Femslash ficathon 2009

Masterlist by fandom

2009-07-26T19:27:41Z

And we're DONE. (Now, please, let me know if I missed your story - I think I'm done!)

Thanks so much to our awesome pinch hitters: templemarker, templemarker, musesfool, havocthecat, honeymink, mosca, netgirl_y2k, paperflowered, queenzulu, shopfront, shyath, ariestess and rawiyaparand. Please let me know if I forgot someone, eep!

For this masterlist, only author is listed.

All My Children
Things You Don't Want To Forget, Bianca/Maggie by a_spare_person

Babysitters Club
Chance Encounter, Dawn/Kristy by monalisaofpasta

Bones
Fell Just Like A Star, Cam/Temperance by pene
And then she said hello, Angela/Penelope by templemarker (crossover with Criminal Minds)

Buffyverse
Vampirism is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have without Taking Her Clothes Off, Darla/Drusilla by jaspreetpink
Perchance To ..., Cordelia/Faith by havocthecat
Where Are You Going, Buffy/Faith by buffyfreak31
Games We Play, Buffy/Tara by lily_lovely

Criminal Minds
Because God Is a Capable Mathematician When It Comes To Remorse, Ziva/JJ by callmesandy (crossover with NCIS.)
All Around the World (Or, Four Times Emily Prentiss Should Have Talked to Ziva David (And One Time She Did)), Ziva/Emily by llyfrgell (crossover with NCIS)
And then she said hello, Angela/Penelope by templemarker (crossover with Bones)
Momentary Things, JJ/Garcia by musesfool

DCU
The Other Name for Home, Wonder Woman/Starfire by tellitslant
Five Tales To Tell When You’re In Love, Cassie/Kara, Cassie/Cissie, Cissie/Mia, Donna/Kory, Kory/Raven by seriousfic

DCU Batverse
The Robin Hood Clause, Kate Kane/Selina Kyle by tl__dr

Desperate Housewives
One Word, Gaby/Edie by irradiatedsoup

Devil Wears Prada
Fantasy/Reality, Miranda/Andy by slammerkinbabe
Alexander McQueen Makes Bed Sheets Now, Emily/Serena by egalitarianmuse
Like the Surprise You Saw Coming, Lily/Andy by maddie508
Clouds Got In My Way, Emily/Andy by swatkat24
What I wanna Be, Emily/Serena by mousiebean
What I Wore to the Revolution, Emily/Andy by jae_w

Discworld
Not Exactly Human, Susan/Angua by netgirl_y2k

Doctor Who/Sarah Jane Adventures/Torchwood
Inside Out, Sarah-Jane/Donna by jelly_belly99
What Happened When Sally Blinked (if she had blinked), Sally Sparrow/Reinette by redshoeson
Now and Then and Never, Martha/Sarah Jane by cdybedahl
If Destiny's Kind, Rose/Donna by in_the_end
Uncomplicated Negotiations, Martha/Gwen by joanne_c
This Side of Paradise, Thirteen/Martha by theonlytwin (crossover with House MD)
Inside Out, Sarah-Jane/Donna by jelly_belly99

Doctor Who ("old Who")
And There Was A Squid, Tegan/Nyssa by netgirl_y2k
Days Like Crazy Paving, Mel/Ace by ionlylurkhere

Doctor Horrible
About Time!, Groupie 1/Groupie 2 by kaizoku

Dollhouse
Another Late Night, Adelle/Echo/(Margaret?) by damelola
and if i ever wake from this fever dream, one day, i'll tell you everything, Mellie/Caroline, November/Echo by bizarro_bluth

Faculty
More Than Nostalgia, Stokely/Marybeth, Stokely/Delilah by ilthit

Fast and Furious
Constant Speed Test, Mia/Letty by templemarker

Firefly
You're The Other Side of the World to Me, Kaylee/Saffron by queenzulu
Lessons, Inara/River, River/Kaylee by erinya
Nights of Comfort, Zoe/Kaylee by tvaddictgurl
Love you good and strong (while our love is good and young), Kaylee/Inara by wintercreek

Friday Night Lights
Another Room, Lyla/Tyra by summerstorm

Gossip Girl
From Start To Beginning (Wanting), Blair/Serena by queengreen
Christmas TV, Blair/Serena by present_pathos
Care like you touch me, Vanessa/Serena by thexpuzzler
Meet Me In Budapest, Serena/Vanessa by shopfront
I never said Love, Blair/Georgina by shyath
A Verb For Falling In Love, Blair/Serena by pirateygoodness
the world's a mess (it's in my kiss), Blair/Nellie by sadieflood
Untitled (How Does It Feel), Jenny/Blair by annaalamode
Five Times Vanessa Sees Jenny And One That She Doesn't, Vanessa/Jenny by jaina47

Gossip Girl RPF
My Female Trouble II, Blake/Leighton by fivewhatfive
The self-titled lp, Leighton/Jessica by dirty_diana
the walls were like paper ..., Blake/Leighton by mosca

Grey's Anatomy
Sick of Social Graces, Meredith/Addison by tinyklutzygirl

Harry Potter
Transformations, Astoria/Pansy by slammerkinbabe
Hermione Granger and the Amazing Outfits of Luna Lovegood, Hermione/Luna by likeadeuce
The Tale of Minnie and Hooch, McGonagall/Hooch by katemonkey
Distractions, Narcissa/Lily by gorynna
Distorted Visions, Bellatrix/Narcissa by scarletladyy
Sweet Torture, Bellatrix/Hermione by aaronlisa

House
A Hundred Times Too Short, Thirteen/Cuddy by paperflowered
Five Times Stacy Wanted A Cigarette, Stacy/Cuddy by ijemanja
This Side of Paradise, Thirteen/Martha by theonlytwin (crossover with Dr. Who)

iCarly
ifake an interest, Sam/Carly by lilysaid

Lost and Delirious
Blueberry Beauty, Paulie/Tori by shopfront

Merlin
A Week Of Diplomacy, Morgana/Gwen by zauberer_sirin
Possess, Morgana/Gwen by fiercynn
If the World Ends, Morgana/Gwen by glinda_penguin
almost a whisper, Morgana/Nimueh by theagonyofblank

NCIS
Cultural Relativism, Abby/Ziva by arsenicjade
Because God Is a Capable Mathematician When It Comes To Remorse, Ziva/JJ by callmesandy (crossover with Criminal Minds.)
All Around the World (Or, Four Times Emily Prentiss Should Have Talked to Ziva David (And One Time She Did)), Ziva/Emily by llyfrgell (crossover with Criminal Minds)
Space for Jethro (and Abby), Abby/Ziva by demoka
Cultural Relativism, Ziva/Abby by arsenicjade

Parks and Rec
something more beautiful than is there, Ann/Leslie by glossing

Saving Grace
Bearking Point, Grace/Rhetta by mammothluv

Skins
A Nouveau, Emily/Naomi by fragmentfiction
we sing until dawn of our fears and our fates, Naomi/Kate by the_girl_20
Dominoes, Naomi/Effy, Naomi/Emily by botherd
but the truth is, it was always this (and there is no other word for it), Katie/Emily by immortality
I am alive when I sleep, Effy/Naomi by aphrodite_mine

Skins RPF
Assemble the Ways, Lily/Kat by jengrrrl

Star Trek XI
Earth Style Romantic Gestures, Uhura/Gaila by jain
Passing It Forward, Gaila/OFC by templemarker
Beta Ciel, Uhura/Chapel by starberry_slash

Stargate Atlantis
The truth will get you laid, Cadman/Keller by thrace_
Mace and Cloves, Teyla/Sam by voleuse
Long Way Around, Teyla/Sam by bluflamingo

Stranger Than Fiction
I've Allowed My Fears To Get Larger Than Life, Karen/Penny by marginalia

Supernatural
The Apprentice, Bela/Jo by honeymink

Terminator: Sarah Connor Chronicles
Always Yours, Cameron/OC, Cameron/Sarah by shyath
Sense to Run, Sarah/Cameron by rawiyaparand
The Visitor, Sarah/Jesse by j_d_miranda

Twilight
Woods, Bella/Alice by geckoonyourwall

The West Wing
State Dinners, First Ladies, and Party Politics - Oh My!, CJ/Abby by ariestess

Scott Westerfeld's Uglies
You Can't Count On Me, Shay/Tally by furies

Wild Child
you’re always made up, Poppy/Kate by stripedheartx

Women's Murder Club
Freedom of Information, Lindsay/Jill by mosca

X-Men
Memory, hither come, Jean/Emma by scoured
Happy Campers, Kitty/Jubilee by second_batgirl

The Apprentice (Supernatural, Bela/Jo)

2009-07-26T00:57:58Z

Title: The Apprentice
Author: honeymink
Recipient: aaronlisa
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Bela/Jo
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1220
Disclaimer: Not mine. Really.
Warnings: None.
Summary: Having been dead, Bela realises there is a difference between living and surviving.

I. For now I’ll try to be good

Bela was dead, dead, dead and she had the scars to prove it. Blazing red marks of angry claws had engraved her stomach before the world had gone dark. Then there was hell.

“More tea?” he asked, suddenly so civilized.

She offered him her cup. Candied sugar and heavy cream were on the table. The tea, undoubtedly brewed with Holy water, was hot and delightful. Warily, she took a sip and thought that she didn’t expect Bobby Singer to own tableware. A silver flask and a couple of chipped plates maybe. China, however, certainly not.

“About my assets,” she started.

“Yeah,” he interrupted her. “About that. I was surprised to say the least.”

“What?” A sarcastic smile played about her lips. “You expected me to leave my fortune to a children’s hospital?”

“Well,” he rejoined, defiant. “That’s what I did.” Her eyes stared in disbelief, so he felt compelled to add: “I didn’t exactly expect you to come back from hell.”

“I was bored,” she replied with a lie and looked down at the table where her hands still held the cup. After all, how do you admit to being too indifferent, too insensible, too apathetic for demons to be interested in the corruption of your soul?

A moment later, she had restored her composure by then, the plan was fully formed. In the end, Bela Talbot was more than her inheritance.

“Look, Bobby, all I need is a car, some weapons and my little black book,” she enquired, praying silently that he didn’t donate her clientele list to some bloody hunter or the sodding Winchesters, God forbid!

“Is that doable?” she added while he hesitated.

“Yeah,” he finally agreed. “But it’s gonna cost you.”

‘There is no such thing as free tea’, Bela thought, listened and paled. Because what he told her then, appeared to be thought up only to spoil her day.

“Is that a proposition?” she asked.

Bobby almost smiled, “More of a sly suggestion.”

He dangled some car keys in front of her. Of a battered truck, no doubt. She looked at them sourly before making an attempt to grab them. And failing. The girl had appeared out of nowhere.

“I drive!”

**

II. For once I was careful and smart

No good deed, Bela found, ever went unpunished. She wondered what the girl, or her mother for that matter, had on Bobby to make him ask such abhorrent favours.

“I’m not looking to make friends,” the girl said seriously, clinging to the rope that was secured on the steel guard balustrade of the rooftop. “To be frank, I don’t think I trust you.”

Jo was blonde and rude and American. In a way, she was Bobby without the baseball cap.

Bela, abseiling further, rolled her eyes, “So glad we figured that out, love!”

Hunters were a self-righteous pack, fractious and mostly wantonly frivolous. That was true for the young even more than for those scarce ones those who lived to see old age. And there was little she despised more. The feeling, of course, appeared to be mutual. Bela sighed. It would be hard earning her black book back, one page at a time, by teaching Jo prudence of all things.

“So this amulet we’re stealing…” Jo started, coming to a halt.

“Makes you see spirits,” Bela explained, cutting through the glass. “You know, not the angry kind, but some you might actually want to see.”

“Like someone you wish for? ” Jo pondered, then added hurriedly. “Pretty dangerous exhibiting it in a museum then, I’d say.”

“Exactly why we are … re-allocating it,” Bela explained, glancing at Jo from the corner of her eye.

In and out of the museum, ideally with the amulet, that was the plan. However, as they entered the workshop, she could already tell this wasn’t going to happen. The girl found the charm first. She cradled it in her hands, carefully studying the inscription. Bela knew, either Jo would be virtuous and try to destroy it. Or desire would be taking over and the girl would claim the amulet for herself, hoping to reconnect with the past. There was always a friend, a fling, a father. The thought of the latter sickened her.

Jo’s lips began to move, whispering an incantation, once, twice; confirming the abuse that Bela had suspected to happen, confirming, what she had always known: People were weak and predictable, a disappointment in general. Not that she had expected Jo to be different. Lissomely, Bela uncapped the phial, splashing the potion over the amulet.

“I’m going to kill you!” Jo gasped, dropping the corroding metal, acid burning into her flesh.

“Why on earth would you want to do that? I thought we were the best of enemies!” Bela smiled as Jo glared at her. “Darling, you have a lot to learn about survival.”

**

III. Forever looking for a miracle

The table stood by the fireplace; its sill carried the candelabra. The candles’ light exuded dampened over her audience. Two statues lurked in the stony shadows, sustaining the fireplace since their creator had put them there. Next to one of their savage heads stood Jo, mocking the scene.

“Draw a card,” Bela asked and the man complied.

Judging by his fearfully furrowed brows, his hand was bad. Crippled ears, his hairline lowered in a way that his temples and cheeks attained an apish silhouette: Beyond question it could be deduced, this was someone who wanted to kill while fearing death himself. On his beret glittered jewellery, but no light reached his face.

“Death,” Bela announced and put the card in a row with the others.

The man bent over, touching the card, then withdrew the hand and examined it. His son did the same, yet more quickly. The mother resisted the impulse, she didn’t have to feel, she saw.

“Blood!” she exclaimed.

Bela held out her hands, palms upwards; there were scratches on them like the marks of an adversary’s nails or of thorns. Blood was nowhere to be seen. The son looked at his hands again, his face white like coated with ash.

“It’s on a cloth in her right sleeve,” Jo volunteered, her voice bored.

As Bela stared at her in disbelief, realisation spread on her clients’ faces.

*

It was only half past midnight and already Bela’s day had gone horribly wrong. The banshee’s awful wail of death followed them as they fled from the house. They ran and ran what seemed for miles. Once they finally reached the motel, Bela couldn’t think of anything but putting Jo over her knee.

“This was unacceptable,” she hissed, taking Jo by surprise and pinning her to the wall.

Jo, still out of breath, smirked. “Admit it, you felt alive.”

Shocked, Bela released her grip a bit, realising Jo was right. For the first time, it seemed that her options weren’t just between death and survival. Jo’s lips took her aback. Eagerly she tasted the salt on them and got lost for a moment.

Finally, following her original intention of pulling Jo’s trousers down, of spanking her senseless, Bela broke the kiss.

“You know,” Bela remarked, a sardonic smile on her lips. “It really is the height of pessimism to have your knickers lined with chain mail."

~Fin~

A Hundred Times Too Short (House M.D., Thirteen/Cuddy)

2009-07-25T20:52:48Z

Title: "A Hundred Times Too Short"
Author: paperflowered
Recipient: rawiyaparand
Fandom: House M.D.
Pairing: Thirteen/Cuddy
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~2850
Disclaimer: House M.D. does not belong to me. I am not profiting from this.
Warnings: none
Notes: Sorry for the delay! I hope you enjoy it.
Summary: It all starts with a cup of coffee.

A Hundred Times Too Short

Perchance To... (BtVS/AtS, Cordelia Chase/Faith Lehane)

2009-07-24T14:48:56Z

Title: Perchance To...
Author: havocthecat
Recipient: aaronlisa
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Angel
Pairing: Cordelia Chase/Faith Lehane
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,212
Beta: lyssie and triciabyrne1978
Disclaimer: Not mine. Mutant Enemy and Joss Whedon have them.
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: Set between 7.20, "Touched" and 7.21, "End of Days" in BtVS chronology (after Faith was knocked unconscious by the explosion), and after 4.21, "Peace Out" (when Cordelia was comatose) in Angel chronology. It's close enough to the same time for both series. This story was written for femslash09.
Summary: When Slayers dream, they touch the edges of what could be. Seers do the same, waking or sleeping. Sometimes, in the spaces of what could be, they meet and talk about what was, what might have been, and, of course, what could come.

Constant Speed Test, by templemarker (Fast and Furious, Mia/Letty, NC17)

2009-07-23T05:14:31Z

Title: Constant Speed Test
Author: templemarker
Recipient: lilysaid
Fandom: Fast and Furious
Pairing: Mia/Letty
Rating: Oh so NC17.
Word count: 1k
Disclaimer: If it were mine the only way it would be more gay is graphic, graphic sex. Sadly, it remains not-mine.
Warnings: Rough sex and emo.
Summary: She was the only girl who got it, what it was like to want things the girls at school didn't care about but still want girl things too.
Notes: Spoilers through the fourth film. Thanks to my awesome quick-response betas, marcolette and affectingly, and to the mods of this my most favourite of challenges.

"Why did you even come back?" Mia asks plainly, stirring honey into her tea. She only lets herself have coffee in the mornings, these days, and fruit tea for late nights with too many books and too much solitude.

Letty doesn't answer, just bangs around the garage looking for tools for the exhaust work she's doing on her M5. The radio is playing scratchy Spanish rap, and Mia has to resist bobbing her head to the music. It reminds her of before, when the house was filled with people and her brother hadn't exiled himself south of the border.

Mia sets the spoon down and lets the tea cool off in the evening air of Echo Park. She thinks sometimes she should have moved, that she should get roommates, that she should be closer to school. But she can't bear to give up the house her parents worked so hard to pay off, the house where she grew up under Dom's patient care, the garage where her father built his dreams. She's already hurt so much. She doesn't want to court any more.

"Why are you here?" she says again, more loudly this time, watching the line of Letty's back stiffen. She knows Letty hears her, heard her before, but when that damn girl doesn't have a smart mouth on her she goes silent, and dangerous.

"Fine, don't talk to me," Mia says, and it's more tired than she wants to let on. "But if you're staying here you're in Dom's room, and I'm not making you dinner. Fix it yourself."

She takes her tea, and turns to leave, but then there's a greasy hand on her shoulder, spinning her around, sending the mug flying into a wall of wrenches. "Fucking--" Mia spits out, and then Letty's mouth is on hers, pushing her into the door, wood bar digging into her back.

They did something like this when they were teenagers, girls trying to kiss or whatever. Letty with a house full of brothers and Mia surrounded by them too. She was the only girl who got it, what it was like to want things the girls at school didn't care about but still want girl things too.

Something like this, but not exactly. Not hard, not punishing, not adult. Those kisses were soft and quiet, trying not to wake Dom; Letty's eyes were always on Dom, anyway, and Mia didn't really care because Letty was just her friend.

This isn't very friendly.

Letty's shorter, but stronger, pushes against her until she's gasping for air, fingers raking up her breasts and down into her pants, rubbing without warning against her clit through her underwear. She's not coming, but she's close. Letty rubs harder, not looking at her, ducking into the curve of Mia's shoulder and biting down. It sends a shudder through her, a shudder that rubs her against Letty's fingers and sets off a whole other chain of reactions. She's staring at the garage ceiling as it rolls through her, at the hook-and-chain that could hold a Charger engine, but doesn't any more.

Letty steps back, hard look in her eyes, and pulls her hand from Mia's jeans only to tug her by the waistband over to her modded BMW. She pauses to slam down the hood and then pushes Mia on it, slipping out of her cargo pants and underwear to crawl over Mia. She doesn't even ask, just rises up against Mia's mouth, and Mia's hands are curling over Letty's thighs in response. They did this too, tested their tongues on each other, and the scent of Letty is familiar but more, sweat-tinged and musky from an afternoon of banging around in this place Dom never let her be, a place she had to let herself inside.

Mia doesn't let herself think about Dom anymore. She'd bet hard money that Letty's trying not to either, but she's a little busy pressing her tongue up into Letty, hard and fast and unrelenting the way Letty likes her cars. They both know how to drive stick, but sometimes a girl wants something else, something a little smoother. She remembers how to dig her fingernails into Letty's skin, enough to leave marks for tomorrow.

Letty's loud when she comes, always has been, whether she was under Mia's tongue or with Mia's brother in the bedroom down the hall. They weren't always healthy, the Torretto adopted family, but they were pretty fucking happy, and Mia wishes she could be more angry with Letty but they both know whose fault it is that the house is empty and Letty came back home.

When Letty bucks against her, Mia sticks two fingers in her, stretches them wide. Letty curses, and Mia knows it hurts, but that was the point. Letty came back, with a hard-assed look on her face and without Dominic, no explanation.

Mia's fucking sick of being ignored, and hates being lied to.

When Letty drops down beside her, the rush of breath between them dies down and the music floats back towards them; down the street Mickey Vasquez is gunning the engine of his Subaru hatchback, and Nina next door is cursing playfully at her husband for not bringing the rice she asked him to pick up. Brian kept Mickey out of juvie when he got bumped up on a possession charge, and he still checks in on the Bernadinos to see if they need help with their Toyota. Brian ran away, and he came back. Letty fucking came back. If Letty doesn't explain where Dominic is soon, and why he isn't here with his family, Mia might just have to fuck her through the wall over her brother's room just to prove a point.

Dominic might have caused all the trouble, but Mia lost everything too, and if people are going to keep coming back without warning she's going to have to protect herself somehow.

She doesn't say anything when Letty reaches down for her pants, stuffs her underwear in her pocket, and leaves. Mia just rests on the car, still warm from the engine tests Letty was running, and thinks about all the things she'd thought she set aside five years ago.

Fantasy/Reality (The Devil Wears Prada, Miranda/Andy)

2009-07-22T22:25:14Z

Title: Fantasy/Reality
Author: slammerkinbabe
Recipient: egalitarianmuse
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2,700
Summary: Andy has three fantasies about Miranda.

The first fantasy she had about Miranda was quite ordinary, and she told herself it was a fantasy about the job. In it, a major emergency cropped up at the magazine, something to do with a feature story and a large chunk of text that had gone missing hours before deadline. It was late in the evening, everyone else had gone home, and Miranda needed the text now. So she called Andy in and gave her the assignment -- the first writing assignment she'd ever given Andy, and the first time her prose would ever appear in a major magazine. They'd sit at Miranda's desk and Miranda would go over the story with her, what the angle was, which advertisers were in focus, what details to highlight -- what Miranda needed from her. She'd listen attentively, ask intelligent questions, and then take it back to her desk and churn out a fantastic story in record time. Miranda would see how closely she'd been paying attention to everything that went on at the magazine, how much she'd learned, how well she could capture and hold the reader's attention. Miranda would see she was someone special. She'd give a slight lift of her eyebrow, say "Thank you, Andrea." And sometime soon, when the soup hit the fan again, she'd call on Andy to do more writing.

Sometimes it was a feature on lingerie that they were talking about, heads bent together over the mockup. But that didn't mean anything. Andy liked lingerie.

The second fantasy she had about Miranda was a little more off-key. She'd show up at Miranda's house in the evening to drop off the book, and she'd hear Miranda call her from the sitting room -- "Andréa." (Andy loved the way Miranda pronounced her name, the long e, the French emphasis. Andréa was a different person than Andy the cheerful lit-geek, Andrea the hopeful supplicant peddling dogeared freelance pitches to various magazines: someone sophisticated, someone with perfect makeup and a smooth walk, someone who turned heads in the street and couldn't be bothered to notice. Andy supposed Andréa was the one her friends didn't like, but that didn't stop her from feeling a frisson every time Miranda called the name.) Tentatively, she'd follow Miranda's voice, find her watching television. Miranda would mute the TV, doing Andy the courtesy of giving her her full attention, and then explain that someone (the name varied) was supposed to drop something (the item varied) off shortly, and she needed Andy to bring it somewhere (ditto). Andy would agree -- absolutely, Miranda, that's no problem at all -- and would begin to head back into the hallway to sit in one of the chairs there and wait. "Where are you going?" Miranda would ask. "Oh -- I thought I'd wait out --" she'd begin to explain, and Miranda would cut her off, brusque as usual. "For heaven's sake, sit yourself down in here. Unless you have an objection to my choice of programming, of course." Andy would reply of course she didn't, and she'd seat herself in one of the armchairs (even in fantasy she didn't dare share a couch with Miranda) as Miranda flicked the sound back on. The messenger delivering the whatever-it-was tended to be delayed quite a bit in this fantasy, and so they'd sit and watch television together, mostly silently. Sometimes, in her bolder moods, Andy would offer a cogent comment or two on the program, and Miranda would nod slowly.

Somehow she could never nail down what it was that they were watching. She'd always had a hard time imagining Miranda doing normal-person things -- watching television, reading a novel, laughing with her family. She thought this was part of why this fantasy was so intriguing. It was strange, working with someone so very many hours every week and knowing next to nothing of who they really were. (Because Andy was quite certain that the Dragon Lady was no more the whole of Miranda than Andréa was the whole of Andy herself.) She would turn it over in her mind, trying to decide what Miranda would watch in the evenings, what pastimes she would enjoy. These musings were never without a creeping flush of guilt, a sense of trespass. Late at night, just before she fell asleep and her thoughts wandered most freely, the curiosity and the sense of trespass seemed to blend into one aversive/attractive notion, and she would find herself simultaneously cringing over the horrific night when she'd brought the book upstairs and wishing she'd taken a good look at the bookshelves while she was up there. She wanted to know what Miranda read.

The third fantasy that she had about Miranda was strange, bewildering, and she tended to indulge in it with a firm sense of shutting down her mental censor. In it, Miranda handed her a list of errands to run, and the last one was a trip to Good Vibrations. Miranda needed her to pick up some sex toys. When Andy had first come up with this fantasy she'd thought of it with a casual smirk, passing it off as a wry reflection on the kinds of crazy tasks Miranda handed her every day. She still smirked about it when she remembered to think about it that way, but somehow, the fantasy stayed -- and kept getting more and more detailed -- after the smirk had faded. She'd mentally sift through the options -- which sex toys would Miranda buy? -- in much the same way she'd sift through which television programs Miranda might like. Sometimes she pored through the Good Vibrations catalogue online to check out the options, although she was quite clear that that was just for herself (and Nate, naturally) and had nothing to do with Miranda. She told herself she wasn't fantastizing about Miranda using them, of course, and if she dreamed about that she laughed at herself for concocting such silly fantasies as she was falling asleep and giving herself such silly dreams. And then she'd go about work the next day with heated cheeks and a slight sensation of heightened friction between her legs. She supposed she ought to have her pants tailored soon. They didn't seem to fit quite right around the crotch, rubbing the way they did.

Over time these fantasies began to find prime placement in her thoughts, drifting lazily through her mind in all sorts of odd situations. Others developed, shorter, hazier, weird pockets of weirder imaginings about the Miranda behind the designer clothes. So to speak. As Paris approached everything heated up, and the obsession got so intense it almost scared her after Miranda asked her to go in Emily's stead (she'd protested twice as hard as she normally might about that, not so much because she felt guilty that Emily wasn’t getting to go but because she felt guilty that she *wanted* to go so very much, and Emily be damned). She'd be staying in a hotel with Miranda; they'd probably be in adjoining rooms. In the night she'd hear what Miranda was up to (would Elliot be there overnight? Would she hear -- never mind.) They'd confer about work in the space where Miranda was living, her personal belongings strewn about the room. During the day Andy wondered what books might be on the nightstand. During the night she wondered what Good Vibes products might be in the nightstand.

And then they'd been in Paris, and everything went topsy-turvy: the wish fulfillment so dizzying to start with, the chances she didn't take and the mistakes she made so painful, and somehow she walked away with no job and a mind swamped in waves of moral outrage that couldn't quite drown her regrets. She wasn't like Miranda (though was that really such a bad thing to be? An iconic career woman, gorgeous and unabashedly ambitious?) -- what Miranda had done to Nigel had been horrible (but what did that have to do with Andy? What did she owe him? Would *he* have quit if Miranda had treated *her* shabbily?) -- if she kept the job she'd lose her soul (to *what*? A woman who treated the business world as business, who knew how to separate her emotions from her profession? Wasn't it the height of sexism to expect Miranda to be some sort of nurturing mother figure to her employees, always putting their needs in front of her own?) -- oh, God, she'd had to leave! She'd had to.

And so she'd gone back to Nate, and she'd apologized, as she was sure good old nice-girl Andy would do. She'd been living in some wild dream for months now, and it had gotten unmanageable, had come close to changing everything she'd ever known herself to be. It was time to be good old nice-girl Andy again. She'd move to Boston with Nate -- maybe she'd freelance long-distance, maybe she'd find a job with one of the papers down there. She'd make up with Lily. She'd get her appetite back and learn to like grilled cheese sandwiches made with Jarlsberg again. Everything would be exactly the way it was meant to be.

______________________________________

It’s six months later that she runs into Miranda. In Toys in Babeland. Since she and Nate split, Andy’s become a more discriminating connoisseur of sex shops than she’d once been.

She actually runs into Miranda literally, as befits her usual sangfroid. She’s on her way out, Miranda’s on her way in, and while neither of them winds up on the floor, Andy’s bag of goodies does. A bunny vibe bounces under a table; a copy of Curve magazine hits Miranda’s shoe. Flustered, Andy goes after the vibe, then reconsiders, turns back for the magazine, and winds up eye-to-eye with Miranda, who’d reached down to pick it up for her. She snatches it with a garbled thank you, stands up, remembers the vibe, and drops to her knees to crawl under the table for it, much too aware of her upturned ass waving in Miranda’s line of vision. Emerging from her crouch, vibe in hand, she smacks her head on the table. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

Miranda’s cool as a cucumber, but when is she not? Andy doesn’t have the faintest idea what to do. Chat pleasantly, as though they’d run into each other on an escalator in Bloomingdale’s? Blurt out something about so nice to see you and oh god look at the time, then take off running out the door? Crawl back under the table and never come out? Die on the spot?

While she’s stacking up the pros and cons of her various options, Miranda takes the lead. “Andréa. How nice to see you,” she says, all public-Miranda mannered elegance. Andy’s surprised that she merits the public Miranda, but decides to go with it. “Oh. Oh. Hi! Miranda. Hi.” At least her own brilliant wit remains undimmed.

“I’m surprised to see you in New York. I’d been under the impression you’d left us for greener pastures.”

Andy laughs, which is fine, but then she keeps laughing, which isn’t. She tries to stop laughing. She *will* stop laughing. “Greener? Oh, no. I --“ What is with the giggles? Stop it with the giggles. “No, no. I...” She what? “I did go. But I came back. It wasn’t...” Wasn’t what? “Wasn’t for me,” she finishes finally.

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

She’s in a sex shop talking to Miranda Priestley. She’s -- what is Miranda doing here? All those months of wondering what she’d -- “Why? I mean -- I’m sorry. I’m sorry?”

“Well, it was my understanding that you’d moved to Boston with your boyfriend. Perhaps I was mistaken?” It’s amazing how ostentatiously Miranda manages *not* to look at Andy’s bag and its belatedly-hidden copy of Curve.

“Oh.” Suddenly Andy doesn’t feel like laughing anymore. “No, that’s right. It’s just -- he’s my ex now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Andy says, without having realized she was going to say it.

Miranda inclines an eyebrow.

“He and I -- it wasn’t right.” Andy wants to continue, but she pauses to let Miranda assemble the “that’s all” face. Somehow, though, it doesn’t show up. And now the words are spilling out of her, bizarre and inappropriate as they are in this setting. “We got together when we were in college, and -- he was expecting something different from me. The job...” Miranda still hasn’t pulled the “that’s all” face. “He thought I was changing. And maybe I was,” she says. “The clothes, the shoes... he was right. The Andy he knew never cared about that stuff. It was just that -- well, he figured it made me shallow, caring about it, and... he didn’t understand.”

Miranda’s eyes travel over Andy’s outfit, slowly. Andy’s glad the labels are all good.

“It was about the job,” she blurts suddenly. “I was good at it. And I liked it. I liked the clothes, but it wasn’t about drinking the Kool-Aid. It’s about presenting yourself on the outside to show you respect yourself on the inside. It’s about looking at cut and color and style and being proud that you know how to see what’s unique in them. And it’s about the work. It’s about respecting yourself because you know you’re good at your job, respecting yourself because you know that you’re working hard and growing and learning from your mistakes and becoming someone new... He didn’t want the someone new, but I did. She’s me. And... in the end, she was more important to me than him. He,” she corrects herself hurriedly.

Miranda’s been studying her intently. “Well,” she says finally, and damned if there’s not a small smile flickering at the corners of her mouth. “I’m proud of you, Andréa.”

Andy can’t believe how much it means to her to hear that.

“You know what always surprised me when you left,” Miranda says. Andy knows better than to answer Miranda’s rhetorical questions; she waits it out. “You gave your Paris clothes to Emily.”

“Oh -- yeah. Well, in Boston I didn’t have anywhere to wear them.”

Miranda shakes her head slowly. “They were made to fit you.”

Andy lets a beat pass. “I know.”

The room’s wavering oddly around them, dissolving out of Andy’s peripheral vision. It’s the effect of Miranda’s words: “Perhaps we could discuss this further over dinner, Andréa. Runway hasn’t been the same since you left.”

“I --“ What’s wrong with her? She’s shaking. Violently. Her vision’s breaking up. Is she actually passing out? What --

“Andy.” One more shake and the room dissolves completely. “Earth to Andy. Feel like joining the land of the living today?”

Nate’s face looming in front of her, filling her line of vision. For a moment she’s so dazed -- and so very close to heartbroken -- that she can’t find a thing to say.

“You up? You’re running late.” He swings out of the bed, ambling naked toward the kitchen. “You were out cold.”

“I was,” Andy says, stunned.

“You want eggs? Toast? I picked up a loaf of nice multigrain at the restaurant last night.”

“I -- no. Not hungry,” she says. Her voice sounds odd and strained to her, but he doesn’t pick up on it.

“Okay. Your loss.”

“Yeah, it is,” she murmurs, as he cracks an egg against a pan. He doesn’t hear her.

As Nate’s eggs sizzle in the kitchen, Andy flops back on the pillow and wonders how she’s going to do what she needs to do now.

Fic: and then there was a squid (Doctor Who, Tegan/Nyssa)

2009-07-22T19:31:24Z

Title: and then there was a squid.
Author: netgirl_y2k
Recipient: ionlylurkhere
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Tegan/Nyssa
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,300
Summary: The Doctor takes Tegan and Nyssa on holiday, and it's not even to a quarry.

It's just not cricket

fic: you can't count on me (scott westerfeld's uglies, shay/tally)

2009-07-22T05:10:39Z

so sorry for the delay, i hope the wait ends up being worth it!

you can't count on me.
Author: furies
Recipient: redshoeson
Fandom: Scott Westerfeld’s Uglies series
Pairing: Shay/Tally
Rating: hard-R
Word count: ~ 3200
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters. I didn’t write the books. I’m super poor. No offense meant, I write because I love.
Warnings: These Specials are Cutters. Yes, that means what you think it does. Spoilers for the end of Pretties, beginning of Specials.
Notes: Super-special thanks to fox1013 for hand-holding and making sure I wasn’t bogus-making. ;) Thanks to the mods for being so understanding, and redshoeson for the awesome, awesome prompt. Summary from Abra Moore’s "I Believe".

Summary: “Where is the laughter, where is the hopeful? Where is the light that makes me sing?”

you can't count on me.

What Happened When Sally Blinked (If She Had Blinked) - Doctor Who, Reinette/Sally Sparrow

2009-07-22T03:40:03Z

Title: What Happened When Sally Blinked (If She Had Blinked)
Author: redshoeson
Recipient: thecolourclear
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Reinette (Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson, Madame de Pompadour)/Sally Sparrow
Rating: G
Word count: 1,093
Disclaimer: I don't own anything in Whoville, not even the Whos.
Warnings: Spoilers for The Girl in the Fireplace (2x4) and Blink (3x10).
Summary: The only reason Sally Sparrow doesn't find herself face down in the mud outside Versailles upon discovery is because she has the presence of mind to run when she sees the guards.

The only reason Sally Sparrow doesn't find herself face down in the mud outside Versailles upon discovery is because she has the presence of mind to run when she sees the guards. Of course, because she's running, she's not looking where she's going, and so, naturally, she runs right into someone. It turns out to be a woman, but the man escorting her catches her before she falls. Sally isn't that lucky. At that moment, the guards chasing Sally reach her.

"Please," Sally says in English, "please let me go. I don't want anything; I don't even know what I'm doing here."

The woman Sally nearly knocked over says something to her in French, but Sally is too worked up to remember a language she took for a handful of years in school. Instead, she looks up at the woman speaking to her and says, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

***

The girl's a frail little thing, but something about her captures Reinette's attention.

"Leave her be," Reinette tells the guards, and they release the girl, who falls in a heap at Reinette's feet.

The girl continues to mumble, but Reinette can't understand her.

"Go, my love," Reinette tells the king. "I'll take care of this."

"But-"

Reinette hushes him with a finger pressed to his lips. "Hush. You've more important things to deal with today. Go. Your court awaits you."

He nods before continuing down the hall. The guards look at Reinette.

"Go with him," she says. "I can handle the girl."

Pausing for only a moment, the guards nod as well, turn on their heels and follow after their king. Reinette looks down at the girl. She's a mess: dirty blond locks drenched, her face paler than even the ladies at court. Her manner of dress is completely inappropriate for Versailles; Reinette can't imagine where she found such dreadful garments.

"My dear," says Reinette. "Do you speak French?"

***

For a long time, Sally doesn't say anything. She's trying her damndest to conjugate a verb and failing miserably. Finally, she says in French, "I speak a little French, just a little."

"Ah," says the woman. "That will do. I am Reinette. Who are you?"

"Sally. Sally Sparrow."

"Ah," Reinette says again. She nods at Sally and says something Sally doesn't understand. Sally tells her as much. Reinette makes a face, irritation clear on her porcelain features. Finally, she motions to Sally to stand up, saying, "Can you?"

"Yes," says Sally, grateful this woman is taking the time to communicate with her instead of simply allowing frustration to take over. Sally scrambles to her feet, slipping once on the slick floor before managing standing up straight.

Reinette looks Sally up and down. "I have some clothes you can wear. The clothes you are wearing will not do for the court."

"Thank you," says Sally.

"You will practice your French," says Reinette. "I want to know all about you."

Sally is surprised by the woman's forthright attitude in the face of a stranger. "I will. I'll practice with you, if you'll let me."

"Of course," says Reinette, a smile crossing her face. "Who else?"

Reinette extends her arm and Sally takes it. They walk down the hall together, steps already in sync.

***

Every day adds both new vocabulary to Sally's speech and a new piece to the puzzle. Reinette enjoys sitting with her little Sparrow and talking to her for hours. It's a pleasant way to pass the time; in fact, it's the most pleasurable thing she's done since she last saw... but she mustn't think about him. He will come for her; of that she's sure.

"You're from England," says Reinette. "Yes?"

"Yes."

"And how did you come to France?"

Sally fidgets. "It's a long story. I don't know enough words to tell it yet and, anyway, you probably wouldn't believe me."

Reinette smiles at her. "Tell me anyway."

"It starts with... I'm afraid I don't know what they're called. They, um, they're from the sky and they come down to help people."

"Birds?"

Sally laughs, and Reinette is intrigued by the first genuine smile she's seen on Sally's face since her arrival. "No, they're more like people."

Now it's Reinette who smiles. "Angels."

"Yes," says Sally. "It starts with angels."

"I had an angel once," says Reinette, glancing out the window. "He lives in the stars."

Frowning, Sally looks out the window. "In the what?"

Reinette is used to having to explain things to Sally by now, so she uses as many relevant words as she can come up with. "The stars. The sky. The heavens. Above us."

"Oh."

Turning, Reinette sees Sally still staring out the window. She seems to be searching for something, but Reinette isn't quite sure what it is. Pressing a hand to Sally's arm, Reinette says, "Tell me more about your angels."

***

Sally tells Reinette everything she can think of, everything except the bits about the Doctor. In her own mind, Sally finds those bits to be completely nonsensical, so she leaves them out of her narrative. It takes days and days to get through everything, but Reinette listens with an attentiveness Sally has never before witnessed in another human being. Reinette seems to genuinely care about the stone angels and the strange voyage that ended with Sally's appearance in 17th century France.

When Sally finishes, she expects Reinette to laugh or throw her out or something equally dreadful. Instead, Reinette kisses her on both cheeks and says, "I'm glad you've come to me."

That's when Sally learns about how Reinette knows the Doctor.

***

Reinette can see the love in Sally's eyes before Sally is even aware of it. Reinette notices how Sally stands just that much closer to Reinette than to anyone else, how Sally finds excuses to clasp Reinette's hand. Once, Sally gathers Reinette up into an embrace that's so overly fond Reinette expects Sally to kiss her. Sally doesn't, though; she blushes and steps away before things head in that direction.

In her own way, Reinette loves Sally. She loves the sprightliness and enthusiasm that seems to course through Sally's veins. She loves that Sally brings her something that she can't find in her court: a remnant of the Doctor. He promised her the stars, but instead of taking her there, he's given her one of her own.

Sally sparkles in her own right, and Reinette loves that about her. She might not have the Doctor - not yet, anyway - but for now she has Sally, and that's enough.

FIN

From Start To Beginning (Gossip Girl; Blair/Serena)

2009-07-22T03:38:35Z

Title: From Start to Beginning (Wanting)
Author: queengreen
Recipient: maddie508
Fandom: Gossip Girl
Pairing: Serena/Blair
Rating: PG
Word count: 2,320
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. If I did, they well you would be watching this story play out on TV, not in a fic.
A/N: I am SOOO sorry for this being posted so late. I had it all done proper and prepared, but the file somehow ended up being corrupted on my flash drive and I had revert back to an old draft and fix a ton of things. Thanks so much to aphrodite_mine for a last minute beta read. She officially rocks my socks!
Summary: It is quite ludicrous when Blair thinks about it, even silly. She doesn’t remember when it started; maybe it had always been there, at least for as long a time as she could even feel such a thing.

(From Start To Beginning (Wanting))

sick of social graces (grey's anatomy, meredith/addison)

2009-07-21T17:24:39Z

Title: sick of social graces
Author: tinyklutzygirl
Recipient: mammothluv
Fandom: Grey’s Anatomy
Pairing: Meredith/Addison
Rating: Hard R/NC-17
Word Count: 1380
Disclaimer: Property of Shonda Rhimes and ABC.
Warnings: Spoilers through season 2/beginning of season 3.
Notes: Thank you to my wonderful beta, serenitymeimei! <3!
Summary: And God, it feels good, feels normal, to be this Meredith again, the mistake-making Meredith.

It’s Derek’s fault, actually, that this is happening.

Derek’s fault that she’s sitting here in this dingy, dirty little dive bar (going to Joe’s had never even been an option on the table, she realizes later), staring blankly at the trio of shot glasses on the table, caramel-colored residue from the Cuervo staining their bottoms. Because she can’t stare in front of her. If she looks up, if she glances up, right this instant, she will see the same flash of devil red that has brought her here, and then she will get confused, again, and blame Derek. Again.

“No matter how many times you think his name, he’s not going to magically appear and save the day, Grey.”

And then it is real again.

Derek had done something small, something inconsequential, like still not divorcing Addison, and Cristina had rolled her eyes and told her to fucking just get over McDreamy already, and then she had overheard them, had pulled Meredith aside, and told her, in what Meredith can still only assume was a flash of pure insanity, that it would never get any easier, and Derek would continue to ignore her. That she knew from experience.

And now she is here, in this bar where her thighs are sticking to her seat, and Addison is buying her more tequila and running her completely out of place Jimmy Choo-covered toe up the inside of her leg, and it is kind of the best thing she’s felt in a while.

Which is why she is nodding her head in agreement and letting her fingers slide up Addison’s wrist to her arm, because this is who she is. Meredith Grey, the girl who lets people get her drunk, and then has completely no control over her baser hormones. Because on a normal day, without alcohol (and there haven’t been so many of those recently, because Izzie’s been switching between crying and staring blankly at the wall, and Meredith only knows how to solve problems with bottles), she doesn’t sit in dark, secret bars with her sort-of-ex-boyfriend’s soon-to-be ex-wife, losing herself in warm, tingly, girltouching sensations.

And it should be Derek who’s making her feel this way, but it’s not, because his promises are starting to sound empty and Finn had plans, and Derek is still married, technically, to the woman whose fingers are suddenly twined with hers. And God, it feels good, feels normal, to be this Meredith again, the mistake-making Meredith, because it makes sense that their animosity and jealous tension is going to end up with the two of them fucking in some cheap motel. It has to be a motel, because Addison’s still living in that fucking trailer, and Meredith definitely can’t make this colossal, inevitable mistake where anyone can see her.

Meredith doesn’t have time to think about it anymore, because the tequila’s stopped coming and Addison’s sliding one of her perfectly manicured hands onto the intern’s lower back and it’s sending waves of heat all through her.

And now there’s no stopping them, no stopping Addison’s lips hot on her pulse point in the parking lot, and fuck, they might not actually make it further than the car, like teenagers, like this has to happen now or it never will, and they’ll just go back to glaring at each other in hallways and pretending Addison didn’t find Meredith’s panties in Derek’s pocket.

Except that it is happening. Addison’s mouth is still on her skin like fire, and her hands are fumbling for her keys and Meredith is trying to stand up straight, but it’s just not working, so she’s gripping Addison’s side like an awkward lifeline, and it should really not take this fucking long to open a car door. She wants to ask what’s taking so long, but she’s pretty sure that any actual words will break whatever this is between them, and the combination of alcohol in her system and Addison’s fingers resting lazily between her shirt and the top of her jeans means that this absolutely cannot stop.

When then the door is finally, finally open, Meredith kind of falls into the passenger seat, her bare shoulder blades pressing into the leather seat, Addison’s body pressing into her, and it feels so fucking good, because there is a tongue sliding along her collarbone and a hand cupping her deliciously through her jeans, and her hips arch up into the touch, needing more. And then she whimpers almost childishly, because the hand is gone, and suddenly they’re pulling out of the parking lot so fast there’s screeching.

And Addison probably shouldn’t even be driving at all, in the state she’s in, except that she is, and she only has one hand on the steering wheel, because the other one is gripping Meredith’s thigh, like Meredith will escape if she doesn’t, so Meredith just shuts her eyes and revels in the fact that there is a hand dangerously close to where she wants it to be.

The motel is exactly what she expected, with the skeezy guy up front, leering at the way she leans drunkenly into Addison when he gives them their key, and she’s honestly surprised he doesn’t bother to ask to join them, because it’s two a.m. and it’s happened to her before. Before she was the girl in the bar and Derek was the perfect guy with the secret wife whose hand is dipping below the waistband of her jeans in an elevator in a no-name motel off of a Seattle highway.

And of course they’re in an elevator, because everything important happens to her in elevators, lately, so it doesn’t surprise her when Addison pulls the stop button and shoves her against the wall, kissing her roughly. It doesn’t surprise her when her lip starts to bleed a little, because this is how it was bound to happen to them, and her body is aching and tingling everywhere, and while she knows part of that is the alcohol, part of that is also the fact that Addison’s wonderfully long fingers need to be inside her right fucking now, or she might explode.

So when she slides her hand up the inside of Addison’s thigh, pushing that damn pencil skirt higher as she goes, she knows the older woman finally gets it, because she hears the loudness of her own zipper, feels fingers slipsliding across her, feels a thumb circling her clit, and then, fuck, then, there are fingers inside her, thrusting, and her body is shaking.

And then Addison is making this noise like she’s enjoying it, like she’s enjoying the fact that her fingers are traveling paths Derek’s have, like she’s fucking entitled, and that’s when Meredith lets her own hand drift higher, and now it’s Addison who can’t stand up right, and she falls into Meredith. She’s too tall, and it should be awkward, the way they don’t really fit together, but their hands never stop, Addison’s breath coming quick and hard, and she knows the other woman is close, the same way she knows the next time Addison scrapes her nail lightly over her clit, she’ll be pushed over the edge. Which she does, and she is.

Addison’s body shudders, and Meredith feels her muscles clench around her fingers, and then it’s over. It’s over, and there’s no cuddling, no soft words in her ears, no heavy weight of a man’s body falling asleep half on top of hers. It’s just Addison, straightening out her skirt, smoothing it down, running a hand through that red hair. It’s her, staring at the floor while she zips her jeans back up, before finally glancing up, body sated but still tipsy, at her attending.

“Go home, Grey.”

And Meredith will, even though it’s three in the morning now, even though it’s dark and she’s still drunk and she’ll have to call a cab, even though she has to be at work in three hours and she’s two floors away from a bed.

They won’t talk about it at the hospital, because that would mean it meant something, would mean there’d be something to discuss. But it was just drunk sex, and she doesn’t want to - can’t - make the mistake of caring about drunk sex with a Shepherd again.

One Word (Desperate Housewives, Gaby/Edie)

2009-07-21T17:08:08Z

Title: One Word
Author: irradiatedsoup
Recipient: mousiebean
Fandom: Desperate Housewives
Pairing: Gaby/Edie
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1024
Warnings: Spoilers up to 5x19
Summary: Every single moment has several different versions. Each pair of eyes remembers a different memory.

Every single moment has several different versions. Each pair of eyes remembers a different memory. Many stories are edited for taste, for timing and perhaps most importantly, for entertainment value.

Gabrielle Solis had sat in the back of Lynette's car, with the shiny canister of Edie sitting cold and slightly uncomfortably on her knees, as she had recounted the tale of the singles bar, the swizzle sticks and the swing set.

It was all the things a good story should be; sexy, funny, and it finished with a happy ending. Sure, Gaby had edited out a few details; like how she'd laughed when Edie had made that crack about Bree's hair (it had just slipped out by accident, really,) and how she'd actually (in a last minute panic,) picked up at least three swizzle sticks from the floor of the bar.

But all the most integral plot points were truthfully told, and that's what was important in the end after all. The fade to black, in her opinion, had been extremely classy and tasteful, so it wasn't really like Gaby was lying by omitting the very last part of her story from the agenda on their collective memory jaunt down Edie lane.

So to speak.

Everyone carries secrets with them and if they're good at keeping them, when they die their secrets are buried with them. It goes without saying that no one knew that particular fact better than the women who lived on Wisteria Lane.

There are all different kinds of secrets, of course; some secrets are large and life-changing, and some of them are just small, inconsequential and slightly awkward.

The incident that happened next, that particular night, was definitely of the latter type of secret, and only Edie and Gabrielle knew it. As Edie was unfortunately deceased there was no one left who could tell, or who could possibly judge Gaby for not telling her friends what had happened when Edie had gone back to her house for that drink.

Because honestly, it was fairly hard to remember it at all anyway. One drink that had turned into two, or five or possibly eleven. And then that had led to reminiscing about when they were younger and prettier, which had then graduated to hats and dancing on the sofa to Madonna; as though through becoming inebriated they had fallen into a rather kitschy and blurry VHS teen romp from the eighties. One minute Edie had been at her side dancing to 'Like A Prayer', and the next she was kissing Gaby on her mouth, hard and sort of angrily, really.

Gaby had still been feeling a bit competitive at this point, all things considered, so she'd grabbed hold of Edie's face and kissed her back with just as much enthusiasm, annoyance and tongue. It had only occurred to Gaby, when Edie had grabbed her left boob and breathed; "damn, these things are even smaller than they look", that things were possibly getting out of hand.

So to speak.

"Wait, wait, wait, what is going on here?" Gaby had asked, jerking back out of Edie's grip and crossing her arms over her maligned bosom protectively. "We can't do this!"

"Why not?" Edie had asked, not even having the decency to look slightly phased.

"Because we're friends!" Gaby had said, waving her arms a bit for emphasis. "Because friends don't ...be all sexy together!"

Edie had snorted. She actually snorted. "Oh come on, you're kidding, right? All that flirting earlier?'

"What?"

Edie had leaned in so close Gaby could see a little of her lipstick on Edie's upper lip. "You said I was hot."

"That doesn't mean---!" Gaby had interjected. "I also said Bree and Susan were hot, if you remember"

Edie's jaw had dropped. "Oh, no. You did not just put me in the same category as Meyer."

Gabrielle had held up her finger to stop that particular conversation from going any further.

"Edie, listen," Gabrielle had said. "You are very hot, and you're a fantastic - a very, very fine kisser, actually." Gaby had shook her head and tried to focus her eyes. "You're very fine and I'm very flattered, from the bottom of my heart I--"

"Okay, now you're getting weird on me, Solis," Edie had given her a slightly disgusted look. "I wanted to fool around, I didn't want to propose."

"I just--"

"Forget it, lady," Edie had said, shaking her head "You missed your chance."

Gaby had nodded and had sat down quietly on the sofa, the full effect of the alcohol seemingly hitting her all at once. Edie had walked slowly, teetering across the room, and was looking at the framed wedding picture of her and Carlos on the bureau. Gaby had meant to put it away, really. She had meant to. She just kept forgetting.

Edie had run her finger along the frame and tapped at the glass with her nails, offhandedly and unthinkingly. But the noise was loud and stark, like a starting gun, and seemed to change the air in the room. Edie's features had suddenly smoothed themselves into a picture of impeccable, sober calm, and all the while an uneasy, unplaced feeling had settled in Gaby's stomach.

Though, that obviously could have just been all the wine.

Gabrielle Solis sits in the back of Lynette's car, passes the shiny canister of Edie to Karen McClusky and leans against the window to watch the ground rush past underneath them. She thinks about all the little bits of the stories she hasn't told anyone; that would be buried with her too, when the time came. All the little bits she omitted from her life, that probably make up the truest picture of all.

Gaby's not even sure where the real story from that night ends herself. She must have fallen asleep quite soon after the kissing conversation, because the next thing Gabrielle knew for sure was her face was buried in the cushions on the sofa, there was drool on her chin, the dishwasher was running and Edie Britt was gone.

Gone.

It's one word to describe her, but it's not the one Gaby uses.

I've allowed my fears to get larger than life (Stranger Than Fiction, Karen/Penny)

2009-07-21T16:25:29Z

Title: I've allowed my fears to get larger than life
Author: marginalia, archive at skirmishes against the author
Recipient: glossing, who deserved better. And also timely.
Fandom: Stranger Than Fiction
Pairing: Karen/Penny
Rating: PG
Word count: just over 1000
Disclaimer: I own nothing here except my very own writer's block. One line is lifted from the film.
Notes: Title & cut text from Aimee Mann, who showed me the way in. Thanks to M&S for the read-through. YAY now I can read the rest :)

Kay had known it was coming eventually. She'd expected it sooner, really, as the world moved faster and faster and her editor's patience was bound to wear thin. No one could wait forever, not even for maudlin charm and beautiful tragedy, and ten years was more than forever. And this was who they had sent, this eminently practical woman, standing below her and interrupting her thoughts and her fall. Professional and dependable, a secretary crossed with a babysitter, and likely just as well read as the artificially cheerful bottle blonde from the Book Channel.

Just what she needed.

She challenged Penny, like she challenged everyone who entered her sphere, a tried and true method for maintaining isolation. Tell them what you're really thinking. They usually don't want to know, particularly when you're thinking about death.

"I try to think of nice things," Penny said, and the 'try' was what Kay held on to, a crack in the professional armor, whether Penny realized it then or not. Someone who had to work to think of the good, that was someone Kay could trust.

::

Penny had, as it turned out, a good deal of experience in researching potential character deaths. Not that any of them were the right death for Harold Crick.

Her second author was composing a multigenerational epic, with illnesses and accidents, deaths lingering and sudden of the young and the old. Her third, fifth, and eighteenth author wrote serial murder mysteries. The last author before Kay wondered about the particular details of death in space for a sort of CSI: Lunar Colony.

Penny spent a lot of time looking for answers that might not exist to questions most people never thought to ask. Enough time that when Harold appeared, a person who shouldn't exist, she opened the door and welcomed him in. It was certainly not the most unsettling thing about working with Kay. Every author had his or her own neurosis, of course, but none of the others stood on the edge, closed their eyes, and fell. None of the others drove their cars into rivers. None of the others killed themselves over and over again.

Authorial self-destruction. That was a new one for her.

::

They developed a routine of sorts. Penny sorted mail; Kay refused to let her respond to any of it. Penny read pages and made notes; Kay ignored them. Penny suggested trips to museums, walks in parks, and that Kay quit smoking, but Kay took them to lurk in the emergency room and continued to just smoke a half a cigarette at a time. Perhaps a half a cigarette didn't count. Perhaps it would just kill her more slowly.

Kay looked like if anyone touched her she would come apart, raw nerve ends everywhere sparking. Sometimes Penny thought it would be extremely satisfying to make her laugh, a true laugh from deep within. They sat close together in the pouring rain, though Kay refused the umbrella, and Penny thought carefully. No one was more stubborn than her, not even Kay.

::

Penny tried every trick from eleven years of author assistance to help Kay write, but nothing worked. She found her one afternoon sitting on the edge of the high backed chair, staring out the window at something entirely beyond the city.

"Do you only experience the bad things?" Penny asked.

"What?" Kay looked at her, startled.

"Jumping off buildings and the car crashes. I've seen how you imagine them. It's like you're living it yourself. Do you ever experience the good things that happen to your characters?" Penny paused, and briefly set aside her tightly-held professionalism. "The Ms. Pascals, for example?"

Kay leaned back into the chair, pulling her knees up to her chest. "No," she said, her tone like a closing door.

Penny regarded her thoughtfully. "Maybe you should."

::

On the day Kay discovered how to kill Harold Crick, she was oddly afraid to go back to the loft. She didn't want to be in any one place or around any one person, so she boarded a bus and wrote, scrawling notes on a yellow legal pad, getting off from time to time to smoke.

During one stop, she rummaged in her pocket only to find the nicotine patch pamphlet Penny had given her that day in the rain. She looked at it for a moment, frowning, considered throwing it in the nearby bin, but instead tucked it back in her pocket. There was no need to be hasty.

When she returned, Penny was organizing index cards -- plot elements, perhaps, or some other sort of writer's block voodoo. Kay didn't know and didn't care. She felt a little childlike and defensive, blurting out where she'd been and why, looking out the window so she wouldn't have to see Penny react. Chewing on the cap of her pen, she backed awkwardly out of the room and slipped out of her shoes to feel the cool floor beneath her feet. She started to type, counting on the clatter of the keys pushing away the memory of the look of disappointment on Penny's face.

::

Harold's voice still echoed from the receiver at her feet, and Penny was packing to leave. Kay covered her face with her hands and tried to focus on something, anything: her breathing, the sun on her skin, Penny's heels clicking as she crossed the room. Penny reached out and touched her shoulder, and it was as if Kay had been waiting for it for years. Tension drained from her body, still scared but safe, and she said softly, "It was him. He's real. He's coming."

"All right. I'm here. It'll be okay."

::

As Harold's story shifted, so did Kay's. "They gave you more time," Penny said. "I sent the sample chapters we agreed on. They're good with it."

Kay nodded. She fiddled with her lighter, but didn't reach for a cigarette. "So. Are you still a spy?" She looked up at Penny, challenging, and then away.

"No. Not a spy, or a babysitter, or a secretary."

"Then," Kay lifted her head, "I think you should stay."

::

It takes time to reverse years of isolation, and trust takes still more time to build. Someday soon there will be the everyday joys of verbal sparring in the kitchen, terrible late-night movies, a heart and home to return to after book tours.

Until then there are cups of tea, Bavarian sugar cookies, stories that are true, and laughter that rises from deep within.

my female trouble II [gossip girl rpf, blake lively/leighton meester]

2009-07-21T16:14:19Z

Title: my female trouble II
Author: fivewhatfive
Recipient: pirateygoodness
Fandom: Gossip Girl RPF (blink-and-you-miss-it: HSM RPF, Scrubs)
Pairing: Blake Lively/Leighton Meester
Rating: PG-13/Light R
Word count: ~6600
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on real people I don't know and have never met.
Notes: Look mom, it's a medical AU! Thanks to it_was_enough for putting up with my questions and sinandmisery for the beta. Mistakes left are all mine. *offers mods a cookie*
Special Pirate Notes: I'M SO SORRY I RUINED CHRISTMAS D: (also, I am a SPY y/n?) I know you would've died of happiness if I'd written Ashley/Vanessa, and I would, if I thought I could, but I sort of did the next best thing?
Summary: Doctor Lively battles routine, rival interns and wet floors. And that damn girl.

The hair tie is the first thing to go.

Alexander McQueen Makes Bed Sheets Now (The Devil Wears Prada, Emily/Serena)

2009-07-21T10:22:30Z

Title: Alexander McQueen Makes Bed Sheets Now
Author: Regency/ egalitarianmuse
Recipient: annaalamode
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada (movie)
Pairing: Emily Charlton/Serena, though really more of an Emily study than anything.
Rating: G-ish
Total word count: 4,888
Beta by: istumen . Thank you!
Summary: Sharing shoes meant sharing clothes, meant sharing space. They did that anyway, but the shoes were a catalyst.
AN: I realize that you love fashion, so I’ve done a little research. As you make your way through the text, I’ll link you to some visuals that I think will help you enjoy the story more.
ANII: Inspired originally by these shoes from the Alexander McQueen Spring/Summer ’09 collection among many other things.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any characters recognizable as being from The Devil Wears Prada. They are the property of their producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.

~!~

( Ribbons, charms, and a lethal heel, she saw. Lacroix, Lacroix, Lacroix, she thought. )

Fell just like a star (Bones, Cam/Temperance)

2009-07-21T07:30:14Z

Title: Fell just like a star
Author: Pene
Recipient: SailorGirl
Fandom: Bones
Pairing: Camille Saroyan/Temperance Brennan
Rating: R
Word count: 1500
Warnings: A snow-bound cabin romance, but with scientists
Disclaimer: I didn't invent these characters.

It's a dark night, but two sets of headlights reflect against the snow and Temperance can make out Cam's profile across the car interior.

"It came out of nowhere," says Cam for the third time.

"Are you certain you haven't hit your head?" asks Temperance. She peers helpfully at Cam's head. Even this way up, it's a well-shaped head.

"I didn't hit my head," says Cam.

"You're repeating yourself," Temperance explains.

"I know," says Cam with a flicker of a smile. "It's a reaction to the shock. Oddly I find this situation disturbing."

Temperance nods. It's reasonable to be disquieted. Apart from anything else, both they and Cam's car are inverted in a snow drift. There's an overturned semi-trailer a mere twenty meters away.

"We need to investigate the driver," says Temperance and swivels her body to slide through the window into the snow. She knows Cam will follow.

They are on their way back to DC. Temperance was discussing the presence of magnesium-based grafting in a recent victim's pubic arch and watching Cam's sure hands on the wheel, when a massive semi-trailer veered wildly toward Cam's car. Cam's sharp driving sent them into the drift rather than under the trailer's cab.

"You're an excellent driver," acknowledges Temperance as they walk towards the truck.

"Thank you. Sometimes you learn something useful on the force," says Cam. Cam always sounds faintly amused when talking to Temperance. Temperance files the thought for later consideration.

The truck driver is dead. The collision has thrown him halfway through the windscreen which is never good. There's no need to look at the bones at this point. Even on a cursory examination it is clear that blood loss from a sliced femoral artery killed him, if nothing else did.

Temperance and Cam's eyes meet across the body.

"He looks familiar," says Cam.

"He should. He is the prime suspect in the Seth case."

"Was," says Cam.

"He still is a suspect," says Temperance reasonably. "He's just dead."

"We can be fairly sure he was trying to kill us," says Cam.

"That is probably the best explanation."

"In that case, I think we can hypothesize that he's more than a suspect," says Cam.

It's unfortunate; with the driver dead and without cell phone reception or collision analysts they won't uncover anything about the accident now. The driver probably feels it's unfortunate too.

"Seatbelts should be compulsory," says Temperance.

"And I believe we're in Maryland, where they are," says Cam. "But I can't call the cops on him unless we suddenly have reception." She pulls out her phone and confirms, "Nope. We'd better pick a direction and start walking before we die of exposure." Cam's practicality seems effortless even in the cold.

Temperance considers. "Turn out the headlights."

They allow their eyes time to adjust to the pale starlight and scour the landscape. "There's a building on the horizon," says Temperance, pointing. Cam nods. It's not like they have many options. They walk.

The crunch of snow underfoot is sharp in the still night. The cold air stings Temperance's nostrils. Very quickly there's no possibility for conversation or even much thought beyond placing one foot in front of the other.

Cam mutters, "Left. Left. Left, right, left." She repeats it. Temperance joins in. It could be effective. Their breath condenses in the cold air and dissipates into the dark. They trudge on toward the building.

More snow falls as they walk. It quickly covers their footprints. There's no one pointing a gun at them or locking them in a pressure chamber or burying them underground. Everything is silent and still. But they're alone and it's only going to get colder. Temperance feels her own fear in her quickened pulse. For a mile or more there is only Temperance and Cam and the snow; Temperance and Cam and the building in the distance.

Finally the building is recognisably a cabin. The cabin seems welcoming in the way that any possible salvation seems welcoming. They hammer on the door, but the place is empty. Trees scratch against the roof and the porch boards creak.

"Oh good lord, now it's haunted," says Cam under her breath.

"Haunting is merely a misinterpretation of facts or a superstition," Temperance can't stop herself from saying, though she knows Cam doesn't believe in ghosts. She tries the door which is locked. "It's locked," she says.

Cam pulls off her jacket, wraps her hand in it and breaks the tiny window in the door. It's impressive. She reaches in and unlocks the door.

The relief on walking inside is like an expansion in Temperance's lungs. The women beam at one another. Temperance refrains from embracing Cam. It's almost certainly a reaction to her body's return to relaxation state and not a response to Cam's competence and smile.

The cabin is predictably cold but there's a fireplace so it's not long before they're warming their hands and feet and faces before a blaze. They sit side by side on the couch and stretch their limbs. The seat is badly sprung and tilts them toward one another.

"Very cosy," says Cam.

Temperance agrees that the situation lends itself to cosiness. She just never thought of herself as being cosy with Cam.

Cam shifts her weight and her thigh presses against Temperance's thigh. Their eyes meet for one of those strange, clear moments. Cam turns away.

It's interesting. Temperance quickly runs through possible meaning for the eye contact. It is not a private communication between co-workers in a public space. It's not a warning. It's not a private joke, or if it is Temperance is unaware of it so it's unsuccessful. Temperance and Cam usually communicate successfully. This means the only other possibility, though unlikely, is almost certainly true. It is sexual tension.

Temperance curls her toes.

Cam leans across to poke the fire with a stick. Her profile is lovely in the fire light. Temperance can see the way her bones fit cleanly under her skin.

"You're beautiful," says Temperance, surprising herself. She continues quickly. "Objectively you have an excellent bone structure and fine skin."

Cam laughs. She's not as beautiful when laughing, but Temperance wants to laugh too.

The post-adrenaline wakefulness is fading. Temperance feels languid and relaxed.

"Ready for bed?" asks Cam.

There's one bed. Temperance is unaccustomed to feeling awkward about bed sharing arrangements. "We'll have to share," she says, more brusquely than she intended.

"Yep," says Cam slowly and leans in to kiss Temperance. Temperance reaches a hand around Cam's neck to pull her closer. It's a very good kiss.

"You're an excellent kisser," says Temperance.

"Thank you," says Cam. "So are you." Her eyes hold a glint of laughter.

Temperance can think of no valid reason to stop. Admittedly Temperance is fairly distracted so valid reasons might be hard to come by. She pulls Cam closer to her. Cam kneels on the floor between Temperance's thighs and Temperance feels the breath catch in her windpipe.

Cam reaches to unbutton Temperance's jeans and slides one hand inside. Temperance stops cataloguing and closes her eyes with pleasure. She loves this point when physical feeling overwhelms her brain and halts somewhere between thoughts.

Cam's fingers shift in pattern; her other hand presses against Temperance's lower spine. Temperance lifts her hips, pliant in response. She opens her eyes. Cam's lips curl into a smile. She pulls Temperance's jeans down over her hips and lifts Temperance forward until they are kneeling, facing one another. The rug is soft under them.

"Turn around," says Cam. Temperance obeys, though it's awkward with her jeans around her knees. Cam bends Temperance over and presses a hand between Temperance's shoulder blades. Cam's other hand slides up between Temperance's thighs. Temperance arches her back and tilts her hips to offer more of herself. With Cam's weight above her and Cam's fingers pumping inside her, Temperance is beyond thinking.

Later as the fire dies, they climb into the bed and curl up against the cold. Everything feels easy and sleepy between them.

"I've been thinking about doing that for a long time," says Cam quietly.

"Oh," says Temperance. "It hadn't really occurred to me."

"I know," says Cam. Then smugly, "But it will now, won't it?"

Temperance is woken by the cold and the white morning light angling past icicles on the window. She hears, incongruously, her phone ringing.

"I think," says Cam from beside her, "we might have reception."

Temperance clambers out of bed. The air is icy on her bare skin.

"Where are you?" says Booth at the other end. "You've had us worried."

Temperance climbs back into bed as she explains about the semi-trailer and Cam's car and the blizzard and the cabin. When they're done she hangs up and turns to Cam.

"Booth," she tells Cam unnecessarily.

"Sounds like it. Back to the real world then?"

Temperance is not concerned with the so-called real world distinction. Clearly this hidden cabin, with its bed and privacy and chill air, is as real as the Jeffersonian Institute.

"It's all real isn't it," she says. "The point is no one will be here for a few hours and I'd like a chance to-"

Cam kisses Temperance on the lips. It might be that Cam just wanted to stop Temperance talking, but Temperance isn't about to complain.

***

P.S. Sorry I was late! I was all done about 5 hours ago when Spies ate my computer and I had to re-build. Thank you for your patience mods, hope it was worth the wait Sailorgirl!

Transformations (Harry Potter, Astoria/Pansy)

2009-07-21T06:15:07Z

Title: Transformations
Author: slammerkinbabe
Recipient: scarletladyy
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Astoria/Pansy
Rating: Hard R
Word count: ~4,000
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, as I am, regrettably, not J.K. Rowling. On a related note, I'm not making any money off of this.
Warnings: Hints of kink/BDSM.
Summary: What happens in the Room of Requirement...
Notes: For those of you who didn't read the interviews with J.K. Rowling after the publication of book 7, Astoria Greengrass is adult!Draco's wife, who makes a split-second appearance in the epilogue but is unnamed. She's two years younger than her sister, Daphne Greengrass, who is a Slytherin in Pansy's year. We're given no other details about her, so this is my vision of what she might be like. <-- highlight for spoilers

She turned her teacup into what?”

“I don't even know! It was, like, a spider made out of bones. It was all yellow and chipping apart, and it ran across the desk. Anna screamed her head off,” Janet said complacently.

“Like you wouldn't have! It practically climbed up my arm!” Anna retorted hotly, amid general laughter. “It was the weirdest thing I ever saw -- it was like a skull with all these legs, and it was clattering at me! Everybody was screaming.”

“What did McGonagall do?”

“Just waved her wand at it and turned it back into a teacup. Then made Tori do it again, in front of the whole class. But it was a perfect tortoise the next time,” Janet said.

“I think McGonagall was just as weirded out as everybody else, though,” Tara said, brow creasing. “It's not exactly a mistake that happens every day, is it?”

“It wasn't a mistake at all! If you'd seen the way she was looking at me, with those creepy gray eyes --”

“Oh, stop being such a sissy.” This came from Millicent, who'd been sitting on the outskirts of the conversation with her bulk balanced unsteadily in the chair she was leaning back on two legs, and who seemed more preoccupied with petting her cat than with the details of the scene Astoria had made in the fifth-year Transfiguration class.

“You weren't there. I'm telling you, there's no way that was an accident. I'm sorry, Daphne, but Tori is really weird.”

Daphne made a dismissive noise. “Please. You guys have no idea how weird she can actually get. At home I just try to stay out of her way. I think Mum and Dad are afraid of her too. You can never catch her doing magic, but things go missing, all these bizarre creepy-crawly things show up out of nowhere... She's too good at magic to be normal, I swear.”

“Not sure that means much coming from you, Daph,” Janet said, prompting a bout of sniggers from the girls around her.

Daphne flushed. “Fine. Next time she comes after me with some crazy spell to turn my hair into leeches or something, I'll send her after you instead and you can deal with her.”

“She turned your hair into leeches?”

“Not that it matters anyway,” Millicent threw out, lazily. “At school she spends all her time following Pansy around, trying to catch her and Draco having sex in the prefect bathroom.” The room roared; Draco had told that story to anyone who'd listen last year, proud of his studmuffin status. In her chair by the fire, Pansy stiffened, but nobody seemed to notice.

“Maybe she thinks he's sneaking back and forth like he did last year --”

“Or maybe she's hoping Pansy'll tell her how big Draco's dick is!”

“She already knows that!”

“You think she wants a threesome?”

“If that's what she wants, she should've just asked the last time!”

The hilarity was rent by a sudden crash and a burst of flame and smoke. Pansy had jumped up and fled the room, so quickly that her chair had tipped over and had landed in the fireplace behind her. The others stared, shocked, at the space where she’d been, and the line of fire creeping along a leg of the chair. “Aguamenti,” Tara cried hastily, and the rush of smoke left the girls coughing and choking. When the room had cleared they went back to gossiping, with even more energy than before -- but quietly this time. Pansy had gone strange lately, but everyone knew she was dating the school’s only Death Eater. And everyone knew what nobody said: the idea of having Pansy mad at you, these days, was a little bit scary.

_______________________________________

Upstairs, Astoria sat still on her bed, her hair hanging in lank seaweed-hued chunks around her face. The Extendable Ear she'd snitched from one of the Weasley twins snaked through the closed curtains and out to the edge of the common room door. Her flat gray eyes glittered, and the corners of her mouth curled up slightly as she listened. She was watching the folds of the curtain in front of her.

In a moment the door of the common room creaked open, and soft footsteps made their way down the corridor to the fifth-years' bedroom. A shadow fell across the curtain, then hesitated a moment.

Then a hand reached in and pulled the curtain aside. Pansy stood in the opening, color high in her cheeks. Her expression was defiant but her fingers were playing nervously with the hem of her robes.

Astoria smiled. Threads of silver had begun to wind through her hair.

______________________________________

It was the Room of Requirement that they used, not the prefects' bathroom, and all it required was a stone table and Astoria's wand.

Six months ago Pansy would not have imagined this. Six months ago Pansy and Draco were a brand-new item, the power couple of the school, and Pansy liked to flaunt to her less experienced friends her knowledge of what sex was all about. What sex was about then was simple: it was about how Draco could empty the sixth-year boys' sleeping space with a smile and a twist of the arm to show his Dark Mark. Sex was about lying back in Draco's bed, letting him pound into her and keeping her eyes fixed on the Mark as he used his arms to brace himself over her in the bed. Sex was about sneaking into prefects' bathrooms and hidden passageways and other semi-public places, then bragging about it in the morning. Draco had never taken her to the Room of Requirement. He hadn't wanted her to know about it. He considered it his secret.

When Astoria had walked in on them in the prefects' bathroom, Draco had assumed she was there for him, and he'd told the story often enough and loudly enough that the rest of the school had taken it for granted too. Pansy was the only one who'd seen the way Astoria's eyes had flickered over her, seeming to X-ray straight through the steam and bubbles. She was the only one who'd seen where Astoria's eyes had lingered and for how long. Draco had made lewd remarks to Astoria every time he'd passed her in the hallways from then on -- half of Slytherin had -- but he'd never gotten any more reaction than that small, unreadable half-smile. It was Pansy who'd caught Astoria looking at her in the hallways though -- standing behind an empty suit of armor and watching as she and Draco passed, following a few steps behind as they walked between classes. Pansy thought she knew more than Draco did, but she kept it quiet, though she wasn't sure why. Over time, her silence began to feel like a kind of collusion. Sometimes when she caught Astoria staring at her in the hallways, she found herself meeting the girl's eyes directly. She learned to expect their split-second change from steel-gray to mercury.

But Pansy liked being with Draco. She liked the purity of his heritage, liked that he could trace his bloodlines back thousands of years without the taint of a single Mudblood. (There was a branch of Pansy's family tree that was not talked about, ancestors whose names weren't known and who were buried in unknown graves. Pansy kept her secret safe, and it was safer still when she walked hand-in-hand with Draco; everyone knew only the purest of blood was good enough for him.) She liked his quick ambition and the casual cruelty with which he treated those who would get in his way. She liked the way the younger Slytherins' eyes widened when they saw him walk by, Pansy on his arm. Most of all she liked that he was the only Death Eater at the school -- the youngest Death Eater there'd ever been, come to that. Draco was a man of power, and when she was with him, Pansy shared in that power.

Draco was right for Pansy in every way, and she knew it. She was happy strutting down the hallways with him, happy with quick furtive thrusts in rooms that wouldn't be empty for long. And when she caught sight of Astoria out of the corner of her eye or felt her presence behind them in the corridors, she laughed along with Draco as he cracked wise about Astoria's obsession with him.

Then Dumbledore was dead and Draco was gone, the school left in disarray. He’d been back and forth since then, always taciturn and distracted when he was at Hogwarts, never offering explanation when he wasn’t.

It was during one of the times that he was gone that Pansy had found Astoria in her bed. And in the span of that moment, before she’d even known what was happening, Pansy’s world had lurched off its axis, then resumed spinning around a new center.

________________________________

In the first half-second, Pansy had thought Astoria was Draco.

She’d pulled aside the curtain around her bed and found herself staring at a slender figure with a cap of brilliant silver-blond hair. The figure’s back was turned to her, head bowed, and after a quick second of disbelief she’d moved forward eagerly, thrilled that he’d taken time away from the Death Eaters to see her, ready to pull him on top of her without a word –

Then the figure had turned towards her a bit, and she’d caught a flash of a silver-veiled glance in her direction. And she knew.

“But… you…” It was Astoria, of course it was Astoria – the olive undertone tinging her pallid skin, the high forehead, the oddly dented snub nose. And the smile – thin-lipped, knowing, absolutely unreadable. But her hair --

Astoria said nothing, tilting her head slightly to let a few more silky white-blonde tendrils fall over her face, obscuring one eye. Pansy’s mouth had gone dry.

“You’re a Met – a Meth…” She couldn’t remember the word.

“A Metamorphmagus,” Astoria whispered, her gaze steady. The silence unspooled between them. Pansy wanted to ask what Astoria was doing in her bed; she wanted to ask why she’d been following them all this time, what she thought she was up to; she wanted to ask why she’d gone five years with greasy hair the color of seaweed hanging in her face if she could change it, and why she’d chosen to change it here, now –

“Duro,” Astoria murmured, with a flick of her wand, and Pansy felt the curtain turn solid behind her. The room was sealed.

She took a step towards the bed, her eyes fixed on Astoria’s, all thought suspended. Astoria’s tongue flicked over her lips, once. Pansy could have sworn it forked in two at the tip, and her knees weakened.

Then Astoria raised one arm and pulled back her sleeve. The Dark Mark shone there, charcoal-black against her skin.

It was the last blow; Pansy moaned and fell to her knees by the bedside, unable to tear her eyes from the Mark. Above her on the bed, Astoria parted her robes and slid forward, until her legs dangled on either side of Pansy’s head. Slowly, keeping the Mark exposed, she moved her hand to Pansy’s head and guided her forward. Pansy closed her eyes, inhaling the heavy scent wafting towards her, the image of the Mark still burning against her closed eyelids as she dipped her head.

________________________________

It wasn’t the real Dark Mark, of course.

Pansy should have known. Draco was the youngest Death Eater there’d ever been; she knew that, he’d told her so. Astoria was two years younger, a girl who hadn’t even passed her O.W.L.s yet, untrained, useless to the Dark Lord. The Dark Mark on her arm had been put there by her own hand, burned there by the Incendio charm. Astoria had shown Pansy the small blackened circles that made up the pattern. With Pansy sitting before her, she’d pressed the wand to her arm and murmured the charm again, darkening the hollows of the skull’s eyes, Pansy staring in horrified fascination. As Astoria’s wand burned red on her arm and the breath hissed out between her teeth, Pansy watched her hair shift in color once again, the silver changing to a grayish-ivory with a bare yellowish cast. It made Pansy think of old bones, rotted clean of flesh. Then, as the wand tip faded and Astoria’s jaw unclenched, Pansy saw the hair shading back to its old color: the same greenish-black Pansy had known for five years, drawing out all the olive tones to her skin, making her look drab and washed-out and entirely dull. It was the look that allowed her to fade into the background. Only the flat glitter of her eyes remained unchanged.

Pansy knew that that was all for the night.

And over time, she came to learn that this would always be her signal. They would meet when Astoria wanted them to meet. In between meetings Pansy might tell herself that she’d never let it happen again, that as Draco’s girlfriend she certainly wasn’t going to let herself be held at the beck and call of some weird outcast of a fifth-year, risking her relationship and her reputation for a poseur to Death Eater status with a self-inflicted burn on her arm. But it took no more than a quirk of Astoria’s eyebrow or the slightest pressure of her fingers encircling Pansy’s wrist, and she’d find herself reduced to following Astoria around, waiting to see where she would bring Pansy, waiting to see what she would do.

It was generally the Room of Requirement. As Astoria required it, it was bare and echoing, sparsely lit by guttering torches, one single flat table rising in the center of the room, like a sacrificial altar. It was Pansy who lay on the table, pinning her arms to her sides and spreading her legs obediently, her robes stripped from her by one flick of Astoria’s wand. Sometimes the table sprouted chains to bind her; sometimes Petrificus Totalus was used to fix her in place; sometimes Astoria left her to fight to hold herself still, apparently enjoying watching Pansy struggle to subdue herself. In any case, after a moment Pansy would see the silver threads winding through Astoria’s hair. It was inevitable and Pansy didn’t know whether she was deliberately imitating Draco’s appearance or if it was, like so many other things, something Astoria did for her own reasons that Pansy would never understand. Whichever it was, Pansy could never hold onto the question for long.

Mainly, Astoria fucked her with spells. Her hands rarely touched Pansy, though the room occasionally conjured a few toys or tools for their use. But her spells… Pansy couldn’t imagine where she could have learned all of them and couldn’t have cared less. She could never have imagined the things Astoria could do with her wand, and sometimes she was almost disgusted with herself – the ugly, strangled cries that forced their way past her lips, the way she could be reduced to begging any time Astoria had the whim to make her. In those moments she knew that if Astoria demanded she leave Draco, she’d do it in a heartbeat. If Astoria made her swear the Unbreakable Vow before she’d finish what she’d started, Pansy would swear it. In those moments there was nothing Astoria could demand that Pansy would not give.

Astoria had proven this plenty of times, once she’d let Pansy up from the table. Once again, Pansy could never have imagined the things Astoria told her to do. But she did them. When she could, she kept her eyes fixed on the Dark Mark – the fake Dark Mark that she could have touched without fear of the Dark Lord, and yet which she almost feared more than Draco’s Mark, though she could never have explained why.

In between meetings, they didn’t speak.

But Pansy was always aware of Astoria, a low-level, jittering awareness that flared up in an all-over flush and a thudding heartbeat whenever she caught a glimpse of that lank seaweed hair wending through the crowds in the hallways. Astoria had her hooked and nowadays, when she was with Draco, she couldn’t keep her mind off Astoria no matter what they were doing. She often thought back to the time that Astoria had barged in on them in the bathroom. She listened when Draco told the story and felt a warm tingle begin between her legs, sometimes tried to lead him into talking about it just so she could listen. Sex with Draco felt almost pointless now, just something she had to do if she wanted to keep him. She prized her relationship with him still, still swept through the hallways in a heady rush when she was on his arm, still laid her head in his lap in the common room and felt him swelling against her in satisfaction. She expected that they would stay this way. She would fawn over him and stroke his vanity in every way she knew how, she would be the perfect girlfriend, and after Hogwarts they would marry and she would become Pansy Malfoy, wife of the Dark Lord’s right-hand man, foremost among the Wizarding world’s elite.

She didn’t think about Astoria in her future because she didn’t let herself think about her. Draco was Pansy’s investment in the future. Whatever happened with Astoria happened in the moment; it would always exist apart from the rest of reality, in a Room of Requirement where the torches flickered wildly and no clocks were ever set. She and Draco lived in one world, Astoria in another. She expected that when they emerged from Hogwarts, Draco’s would be the world she took with her, the world in which she made her home.

__________________________________

Fifteen years later, Pansy wishes she’d written down Astoria’s spells.

She can remember a few of them, and though she never gets them quite right, they're almost always worth an extra five or ten Galleons – quite a boost these days, when she keeps having to lower her base rate just to get them in the door. Sometimes she can work a whole day without breaking thirty Galleons. Astoria’s spells are for a special clientele, the sort of clientele Pansy had always assumed she’d have – her looks, her experience – but the men these days are looking for something younger or flightier, she supposed. She’d tried to charm her wrinkles away last year, but the spell had gone awry and she’d wound up with a spray of scars across her cheek, which she hadn’t been able to cure. Still, at seven Galleons a throw the johns ought to be lined up around the corner, scars or no scars.

But she doesn’t remember enough of them, and she can see at a glance that while the ones she can remember usually works well enough, there’s never been a man yet who’d flown into bits of ecstasy the way Pansy used to in her Hogwarts years. Maybe they weren’t intended for use on men, but Pansy suspects that they’d have worked fine with Astoria holding the wand. Still, she keeps working at it, letting the men hammer into her until she’s all but numb, then whispering a suggestion in their ear to make things a bit more… interesting. Times when it works, she’ll have a few more drafts of mead at the end of the day. If it doesn’t (and that had only happened once or twice, really) St. Mungo’s can take care of him and no questions asked. She’s never had any trouble with the Obliviate spell, so she’s got no worry that rumors would spread that could damage her business. Such as it is.

In objective moments she’d have to confess that she’s not terribly happy with her life these days. Draco’s leaving her fresh out of Hogwarts, that had been a blow. She’d thought she’d be in Malfoy Manor by now, a personal house-elf at her beck and call, standing on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters each year to kiss goodbye to a couple of kids with a blend of hers and Draco’s features. Parties with the beau monde, cut-crystal glasses full of the finest elf-made wine.

She doesn’t know how it happened, doesn’t know when or how Astoria and Draco came together. She tries not to think about it too much. The engagement notice in the paper six weeks after she and Draco broke up, when Astoria was still in high school, barely even of age. He would have gone to visit Astoria on weekends, or she would have visited him. Pansy does not imagine them together in the Room of Requirement. She does not imagine Astoria sitting in Malfoy Manor, ringing the bell for her house-elf. She does not picture Astoria occupying Pansy’s place on Draco’s arm. She never imagines any of those things. Not at all.

She never thinks about Astoria in any way, really. If she occasionally has to rake her memory over those times they spent together in the Room of Requirement, the heat and the shrieks and the wetness and the hoarse pleas, it’s strictly a business matter. She needs the spells, that’s all. How did she ever lose them?

She doesn’t think about Astoria and she doesn’t think about Draco but then, one day, she looks up for her next customer and feels her eyes widen uncontrollably as she takes in the white-blond hair, the aristocratic features, the dry, sardonic glance. It’s Draco. She knew he’d be back someday; she knew she was the one he wanted, that Astoria was a mere trifle with a pure-blood family tree. Pansy sees her around every now and again, her appearance wholly different from what she’d looked like at Hogwarts; her hair’s a rich auburn these days, nothing like any of the colors Pansy had ever seen while she was at Hogwarts. Her nose longer, her lips fuller, her cheekbones higher. Pansy wonders if she has to focus on keeping herself Metamorphosed at all times, or whether her true appearance is anything she wants it to be, neither what she’d seemed at Hogwarts nor what she seems now, and changing her appearance as easy as changing her clothes. Whatever she looks like, it’s false, nothing but an empty mask, and Draco knows that, or why would he have come to Pansy? He wants someone real. He wants her.

Wordlessly, she opens her arms to him.

When they’re finished and he’s straightening his clothes, an awkwardness descends between them. Pansy realizes that they haven’t spoken at all since he came in. Something about the silence between them, the way she’d known from a glance what he wanted from her and how she’d given it without a word, tugs at her memory, but there’s no time to wonder about that. “The usual rate’s seven Galleons, stranger,” she says, slipping into the throaty voice she uses with all her clients, “but seeing as it’s you, we might be able to come to an… arrangement? Maybe a repeat visit, the first one’s on the house?”

He turns to her and gives her a slow smile. A chill steals down Pansy’s back, although she can’t say why. Something about that smile – something –

Something is happening to his hair. It’s not quite the silvery-blond shade it was – there’s a gray tone to it, a yellowish cast –

His eyes suddenly flare mercury-bright at her, and she screams.

With a wink, Astoria casts seven Galleons on the table and walks out the door.

Earth-style Romantic Gestures (Star Trek XI, Uhura/Gaila)

2009-07-21T05:38:15Z

Title: Earth-style Romantic Gestures
Author: Jain
Recipient: katemonkey
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Uhura/Gaila
Rating: PG
Word count: 3179
Disclaimer: This is an unofficial fanfiction work, created for love and not profit.
Summary: This wasn't the first time Gaila had hit on her.

[ Earth-style Romantic Gestures ]

Clouds Got In My Way (The Devil Wears Prada, Emily/Andy)

2009-07-21T05:20:53Z

Title: Clouds Got In My Way
Author: swatkat24
Recipient: llyfrgell
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada (movie)
Pairing: Emily/Andy (Emily/Serena)
Rating: PG
Word count: 4920

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine.

Summary: Emily goes to Paris. Again.

So many things I would have done, but clouds got in my way.

Deadline passed!

2009-07-21T04:29:27Z

Deadline has passed. Unless you've notified us, and we've replied, you're late. If you haven't posted your story, you should email us at femslashmods @ gmail . com ASAP.

Like The Surprise You Saw Coming (Devil Wears Parda, Lily/Andy)

2009-07-21T04:09:51Z

Title: Like The Surprise You Saw Coming
Author: maddie508
Recipient: queenzulu
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Lily/Andy
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1174
Disclaimer: The Devil Wears Parda belongs to Lauren Weisberger

Lily crosses her arms and taps absently with one finger on as she stares blankly across the room. She knows she should be moving around the room, chatting up potential buyers and making contacts, even if this is still just a ‘job that pays the rent’.

What she’s just seen, however, is making her brain catch whenever she tries to think of something else. She’d be lying if she told herself she wasn’t shocked, but she’d be also lying if she said she couldn’t have seen it coming.

The perks that Andy, and therefore the rest of them, had been getting had been great and started out seeming pretty reasonable. But then there was that night when Andy had gotten an emergency call on the cell phone that had suddenly become an extra appendage and decided to make up for dragging Lily out of the movie and into her office by letting Lily walk around the Runway closet while she dealt with the developing jacket fiasco. Of course she’d been in the middle of a pile of bags and shoes when Andy came back, what girl wouldn’t be? And of course she’d been joking when she said she wanted to take them home. She hadn’t expected Andy to turn around and tell her she could take the newest Lious Vuitton clutch.
This coming from the girl who had, at age 12, managed to both feel guilty about sneaking their own snacks into the movie theater and rail on for twenty minutes about how unfair the movie theater prices were and how they were a sad statement about American consumerism and complacency and any number of other things Lily no longer remembered (because no matter how many versions of the rant she had heard, her attention never lasted past that point) was every bit as weird as hearing Doug talk about car engines. But she’d wanted the purse and Andy really didn’t seem to mind, so she went with it.

She moves over closer to a group clustered around a photo and almost slips into the conversation before her mind catches again, this time on that sudden improvement of Andy’s ability to ask other people to do her favors. She can still remember sitting in the restaurant with Andy and Doug, back when Andy stilled showed up when she promised, waiting for Nate to get out and watching it happen.
The Clackers had been trying to pull together an article Andy swore was almost substantive, but they were having trouble getting in contact with one particular person. When Doug let it slip that the person was a friend of a friend the wheedling had begun.
“Come on,” Andy tilted her chin down and to the side so that the light hit her face just so and eyes looked bigger than you could imagine, “please?”
So maybe Lily wouldn't have noticed if she hadn’t been watching her friend’s face so carefully, but it was still weird. And it wasn’t like she’d ever really had trouble getting people to do things for her. She was so hardworking and earnest that most people had been happy to help her. The only charm she’d ever employed was the awkward and unintentional sort that came from an independent streak that made asking for help so uncomfortable that she was prone to excessive gesticulation and slightly meandering tangents.

Then there was the night, Lily muses as moves back through the crowd, just a week or so before Andy had become incapable of carrying on a conversation for more than 15 minutes without mentioning something about Miranda, when after two drinks on an empty stomach (because she wasn’t quite sure she’d fit into the outfit she’ planned for tomorrow) Andy had begun to go on about how fashion was like literature, some mixture of art and the influences of it’s period. Lily could only assume this was due more to drinking the the Kool-aide than the win. It had been one thing for her to admit that there is more to Runway than fashion was one thing, but for her to say that there is more to fashion than belts and ruffles was pushing it.

Lily begins walking back through the exhibit again and it seems impossible that just a few minutes ago she’d been so happy to see Andy looking at her show with a smile and her look of concentration, with the sharp attentiveness that was so much about what made Andy Andy and the same little pursing of the lips that had amused Lily for years by being both annoyingly cute and completely endearing at the same time. But she had to admit that the look she’d seen while Andy had edited and fact checked her own articles into perfection for so many years, was now something Lily was most likely to see cross her face when takes the Dragon Lady’s calls, looks at a window display on 5th Ave or goes to pick an accessory on her way out the door.

She’d be lying if she said she didn’t see it coming, she admits to herself as she moves away from the person trying to make eye contact with her, but she’d also be lying if she said she hadn’t enjoyed some of it.

She barely even remembers when it had first occurred to her or what made her realize it; whether it had been the way it was easier to spend time with her than anyone else or the fact that sometimes Andy’s giggles last long than you’d expect them to. All she remembers is being completely convinced that it must have been entirely in her head. The few times she’d gotten some proof that it wasn’t just her imagination had always been followed by some period of awkwardness, the length of which was always related to the severity of the breach of what Doug referred to as ‘strict friendliness’. A hand left somewhere too long was good for a few second’s worth of quiet awkwardness; that tipsy kiss in high school had gotten at least three minutes of embarrassed giggles; that one night in college, just after she’d started dating Nate, when they’d worked their way through most of a box of wine had bought an entire week of guilt induced avoidance and two years of denial.

Lily glances toward the window and watches as Nate begins to walk down the street, away from Andy, then pauses. She sees Andy’s whole body jerk suddenly and she can almost hear the ring that she’s grown to hate over the last few months. She watches as, just as she would have predicted, Andy scrambles to answer the phone. But then she pauses to look at Nate and for just a second Lily feels something that’s shockingly and awfully like hope. But then they're both walking in opposite directions, Nate with his hands jammed in his pockets and Andy with the phone pressed hard to her ear.

The Andy she knew had been madly in love with Nate. And, honestly, that had sucked in a lot of ways. But it was better than this.

All Around the World (Criminal Minds/NCIS; Emily/Ziva)

2009-07-21T04:03:14Z

Title: All Around the World (Or, Four Times Emily Prentiss Should Have Talked to Ziva David (And One Time She Did))
Author: llyfrgell
Recipient: callmesandy
Fandom: Criminal Minds/NCIS
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/Ziva David
Rating: Really, really G. I think The Lion King is more adult. Sorry.
Word count: 2250
Disclaimer: Fanfiction is a transformative use.
Summary: Four countries, two states, five chances.

The market in the early morning was Emily’s favorite thing about Lebanon. The throngs of people became beautiful mosaics of color as they swarmed through the labyrinthine aisles, and the scents of baked goods and produce floated as another sensory layer on the cake. Emily knew how to dodge between the stalls and where to find the best flatbread and falafel, and she’d been scolded innumerable times for escaping her nanny to do just that.

This particular morning, ten-year-old Emily was content enough to follow the hijab-clad woman from stall to stall, for she’d been allowed to bring her favorite birthday present, a fluorescent green yo-yo, along as an incentive to stay close.

Absorbed in refining her walk-the-dog trick, Emily barely looked up, until the string slipped from her finger and the yo-yo skidded away from her, almost immediately disappearing among the crowds of feet. Emily yelped, dropping to hands and knees to see where the toy had rolled. Her nanny failed to notice as the young girl crawled under one stall and then the next, finally surfacing several rows from the olive vendor where her nanny’s attention remained.

Emily spun in a circle, angry at herself for losing the toy and frustrated at the failed search – and then a flash of green caught her eye. She stopped abruptly and pitched herself through the crowd, a little dizzy from the spinning. There, on the edge of the market area, another girl was playing with her yo-yo – executing a perfect walk-the-dog.

Emily’s jaw dropped and she started to dash towards the girl, but a strong grip caught her arm from behind. Her Arabic wasn’t quite strong enough yet to explain to her nanny that there really was a perfectly good reason for her disappearance (this time), and the exchange ended with a pouting Emily being marched out of the market towards the ambassador’s house, completely without her yo-yo. She threw a furious glare over her shoulder at the usurper, who thus far had appeared not to even notice Emily. This time, though, the girl looked back at her – and spun the yo-yo “around the world” with no apparent effort.

*******

For once, Emily’s all-black attire blended perfectly with the surrounding crowd. Her eyeshadow was another story, but at least her mother hadn’t been able to get on her case about wearing a black dress to a formal function at the White House. Emily might have gone for color (perhaps blood red, just to drive her mother extra crazy), if her wardrobe had included anything bright. Instead, she found herself fitting in admirably – except for being several shades paler and several degrees more sullen than any other person in attendance. And not to mention sixteen.

She had already tried to get a drink from the impeccably groomed bartender, but instead of handing her the Jack and Coke she’d ordered, he’d simply raised an eyebrow and turned away. Why did she have to attend this impossibly straightlaced party if she wasn’t even going to be treated like the rest of the guests?

Catching the bartender’s attention again, she changed her order, subtracting the Jack. Coke in hand, she turned back around to survey the partyscape. Dull music, old people in dull clothes, dull food, a girl dressed in blue, with dark skin and beautiful wavy black hair – wait. Emily froze with her Coke tipped against her lips, not even remembering the drink until it overflowed and spilled onto her dress. She spluttered and slipped the half-empty glass onto a passing waiter’s tray, not taking her eyes off the girl the whole time.

Then the girl turned, and Emily wished, for the first time in possibly her entire life, that she had taken her mother’s advice. She could have worn a better-fitting dress, maybe even in a tasteful color like burgundy or emerald, and pinned her hair up instead of leaving the permed curls to frizz every which way as usual. Then maybe, maybe, this poised, elegant girl would have come over to say hello, or even simply given her a second look, rather than breaking the accidental eye contact to say something to a much older man (her father, Emily prayed).

Emily’s eyes followed the girl as she left the room, arm hooked through the man’s elbow. She was about to write the party off as even more of a waste than usual – but the girl glanced back, just for a second, and Emily could have sworn she winked.

*******

By the time her senior year at Yale rolled around, Emily was sick and tired of receiving a Christmas card each year, because it always contained two things: a photograph of her parents smiling in front of a beautifully decorated tree in a lavish house somewhere in Europe, and a check. She had expressed her dissatisfaction to her parents, hoping they would choose to come home and spend the holidays in DC where she could join them, but instead they sent her a plane ticket for Moscow. Better than nothing, she supposed.

Finals were late that year, which was partly how Emily found herself in Gatwick Airport (or, in her personal opinion, purgatory) on Christmas Eve. A “snowstorm” had also delayed her flight – Emily scoffed at the two inches of fluff that barely registered on her scale of weather events, calibrated as it was for New Haven winters. The implacable individuals in charge of British Airways remained impervious to her opinion of the weather, and she was exhausted by the time she finally collapsed into her seat on the airplane. Emily had the window seat in a row of five, an aisle bisecting the row on the other side of the neighboring seat.

No one had claimed the aisle seat next to Emily, and she held out hope that the flight would not be full and that she would get both seats to herself. Visions of less-cramped-than-usual sleep danced in her head. She closed her eyes, figuring she could at least get a head start on her nap.

The increasing hum of the engines as the plane headed towards takeoff roused Emily out of her doze. Her face was towards the window and she smiled – apparently no one had taken the seat next to her, or surely she would have heard the person arrive. Her eyes closed again, as the engines settled into a steady airborne purr.

An unknown amount of time later, something heavy fell against Emily’s shoulder. She jerked, startled, and blinked to clear her vision. The object remained on her shoulder. Turning her head carefully (her neck cracked in the process – sleeping on airplanes was delightful), she found herself looking down on the crown of someone’s head. So much for having the seats to herself. Emily resigned herself to the invasion of her personal space – at least the woman’s shampoo smelled nice.

Before Emily could fall back asleep, though, the plane shifted and the woman moved with it, settling back onto her own headrest. One look at her made Emily glad she hadn’t disturbed the woman’s sleep – the shadows under her eyes put Emily’s own to shame. Emily saw a cut on her lip and a faded yellow-green bruise at her hairline as well, but the woman was beautiful even with the damage.

The flight attendant’s voice over the speaker announced their descent into Moscow, and Emily averted her eyes instantly to avoid being caught staring. The woman didn’t stir, however, until the plane actually reached its gate. Emily managed a smile before bending to gather her things from under the seat, and when she hauled herself back upright, the woman was gone.

*******

Emily’s father was Jewish. This wasn’t a fact the family publicized, because none of them practiced the religion and the ambassador’s postings in the Middle East would have been that much riskier if it were known that her husband was a Jew. Emily couldn’t even call herself Jewish in the strictest sense, because the heritage had to be passed through the mother.
Her grandparents, however, had been quite devout, even retiring to Israel a few years before they both passed away. They were buried there, and that was how Emily came to be standing in a graveyard just outside Tel Aviv.

The American embassy in Damascus had blown up a week before. No one had really seen it coming – Syria wasn’t considered one of the more dangerous postings in the region, especially when rockets were flying across the Lebanese/Israeli border. No one really knew who was responsible, not that it would have made much difference.

Emily would have been standing in this rocky field anyway, watching her father’s funeral.

There weren’t many people there – most of her parents’ friends were scattered across the globe, unable to leave on such short notice. Emily recognized a few faces in attendance, but there were plenty who were strangers to her.

After the ceremony, Emily walked ahead of the pack leaving the gravesite. Someone caught up to her, matching her long strides. The woman’s face was oddly familiar, but then that happened a lot – Emily had never seen any of her parents’ friends or associates with much regularity.
“I am sorry,” the woman said, “for your loss.” The depth of sorrow in her voice took Emily aback, and she looked more closely at the woman. A glint of gold drew her eye away from the woman’s face and towards a tiny Star of David necklace.

Emily opened her mouth to reply, but the woman nodded firmly and picked up her pace, quickly outdistancing Emily. She watched as the woman met up with a tall, bearded man at the edge of the parking lot, and something twinged in her memory – but then it was gone, and the woman was gone, and Emily’s father was gone.

*******

Garcia had ambushed Emily at 6pm on a Friday, refusing to leave her office door until Emily agreed to accompany her and JJ for what she called a “girls’ night.” This prospect would have been far less terrifying had it been anyone but Garcia planning the event – there was no telling what an evening organized by Emily’s free-spirited co-worker might contain.

Emily was relieved, therefore, when they ended up in a perfectly normal-looking bar (with excellent happy hour specials, Garcia assured her), mostly occupied by men in suits with discarded jackets and ties. Emily never felt like she fit in much of anywhere, but this environment was one of the places where she came closest – and she was sure Garcia knew that. For a hacker, she was at least half as much a profiler as any of the team.

The three BAU women quickly colonized a table near the back corner of the bar, and Emily offered to buy the first round. As she stood at the bar waiting for one whiskey sour, one G&T, and one “something fruity,” she felt someone crowd rather closely behind her. Emily tensed in anticipation of a bad pickup line.

“Ever seen a federal law enforcement badge up close?” a male voice fulfilled her expectations. Emily turned to see a well-built man, not unattractive for all he looked like a boy playing games in his dad’s work clothes.

“I have, actually,” she replied politely, not quite smiling.

“Oh,” he was clearly a bit thrown off, “Well, I bet you haven’t seen THIS kind.”

Emily refused to take the bait. “Maybe not, but you know, when you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.” She pulled her own badge from her belt loop and let it catch the light.

“Ah well crap. It figures. Thanks for playing.” The guy turned to walk away, almost comically dejected. Emily smothered a grin. At least he’d been a good sport.

She watched the man walk back to his table, where another man sat with two dark-haired women. One of the women was gesticulating wildly with hands encased in black-and-white-striped fingerless gloves, and Emily wondered if she knew Garcia. DC was a very small city sometimes.

Her gaze drifted to the other woman, and then Emily froze. The black curly hair and shadowed dark eyes were so familiar they almost knocked the wind out of her. She turned back to the bar, her mind racing, and paid for the drinks on autopilot. Picking up all three at once, she navigated between the tables and slid the glasses in front of her friends. Emily mumbled something about the bathroom and slipped away before Garcia could ensnare her in the animated discussion.

The man was so surprised when Emily appeared beside his table that his mouthful of beer nearly wound up on the table.

“So, what kind of badge do you have?” Emily tried for as flirtatious a tone as she could muster while trying not to laugh.

The man stood, extending his hand. “NCIS Officer Tony DiNozzo, at your service.”

Emily shook the offered hand. “Aha, NCIS. I’m Special Agent Emily Prentiss.”

The other man rose to shake hands as well, introducing himself as Tim. The girl with the gloves waved and chirped, “Abby.” Emily turned to the fourth occupant of the table, who hadn’t stopped smirking since Emily had arrived. Emily inclined her head.

“I am Ziva,” the woman said simply.

Emily took her hand but did not shake it, almost distracted by watching Ziva’s other hand toy with the tiny golden Star of David around her neck.

“It’s nice to meet you.”

Chance Encounter, (Babysitter's Club, Dawn/Kristy)

2009-07-21T04:02:03Z

Title: Chance Encounter
Author: monalisaofpasta
Fandom: Babysitter's Club
Pairing: Dawn Schafer/Kristy Thomas
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: BSC is owned by Ann M Martin
Summary: Kristy has an unexpected encounter one evening.

Kristy did not know how she ended up in her pickup truck kissing Dawn Schafer. The whole situation seemed to be just a bit too surreal for her taste.
And as she felt softness of Dawn’s lips press against hers, there was a part of her mind thinking back to just how she had gotten there in the first place.

------------------

It had been Mary Anne’s idea. Not the whole kissing in the back of Dawn’s car of course, but she would have never needed the ride if Mary Anne hadn’t told her about a coffee shop in Stamford that she thought Kristy might like.

Not that Kristy usually liked coffee, but she had been lonely with most of her old middle and high school friends still away from home or away on vacation or working. That and Mary Anne had been very emphatic when she mentioned that the coffee shop had primarily female clientele, and being semi-out for quite awhile Kristy got exactly what Mary Anne had meant.

So one night, when Mary Anne was not around, because Kristy felt a bit embarrassed about the whole thing in general so she went by herself, expecting not to find a single friendly place.

From the moment she had gotten there, she had felt distinctly out of place. Despite pretty much accepting her gayness late in high school, Kristy had never really been that comfortable in gay only places. They were either too political (which she wasn’t), or didn’t have enough of a point for Kristy who liked to be focused on something in particular. That and she just didn’t quite fit in outside of the gay thing, but that alone didn’t really make good conversation in her oh so humble opinion.

So she stepped into the coffee shop and it smelled of mocha and vanilla and coffee, and there were plenty of people milling about the place, which wasn’t that big, and she instantly noticed that Mary Anne was quite right, the entire place was pretty much mostly women, and Kristy suddenly felt very exposed. She wasn’t used to being nervous, but she was much more used to structured meet ups like meeting with a group at school or at softball practice.

And so she walked through and made her way to the counter, where she took just a typical latte. She wasn’t a big coffee drinker really and couldn’t really tell the difference between the fancy coffee in a shop and the stuff her mom brewed at home, and she found a seat in a more reclusive corner and sat there and people watched.

She dozed off a bit and thought mostly about the past softball season. She had been progressing really well and she had hoped that she would finally be able to make the starting line up for the next season.

She must have dozed off for a bit, because it took her a while before she heard a familiar voice calling her name.

“Kristy!”

She blinked for a moment, and turned to see who was calling her.

“Kristy Thomas!”

And she almost jumped and looked up, and towering over her was a tall slim woman with long blond hair. A woman that Kristy almost didn’t recognize, and she must have made it known because the girl was looking at her like she had lost her mind or something.

“Huh” she said, not quite able to form words.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” the girl asked, and Kristy tried for the life of her to remember who exactly the girl was.

“It’s me, Dawn,” the girl said.

Oh, now she remembered, Mary Anne had told her that Dawn was in town for a few weeks from California, but Kristy hadn’t been able to see her since she had gotten here.

“Dawn,” she said and smiled, feeling a bit embarrassed that she hadn’t remembered her earlier, “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, I didn’t really think this was your scene,” Dawn said.

“It isn’t, but I had nothing else to do and Mary Anne told me about it so I decided to come,” Kristy said.

Dawn just smiled.

“Well, I was the one who told Mary Anne,” Dawn said.

“Really?” Kristy said.

“Yeah, do you really think that Mary Anne would know about a place like this,” Dawn remarked, “I was the one who dragged her here in the first place.”

It was then that it dawned on Kristy what the actual implications were.

“So are you?” Kristy asked.

“What? Gay?” Dawn asked and laughed and Kristy couldn’t help but find it very pleasing, “Yeah sort of, partially. I don’t really like labels, but I am definitely not straight. What about you? Although, I can’t say I am surprised.”

“I don’t know either,” Kristy said, “I guess the same but I don’t really think about boys much at all.”

“Understandable,” Dawn said, “we’re still young after all.”

“So were you bored too, and that is why you’re here?” Kristy asked.

“No, I got off a meeting for an gay club at the local college. I mean I was bored and looked up activities and such, ways for me to get politically involved over the summer.”

“Ah,” Kristy said, “then you’re here with people.”

“No, I mean I came with some people but they are floating around,” Dawn said, “haven’t really connected with anybody…Until now of course.”

And it was then that Kristy felt something change. It shouldn’t have felt that way, after all, Dawn had been one of her best friends from way back then. It shouldn’t have been anything awkward or weird. But it was different. And the way that Dawn said she had connected with her and was giving her a few shy smiles, and she realized that there might have been a few signals that she was missing.

“So you’re not with anyone,” Kristy said.

“No,” Dawn said, “but I am looking for a change, at least temporarily.”

Dawn then suddenly turned to her coffee, and just as Kristy felt the silence get awkward she changed the subject.

“I like this place,” Dawn said and stared back toward out at the rest of the shop. “It has a nice atmosphere.”

“Yeah,” Kristy said, “I guess, I would still rather be outside though.”

“You would,” Dawn said, “do you want to go?”

“Go where?”

“Around,” Dawn said, “I am a fan of going wherever the road takes you.”

“Well, I am game,” Kristy said, “ I have my car since it sounds like you didn’t have yours.”

Dawn smiled, and Kristy smiled back. This was nice, and comfortable and she really had missed Dawn in subsequent years.

They headed out to Kristy’s truck and jumped in and they just drove for awhile. They were silent for the most part, just listening to the music on the radio.

It was comfortable and relaxed, and Kristy realized she hadn’t felt that relaxed since she had gotten home. It was getting tiring being at home and not being able to be fully herself. While she didn’t fear being disowned, she could only imagine the awkwardness that would come if her mom and Watson knew. It was easier this way, but it was stressful and made the house feel a bit more constricting then it used to. But riding in a truck with Dawn, it was easy and relaxed. No secrets, no hiding who she was. It was a wonderful feeling.

“Hey pull to the right over here,” Dawn said suddenly, and Kristy just turned.

“Come on just do it,” Dawn said, and so Kristy did.

“Stop!” Dawn said, and her voice was forceful enough that Kristy did not question her when she put on the brakes.

“What is it?” Kristy asked as she put the car in parked, trying to keep the small bit of annoyance from becoming apparent in her voice.

“I just wanted to look at the stars, besides do you remember where this place is?” Dawn asked.

Kristy just stared at her.

“It is quite nice isn’t it,” Dawn said and turned to Kristy.

“Yeah,” Kristy said, although she was beginning to feel bored.

“You know,” Dawn said, “I think this is a popular make out spot for the teens?”

Kristy instantly heated up at that.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, there are few other cars parked around here.”

Kristy looked out and sure enough, there were quite a few cars.

“So?” Kristy said.

“Well, do you want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Make out?”

Kristy didn’t say anything but she must have been wide eyed, and before she could form a proper response, Dawn’s mouth was on hers.

Dawn’s lips were soft, and without thinking much, Kristy closed her eyes and pressed her lips back. She could almost feel Dawn smiling through the kiss.

When they broke a part, Dawn looked at her and grinned.

“Now aren’t you glad that you stopped at the coffee shop,” Dawn said and smiled delightedly.

Kristy could only nod. Surreal or not, this was one chance encounter that she would not forget.

BtVS FIC: Where Are You Going? - Buffy/Faith

2009-07-21T03:58:48Z

Title: Where Are You Going

Author: SailorGirl

Recipient: Gorynna

Fandom: BtVS

Pairing: Buffy/Faith

Rating: PG

Summary: Sometimes you need time apart to grow before you can be together.

Disclaimer: The moment I achieve world domination they’re mine. But, till then, they still belong to Mr. Whedon and Co. The title is a Dave Matthews Band song that I used for inspiration.

Word count: 3273

A/N: OMG, I didn’t think I’d finish this in time. Man! I hope you guys enjoy this. This was a nice change of pace from what I usually write and I enjoyed writing it.

Thanks to Cheri (times a million) for beta reading for me.

Tell me something that I would have never guessed about you.

It seemed like an innocent enough question. We were trying to get to know one another better. We had already buried a closet full of hatchets, so learning more about the other's history just seemed like the right thing to do.

I love the life I have with you guys.

I don’t think that counts…but…I’ll take it.

Hold on a sec Goldie Locks. Why doesn’t it count?

That’s a silly question Faith.

A silly question still deserves a silly answer.

Because…I know you. Even if I don’t know every detail of your life, I know what you feel…what you need. I know that being apart of a family is important to you. I know that you think chocolate pudding is the devil but you love tapioca. I know you like your space and I know that one day you’ll need to go. What I don’t know though is how long you’ll be gone.

Turns out she was right. There were things going on with me that I didn’t know how to deal with. At the time I didn’t realize it, but it was always there. Before prison, Sunnydale, even before slaying I felt out of place.

Every moment in my life had been dictated by someone else; my mother, my watchers, the mayor, guards, and Buffy, too…especially Buffy. I didn’t have a clue who I was if someone wasn’t there to keep me on the straight and narrow.

The few months I spent with the gang in Cleveland was, at that time, the best my life had ever been. I felt accepted, and it wasn’t ‘cause they needed me. It wasn’t like before. This time they made me feel like they really wanted me for me, and not just for what I can add to the team.

There was never any question about whether or not I was going to Cleveland. I had my own room at The House. Red hooked me up with some of the funds that she pinched from the abandoned Council accounts and she wiped my record, giving me back my name. All of my relationships were improving and it made me look at life differently.

I loved these guys more then I thought I was capable of and I’d step in front of a speeding train for any one of them, but there was still something inside that wasn’t right. I thought that there had to be something wrong with me. Maybe I really was meant to be evil. Maybe happiness wasn’t my thing. Cause, how could I not be happy? I had everything I’d ever wanted and I didn’t have to fight, lie, cheat or kill for it. But the darkness that I’m always afraid will return was still there, lurking, waiting for a sliver of weakness to appear. And it took a ridiculously simple question to shed light on my unease.

There wasn’t anything extra special about the day I left.

I woke up a little on the late side, went through my morning ritual. The house was always full and that day was no different. Giles was reading some insanely huge book. Xander was showing Dawn how to use some weird looking power tool, and who knows what Red and Kenny were up to. Andy was cooking and the newbies were being loud and annoying. And B, like always, was meditating out in the back yard.

Every morning she took this time for herself. She said she liked the feel of the rising sun warming her spirit after she’d taken the time to cleanse her soul.

Anyways, she was exactly where I expected her to be, out in the yard completely relaxed with the sun on her face. She looked amazing; I think she might have actually been glowing.

It’s crazy to think that till that moment I never took the time to realize how beautiful she was. It’s not like I didn’t know she’s a hottie; I’m not crazy. But I never noticed before now how being around her made my heart pound and my palms sweat. And when I took the time to think back, I could see it clearly. Something in my soul clicked and I felt all the things you hear about…the swell in the chest and the fluttering in the belly. I’m not good with the flowery words. It’s just not my thing, but that’s how I felt.

As I watched her that morning I knew this could be our life. That we could be together and in love, but I wasn’t ready. I would mess it up because I’m me and that’s what I do. There was still too much darkness in me to be able to offer her anything but heartache, and all the love here would just cover it up till it bubbled over and destroyed everything in its path. I knew then, just like she did the night before, that I needed to go away and find some peace for my heart before I could give it to her.

Ten months. It’s been ten months since I walked away from my family. Seven months since I found this little house on top of a cliff that overlooked a quiet fishing town and harbor. And it’s been about twenty minutes since I started feeling the need to run again.

Twenty minutes ago, I was sitting out back on my deck watching the different boats pull in and out of the harbor, sipping on a beer, when I felt that familiar tingle at the base of my skull. At first I thought I had lost my mind. I haven’t seen or heard from anyone but Red after I took off, so there was no way that she could be here.

Red held out for all of two days before she called to make sure I was ok. She didn’t ask any tough questions and she still doesn’t. But she makes sure to keep in touch so she can remind me that I’m missed and loved. Every Sunday she calls and gives me the lowdown on what the gang is up to. We never talk about Buffy, but she babbles on about everything else. The fact that Buffy could be here and Red didn’t give me a heads up is causing some mixed emotions in me.

“Mind some company?” And just like that, she’s here. One second I’m digging around in the cooler for a beer trying not to be pissed at Red. The next B was standing next to me. She looked relaxed and happy, smiling at me like the last ten months didn’t happen. Some things would always be just that easy. It seemed like, for us, reunions might be that thing.

It took all of 30 seconds for Buffy to make herself at home. All I could do throughout the whole process was stare. I stared while she grabbed a chair. I stared when she settled in on the other side of my cooler-o-beer. And I stared some more when she reached into the cooler and pulled out a beverage for herself. I couldn’t get my mind around it. What was she doing here? Did something happen? Is there a new Big Bad? Did someone die? I don’t know what I’d do if someone that I loved passed away. Why didn’t Red give me a heads up?

“What are you doing here?” I guess it’s about time I sputtered something out. We’d just been sitting there, me staring at her while she took in the view.

“Now that’s a silly question.” She smiled and took a sip of her beer; no doubt remembering the last time she said those words to me. “This is a really great place you’ve found. I can see why you love it so much. I can’t wait to see that ‘hovering’ sun thing.”

For some crazy reason I wanted to argue with her. How could she possibility know what I did and didn’t love? But the answer was simple. I have been here for seven months. For me to be any where voluntarily for that long had to be love.

“Funny…”, Buffy started, stopping me from getting lost in my thoughts. “…when it all ended, everyone seemed so sure that I’d be the one who’d jump ship and run off to places unknown.”

“Why didn’t you?” I asked. I thought the same thing ,too, at first. Towards the end, she seemed so done with it all that I just knew that she was going to run off to some uninhabitable jungle and rough it Survivor style.

“At the time I thought, 'What else would I do?'”

“Live.”

For some reason my answer seemed to bother her.

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out.” We let the conversation lag while we watched a cruise liner dock. But, after couple more rounds of drinks, I decided that it was time to get the conversation moving again. “What are you doing here, B?”

“I gotta tell you, I’m impressed. You really did find most remote -yet still accessible-place to hide away, didn’t you?”

“Not remote enough.” I replied with a chuckle and an eye roll. Apparently, she was not going to be rushed into the reason for her sudden appearance. “You staying for dinner?”

“Is that an invite?”, she asked with a smile.

“Are we going to keep asking each other questions that won’t get answers?”

“I don’t know. Are we?”

Suddenly it felt like we were back in Cleveland arguing over what to have for dinner and what we were going to watch on TV later. Before I decided to take off…before I realized the depths of my feelings…before I knew what it was like to truly have people who care about you in your corner.

“You are still the same pain in my ass.”

“Ditto.” She shot back at me, smirking. I’ve missed that smirk. “You look good, Faith. Happy looks good on you. What have you been up to? I know you keep in touch with Will but…” She trailed off, looking uncomfortable for the first time since she arrived. I decided to let her off the hook.

“I haven’t been up to anything. I read, go for a run or hike. There’s this kick ass glacier that you can get pretty close to on one of the trails. Life out here is pretty simple for me. I think I just needed to slow down…get away…I needed to think.”

“I know.”

“What are you doing here, B?” I had to ask again. I wanted to enjoy the visit but if something serious was going on then I wanted to deal with it quickly and come home. I’ve fallen in love with this place and I’m so tired of the fight.

It took me a long time to figure out that causing pain isn’t something that I enjoy anymore. It made me have to be someone that I don’t want to be, but wherever Buffy needed me is where I’ll go.

“It’s not what you think. There’s no Big Bad. No one died and no…I haven’t been possessed.”, she finished with a grin.

“I’m not in the mood for games.”

“Neither am I.”

“Then tell me.” I was beginning to get frustrated. I had spent a some time learning how to deal with my emotions in a grown up way but I still had my limits. Not to mention the fact that I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I never envisioned our reunion to be like this. I left. Without a word, I just walked out the door, hopped on my bike and rode off. At the least, I expected lots of harsh words. What I didn’t see coming was a beer drinking, ‘Prozac Buffy’.

“You never called.” I had been so wrapped up in my head that I almost missed her whispered admission.

“Huh?”

“You never called.” Buffy repeated herself, voice a little stronger. “After you left I started doing some soul searching of my own. I buried myself in activity after activity. I took up hobbies, joined clubs…I even tried a pet.”

We both shared a smile at that. I don’t even want to ask about the pet. Just the way she said it -’tried a pet’- didn’t bode well for the poor thing. I doubt it made it to week two. As far as I knew, Buffy could barely take care of a plastic plant let alone something living and breathing.

“Anyways, everything I tried just left me more restless than before, I couldn’t understand it. Everyone else was doing all these new things but they were still them, you know? But I just couldn’t find my groove. There wasn’t anything that…calmed me. I couldn’t find anything - besides meditating - that gave me a reprieve from my thoughts, and it’s not like I can spend my entire life in a meditative state. That’s when I started toying with the idea of calling you.”

“Why didn’t you?” I thought I knew the answer but assumptions are what always got in our way in the past and I didn’t want to start repeating bad habits.

“Oh, you know, me being me. I…when you left…it was hard on me. I was having the same feelings and doubts that you did. I knew that leaving was something that you needed but I thought that we were going to go through this…shift?...together. And then you decided that you had to do it all alone and most of me got that. But it was that little voice that said you were abandoning me and…well...” She trailed off, at a loss for words or lost in thought, probably a little of both. I popped open another round for the both of us and waited.

“I didn’t call because I thought I was respecting your wishes and because I was afraid that you wouldn’t take my call. So, I waited for you to make the first move. That lasted all of a month before I found myself at the airport with every intention of dragging you back to the ‘civilized world’.”

“So you are here to bring me back.” The disappointment I felt was overwhelming. I figured that she came to bring me back, but it didn't feel right…her trying to force me to leave.

“At the time…yeah.”

“At the time?”

“I ended up in Australia instead.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.” She echoed. “I was lost. I didn’t know where I fit in anymore and you weren’t there to keep it together for me. At the airport I realized that I’ve been using you as an anchor. The things that I was feeling weren’t new. Those issues were always there and would always be there unless I took some time to figure it out. So, I took the first available flight, which just happened to be to Sydney. From there I went everywhere and did everything that I could think of. If it popped into my head I did it. It was great and I loved every moment of it. I was starting to feel that thing that those crazy optimists are always talking about. I was enjoying…everything…life. And it got better everyday, just like the crazies said it would.”

I found myself staring again, watching her talk about this new life that she’s been living. It made sense now what was different about her. She was happy. That’s all. No trick of light or soul cleansing, just plain old happiness. She traveled around the world and found the same answers that I’d found here in Homer, Alaska. All of that somehow leads me back to my original, and still unanswered, question. I have to fight down the hope that’s trying to bubble up. Something in me knows what the answer is – knew what it was the moment I felt her presence.

“Why are you here, Buffy?”

“There you go, asking silly questions again.”

“Silly questions still deserve silly answers.”

She smiled at me as she sat her beer down. There was a look in her eye that I don’t think I’d ever seen before. It was powerful and intrusive and unnerving. The more nervous I got the more intense her gaze became. I prayed that whatever she was about to say wouldn’t send me running again.

She held my gaze for a little longer and made peace with whatever was going on in her mind.

I watched as she found her happy place again. I watched as she stood and made a show of straightening out her clothing. I kept watching as she nervously took up a kneeling position in front of me. After spending so much time away from her glow, I couldn’t do anything but watch her and hope and wait.

“Faith?...Isn’t it obvious? All the things that I’ve been doing these past months, it’s all been an attempt to find some peace…to find something that would bring the calm that I expected to feel after we destroyed the First. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy. I’ve had a great time, learned a lot about myself and what I need. Worked out a lot of my internal demons. But, with everything that I’ve tried and every place that I’ve been, I always wished that you were there with me. You are the only one that I’ve wanted by my side through everything. I miss you and I love you. That’s why I’m here…because you are.”

I think we stopped breathing. I know I did. I didn’t know what to say. Motivational speeches and sappy words were her thing. I always just said whatever came to mind and hoped it didn’t sound like mouth garbage.

“So-I mean-I don’t want to assume…”

“No…assume away.”

“…you’re going to stay with me?” I posed it as a question, but we both knew it was a statement of fact.

“Yes.”

“Cause I’m your happy place?”

“Something like that.”

Same old Buffy. Our happy ending is a half pace away and she’s being a smart ass. I’ve missed that. I’ve missed her.

I’ve made a good life up here; I continued my education, started doing some community service, I even coach youth sports. The darkness is still there but I learned that everyone has a bit of it in them; it’s what you do with it that matters. I accomplished all that without anyone hanging over my shoulder telling me what I should and shouldn’t do. And I’m…happy but not just with life. I found happiness within myself. Now maybe I’m ready to share that happiness with someone else. I guess there’s only one way to find out.

Gorynna: I hope you enjoyed it. I had fun writing it and I’d love to know what you think.

</div>

Passing It Forward by templemarker (ST:XI, Gaila/OFC)

2009-07-21T03:57:56Z

Title: Passing It Forward
Author: templemarker
Recipient: jain
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Gaila/OFC
Rating: PG13
Word count: 1k
Disclaimer: Orci and Kurtzman did pretty well, so I guess I'll let them keep it.
Warnings: N/A
Summary: She's still got it.
Notes: Thanks to affectingly for being a willing ear and marcolette for beta review. This borrows from Star Trek VII: Generations.

Gaila was running a few last minute checks on the intermix chambers when a young, single-minded face popped up on the other side of her console. A young, pretty face that reminded Gaila of someone, but she couldn't quite place who. Faces without enough pigment always slightly confused her anyway, even if they didn't affect the more interesting parts of hominid physiology.

"Hello," she said warmly. "You're probably not supposed to be here. It's a skeleton crew running checks until this little young boat is ready to go out on her first run."

"Oh," the girl said, redness tinging her cheeks, making her far more interesting-looking. "I-I just--"

"Yes?" Gaila said, setting aside her PADD to watch the young one squirm a bit. She hadn't thought, as she got older, how much she would enjoy the odd balance of power shifting to her because of her age. It was a quirk of the Federation that managing to live a bit longer than other beings gave you status; a quirk she liked rather more than the customs of her homeworld. Age, especially in females, was rarely something to boast of.

The girl looked down, and when she looked up again there was a strong flash of spirit in her eyes. "I was selected to pilot her out of drydock," she said boldly. "I wanted to understand her a little better. That's why I'm here."

Gaila tapped her finger against her lips, a mannerism she'd picked up, delightfully, from Nyota all those years ago. Nyota would do it when she was trying very hard not to say something she thought would be taken poorly. It was unbearably attractive, and more than once Gaila'd managed to tug her into bed for a quick run of oral before Nyota could finish her thought about Gaila's new fucktoy, or Gaila's new undergarments, or Gaila's new...anything.

When Gaila did it, there was the delightful effect on the other person of not quite knowing what she was thinking. It paid out a lot to exploit the Federation prejudice against Orionate culture; she'd climbed to the top of so many classes on the strength of what her coursemates thought she was thinking.

She watched the girl go still, and then even more still, under Gaila's regard. Gaila thought she had come into her age rather gracefully, considering so few Orionate women ever made it past breeding age. She didn't have much to compare it to, but she thought the streaks of deep purple complemented the darkening of her skin quite nicely. She had affected a short hairstyle out of curiosity one day, and found that the curls lying against her forehead was actually quite handsome. Even this young ensign, as unmoving as she was under Gaila's regard, kept stealing glances at Gaila's face.

Gaila smiled. She had some time. Ensigns often proved quite the diversion--they were young enough that they could still keep up with her.

"What's your name, Ensign?" she asked, hitting a brief sequence of keys on the console to secure the bay doors.

"Sulu, sir. Ensign Demora Sulu. I apologize for disturbing you, sir, I'll just take my leave."

"Oh, Ensign, don't you want to inspect the warp chamber a little more closely? The UP engineers did a fascinating rework of spatial displacement with the coils against the interior of the nacelles," Gaila said, letting her voice waver between enticing and authoritative. She did so love being a Lieutenant Commander.

She watched Sulu's face war between her desire to see the core and her trespassing in Engineering, and was satisfied as the ensign finally settled on her uniquely guided tour.

"Thank you, sir, I would appreciate that," Sulu said, following Gaila to where the core's dilithium chambers were pulsing a light, comforting blue.

"You see, how they integrated the fluidity of the design to maximize the generating output of the crystal angles?" Gaila said, placing a hand on the ensign's new officer reds. She smiled when Sulu's breath caught, slightly, and pulled her hand back to rest on her hips.

Sulu took another breath and then turned to face her. "Commander, would you like to show me the nacelle tubing? I have heard it is quite...intimate. And beautiful."

Gaila smiled wider, raising a finger to trace Sulu's lips, delighting in the shudder that ran through the ensign's body. "I would love to, Ensign," she said, and turned in the direction of Nacelle 1, knowing Sulu was not far behind.

In a moment they were bathed in the serene, purple light of the warp coils in off-mode. The warp drive itself wasn't due to be calibrated and booted until tomorrow, giving just enough time to run diagnostics before the 1701-B took her first run of Sol's system. Then, the coils would be a fierce, resplendent blue, and most hominids would have to take precautions against going into the J-tubes that ran the length of each of the Enterprise's nacelles. Now, though, it made for a beautiful spectacle; and if Gaila had her way, an arousing one as well.

Gaila just barely kept herself from laughing at the joyous look on Sulu's face; yes, this one was Starfleet through and through. How not, when her father was still the jewel in Excelsior's eye? Young Ensign Sulu had a lot to live up to, but if her passion for starships was anything to go by, she would indeed go far.

"Demora," Gaila said, using the ensign's name for the first time, "I would very much like you to experience this...fully." She rested her hands on the snap-brace of Sulu's uniform. She had learned delicacy from Spock, the ability to speak her mind without putting it as plainly as she once would have, as a young Academy cadet herself. She had learned something of innuendo from Kirk, and the art of being forthright from Scotty. For males who were so untutored in the ways of sexual intercourse, they did come up with a useful thing now and again.

There was a breath of hesitation, and then Demora's hand came up to rest atop Gaila's own. "Please," she said, and Gaila moved her hand to the side of the girl's face, tilted it up, and met Demora's mouth with her own.

She just barely restrained herself from saying, "Still got it," but since she knew she would never lose it anyway, it was merely satisfyingly redundant.