxy. I have seen death, destruction, and loss. But I have also seen hope. Joy. Possibility. Love.”

She pauses, and listens for a moment to the silence before continuing.

“I know the dangers that are out there. The potential enemies we face. But for every possible enemy, there are a dozen possible friends. For every chance that harm could befall us, there are a dozen chances that we could find a cure for heart disease, cancer, AIDS. Exploration is always a risk, but how are we to learn without exploration?

“There is no going back. There is no undoing of the program, no recalling of the announcement. The riots must stop; they serve no purpose. Do we really want the path leading forward to be stained with the blood of civil skirmish? Of unresolveable protest? Is that the face we want to present to those potential allies? And what of the allies we have already made through the Stargate like the Asgard – do we truly want to show them ugliness and dispute? Or do we want to put our best foot forward? Today is no different than yesterday, last month, last year. There is only new knowledge. We can change with it, or it can destroy us. Please, let this not be something terrible, but instead something beautiful. This is the start of a new chapter in world history, and I ask you not to think in terms of fear, but in terms of hope.”

*

She lets herself into the house with a relieved sigh. It had looked dark from the street, and for a moment she’d been worried that Teyla hadn’t come home. But she's there in the kitchen and the tea kettle is whistling. Two mugs are on a tray on the counter. “You read my mind,”Elizabeth says, dropping her bag on a chair and taking off her coat. “It’s freezing out there.”

“I have been told it is unusually cold here this winter, even for Earth,” Teyla replies with a smile. She's wearing one of Elizabeth’s sweaters, a soft fuzzy thing with a high neck, and she just looks warm, pouring the steaming water into the mugs.

Elizabeth presses her hands to her sides and waits until Teyla has set the kettle back on the stove. Then she reaches out for her. "I missed you."

"I missed you as well." Teyla kisses her temple, brushing her hair against Elizabeth’s face. "You were on the television this morning."

It's been nearly a year now, but words like television still sound strange coming from Teyla's mouth. "Did I do okay?" Elizabeth asks, wanting - needing - to know, not trusting anyone’s opinion but Teyla’s at this moment.

"I thought you were wonderful," Teyla replies. “The things you said – I believe they were what the people of this planet needed to hear.”

“I hope so,” Elizabeth sighs, and holds on tighter.

*

ii.

The riots calm over time, and after a few months, Elizabeth feels as though things are evening out again. She runs into Sam Carter outside of the Capitol Building one day as the cherry blossoms drift through the air. “The face of the Stargate program,” she greets her, and Sam heaves an extravagant sigh. “Welcome to politics,” Elizbeth says dryly.

“All I want is to get back into the field,” Sam groans, and her colonel’s eagle flashes in the sun as they go up the steps. “But it’s not going to happen.”

“Trust me, I know the feeling. And that’s not something I thought I’d ever say.” Elizabeth stops outside one of the many meeting rooms. “This one is me," she says apologetically, and she wishes for more time to talk. "But call sometime and we’ll take you out to dinner.”

“If either of us ever gets a free moment,” Sam calls over her shoulder.

*

Her people – she doesn't think she'll ever stop thinking of the expedition members as her people - are still scattered all over the universe. Sheppard still in Pegasus with Ronon, McKay at some top-secret underground lab that even Elizabeth’s clearance can't get her any information about, Kate at Cheyenne Mountain.

Teyla is here with her, and Elizabeth is grateful for that. Teyla's her touchstone, her constant reminder that the time in Pegasus has not been a loss, her clock that counts all the days and weeks and months until they can go home.

“What do you do all day when I’m gone?” she asks Teyla one night as they make a late dinner. The smell of Athosian bread winds through the house. Soon it will be too hot to bake, but if she closes her eyes right now, she can almost hear the wind through the trees on the mainland.

“I learn,” Teyla says, and checks the oven. “I read from your books, I watch the current events channels on the television. Rodney sends me many e-mails.” She looks thoughtfully at Elizabeth for a moment. “But I have yet to get used to the telephone.”

Elizabeth smiles and retrieves the butter from the refrigerator. “What’s Rodney doing these days?”

“He doesn’t write much about his job. The messages are generally his reminiscing about, as he puts it, ‘that stupid thing John Sheppard did one time’.”

The way she says it makes Elizabeth laugh so hard she has to lean against the counter. “Thank you,” she says, when she can breathe again. “I needed that.”

“Long meetings?” Teyla asks, raising an eyebrow. She tastes the pasta sauce carefully.

“Too long.”

Teyla sets down the spoon and slides her arms around Elizabeth from behind, presses a kiss to her neck. “You do not love negotiating as you once did,” she murmurs, and Elizabeth has to admit that she's right.

*

iii.

Summer descends in a heavy, sticky cloud of heat. Teyla stretches out on the deck with no more than a towel and a book and the occasional glass of lemonade, soaking up as much sun as she can. “You better hope no one decides to come around the back,” Elizabeth says to her one afternoon, taking in the deeply tanned skin with appreciative eyes.

Teyla props herself up on her elbows. “You should join me, Elizabeth,” she says, a smile flashing over her face. “After all, it is your day off.”

“I have no days off,” Elizabeth groans, but she kicks off her shoes anyway. “An hour, and then I really have to get back to my article.”

Teyla reaches up to help Elizabeth undress, hands quick and sure, and then pulls her down onto the towel.

*

They go to testify before a special session of Congress, the hows and whys of the Stargate program in the Pegasus galaxy. "I'm so nervous," Teyla confesses in the car on the drive there, as traffic inches along. "I have never spoken before so many of your law-makers, and never with cameras there."

"You'll do fine," Elizabeth assures her. "The trick is to pretend the cameras aren't even running; concentrate on the people in the room and reaching as many of them as you can." Her phone beeps. Elizabeth looks at the display and grins. "It's Rodney," she tells Teyla. "Calling to say we should picture everyone in their underwear, no doubt. Hello?"

"Elizabeth?" Rodney asks. "It's me."

"I know, Rodney." She rolls her eyes, and Teyla laughs. Elizabeth puts a hand on her thigh.

iv.

Teyla's hands are warm as they skim over her hips. Elizabeth sighs, relaxing into the pillows, as Teyla nuzzles against her neck, slow soft kisses and the steady feel of breath. "I don't think we'll be able to do that as often in Atlantis," she says regretfully, yawning, and she can feel Teyla smile.

"We will make time," she says, and tangles her fingers in Elizabeth's hair. "Perhaps out on the far pier..."

Elizabeth chuckles. "Right, and have someone stumble over us."

"There is no one out there late at night." Teyla props herself up on one hand and looks down at her. "I find it hard to believe there are only six weeks until we leave."

"I don't think I've ever been so glad of anything in my life," Elizabeth admits.

"You feel Earth is no longer your home?"

She thinks about this for a while, holding Teyla close. When she answers, it's just a shake of her head.

*

John and Ronon are waiting for them in Atlantis and for once Elizabeth doesn't have to initiate any hugs. They end up in a knot of hands-on-arms, with Elizabeth and Teyla hand-in-hand, all talking at once. John finally asks the loudest question. "So, how was Earth?"

Elizabeth looks at Teyla and squeezes her hand. "We'd rather be here," she says, and knows she's understood.

Fic for present_pathos: Faith/Dawn, R

2007-03-19T00:22:26Z

Title: Girl In The War
Author: callmesandy
Recipient: present_pathos
Word count: 1150
Fandom: Buffyverse
Pairing: Faith/Dawn
Spoilers/Rating: post-Chosen. R-ish (mild swearing, mild explicit sex)

Thanks to mosca for super quickie beta action!

"Dawn went to this pawn shop on Fifth Street and Lewis to see if they had the glove and then disappeared," Watcher Junior said.

Notes and disclaimers: Buffyverse owned by large corporate entities, not me. No profit garnered ever. Title from Josh Ritter. Thanks to Mosca for super quickie beta action.

GIRL IN THE WAR

Faith said, "What do we actually fucking know?" She was a little proud of her self-control.

Dawn liked to sleep almost curled in a ball. It was useless information right then. But Faith kept feeling herself on the verge of blurting it out, along with a lot of other useless bullshit.

"Dawn went to this pawn shop on Fifth Street and Lewis to see if they had the glove and then disappeared," Watcher Junior said. He was new and Faith hadn't bothered to remember his name. When Dawn said they needed more help, Dawn got what she wanted. Faith would have been asking for months, even the new super friendly B-runs-it-and-Xander-steps-to-it Council.

Dawn would have said that Faith wouldn't have asked for help. And she would have been right. Faith said, "Why aren't we at that pawn shop right now?"

"I went," Junior Slayer said. Another one Faith didn't remember the name of. Slayerette had come with Watcher Junior three days ago. She'd walked in thirty minutes ago looking like she'd lost a fight with an 18-wheeler. She was already looking a little less battered around the edges but Faith didn't give a shit. "I told you, the jerk behind the counter said she'd never been there, I could tell he was lying and when I tried to go around the back, there were three of those mucus-spewing demons. Whatever they're called. I only killed two and then two more showed up."

"So we go back, you and me and Junior here. Why are we waiting?" Faith felt like tearing her hair out but she forced herself to walk over to the weapons cabinet and start stocking up. Heavy damage, that's what she wanted.

She had more stupid facts about Dawn rattling around her head. After the first smooch fest with a guy, Dawn had pretty much gotten over wanting dick. "Maybe because Tara and Willow were the first really truly in love people I ever lived with, maybe because my sister was a really negative example," she'd said, grinning. "Maybe those monks had a really twisted sense of humor. Also, girls are incredibly hot. Like you."

Dawn's Starbucks order was heavy on the whipped cream and caramel always, light on actual coffee. She called her sister every day. She played it super cool with Faith, always saying she didn't want to hold her down, not that way. She didn't mind if Faith wouldn't call her her girlfriend, even after they were basically living together. "Primo manipulation," Faith had said.

"Either you'll come around or you won't," Dawn had said.

It was great sex. Faith's hand slipped as she strapped a dagger to her calf. "Fuck," she said and sucked on the cut on her finger. It didn't even hurt.

"The problem is that we could be walking into a massive trap," Slayerette said. "Once we get through the minions, then what? How many more creeps do they have inside the store? What if they’ve moved her?"

"So let's sit around and think of bullshit reasons we shouldn't do anything, while Dawn, what? We can't leave her there."

"No," Watcher Junior said. "We can't. I don't think Shanelle is up for another fight right now, but I'll go with you."

Faith nearly smiled. She'd have to remember his name after they got through this. She'd ask Dawn. "Good, let's go."

Shanelle stood up and grabbed a shotgun. "I'm up for it. I still think this is pretty stupid. Just saying that before we go off to die."

"Nobody dies today," Faith said. "Just demons. And they're gonna die a lot if they've done anything to Dawn."

Faith said, "I'm gonna knock politely," when they got to the pawn shop back door. She kicked the door in and screamed for Dawn. She didn't hear any answer besides the hard smack in the face from one of the demons Shanelle described. "Hit harder next time, dumbshit," she said as she smacked back with her shiny new mace. He went down and she jumped over him. "Dawn," she shouted again. Behind her, she heard fighting, but the Watcher and Shanelle could take care of themselves. They'd had a whole plan and everything: Faith went in; the other two killed everything else.

The demon had come up from the basement. It was always the fucking basement, she thought, as she edged down the stairs. She could hear more fighting. Coming from below this time, she realized. She ran with her axe out.

Dawn was fighting two skinny blue baddies, different demons from the mucusy ones Faith had seen upstairs. She was swinging a large sword already stained with blue blood.

"Need any help?" Faith paused at the periphery.

"Yes," Dawn said, grunting. "This thing is really heavy."

Faith axed the nearest member of the Blue Demon Group and leapt back from the spurting blood. "It's like killing Smurfs," she said. She kicked the last one standing right into Dawn's sword.

"You totally didn't need me," Faith said.

Dawn shrugged. "You could help me with this chain thing." She pointed to her ankle where she was, in fact, chained to the wall.

"Or I could leave it on for some fun," Faith said.

"Let's keep that at home," Dawn said. She looked up. "Hey, Shanelle, Bradley. I thought I heard you guys earlier. Sorry to make you come all the way out here."

During the car ride back to home base, Dawn described how she'd been hit over the head and chained to the wall. So she'd tried a new spell she'd read about in one of her books which had made the blue guys sleepy, grabbed one of their swords and gone to work. "It was really helpful that you guys came, you drew away the mucusy ones. Go, you guys!" She giggled. "My head hurts," she said.

"You want me to kiss it and make it better?" Faith said from the front seat. Bradley-boy was applying more traditional first aid in the back seat.

"After you shower. You're stinky," Dawn said.

"So're you," Faith said, turning back to face forward. She felt let down. She had been so worried and Dawn was basically fine. It'd been a long time since she'd been the kid sister B was always rushing home to protect and Faith liked that, she didn't want to be with some fainting flower or whiny brat. But she'd been all wound up, ready to save her.

When she got into the shower, she was still feeling crappy. Or she was trying to, before Dawn stepped in front of her, making sure all the water hit her. "You're thinking," Dawn said, spitting out a little water. "Stop that, I'm fine." She turned and rubbed her hair clean, slapping Faith in the face with her hair.

"I can tell," Faith said. She pressed against Dawn's back, rubbing Dawn's stomach. Then she went up and down, stroking the underside of Dawn's breast and working her fingers between Dawn's legs. "Completely fine," she said.

"You were worried," Dawn said. She arched her back, pressing into Faith's hands.

Faith kissed Dawn's shoulder and licked the water off her back. She pinched Dawn's nipple to hear her squeak and then scratched just a little with her other hand to get a louder noise out of her. "Yeah," Faith said.

"I thought it would be a lot harder," Dawn said, gasping a little. "To get you to admit that." Dawn reached backwards and clawed at Faith's hips. It didn't even leave a mark, but it made Faith even hotter.

"I can man up," Faith said. "I can admit stuff." But that was more than enough talking for their big reunion. She turned Dawn around and pushed her against the tile walls. She pushed Dawn's legs apart and turned off the water.

THE END.

Title: After the Passages of Time

2007-03-17T17:04:13Z

FOR: Name/LJ Name: Brilliant Lies / brilliant_lies

Fandom: Our only real point of request contact: Star Trek TNG: Troi/Crusher

BY: dith/raqs

NOTE: I have never in my life written any Star Trek fanfic. So this is a first for me!
Thank you eregyrn for the quick & dirty beta and the laughing at it!

Wordcount: 5105

Rating: NC-17 (duh, this IS me we're talking about)

Warnings: far future/AU

DEEPLY sorry for being so late - I will not again presume I can write fanfic for a show I haven't seen for fifteen years! I promise!

After the Passages of Time...

The blip was warm.

She felt the burst of hope in her gut, the excitement that made this all worthwhile, that paid off all the disappointment and exposure to despair that made it so hard to keep going.

"Life signs readings are positive," she said, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice.

Her Captain showed all the excitement for both of them. "Really? That space station is barely more than a skeleton. How many?"

"I see at least seven."

"Any other reading on them yet?"

Deanna shook her head. "Sorry, Beverly, they are too far away at the moment."

When she looked up, Beverly's slender fingers were already moving over the helm controls.

The helm controls were intact, even though they were shabby and had the ingrained dirt of years' worth of fingerprints on them. The rest of the bridge was largely intact too, except for some holes underneath the consoles of the science and weapons stations. That was why they'd bought the Marathon. There was a lot of meat on her bones. They could live a long time by selling off the meat, piece by piece.

She didn't miss the multicolored tunics - those bright primary colors
framed with black, as if imagination had a bad reputation. She thought
Beverly might miss them, though. They weren't really clothes, not to most
of the lifelong Academy people. They were symbols.

Symbols were no longer popular out here.

As they pulled up closer to the derelict, she watched Beverly program the
autopilot to approach and pause at a safe distance, and watched her re-arm
the panic-button program. "Computer," said Beverly, "program
alpha-niner-see-ex-two-four-niner, activate, execute code Scat."

"Accepted," said the computer calmly as if nothing were wrong.

How could the computer not know, Deanna wondered idly as she touched the buttons at her own station, getting ready as they had done dozens of times before. How does it not know that it's supposed to have a crew of fifty and only two of us are here?

"We're hailing them and... they are answering," Deanna said.

"Onscreen," said the Captain.

He was dirty and he looked surprised. "Federation starship... Marathon? I thought that was a bigger ship."

This is probably the biggest ship left in the fleet, thought Deanna as she suppressed a giggle, before she realized that she was perhaps about to lose her grip on calm. She took a deep breath.

"I am Captain Crusher, commanding, and the Marathon is on a search and rescue mission, commander, do you need assistance?"

"Do I - What the hell does it look like, lady?"

"How many crew do you have?"

"I've got dozens of bodybags full... How many do YOU have?"

The man was looking around what he could see of the bridge, greedily, taking in details, and Deanna didn't like it.

Beverly just smiled. "I meant, how many people do you have in need of evacuation?"

"There's five of us left," said the man, and immediately Deanna felt the ping that told her he was lying.

She pushed the button that lit the little yellow light on Beverly's chair arm and Beverly smiled smoothly again. "Just a moment, Commander," before she cut the screen.

"He's lying, Captain," and Deanna shook her head sadly. "I can't even tell WHY he's lying. It could be a trap, or it could just be force of habit."

"Wonderful." Beverly wrapped her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, pressing her knees together tight. "I'm not inclined to leave them out here to rot."

"We can pull a little closer..." Deanna didn't sound enthusiastic but she knew better than to try to dissuade Beverly from her so-called 'search and rescue'.

Bev stepped down herself and adjusted the controls at the helm before turning the comm screen back on.

"We can evacuate you to Rygel 16 if you'd like," she said, again sounding as if she were offering nothing more than a stick of gum, calm and carefree. "Are there any of your crew who require medical assistance?"

"What? No no. No medical. Yes, of course yes we'd like to evacuate - Rygel 16? Really? We heard there was no more fighting there but... You have warp capacity?"

The greedy look was back in his eyes.

"We can arrange for your transport," said the Captain calmly, but her slender arms folded over her chest were a good signal that the fellow better stop asking questions if he knew what was good for him.

He didn't, though. He was turning his head and peering through the screen at Deanna, and she suddenly knew that he was trying to see if she had grey in her hair.

They were close enough now that she could quite taste the mood of the derelict station, and it was a taste she would like to get rid of as quickly as possible.

"Screen off," she said out loud as she cut the connection without further discussion. "There ARE even more than seven life readings on that station, Captain, some of them faint, but I don't think there's anything we can do about it. He would like our warp drive. Very much. He would like to have women on his station even more."

Deanna couldn't stop her nose from wrinkling but Beverly just shrugged. "He's obviously a little short-sighted, Commander."

That made Deanna's lips thin but she said nothing. She wasn't the one sensitive about her broadening hips, her thickening waist and drooping breasts, or even her aching joints. Beverly looked as she always had - perhaps she had a little more gray in her hair, but if anything she was even leaner than she had been as a younger woman. But Beverly was the one who couldn't believe that a desperate man would still want to capture women if he could, and that she herself would do just fine for his needs.

"We still need to --"

But they didn't have time, because at that moment the warning klaxons went off and the ship rocked.

"That little weasel!" Beverly shrieked as she dove for the command console. "They have photon torpedoes!"

"Two more bearing on us point five eight two," and Deanna tried to sound calm but she was just as furious. Why? Why couldn't they ever just part amicably? Had everything in the universe really gone so much to hell that people couldn't even let their little ship get away without trying to destroy it?

For the briefest of seconds Deanna wished that the had the wherewithal to fire back.

A slap of her hand and the shields were up but she was reading the other monitors fast even as Beverly brought them about and tried to head them away.

"I'm not getting warp - why am I not getting warp --" Beverly fired backwards over her shoulder.

"Damage to the port engine... it looks like it is confined to propulsion, life support is unharmed but the engine..."

"I can't get warp on one engine?"

"Wait, we probably can... let me run some automatic patches."

Deanna coaxed the computer into helping while Beverly looked back up at the screen, now showing the burnt and eviscerated hulk of a space station receding in the distance behind them. Deanna could feel a thin thread of anger and frustration following them out into the void of space again. But it was Beverly's face that showed the crushing of hope.

"He wasn't on that station, Beverly. We knew that when we approached it."

"We know he wasn't supposed to be on that station, Deanna." The Captain's fine-boned chin looked pointed, determined, but her eyes were filled with tears she wouldn't shed. Not while she sat in the Captain's chair. Not on the bridge. "But who was where they were supposed to be, those last few years as the Federation fell. The records are so incomplete, the options so many --"

"It's a big galaxy. But human-inhabited worlds are still relatively few." They both knew that it was an impossible task, to locate one person in the last dregs of the war-torn Federation's motley collection of planets and moons and asteroids that had until only recently been planets and moons.

Besides, thought Deanna for the millionth time, the odds were that Wesley had found a way onto another plane of existence entirely. If he wanted to find them, he would. If he could.

She wondered, idly, since she had no real basis for comparison, which was worse. If Beverly's son couldn't find them, or if he could but just didn't want to.

From a mother's point of view, she supposed, both must suck.

"What now?" and Beverly dropped wearily into her worn, shabby captain's chair.

"Limp back to Rygel 16 just as we have done five times before," Deanna said as she shrugged one still-expressive shoulder and smiled over it at her captain. "I think they can repair us again."

"We'd better start trying to figure out what we can trade for repairs," Beverly said wearily, as if she were about to get up and do so, but she remained seated, long legs sprawled out of the chair, head tilted back and tired, the picture of the opposite of the tightly anticipating Captain of so few minutes before.

---

Here were things not worth trading, Deanna thought to herself and allowed herself a little hidden bubble of glee as she unwrapped her personal treasure trove of toys.

They'd set the ship's evening to fall early, both to conserve power and because there was not much left to do on the long slow trip back except go to bed.

Deanna wished again that Beverly's friendship were flexible enough to allow them to do that together, even without any sexual context. It would be nice to sleep again in someone else's arms.

Then she revised her wish. The sexual context would be even better, she admitted to herself as she carefully reassembled the small Betazed vibrator and turned it on. So much better than the Earth versions, though as a collector she had a few of those too. It was carefully shaped, sinuous but strong, with a shape that was reminiscent of a tongue. It was entirely programmable, and the power supply would last for at least a hundred years.

It had been a long day, Deanna thought to herself, realizing with a sinking sensation in her stomach how good it would have been to have more company if the people on board that space station hadn't wished them harm. It would be so good to have someone else's hands on her skin now, skimming over her breasts, sliding down her arms. It would be good to have someone else's body heat sinking into her, someone else's breath mingling with her own.

Lonely, her brain thought clearly, then automatically flipped to the chapters for Loneliness, treatments for.

Never mind, she thought to herself. A few good solid orgasms were a treatment for many kinds of negative feelings and Deanna intended to help herself to a few.

She liked to take her time. She'd arranged things in her room so she had handy places to rest her feet. She wasn't as young as she had once been.

She thought of her mother cursing her father's genetic influence on her and chuckled. Yes, she was aging faster than the usual Betazoid, but she had also lived much more. She had no complaints.

Well, yes she did, she thought, hands stilling, irritated with herself for feeling that she had to be honest even with herself. She missed Will. She did not enjoy outliving him.

However, if she had not, Beverly would be alone now and that would not be all right.

Poor Beverly. Deanna's hands starting moving again, stroking her belly gently, teasing higher or lower as she pleased. She did not think, from the sensations Beverly emanated, that she treated herself to release as often as Deanna did. And while Beverly's sexual drive had waned with age, and had never been at the same level as Deanna's, Beverly was healthy and ... lonely too.

Why couldn't her friend make it easy, Deanna wondered. Why couldn't they just hold one another, share some friendly orgasms, relax one another out here in this crumbling sector of space?

Deanna would enjoy it. Bev's arms and legs were slender and lean, her shoulders broad, and Deanna had always liked those things in a lover. It didn't matter to her that Beverly was a woman, but she knew it mattered to Beverly, a great deal.

Silly Bev. Deanna smiled again and shook her head, feeling her hair bunch up behind her neck. Making things more difficult than they already were.

She had one foot hooked up on top of a chair back and one hand comfortably cupping a heavy soft breast when the door clicked. It didn't chime any more, but it did click. Deanna was proud of the click, too. She had figured out a way to make it click. She was a counselor, not an engineer. It was fun to learn new things, though, and even at her age she was still up for a challenge.

Oh. Click. Someone wanted in. Deanna flicked off the toy and pulled the sheet up along with her as she padded to the door. It was Beverly, or they'd been boarded. Either way it was worth a look.

"Captain."

She knew perhaps the greeting didn't quite go with her look, naked, with a sheet half-draped over her, black hair still only slightly touched with gray tumbling loose over her shoulders.

"Deanna."

Informal. Informal was good. Deanna smiled. "Is something wrong?"

"No, I - Oh, well --" Beverly's long narrow fingers were twisting around each other, as if she had something to say but needed to knit it first.

"I'm sorry, would you like to come in?" Deanna took a step back, gestured with her hand at the bare room behind her.

"How do you DO that?" Before Deanna could even respond Beverly went on, her words in a rush. "How do you just keep acting as though, as though this were a ship, as though there were a Federation, as though I were the Captain and everything was okay and just --"

"Beverly." Deanna put out both her hands and took Beverly's twisting, pulling fingers in her palms. "I think you might be on the verge of hysterics."

"Hysterics? YOU THINK? Were you not there when that station shot at us today?? And I've lost count of the --"

"Beverly." Deanna's voice was even softer. "Did you want me to get you a sedative?"

"What? No. For pete's sake I could still medicate myself, if that were what I needed, which it's not, even I can tell that it's not. Of course not. I, uh..." Her flood of words ran out and she stood there in the middle of the floor, a tall, strong woman looking suddenly helpless.

The gray strands were colorless threads in the otherwise constant fire of her hair and Deanna felt suddenly very protective of her old friend. Standing there in the middle of a starship's quarters, wearing the old Starfleet uniform, Beverly looked like a scrapbook of the past.

"What did you want?" Deanna prompted her gently.

"Oh, I... Deanna, really, it's too embarrassing, I can't but I have to and I don't know what to... oh never mind."

Just as Beverly was beginning to blush, Deanna felt, below her confusion, her decisive and serious need.

"Oh. OH!"

"This is incredibly stupid. I have to go now. Please excuse --"

"No! No, Beverly, please! Please don't go." Half-laughing, half keeping a grip on her sliding sheet, Deanna clutched for one of Bev's flailing hands and met her eyes. "It's okay. It's a good idea. Really."

"Re - what?"

"Honestly," and Deanna was tugging Beverly, just a little, still smiling, towards the bed, "I was just having the same idea myself."

"Oh, I - really?" Still blushing furiously, Bev pushed a hand up through her hair, apparently feeling the need to smooth it even though it was completely tidy and pulled back from her face.

"Really."

Just then Beverly looked down and caught sight of the little tumbled collection of toys Deanna had laid on the bed and winced, her hot embarrassment immediately replaced by visible fear - but also curiosity, curiosity that no one but Deanna would have been able to detect.

"Don't look at those. Really. I'm glad you're here. I wanted you to come and it's a good idea for both of us." Drawing herself up as tall as she could be, Deanna reached both hands up to cup Beverly's face, pull her down a bit, and kiss her.

It had been a long time, Deanna realized half-consciously, since she'd tried the kind of kiss old friends gave each other. It was new but not, businesslike but sincere, and Deanna put her energy into it, sending her warmth and her affection through her hands and her lips and her breath.

Heedless of the sliding sheet, Beverly snapped out of her immobilized astonishment to wrap those long, strong arms around Deanna.

And there in the shabby little stateroom, one woman naked with her graying hair tumbling down all around her, one woman fully dressed and looming over her, they laughed together, laughed until Deanna was afraid they would get the hiccups, dancing close to the edge of hysteria together in great peals of laughter that shook their bellies and burned off the last of the adrenalin.

When they were done they were half-lying on Deanna's bed, tossed across each other, and looking at each other the way two people do when they've known each other for thirty years and were limping their way home across the apocalypse.

"What do I DO?" squeaked Beverly, picking up one of Deanna's toys and turning a dial, making it hum, until Deanna started laughing again.

"Whatever you want," and she pulled off the sheet and dropped it at her feet before she tackled the fastenings on Beverly's still trim, still unimaginative, still primary-colored Starfleet uniform.

She wasn't expecting Beverly to give directions but Deanna didn't need any. She could feel, when she scraped a fingernail along the inside of Beverly's elbow, that the sensation only felt oddly ticklish to Beverly; whereas when she touched her tongue to the hollow at the base of Beverly's throat, she could almost taste Beverly's heart speeding up.

"Let me," she said, quashing Beverly's still ongoing attempts at formulating a sentence. "Sometimes talking is one of your better skills. But tonight is not your best attempt."

"Oh, uh --"

But that was the end of that discussion, as Deanna had the Captain's uniform off, her hair released, and managed to quickly, methodically, discover the effect of a tongue tip dipped in the navel, a swipe of the fingertips behind the knee, and finally, because it was going to be no surprise, a smooth brush of the thumb pad against the nipple.

Oh yes, thought Deanna as Beverly curled closer and wrapped a free hand around one of Deanna's ankles. Company was better. So much better.

"Do you like...?" Deanna picked up one of the toys, handmade light-years away on a world that was now gone, smooth and slightly soft and eternally warm from the microscopic sliver of dilithium embedded in its heart, and Beverly looked completely different, completely open and twenty years younger as her eyes glittered and she nodded, vigorously, Yes.

I will take my time, Deanna thought to herself even as she knew she couldn't. It had been too long, too long for both of them and some things could not be done in a measured, stately fashion.

It was like taking her hand but also like holding her whole body when Deanna slid her own hand over Beverly's curls and between the folds, surprised at the way the flesh clung to her fingers despite the speed of Beverly's heartbeat.

She looked at her friend's eyes, and then Beverly was a doctor and just shrugged. "It's normal for human women to produce less lubrication as they age." And then Beverly was a woman again, bitter for years gone by. "And I, of course, am aging."

"Thank goodness," Deanna said gently, without adding anything about the finality - much less the imminentness - of the alternative. "This I can fix --"

When Beverly saw the little translucent bubble she started up, leaning up on one elbow, "That's too hard to replace, it's not --"

"Of course it is. A special occasion. For an old friend." And Deanna's smile shone as she squeezed the little bubble and three drops of the silvery Romulan lubricant fell like glass blood onto her hand.

And as she let the heat of her hand and Beverly's body melt the liquid she pressed it in, circling her fingers, making wider and wider motions, remembering the day they had found the Romulan cruiser, the unfamiliar task of searching it for salvage, and Beverly's quirky grin weeks later when she pointed out that her analysis indicated that the substance was not only almost supernaturally slick even when spread only a molecule thick, but that it was also biologically inert, making it "an excellent personal lubricant as well as a mechanical one."

Deanna had made a joke about the success of Romulan female engineers and they had laughed together, the laugh of two people in unfamiliar circumstances still trying to find their way and glad for the company.

Deanna chuckled again like that now, and let her fingers slide between Beverly's lips, over the dense bud and looked her old friend in the eyes as she said, "I couldn't be doing this alone."

"I could," Beverly said, tilting her head back and closing her eyes, "but it wouldn't be as good."

Chuckling again, Deanna took the opportunity to slide one of her fingers inside.

She felt Beverly gasp, felt the other woman's hands grab her wrist, felt the body below her start to move, and felt herself start to warm up from the inside out, with the heat centering somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.

The warm slick toy she slid gently in to replace her finger, not moving it much, just to fill Beverly up, to give her something she liked, give her that sensation along with the firm, gentle strokes of a fingertip next to her most sensitive spot.

It had been so long since she'd had a woman in her bed. She'd forgotten the scent of a woman aroused, and the feel of softer skin. She shouldn't have, since she was familiar with herself; but somehow she had. Somehow, touching Beverly, she was reminded of who she was herself.

"Deanna," Beverly gasped, and the flush of pink on her face was lovely, she must be close, surely, yes, she was grasping Deanna's wrist but not to control it, just to hold on, "everything's wrong, everything everywhere is wrong, otherwise I wouldn't --"

"I know." Deanna let her voice be soft and low, without giving away the little dip in her chest. Beverly wouldn't. But Deanna would.

She felt Beverly shiver, saw the ripple moving along that smooth, gently rounded belly, and felt the release herself, her own muscles spasming along with the ones below her, let out a slow breath herself along with the other woman, put the toy aside as she felt as well as watched her friend relax.

She didn't say anything, just let Beverly's long body curl around her where she sat on the bed and used her free hand to touch the other woman's face, feeling where even those small muscles had let go.

Feeling where a tear trickled down from one corner of her eye.

She felt both the release of tension and the mourning in Beverly, mourning for their pasts, for everyone beyond the reach of a doctor now, for her lost son. Reason enough for a tear or two.

But she didn't want sadness in her bed. Not for now.

"Is it my turn now?" she said with half a grin, and Beverly turned one light eye up to regard her suspiciously.

"I'll do my best, but don't expect too much," her friend said, and her voice was normal, sounded just like the Beverly of old.

Deanna laughed and unfolded her legs - so short next to Beverly's! - and leaned back on one elbow, comfortably showing off even in the low light. "Perhaps you'd prefer to observe," she teased as she draped one free, bare leg over Beverly's hip.

She could see Beverly prop herself up on one arm, raise an eyebrow. "Perhaps I would."

It was better with company, Deanna reflected, even if Beverly did nothing but keep her company. It was better, with someone else's warm skin against hers as she touched herself, feeling where she was still slick and expectant, swollen a bit with waiting and with getting.

Out of consideration for an unexpected audience, she put aside the Betazed vibrator she had been going to use - good for G-spots but not for show - and picked up something thicker and straighter which, not incidentally, glowed.

When she turned it on and it started to buzz and its pinkish glow fell across her skin she felt Beverly laughing. "Oh no!"

"Oh yes," and Deanna licked it a little, getting it slicker before rubbing it along herself. The warm, nicely thudding vibration was heaven and she half-sighed, half-moaned a little when she slid it inside.

Beverly was shaking her head, but her head was propped again on her arm and she was definitely watching. "That looks good," Beverly told her and Deanna smiled into the dim light; Bev's voice was a little deeper. "Am I going to get to try it?"

"Perhaps," Deanna said, trying to keep her voice a little prim as she slid it deeper inside of her. "Perhaps I will operate it for you."

"Hmm." But Beverly still didn't move.

Instead Deanna did, still careful not to startle Beverly with anything quick, just taking advantage of the quiet company to relax into the sensation of being penetrated. She wondered for the billionth time if she would have enjoyed it more if she had been pure Betazed, as her mother's people had more nerve endings in the places that were now being touched; but for the billionth time she then put it out of her head, as it was quite enjoyable just as it was.

Unable to wait any longer she left one hand on that toy and picked up another, smaller, curved, with a flat end, and touched the recessed button at its end. That one too made a soft noise, though without glowing, and its soft, resilient end was almost as good as a finger - maybe Beverly's finger, thought Deanna with a jolt, soft but strong as well and moving in sure circles just like this was moving now - one of these days, soon, maybe tomorrow -

She couldn't keep her hips still any longer and she could feel her leg muscles contract against Beverly's skin, felt Beverly's hand move over to grab her ankle once again, hold her closer, and that was enough to push her over the edge into her own release.

Beverly's fingers tightened as all Deanna's muscles clenched and trembled and her head jerked back and she cried out, shaking through the next shock and the next before she could relax, breathing hard, mouth dry but every inch of her skin buzzing with an afterglow. Deanna thought she might be giving off light herself.

"Amazing," murmured her friend and Deanna felt her hand sliding comfortingly over her shin, cupping her knee. "What would the universe be like if everyone had an orgasm like that every day."

"Happier," said Deanna, breathing heavily, and chuckled when Beverly started to laugh herself.

Then Beverly's breath seemed to catch and for second she sounded like she was choking. "This is - this is what the end of the world is like, isn't it? Back to basics - VERY basics - "

"Beverly, this is what beginnings are like too."

Reversing herself, Deanna laid back on her bed and pulled the taller woman into her arms, cupping the back of her head with a hand that suddenly felt almost too small for the job, cradling Beverly's face in the crook of her own neck. "It is all right to feel good, even to be happy, even in the middle of --"

She was looking for the right term when Beverly said into her shoulder, "Such a mess."

"Well, I was thinking, such an unfortunate socio-political downturn, but yes, it could also be called a mess."

She stroked Beverly's shoulders till she could feel the other woman relax. The basic warmth of skin on skin seemed itself a sort of talismanic protection against the blank vacuum of space.

Knowing what would come tomorrow, and the next day - the long slow limp back to Rygel 16; the painstaking process of cannibalizing the ship to pay for its return to warp speed, picking a new target to investigate for survivors, figuring out where, or how, to look for Beverly's son next - that was all a kind of comfort too. There was a predictability to the utter chaos that was the fall of civilization, thought Deanna as she let her palm and fingers smooth, one warm surface, over and over again on Beverly's skin, felt the slower breathing that presaged sleep. Like the predictability of masturbation but different. Looking for that warm spot of hope that made it better, so much better, than being alone.

Fic: A Little TLC (Stargate SG1- Sam/Janet) for amatia

2007-03-17T13:35:56Z

This was written as a pinch-hit to the following request:

Name/LJ Name: Amatia /amatia
Request 2. Stargate SG-1 - Sam Carter/Janet Frasier

AN: It's been awhile since I’ve written any Sam/Janet loving so please excuse my rustiness and any unintentional mistakes I've made in canon (a.k.a. Dr. Warner's first name *shrug*). I just hope it's ok?

As always my thanks to darandkerry for the quick but effective beta work and to mosca and callmesandy for arranging this masterpiece of logistical brilliance, um, I mean the ficathon :)

Title: A Little TLC
Author: mrswoman
Fandom: Stargate SG1
Pairing: Sam/Janet
Words: 1803
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. I do this only for my sanity

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

The Stargate’s horizon began to shiver and, within seconds, the plume of energy flowed outwards.

As always, Walter Harriman marveled at the amazing effect. And, as four weary off-world personnel stepped back home, as always, he marveled at the ongoing beauty of one Major Samantha Carter.

He’d lusted after Sam Carter for years, watching as she blossomed from a shy young Captain to a high-flying major.

And all along, he’d known he had absolutely no chance with the woman. Not only was he at least 12 inches too short, but he’d hazard a guess that she was already taken by somebody eminently more suitable.

For Walter, one of the perks of always sitting in this seat was his running of the book on just who the lovely Major shared her downtime with. Top of the list by far was Jack O’Neill, and bottom of the list was Schrödinger, her cat. Walter knew that both of these were impossibilities, his money was between two of the doctors of Stargate Command with Teal’c running a close third.

His eyes rested on the blue of the major’s as she glanced about expectantly. Whether it was because his mind was concentrating on that certain conundrum but, for the first time, he really saw what the look in her eyes was saying; he knew exactly where to place his money.

With a sigh he also realized precisely what Samantha Carter’s next reaction would be.

Sure enough, as soon as General Hammond nodded his head towards the infirmary, Sam was off at a pace.

***

“Janet? Are you awake?”

Sam popped her head around the closed side-room doorway to see that Dr. Janet Fraiser was fast asleep. Walking over towards the bed, she glanced around to make sure no one was watching before bending down to whisper in Janet’s ear, “What the hell have you been up to? I leave you for two weeks to go on this damn peace-keeping mission, and you get beaten up at home.”

Janet snored gently, and Sam took the opportunity to search out Dr. Warner for an update.

It appeared Janet had been attacked by Major Reynolds of SG3 on his return from Bradychinea. She’d managed to hold him down just long enough to give him a much needed sedative; unfortunately, acquiring a Colles fracture to her left wrist in the process.

It had then taken three more officers to pull Janet off the major so that she could be given treatment.

Dr Warner winked at Sam as he explained she was sleeping so soundly because they’d had to pump her full of sedatives to allow them to manipulate and put her wrist into plaster.

“I didn’t know she knew words like that. It’s a good thing young Cassandra wasn’t around to hear any of them.”

Sam grinned, and blushed. She was often privy to the dirty end of Janet’s vocabulary; it was the means Sam used to gauge how well their love-making was progressing, or rather, how much enjoyment her lover was gleaning from the major’s special attention to detail.

“So, *when* can she go home?”

“Um, well, that all depends, Major Carter; you know Janet as well as I do, she won’t rest if we allow her home on her own.”

“No worries there then, I’ll make arrangements to take some leave, and I’ll take care of her for a few days.”

“In that case, she can go home as soon as she wakes from her sleep and is coherent enough to make the move.”

Sam thanked the doctor and hurried off to speak with the General.

Fifteen minutes later, she’d changed into in her dress-blues, something Janet adored, and had made the arrangements to take a week’s downtime. She’d waved off the three men in her life; Jack, Daniel, and Teal’c also taking the enforced week’s leave, were going ice-fishing.

She smiled evilly, slumped into the armchair beside Janet’s bed, and lazily opened the top four buttons of her shirt, wrapping the tie loosely around her neck. She wasn’t vain, but she knew this was her best seductive look.

Within minutes, an exhausted Sam was also asleep.

In sleep, she dreamt of coming home to a Janet with arms open wide and running into the waiting arms to be hugged silly. Only, as Janet threw her arms around Sam, a clumsy, heavy cast whacked her upside the ear. She jumped up with a start and rubbed her right ear.

A lovely chuckle warmed her soul as she opened her eyes to stare into the dark brown pair she adored.

The sting on her ear brought it home to Sam that Janet had actually hit her.

“What’d you do that for?”

“For crying out loud, Samantha, fasten your blouse; what would Colonel O'Neill say?"

Sam smiled at the jealous tone in Janet’s voice. "I have absolutely no intention of finding out. Now, are you going to start behaving like a good little patient, or, am I going to have to tell Warner that you’ve already done too much with that bad hand and that you need to stay here?”

"Sam! You wouldn’t?"

“I would. You just try me. Now, lay back and let me fetch Warner. If you’re really good in the next few minutes, I’ll take you home.”

She slipped her fingers inside her blouse and winked at Janet. Janet licked her lips at the sight, and the action wasn’t missed by Sam, two weeks away from each other was a long time for both ladies.

Refastening her buttons, Sam teased, “And you can stop those thoughts right now, you have to rest.”

***

“Doctor Fraiser, it’s good to see you awake. Now, I'm going to tell you this once, and once only, and I want you to listen carefully."

Janet glared at Sam as she stood behind the doctor snickering behind her hand.

"You have a Colles fracture of that left wrist. We managed to manipulate it into place which, as you know, means there will be considerable soft tissue swelling around the break. You're therefore in a half plaster to allow room for the swelling, which also means you *have* to rest that wrist in elevation for at least the next 24 hours. After that, you can have a full plaster and can probably become a little more active. Okay?"

Janet seethed. "Okay? Okay, you say? Tom, there’s no way I can take 24 hours off work at this time, you know that."

Dr Warner, seeing that Sam was about to butt in, stood his ground; his superior officer was a brilliant doctor, but he could cope quite well on his own, and he did know his orthopaedics. "Now, you just listen to me; I am a perfectly good doctor, Doctor Fraiser, and I know that you need to rest that wrist or you’ll end up losing much more than 48 hours of activity. And *you* know I'm right."

Janet nodded sheepishly, and Sam snickered some more.

"Major Carter here says that she’s willing to look after you for a couple of days…"

Only Sam heard Janet's muttered, "I bet she is," as Warner continued his orders.

"… so, I suggest you take your prescription and go home now while I'm feeling generous enough to let you go."

"Alright Tom, you win, and I didn't mean to imply you were a bad doctor, it's just, well, you know what doctors are like as patients?"

"Yes, I do, now go on. We'll see you after the weekend, and maybe you'll be able to work straight away."

He nodded to Sam, and squeezed Janet's hand in understanding before leaving the two women alone.

Janet sighed. "And you can take that grin off your face, who does he think he is?"

"Your doctor I believe, madam, now will you take your medicine like a good little girl or am I going to have to leave you here; 'cos I'm getting desperate to go home. Two weeks is a damn long time…" she leaned over to whisper the words she believed would be the deal clincher, "… to not snuggle up to my love."

Janet just smiled, swung her legs out of bed, and held her arms up in the air.

For a minute Sam was lost, until she finally realized Janet was waiting to be dressed.

***
Walter Harriman held Sam's car door open for Doctor Fraiser and knew that his money was safe.

***

Later, at home, Janet was bored out of her mind. Sam had insisted she went straight to bed while the major prepared a light snack. That was an hour ago, and Janet's patience was wearing thin; it was her arm that was broken, not her legs. Suddenly, she heard the sound of feet coming up the stairway and settled back to await her lover.

Sam leaned her head around the door and, seeing that Janet was still resting, called out, "Just give me ten more minutes; I just need to check on Cass."

Cassandra had been at home on Janet's return but, seeing that her mom only had a broken arm, she’d continued on to her sleep-over at a young friend's house.

Janet shouted down the hallway, "She'll be fine, Sam, it's me that needs some Sam loving. Now, would you get your ass in here?"

Janet could hear Sam's laughter but also heard her footsteps returning. She smiled; at last they would get some time to reacquaint themselves.

The brunette waited expectantly as the door opened and Sam entered with a large smile on her face. Suddenly, Janet’s mouth went dry, and her heart rate sped up tenfold.

"Sam?"

"Hey Babe, sorry, I took so long, just had to prepare a little something." Sam put a tray of snacks on the dresser and walked across to the bed with a bottle of pills and a glass of water.

Janet's eyes slid hungrily from Sam's feet all the way to her head and back down again. Another swipe of her lips confirmed that she was still dry.

As Sam reached the bedside, Janet's patience at being a good patient disappeared. She grabbed the painkillers from Sam's hand and threw them into her mouth, downed the glass of water back in haste, literally threw the glass to one side, and growled, "There, I've been the perfect little patient, now you, Nurse Carter, can just come and be the perfect little nurse."

She grabbed Sam's hand and pulled the now clad only in a mini-skirted nurse’s uniform, complete with black stockings and garter, major down into a much missed snuggle party, cursing the fact that she had only one hand to caress the silk.

Sam laughed in pleasure and proceeded to prove that she was as effective as a nurse and a lover as she was as a peace-keeping soldier.

The Way of the Seek (Farscape Aeryn/Zhaan). For havocthecat

2007-03-17T11:55:59Z

THE WAY OF THE SEEK

Pinch hit by celievamp

Requested by: havocthecat

Written for femslash07

Genre: Farscape Pairing Aeryn/Zhaan.

Episodes referenced: Season 1 ‘Til the Blood Runs Clear’

Word count: 2,400

Rating: Mature

Disclaimer: David Kemper et al. own this lot, not me.

Summary: Both Aeryn and Zhaan were affected by the Solar Flares on Dam Ba Da.

http://celievamp.livejournal.com/140864.html

Fic for sheepfairy: "Closer to God" (Buffyverse, Anya/Lilah)

2007-03-17T02:28:53Z

Title: Closer to God
Author: mosca
Fandom: Angel: The Series/ Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: Lilah/Anya, background Lilah/Wesley
Rating: NC-17
Word count: about 1,200
Spoilers/Continuity: through "Chosen" and "Home."
Summary: Lilah's living the dream and dreaming she's dead.
Disclaimers: Angel: The Series and Buffy the Vampire Slayer are the intellectual property of Mutant Enemy, Kuzui, Sandollar, Greenwolf, and Fox Television. This original work of fan fiction is Copyright 2007 Mosca, and I wrote it for free. Therefore, this story is protected in the USA by the fair use provisions of the Copyright Act of 1976. All rights reserved. All wrongs reversed. Better to rule in Hell, etc.
Notes: Thanks to callmesandy for the speed beta and annavtree for the fashion advice. Title is from "Closer," by Nine Inch Nails. Written as a backup fic for sheepfairy, who is completely awesome and helpful and generous, so I hope this reflects my gratitude.

*

In her dreams she hears the snap of her neck and there's a delirious white light, her brain clutching for oxygen. She wakes up gasping what if, what if, it was a close call there, the closest. Fingernails are a powerful weapon, stick them in a demon-possessed former Valley Girl's eyes when she thinks she's sneaking up on you, she'll go blind just long enough for you to run. "Bring an axe," she told Wesley. "Bring a gun." He brought them and they killed the girl, but murder didn't bring them closer together. Cordelia had been his friend. He knew what he was killing and still he was killing her. He was generous, harboring Lilah in the Hyperion until she was out of danger, but she couldn't hide any more than she could leave town. Not in her contract.

So here's her big office and her shiny nameplate, her floor-to-ceiling vampire-safe windows and her cabinet of mystical doodads. Here's her personal secretary, hired when she came in with a short resume and an eleventh-century birthday. Not much work out there for an ex-demon trying to get out of the saving-the-world business. Anya's brusque on the phone, but Lilah has defined her job description as getting people to leave her alone, so it's a sweet little marriage of convenience they have going. Not quite marriage. But Lilah would never hire a secretary she didn't want to fuck, and she would never let such a pornographic imbalance of power slip through her fingers.

Lilah's calls are going to voice mail. Her secretary is lying naked on top of her desk, the mahogany polished so bright that the creamy reflection of her skin surrounds her like a halo. Anya loves sex, will take it whenever and however she can get it, will knock on the door at four in the afternoon to hand Lilah tomorrow's schedule and before Lilah can say thank you, Anya is unzipping her dress. Lilah should have thought of it long ago. Demons, current or former -- so much easier in bed. No white lies, no romance, only the most literal statements of desire. Lilah started out with tenderness, but Anya didn't even want that: cunnilingus bores her, fingers aren't enough. What she wants is the big glass dildo, the one that will split a girl wide open. Anya is such a spindly creature, it looks like that might actually happen sometimes. But she stays in one piece, begging for harder and deeper.

It's getting to the point where Lilah wouldn't mind a little foreplay once in a while. Not that she has time for a relationship. Not that she ever has.

She goes home, eats her nightly takeout, and goes to bed. In her dreams, there are hands around her throat. Her spine snaps. Wesley stands before her body with an axe in his hands, and she tells him everything she never got a chance to say to him. She wakes up and dials his number from memory, but his phone's been disconnected. She goes back to sleep and dies again five more times before her alarm clock breaks the cycle.

When she gets to work, Anya follows her into her office. "I need more money," Anya says, taking her top off.

"You're asking me for a raise?" Lilah says.

"An employee's pay should reflect the quality of her work," Anya says. "Mine doesn't. So I need a raise." She stands with her hands clasped behind her back, her nipples peaking in the chill of the air conditioning. "Thank you."

Lilah leaves her suit behind her in a pile on the floor. It's harsh treatment for Dior, but that's what dry cleaning is for. In her underwear and heels, she says, "How much do you want?"

"Forty dollars an hour would be commensurate," Anya says. She comes up close to Lilah and traces a circle around her neck. Where a scar should be, Lilah thinks, and although it doesn't make any sense, she can't shake it.

That night, she dreams of Gavin Park. "Put your scarf on," he says, "we have to go downtown." She almost asks him why she needs the scarf, but she remembers, there is a delicate seam between her head and her body. That's what happens when your ex-boyfriend chops your head off to make sure you don't rise as a vampire. Dream logic.

None of the clothes in her closet are her own. She has a drawer full of scarves she wouldn't quite buy. She ties one on to hold her head in place, and as she fastens the knot she finds herself in the Wolfram & Hart lobby. She's supposed to give a tour to Angel and his funky bunch, to offer them the opportunity to take over. She's supposed to give him her job. Of course she is. Because she's dead, and dead people can't run law firms.

She shows Angel around; he's skeptical. Wesley tries to save her again, setting fire to her contract. She tries to stop him, to explain that everything's fine, she didn't really die, but the contract replaces itself and her mouth forms a lie about hellfire. Angel takes the job; she wakes up. She touches her neck. There's no scar there, but there should be. She should be dead. She shouldn't be here.

She picks up the nightstand phone and dials Gavin's number. He ought to be dead, himself, but she's got a feeling he'll answer. When he does (and she can tell she's woken him), she demands, "What dimension am I in, and what am I doing here?"

"Where do you think you are?" he says.

"I thought I was still alive," she says. "But I'm wrong, aren't I?"

"You died fighting for the forces of good," he says. "This poses a problem for the Senior Partners."

She's silent for a long time. Her mind feels blank. Gavin doesn't say anything; he's probably not allowed to. "I have everything I ever wanted," she whispers, hanging up the phone. She goes to the bathroom and stares into the mirror. Not-Cordelia snapped her neck, and Wesley cut off her head, and that's how she died and went to Heaven. There ought to be a scar there, a line dividing mind from body, the line that's always been there anyway. She takes out a tube of lipstick in a color she's never liked, and she draws a ring around her neck. It looks ridiculous, but it feels right. She stands there and breathes, fingers on her pulse, her pretend body pretending to be alive.

The lipstick will stain her pillowcase. She washes it off and goes back to bed. Asleep, she dreams of an emotional reunion with a pet hamster she had as a kid. She loved that hamster when she was too little to realize that when you love things, they die.

At work the next day, stripped down to her Manolos for her lunch break, Lilah shoves Anya's back against the window glass. She rides Anya's thin, flexible fingers, clawing her shoulders to keep herself upright. When she looks at it from the right angle, Heaven is pretty much one long orgasm. Endless pleasure, her punishment for one moment of weakness. She moans and squeezes around Anya's fist, coming and coming.

For zapsflake

2007-03-16T22:44:34Z

Title: Moving On
Author: Crystalnymphetamine/ molotovcoqtiz
Recipient: zapsflake
Fandom: Clue: the Movie
Pairing: Yvette and Miss Scarlet
Rating: NC-17 - Character death, sexual thoughts and memories
Word count: 1440
Disclaimer: I do not own the chars, the story of the movie of Clue, nor the game it's based on.
Summary: Scarlet remembers while Yvette pays

It's for:
Name/LJ Name: snowfie
Listed fandoms I request:
1. Bring It On – Big Red/Isis
2. Harry Potter – Ginny/Hermione
Wildcard fandoms I request:
1. Catch and Release: Gray/Maureen
2. Clue: Yvette/Miss Scarlet
3. The Holiday: Amanda/Iris

"I have told you before, I am no longer working for you. I have a better job." Yvette made a face at the telephone in her hand though the woman on the other end could not see her. It mattered little to her as she bristled with indignation, her skirt shaking with the motion so that it swayed like a bell.

A job that you hold because of me. And it would seem your "boss" has invited me to dinner. I will arrive early so we can have a moment to talk. Won't that be delightful, Sweet? Just like old times.

"It will not be delightful. It will be..." Anything else she had to say was cut off by the phone going dead, a tinny voice instructing her to hang up and try her call again. "Hmph." Turning up her nose, she wiggled off to do her job and ignore the threats that had subtly been hinted at.

____________________________________________

The best laid plans of mice and men... usually end with insanity in a barn. Or, in the case of all that she'd thought through, it was water in the transmission that did her in. Not even a dog should have been out in that rain, never mind one as elegantly dressed as she. Velvet and satin and shimmers of tulle saved by a fellow with more passes than a football player and just about as much couth. Professor Plum, he'd said, and she nearly forgot it the moment he said it.

Even now, standing in the foyer with the bug eyes stare of the butler and the noxious scent of dog excrement, Professor Whatever was still trying to make with the cheap tricks. But her eyes were on someone a lot more entertaining. All dangerous curves and legs that went from here to heaven. Even as she struck a nonchalant pose to highlight the extravagant gown she wore, that predatory gaze was on her prey.

"Miss Scarlet,' she purred, stalking past the rodents with their beady eyes focused on her to slowly circle the gazelle. Yvette.

Accepting the glass the statuesque girl offered, the lethal madam couldn't help but let her gaze stray. The tight, abbreviated outfit accentuated all of the French girl's best assets. Corseted to bring the eye, and mind, to her cleavage and yet short enough to offer something for every man's tastes. Or every woman's for that matter. Yet by focusing on the physical it hid the one thing that truly made the girl a star, the most beautiful thing about her. Her mind. Play as she might the innocent, virginal whore, she was as bottom line as Scarlet. But then, in the end, what dame wasn't?

It was hard keeping her hands to herself, knowing as Scarlet did that Yvette's skin was as velvety as it looked. She knew the way the french girl sighed when you kissed her neck, or that you could make her whimper by biting softly at the inside of her wrist. Scarlet knew it all, from where Yvette dabbed her perfume to just what sort of naughty bits of lace and silk lay beneath that flounced skirt. If one were to judge by the flush to Yvette's cheeks, perhaps she was thinking on the very same things. But such things would have to stay thoughts until later, until they were alone. Now there was dinner to be devoured and secrets to consume. And, in the end, lives to be destroyed.

_______________________________________

Getting away from Colonel Mustard was proving harder than Scarlet thought. For a doddering old fool, he was certainly too hung up on actually finding the killer. Shame she'd been stuck with one of the few, him and the fruit, who couldn't be bought off by her natural charms. It was going to take a better distraction that a tight dress to get away from the stalwart military man. It made her smile to think about using Yvette for such a moment. Not that she choose to imagine the Colonel with her darling, even if she'd seen the film. Even once she'd watched the live action show. That was a horror show Scarlet had no desire to revisit. Not even the sight of her lovely was enough to make her endure that again.

Her lovely. The words hit her deep, a soft blow that left Scarlet breathless. Even now, after all this time, she still thought of Yvette as hers. Not merely an employee, or working girl that knew all the tricks to rake in the bucks, but something of Scarlet's that she treasured. Like her client lists and that personal vault full of pictures and film that she coveted so. Like the souls of the men whose secrets she sold to the government. All belonged to her. Just as Yvette always would.

The door opened with the faintest of creaks, barely more than a whisper of metal on metal where the lubricant had worn thin. In the dark it sounded like a gunshot, eliciting a squeak from the curvaceous blonde.

She could still remember the first time, back when the girl truly had been as innocent and pure as she now pretended to be. Back when it hadn't been a show of good acting but the mark of a protected childhood. Back when she had come to Scarlet, demanding to know about the art of pleasing men, the art of espionage. Yvette had been her first protege, the first that truly saw the truth behind everything Scarlet did.

Yvette had also been one of the first to betray her, turning on Scarlet and revealing her secrets to a third party.

Squinting into the dark, Yvette struggled to make out the shadowy figure before her. Tense, backing up until a shaft of light shone just right, revealing a familiar face. "Oh, it's you."

In the dark it was easy to remember those nights. The velvety feel of Yvette's skin, taut and supple at the same time. Scarlet had spent hours that first night merely tracing the girl's limbs with sharpened nails, watching the way her skin reddened. The trails of pleasure showed in stark relief against the alabaster perfection skin that seemed to never have been touched by the sun. Scarlet had done nothing more that night than explore the girl's body, focusing on those places so many ignored. The crook of the elbow, the hollow of the throat and the back of the knee.

Most, too many, rushed to the known erogenous zones rather than truly exploring the sensual aspects of the human body. The body was designed to bring pleasure but not many truly understood that. Scarlet had taught Yvette all of it.

The tender art of using teeth in all the right ways, pleasure brought from the tingle of the bite rather than the pain. How a lick needed to be more than just like a lollipop or ice cream cone but in depth with the curl of the tongue and the generous application of lips.

Yvette had been an apt pupil, one with whom Scarlet enjoyed dallying for hours. The day the blonde had taken her first client, Scarlet had felt the first tinge of jealousy she'd ever known. One she quickly overcame when she realized just how well Yvette had learned her trade, and how eagerly she plied it. With a simple word in that heavy, honey sweet accent, she often learned more than most of Scarlet's girls did after a night of pleasure. Yvette was a prize, a jewel, a prized possession. And as such, she was Scarlet's to punish, to correct for turning on her just as she had.

The next squeal, shriek, was cut off suddenly as the noose closed about Yvette's throat. She bucked and struggled, very nearly losing her footing in the stiletto heels she wore. Clawing at the rough rope, the girl's own nails left thick, red tracks against her porcelain skin. Her skin marking perfectly as the life faded from her eyes.

Laid back over the pool table, the rope gone, the markings on Yvette's throat reminded Scarlet of those days so long ago. Yet she said nothing as she followed the others out of the room, jaw tightening as she watched the others closely. One of them had taken away what was rightfully hers. Whomever that was would pay. No one, but no one, stole from Scarlet and lived. No one.

"Hell Is Around The Corner" (Alias, Nadia/Lauren, PG) for lafemmedarla

2007-03-15T11:54:36Z

Title: Hell Is Around The Corner
Author: Nina
Recipient: lafemmedarla
Fandom: Alias
Pairing: Lauren/Nadia
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1371
References: Hourglass, Legacy, Détente, The Orphan, 30 Seconds
Summary: Five Lies Lauren Reed Never Told To Nadia Santos
A/N: Apologies for being so late. A lot of thanks to obsessive24 for beta and gonzo21 for his very useful ideas.

She said, “I give you directions.”

***

#1: Just follow that road.

In Buenos Aires/Argentine, Lauren, aged 13 3/4 and on an involuntarily leave of absence from her expensive Swiss boarding school, mourned her fate.

They had called it ‘Black February’, the worst outbreak of arson the country had ever seen. Ten schools, twelve police stations and a hospital. Burnt to the ground. Harris Callaghan, government secret agency shrink extraordinaire, suspected a tiny blonde girl. But she seemed innocent - so innocent that the head of investigations insinuated he had quite a few bats in the belfry for holding such an unfounded suspicion.

Nevertheless, Lauren knew that her parents hadn’t been deceived so easily. Otherwise her father wouldn’t have insisted that she accompany her mother on a trip to this filthy South American orphanage. She hadn’t really listened but she was sure his speech included lines like: … see how young girls your age have to live, who aren’t so fortunate.

Now, 48 hours later, they had arrived at “El Orfelinato de San Marco” but to Lauren’s surprise her lesson in moral education hadn't seemed to have come.

“You wait here,” her mother instructed her. “I have to talk business with Senora Vargas.”

“I assume you are not going to sell me to the orphanage,” the girl taunted.

“Don’t be silly, Lauren! “ Olivia Reed rolled her eyes. “Your low threshold for frustration, your talent for manipulation and incapacity to experience guilt might be quite annoying character traits at your age. But I know they will be serviceable in the future. Therefore I won’t restrain you. Especially since I figure you won't learn anything from being punished.”

Sitting down on a bench in the hallway, Lauren pondered her mother’s words. She was curious what plans her mother was alluding to. But she knew this wasn’t the time to ask.

There was a girl sitting there already. With her dark eyes and raven hair she could have been pretty. But she wore a threadbare pinafore and her face and fingernails were dirty. However, there was a pack of cigarettes in the pocket of her skirt.

“I like your dress,” Lauren said, hoping the girl was in the mood to share.

***

#2: Make a U-Turn.

In Argun/Chechnya, Nadia hid patiently in the shadow of a chestnut tree.

Before she had turned eighteen she had already committed 130 crimes. With a loaded water pistol. Bang! They had been at some fast food joint, and Caesare had picked it up from an abandoned table of a child’s birthday party while she scavenged the place for leftovers.

What he gave the blonde now, though, wasn’t a toy. The SIG Sauer’s black barrel glistened in the sunlight. Bang! Bang! She recognised the P6. A gun made for small hands and the German police.

It was her first job for the Secretaría de Inteligencia outside of Argentina. For some reason she had picked up on Russian a lot easier than her fellow agents in training, which was what got her this assignment. Problem was, she hadn’t expected to be the one they sent after Robert’s alleged killer.

As they spilt, she followed Caesare through the bazaar. It was late in the afternoon and the place was crowded. Of course, given the circumstances, her approach was also half-hearted. When she finally lost him in an alley, she felt both guilty and relieved; ready to fall as the SIG Sauer’s handle hit her temple.

Later, as she finally regained consciousness, Nadia found herself tied to a bed in a place that looked like a ward. A hospital? Or a prison? The blonde from before towered over her.

“Maybe it’s time for a change. Again. Work for more promising employers.”

Her suggestion was met with silence. Nadia simply frowned a little. There was a throbbing pain in her head and she couldn’t think of a clever reply that was ambiguous and opportunistic enough.

Apparently patience wasn’t the woman’s forte.

“Then maybe not. You just stay here, love,” she smiled and wiped a strand of sweat-soaked hair off Nadia’s forehead. “I’m sure your agency will send someone to free you.”

***

#3: Straight forward.

In Kyoto/Japan, Lauren turned up the infusion and found it extremely difficult not to wish for the other sister to lie there. (Simply because it promised so much more amusement.)

Sark held Sloane at gunpoint, unsurprisingly, not without the usual empty threats and the usual teeth grinding. But then she found big eyes looking up at her.

Sordid begging displayed to arouse pity. Lauren had a hard time not looking right back into those eyes and acknowledging their possessor of being someone rather than something.

Of course, it wasn’t a question of guilt. She had killed many, had made many suffer. Always a means to an end. Mostly entertaining. Often a sport. Sometimes tedious. Never troublesome.

Also, what lay there on the canvas chair might have human form, yet it was nothing but another Rambaldi artefact. And likewise she now looked at Nadia. Admiring the dark beauty the Maker blessed her with, despite her limited purpose.

Slowly, Lauren twisted the scroller between her thumb and index finger until the right amount of elixir ran down the tube. Bright. Green. Vile.

“Please!” Nadia implored.

It was so tempting to look down and touch her. But Lauren refused to let her fingers run over the vessel’s cold porcelain surface. Wouldn’t caress its beseeching opening. Wouldn’t lean down and whisper.

Those big eyes were about to avert their gaze. Hazily they stared past her at the bag full of bilious fluid, then past that at the door.

Lauren felt the turmoil before it started. Sydney fucking Bristow to the rescue. Nothing ever went down as planned.

Defeated, she grabbed Nadia’s chin. Demanded her attention back with force.

“It’s heroin, peppermint-flavoured heroin,” Lauren spat out. “And soon I’m going to lick it off your tits.”

***

#4: There’s a shortcut.

In Papeete/French Polynesia, they met again. The rain had arrived in a storm and raged for days. And Nadia, soaked to the skin, shivered.

Back in Monte Carlo she thought she had seen her. Something that just had been confirmed by the goon she had killed on Tambor’s yacht. A certain blonde wasn’t as dead as she wanted to make the CIA believe.

When Nadia told Sydney about it, her sister laughed it off. But that laughter sounded nervous and phony, and made her stop asking questions. Obviously everyone kept dirty secrets.

However, thanks to a little help from the late Leo Orissa’s PDA, and with a canister of Black Thorine as bait, Lauren Reed was easy to locate. So as it turned out, she didn’t need Sydney’s help after all.

Sneak up. Knock down. Easy, see.

“So I suppose it's a little late for an apology?” Lauren moaned as Nadia tied her up in tight bondage.

“You suppose correctly.”

Lauren’s lips quivered. “We’re all just pawns in a game, Nadia,” she urged under her breath. “I didn’t mean to actually kill you back in Japan. Don’t leave me here to die.” So much pain and words, trembling, as the ropes cut deeper into her flesh.

“Oh please, I’m sure someone is coming for you in the next couple of days,” Nadia rolled her eyes, then finished her work with diligence. “Of course, you won't be able to lie on your back for a while but then you can lie from any position, can't you?”

***

#5: We’re almost there.

In Los Angeles/USA, Nadia fell to her death. Through a glass, darkly. Second chances, it seemed, hardly ever worked out and were generally short-lived. Thus she shouldn’t have been surprised to find her at the bottom of the well.

“These stairs must lead somewhere.”

Lauren’s suggestion came with a mocking encouragement Nadia couldn’t quite fathom. Who knew there were games to play even after your untimely demise?

“Are you sure?” she asked wearily.

“Well love, if they don't,” Lauren continued softly after a significant pause, “watch out for the last one!”

And after all, hell appeared right around the corner.

***

“Honestly?” she said, “I think it’s an impasse.”

Fin.

"The Five (Self-fulfilling Prophecies)" - BSG, Kara/Others, NC-17

2007-03-15T05:02:09Z

Title: The Five (Self-fulfilling Prophecies)
Author: Alizarin
Fandom: BSG
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Kara/Five Other People (if you must know: OFC, Ellen, Kat, D'Anna, Dee)
Spoilers: Up to and including “Maelstrom”
Written for: artemis_rain for femslash07
Summary: Five women Kara Thrace slept with.

Starbuck always gravitated to the number five.

Five was just like blue, red, yellow. Like circles inside of circles and ragged colored storms.

They are primary colors, five is a primary number and she’s in the prime of her life.

The five fingers of her hand. Each broken and repaired.

She was the fifth vote to find Gaeta guilty of treason and collaboration. (And see how well that worked out.)

It takes her five minutes to get ready in the morning. Unless she’s having visions of her childhood and seeing mandalas in candle wax.

The first.

The first woman Starbuck was with, back on Caprica, was a dancer.

The viper pilot and the dancer – there was no stranger combination. It was a time Kara preferred to think of as an experiment. She knew she liked men and she wasn’t finished with all that they might offer her. They were pretty easy to get rid of after, too.

New recruits in the academy were taken on cultural expeditions, for the building of team spirit and to infuse in them something other than the rote, brute violence of boot camp and the stressful tests in the cockpit.

Culture. They laughed their asses off about that.

Kara saw Serena on stage and was utterly mesmerized. The graceful modern dance was also powerful and sexual; nothing dainty about it. It was all raw strength and pared-down limbs and a face that shone with light.

Kara left her name and number at the will-call and a few days later she was rewarded with a note, a ticket, and an invitation backstage. Their first meeting was awkward; Kara didn’t know the ropes when seducing a woman, but Serena didn’t mind the missteps. Serena had a simple, pretty flat in a nice neighborhood and Kara tumbled into her bed, all smiles. The sex was good and Kara was a fast learner.

Sweet Serena.

She offered Kara so much but what was a Thrace going to do with all that luxury? Spoil it, burn it, in short – frak it up. She was her mother’s child and she knew what she did and did not deserve.

Kara was great at self-fulfilling prophecies.

Sweet Selena spoiled her on women for a very, very long time.

The second.

Kat was a screamer, wouldn’t you just know it.

She was always so loud, Starbuck wanted to smack her. One day she got the chance. Kat was stomping around, bragging about Scar, about her mad piloting skills, about all the men who adored her and the women who wanted to be her.

Starbuck bided her time. She drank less than Kat did that night, she let Kat beat her at cards, she kept her mouth shut. It was a major accomplishment, but when Starbuck wanted something, she generally could do what needed to be done to get it. Everyone knew that.

It was late and it was down to the two of them in the pilot’s lounge. “Let’s you and me make a wager on this last round, Kat,” Starbuck suggested. “Something interesting. Something very interesting.”

“You’ve been a loser all night, Starbuck, in fact, a loser all your life. What makes you think suddenly now’s your time to shine?”

“Instinct,” Starbuck said.

“Well, I know what I want, then.”

“Name it.”

“If I win,” Kat said, “When I win. You do my deck work for one month. All my cleaning shifts, maintenance duties, tool room, engine tuning. One month.”

“If I win,” Starbuck shot back, “You let me frak you tonight. You’re free when the day shift starts. And if I recall, you’re due in the tool room at 0500, and you’ll have a hell of a hangover. And I’m not just talking about the liquor this time.”

Kat stared at her. “That’s kind of… sick.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. Because I know you have, the way you went sniffing around Dee first, then Racetrack. You’re totally lesbian, everyone knows it. Most importantly, I know it, and I want to show you how it’s done.”

“Straight girl gonna show me? Starfuck, honey, there are some things that don’t come naturally to everyone. Just because you can suck dick and fly a hunk of metal around in space doesn’t mean…”

“So you’re not up for it?”

“Frak you, Starbuck. Deal the frakkin’ cards.”

Starbuck dealt. Starbuck won, hands down. When she pulled Kat over into her lap the other girl was shaking. With rage or lust, Starbuck didn’t much care. She drew Kat into a series of lush kisses and Kat didn’t protest, only whimpered slightly. Victory.

Starbuck arranged Kat’s legs over her own thighs, then unzipped her pants and stuck a hand in. She didn’t let Kat’s mouth leave hers, continued to press in her tongue, continued to beat back the opposition. With one hand cupped between Kat’s thighs, she let just enough pressure and heat build up and then she pulled her mouth away.

“Say, ‘frak me Starbuck.’”

“What?” Kat’s eyes were lazy with desire, flickering over Starbuck’s mouth. Starbuck pulled back slightly. “You’re frakking nuts.”

Starbuck pressed the heel of her hand down hard over Kat’s clit. “Say it, say ‘Starbuck, I want you to frak me.’”

“Frak you, Starbuck.”

Starbuck slapped her. Not hard enough to hurt, hard enough to sting. “No. Not good enough. Look at me,” Starbuck instructed. “I’m going to frak you no matter what, but it can be good for you too, or not.”

Kat stared at her for long moments, her scowl deepening. “Starbuck.”

“Good girl, that’s my name, say it again.” Starbuck ran her tongue up the curve of Kat’s neck and buried her hand in her thick hair, yanking it free of its braid. She pulled again and bit at Kat’s neck.

“Frak me, Starbuck,” Kat said, breathing hard. “I want you to, I want it…”

”Good girl,” Starbuck said, and pushed Kat up and bent her back over the table. She stripped off Kat’s boots and pants and underwear while Kat pulled her tanks up and over her head. Starbuck stripped too, nearly falling over as she pulled at her boots, and that wouldn’t be good; she didn’t want to show the competition that she was just as excited.

Starbuck went back to Kat’s mouth, laying them both cautiously over the flimsy card table, spilling cards everywhere and knocking the empty shot glasses to the floor.

“Oh yeah,” Kat breathed as Starbuck’s fingers slid in slow and sure. “Yeah, that’s it, Starbuck. Frak me.”

Starbuck rocked up against her, hard, rough thrusts, thumb in the right place and Kat was screaming, hollering, saying her name over and over and then outright begging. It was the best Starbuck had ever heard. And she’d heard a lot of begging.

After Kat came, she proved herself an equal opportunity frak and sank to her knees to use her tongue on Starbuck. She was pretty good too, Starbuck had to give her that. But she didn’t say Kat’s name, or even beg, just gripped her head in encouragement and when Kat pushed her fingers inside, Starbuck rode it out then shoved Kat’s head away.

“Someone could have walked in on us,” Kat said, wiping her mouth and standing up.

“Hey, it’s more private than my bunk. Which is actually where we’ll finish up. Like I said, your ass is mine until 0500.”

And for once, Kat didn’t give her any lip.

The third.

Ellen Tigh was out of her goddamn mind if she thought that she was going to join Kara and Anders for a threesome.

Seriously. Out of her mind.

It was clear she wanted something like that. Every time she came around in the early days on New Caprica, it was clear she was sniffing around Anders.

But everyone knew that Anders didn’t so much as fart without Kara giving him the go-ahead.

Sam Anders liked being a kept man. He didn’t much care what Kara did on her own, whether she was loyal or faithful, he just wanted to be hers. He wanted to be around her, he wanted to be allowed to love her. He wanted to get whatever she could give.

So Ellen’s intentions shifted to include Kara. She probably thought that was easiest. She probably thought that, drunk as they were likely to get on any given night, it would be easy to slip into bed with them. Kara inwardly scoffed at that. Nothing and nobody got by her.

It wasn’t that she thought that Ellen wasn’t hot. She was. And she could drink them under the table, most nights. That was no small feat.

It was inevitable then, that once Kara had satisfied her curiosity about Jammer, (cute, but inexperienced), that she’d slip into a tent one night with Ellen.

Ellen, gods bless her, didn’t bat an eye. She reeled Kara in like a fish on a line, like she’d been out for this the entire time. Kara caught up after that and they matched each other, kiss for kiss, neither tongue dominant but learning that they had to take turns if they wanted to breathe. When Ellen went down on her, scattering ripped clothing around Saul’s tent, Kara was ready to be surprised. Ellen did not disappoint.

When Kara stumbled out of the Tigh’s tent an hour later, Saul was there, sitting on a crate, smoking a cigarette. She waved at him. What he thought was not her problem. And she’d made Ellen sigh and moan and if he couldn’t do the same, that was his tough luck.

She felt a hard little pebble of guilt in her gut when Tigh went missing two days later, snagged by Cylons and dragged off to gods know where.

Then the pebble disappeared when one morning, she woke up in a strange place, in a strange bed, with Leoben standing over her.

The fourth.

Starbuck wasn’t ready to give herself up to Leoben, except maybe, in dreams, where she couldn’t help it. When she was awake, she wasn’t that far gone. He was a creepy, stupid frakking Cylon, and she’d remind herself of that every day. She’d kill him every day if that’s what it took.

She woke up sweaty, dream-addled, again. His blood was a brown blot on the floor, a red flag that this was happening, that it was real.

She was right in the middle of a strained, desperate attempt to masturbate when a hesitant knock came from upstairs. If Leoben was playing shy suitor, he’d get head-butted for his trouble. Starbuck was in no mood.

She opened the door to that bitch, D’Anna Biers.

D’Anna did a double-take, an odd little stumble that was completely out of place for this one, who pranced around New Caprica in her high heels and white suits. Today she wore a white skirt, slit up to gods knew where.

“You,” D’Anna said, her voice trembling. “Forgive me. I had no idea.”

“What?” Starbuck sighed and went downstairs. D’Anna followed. “I don’t know what you want. Leoben has frakked off for the time being since I stuck him with a steak knife like the pig he is.”

“Very brave,” D’Anna drawled. She seated herself on the white couch, letting her long legs stretch out in front of her. That skirt was damn sexy.

“Where do you toasters do your shopping?” Kara asked, “I’d love to know.”

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” D’Anna answered. “I’m not here on a social visit, as you may have guessed. I just wanted to see what has Leoben all worked up. He’s been keeping odd hours, spending time away from us and we miss him.”

“You can have him.”

“What does he see in you, Starbuck?”

“He sees what he wants to see.” Starbuck shifted on her chair, still sticky and sweaty from touching herself moments before. It suddenly occurred to her that Leoben would be angry if he knew that D’Anna had come around here snooping on her. It also occurred to her that he might be even more angry if she slept with D’Anna and not him.

“Would you like to have the Starbuck Experience so you can see for yourself?” Starbuck asked with raised eyebrow. “What the hell, right?” She had nothing better to do. Seducing a Cylon – so long as it wasn’t Leoben – could be a bit of a game in itself.

D’Anna cleared her throat and adjusted her skirt. She parted her thighs slightly and Starbuck could see she wasn’t wearing any underwear. Nice. If she stuck her fingers in the socket, so to speak, would she get electrocuted? Curiosity overcame her and she moved to the couch near D’Anna. She’d need to first make sure the crazy toaster wasn’t going to snap her neck.

But D’Anna rubbed her hand down Starbuck’s bare thigh. Good enough. Starbuck dove in, hands pushing up the skirt roughly, latching her mouth onto D’Anna’s neck. Frak, the Cylon was certainly wet in the right place. Game on.

Starbuck got a mouthful of soft blonde hair and she pulled away to free herself, but D’Anna’s long fingers were wrapping around her head and bringing her in toward her lips. She didn’t want to kiss a toaster, but once she started, the mouth was warm enough, salty and soft and Starbuck let it go.

Their legs entwined; white skirt was hiked up far enough, and Starbuck’s sleep-shorts were pulled down far enough and so they worked each other eagerly with their fingers.

D’Anna bit down on Starbuck’s lip and licked the blood away, a beatific smile blooming on her lovely face.

In retaliation, Starbuck kissed her way down D’Anna’s neck until she reached the shoulder join and then she bit as hard as she could.

Did Cylons feel pain the way humans did? It seemed so, as D’Anna yelped and blood-bruises in the shape of Starbuck’s teeth rose to the surface of the skin. Fascinating.

D’Anna came first, finally, and she pushed Starbuck back on the couch so she could lick over her breasts and stomach, until Starbuck clenched around her fingers and shouted. Itch scratched.

“Frak, I just frakked a toaster,” Starbuck said, sitting up.

D’Anna looked down at her, her clear eyes seeming to coolly take in every detail of Starbuck’s face. Her eyes were simultaneously sympathetic and somehow knowing.

“You really are something special,” she said.

The end.

It was natural, or maybe unnatural, that the fifth woman Kara Thrace slept with would be Dee. They were clearly bringing new meaning to the term “hate sex.” Not even Kat had been so rocky a courtship for Kara.

That day started out with their usual mix of glares, up and down the hallways, and it was making everyone uncomfortable.

“Kara,” Helo said, “enough is enough. You have to fix this thing with Dee so we can all get back to work. Put your petty little spat aside and focus on what’s really important here.”

“Yes sir, Helo sir. Because you’ve certainly never let love or jealousy get in your way when shit was going down, and we needed you to focus. No way, you’re too perfect for that human shit.”

If Helo was stung, he didn’t show it. She’d been able to get to him less and less as time went on. And if he looked at her with pity one more time, she was going to frak him up so bad his baby would scream when she saw him.

So she wasn’t in the best mood when she went to the Adama quarters to confront Dee. It didn’t go down well at all. Dee was in boxer shorts and a flimsy tank and she wasn’t wearing a bra. It was damn distracting. Also, Dee sometimes looked kind of hot when she was yelling and really, really angry.

Kara wasn’t about to back down, however. That would surprise no one, and she was likely to be as predictable as her mother told her she would be. So she rolled right over Dee. She got up in her face and yelled just as loudly.

Things like, “It’s not my business if you can’t keep your man on his leash.”

And Dee said things like, “You just want whatever it is you don’t happen to have at that exact moment.”

And Dee was right. And Kara didn’t feel bad about that, instead, she felt damn powerful. If she closed her eyes, she could see a yellow circle inside a blue circle inside a red circle inside a yellow sun. When she opened her eyes, Dee’s eyes blazed out of her face, with their weird yellow color, and Kara knew she was going to take something she didn’t have, but wanted anyway.

Dee slapped her off, but Kara was relentless. She was unstoppable; an object in motion that stayed in motion, the centripetal force of her desires had the gravitational pull of a black hole.

“Dee, Dee, Dualla,” she murmured as she opened her mouth and sucked on Dee’s neck, her hands already up and under the tank, Dee’s tiny birdlike body giving way. Dee started crying, and Kara licked the tears off her face. “I got what you need, don’t worry about it.”

It was likely that with Lee involved, Dee wasn’t getting the sort of touch that she needed, the kind of stroking and holding and worshipping that every woman needs. Kara’s hands were sure and strong. In minutes, Dee wasn’t fighting anymore; she was giving up and over. She let Kara’s hands go everywhere. She let Kara’s tongue go down to her nipples and circle around and around, Dee’s breasts like mandalas, circles without end, with meaning and heat at their center.

Kara eased Dee back on the bed – the bed she shared with Lee – and Dee’s legs opened for her. Kara slid in between them and began a slow assault on Dee, first with one finger, then with two, increasing the speed as Dee became more aroused. Her tear-stained face was beautiful. She gasped for breath and Kara eased her pinkie finger toward the back and pressed her thumb to Dee’s clit, circling, and then leaned forward to cover Dee’s gasps with her mouth. Dee bucked up under her, clenching, and Kara had to stop right then when she realized she was still dressed.

She quickly undressed all the while telling Dee how much she wanted to feel her whole body under her. Dee was mute, nodding. Kara was back on the bed quickly and over and inside Dee, frakking her with fingers inside her, with tongue in her mouth.

Dee wrapped her legs around Kara and for long minutes they fucked, rocking the bed, until it was over.

Kara left, leaving Dee to figure out if Lee would be able to smell Kara all over her. It was no longer interesting to her. She knew Dee would probably be better able to get on with her life now that she’d had what her husband so badly wanted.

As for what Kara wanted, it was still the same old thing.

It was never enough.

She wanted more.

.

"For Our Vines Have Tender Grapes" for celievamp [The West Wing, CJ/Kate, PG13]

2007-03-15T03:27:26Z

Title: For Our Vines Have Tender Grapes
Author: A. Magiluna Stormwriter
Author’s Email: stormwriter@shatterstorm.net
Rating: PG13
Pairing: CJ Cregg/Kate Harper
Written for: femslash07
Recipient: celievamp
Date: 11-14 March 2007
Word Count: 4413
Summary: Sometimes it takes a major life-changing event or two to make a person see the vineyard for the vines.
Spoilers: "The Ticket," "Requiem," & "Tomorrow"
Website: ShatterStorm Productions – Doggie Duo's Fanfic
Link to: http://bdkk.shatterstorm.net/
Archive: ShatterStorm Productions only…all others ask for permission & we'll see…

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 Mary McCormack. This site contains stories between two mature, consenting adult females.

Title Notes: The title comes from Song of Songs, Chapter 2, verse 15. The full quote is "Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes."

When searching for a title, shatterpath suggested something with vineyards, since they seem to be a rather striking image in this story. So I searched for quotations with vineyards in them, but found nothing of interest. Then I moved on to searching for vines, and came up with this one. And it seemed perfect.

Ficathon Notes: This was a pinch-hit for celievamp, who had the following requests...

Name/LJ Name: celievamp
Listed fandoms I request: (limit three):
Battlestar Galactica (2003) - Roslin/Six
Doctor Who ("new" Who only: Nine/Ten/Torchwood/Sarah Jane Adventures)
- Gwen/Sarah Jane Smith
Stargate SG-1 Sam/Vala
Wildcard fandoms I request: (limit three):
BSG/SG1 - Replicarter/Six or Three or Eight
Farscape - Aeryn/Chiana
West Wing - CJ Cregg/Kate Harper

Author’s Notes: When I got the opportunity to write the pinch-hit for celievamp, I jumped at the chance. I was immediately looking into two pairings: Roslin/Six and CJ/Kate. I actually decided against the Roslin/Six, as I've written many of those in the past. And then I realized that I hadn't written a CJ/Kate before. I'd planned initially to write a piece taking place after the 7th season ep "Requiem," until I realized there wasn't any interaction between CJ and Kate to justify what I'd wanted to do. So I started thinking, and doing some research via Wikipedia on the characters. And then I got my idea. And this is what came of it…

Special Thanks: ncruuk & shatterpath, for helping me pound out a good deal of the background details and info leading up to the story as shown... Muchly appreciated!!!

Dedication: My muses, because I'm not as prolific without them…

Beta: shatterpath

"For Our Vines Have Tender Grapes"
by A. Magiluna Stormwriter

( Her voice is muffled, rough, as if she hasn't had any sleep in days. If the rumors are true, she probably hasn't. )

[must be something here] SGA, Teyla/Sora

2007-03-14T22:10:00Z

Title: must be something here
Author: lilysaid
Recipient: queenzulu
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: Teyla/Sora
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 6500

queenzulu: you get a gold star for patience, baby. *mwah*

Teyla is sore for weeks after the accident. The Genii doctors give her large white pills to swallow, but there are already too many shifting shapes of memory in her mind, and the pills cloud things even further. They keep asking after her head, but it is her jaw that aches at night, and the moans she stifles during wakefulness must find a way out in sleep, because each time she wakes, Sora is bent at her bedside with a warm compress.

After a few days of this she grows accustomed to the sound of Sora’s bare feet on the floor, the rustle of her loose tangled nightgown and finally, the hot, damp press of a cloth at her temple, agalloch and cloves and a gentle pressure that coaxes her back into sleep.

It is surprising that Sora offers this relief, because she has learned that Sora is not a healer but a soldier, part of the mission that had led to Teyla’s injuries. Sometimes, when they walk out in the sun, she feels a sense of familiarity in the unpredictable gleam of Sora’s hair upon her shoulders, but it is nothing she can build upon, nothing to connect with any of the other strange pieces that drift through the heavy darkness in her head.

It is as though everything she needs to know lies just beyond a heavy curtain. At times she can hear the noise of it from beyond the divide, and even her frustration seems out of reach, cloaked beneath an anaesthetized sense of calm. This is what worries her the most. The doctors declare her state serious, but not life-threatening. Wait until you get back to Atlantis, Sora whispers when they make their diagnosis, and Teyla contemplates the shape of this word in her mind, determined to hold onto it until she can discover its meaning.

***

Sheppard is a surprise. When he strolls into Ladon’s office, he is so unlike the man the Genii have painted with their words that Teyla glances from Sora to Ladon and back to Sheppard, convinced she has misunderstood.

My brother, she has heard them say, my sister, my nephew: only nineteen, because he kills Genii for sport, but he is handsome and when he speaks, she can sense nothing but sincerity.

“Teyla, good to see you,” he says. He wears an easy smile, but his reputation sends her back a step when he approaches, unsure whether she wants this man to take her to Atlantis.

The others act as though it is no matter at all; Sora does not lift her eyes from the paperwork at her wide desk, and Teyla is hypnotized by the swift looping motion of her hand for a moment as she realizes that tonight she is to sleep in Atlantis with no sweet nighttime herbs to relieve her pain.

“She still doesn’t remember,” Sora says without pausing in her work. “Not even you,” she adds in a sly tone Teyla does not recognize, but Sheppard must notice as well, because he shoots Sora a squint of annoyance before he turns to the tall, angry looking man next to him.

“This is weird,” he says quietly, his eyes still on Teyla. “How do we do this?”

The taller man shrugs. “I guess you’ve gotta convince her, first.”

Ladon coughs delicately and extends his arm toward the strangers. “Teyla, this is Colonel Sheppard and Ronon Dex. They’re part of your team back in Atlantis.”

“John,” Colonel Sheppard says quickly. “And Mckay is waiting in the jumper. Dr. McKay. Rodney,” he says, suddenly awkward and pained, as though things have gone wrong and he is not certain how to fix them.

They are strangers. It is different, somehow, than when she had awakened and found herself among the Genii, because although it had been unsettling to find everything so unfamiliar, there had been no expectations. Not even Sora had laid any claim to a relationship the way Colonel Sheppard is doing, and his determination slows her feet, triggers some contrary instinct she hadn’t even known lay beneath her tranquil disposition.

She has packed her bag of possessions, yet she hesitates and glances again at Sora, who has finally stopped writing to watch Colonel Sheppard with open interest. They are waiting for her, which means she must make a decision. And she can only make a decision based upon what she knows, which is that she has known the Genii for sixteen days, and the Atlanteans for none.

“I do not think I am ready to return to Atlantis,” she says, and she does not know what reaction she had expected, but it had been something far more threatening than the way Sheppard taps his radio and says, “Cool your heels, McKay, we’re on our way back.”

***

They leave with a puzzled demeanor, trailing Ladon’s apologies and Teyla’s relief in their wake.

“You’re safer there than here,” Sora says later that night as she sits at her vanity and runs a wide-toothed comb through her hair, but Teyla stills her hand and takes the comb. This place feels safe enough.

“You believe I should have gone?” She rubs gently at the nape of Sora’s neck while she slowly works out the tangles, a small reciprocation for all the care she has received, yet in the mirror Sora’s eyes are startled, and even a careful stroke across her forehead does not erase the suspicious lines there.

“There’s no reason for you to stay,” Sora says. “Dr. Beckett-“

“-yes, I know. And I will seek his help when I return to Atlantis.”

Sora meets her eyes in the mirror. “Go back, Teyla,” she says, and twists out of Teyla’s reach.

Teyla retreats to her own side of the room, troubled by Sora’s short temper and by Colonel Sheppard, who had worn a long black weapon across his chest, another at his thigh.

It is all about weapons, it seems. The day she had been released by the doctors, a gun had been pressed into her hand, and she had found a ready home for it in the same place the Colonel had worn his. Besides that, there is much to be learned in the simple act of watching Sora dress. There are half a dozen places that a woman might keep a blade close to her skin, and Sora makes use of them all. By the time she pulls tight the laces on her boots each morning, she is armed as well as the Colonel, so well that she could just go in Teyla’s place.

She is not judging; the need for weapons is clear. Even without her memories, she still possesses a vague awareness of her past, the war and conflict and threat of the Wraith. It is because of this past that she seeks to break free, when they would all just send her back to a fight where she does not know her place.

This is the time of day when her jaw begins to ache, and tonight it seems worse than usual. Teyla sits on her bed and contemplates the pills in her pocket until Sora approaches with a small wax pillar.

“Here.” She cups her hands beneath Teyla’s and lifts, guiding it toward her face, and yes, this Teyla remembers as she inhales against the smooth curve of the candle, this smoky sandalwood scent that she breathes obediently, Sora’s hands still cupped around her own.

Eventually, Sora steps away and takes the candle with her. “Watch,” she says, and goes to a table where a dozen candles are melted into a dozen asymmetrical shapes and sizes. She lights the first and uses its flame to light the others; slowly, one by one, until Teyla’s breathing is attuned to the Sora’s rhythm: lift, ignite, lift, ignite, and this too feels familiar, the way her body falls into the pattern.

“You do this every night,” Sora’s voice says from far away, the sound pleasantly intimate as it winds its way through Teyla’s limbs, “Always in the same order, and then you—right, like that,” she says, and Teyla is aware of many things; the faint flicker of heat, the scent of lavender, and finally, the mattress beneath her back.

***

They come again the next day, this time with Dr. McKay, who with his appearance alone softens Teyla’s position on leaving. In addition to a visible case of nerves, he moves slowly and favors his right leg. He is weak, and the others compensate by crowding close, even Colonel Sheppard, protecting Dr. McKay from every side.

“Look,” Sheppard says to begin. Today he is unarmed, another point in his favor. “Can we just sit down somewhere and talk? Then, if you still don’t want to come with us, we’ll work something out.”

They sit down for lunch, Teyla on Ladon on one side, the Atlantean team on the other. The conversation is stilted and polite in a way that makes Teyla feel very tired. Eventually, the meal nears an end and they have yet to convince her.

“Your things are all on Atlantis,” Sheppard says in a completely reasonable tone. “You have your own room there, and your own gym for training.”

“It sounds very…nice,” she says with a glance at Rodney, whose expression is edged in gray, something she recognizes well from her own experience over the past few weeks. He is in pain, yet he has come to retrieve her. She can easily see herself taking Rodney’s arm and shouldering his weight as they leave, but the others… Colonel Sheppard reveals nothing of himself, and Ronon looks as though he would just as soon toss her over his shoulder and haul her through the gate.

“It is nice,” Sheppard says. He leans forward over the table and meets her eyes. “Just tell me what we need to do to get you to come back with us.”

If it were that easy, she would just tell them. She drops her gaze to the bowl before her.

“The food’s good,” Ronon says. “In Atlantis.”

“There you go. And we have golf, sort of,” Sheppard adds.

“Oh, oh, there’s that marine you said she’s got her eye on,” Rodney interjects, though he sounds small and tired, and Sheppard frowns at him for a second before going forward.

“If this is a matter of you feeling comfortable with our people, there are plenty of friends in Atlantis for you to, you know. Athosians, civilians, scientists…take your pick.

There is a long silence. He is convincing, but she cannot bring herself to concede.

“She seems to remember Sora,” Ladon finally says, and though he is wrong, there remains a certain truth in it, because by now, Sora is familiar enough. “We might be able to spare Sora for a few weeks if Teyla would like to bring her along, ease the transition.”

Teyla takes a breath, and when she finds no reason for protest, releases it slowly.

“Fine,” Sheppard says, when it is clearly anything but fine. Perhaps it is a memory left over from before, the way she can read the frustration that he holds barely in check. “I’m just going to have to clear that with Dr. Weir, first. Teyla?”

“Very well,” she says, flustered by her sudden victory and Rodney’s alarmingly heavy eyes. “Is Dr. McKay well?” she asks.

“He’s okay,” Sheppard says, though he helps Rodney to his feet with some effort. “He and Ronon are just going to wait in the jumper while we finish up here. How much time to you need?”

“I am ready,” Teyla says, though she is anything but.

***

***

“You did not want to come,” Teyla finally says when Sora is putting away her things in Teyla’s room, which, while comfortable, does not make her remember anything from before. From her window, she can see nothing but water, waves with sun-touched peaks and beneath that, the darker shades of evening.

“Don’t be crazy,” Sora says, and shuts a drawer with a bang. “It’s fine. I just thought you’d be eager to get off Genia and back to your city.”

“A city I do not remember.”

Sora shrugs lightly, but her stance is awkward, defensive.

“You should have been asked,” Teyla says, and curves her hands over Sora’s shoulders, bows her head until their foreheads touch. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Sora says. She holds herself tense, ready to break away at any time, but her breath is soft against Teyla’s mouth. “It’s Ladon’s fault; he shouldn’t have sent me here. It’s just that you wouldn’t- If you remembered…”

“If I remembered…” Teyla coaxes, desperate for the rest of it, and despite her empty memory there is something familiar in this, the flutter in her throat, the warmth in her face, and Sora’s mouth just a secret’s distance from her own.

“We’ve had our differences,” Sora says. “We’ve been angry.”

“But we are not angry any longer,” Teyla says, and when Sora softens in her embrace, she knows it must be true.

***

When Ronon puts the sticks in her hands for the first time, her limbs are shot through with a recognition that nearly doubles her over, and she wobbles on her feet enough that Ronon steps forward to steady her. She regains her balance in time to bring them up to his chest and is startled by Ronon’s smiling eyes as they push and pull until he gives, hands raised in surrender.

“Guess you didn’t forget everything,” Ronon says, and he is still every bit as imposing as before, but now she sees the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the lightness in his step as he backs away.

“I guess I did not,” she says in agreement, a smile pulling at her lips. The mats are cool and yielding beneath her bare feet, and her body likes to move this way, the sharp turns and tugs of one body in battle against another.

At the edge of her vision she can see Ronon circling casually, and her body warms with anticipation. By the time he lunges, she is ready, and though she takes him down by throwing her weight to the side at the last moment, he catches her ankle with one huge hand and brings her down.

She hits the mat hard on her bottom, and though Ronon has had ample time to recover, he remains on the mat.

“They said we’re not supposed to tell you stuff, but they’re usually wrong about this kind of thing,” he says. He looks her straight in the eye. “Watch yourself with Sora.”

His words anger her for reasons she cannot put name to. It is the suggestion that she has not been watching herself, it is his claim to her trust when he has done nothing to earn it. It is the knowledge that her instincts demand a safe distance from Sora, and yet there have been countless moments when she has ignored those instincts in favor of a soft voice and warm hands on her forehead, times when she had fallen back into sleep, her weapon more than an arm’s reach away, and only Sora to stand guard.

“I will be very careful,” she says, and climbs to her feet. “Thank you for the…” She does not know what to call what has just occurred, so she settles for a gesture at the room around them. “I am due in the infirmary in a few minutes.”

“No problem,” Ronon says. “See you later.”

***

The doctors say the same thing as the day before: she is fine, her memories will return, she can talk to Kate Heightmeyer any time she likes. They seem to have forgotten she does not know who Kate Heightmeyer is, but they had all seemed so disturbed by her request for Dr. Beckett that she had not wished to prolong her visit. On her way out, she passes Colonel Sheppard in the corridor, and her spine straightens with tension as she attempts to pass with a nod of recognition.

“Hey, wait,” he calls after her, and jogs back until she has no choice but to stop.

“Hello Colonel,” she says, and he looks strangely bewildered by the whole situation. Sad, like the others, though it is too soon for him to have learned of her mistake.

“John,” he reminds her. “And…hi.” His hands go to rest on his hips, his eyes searching her face for some clue. “How’s it going?” He sounds so casual, but she can tell he wants to ask if she remembers. He wants to make her remember.

“It is going well. I am on my way from the infirmary,” she says, just as Rodney appears, moving steadily down the hall on a pair of crutches. “Dr. McKay! You are looking much better.”

“Oh, really? Yes, I suppose this is better than being stuck on a hive ship after being shot with my own weapon.” His words seem to have a pointed meaning that she does not understand.

Sheppard shifts his shoulders and sighs. “We got you out, McKay. We always get you out.”

“Yes, the key word being always. Don’t you find it a little disturbing that there’s an ‘always’ about being a hostage on a hive ship?”

“I find it very disturbing,” Teyla says with the deep solemnity she feels Rodney expects, and if his small, surprised smile is anything to go by, her reply satisfies him greatly.

***

“What exactly is a hive ship?” Teyla asks when she returns to her rooms, and it is impossible to determine what happens in that moment, whether it is her own words or the sight of Sora—at a low table with her disassembled gun, contentedly cleaning the pieces with a narrow brush—that dislodges a hundred memories all at once, fragments of dark corridors and the wet loamy scent of the Wraith. And the memories are so sharp they cut, but it is Sora that makes Teyla stumble sideways toward her bed, hand pressed to her chest in some futile self-protection. Sora. It has been so long.

Sora’s head is still bent to her task. “The ships where the Wraith live. They use smaller ships to cull humans, and then take them to the hive ships where thousands of them live together.” Her hair is slicked back wet and dark, her nightgown a slice of white on each shoulder. “Why are you thinking about hive ships?” she asks, and slides the magazine into place with a click.

Teyla sinks down onto her bed, feeling as gray as Rodney had been during his visit with the Genii. “Rodney spoke of them.”

“Maybe you’re lucky to forget some things,” Sora says as she rises from the table, wiping her hands on a cloth as she goes. “There’s no point thinking about the Wraith until you have to.”

It is too late for that, but Sora is soft and familiar as she moves around Teyla’s room, and she knows what would happen if she were to say anything now: that wild, defensive edge would return, and she would be gone. She cannot help but think of every liberty Sora has allowed her in the past few days, each of which has taken on an entirely new meaning, a meaning she cannot puzzle out, because Sora does nothing she does not wish to do.

“I am very tired,” Teyla says suddenly, startling even herself with the overly loud announcement.

Sora does not seem to notice. “Me too.” Teyla watches her check every door and window before she dims the lights and crawls onto the bed. “How’s your head?”

“It…” It hurts, but not much. “It is fine.”

“Fine,” Sora mocks lightly. “You’d say you were fine if a Wraith were wrist-deep in your chest.”

“I thought you said I should not think of the Wraith,” Teyla smiles, and lowers herself back onto her pillow when she knows she ought to put an end to all this pretense.

“I said that you should not. I can think of whatever I like, and right now I’m thinking of sleeping for a very long time.”

***

When she wakes, Sora has already brought the warm agalloch cloth even though Teyla does not need it tonight. She has every intention of letting Sora know, letting her get a full night’s sleep for a change, but the nudge of Sora’s hip against her own, a demand for a space to sit, halts the words before they even take shape. It is astonishing, the amount of kindness Sora has shown her under the protection of anonymity, as though the only thing keeping them at odds all this time has been all the defenses Sora has built up around her own regrets.

If she were to tell Sora now, she would pull out of Teyla’s reach forever, and Teyla does not want that, not when they can enjoy one more night of warmth between them—no, heat between them, because there have been nights when even as her head is pressed with healing herbs, there are sleep-warm fingers tracing the slant of her collarbone, a touch that has nothing to do with Sora’s task.

Tonight, without that curtain of pain, she is aware of every touch. Even the application of the compress is not clinical; Sora has always carried herself with a blithe sensuality that comes through in every brush of her skin against Teyla’s, the slide of her forearm against Teyla’s waist where she braces herself on the bed, and Teyla has not been touched like this in a very long time, but she knows what it means that beneath the covers, her hips are restless with tension.
She also knows what it is that makes Sora linger after the pain has passed. Or she suspects she knows, and maybe it is the blissful absence of pain, or having Sora in her bed, nightgown rucked up to her thighs, because Teyla is heavy with arousal, full to bursting with the impulse to press herself against someone, to slide her hands over a warm body and to have bare skin against her tongue.

She could have had this with Sora at one time, but now her memory loss is an unexpected reset—temporary, perhaps, but in the past she has never indulged herself, and look where it has gotten her.

When Teyla shifts on her pillow and blinks up at Sora, the compress slips to the side, but Sora continues to smooth the damp pieces of Teyla’s hair from her face, a touch that raises goose bumps on Teyla’s arms, makes her nipples draw up tight inside the top she wears for sleeping. In the dark, she can make out Sora’s face bent toward her, intent on her task, and shaded at the edges by the bed-tousled curls.

“That feels good,” she murmurs, reluctant to lose the soft touches that spark sensation all over her skin. Sora pauses at the words, but resumes a moment later, this time letting the gentle strokes stray to Teyla’s temple, her cheekbone, and finally, a torturously slow migration to her throat, where her pulse throbs against Sora’s fingers in time with the lesser throb between her legs.

At first she senses the inclination to run in the set of Sora’s mouth, the stiffness in her back, but it slowly disappears, melting away as Sora touches her open-handed, her damp palm over Teyla’s shoulder where her top has slipped down.

She cannot wait; she unlaces her top far less smoothly than she would liked and lets the fabric fall to each side, her naked breasts between them, an offering, and Sora frozen in indecision.

“You’re feeling better,” Sora says, still so suspicious, even with her eyes on Teyla’s breasts, so sharp she can almost feel it graze her skin.

“I have no pain,” Teyla says, and it is the truth, even if it is not the answer to Sora’s entire question. She does not want to talk, she wants to move her hips against Sora’s thigh, or her hand, to ease the swell of pressure that makes her lie there on razor’s edge, breathing too hard, and Sora’s hand still frustratingly far from what she has offered. Because if Sora doesn’t touch her than she cannot possibly touch Sora, and it feels impossible that she has known Sora for so many years and never tasted her sullen mouth.

She does not know how far she is willing to go, but then she pushes the covers down past her hips and does not have to find out, because Sora makes a soft defeated sound and bends to Teyla, shedding her nightgown at the same time she kisses Teyla’s mouth slow as honey, the cool points of her nipples pressed against Teyla’s heated skin.

Teyla kisses back as their bodies settle together, and this is so much better than the time they had fought, knees and fists and elbows, similar in the physicality, in the faint perfume of Sora’s skin, but now there is pleasure mixed in with that blood-churning tension, and when Sora slides two fingers between Teyla’s legs as though she knows what she will find, she cannot understand why they have ever chosen anything over pleasure. She lifts her hips against the fingers, moves in circles, her legs spread wide, until Sora catches on and pets her in the same pattern, dragging her hand round and round, a spread of friction over her entire pussy, her clit pressed from side to side until she can hear, even over their long, panting kisses, the wet slide of Sora’s hand between her legs. The sound sets off a sudden swell of pleasure that spills her into a long, pulsing climax, her tongue in Sora’s mouth and Sora making small broken sounds as though she is the one coming.

Sora pulls away and kneels up, her chest rising and falling as though they have been sparring, and moves her hand slowly across Teyla’s clit a few more times, tiny stabs of sensation, while they look at one another with the same mixture of wariness and desire as always. For a moment she thinks Sora must have realized, seen something in Teyla’s eyes, but it is too dark for that, and she is easily distracted when Teyla sits up and cups the full shape of Sora’s breasts in her hands, squeezing gently, holding Sora’s eyes—and now she is losing the wariness, her mouth slack and dark eyes gone soft—as she mouths the nipples, deep pink against her pale skin and tight wet peaks against Teyla’s tongue.

“I have always wanted to do this,” Teyla says between kisses, between long suckles at Sora’s breasts that have Sora arching her back, clutching at Teyla’s shoulders, but never once asking her to stop. It is almost true.

“You have not,” Sora says with a flare of attitude, and for a long time they say nothing, hands wandering over the slopes of hips, bellies and thighs, until Sora says, “Please,” and Teyla pushes her into the covers and discovers that the inside of her thighs are already shining in the dim light, wet all over. The light covering of hair is scratchy against Teyla’s palm, and she likes the way Sora writhes and scowls when she presses lightly, never dipping inside to the slick pink flesh, not even when Sora throws her leg to the side so Teyla can see everything she’s been neglecting.

Teyla sucks in a startled breath. She has never felt this way, so aroused that her skin is flushed and damp, her belly tight and heavy with arousal, and her pussy swollen and sensitive, dripping as though she’s been drenched in hot oil. Nothing seems like enough, except oh, Sora’s mouth—she shuts her eyes and slides down between Sora’s legs, aching in sympathy for what it must feel like to have a hot relentless tongue licking and probing exactly where she needs it.

Sora’s thighs tremble in her hands.

She tastes good, like the hot summer earth, like sex, like something Teyla had not ever allowed herself. She has never done this before but she knows that it will feel good to have long, open-mouthed kisses pressed into her pussy, spread open by an eager tongue, and she can hear Sora’s words but they seem distant this place where Sora bucks against her and when she slips her fingers inside, bears down and pulses a dozen times around them.

She kisses Sora’s belly, and crawls up next to her, skimming her palm over Sora’s nipples on her way, loving the feel of them, and how touching them coaxes breathy, agonized sounds from her.

“You’re going to be furious,” Sora whispers into her neck, but then proceeds to roll over and rub Teyla’s clit until she falls apart all over again.

***
***

“You remember!” Rodney blurts the next day, as soon as John has checked up on Teyla and left the room. “I can’t believe you, you’re faking? You?” He stares in wide-eyed fascination and pulls her out onto a private balcony.

“Rodney,” she says in a low voice, encouraging him to lower his own. “I do not remember-“

“And now you’re going to deny it? Please! I saw you. Sheppard’s tight pants? ”

A smile twitches at her lips, but she stands firm. “Rodney,” she says, but he interrupts, hands waving.

“Oh, come on. Everybody knows that when Sheppard wears the tight pants, everyone watches him leave the room. And you knew to look, which means you remember.” He punctuates the last word with a finger jabbed toward her chest, which she grabs and holds tightly while his expression goes from triumphant to nervous.

“Rodney. I have not regained my memories just yet,” she says carefully, holding his eyes.

He blinks, his face twisted with betrayal before it settles into a calm mask that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and then he nods. “Right. My mistake,” he says. “It certainly won’t be the first time Sheppard’s pants caused an intergalactic misunderstanding.”

“Thank you,” she says with a gentle squeeze to his finger. “I believe it should only be a few days before I am as good as new.”

“That’s-that’s good to know,” Rodney says, as though he cannot decide whether he is impressed or disgruntled over the matter.

Teyla can relate. She is not certain how she feels about it, either, the situation she has created where she can have a sweet version of Sora—a familiar version, the one she knows from before the storm—so long as she lies, or confess and watch the girl completely disappear.

It is not about the sex.

It is not entirely about the sex. There is certainly more than sex involved, but she enjoys sharing her bed with Sora, and she feels loose and relaxed today, suffused with a hum of contentment, and she knows that Sora’s touch has a great deal to do with that. Still, her face heats when she imagines what Rodney—or anyone, for that matter—would think if they knew how she had ensnared herself with desires that she has no business indulging.

“I guess I’ll see you later, then,” Rodney says, still in that odd tone, but he stops on the way back in. “You look good,” he says thoughtfully. “Better,” he says with a nod, and slips away.

***

“I have to admit I’m surprised,” Rodney says over breakfast the next day, when John and Ronon have already gone. He doesn’t stop chewing, doesn’t take his eyes from her face, as though she is one of the greater puzzles on his agenda. “I mean, it’s exactly like every other woman I’ve known. Everything’s fine and then—“ he snaps his fingers in the air. “I’ve got no idea what’s going on. And they never tell me, you know. I’ve always thought it was because they couldn’t explain it, themselves, but…”

He waits expectantly, his face hopeful, as though she might explain the ways of women once and for all.

“It is complicated,” she says slowly.

He waves his hand impatiently. “That’s what they all say.”

She hesitates for a moment, but it is unlike Rodney to inquire about personal matters—it is unlike all her teammates—and she remembers the pleasure of sharing the tea ceremony with Rodney, his sure hands and open heart.

“I have made a bad decision,” she says, and when he nods encouragingly, she continues. “I should have immediately told everyone that I had regained my memory, but I did not, because I knew that if I did…”

Rodney looks as though he is about to burst, but he waits.

“I do not know,” she sighs, and rubs her face with both hands. “I did not want Sora to return home, and then when we became intimate, I did not wish to lose her.”

Rodney stares.

“And now…” She smiles, though she does not feel like smiling. “As I said, it is complicated.”

“I’m a little disappointed,” Rodney says, his mouth turned down on one side, the way he looks when he’s more than a little disappointed. “I honestly thought it was something I could fix for you. Or, try to fix.”

“And for that I am grateful,” she says, and finishes eating while he leaves with his empty tray.

***

She and Sora have lunch together most days, and they spend a great deal of time sparring in the afternoons, but today Elizabeth calls a senior staff meeting just as they’re headed for the gym.

“Is something the matter?” Teyla asks as she sits, though something is quite obviously the matter.

“We’ve had a rather disturbing transmission,” Elizabeth sighs, with that pinched look she always gets when everything is falling apart.

John slouches in his chair, his face dark, and replays the transmission for Teyla.

The screen is full of static, but she can make out the speaker. “Michael,” she breathes angrily, and when she turns away, is met with five shocked faces, and Rodney, who is only attempting to appear shocked.

“You remember?” John asks. He looks as though he wants to hug her, or at least give her a hearty slap on the back. “What happened? Did you just…I can’t believe Michael, of all people, was the trigger.”

“I…”

“Was he?” Elizabeth asks.

“Of course he was!” Rodney booms. “It makes perfect sense. What with the trauma and, and the…”

Teyla cannot look at Ronon or Sora because if she does, they will certainly know, but if she does not, they will know regardless. She cannot win, and it is her own fault.

“And the head injury,” Rodney adds.

“Thank you, Rodney.” There is a pathetic tremble in her belly, but she draws herself up and turns to Elizabeth. “It is true that my memory has returned,” she says. “I believe I will see Dr. Keller later, but for now, if you will excuse me.”

Sora follows her all the way to her quarters. She does not allow herself to look at Sora until they are behind closed doors, and something in her chest plunges with dismay when she finally does, because Sora’s face is stone, the face of a soldier, a stranger, certainly not of a friend.

“Will you let me explain?”

“There is nothing to explain,” Sora says tightly. She begins gathering her things as though she has been given mere minutes to get out of Atlantis. “You have your memory back; therefore, I go home. And the rest of it…” She pulls her nightgown out from under the bed and shoves it into the bottom of her bag. “I don’t want to know.”

“I am sorry,” Teyla says, standing in the middle of her room while Sora maneuvers around her, careful not to touch. “But we have never been allowed to have this, and that is not fair.”

She has never said those words before. She has always found it ridiculous when others have uttered them; It is not fair, we have been culled three times in a row while our neighbors only once; It is not fair, my crop failed after a season of hard work; It is not fair for you to be in the City, Teyla; It is not fair, not fair, not fair. Yet now she feels the words like an old wound, a dull ache that has no cure.

“We are still not allowed,” Sora mutters as she pulls on her jacket. Teyla watches her slender fingers move over the buttons and knows there is nothing she can say.

“I believe it is you who will not allow it,” she says. “But I will go see about sending you through the stargate.”

***

Rodney volunteers to tell Sora about the arrangements, and Teyla retreats to the gym. She wants to believe she is respecting Sora’s space, but the truth is she is ashamed, both of her deception and her easy defeat. She has never folded so quickly, but she has never been in the wrong, not like this. It is a new feeling, unlike the times in Atlantis when she has questioned whether their choices were ethical, but had ultimately done what she felt was best.

This is on her alone, and she is grateful that Ronon is willing to spar with her for as long as she needs, until she is certain Sora must be gone, and that she will not have to be reminded of her mistake any more than necessary. Finally, they both collapse onto the mats, fighting for breath, her legs weak with exertion.

“It’s not that bad,” Ronon says, looking up at the patterns on the ceiling.

“What is not that bad?” she says carefully.

“What you did. If I got it right. She’s as much to blame as you, right? If she thought you didn’t remember.”

“I…” She was the one who had told the lie. Lie of omission. It is still a lie.

“Think about it,” Ronon says, and groans as he pulls himself into a sitting position. “Because I can’t go at it with you like this every day.”

He could do it twice a day and still have energy to fight the Wraith, but she smiles and pulls him to his feet. “Thank you,” she says, and rests her forehead against his for beat longer than usual.

***

When she returns to her rooms, they are messier than usual—the result of Sora’s whirlwind packing—and depressingly empty. She clears her mind as she showers, in preparation for meditation, and then lights her candles.

Her bedcovers are a wreck, so she pulls them off and is just getting situated when she spots something on her bedside table, something Sora has left behind. It is the small sack where Sora keeps her herbs and compress. When Teyla picks it up, the strong scent brings back that dull ache, yet she opens it anyhow. The compress is there, along with the small packs of herbs, and on top, a folded piece of paper, a hastily scrawled note in Sora’s hand.

You’re right, it’s not fair.

Bloom and Grow (Firefly; River/Inara; adult) for phaballa

2007-03-14T14:39:46Z

Title: Bloom and Grow
Author: victoria p. [musesfool]
Recipient: phaballa
Fandom: Firefly
Pairing: River/Inara
Rating: Adult
Summary: River longs for things she didn't know she wanted, and doesn't know how to have.
Notes: Thanks to laurificus for the beta.
Word count: 1,650 words

~*~

Bloom and Grow

On a ship the size of Serenity, secrets bloom like wildflowers; desires are hidden, words unspoken, left to echo in barely-silenced thoughts and quickly repressed feelings, a low-murmuring tide that rises, rises, rises, building to a crescendo that crashes into River's skin and blood and brain like a tsunami, until she's saturated, wet with longing for things she didn't know she wanted, doesn't know how to have.

The medications Simon gives her used to dull the sensations, muffle her responses, make her listless and wan, but with each new formulation, each tiny recalibration, her nerves are slowly coming alive again, like wires that haven't seen current in far too long sparking back to life, lighting her up from the inside out, soft and languid like the glow from a firefly on a humid summer night in her mother's garden. She’s aware of everything now, but it doesn’t hurt the way it used to, doesn’t make her want to hide; instead, like plants in full flower draw bees to drink their pollen, River is drawn out by the soft scent of jasmine perfuming the air around the shuttle when Inara bathes.

River sways with the motion of the ship, the rock and thrust of Inara's hips against her client's setting the rhythm of River's ebb and flow against her own hand, fingers sliding against slick flesh, need rising high until she can't contain it anymore, cries out with a low moan as she shakes apart in her bunk, pleasure for the first time instead of pain.

Simon's there before she's even finished coming down, Kaylee behind him, eyes wide and worried, hair sticking up at all angles.

River smiles in a way she means to be reassuring and says, "It's okay. I'm okay. My hands smell of the ocean."

Kaylee understands, even if Simon doesn't, and drags him away with a laughing backwards glance.

*

Soon, her own hands aren't enough to satisfy completely. She can still make the world go bright behind her eyes, flick and twist of her fingers at the right moment almost choking her with how good it feels, but she wants more, wants to share with someone else, wants the silky soft feel of someone else's skin against her fingers, beneath her lips.

She stands in the doorway of the shuttle, watching. She knows Inara knows she's there, but Inara continues on with what she's doing, smooth stroke of the brush through long dark hair spilling over her bare, pale shoulders.

River comes to stand behind her, meets Inara's dark eyes in the mirror, and watches patiently, hungrily, until Inara is done. When the brush is back in its place next to the heavy silver comb on the mirrored tray, and Inara has folded her neatly manicured hands on the vanity, River says, "Teach me."

Inara smiles, rises gracefully, and offers the chair to River, who sits, feeling the warmth from Inara's body against her thighs. She forces herself not to squirm.

This time, Inara brushes River’s hair, and after one or two sweet compliments on how fine it is, and how pretty, she works quietly, humming an old song under her breath, her thoughts calm as a wide blue lake River would like to swim in. Her body is on fire from every soft touch of Inara's hand, from the press of Inara's breasts against her back when she leans over River’s shoulder to pick up a barrette from the vanity, from the scent of jasmine rising from Inara's skin and hair.

She sits still when Inara lines her eyes with kohl and paints the lids with fine soft brushes and sponges, but her breathing is loud and ragged in her ears and her skin feels too tight, as if she's a ripe pomegranate ready to burst into seed if she isn't plucked soon.

When Inara leans in to line her lips in pink, River wraps her hand around Inara's wrist, skin soft and warm beneath her fingers as the satin of Inara's gown, and brings it to her mouth, pressing a kiss over the pale green veins.

"Meimei, what--"

"Teach me," River says again, swaying forward, angling her face up for a kiss.

Inara leans back, gaze dark and assessing.

River waits patiently, makes her face as open as she can, lips parted, chest heaving with the need rising in to flood them both. She thinks of offering money--she gets a cut of the take these days, now that she's a working part of the crew, and jobs have started rolling in again--but she doesn't know if it's an insult, or if the insult lies in not offering to engage her as a professional.

"You want to train to be a Companion?" Inara asks, taking River's hands and squeezing them.

"No. I want you to copulate with me." Inara's training asserts itself, because River can hear the sputter in her thoughts, but her face twitches for only a second before she smoothes it, gaze holding River's, searching. "No insult intended."

"None taken, meimei." Inara cups her cheek gently. "I'm flattered. But why?"

"Because you're beautiful, and I feel it in me, hot ache in my belly and wet rush between my thighs. An empty vessel, poured out and waiting to be filled again; a candle waiting for the match to light the flame." She turns her face into Inara's palm, presses her lips to it, lets her hair fall like a curtain across her face, holding herself still and ready for rejection. "Must I offer payment?" She rubs her hands on the soft cotton of her dress, pulling it taut over her thighs, trying to ignore the humming in her blood from the feel of Inara's skin against hers. "I have money."

Inara studies her for a long moment, and River glances at herself in the mirror, trying to see what Inara sees--eyes painted to look bigger, deeper, mouth wide as a bow, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling rapidly, nipples pressing hard and sensitive against the inside of her dress, aching for the twist of fingers, the wet heat of Inara's mouth and tongue.

"No," Inara says, her voice a tea-scented whisper against River's cheek. "No payment. You can be my protégé. I'll teach you, and--"

River doesn't let her finish, covers her lips with her own, tasting green tea and lipstick and heat, the scent of jasmine and rice powder in her nose.

Inara pulls back, laughing, not at her and her ignorance, but with joy, the sound like the wind chimes that used to hang in Mother's rock garden on Osiris, elusive and beautiful. She leads River to the big, red satin-covered bed, and they lie on it together. Inara kisses her gently and slowly, her hands never dipping below River's neckline, thumbs rubbing over her collarbones, while River squirms closer, aching for contact, for the press and rub of hands and flesh against her body. She cups Inara's breasts, eager to touch, and Inara whispers, Slowly, slowly, mouth moving over the whorls of River's ear and then down the suddenly sensitive skin of her neck.

The touch of Inara's hair, fingers, breath, over River's skin raises goosebumps, and she thinks she might die of longing before Inara ever reaches her quim with those gentle, teasing hands.

"I want," she gasps, and, "Inara, please..." And Inara's laughter thrums through her like music, the low pulse between her legs a steady drumbeat.

Finally, Inara motions for her to remove her dress, and she shimmies out of it with graceless eagerness. The cool air in the shuttle makes her nipples ache, and she touches them desperately, closing her eyes and nearly swooning at the jolt of pleasure arcing from her breasts to her quim.

Inara quickens her pace then, bending herself to meet River's near-overwhelming need, and River can only writhe and gasp under the skilled touch of her fingers and lips, the surprising sharpness of teeth against her nipples, and a hand other than her own sliding between her legs to open her up and play a syncopated rhythm on her swollen, aching flesh.

She whimpers and keens, unashamed and desperate for the pleasure Inara's kisses and touches bring her, the twist and rub of her fingers finally making River burst open with light like a star exploding.

When she gets back to her room later, she takes her dress off again and looks at herself in the mirror--sheer red smears of lipstick on her neck, breasts, and belly like bruises she wishes she could make permanent, blossoms of desire she wishes she could pluck and keep in a vase on her dresser.

*

River learns how to make Inara melt and sigh, knows that it's real, no Companion's artifices clever enough to fool her when they're this close, her tongue lapping at slick pink flesh, three fingers twisting in and up inside Inara's body, making her hips rise off the bed--River feels all of it vibrating through her, echoed and magnified, like the sound of church bells in a valley, ringing off the mountains and the empty air.

She knows this abandon in her arms, at her touch, is different from what Inara's clients see--they get only what they pay for, which is use of her body and her understanding ear. With River, there are no sharp edges or angry words, the way there are between Inara and the captain, and no jealousy or fear of sin to cast shadows on the sanctity of who Inara is, or what she does--just the easy flow of two bodies becoming one flesh, broken bits slowly rubbing smooth. River gets Inara's love and her laughter, confidences exchanged in the humid dark space under the covers that smells of perfume and sex, of Inara and River together.

It's yet another secret blooming inside Serenity's cradling walls, and one River happily keeps.

end

~*~

SGA: The History of an Alliance (Teyla/Sora)

2007-03-14T10:58:54Z

Title: The History of an Alliance
Author: bluflamingo
Recipient: mdashed (written as a back-up)
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: Teyla/Sora
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1885
Disclaimer: Not my characters and it's a deep shame that I'm making no profit from this.
Summary: Building an alliance between two peoples takes time...

The History of an Alliance

Beauty (Zoe/Inara, River's POV)

2007-03-14T04:14:36Z

Title: Beauty
Author: slartibartfast
Recipient: bluflamingo
Fandom: Firefly
Pairing: Zoe/Inara (River's POV)
Rating: R
Word count: 1031
Summary: River loves beauty, and she sees it there.

River loves beauty.

She loves to see it, taste it, feel it. She loves to experience it in all its forms. She always has. Every time she plucked another berry of knowledge from the tree she would glow with perfection. The universe is beautiful, River knows, and all she can do to appreciate that is to know as much of it as possible.

Which is why, aboard this gracefully clumsy ship strolling through the black, she is the first to know about the beauty that is forming slowly right in front of them.

The first sign was subtle enough that she had almost missed it. Just a brief touch of skin at dinner, dark on light as both women reached for the same cup. Inara’s eyes showed nothing but River knew something deep and strange planted itself in the woman’s elegant mind. Zoë met her eye for just the briefest second but that was enough for the seed to take root.

Now the seedling is struggling to grow in such a neglected environment; Inara forces it away, refuses to feed it. Zoë moves on through her slow, unhappy path, and it’s not long before River wishes to feed the seedling of beauty herself, bring something fresh and new to a stale situation. She doesn’t; it remains too fragile.

Sometimes, Inara’s eye will linger a little too long on the woman across the table or along the stretch of corridor. Sometimes, Zoë will notice and she will frown just a little, then turn her mind away. Sometimes, though, their eyes will meet, and that is the sunlight the seedling needs to grow stronger, straighter, taller.

It is surprising how long it takes for anyone else to notice this scrap of beauty, and it is surprising that the one to see it is Jayne. Jayne, the coarse and crude mercenary; he sees what River sees far before either of the women involved. River watches him, one morning. Inara, already settled back enough to wander in her casual gowns as before, sits with a heated drink at the table. Zoë passes through like a heavy breeze, barely pausing as she steps past. River curls her toes and smiles. She sees the smirk lay itself solidly across Jayne’s twisted mouth.

She stares at him. He notices and makes some remark she doesn’t care for. When Inara snaps at him, the beauty falls forgotten for a second. The first time in days, now.

The next client the Companion brings on board bears an intrinsic beauty that lights up River’s eyes as she watches her step on board. A woman. Rare, but River is not surprised. She holds herself with strength that seems familiar somehow.

River feels the moment when Inara realises who she has chosen, this time.

There’s a pass of a soft hand over dark, deceptively delicate skin. There are fingers running through thick black curls and ghosting under haunted eyes. Inara hesitates, her mind snagging on a thought she never wished for; the woman questions it but the role is the Companion’s disguise and she kisses away the doubt.

In the morning, Inara smiles at Zoë when they pass in the galley, but it isn’t returned. The beauty barely wilts. It has grown strong in the night, flourished in Inara’s fantasies. One day soon, River knows, it shall bloom, and no one will be able to ignore it.

The Captain doesn’t notice. Zoë and Mal talk quietly one evening – or it would be evening, were they graced by the natural sun sinking below some landscape or other – and Inara passes through with River at her side. Their hands are clasped in friendship and Zoë turns as they walk in. Is that some kind of confused jealousy in her dark eyes? Such a sharp emotion, but it doesn’t cut down the beauty. Nothing can do that now.

The Captain talks on as his first mate meets the eye of his forgotten obsession. The moment is lost as he calls for her attention. River grips tighter at Inara’s warm hand, offering her a smile of understanding. It embarrasses the Companion. Her grip slips away and she walks on.

Zoë comes to Inara’s shuttle a few gentle days later. It’s business, but simple business shouldn’t be – can’t be – performed in such a place, where Inara holds such complex relations. Zoë knows that, avoids the place most of the time, but River felt her feet on the warmed floor, felt the casual touch of a hand against an arm, felt the dark promise of a smile almost showing itself for the first time. It dies before it reaches Zoë’s lips, but it already haunts the eyes.

Inara knows and the beauty grows, twisting tight around her heart despite all her defences. She would close off now, if she could, but the most she can do is politely close the door behind the woman as she leaves.

“Is this happening?” she asks River in a whisper, later on. River just smiles at her in return, tilting her head back into the stroke of the soft brush through her hair. Inara sighs but her movements don’t still.

River is captivated by the beauty, now. It holds her mind as much as theirs. She speaks of it to her brother but he just frowns, brushes her brow as if to polish away such thoughts. He knows now, though. He looks at them in the same light that is forcing the beauty into the view of the others, budding tightly, the petals of honesty threatening to break free.

It’s a year since he left then so violently. Zoë sits like a noble statue in her room. Her door is unlocked. When Inara comes down to it, no one is surprised. There’s the soft press of a weight on the bed. River’s eyes close in time with Zoë’s. Hands touch, warmth spreads and just like that, the beauty blooms between them. It shines and shimmers and tentatively swells.

River takes her brother’s advice, then. Beauty can be a private thing. She withdraws and leaves it to flourish.

By the morning, Zoë is smiling again, and beauty has found its way back aboard Serenity.

and the big bad wolf (Doctor Who, Rose/Martha, PG)

2007-03-13T23:03:53Z

Title: and the big bad wolf
Author: leyenn
Recipient: honeymink
Fandom: Doctor Who (new)
Pairing: Rose Tyler/Martha Jones
Rating: PG
Word count: 1998
Spoilers: Alternate post-Doomsday, spoilers really only for Parting Of The Ways.
Summary: Inside the TARDIS, Martha met a girl.
Note: Humble apologies for being a bit late. I hope it's worth the wait! *collapses in a heap*

i: bang (not the beginning)

Rose nudges her over a little more in the bed, and she moans – irritated and half asleep, not sexy at all – and tries to steal back some of the duvet from the slow and tactical invasion into her space that's been progressing steadily for the last hour.

Rose mutters something about frogs. She opens one eye just slightly and raises the same eyebrow, just about awake enough to be amused.

"Rose. Oi." She nudges back. There's no response. She smirks, turns over into a warm pillow covered with strands of well-messed blonde hair, and trails her cool fingers over Rose's stomach.

There's a twitch, but nothing else. Rose can beat the dead at sleeping late. So she moves her hand further, tickles that little sweet spot in the curve of a hip -

"Mm. Mm. Hmgh."

Blurry eyes open, see her, and she gets a groan and a smile. "Oi yourself," Rose says, voice throaty and almost not-hers the way it always is just when she wakes up.

"Duvet," Martha says succinctly, not phased, and yanks hard enough to retrieve some if not all of her lost territory. Rose makes a face.

"'m cold."

"It's the TARDIS. It's always warm."

"We're in space. That's always cold."

She can't argue with that. It seems like the easiest thing to do is snuggle for warmth, which is not precisely a burden whichever way she looks at it. More duvet and the added heat of Rose, tangling up around her like it's the most comfortable place to be at the beginning of the universe.

Maybe it is.

"Mm." Rose is good at those little dark-time noises (there are no nights in the TARDIS). They're the ones that sink right into Martha's skin and make her lungs feel hot and her scalp tingle. "'s nice."

She blows a strand of blonde hair out of her mouth and smiles. "Mm."

Rose laughs. "Mm?"

"Mm-hm." She nuzzles a little more; Rose is warm and soft, and she'd never guess they were hanging in space inside a living space ship shaped like a police box. "You think he's done yet?" she murmurs, and Rose laughs in her ear.

"Nah. I've seen him tinker like this for days."

Martha sighs. "Best leave him to it then, should we?"

"Mm," Rose says, and pulls the duvet in closer around them both.

ii: the dark ages

It's the first proto-planet she's ever seen.

"It's the first proto-planet there is," the Doctor says proudly, like he's just sculpted it with his own two hands. "Gorgeous, that. Gorgeous! The beginning of worlds. Brilliant, eh?"

"Brilliant," Rose says, grinning, and the words make her chin dig into Martha's shoulder just as her arms squeeze around her waist. Martha's glad of that something - someone - solid behind her, because it's dizzying to stare out at empty space through the doors of what she knows looks like a wooden box and yet somehow not be dying.

The Doctor looks at Rose the same way he looks at the planet: like he's made her, made the gleeful voice that comes out of her mouth at seeing something like this. Martha has an uncomfortable suspicion that he has. She's not sure that's something she likes.

"Hang on," Rose says. "Where's the star? Planets form around stars, right?"

"No stars yet," the Doctor says. "Not for a few more million years at least. No more planets, either. Just this little thing and its twin, like a couple of marbles gathering up dust. Unique in the universe."

Martha looks at him. The light in his eyes, it's the same as the shine in Rose's. "Twin?"

He grins at her then, that same look, that pride, and she isn't sure if Rose is hugging her or that's just her heart expanding. "There. Look -" and he points and she can see it there, just sneaking out from behind the curve of the world: a second horizon.

iii: monsters and wolves

It is Croydon and it is the 9th of April.

Unfortunately, it is also 89,014,676 B.C., and it happens to be lunchtime. At least according to the hungry but dumb Tyrannosaurus that won't take 'sorry, no' for an answer.

"We're going to die," Rose says miserably, only half-joking. "Eaten by a dumb dinosaur."

"Can't you..." Martha waves her hand in the general direction of where they left the TARDIS. Rose makes a face.

"It really really doesn't work like that."

"So how does it work?" Because she's been dying to know since she first saw the - whatever it is that Rose is, and if she's really about to become appetiser for a Tyrannosaurus then this is a question she'd quite like answered while her head's still attached.

"Don't know. Don't really remember." Rose shrugs. "Just sort of... it's just there, y'know? In my head. Like she gets into everyone's head. Except I feel it."

It's such an easy explanation that Martha almost thinks she can understand it. She didn't think it would be like that, she thought it would be something complicated and weird and insane, not that it would make sense.

"What's it feel like?" she asks. Rose looks at her like she's gone mad.

"We're in a cave, hiding from a Tyrannosaurus that's probably eaten our only rescuer by now, and you want to know how the TARDIS feels?"

Martha looks at her, thinking about it, like she thinks she agrees with the craziness of that. Outside there's a roar... followed by a slightly puzzled and very upset bugle of pain.

They don't turn around, don't look, don't really need to: Rose just grins and grabs her hand and kisses her, open-mouthed and a hot tongue and quick fingers in her hair. It burns with heat, light explodes in her mind and she knows, oh, of course, of course it has to feel like this.

iv: revolution is good for the soul

The Doctor has a preoccupation with the French Revolution now, for reasons best left to themselves, and they humour him mainly because - well, he's the Doctor. And it's his TARDIS, no matter whose brain it occasionally enjoys the use of.

And it means an excuse to wear absurd dresses and dance at night in the gardens at Versailles, which is wickedly romantic in anyone's book, especially when you've gone all the way back to Eighteenth Century France to do it.

The bodice makes it hard to breathe, or maybe that's the feeling of Rose pressed up against her, the swell of her breasts against low-cut fabric just too close, close enough to press skin to skin with her own. Too close for Martha not to want to lean down and kiss the expanse of skin there that looks so good...

She does, and Rose moans.

"Bad idea," she whispers. "Bad. Very. Um. Bad. Martha..."

"Time machine," Martha says, as if that fact might have slipped either of their minds. "The perfect getaway car." She finds the laces behind Rose's back, catches silk between her fingers and gets to work.

"Can't get caught, we were never here..." Rose says, starting to smile, reaching. This time the light in her eyes is all her own.

v: no place like home (and this is no place like home)

Inside the TARDIS, Martha meets a girl.

The irony is that Martha should never have even seen the TARDIS, never have stepped inside, certainly never have wandered down the long corridor that she's now lost in, that seems to actually go on forever. Martha Jones was supposed to be at work this morning, on the start of a new shift on a new ward that just happens to be on the far side of the car park that she didn't quite make it across. If she'd taken the bus instead of wasting cash on petrol, she wouldn't have even been here.

Why did she come in here, anyway? She's not sure, she thinks she shouldn't have, and now she can't find her way out again. And she does not want to think about why the hell a rickety old box that shouldn't even be parked - parked! - in her spot has corridors that take half an hour to walk down.

"It's bigger on the inside," a smiling voice says, right behind her. She spins around and falls over.

There's a girl. The girl. She's white, blonde, pretty, a little on the cheap side of Martha's fashion choices but not half bad, she looks about Martha's age.

Her eyes are glowing.

"It likes you," the girl says, and her voice is like a chorus, like the white light in her eyes is speaking. Martha shivers, almost with anticipation - and just like that the light fades and those eyes are blue, so blue.

"She, likes you," the girl says in an easy London accent, and reaches out to take Martha's hand. "Come on. There's someone she wants you to meet."

"Who are you? What is this thing - place - whatever?"

"I'm Rose." The girl turns around. "Welcome to the TARDIS. Who're you, anyway?"

"Martha," she says. "I'm Martha Jones. You're, um. You're parked in my space. Well, almost my space. My space on Tuesdays, anyway."

"Oh." Rose looks like she's thinking about that, but what comes out of her mouth after a moment is only, "It's Tuesday? I lose track."

She tugs her hand free and takes a step back. It's all crazy, and this girl is making her chest thud with something beyond adrenaline and she doesn't know what to do with it. "What are you, on drugs?"

"Hey, just a free spirit," Rose says, and takes her hand again. This time a couple of fingers manage to slip between hers. "Come on. He'll run off if we don't catch up quick. He's like her, never wants to stay put for more than five minutes. Bet he's in trouble already!"

Then they're running down the corridor and Martha isn't sure she wants to ask who he or she are because she's got a strange feeling, from Rose's hand in hers, that the answer's not as exciting as discovering the question in the first place.

vi: end of the road that never ends

Rose is sobbing on her shoulder, clinging to her like the world's ending, and Martha's holding her so tight because she can't say it's not.

She studied for five years to be able to fix this, and she's helpless. There's nothing she can do. Nothing.

His eyes are open and it takes a moment through her tears to realise he's looking at her, not through her, not the dead stare she's waiting for.

"Doctor," she whispers, and the word rasps at her throat. It's a plea, a please, please tell me I can do something. "Doctor?"

"...Rose..." he says, through the foam of blood on his lips, and Rose cries and her knees hit the hard ground even though Martha's trying to let her kneel, not fall, beside him.

"...if... the ears grow back... kill me again..." he whispers, and Rose laughs like she wants to choke on the sound. Martha holds her tight, still, and makes her own lip bleed with the pressure of not screaming as his head falls limp. Rose's fingers shake as she reaches out to touch him.

And then the light...

Where We Are Right Now (FF, Inara/Kaylee) by sheepfairy

2007-03-13T21:58:43Z

Title: Where We Are Right Now
Author: sheepfairy
Recipient: yamapea
Fandom: Firefly
Pairing: Inara/Kaylee
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Takes place after Serenity.
Word count: 1010

Inara left once, and she might leave again.

Just Another Day in the Pegasus Galaxy (Stargateverse Elizabeth/Vala)

2007-03-13T17:39:53Z

Title: Just Another Day in the Pegasus Galaxy
Author: chelle
Recipient: cdybedahl
Fandom: Stargateverse
Pairing: Elizabeth Weir/Vala mal Doran
Rating: NC 17
Word count: 1,781

Summary: Public sex to a driving-not-disco beat, it was every woman's fantasy.

"She has a lot of skills," Daniel had said.

Elizabeth had taken that to mean, "Please take her with you so I can work in peace."

Arching back, lifting her hips, Elizabeth had to concede that Vala did, indeed, have skills.

***
Hours Earlier

Only years of diplomatic experience allowed Elizabeth to smile at the man across from her. Sheratus was looking her over in a manner that was all too familiar. She'd spent more hours than she wanted to think about dealing with men who felt women belonged either in the kitchen or on their backs.

So she smiled.

She smiled when his eyes fell to her breasts while they discussed an exchange of medical information.

She smiled when he asked about weapons, and why she was unmarried.

She smiled a genuine smile when he finally agreed to allow Atlantis' scientists access to the Ancient ruins north of the city.

But when he began describing the Riatyn's traditional treaty ceremony, her smile faltered.

***

Elizabeth wasn't a woman prone to fits of temper. She could be a little snappish but only when pushed by something like, oh, the destruction of a solar system.

Or a treaty agreement that required sex to finalize it.

"Can you believe… Of all the…" She was pacing back and forth in the main room of the suite she and Vala were sharing. Major Lorne and two of his Marines were next door. "That dirty, perverted, twisted…"

"I have an idea."

Elizabeth stopped her pacing. She'd almost forgotten Vala was in the room. Rising from the chair where she'd been watching Elizabeth pace, Vala walked toward her. "You need to get into those ruins, right?"

According to the Ancient database, the ruins had been a lab for ZPM research, although calling them ruins was a bit of misnomer, like all Ancient sites it was remarkably well-preserved, at least it appeared to be. Elizabeth nodded.

"And unless you go through with this ceremony, no deal?"

Elizabeth nodded again.

Vala tilted her head, a small smile forming on her lips. "The way I see it, if they expect you to respect their culture then they need to respect yours. And your culture requires a few changes to the ceremony."

Why hadn't she thought of that, Elizabeth wondered.

Vala slipped her arm through Elizabeth's. "Shall we go speak with the chauvinistic pervert?"

***

"You do not respect our ways," Sheratus said. If Elizabeth had a dime for every time she'd heard that line…

Vala leaned across the table toward him, resting a hand on his arm, allowing him a peak down her partially opened shirt. Elizabeth had to admit, the woman had a way with men--a blatant, obvious, take-no-prisoners way--but Elizabeth wasn't one to argue with success. "Of course we respect your ways. What's not to respect? We are simply asking that you respect ours."

Sheratus glanced at Elizabeth who was standing behind Vala, his irritation obvious.

"We simply cannot allow someone who has not been consecrated to touch Dr. Weir. It simply isn't done," Vala continued.

"I touched her hand when we were introduced," Sheratus pointed out.

Vala leaned back and took Elizabeth's hand in her own, pressing it to the area just under her shoulder, almost touching Vala's breast. "We allow such things in the name of diplomacy." Vala began tracing Elizabeth's wrist with her fingers, sliding them slowly upward. "But other places may only be touched by those who have undergone the proper training. We could never allow someone as important as Dr. Weir to be pleasured by someone without the correct," Vala paused and smiled softly, "knowledge."

His eyes were glued to Elizabeth's arm, to the motion of Vala's fingers. "Perhaps a compromise can be reached that would be acceptable to both our peoples."

***

In the end, she'd had to order Lorne and his men away from the temple. He'd grumbled, but he'd agreed to remain outside unless she called for him.

She was wearing a traditional Riatyn gown. The fabric was soft, but light blue wasn’t really her color. It draped in ways the revealed almost as much as the dress covered, and it was tied with a single sash.

She wasn't wearing anything underneath.

Vala had been allowed to wear her own clothes. Tight black leather pants with a matching vest that showed off the curve of her shoulders. Elizabeth was tempted to ask why she carried that outfit with her, but looking at her the answer was obvious.

It had been explained to the Riatyn that in honor of the Atlantean's traditions, Vala would be standing in for Sheratus. No one had protested. Elizabeth suspected they were all happy not to have to see him naked again.

The priest conducting the ceremony nodded, and Elizabeth leaned forward to receive a chaste kiss from Vala. "We aren't married, are we?" Vala whispered.

Elizabeth shook her head.

"Good, because I have plans for Daniel."

The priest made a sweeping gesture at the altar behind him, where the not-so-symbolic sharing that would cement the treaty was to take place. Vala placed a hand on Elizabeth's arm and led her up the steps.

Somewhere, someone started beating on a drum.

Public sex to a driving-not-disco beat, it was every woman's fantasy.

They reached the altar and Vala tugged on the sash. The dress crumbled to Elizabeth's feet, leaving her naked in a temple full of strangers.

"Don't think about them," Vala said softly. "Think about me. I'm more interesting anyway."

Elizabeth had no doubt of that, and she started to smile in spite of the anxiety that was making her heart pound.

Vala kissed her, just Vala's lips caressing hers. It was nice, very nice, and Elizabeth leaned into it, seeking Vala's mouth again as soon as the kiss ended.

Bare arms slid around her waist, pulling her close, then closer still until she was pressed full length against Vala, bare skin on leather. Elizabeth's own hands were on Vala's exposed shoulders.

Vala bent her backward as they kissed until Elizabeth's back touched the altar. There wasn't room on the altar for her legs and Elizabeth wondered if that was on purpose or if it had originally been used for something else. Maybe it had multiple uses, besides sex with unsuspecting would-be-allies. Daniel would have cared, would have been curious, but Elizabeth, surprisingly, wasn't. She had Vala's mouth to think about, the sweet taste belying the knowing eroticism in her tongue and lips.

When Vala tried to draw back, Elizabeth wrapped an arm around her neck to keep her in place. "I'm supposed to be your pleasure expert," Vala whispered. "I have to pleasure you."

For a brief, crazy moment Elizabeth almost said, "You are pleasuring me." Which Vala was if kissing someone and lying on top of her while clad in leather counted as pleasuring.

Vala drew back, standing between Elizabeth's spread legs, and ran her hands over Elizabeth's chest, circling the sides of her breasts then moving down Elizabeth's sides to her hips before going up again. It felt nice.

It felt more than nice when Vala brushed her nipple with a thumb, causing Elizabeth to make a small sound deep in her throat.

Vala smiled. She was beautiful. Elizabeth had noticed her beauty the first time they'd met; it was something not even the drab SGC uniform and the pigtails could hide. But Vala's beauty wasn't the fresh-scrubbed, girl-next-door beauty Carter had, Vala's beauty was dangerous, seductive in a way that said those drawn in by it might find themselves forever changed.

Vala kissed her stomach and Elizabeth sucked in a breath. The damn drum was beating faster now, louder, matching Elizabeth's quickening pulse as Vala's lips moved higher.

Sweet, sweet suction on her breast made her arch. Made her moan. She hadn't had a lover in so long, and her own fingers couldn’t do this, couldn't pull the pleasure right through her.

Vala's hand was between them, cupping her sex. Elizabeth couldn't help it, she lifted her hips, pushed herself against the offered touch.

In answer, Vala slipped her fingers between Elizabeth's folds, but it was only a small touch, not enough, not nearly enough.

Vala switched to the other breast, sucking, fingers pressing a little harder.

Elizabeth clutched at her shoulders, but Vala slipped away.

She kissed the inside of Elizabeth's thigh, and then she was parting Elizabeth's lips, holding her open, breathing on her and then touching her tongue to Elizabeth's clit.

Just that touch was enough to make her come, a small jolt of pleasure making her want more.

Vala teased her, sliding her tongue over and around the place where Elizabeth most wanted it. Elizabeth tried to hold on but her fingers slipped on the smooth marble. A light flick of tongue, right where she needed it, then another, and another.

She came again, lifting her hips, practically humping Vala's face. Vala wrapped her arms around Elizabeth's thighs, holding her open, holding her still. Then she closed her lips around Elizabeth's clit and sucked.

Elizabeth shook; she shook and shook. She was still shaking when Vala let go of her legs and slid the wooden phallus inside.

She'd known about the phallus. It had been part of the negotiations, a condition for allowing Vala to take Sheratus's place. But it still surprised a groan from her.

It was thick and Elizabeth was tight. She closed her eyes and breathed into the stretch.

"Are you all right?" Vala asked, leaning over her.

Elizabeth opened her eyes. "Fine." Just because she'd had an orgasm in front of a bunch of strangers and was now being fucked by an alien-made dildo, that didn’t mean she wasn't fine.

Vala's expression was doubtful, but she moved the dildo back and then in again anyway.

It was an okay feeling, nothing like Vala's mouth, but then the angle shifted and that was better, much better.

Vala circled Elizabeth's clit with her thumb, moving the dildo a little faster, and she began to believe that maybe Vala had had training because the two sensations together were almost too much.

The damn drum was faster now, harder. Elizabeth barely noticed. She was too caught up in what was being done to her clit and the hardness filling her, fucking her.

This time her orgasm pulled her shoulders from the marble, made her curl upward, as the tension grew even tighter before finally letting her go.

***

"There is just one problem with your plan," Elizabeth had said. "I'm not a lesbian."

Vala had smiled. "Neither am I."

With Vala spread out on the bed beneath her, Elizabeth decided that they might both be wrong.

Pushed Up Against A Wall (Doctor Who, Rose/Sarah Jane, NC-17)

2007-03-13T06:53:36Z

Title: Pushed Up Against A Wall
Author: Joanne
Recipient: leyenn
Fandom: Doctor Who (new)
Pairing: Rose Tyler/Sarah Jane Smith (very brief mentions of other pairings including Rose/Doctor and Ianto/Owen)
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1, 529 per MSWord
Spoilers/Continuity: Post-Doomsday, set on the alt!world, mention of AU versions of Torchwood characters. Spoilers for Rose backstory mostly.
Summary: Sometimes, all you want to do is be pushed up against a wall and kissed. And the person who can do that is not always who you think it will be.
Disclaimers: Doctor Who and all the characters mentioned herein belong to the BBC and Russell T. Davies
Notes: Thanks to leyenn for requesting this pairing, I've been very badly wanting to write Rose femslash and your request was the perfect motivation. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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

Rose had never quite felt as alive as she did when Sarah Jane Smith fucked her.

Whether it was that wicked, sinful tongue drawing moans and screams from deep inside her throat as it lashed her clit or pushed inside her, those maddeningly clever fingers probing her wet folds, the bright, hot fullness of Sarah's fist inside her, or one of the many toys they liked to play with, Rose never felt more alive or fulfilled than when Sarah was making her scream.

Except when she could make Sarah scream in the same way.

Rose could still remember the first time, both first times really. But the first time Sarah had actually pushed through her boundaries would remain etched in her mind.

"She's on the warpath again," Ianto had whispered to Rose as he pressed the intercom to let Sarah know Rose was there to talk to her. "Or still..." he grinned.

"Was about to say, when isn't she?" Rose smiled at Ianto. He was a sweet boy. She'd even tried - at her mother and Pete's enthusiastic urging - going on a date or two with him, but, as she had feared, he'd never quite measured up to the Doctor. It wasn't that she compared - except when she totally did - every man to him. She knew she had to move on, and, honestly, if Ianto had stayed available to her and they'd continued to see each other, they might have eased their way into something worth a lot to them. But that cocky, arrogant doctor (with a small d) Owen Harper had turned up and turned Ianto's head six ways from Sunday and Rose had known he would make Ianto happier than she ever could. So it was simple, really. There weren't even many regrets.

Rose winced slightly as the door opened, and she heard Sarah's shouts at an unsuspecting tea boy. This wasn't going to be easy.

"Good luck," Ianto whispered to her. "I'll check on you if you don't come out in a few hours." He winked.

"Thanks, Ianto," Rose winked back and smoothed down the jacket of her suit. She didn't always take the trouble to dress formally for these meetings but today she'd actually had time to do so, and she was dressed in a dark green jacket and skirt, with a lighter green blouse, which Jackie had declared to be perfect.

Stepping into the office, Rose thought again of how different this Sarah was to the one she'd met before. Not only because of the capacity to yell, she really was a different woman, never having travelled with the Doctor. Sarah had ended up recruited early to Torchwood, and had built up a reputation at having great skill in dealing with aliens.

It hadn't surprised Rose when Sarah had taken her under her wing. They got along well and Sarah seemed to be grooming Rose to be her younger self. And as Rose liked to have something to take her mind off her emotional meltdown, it was natural to focus on what Sarah had achieved and what Rose wanted to get out of this.

And she didn't need to keep up her walls about the Doctor around Sarah.

"New threat?" Rose asked her as she sat down across the desk.

"You could say that," Sarah answered and started in on the explanation. There was a new species - or, possibly, a subset of an old one, they couldn't be certain - emerging. A few people had had to be given retcon or persuaded they were seeing things that weren't there.

"That could be dangerous," Rose said. "It doesn't sound like anything I've seen..."

Sarah nodded and took some more notes. "How are you? Enjoy the date with the boy from R&D?"

Rose was surprised Sarah knew about that. "He wasn't even as good company as Ianto," she admitted. "I sometimes wish..."

"What?" Sarah asked her.

"That I could find someone to sweep me off my feet, like... like he did." She'd never admitted that outside of her own mind.

"What do you mean?"

"It seems," Rose stumbled a bit, "that everyone I meet here is so bloody cautious. I don't even have to mention... him. It just all seems like they want to take things so slowly." She blushed. "What I wouldn't give for someone to just press me against a wall and kiss me."

"Ianto's more the type to get pressed against the wall," Sarah noted. "Wouldn't have thought it of you, though... so tough and go getting."

"I like doing the pressing well enough," Rose answered her. "Just that for some reason, I start better if I get pressed first, you know? Mickey didn't press first. Jimmy Stone did," she said, simply.

"That makes sense," Sarah nodded. She stepped out from behind her desk and Rose stood automatically.

The surprise came when Sarah took Rose by the shoulders and kissed her long and deep. Rose squeaked slightly, and then, her lips pressed to Sarah's.

"Wall available on request," Sarah purred as she moved her lips back enough to speak.

Rose was stunned. Her lips were tingling and her pussy was wet from just the kiss. She was shaking. It wasn't like she and Shareen hadn't fooled around, both to impress boys and sometimes when there weren't boys around to impress, but only one person had ever made her so hot so fast. No. Two now.

"Sarah?" she whispered. "I didn't... you?"

"Me," she nodded. "If... you want, of course. I know not everyone... swings that way. I only do sometimes - but you make me want it."

Rose didn't answer her in words, but pulled her skirt up and pressed Sarah's hand to her panties. "Feel that?" she croaked. "All from the kiss. Oooh..." for Sarah had started to stroke her aroused clit through the thin fabric of her panties. "Fuck me!" she cried out. "Stop pussyfooting around and shag me, Sarah!"

"One moment, my impatient girl," Sarah said, and she moved to the desk, telling Ianto to hold all calls, then to the door to lock it. "We don't need interruptions, do we?" she asked, a carnal light in her eyes.

"No," Rose agreed, still standing there, dishevelled, skirt up around her waist, legs apart, pussy so wet it could be seen outlined through her panties from the juices she'd released.

"So beautiful, so wanton," Sarah whispered as she removed her clothes, quickly, then Rose's. "Oh, you're stunning," she murmured at the beautiful skin and body Rose revealed to her.

"You too," Rose said, touching her hesitantly. "Please..." she whimpered when Sarah's fingers plucked at her nipples. "More..."

"Sit on the desk," Sarah said, "and spread your legs for me."

Rose hopped up onto the desk and spread her thighs, moaning at the feel of the cool air on her pussy. She screamed when Sarah knelt and licked, a long strip from the top to the bottom. And repeated it. Again and again, adding thrusts inside her wet entrance and light nips to her clit. "Fuck, yes, god, Sarah, need..." she was screaming in ecstasy, and thinking it couldn't possibly feel any better when Sarah's tongue lashing finally sent her over and she fell backwards onto the desk, unable to support herself any more and gasping with the ripples of pleasure still moving through her.

Sarah stood and moved around to stand above Rose. "Did you like that?"

Rose nodded. "Oh yes...yes..." she smiled. "Wonderful and amazing and can we do it again? Or..." realising, "can I... make you feel this good?"

"Can you?" Sarah asked, smiling.

"I can try. I've never really... just fooling around with Shareen... it was nice, but..."

"You've never actually made love to a woman?" Sarah asked.

"Is this...?"

"It's not just sex," Sarah answered. "Whatever else it is... it's not that."

"I always thought it'd be a guy. The one who could make me put him behind me. But I think it's... you," Rose whispered, sitting up and resting her head on Sarah's shoulder. Her lips touched Sarah's neck and trailed up to kiss her lips. She moved, straddling Sarah in the chair. "Open your pretty legs," Rose whispered and touched Sarah's pussy lightly. "Oh nice..." her fingers pressed in, slowly, enjoying the new sensations, and Sarah's moans. "You like this?" she asked, and pressed her thumb to Sarah's clit, like she liked to do herself.

"Just... god, don't stop!" Sarah cried out.

Rose didn't stop until Sarah was a satiated mass of female flesh under her, and she kissed her softly. "Thank you. I want to try this..."

Sarah smiled. "Good. We'll see how it goes..." she touched Rose's cheek softly. "There's so much I want to try with you..."

"We could start by seeing if there are any alien sex toys in the archives?" Rose suggested with a cheeky smile.

"Forget the alien ones," Sarah answered with a grin. "I keep a few things around here..." she stood up. "But that's nothing compared to what I have at home. You're coming home with me tonight..."

"Forever if you want me to," Rose said.

She always had made these decisions quickly.

FINIS
*********************************************

"Past the Setting Sun" by tellitslant (Torchwood/Doctor Who, Suzie Costello/Rose Tyler)

2007-03-13T06:43:00Z

Title: Past the Setting Sun
Author: tellitslant
Recipient: livii
Fandom: Torchwood/Doctor Who (spoilery through S2 of DW and 1x08 of TW)
Pairing: Suzie Costello/Rose Tyler
Rating: PG
Word count: 1300
Disclaimer: RTD's, not mine.
Summary: There is always something coming in the dark.

Office Romance

2007-03-13T05:17:53Z

Title: Office Romance
Author: maekala
Recipient: soft_princess
Fandom: Bones
Pairing: Brennan/Angela
Rating: PG
Word count: ~2000
Disclaimer: Bones is owned by Fox. I gain nothing from writing this except a plot bunny off my chest.
Summary: When Hodgins asked Angela out in "The Girl With The Curl," there was more about her rejection than was stated.

Author's Notes: I have only seen to "The Girl With The Curl," so if there was more about their relationship after that, I haven't seen it. Besides...I like my way better. ;)

Also, sorry this is late, but the end of the day creeped up on me.

Office Romance

The deadline has passed.

2007-03-13T05:13:55Z

If you're a femslash07 participant and you have not a) already posted your story or b) notified us of a delay/dropout, YOU ARE LATE.

To be more specific, we have ~~nine~~ five stories still unaccounted for. That's not including people who have already told us they'll be late, and of course not including people who have kindly volunteered to pinch hit.

If you are one of those ~~nine~~ five missing writers, you have 3 options:

1) Post your story right now. Like, right now.
2) Contact us, either by commenting to this post or by emailing femslashmods @ gmail.com, and drop out so we can find a pinch hitter for your assignment as quickly as possible.
3) Contact us, either by commenting to this post or by emailing femslashmods @ gmail.com, and let us know you'll be late. Tell us when the story will be finished. Be specific. Do not be later than this Thursday.

If we do not hear from you in the next 23 hours, we will consider you a dropout and find a pinch hitter for your assignment, AND YOU WILL NOT BE ABLE TO PARTICIPATE IN FEMSLASH '08. If you do not post a story by Thursday, even if you have notified us of a delay, we will consider you a dropout and find a pinch hitter for your assignment, AND YOU WILL NOT BE ABLE TO PARTICIPATE IN FEMSLASH '08.

Being late is a really, really bad thing in a ficathon of this size. It's disappointing for your recipient, who probably turned in her story on time and is looking forward to receiving her gift. It's frustrating for us mods, who would really like to kick back with a bubble bath and a mai tai at this point. And it's an imposition on another writer, who has to hurry up and write a pinch hit with very little lead time. So it really benefits everyone to resolve this as fast as possible. Thank you.

What Little Girls Are Made Of

2007-03-13T04:58:12Z

Title: What Little Girls Are Made Of
Author: thelastgoodname
Recipient: bofoddity
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: Buffy/Faith
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1750
Disclaimer: not mine, never were, not ever going to be.
Summary: "Sugar and spice and all that's nice; that's what little girls are made of. Frogs and snails and puppy-dogs' tails; that's what ~~little boys~~ Faith is made of." Buffy gets Faith a birthday present.

What Little Girls Are Made Of