Femslash Ficathon 2011!

Femslash '12 Pre-Poll Time!

2012-08-23T02:44:31Z

femslash12 is finally open for business! As always, it starts with a pre-poll. We need your suggestions for fandoms to include on the list. Comment here with your favorite new femslash fandom. And watch the new comm for further Femslash Ficathon updates.

Announcements!

2012-06-20T22:11:50Z

Normally, this would be the time of year when we would have a Femslash '12. Actually, two months ago would have been when we would have gotten started with polling, and in most years, you would have your assignments by now. As you may or may not have noticed, none of that has happened this year.

callmesandy and I have both been insanely busy with Real Life this summer. It's mostly good things - very good things in my case - but work, family, and friends have been the priorities for both of us this year. We don't have the time or energy to run a big ficathon this summer. We were so busy that we literally forgot until early June, which is when people started asking us where Femslash '12 was. That's awesome; we hadn't realized that so many people look forward to this ficathon.

We hope fervently that things will calm down for at least one of us shortly, and that we'll be able to run Femslash '12 in the fall. If so, we'll start polling in late August or early September, and we'll make sure the due dates are early enough not to interfere with Yuletide.

Several people have volunteered to help out with the ficathon. You guys are awesome. We will totally call on you when we get our own acts together.

callmesandy and I discussed handing the reins over to someone else completely, but we decided we're really attached to Femslash [Year] and aren't comfortable transferring it to other mods. However, if you can't wait until fall and you want to run your own exchange/promptathon/disco hoedown, we will not feel our toes have been stepped on. (We will probably even sign up.)

Thank you to everyone who has expressed concern or asked questions! You've pushed us to see that this ficathon is still important, relevant, and fun, and you've made us want to find a way to keep doing it.

'Free Games for May' for perfect_pride

2011-08-27T11:40:53Z

Title: 'Free Games for May'
Author: corchen
Recipient: perfect_pride
Rating: PG
Word count: 5,748
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Pairing/Characters: Miranda/Emily
Summary: Emily is in dire need of some downtime. For some unknown reason (wink wink, nudge nudge), Miranda decides that she's the one to make sure that she gets it.
Author's Note: I hope that this was worth the wait – I know that waiting for a pinch-hit sucks, so I did my extra-best with this one. I was originally shooting for angst, but I'm afraid they weren't co-operating and it's come out more fluff than angst, and a little more subtle on the slash front than I had intended. It's set somewhere in the region of six months post-movie, as the plot seemed to work best that way. (Also, there is a bonus silly cross-over.)
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: They're not mine, I'm just borrowing them – I promise to wipe them down and put them back once I'm done with them.

***

Of course Miranda had noticed that something wasn't quite right long before the moment that Emily crumpled to the floor mid-way through the February edition run-through. The run-through had lasted for a little over two hours at that point and Emily had been hovering faithfully by Miranda's shoulder for the entire time, frantically scribbling in her notebook and growing paler by the moment. She'd been swaying gently for the last fifteen minutes, and Miranda had in fact been contemplating doing the unthinkable and sending Emily to sit down while she continued the run-through without her. Emily's (extremely graceful – Emily rarely did anything gracelessly) slow-motion collapse had saved her from the embarrassment of actually having to show an ounce of compassion. She had worked hard to ensure that her staff lived in fear of her – it would have been a pity to sacrifice that simply because her assistant seemed pathologically unable to ingest a sufficient number of calories.

Miranda pinched her nose and exhaled in frustration. She had rather hoped that it would never come to this, although of course she had seen the signs. Emily had always been thin, but in the last six months she'd lost even more weight, weight that she could ill-afford to lose. On top of that, she was pushing herself far harder than necessary. Miranda knew that she was a demanding boss. She was under no illusions that it was easy to work for her. She expected nothing less than perfection from her staff - but Emily seemed determined to be more than perfect. There was a new second assistant – after the disaster known as Andrea Sachs – but Emily insisted on double-checking everything that Sophia did. So it came as absolutely no surprise to Miranda that Emily should suddenly and with very little warning lose the fight with exhaustion and malnutrition that she had been fighting.

She opened her eyes to discover that the room was utterly silent and that everyone there was staring at her. She rolled her eyes. Was she surrounded by incompetents? Did none of them have the slightest smidgen of initiative? No, of course not - she did her best to stamp that out of her staff as early as possible -and on occasions like this, she regretted it.

“Oh, really. Do I have to do everything myself? Empty the room, this run-through is cancelled. Sophia, clear my afternoon, call my physician and have her here as soon as you can and bring me a Lucozade or Gatorade or whatever horrible glucose-filled drink you can find.”

As she spoke she was kneeling next to Emily, checking her breathing, patting her gently on the cheek. She looked up to discover that the room was still filled with her senior staff who were staring at her in apparent disbelief, with the exception of Sophia, who had scurried out to do her bidding.

“Have I suddenly grown an extra head? Go.”

Ignoring her staff, who finally seemed to break free of their collective trance and begin scurrying out of the office picking up accessories and wheeling out racks of clothing, Miranda returned to the task of bringing Emily out of her faint.

Patting her cheeks wasn't working. Neither did a gentle slap. Miranda snorted.

“Emily, this is becoming tiresome.”

She wasn't expecting an answer but she got one when Emily's eyelids fluttered and her brows drew together in a frown. Miranda couldn't help the slight smile that crept onto her lips – apparently Emily was so devoted to her that even unconscious she responded to Miranda's voice.

“Emily, open your eyes. You may be very fetching but I would rather not have you as a permanent addition to my office decor.”

Emily mumbled something entirely unintelligible and her eyelids fluttered again, this time staying open for a little longer before they closed. Miranda scowled. This was not good. Where on earth was Sophia with that drink? It wasn't as if she had asked her to source a bottle of Montrachet 2005, after all.

“Emily, this is not a suggestion, it is an order. Open your eyes. Now.”

She was rewarded by the sight of Emily's eyes – although they weren't their usual clear sparkling green but were clouded and confused.

“Miranda? What – my head hurts.”

Ah, there was Sophia with that drink. Finally.

“Sophia. Good. Have you cleared my afternoon?”

“Yes, Miranda – I've moved your meeting with--”

“Don't bore me with a recitation of unnecessary details, Sophia. When will Eleanor be here?”

“Doctor O'Hara is on her way now, Miranda. Shall I show her straight to your office?”

“Yes, of course.” Really the girl was full of ridiculous questions. What else did she think Miranda wanted her to do with the doctor, take her to the beauty department for a perm? Honestly. She turned her attention back to Emily, who was trying – and failing – to sit up.

“Emily. Drink this.”

She twisted the top off the bottle of luridly coloured sugary liquid – normally something she would have despised – and handed it to Emily. She managed to quell her dislike of drinking straight from the bottle. After all, what were glasses for? But in this situation expedience was more important than refinement, and that was a rare occurrence indeed. Hopefully, not one which would happen again.

Emily had raised herself onto one elbow and was obediently sipping at the liquid, peeping at Miranda over the top of the bottle with a very odd look in her eyes. Confusion, apprehension, and something else that Miranda couldn't quite place. Could it actually be – gratitude? Yes, she rather thought it was. Realising that she was kneeling on the floor in a distinctly undignified position, Miranda patted her hair into place – even though not a strand had dared to stray from its allotted position – and began to move.

“You're still doing a rather good impression of a hearthrug,” she observed, “and whilst I can imagine that there are those who would not object to you sprawling willy-nilly on their floor, I am not among them.” Emily's cheeks pinked slightly. “Can you move yet?”

Yes, she was asking, not ordering. No, this would probably not be happening again.

“I – yes, Miranda. I think so.”

Miranda helped Emily to a sitting position, and allowed Emily to lean heavily against her once she was sitting up. Emily's head hung forward, her hair falling around her face to obscure her features but Miranda could read exhaustion in the set of her shoulders.

“Dizzy?” She asked, gently. She'd been in the fashion business for long enough to be familiar with the after-effects of fainting from lack of food and sleep.

“Yes,” Emily admitted, “and my head is pounding. I'm so sorry, Miranda, I promise that this will never happen again.”

“No, it won't,” Miranda said firmly.

She ignored the rest of Emily's statement. This was not a time to be apportioning blame and berating the girl – she could do that later, when the immediate problem had been dealt with. As to why she was dealing with this herself, instead of simply having Sophia see with it and going on with her business, well... Emily was a valuable asset.

“I want you to move to the couch – then you can lie down.” Miranda's firm but gentle tone would brook no resistance.

Strange. As she went to slip her arm around Emily's back to help her to stand she realised that she wasn't using her work voice. No, this was the tone that she used with her girls, when they were sick – because they were her children through and through, which meant that they were never more stubborn than when they weren't feeling well. She dismissed the realisation as irrelevant. It was an effective strategy to use, and Miranda had always used every weapon at her disposal to make sure that things went as smoothly as possible. If cosseting Emily got this situation dealt with more effectively, then cosset she would. There would be ample time later to re-establish herself as the Queen Bitch of Runway.

Miranda's ruminations had occupied her as she helped Emily to the couch – although the girl didn't sit down so much as fall, her knees luckily waiting to give way until she was at the edge of the couch. Miranda had been able to guide her body to land on the couch, but even with Emily's slight weight she would not have been able to hold her up had her strength given out before then. She slipped a cushion under Emily's head, and handed the drink back to her.

“Finish this,” she said firmly. “My doctor should be here in a few minutes.”

Emily opened her mouth and Miranda raised an eyebrow at her. Was the foolish girl actually about to argue with her? Apparently, Emily could read the question in her expression because she subsided and obediently took the bottle, raising it to her lips to take a sip. Miranda crossed the office to her desk and sat down in her chair, turning it so that she faced the window.

What on earth was she going to do about this situation? Her first assistant was obviously of no use to her, possibly for an extended period of time, depending on how much weight should be given to Eleanor's opinion. However, she was unwilling to let Emily go. The simple fact was, she had never had an assistant who had stayed with her as long as Emily had and, despite the girl's obvious flaws, she was one of the most reliable assistants Miranda had ever had. She would rather not lose her. Not to mention the fact that she would then have to promote Sophia to first assistant and find another second assistant. No, finding a way to deal with the situation in such a way as to have Emily back in place as her first assistant as quickly as possible was obviously the preferable option. Now the question only remained as to what was the best way to accomplish that goal.

***

“Rest, a decent balanced diet, and she'll be fine,” Eleanor said to Miranda, following Miranda's lead and ignoring Emily, who was still lying on the couch, looking pitiful and rebellious in roughly equal amounts. “I do wish you wouldn't do this, Miranda, this could have waited. I had to reschedule for this? Just how much did you donate last year to have Gloria so far into your pocket?”

Miranda failed to hear Eleanor's question. The woman was competent and that was all that mattered – well, her more than adequate fashion sense certainly didn't count against her – but she had an irritating tendency to actually question Miranda. Constantly. Unfortunately, Miranda had discovered that she needed her physician to be the sort of person who would actually stand up to her. A ruptured appendix had taught her that lesson in an extremely effective – and painful – fashion.

“Rest and food? And that's all?” Miranda couldn't help her sceptical tone – it seemed far too easy.

“Assuming that there isn't some underlying psychological issue, which there almost certainly is, yes. Girls don't starve themselves for no reason, Miranda.”

Miranda sighed. There would be no point simply giving Emily time off. The girl would just go home and fret, and return to work no more rested than she had been. There had to be a better solution – ideally one that had Miranda in a situation where she could ensure that Emily ate and rested, without the girl ever being aware that Miranda had taken an interest in her well-being. That could only spell disaster. Well, she would give Emily the rest of the week off – it would only be two days – and that gave her three days to work something out before Monday.

She glanced thoughtfully at Emily to see that she was frowning in their direction. Emily looked away as soon as she realised that Miranda was looking at her, although not before Miranda had the opportunity to see the flash of rebellion in Emily's eyes. She wasn't going to have an easy time of it convincing Emily to slow down. She would have to be extremely sneaky. Luckily, sneakiness and subterfuge was one area where Miranda Priestly positively excelled.

“Thank you, Eleanor.” She was capable of thanking people – she just didn't do it very often. But as well as being her physician, Eleanor O'Hara was also one of the few people Miranda Priestly considered a friend, and deserved the courtesy of – well, courtesy.

“You're welcome, Miranda,” Eleanor replied in her least convincing manner. Even that silky British accent couldn't disguise just how insincere she was. “You know I exist only to be at your beck and call.”

Miranda rolled her eyes. Eleanor was such a ham.

“Stop being ridiculous,” she snapped. “Why don't you stop by the Closet on your way out? Tell Nigel that I think you'd look rather well in the new Balenciaga boots.”

Eleanor grinned at her.

“Miranda, you know exactly how to treat a girl. Will we see you at the fund-raiser next month?”

Miranda flapped a hand at her dismissively.

“If I can fit it into my schedule, perhaps.”

Eleanor snickered. She knew Miranda well enough by now to know that was as close to a 'yes' as she was going to get.

“Good bye, Miranda.”

Miranda turned her attention back to Emily, knowing that Eleanor would see herself out of the office – and probably con Nigel out of more than the boots, but then, she always did. How on earth was she going to work this one? Never mind, she would come up with something – she always did. For now, though, the important thing was to send Emily home.

“Emily, you're off work until Monday.” She held up a hand to forestall the argument that she knew was inevitable. “That is non-negotiable. You are going home, you are going to spend the next three days resting, and I do not want to see you back in this office until next week.” She raised an eyebrow at Emily. “I will have Roy drive you home – do I also have to ask him to wait outside your building to ensure that you do as I've told you?”

Emily pouted. That really was the only word for it. She pouted like a recalcitrant child. (In a way, it was rather adorable, not that Miranda would ever admit to thinking so.)

“No, Miranda.”

“Good.” Miranda turned to her desk. “That's all.”

***

Miranda, Emily thought in a mutinous tone that was almost unheard-of for her, was a manipulative, wily, double-dealing bitch. And Emily couldn't even say anything about it, because Miranda's scheme seemed to be based around the idea that Emily needed a rest. Which was patently ridiculous, despite what that doctor seemed to think.

First off, she'd been woken on Monday morning by a phone call from Miranda telling her to pack for a week, and to meet her and the girls at the heliport – apparently, Miranda had somehow failed to make her assistants aware that she and the twins were going to be spending the week in Edgartown and Miranda required her first assistant there. Ludicrous. She'd never taken any of her assistants on holiday with her before. But what was Emily supposed to say? She couldn't exactly turn around and... what, accuse Miranda of being nice? Aside from the fact that it was just a daft thing to say, no-one would believe her! Miranda, doing something for someone else? With nothing, apparently, in it for her?What a ridiculous idea.

Emily sighed, and Miranda looked over at her. Emily wished that she hadn't made a noise – now Miranda had taken her eyes off the road and considering the speed that she was driving at, Emily really didn't think that was wise. So she said nothing, and after a moment Miranda returned her attention to the road, much to Emily's relief. Miranda drove exactly how Emily would have imagined that she would – if she had ever imagined Miranda driving, which she hadn't.

Miranda drove like... a teenage boy. Far too fast, far too confident – and bizarrely, Emily felt perfectly safe. So did the twins, it would seem, as they were happy in the back of the car, headphones on, watching some animated film on the screens set into the backs of the front seats. The twins had been very well-behaved, actually – Emily would have expected them to be whining every five minutes that they were bored, and demanding stops for drinks and why did Mom's assistant have to be there anyway?

Whereas they had not only been paragons of good behaviour, taking their mother's luggage as well as their own, but they had even insisted on carrying Emily's! Miranda, when Emily had attempted to take her luggage back, had simply told her that it was good for the twins to learn a little responsibility and if they wanted to be helpful then she should let them. Miranda, encouraging the girls to do something for someone else! Those spoilt little harridans! Whatever was the world coming to? Emily had pinched herself so many times already that she was developing a bruise on the soft skin under her wrist.

That first day, Miranda drove them – after a rather rough ferry crossing in which Emily suspected she had turned a shade of green that probably clashed horribly with her burnt umber blouse – from the ferry to the sweet little house on the edge of Edgatown that they would be staying in for the week. Once the car was unloaded – and again, the twins had insisted on doing the majority of the work – they went out for lunch. Not a restaurant, no haute cuisine – they went to a cafe, and had baked potatoes. Everyone ate dessert (the girls had begged and Miranda had relented, but only if everyone had waffles. With Miranda's raised eyebrow aimed at her, Emily felt justified in – obliged to, almost – eating Belgian waffles smothered in fudge sauce and whipped cream. After all, Miranda had polished her plate as well. They were delicious).

The afternoon was spent walking, chatting – the twins and Miranda chatted at least, Emily trailed behind them wondering what on earth she was doing there – and cooking supper. Emily wondered if anyone (aside from Miranda's husbands, obviously, and she had her doubts about even them) had ever seen Miranda up to her wrists in cake batter, a smudge of flour on her nose, giggling helplessly at the sight of the twins as they fought over which one of them would get to frost the cake and ended up with more frosting on themselves and the floor than the cake. Emily hadn't even known that Miranda was capable of giggling. No, never mind giggling, Emily hadn't even known Miranda could laugh and mean it. She'd seen her polite social laugh, the one that didn't get as far as her eyes, but she'd never seen Miranda even chuckle. Yet here she was giggling like a teenager. It suited her.

Emily spent the evening watching over the twins while Miranda went out to meet some friends. She almost wanted to suspect that Miranda had brought her along simply to keep an eye on the girls, but that was just so out of character. Besides, they had a perfectly capable nanny. So there was another (almost) reasonable explanation for Miranda's behaviour that didn't quite add up. Emily was getting very close to simply giving up on trying to work out what was going on, and enjoying the holiday, because that was exactly what it was starting to feel like.

The twins' choice of films startled Emily. She'd expected them to have brought along some Hollywood blockbuster that hadn't yet even been released in theatres never mind on DVD, but no. They wanted to watch old black and white Agatha Christie movies. Not only that, but they insisted that Emily sit on the sofa between them 'because Mom isn't here and so you have to cuddle with us instead, and we'll tell her you were mean if you don't'. Emily submitted to their insistence, expecting to hate every moment of the evening. Instead, the twins were actually surprisingly good company and the films enjoyable (if ludicrous, having them all in stitches at dramatically inappropriate moments). Emily found herself oddly disappointed when the twins took themselves off to bed, leaving her alone.

She debated with herself over whether or not to wait up for Miranda to get back. On the one hand, Miranda had expressly told her that she didn't need to – on the other, would Miranda take kindly to Emily going to sleep when she was supposed to be watching over the twins? In the end. Emily had decided that she should probably take Miranda at her word. Given how oddly she had been behaving all day, it wouldn't be wise to antagonise her.

So, she found herself getting into bed shortly before eleven o'clock. She could barely remember the last time she'd been in bed before one, let alone eleven. She had to spend half an hour reading a copy of 'The Mysterious Affair at Stiles' that had been on the nightstand before she was able to fall asleep. (The book availability amused her somewhat, given that the films they had watched earlier.)

Tuesday, Emily spent most of the day with the twins. Miranda sat at a desk across the room, or on a window seat, or simply in a soft chair, watching them. At least, Emily thought that she was watching, although she never managed to catch her at it. In the afternoon, the twins wanted to draw. They were both good artists for their age – Cassidy had more flair, Caroline a better eye for perspective – but they both seemed in awe of Emily's abilities as an artist. They insisted that she should join in instead of 'staring at us like you think we're about to squirt paint in your hair. We haven't done that in ages' but when, bored of sitting and watching the twins draw, she had picked up a pencil and threw out a quick sketch of Miranda who was, at that moment, looking out of the window seeming in deep thought, with the earpiece of her glasses resting on her lower lip, they quickly pushed their own paper and pencils to the side and clamoured for her to draw them. Emily found herself sketching the pair of them as they curled up together on the couch, impressed by their patience. (They were whispering together but she couldn't hear them, and they weren't moving enough to interfere with her sketch.)

To her dismay (although of course, she should have realised that it was inevitable), as soon as the sketch was completed one twin (Cassidy. After so long staring at them, of course she could tell which twin was which) pounced on the picture and showed it to Miranda, who gazed contemplatively at it for several long minutes, while Emily cursed herself for getting into this situation. Miranda would hate it. Emily herself thought that it was quite a good likeness – she'd always done particularly well at portrait drawing, her professors at art college said it was one of her strengths – but she wasn't daft enough to think that Miranda would ever think anyone could do her girls justice. So she was astounded when Miranda favoured her with a rare smile – the sort that would have designers creaming their pants – and asked if Emily would mind if she kept the sketch.

Mind? As if she had a choice! But of course she didn't mind.

“No, Miranda, of course not,” she said, surprising herself with how shy her voice sounded. The last few days had entirely knocked the self-assurance out of her, everything was so bizarre.

Miranda simply nodded, and returned to whatever she had been doing. Emily took a deep breath, shook her head slightly, and turned her attention back to the twins. They were engaging girls, when they made the effort – and they were making an effort, she could tell, not that she had any idea why when they had always seemed to take such great delight in tormenting her before.

She failed to notice when the first sketch she had made, the one of Miranda, went missing later that evening.

The week carried on in the same bizarre way. The twins were well-behaved. Miranda was oddly solicitous. There was some work that needed doing – Miranda was never truly away from the office, even when she was on the other side of the world – but it was done at a relaxed pace that was completely alien to the way Miranda usually worked. After the first few days, Emily simply gave in to the inevitable, and allowed things to unfold however Miranda wanted them to. By Thursday, she had stopped waiting for punchline to the joke she'd originally felt like she was being set up for. She was even reluctant to contemplate the end of the week, to think about going back to the 'real world'.

She would miss this other, more relaxed Miranda, the one who read bedtime stories to her girls, who chased them barefoot along the sand and who actually had non-work-related conversations with Emily. It had taken Emily several of these conversations to come to terms with the idea that Miranda was interacting with her on a normal, human level – but Miranda had skilfully drawn her out, until Emily was telling her stories from her student days that she hadn't even told her sister. (Miranda, she decided, was a witch. Or perhaps she was just bewitching.)

Saturday evening found her curled up in the window-seat where Miranda was sitting when Emily sketched her, staring wistfully out at nothing in particular. The girls had gone to bed, Miranda was out, and tomorrow they were going back to New York. She could admit it to herself – she didn't want to go.

***

Miranda was pleased with the success of her plan. Taking the girls into her confidences had been one of Miranda's better ideas, even given her previous track record of fabulous ideas. At first, they'd been reluctant to help out, but she'd convinced them. It wasn't really just mother's pride, she was sure of it, her twins really were more mature than other children their age. Once she had explained how sick Emily had let herself get, and how much she needed to take a break but would never do it for herself, they'd agreed to help out. Miranda was pretty sure that even though Emily must suspect her of arranging this for Emily's benefit, she would never have imagined that the twins would be involved. People so often underestimated children. Remembering what she had been like at that age, Miranda never did.

It had been fun to watch Emily relax over the course of the week. Miranda had surprised herself with how much she had enjoyed watching the girl come out of her shell. She'd never really wondered what was under that bright, brittle, capable exterior – well, what reason had she had to? But the Emily who tentatively allowed herself to be seen over that week was someone Miranda found herself liking. She especially liked the way that Emily was with the girls.

At first, she'd treated them the same way that she always had – with kid gloves. After a while, though, and at first when she thought Miranda wasn't watching, she relaxed around them and it didn't take long before the three of them seemed more like friends than anything else. Especially after Emily's surprising demonstration of artistic skill, when Cassidy in particular had developed something of a crush on her (which Miranda had privately thought was adorable).

She still hadn't spoken to her though. She knew that at some point, she needed to actually sit down and have a serious talk with Emily, but somehow the right moment never came up. Then it was Saturday and they were going back to New York on Sunday and if she didn't do it now, she never would. It wasn't like her at all to avoid anything, however unpleasant, but for some reason she was... actually nervous. No, not nervous, Miranda Priestly was never nervous – justifiably apprehensive.

Walking into the lounge, Miranda paused a moment in the doorway, struck by the picture that Emily made. The sun was just starting to set, and Emily was silhouetted in the window, her hair catching the last red rays of the sun and glowing as if it was on fire. Miranda allowed herself a moment to appreciate the sight. (From a purely aesthetic viewpoint, of course.) Then she sighed silently, and made her way into the room.

“Emily. We need to talk.”

Emily's shoulder's stiffened, and Miranda could see all of the hard-earned relaxation ebbing out of her. Miranda cursed herself for her phrasing.

“Of course, Miranda.” Emily's tone was carefully polite, nothing of the fragile camaraderie that had developed between them over the last few days showing in her voice.

“Oh, stop that,” Miranda snapped, immediately angry at herself again as Emily flinched reflexively back against the windowpanes. Miranda sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Let me start again,” she said. “Emily, can I explain why I dragged you out here with us? And because I can hear you thinking it, I am well aware that 'you never ask Miranda to explain anything'. Can we just pretend for a fem minutes longer that I am someone who cares about you and not just your boss who has apparently been working you into the ground?”

Emily, looking utterly confused, simply nodded, and Miranda made her way to the couch. She sank down into the cushions, and patted the space next to her.

“Come over here, please, I don't want to shout.”

Cautiously, Emily made her way over to the couch and sat down, as far from Miranda as she could get without literally pressing herself up against the arm of the couch. Miranda managed to keep her sigh internal. Was the girl really that terrified of her? What a silly question, of course she was. Miranda had worked hard to ensure that would be the case.

“Emily, I know that you're not stupid. I'm sure that it only took you a few minutes to work out that this wasn't a planned holiday – that in fact this entire enterprise was staged for your benefit.”

Emily nodded slowly, but didn't say anything.

“What I am about to say goes no further than this room, is that understood?”

Eyes wide now, Emily nodded again.

“I fear that your collapse last Thursday was entirely my fault. I've worked you much too hard, and allowed you to take on far more responsibility than you should have done. When we get back to New York, I want you to let Sophia take on her share of the responsibility of being my assistant – the girl is perfectly capable, there is no need for you to check every single thing that she does. I want you to pass over the Book to her as well, that's the second assistant's job, not yours.”

She gave Emily a stern look.

“And I want you to join me for lunch whenever we are both available, which I expect to be at least three times a week, is that understood?”

Emily flushed a deep red, and nodded. Apparently, Miranda had rendered her incapable of speech.

“And Emily?” Miranda paused.

“Yes, Miranda?” Emily said, after a long moment.

“If you ever need a break – truly need one – tell me.”

Emily said nothing.

“This is not an idle promise,” Miranda said, when it became clear that Emily wasn't going to say anything. “I do not want to lose you to exhaustion – you're the most capable assistant I've erv had, and I will not see you throw your promise away because you don't know when to stop.” She smiled ruefully. “Even I need to slow down every now and then.” She quirked an eyebrow at Emily. “So. You will tell me.” It was not a request.

“Alright,” Emily said after another long pause. “And, Miranda? Thank you.” Her eyes held that same expression of gratitude – yes, it had been gratitude – that Miranda had seen the previous week, tempered with something else that she hadn't seen in Emily's eyes before. Something that she hesitated to name, and decided to put to the back of her mind because acknowledging it would be dangerous indeed. (Even more dangerous would be acknowledging that perhaps, just perhaps, she felt a little of the same emotion.)

“Don't mention it,” she said instead, before her thoughts could go some place they shouldn't. “And I do mean that, Emily.”

“I won't,” Emily said with a soft smile that Miranda couldn't stop herself from hoping that she would see again.

Miranda nodded, and stood up.

“Good night, Emily.”

“Good night, Miranda.” Emily paused for a second, before adding with that same soft smile. “Sweet dreams.”

***

(Emily noticed when Miranda had the sketch she had drawn of the twins framed and hung on her wall, opposite her desk where she could look up and see it. What she didn't know, was that the sketch she had drawn of Miranda herself was in Miranda's home study, on her desk, and that every now and then – far too often, Miranda told herself – she would take it in hand and study it, trying to see in the lines of the drawing just what Emily had been thinking when she sketched it. One day, Miranda would finally ask her, and receive another of those soft, private smiles.)

Balance Beam (Warehouse 13, Helena/Myka, R)

2011-08-26T04:13:40Z

Title: Balance Beam
Author: cjmarlowe
Recipient: corchen
Fandom: Warehouse 13
Pairing: Helena/Myka
Rating: R
Word count: ~1500 words

Disclaimer: Neither Warehouse 13 nor its characters belong to me. Written for love, not money. No copyright infringement intended.
Warnings: No applicable warnings.

Summary: Myka doesn't always have every step under control.

"This is beautiful," said Myka, pulling a sheer blouse out of the trunk and holding it out at arm's length so that the light from the open window glowed through it. "You have excellent taste."

"I have eccentric taste that just happens to match the current fashions," said Helena, glancing over and smiling a little, privately, like there was a secret hidden in her words or the sunshine. "I stole that one."

Balance Beam

W13 FIC :: "Can't" [Myka/Helena, PG13]

2011-08-25T21:48:21Z

W13 FIC :: "Can't" [Myka/Helena, PG13]

Title: Can't
Author: A. Magiluna Stormwriter
Author’s Email: stormwriter@shatterstorm.net
Pairing: Myka/Helena
Rating: PG13 for language
Date Written: 24-25 August 2011
Word Count: 1215
Written for: femslash11
Recipient: corchen
Summary: A stream of consciousness foray into Myka's thoughts after the second season finale.
Spoilers: The entirety of the HG Wells storyline is fair game, but specifically this takes place in Episode 03x01 "The New Guy", between *Pete showing up at the bookstore and Hg's appearance at the end of the episode*.
Warning: No standard warnings apply.
Website: ShatterStorm Productions – Doggie Duo
Link to: http://bdkk.shatterstorm.net/
Archive: ShatterStorm Productions only…all others ask for permission & we'll see…

Disclaimer: “Warehouse 13,” the characters and situations depicted are the property of Universal Cable Productions, Universal Media Studios, and SciFi. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This site is in no way affiliated with "Warehouse 13", SciFi, or any representative of the actors.

Author's Notes: First things first… Yes, I listed the network as SciFi in my disclaimer. The name they changed to is stupid, and I refuse to use it. Anyway, this last minute pinch hit was my first time writing in this fandom, and I'm still pondering if it worked out quite the way I was originally thinking of doing it. And yet, I kind of like this whole stream of consciousness style of writing this piece. There are no guarantees I'll play in this particular sandbox again. Just sayin'…

All dialogue in ~italics~ is internal thoughts.

Dedication: my muses, as always…

Beta: Many thanks to shatterpath for the last minute beta. Any errors remaining are solely my fault.

"Can't"
By A. Magiluna Stormwriter

Why did Pete have to show up again? He should have just left things alone.

Simple Observations by templemarker [Doctor Who, Vastra/Jenny, PG-13]

2011-08-23T18:43:40Z

Title: Simple Observations
Author: templemarker
Recipient: firefly124
Fandom: Doctor Who (2009)
Pairing: Vastra/Jenny
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1100
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warnings: N/A
Notes: Occurs following 6x07, "A Good Man Goes to War." Thanks to samjohnsson for being the Wonder Beta. This story is also available on DW.

***

"More tea, please, my dear," Vastra called to Jenny from the library. She was reviewing the notes she'd taken earlier in the day from an interview she'd conducted, pertaining to the mysterious appearance of a blue carbuncle in the commissionaire's Christmas goose. While it had so far proven to be an engaging bit of detective work, it lacked the...vim and vigor thus far of some of her more usual cases. Vastra spared a look at her katana, laid out upon the center table to be thoroughly reviewed for rust nicks and polished by her dear Jenny. The humans' winter holiday tended to hold so little in the way of bloodsport. Her patience bore the test of it.

"Here you are, ma'am," Jenny said, as careful and prim as if a dozen watching eyes were upon them. Vastra quashed a smile, choosing instead to take a sip of her tea. Lady Grey, with the dash of arsenic that gave it such a pleasant spice to the tongue. Jenny was so terribly good to her.

As the girl made to leave, Vastra called her back. "No, my dear, why don't you sit with me for a time? There is nothing pressing that Marcello cannot see to, and we haven't guests scheduled until the morrow."

"But, ma'am, the washing needs doing, and I was to see about the upstairs dusting. You know how it gets when you go on those excursions of yours," Jenny protested, trying for accusing but failing as the shadow of a smile crested her face.

Vastra tutted. "Oh, none of that, my dear girl. There's time enough for dusting another day. I would instead care to hear your thoughts on this most intriguing little case I've begun; you see, it starts with a goose..."

They whiled away the hour in the engaging, rapid pace Vastra had so rarely found in her human cohorts. When her sisters had died, she believed in truth that she might perish just to be gone with them; never had she imagined that she might find the joy of life in a young, eager girl-maid from Brixton.

As they dissected the finer points of the detection thus far accomplished, Vastra noted with pleasure how animated Jenny became, how she shed the pretense of her employment as more their conversation drew her interest. It wasn't that Vastra didn't comprehend social hierarchy; of course she did. Silurians knew who their leader was, after all. It was that she found this one to be entirely superficial and rather silly. Vastra employed Jenny as much for her company as for her attention to detail. She was an excellent hand with a rifle, as well. All these were qualities Vastra valued, and the familiarity between them should not disappear once they were at home and Jenny brought the tea and cleaned the swords.

Try as she might, she could not convince Jenny of this. And so instead she employed a much more subtle game, drawing Jenny away from her duties for such a space of time that she forgot whatever mannerism she'd had ingrained to her and instead addressed Vastra as the equal she of course was.

Of course, whenever Jenny realized the game she immediately retreated into her "yes ma'am," "no ma'am," "so very sorry ma'am, shall I stoke this fire rather balefully until you let me return to the dusting, ma'am."

Really, humans. As infuriating as they were intriguing.

For the moment, however, Vastra had succeeded in drawing her into the thought-work that they both found so very rewarding. Vastra sat down upon her chaise, gesturing for Jenny to join her; to her pleasure, Jenny did with little fuss. A year ago, she couldn't have convinced Jenny to sit in her presence.

Slowly, as they examined and discarded a dozen separate theories about the discovery of the Countess of Morcar's stolen jewel in a rather common animal destined for the table, Jenny drew closer, waving her hands before her face as she explained her rather plausible idea.

"And so you should go to Covent Garden, Vastra! You will surely find the purveyor of the poultry there, if you'll pardon my alliteration," Jenny said with a fond light in her eye, her formality gone with the pleasure of their discourse.

"Oh, very good, my dear," Vastra said, taking one of Jenny's hands into her own. "That is quite exactly what we shall do, tomorrow in the early morning, I think, to take advantage of the bustle. Well done; you are gaining a greater analytical mind with every detection."

Jenny blushed. "It's only because of you, ma'am," she said quietly. "No one ever bothered to ask much of my mind before, except as whether I'd like my tea sweet or not."

She was pretty when she demurred, but Vastra thought she liked better the streaks of willfulness she saw there, the much-protected spirit Jenny kept beneath pleasantries and obeisance. Clearly she would need to foster it if she were ever to see Jenny grow beyond the bounds of her duties.

Vastra drew Jenny's hand up to her lips, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. Such warm skin; Vastra always forgot, as most humans shied away from coming into contact with her apart from her gloved hand. Jenny had no such fear, however; her mouth was slightly open and her heart was beating faster, the slight heave of her chest every indication that Vastra's display of familiarity affected her.

"I do not mean to offend," Vastra said carefully, letting their conjoined hands lie between them on the chaise. "I only mean to tell you--I have come to value your service greatly, Jenny, and I would see that you be happy enough to remain with me for as long as we both see fit."

There was a tense pause, and Vastra hoped she had not judged the situation wrongly; some dozen years in the public company of humans and there were still things she had no hope of understanding.

Then Jenny's hand tightened on her own, and with a firm voice Jenny said, "No, ma'am. You don't offend. I just was of the like thought, and I hadn't thought to hear it from your own lips first." And there was Jenny's smile again, small and keen and a well-earned prize.

Vastra felt her own mouth turn in the same fashion, and brought Jenny's hand up for another chaste kiss, this time lingering but a moment longer. "Excellent, my dear," she said. "Now, tell me what you know of water fowl."

'For we may die tomorrow' for ambyr at Dreamwidth

2011-08-20T21:20:28Z

Title: 'For we may die tomorrow'
Author: corchen
Recipient: ambyr at Dreamwidth
Rating: PG
Word count: 1,078
Fandom: Tortall-verse
Pairing/Characters: Thayet/Buri
Summary: Buri thinks about past times.
Author's Note: When this one popped into my in-box I just had to pounce on it – rare fandoms are my weakness and it doesn't get much rarer than this! This is set a little before the Immortals Quartet, so Thayet is still Commander of the Queen's Riders with Buri as her second.
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: They're not mine, I'm just borrowing them – I promise to wipe them down and put them back once I'm done with them.

***

Time spent with the Riders, away from Court, just her and Thayet in the Commanders tent of an evening, always reminded Buri of those days while they were escaping from Saraine. Not of the constant terror and watchfulness, expecting at any moment that their little encampment had been discovered and they were to be dragged back to face the turmoil, or the pall of sorrow that followed Thayet around in the days after her Mother's suicide, but of the moments of quiet companionship that were so hard to find amongst the busy schedule of the life of the Queen of Tortall.

Growing up in Kalasin's tower, carefully sheltered from the worst of the cruelties of jin Wilima, Thayet had always been surrounded by servants and guards. There was always someone within earshot, even when it seemed as if she was alone – loyal protectors of Kalasin's daughter, always watchful against the threat that seemed to hang over her, from her Father's detractors and from those nobles who hated the idea that the Wilima line had been polluted by K'miri blood. Running from Saraine, terrified and watchful, there had still been the unfamiliar pleasure of being completely alone.

They'd had the children from the convent, of course, and the baby slept in a corner of the tent with them, but they were still more alone than they had ever been – especially at night. Thayet seemed to feel the solitude the most at night. During the day, she had been her usual capable self, the indomitable will she had inherited from her mother impressing even Buri, who had seen hints of it in her as she grew but had never realised quite how deep it ran. At night, though, she had allowed herself the luxury of weakness, turning to Buri for comfort.

It had been innocent at first – Buri would hold Thayet in her arms until she fell asleep, before pressing an affectionate kiss to her forehead, and rolling over onto her own sleep-roll to doze off. That hadn't lasted, though. One night, Thayet had curled into Buri's arms as she had before, resting her head on her shoulder, but then she had kissed the side of Buri's neck, and sighed quietly.

“I don't know how I would survive without you,” she had admitted, and Buri had swallowed hard against the thunderous beating of her heart that had started up at that innocent kiss.

“You'd manage,” she said gruffly. “You're half K'mir.”

“I'm still grateful for you,” Thayet had replied, finding Buri's hand and twining their fingers together.

They lay in silence, the sensation of Thayet's lips on her neck still burning Buri's skin as she tried to force her heart to stop pounding. She knew that Thayet couldn't possibly fail to hear it, with her head resting almost over Buri's heart the way it was. Thayet said nothing, though, and shortly afterwards Buri heard the familiar sound of her breathing slowing as she drifted off into sleep.

It took Buri a long time to fall asleep that night, as she lay awake analysing her strange response to Thayet's kiss. If she was attracted to the Princess – and she knew such things did happen – why had she never realised it before? They had virtually grown up together. Perhaps that had been why – she was seeing a new side of Thayet now. Nothing would ever come of it, of course. Nothing could.

The next night, though, Thayet had cuddled into her again and raised one slender hand to stroke along Buri's cheek and down her neck. Buri had swallowed and looked at Thayet who was watching her in the near-darkness of the tent, her eyes huge and dark. Again, Thayet had stroked along her neck, slowly and deliberately, still looking into Buri's eyes, and Buri had swallowed hard.

“What're you doing?” She asked, ashamed at how unsure her voice sounded.

“I'm not sure,” Thayet had replied. “But we could die tomorrow – is it wrong to look for a little pleasure tonight?”

Buri hadn't been able to find words to answer her with.

“Would you kiss me?”

“I--”

“Just once, just for tonight – because I've always wanted it and we may die tomorrow.”

How could she refuse a request like that? Especially when what she had wanted right then, more than anything, was exactly what Thayet was asking for. Silently, she had turned over on her side and, eyes still open, leaned forwards to brush a gentle kiss over Thayet's lips. Thayet sighed, and closed her eyes, her fingers curling tightly into Buri's shoulder. They stayed like that for a long time, lips touching lightly, their breath mingling together, before Thayet sighed again and pulled back a little.

“Thank you,” she whispered, smiling a little, before resting her head on Buri's shoulder and pulling one of Buri's arms around her.

She had been asleep in moments, but again it had taken Buri much longer to fall asleep. She lay there, staring up at the top of the tent, with what she imagined to be a ridiculous smile on her lips.

There had been no more kisses then, for the next day they had encountered Sir Alanna, Coram and the Shang Dragon, and there had been no more time for kisses. There had been no more time for kisses for a long time, in fact, because then there had been Thayet's introduction at the Tortallan Court, and Jonathan's courtship.

It wasn't until one night, shortly after the formation of the Queen's Riders, that Thayet had rolled over on her camp-bed – no more bed-rolls for the Queen – and smiled impishly across the tent at Buri, who was sitting on her own bed, pulling off her boots.

“Would you kiss me, Buri?” She had asked, an impish smile on her lips. “For we may die tomorrow.”

Buri blinked, and chuckled.

“I don't think that's very likely,” she had said, getting to her feet and crossing the tent. “But, just in case – I could manage one kiss.”

That time, though, it had not been one kiss – one kiss had become many kisses, had become more than kisses. And every time since, when they had been alone and Thayet had been feeling impish, she would look across at Buri and smile, and Buri knew what she was about to say.

Insider Trading by templemarker [The Good Wife, Kalinda/Lana, R]

2011-08-20T04:42:00Z

Title: Insider Trading
Author: templemarker
Recipient: tellitslant
Fandom: The Good Wife
Pairing: Kalinda/Lana
Rating: R
Word count: 1100
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warnings: N/A
Notes: Thanks to the inimitible samjohnsson, the Wonder Beta. This story is also available on DW.

***

The thing about Lana was control. She had it, and Kalinda didn't, and Lana knew it. She also knew Kalinda hated it, that lack of control, but it wasn't like it was a secret.

Kalinda wasn't sure what turned on Lana more: the idea that Kalinda would say no and Lana had to work to convince her otherwise; or the idea that Kalinda would say yes and Lana would get her satisfaction. Either way Lana ended up with that cheshire cat smile, as if whatever choice Kalinda made it pleased Lana.

Kalinda didn't like pleasing Lana. She didn't really like anything about Lana, except perhaps her body, but that came with a price. One Kalinda wasn't prepared to pay.

They had been playing this cat and mouse game for several years now; Lana tried to poach her from Stern, Lockhart & Gardner for as long as she'd been an investigator there, and Kalinda suspected she'd been on Lana's radar even before then. She was never quite sure why. Kalinda knew she was a good investigator, probably one of the top five in the city, but she wasn't the best--that credit went to a PI out in Beverly who was priced out of most wealthy people's range and only took three clients a year, he was that good. And Kalinda could think of two or three other people she would've scouted before herself to recruit into the FBI.

And that's why it came down to control. From the first moment they met, over a crime scene in Andersonville, there had been something almost tangible between them that Kalinda had done her best to deflect and that Lana had pursued with the dogged intensity of a legal stalker. They both knew how close Lana skirted with her little devotion campaign: a few too many comped meals, the sly insinuations that could be easily construed as veiled threats by unwary ears. Lana had always taken care to engage Kalinda in private meetings, where there were few wandering eyes and she could be as compromising as she wished to be.

What Kalinda didn't understand was why she let herself get into these situations. Oh, sure, she could chalk it up to the long arm of the FBI, the usefulness of having a contact that could get her the information, or the action, that she needed. But she knew, she knew that it was convenience. She called Lana because it was faster than working her contacts at the 32nd. Lana would do things for her that she couldn't get done as efficiently because Lana wanted to fuck her, and Kalinda liked playing a little too close to the fire.

Lana was fire, she was flame and ember all rolled into one unrestrained package, and every time Kalinda called her she stepped one inch closer to getting burned.

The funny thing was, this wasn't true for anyone else. Normally, Kalinda prided herself on her self-control: for everything she did, she had a reason. She thought and planned and strategized, because it was her job, because she was good at it. Because she didn't know how to work differently. There was never a hint of compromising herself for anyone else, not for Cary or the firm or even Alicia. And Kalinda knew just how much she would do, if Alicia ever asked.

But with Lana, it was as though Kalinda wanted something in herself to bend, bend under a firm hand, and she hated that. She hated that about herself, about Lana's effect on her, about their entire fucked-up not-quite-a-relationship that kept cropping up in her path. What she hated the most was the part of her that looked forward to the next time they'd meet, to the ways Lana would challenge her, press up against Kalinda's well-fortified boundaries like they were made of nothing more than paper. Run a stockinged foot up her leg and dare her to protest.

Kalinda wouldn't protest. She knew that much about herself, about herself with Lana.

The only way to protect herself and the fortress she'd made of her thoughts and secrets was to pretend like there was no assault at all. To pretend like Lana was playing a game instead of throwing a challenge into Kalinda's world. If Kalinda pretended that a kiss would satisfy Lana, if she played it like she didn't know what Lana wanted, perhaps then Kalinda would survive another encounter to return to her own private castle intact. If nothing else, it kept the road clear for another skirmish between them, another small battle where neither walked away the victor.

A kiss was nothing. It was a favor--a princess' handkerchief blowing away in the wind. Kalinda would not be won or lost on a kiss; she had given away more for far less than midnight access to a judge. A catered dinner for two pushed a little more--not neutral ground, but Lana's own front line where the battle was pitched between the table and the bed. The offer of a job was a gauntlet, a weapon aimed at her with the twin attributes of legitimacy and oversight. If she worked for law enforcement again, her skills would be government-sanctioned. She wouldn't have to go cadging for access; she'd have a badge and a piece to back up the shield. If she worked for the FBI--for Lana--she'd have all the support she needed to accomplish her tasks, with none of the accountability that came with being the only contracted investigator on staff.

Kalinda wouldn't take the fall for a case gone wrong. And Lana knew, or guessed at, just how precarious her situation was on a day-to-day basis.

No. There was no chance she'd work for Lana, under Lana, knowing the price that came with the offer. She'd be in Lana's bed as fast as she'd be under Lana's thumb, and whatever appealed to Kalinda about ceding control to the bulldozer that was Lana Delaney, it wasn't worth sacrificing her freedom.

But Kalinda had never been very good about shying away from danger, and it never hurt to have an ace up your sleeve. She'd worry about the threat Lana posed when she had something more to lose. Until then, the game was on.

"She's got no future (just a life to endure)" for consumedly

2011-08-20T03:23:15Z

Title: She's got no future (just a life to endure)
Author: mosca
Fandom: True Blood
Pairing: Pam/Jessica
Rating: hard R, about as explicit as the show
Warnings: None standard
Spoilers: Through "Spellbound," with speculation of events later this season.
Summary: Jessica turns up at Pam's door again, and Pam knows what her next move is.
Word count: about 1600.
Disclaimers: True Blood is the intellectual property of HBO and Your Face Goes Here. This original work of fan fiction is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License; attribution should include a link to this post. This story is a labor of love, not money, so it's protected in the USA by the fair use provisions of the Copyright Act of 1976.
Notes: Thanks to thistle90 for beta reading. Written for consumedly, who totally inspired me with this pairing request. Title is from "The Ghost Inside" by Broken Bells.

She's got no future (just a life to endure)

Fifty-First Century Girl

2011-08-20T01:01:46Z

Title: Fifty-First Century Girl
Author: lokifan
Recipient: eruthros
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters/pairings: Martha/Amy (background Martha/Mickey and Amy/Rory)
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~2500
Warnings: Semi-open relationships
Disclaimer: The boys and girls belong to the BBC, even though I’m often much nicer to them than they are.
Summary: Amy is a twenty-first century girl. Martha thinks Jack has possibly been a bad influence. Set during New Who S6.
Author’s Notes: Both my hard-drive and me fucked up a bit here, so I basically ended up pinch-hitting for myself -- apologies to the mods and the extremely brilliant eruthros, and thank you to the marvellous teenageworrier for the speedy beta! Despite the stress, writing this utterly plotless smut was fun, and hopefully that comes across :)

Martha Jones had not expected to return to the TARDIS with a Scottish redhead dragging her into it. The Doctor had never yet been ginger, after all, and he generally had better manners than to leap from the TARDIS, clamp a hand about her wrist, and pull her in.

Only generally, though.

“The Doctor said you’d be along,” the girl said. “He’s run off doing his own thing, as usual, but he’ll be back. I was planning to go after him, but Rory thought we should probably wait to make sure we caught you.”

Rory waved at her awkwardly from behind the TARDIS’ console.

“I am... caught,” Martha agreed. “Have you got a situation? I work for UNIT, so I have a gun and access to back-up.” She paused. “Although since situations with the Doctor often get in the way of actually using the tools available, I should mention that I’m good at improvising.”

“Yeah?”

Martha nodded. “If I’ve got a job to do, I get it done. Did the Doctor say why he needed me?”

The redhead and Rory glanced at each other. “He didn’t say ‘needed’, exactly,” Rory said. “More that we happened to be going where Martha was and that we’d like you.”

“He said it in that way that means he already knows something big is going to happen, though,” the girl said. “Like when River says ‘spoilers’, except his voice is less sexy.”

“Amy!” Rory said. Amy gave him a Look and he shrugged, grinning ruefully. “Okay, I suppose her voice is sort of sexy. Unlike the Doctor’s.”

Martha remembered the Doctor’s voice as rather sexy: she liked intelligence, and the bright energy the Doctor exuded that made himself effortlessly the centre of the universe.

Amy flapped her hands at Rory, drawing Martha’s eyes back into focus. “Hmph. I liked his voice when he got Beeblebrox flu, though. All hoarse.”

“Only because you’re not a nurse. I’m the one who had to help fix him up. So much for what happens in Eroticon 6 staying there.”

Martha burst out laughing, and Amy and Rory turned to look at her again. “Sounds like Jack was a bad influence. So you’re a nurse, then?”

Rory nodded.

“Good, the TARDIS needs someone who’s good at that sort of thing.” Rory smiled, bobbing his head in a way that reminded Martha of Mickey, and how even now he was sometimes unsure of his skills. “I was still a medical student when I travelled with the Doctor,” Martha continued. “Some of the best training you could ever have, although explaining that to my exam board took some doing.”

“So you’re a Doctor.” Amy said the word in the specific way the Doctor’s companions had: bright, and focused, making the word the sparkling centrepiece of a sentence.

“Yes,” said Martha. “Not like the Doctor, but I am a doctor.”

“Cool,” Amy said, sliding onto the railing behind her. Martha felt her eyes slide along the long flash of bare leg that shifted with the movement. When she lifted her eyes again to meet Amy’s hazel ones, she saw that Amy’s grin had become a particular sort of smile. Amy lifted a hand, fiddling with her hair, and Martha caught the flash of gold amongst the red.

“You’re married?”

“Me and him over there,” Amy replied, grinning without self-consciousness.

“We’re still newlyweds, really,” Rory put in. “Our honeymoon was on the TARDIS.”

Martha swallowed about a dozen filthy jokes, but couldn’t contain a smirk. Amy caught it and reflected it back at her, brighter and dirtier.

Martha was surprised. Amy didn’t seem like the type to be married already -- she looked so young, younger than Martha had been when she met the Doctor. And her vivaciousness rather reminded Martha of Jack when he was happy.

As did Amy’s cocked eyebrow and cocked hip as she slid off the railing again, her body rather close to Martha’s. Martha felt her body shifting in response, mirroring Amy’s. They were close enough that she could smell Amy’s shampoo, and see the shades of green in her eyes.

Mickey was currently in Wales trying to sort out the care and feeding of a pterodactyl, and before that Martha had been in Edinburgh explaining to the locals the difference between a Fringe performer and an alien. She hadn’t seen her husband for a couple of months. And they did have an arrangement for situations like this.

The situation had originally been based on Jack taking Mickey’s declaration of heterosexuality as a challenge, and Martha taking Jack’s declaration of sexual prowess as a challenge. But when you were alien-fighters, even if you had a strong marriage, taking bets with fifty-first century pansexuals was far from the only reason for a semi-open relationship.

Which, judging by their expressions, was probably not news to Amy and Rory.

“So who’s River?” Martha asked. Her tone suggested another question entirely.

“Friend of ours,” Amy said. “She’s an adventurer from the future. She has this weird history -- well, future -- with the Doctor.”

“And a sexy voice,” said Martha. “Sounds like someone else I know.” She remembered Jack’s blue eyes and Mickey’s blush. “I like adventurers from the future, you know. They tend to be... educational. Like when my friend Anne went to Berlin and stayed up for four days having orgies, only more so.”

Martha realised she was at risk of babbling and gave Amy a coy smile instead of talking. You’d never think she’d saved the world by talking, sometimes.

“Rory?” Amy said, turning to look at him. “Remember when there was that weird paradox and I met myself?”

“Not sure ‘met’ is the right verb for it, but yes.”

“And you wouldn’t let us touch?”

“The Doctor said you couldn’t touch each other because it might make the universe explode!” There was a little pause while Martha considered suggesting to the Doctor that he start selecting his companions based slightly more on self-control and slightly less on the willingness and ability to run a lot. Then Rory sighed. “Yes, I remember that. And before you ask, I remember saying I owed you a sexual favour as thanks for not blowing up the universe.”

“Great!” Amy said, turning back to Martha. “Then you won’t mind if I ask Martha to come and see my etchings.”

Martha grinned. She liked a girl who wasn’t afraid of innuendo. “Love to.”

Rory waved them off. Amy turned and rabbited off through the TARDIS’ main room, leaving Martha to follow her and her long legs across. They got down the corridor and into a bedroom -- Martha didn’t recognise it or its leopard-print double bed, apparently the Doctor had been redecorating without supervision again -- before hearing Rory.

“I’m not going to get to watch, am I?” Rory’s voice was slightly plaintive.

Amy turned to her, and Martha made a face. She rather liked the look of Rory, but for right now...

“Nope,” Amy carolled back.

“Oh. Okay.” Amy reached for Martha again, settling her hands on Martha’s hips. Martha felt the warmth of each finger separately; under her tight trousers, every nerve ending seemed to come alive.

“Amy?” came Rory’s voice again.

Amy sighed, but the affectionate smile on her face remained. She kept eye contact with Martha as she called back, “yes?” and Martha giggled with her, feeling like they had some shared secret.

“You still love me the best, don’t you? Even though she’s a doctor and very pretty?”

“She hasn’t got a stupid face,” Amy called. As she said the words, her face softened in a particular way that made Martha take her earlier thought back. Amy looked like the marrying sort after all.

Then Amy kissed her and that first sparking taste of her made Martha’s thoughts go up in smoke like a light with its fuse blown out. There was a particular taste that was specific to a time-traveller, and it was strong and fresh in Amy. Martha opened her mouth, seeking more of that taste, already planning to find the spots on Amy’s body where it was strongest.

They kissed for a long time. It felt like talking, this learning of each other’s styles and taste and smell. The thrill of kissing someone from the TARDIS had excitement bubbling in Martha’s stomach: but the shape of Amy’s body as she slowly pressed up against Martha, the greed of Amy’s mouth, her hands massaging Martha’s hips -- those thrills were stronger.

Martha drew back, panting a little, drawing breath like she was a fire needing air to stay alight. “Wow. You’re a really good kisser.”

“I used to be a kissogram,” said Amy.

Martha stared, then burst out laughing. Amy laughed too, and grabbed Martha’s wrist again. They fell in fits of giggles to the bed. Martha rolled on top of Amy, smothering her laughter with her mouth, and finally, fucking finally, put one hand on Amy’s bare thigh and slid it up under her skirt.

Amy moaned happily, sliding her fingers under Martha’s waistband in reply. Martha shivered at the play of Amy’s fingers along the sensitive skin of her lower back. She teased her fingers lightly between Amy’s inner thighs in response. Amy’s hazel eyes, inches from hers, narrowed in competition as she bit down on Martha’s lower lip.

Martha hmmed into Amy’s slick mouth. They sank easily into kissing again. Amy slid a hand into Martha’s hair, holding the back of her neck, keeping her close. She was warm, and shivered against Martha as Martha pushed aside her wet knickers with one hand. Martha teased a finger along the length of Amy’s lips before finding her clit.

Amy groaned, her back snapping up into a gorgeous arch, her eyes shutting blissfully as Martha teased her clit. Her thighs tightened, holding Martha’s hand inescapably against her. Amy ground against her, moaning. She was still dressed, and that made it even sexier to watch her come undone. Martha used the other hand to push Amy’s hair out of her face, so she could watch her expression as Amy’s face tightened and sweat slicked her forehead and she came, half-screaming, clutching at Martha’s shoulders.

Amy sprawled for a moment, panting; but only a moment, and then she sat up again, despite the half-dazed grin on her flushed face. “All right, come on! It’s kind of hot doing it half-dressed but I wanna see you naked.”

“Same.” Martha was so turned on by now that even the wriggling necessary to get out of her tight trousers, knickers and boots sparked pleasure. Amy was already bare from the waist down, her long pale legs seeming to take up half the bed. She scrambled out of her plaid shirt and top like a child, wriggling out of them with far more energy than was necessary. Her bra was bright blue and gone in an instant.

“Come on!” Amy said. “I’ve been staring too - you’ve got a killer arse - but come on!”

Good thing I don’t mind being bossed about, Martha thought half-ruefully -- though she thought she’d probably get her domme side out next time she saw Mickey - and shed her jacket and top.

Amy’s eyes went big at the sight of her burgundy lace, and she reached out. Martha let Amy free her breasts; she shivered as Amy’s fingers passed over her bare shoulders down to her breasts, rubbing her thumbs curiously over them. Martha’s dark nipples were already hard.

Amy’s mouth followed her fingers, and Martha moaned helplessly at the feeling of Amy sucking on a nipple; it was glorious, that indulgent sexual touch. She tangled her fingers in Amy’s hair, her thumb sliding down Amy’s neck, feeling Amy’s jaw work as she lapped and sucked at Martha’s skin. Martha shuddered against her, caught between the ache between her legs and Amy’s mouth on her, and the soft skin at the nape of Amy’s neck.

Then Amy slid her hands down to Martha’s waist. Just that touch made Martha shiver, and she bonelessly moved with Amy’s tug, sliding onto the bed on her back. She spread her legs, demanding. Martha felt the cool air of the room against her cunt for only a moment before Amy’s head was between her legs and her tongue was jangling every nerve ending Martha had.

Amy’s hands were tight on her thighs -- she’d have fingerprint bruises there come morning -- and her mouth was fervent. Martha’s body wound tighter and tighter as Amy sucked her clit and fucked her with her fingers until she felt stretched and sensitive and half-overcome with sensation: and then she was entirely overcome, and came.

Amy straddled Martha’s hips, sitting atop her to watch Martha come down. Martha smiled at her, stretching her arms lazily over her head, feeling her breasts bob as she sighed in satisfaction. The eye contact between them sizzled.

Martha remembered travelling the world alone, telling stories to drive back the dark, and taking comfort where she could find it. The world they’d brought back to life was infinitely brighter, but it couldn’t have taught her to glory in the moments after passion this way.

Although this was a creative definition of ‘after passion’. Amy’s hot cunt was slick against Martha. Sitting on top of Martha, visibly taking in every detail of her, Amy looked like a pirate examining her treasure: shamelessly happy to have got away with taking it.

The rest of the day, in Martha’s memory, became only snapshots: bright flashes of sensation and sight. Running her fingers through the neat ginger triangle between Amy’s legs; stroking the soft skin of Amy’s stomach as they rocked and rubbed together and came against each other’s thighs; the gleaming intensity of Amy’s eyes as she held Martha’s wrists against the mattress and ground against her until she came. Experimenting: spanking Amy, while she wriggled and squealed, until finally Martha had a lap full of sweat-slick skin and frizzed red hair and that fucking gorgeous mouth and she was making Amy fall apart.

Eventually they ran out of energy, and ended up sprawled on their backs together, staring at the rather aesthetically pleasing moss on the ceiling and waiting to get their breath back. Martha remembered lying next to the Doctor on a bed once, and grinned to herself. This was better.

“I wonder if this is why the Doctor said you were coming and we’d like you.”

Martha turned her head enough that she could see Amy. Amy was still flushed, in that blotchy way that redheads had, and her smiling mouth was swollen.

“Maybe. He’s not usually a one for matchmaking though, is he?”

“Not really,” said Amy. “He gave me and Rory bunkbeds.”

Martha cackled. “Just because he doesn’t need a bed to get down and dirty under the TARDIS. His one true love.”

Amy spluttered a laugh. “You’ve no idea. A few weeks ago...”

Martha rearranged herself against the bed, and settled in to hear Amy tell her a bedtime story.

Fic for trascendenza: Bright Spot

2011-08-19T21:07:01Z

Title: Bright Spot
Author: overthetiber
Recipient: trascendenza
Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Pairing: June/Yue
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~2000
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, the series, or the franchise.
Warnings: Age difference (assumed not more than ten years), one character is underage (15)

AU: Yue runs away from home before the Gaang reaches the North Pole. In a tavern in the Earth Kingdom, she encounters June. (AO3 link)

Criminal Minds for escritoireazul

2011-08-19T05:20:26Z

Title: The C in the Capwell Hotel
author: callmesandy k
recipient: escritoireazul
fandom: Criminal Minds
pairing: JJ/Garcia
word count: 1050+
warnings: no warnings apply besides the usual subject matter of criminal minds, though nothing as explicit as the show
notes, summary and disclaimer: thanks to templemarker for beta advice and circusgirl for brainstorming. Garcia's shoes are Fluevogs, she seems like a Fluevog girl, you know? title from an episode of Santa Barbara, you know, it fell.

The C In the Capwell Hotel

"So no one calls you 'Penny' - really?" JJ knew she sounded drunk and she wasn't. Her first drink was in front of her on the table.

"Really," Garcia said. She patted JJ's hand. "You were totally scared over the rainbow and out in the fields of your mind, weren't you. Drink that, honey."

JJ took a long drink, like gatorade after a run. "It was really scary," she said.

"And you're probably ready for the unsubs and the badness and not so much for a tornado or twister like a hand of Godawful Scary coming for the plane."

"Definitely," JJ said. "Thanks for taking me out."

"All the tough guys are probably three bars over bragging about seeing the funnel and talking about football. We shall have karaoke," Garcia said.

"Somehow I doubt Spence is talking about the Redskins," JJ said. "Though I wouldn't mind."

"Well, then you are out of luck because I don't know lickety spit about them except they should change their name and logo." Garcia shrugged but she kept smiling reassuringly. She had a french manicure except her short tips were pink instead of white.

"I don't disagree," JJ said. Garcia had been in their unit for just a few weeks. Maybe she didn't like football, but JJ appreciated being able to look vulnerable without worrying what Hotch thought of her.

*

"But what if I wanted to call you Penny?" JJ smiled and leaned against Garcia's desk.

"I would not answer, Miss Powerpuff," Garcia said. She wasn't even looking at JJ, she was tapping at her keyboard and squinting at one of her screens.

"But you would answer to Miss Powerpuff?"

"Probably," Garcia said. "But I was calling you that. You know, female football. Or the Powerpuff Girls who are seriously awesome."

"Thank you," JJ said. "Thank you, I haven't heard that before."

"Are you unfamiliar with Blossom, Bubbles and Buttercup? Come here now and let's get on that, girl." Garcia typed quickly and made AJ pull up a chair at her computer lair. "We are going to watch this until you get what a compliment you've just been given."
And just like that, JJ had a standing lunch appointment with Garcia, eating carefully while watching cartoons and then Garcia's favorite weird Japanese game shows. JJ pushed Garcia to find old episodes of Santa Barbara online - "you can find everything, right?" because she'd loved that show was really too young to be watching it.

"I never thought of you as a soap opera girl," Garcia said.

JJ said, "Is there something wrong with soap operas?" Garcia was wearing an incredibly unusual perfume. JJ liked it.

"They're so frivolous and girly and exaggerated and unreal," Garcia said. "And I just realized I was describing myself and my hair."

"You're pretty real," JJ said.

"But today's long hair is not," Garcia said, laughing.

They had known each other almost exactly six months. JJ thought about an anniversary gift but wondered if it would be inappropriate.

*

Garcia never went through a phase of showing how tough she could be by not reacting to the pictures at work. Even Spence tried, in his own way. But Garcia looks appalled and sad and wounded every single time. JJ said to her, "I think you're brave, you know that?"

"I know," Garcia said, "Not everyone can mix plaid and leopard print. But I forged ahead." She blushed and sort of cuddled her coffee, so JJ thought she understood.

JJ liked calling Garcia when they were out in the field. It wasn't exactly a pleasure, very little in the field was a pleasure. But she liked that Garcia had new names for herself and JJ every time she called and that they would both be competent and get things done and talk like professionals. But there was still humor. Garcia brought her own unique light to those moments of horror when JJ needed to know everyone in a five mile radius who was a registered sex offender of prepubescent boys. Or infants.

*

"I can not believe you dragged me to that," Garcia said, tottering out of the studio. She had these fabulous shoes with a heart on the bottom of the heel. JJ had expressed her envy and Garcia had told her all about finding them at this tiny consignment store back in California. Somehow Garcia made it sound exciting and funny. Garcia said, "Never again, Buttercup."

"You were the best dancer there," JJ said. She meant it. "You were amazing!"

"I was the best dressed, I'll grant you that," Garcia said. "But that was way too much swiveling and twisting and stamping without any of us being naked."

"I think some of those guys were picturing you naked," JJ said.

"They should be so lucky," Garcia said. She was leaning against JJ's car and then she pushed herself to standing. "Were you picturing me naked?"

JJ knew she was blushing and doing that embarrassed scrunched up face thing. Morgan had called her on that in her first week. She said, "Possibly?"

"I knew you had good taste," Garcia said. She was grinning and then they were kissing. Sweet, sassy kissing, like laughing only with good shivers up and down her spine.

JJ said, "I could drive you home."

"Only if by home you mean your apartment," Garcia said.

"I think I do," JJ said.

Sex with Garcia was just plain fun. She was gorgeous naked, all perfect skin and smiles. "I could look at you forever," JJ said.

"Right back atcha," Garcia said. She was flushed all over. It was a very good look on her. "But," Garcia said.

JJ rolled onto her stomach and wiggled her ass. "This butt?"

"No, you cruel temptress. I was going to say as awesome and toecurling as the last 90 minutes were, I feel like we are more friends than lovers."

JJ shrugged. "Friends with benefits."

"Sure, but friends most of all. Working where we do, we have to have each other," Garcia said. "Family even!"

"I appreciate the thought," JJ said, "I really do, but maybe don't call me family when we're both naked? And you're sitting like that."

Garcia laughed. "You make a very good point. But you see what I'm saying?"

"Fine," JJ said. "I agree, I do. But maybe one more time?"

"Oh yeah," Garcia said.

For toss_toss_love, Stolen Moments, Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles

2011-08-19T03:33:30Z

Title: Stolen Moments From A Harsh Life
Fandom: Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Pairing: Sarah/Cameron
Rating: R
Words: 1,065
Summary: For toss_toss_love. Sarah watches Cameron sleep, technically, and reflects.
A/N: Sorry this is so late, I have had to battle storms to get this posted. I really hope you enjoy it.

There's a part of Sarah that knows that this isn't real. The feelings and emotions are, but this moment, watching Cameron sleep, it isn't real, because Cameron isn't sleeping. No matter how much she knows it's an equivalent, it just doesn't feel the same, deep down.

Sarah supposes that it's not really all that different, and she likes these moments, the respite is so rare for them, time to make love is rare enough, time to sleep enough to wake up and watch Cameron is even rarer.

She can't remember how it started. Maybe back when she'd first noticed Cameron's body... her breasts, even as she told her to put them away. Or seeing Cameron's caring for John, knowing that wasn't unreal, and their feelings for John and adrenaline mixing to become whatever this was between them.

She does remember the first time it happened, though. The first time things boiled over and she had needed someone to hold, some knowledge that things could be good, and Cameron had looked into her eyes and Sarah had forgotten the bandages on her skin in that moment, just before she kissed the younger woman. Her lips had felt so soft under Sarah's, parting to allow Sarah's tongue to slide between them. Sarah had been with women before, in the distant past, there had been friends who'd spend the night in her bed, but Cameron was different and not in the ways she would have expected.

She felt completely human. Soft breasts, wet heat between her legs, large clit that Sarah's fingers had discovered, then she'd manipulated it, making Cameron shake and moan, before coming in her hand. She'd also tasted amazing on Sarah's fingers, but even better when Sarah had laid her across the bed and dined on her like a fine meal. They might not have really had the time, but Sarah had taken it and she was glad.

Sarah's climaxes then had been quick, brought about almost more by Cameron's reactions than her fingers and tongue. They'd held each other for a few hours, sleeping, but they'd had to be on alert the moment they woke up.

Things had continued with stolen moments, sometimes only a touch or a kiss, sometimes they'd had long enough to make each other come even if it wasn't fast.

It's still hard to find time for longer encounters. There have been times, here and there, when they've been alone and Sarah's been able to really find what Cameron's body can do, and how some parts of Cameron really are enhanced. It's not like she has extra parts - though Sarah's sure that if she ever evidenced the want for something more between her legs, Cameron could do that, but she doesn't want that. It's more about how Cameron can last longer, or manipulate fingers to just the right angle, that they won't break and will instead adapt and make Sarah come more than she can ever remember coming. It's also how Cameron comes too, that it seems to drain her in the best way, just like it does Sarah.

Even given the closeness of their lives, for now Sarah and Cameron have decided to keep this from John. Sarah's sure he suspects, she isn't as good at hiding things as Cameron is, but she does her best and she hopes he thinks it's more the same concerns she has for Derek. If it compromises them, she'll let John know, but right now she wants one thing to be hers, maybe two if Cameron and this thing between them are counted separately. She isn't going to put words on it, she's had love, and she doesn't know if that's the word for this. She doesn't want to think about that, not when there are so many other things to think about.

Her fingers slide through the silk of Cameron's hair, she has always hated that term but that's what Cameron's hair feels like, there is no other word that fits. She rests that hand on Cameron's neck and smiles.

Sometimes Sarah wonders how her battle-scarred body compares with Cameron's smooth perfection. Even as Cameron's tongue traces white lines and skin tight in ways it shouldn't be, Sarah wonders if she's thinking about it, until the day Cameron looks up at her and says she's beautiful, and she decides that she trusts Cameron's judgement more than her own on that topic.

She looks at the time, they actually still have more, and she doesn't want to move, no more than is necessary to stop discomfort from lying in one position too long, and Cameron still seems to be asleep. Peace is too rare in their lives to disturb it when she doesn't have to.

Sarah's gaze moves down Cameron's body. She never asks her to hide her breasts around her any more. She loves to lick and suckle at them, making Cameron cry out, she has such distinct reactions, and Sarah loves that about her. Cameron does the same to her and Sarah's come from Cameron's mouth on her breasts more than once, and Cameron knows just how to make Sarah come in so many ways.

Sarah likes scissoring the best, possibly because Cameron can still bend enough to kiss her, and their bodies pressed together, clit against clit, Cameron moving just a little more intensely just when Sarah needs it, it's amazing. Cameron's tongue, moving faster than any vibrator ever could, is amazing too, but they don't always have time to take over that.

It's been another stretch of time, and Sarah knows down to the second precisely how long. She can also hear the others moving around outside, the sounds soft enough to know it's only John and Derek, that she doesn't need to be on alert just yet.

Cameron's eyes open, slowly, and she smiles up at Sarah, greets her softly, and kisses her. Sarah returns the kiss, holding Cameron even more tightly, and stroking her skin. There's a whispered query of how long do they have and Cameron's already sliding over to press her body against Sarah's, and Sarah wonders if she would ever give any other answer than long enough. She'd carve it out if they didn't have that time, and today they do, and she's already starting to press tighter to Cameron.

Stolen moments from a harsh life, but Sarah wouldn't change any of them.

For templemarker --- Hawaii Five-O/Veronica Mars crossover

2011-08-18T18:47:08Z

Title: Sweet Things
Fandoms: Hawaii Five-O/Veronica Mars
Pairing: Kono/Veronica
Rating: R
Words: 1,028
Summary: For templemarker. Kono arrests a certain blonde PI and before long, a relationship has blossomed.
A/N: Sorry this is so late! I remember reading Thursday on the one email and for some reason that just stuck in my head so I was a little unprepared. I apologize and hope you like it!

“I’m telling you, you’ve got the wrong girl,” the suspect says.

“Really?” Kono rolls her eyes. “Then why were you stalking the victim?”

“Look, I’m a licensed PI. I was hired by his wife to follow him and see if he was cheating. You can ask her. But look, I actually might have dug up some information about the murderer after the news broke. I can help you.”

“Sure thing,” Kono says. “I bet you’ll be a big help, haole.”

“You can call me Veronica.”

After they solve the case, Kono looks at the other woman. She’s petite, as tiny around the waist as Kono is herself, with the most uniquely beautiful face Kono has ever seen. As Kono goes to open the door, Veronica catches her wrist.

“Are you hungry?” Veronica asks. Kono is suddenly starving for more than just food.

“Do you like shave ice? It’s not very filling but…”

Veronica’s smile is a brilliant white flash. “I like sweet things.”

*****

Veronica tastes like sweet fruity lip gloss, the kind Kono used to wear when she was a teen, and the Jack and Coke she downed at the bar and girl. Kono’s mouth still tastes like lime and tequila and salt. You wouldn’t think it would be a good combination but the flavors blend perfectly.

After getting shave ice, they went to a bar Kono knows, a chill place where nobody looked twice when Veronica put her hand on Kono’s thigh while they were talking.

Now Veronica has Kono backed up against a wall in the bathroom, mouths open, pushing Kono’s legs open with small, insistent hands, pushing herself into the open space with all the velocity of a missile.

“I’m not gay,” Kono says as Veronica pushes aside the strap of her tank top and kisses her shoulder. “I like men.”

“Me, too,” Veronica murmurs, her breath ticklish and hot on Kono’s skin. “And women.”

“Don’t tell Chin,” Kono says. Steve was so impressed with Veronica’s detective skills that Kono is pretty sure she’ll have an offer to join the team within a week, so the worry isn’t unfounded.

Veronica’s hands slide up under the bottom of Kono’s shirt, warm and soft and sure. “Don’t worry,” she says. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

*****

Veronica and Kono are working undercover as strippers, much to the entire team’s amusement. They practice a double routine in Kono’s bedroom, taking off each other’s schoolgirl outfits and making out to the beat of “I Kissed a Girl.”

“This is ridiculous,” Kono says, “and I hate this song.”

“Yes, but you look so hot,” Veronica says, bending to roll down Kono’s white knee high socks. She drops a kick kiss on Kono’s knee. “And I do like kissing girls. Especially you.”
Kono’s breath catches in her throat for a second. “Are you kissing any other girls?”

Veronica stands up, takes Kono’s face in her hands. “No.”

“What about boys?”

“No.” Veronica kisses her, soft and simple and almost chaste. “Are you kissing anyone else?”

“No,” Kono says, staring into those gorgeous hazel eyes.

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

Veronica kisses her again, pushing her backwards onto the bed, tongue sliding between Kono’s lips as they move. Kono lands on the mattress with a soft thud, Veronica on top of her, breathless.

“Me neither.”

*****

Kono and Chin are in the car, driving back to Five-0 after averting a bomb threat. Kono reaches for the radio, turns the music off, and takes a deep breath.

“There’s something I have to tell you, cuz,” she says.

“Oh?” Chin looks away from the road briefly, raising an eyebrow at her.

“I think…” The words are stuck in her throat, gagging her. “I’m in love with a woman.”

There’s silence for what feels like the longest thirty seconds of Kono’s life.

“Is that all?” Chin finally says. “No big deal, cuz. I already knew.”

“What? You did?” Kono is trying to process his matter-of-fact tone, his lack of surprise. “How?”

“You and Veronica aren’t as sneaky as you think. You wore her shirt about a week after she started working with us. Plus, I walked past your office one night after everyone else was gone, and let’s just say Veronica’s not exactly quiet.”

“Oh.” Kono is blushing now. “So you’re cool with it?”

Chin reaches over, puts his big hand over hers. He smiles at her and it hits her right in her gut, full and loving and accepting. “Of course I’m cool with it, Kono. It’s who you are and I love you. That simple. And Veronica… she’s pretty amazing, too.”

Kono’s blinking back tears. “Aloha au iā ‘oe.” He squeezes her hand. “And I love her, too. Thank you.”

*****

Veronica is still asleep when Kono wakes up. Kono doesn’t awaken her girlfriend, just watches her face, eyes closed, a strand of blonde hair stuck to the side of her face. Kono reaches out and pushes it aside. “Aloha kakahiaka,” she whispers.

Veronica opens her eyes. “Good morning to you, too. Have you been watching me?” she asks.

“Maybe,” Kono says. “Do you mind?”

Veronica leans forward and kisses her. “No. It’s a little creepy, maybe, but I like creepy.”

“You would,” Kono says and starts kissing down the pale column of Veronica’s neck. “How about this? Do you like this?”

“Yes,” Veronica replies and Kono kisses her way down her lover’s body. Veronica makes humming little sounds of pleasure as Kono’s lips tease and taste, lick and bite.

“You know what?” Kono lifts her head from Veronica’s left breast.

“No,” Veronica groans. “And I don’t want to know right now. Less talking, more licking.”

“Just give me a second,” Kono says. “This is important. I just wanted to tell you… well, I love you. And I’ve never been this happy before in my life.”

“Me too, baby. Who could have known when you arrested me that we would end up like this?”

“Nobody. But maybe I should have guessed.” Kono puts her head back down, swiping her tongue over Veronica’s rosy nipple and her hands reach down to move the sheets aside and grip Veronica’s thighs. And then they don’t talk for a while.

FIN

for inlovewithnight; sparks fly when we touch (Thor, Darcy/Jane, Darcy/Sif)

2011-08-18T15:22:46Z

Title: sparks fly when we touch
Author: aphrodite_mine
Recipient: inlovewithnight
Fandom, Pairing: Thor; Darcy/Jane, Darcy/Sif
Summary: There are things you need to know about Jane, too.
Notes: Thanks to mosca and k for running this again. Thanks to immortality for reading this over.

Link!

WICKED FIC :: "All You've Ever Wanted" [Elphaba/Glinda, PG]

2011-08-18T06:08:32Z

Title: All You've Ever Wanted
Author: A. Magiluna Stormwriter
Email: stormwriter@shatterstorm.net
Rating: PG
Pairings: Elphaba/Glinda
Date Written: 17 August 2011
Word Count: 1629
Written for: femslash11
Recipient: juxtaposie
Summary: She's always in your thoughts, a constant reminder of what might have been.
Spoilers: Both the books and the musical are up for grabs.
Warnings: No standard warnings apply.
Website: ShatterStorm Productions – Doggie Duo Fanfic
Link to: http://bdkk.shatterstorm.net/
Archive: ShatterStorm Productions only…all others ask for permission & we'll see…

Disclaimer: "Wicked," the characters, and situations depicted are the property of Gregory Maguire, Stephen Schwarz, Winnie Holzman, and Universal Pictures. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This site is in no way affiliated with "Wicked," any of its owners, or any representatives of the actors.

Author’s Notes: I always jump at the chance to write for Elphaba and Glinda. There's just something about them that tugs at my heart. I always work out of a combined universe of the books and the musical. Sometimes I'll try to sway more toward the book-verse, but it's been a LONG time since I last read Wicked, so I chose to stick with my combined 'verse instead this time. This story has given me ideas for a possible expansion. There are NO guarantees, but it's percolating in my brain…

All dialogue in ~italics~ is supposed to be a mentally projected voice.

Dedication: My muses, for always coming through in the end…

Beta: Many thanks and head pats to shatterpath for her last minute beta for me…

"All You've Ever Wanted"
By A. Magiluna Stormwriter

She's always in your thoughts, a constant reminder of what might have been.

reach for hands that aren't there by templemarker [Glee, Brittany/Santana, NC17]

2011-08-18T05:47:22Z

Title: reach for hands that aren't there
Author: templemarker
Recipient: botherd
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Brittany/Santana
Rating: NC17
Word count: 1100
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warnings: N/A
Notes: My grateful thanks to samjohnsson for beta. This story is set following season 2. Also available on DW.

***

Even after the whole private-declaration-of-love thing, Brittany still wouldn't sleep with her.

This was, like, a record for them. They'd been friends for ten years, and friends-with-orgasms for, like, half of that. It hadn't taken much for Santana to apply what the middle-school boys tried with her in the back of the gym during the school dance to Brittany, and bam, sold. Girl orgasms rocked. They'd had a fight, once, in ninth grade when Santana had cut her hair without talking to Brittany about it first. It wasn't her fault--Santana's mom basically made the whole family get their hair cut and then get a family picture taken. But for ten days, they didn't talk, until Santana made it up to Brittany with a new collar for Lord Tubbington.

But with all the dramz of the year behind them, back to holding pinkies in the hallway sometimes and smiling at each other again, Brittany wouldn't let it get to anything more serious. Or anything more fun, for that matter. Which left Santana alone in her bedroom on a Thursday night, showered from putting her time in at the gym and bored out of her skull.

It just wasn't interesting to date boys anymore. If her, like, self-revelation or whatever wasn't enough to make boys the least appealing option in a sea of mediocrity, the couple of fake dates she'd been on with Dave to keep up appearances would have done it. The boy had two settings: either loud and obnoxious about football and hockey, or whiny and hushed about his feelings and life and whatever. It's like once she called him on his boy-lovin' self she'd also become his confessor. Even though she didn't sign on for that shit, she let him run with it because it was kind of sad and Santana had a small quota of pity she used up for him.

So if she was dating a gay dude, that meant she wasn't getting any play; and if she wasn't banging other dudes on the side, she wasn't getting any play; and the only female she'd ever let close to her fine self was Brittany, who wouldn't give her any play either. It was a dry spell. Santana hadn't had a dry spell since that dance in middle school; it was pretty fucked up.

She blew out a sigh and stretched out on her bed, wishing Brittany was there. It wasn't like she wanted to go out and start banging chicks, either, though she would totally rock that if she wanted to. Part of her was kind of interested, in that I-wonder-what-it's-like way, but mostly it was just weird and kind of off-putting. She didn't want to sleep with some ancient lesbian wearing plaid. She wanted--well. She wanted Brittany. She just wanted to fuck Brittany again, she didn't want to fuck anyone else.

Letting out a frustrated groan, she turned over and tucked her pillow against her body. If Brittany were here, they'd already have made out for an hour, all the strawberry lip gloss gone from Britt's lips and her mouth red and wet from it. She always looked so good like that, right after they made out, her skin all flushed and hot to the touch. One of the things Santana loved best about Brittany was how she threw herself into everything she did, whether it was her stupid web show or fucking.

When they were fucking, Britt would arch and moan like it was her fucking job, tensing and pushing against Santa's hand or her mouth with everything in her body. And her body was tight, too, a dancer's frame with a cheerleader's build. Santana loved to look at her, the definition of her arms, the flat plane of her stomach. Seriously, Santana would have gone gay for that if she hadn't been built for it anyway.

And at the end of the day, Santana was cool with being a lebso. Whatever, when she went to college she was gonna hit all of that like gangbusters. The girls wouldn't know what him 'em. But she wasn't going to waste six years of social capital on outing herself. She wasn't stupid. Glee was different--football players were in glee, her mom liked that she did it, and it looked good on her college application compared to all the cheerleading shit. Coming out was like eight billion degrees beyond that on that anti-cool meter; she wasn't going to let some bitchy second-tier Cheerios wannabe throw a slushie in her face for liking pussy. Fuck that--Santana controlled her destiny, her sexuality didn't.

That whole train of thought almost killed her girl-boner, but Santana huffed it out and started thinking of Brittany's mouth again, wet from eating Santana out on her bed. Britt loved that just as much as getting off herself--she'd make all these noises like eating Santana out was the best part of her day. Maybe it was.

Pushing her hand into her boyshorts, she was already slick beneath her fingers, clit swollen and hard to the touch. Santana always got off easy for Brittany, whether she was there or not. It had never been that way with anyone else--she'd always had to work for it, or train the boy to work her to it. But fucking Brittany, or thinking about fucking Brittany, always hit her hard and hit her strong.

Santana rolled her clit between her fingers, twitching and shuddering at the stimulation. She breathed hard into her pillow, closing her eyes and imagining it was Britt's hand and not her own. If Britt were here, she'd be saying something like, "Come on, Santana, I wanna see you like this, I wanna feel you come on my hand," and other dirty shit she never seemed to realize was dirty. Santana bit at her own lip, working to muffle the noises she wanted to make; her family was all downstairs watching television, but she'd said she had homework and came up here to stare at the ceiling instead.

Britt bending and moving when she danced; Britt's mouth open wide in a moan; Britt with Santana's fingers in her mouth, tasting herself and her orgasm there. Santana let out a choked sound and came hard, pussy clenching around nothing as she worked her clit through it.

When she came down and her breath evened out, the weak part of her wanted to cry. She had to be for real about this--she wasn't going to get what she wanted either way, and no memory of what she and Britt had been together was gonna cut it. Santana wasn't going to lose everything she'd worked towards, and Britt wasn't going to change her mind. For Santana, there was too much at stake--slushies, yeah, and being less popular than Jewfro--but mostly, she didn't want to disappoint her mami y papi. She had a year left to go at McKinley, and then she could do whatever she wanted. Be whoever she wanted. But Britt wanted her that way now, and Santana just wanted Britt back the way it used to be.

Santana eyed the phone, but didn't pick it up. There wasn't anything more she could say, if "I love you" didn't cover it.

Like Salt and Like Water (Glee, Quinn/Brittany/Santana, for llyfrgell)

2011-08-18T03:59:56Z

Title: Like Salt and Like Water
Author: escritoireazul
Written for: llyfrgell in
Author's note: This is a transformative work of fiction based on the television show Glee. It is set after season two, during summer break, and does not contain spoilers for season three.
Characters/Pairings: Quinn Fabray/Brittany S. Pierce/Santana Lopez, Lauren Zizes/Noah Puckerman, Tina Cohen-Chang/Mike Chang, Mercedes Jones/Sam Evans, Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel, Rachel Berry/Finn Hudson, Matt Rutherford, Artie Abrams
Rating: 16+
Word count: 6000+

Summary: Quinn spends a lot of the summer in the water, but no matter how long she floats, she can never wash herself clean.

Like Salt and Like Water

The Jeweller's Hand (Grey's Anatomy, Cristina/Teddy, R)

2011-08-17T21:33:04Z

Title: The Jeweller's Hand
Author: kats_blues
Recipient: twtd
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Pairing: Cristina/Teddy
Rating: R
Word Count: 1060
Warnings: None.
Summary: Cristina Yang is a brilliant surgeon. Teddy Altman disagrees, or maybe she doesn't. Set during 7x20 White Wedding.
Disclaimer: ABC etc own them, I'm just borrowing. Title is the Arctic Monkeys's.

Surgery is made up of ten percent brains, and ninety percent hands. Manual maniacs don't necessarily make good surgeons when they put their brain at rest during surgery. You can practice dexterity, but you can't practice attentiveness, and it is carelessness that can kill a patient during something simple as an appendectomy.

Cristina Yang is a brilliant surgeon. Her hands have their own brain which never sleeps.

--- --- ---

It is an hour later, when the wedding is over and the party has just begun, that they meet again at the bar. Teddy is holding on to another drink, and she watches her fingers draw circles on the iced glass as Cristina quietly slips onto the stool next to her. "I thought you'd already left."

Teddy shakes her head. "I'm having the time of my life, really." The bartender takes Cristina's order, and casts another flirtatious glance at Teddy. The blonde averts her eyes and sighs. Shoulders squared, she turns to Cristina. "My ego isn't that fragile, you know." Her voice is low, and she almost assumes that Cristina didn't hear her when the other woman doesn't react. "I don't feel threatened by your brilliance, if that's what you think," she adds only slightly louder.

"Excuse me," Cristina grimaces, "but I thought we were through with this. Now, I am here to celebrate." Sneering, she raises her glass in a mock toast. "Here's to stolen opportunities!"

Shaking her head, Teddy takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. Eyes fixed on a spot behind Cristina's shoulder, she raises her glass in turn. "And here's to arrogant residents."With a fake smile, she downs the rest of her drink. The band is playing last week's number one hit, and she gazes at the two brides swaying slowly on the dance floor, wondering if this it, if, right now, they are standing at their last crossroads.

On her left side, the bartender hands Cristina two new drinks. The dark-haired woman briefly hesitates, then slides one of the glasses across the bar, towards Teddy. Wordlessly, they both knock back pure vodka, and Teddy hides relief and optimism and confusion behind a mask of stoicism when Cristina orders another round of vodka.

--- --- ---

They end up in the restroom, later, when Arizona and Callie have danced their last dance, and Meredith and Derek still haven't arrived, and Chief Webber has left the party early.

They can still hear soft music coming through the window, and their footsteps echo off the tiled walls. Cristina squints against the bright lights. She turns toward the mirror as the door falls shut behind them. With her back to Teddy, she brushes a few askew hairs out of her face. Silently, she waits for the other woman to say the first word. It's your turn to apologize, she thinks but only smiles a tight smile.

"I did it for you, Dr. Yang," Teddy finally admits, her words sounding hollow even in her own ears. "It's for your best." She tries to hide a lie behind a half-truth, but she blushes anyway.

"Screw it, it's not about what is best for me!" For a few seconds, she watches Teddy watch her in the mirror. When she finally turns around, her hands are stretched out in front of her. "These are a surgeon's hands. These hands are brilliant, and they have saved a life, and you know that! These are a surgeon's hands! I am a surgeon!"

"Dexterity isn't everything, Dr Yang." Teddy returns Cristina's angry stare calmly. "It's the manual maniacs who kill patients."

"But I didn't... I didn't kill a patient!" Almost as an afterthought she adds, "I'm sorry that you do feel threatened by my brilliance."

They are standing so close to each other that Teddy can see her own reflection in Cristina's eyes and feel a warm breath brush over her chin. "Have you ever considered that maybe it's the other way around? That maybe it's you who feels intimidated by me? Because I am the first attending who won't let you act like a fanatic?" She takes a step closer to Cristina, her reflection becoming lopsided. "Because you don't want to hear the truth, that you have what it takes to be a good surgeon, even an accomplished surgeon, if only you were willing to work on your modesty. You want to be a surgeon? Act like a surgeon!"

The last sentence gets lost in the rustle of cloth on cloth, and then Cristina is pressed against her, and lips brush against lips, and she can scent her perfume. The air rushes out of her lungs abruptly, and she opens her mouth to protest, but Cristina seizes the opportunity to slip the tip of her tongue between Teddy's lips. Teddy's resistance melts under the attack of soft lips and hands, and for a moment she just stands there, letting Cristina kiss her. Finally, her fingers get entangled in Cristina's black curls, and she uses her left hand to pull the other woman even closer.

Cristina brushes her hand over Teddy's chest. There are too many layers of clothing between them, and boldly, she slips her hand under the other woman's dress. She catches Teddy's sigh with another kiss. Her nipple puckers instantly, and Teddy lets out tiny whimpers when Cristina's fingers add a little more pressure. The dress impedes her exploration, so she slips the single strap off Teddy's right shoulder. Together, they just stand there, watching Teddy's dress pool around her feet, until Teddy steps backwards, pulling Cristina with her, until she bumps into the sink.

Cristina grins, almost predatory, and lets her hand drift from the tightened nipple, over Teddy's flat stomach, coming to rest at the warm spot between her legs.

Teddy draws in a sharp breath when nimble fingers push aside her panties. She wonders if she should feel obligated to stop her, but really, she can't think of a single reason. "Dr. Yang, Cristina... Cristina, stop." Teddy grabs Cristina's hand anyway, momentarily stilling her movements. "Cristina, you don't think this will get you back into the OR, do you?"

Cristina cocks her head, her eyebrows furrowed. "Of course I don't think that." Then, pursing her lips, she slowly starts moving her fingers again.

She is Cristina Yang. Her hands have their own brain which never sleeps, and her hands will get her anywhere she wants.

Nothing About Ecstasy by templemarker [The Good Wife, Alicia/Kalinda, R]

2011-08-17T17:45:05Z

Title: Nothing About Ecstasy
Author: templemarker
Recipient: idella
Fandom: The Good Wife
Pairing: Kalinda/Alicia
Rating: R
Word count: 1300
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warnings: N/A
Notes: Takes place after the season 2 finale. Thanks to samjohnsson for exceptional beta services, and mosca and callmesandy for modding one of my favorite challenges! Also available on DW.

***

The tequila felt good going down.

Maybe Grace had a point: thinking back, Alicia had drank more in the last year than she had in any recent year, even during the height of the scandal. She contemplated this as she stared at her shot glass, waving her hand at the bartender when she came around to fill it up again. Alicia wanted to sigh, or scream, or pick up a one-night stand--something, anything she didn't normally do. Clearly normal didn't do anything for her.

She closed her eyes and breathed in the bar-smell of perfume and beer taps; at nine p.m. on a Friday she would usually be reading testimony or briefs in bed with a glass of wine, not out in North Loop knocking back shots. She let herself slump onto the bar, resting her cheek on her arms, just this once. No one was there to see; this bar was just a little too far from the office for most of the associates and partners.

"Already into your cups?"

Alicia closed her eyes. The associates and partners might not come here, but their investigator did. Which was how she knew of it in the first place, of course.

"I don't want to talk to you," Alicia said, trying for stern but she knew it came out more pleading.

The bar chair next to her squeaked as it was pulled back, and Alicia stifled a sigh as Kalinda slid into place. "What part of what I just said did you not comprehend?" she asked, knowing her words were muffled by her arms and the noise of the bar.

"The part where you tried to send me away," Kalinda said. God, fuck her. Alicia never used language like that, not for the last two decades of being under public scrutiny, but it was the only fitting thing for everything Kalinda had done.

"You think I betrayed you," she continued, stating the obvious in that way she used truth as a bludgeon. She used mistruths like a scalpel. Kalinda was a cache of weapons in a miniskirt and a misleading ponytail. "I didn't."

Alicia turned her head so that she faced Kalinda, letting her head rest again on her arms. She wasn't sure what look she wore, but it must have been something awful, because Kalinda's mouth deepened into a frown.

"I really don't want to hear why you think that's so," Alicia said truthfully; her reserve had departed shortly after her first shot, following her posture and her no-cursing filter. "I, actually, I really don't want you here at all. Can you please leave?"

Maybe she still had a little of her politeness left. Time for another shot.

Alicia signaled for another, and while she couldn't see the look Kalinda and the bartender traded it probably involved assurances about getting Alicia home safely. Alicia sighed. She couldn't remember the last time someone had taken care of her, truly taken care of her out of compassion and love. Probably her brother. But sometimes he was such a self-centered dick she was probably thinking all the way back to college.

"I don't think Owen would appreciate that," Kalinda said dryly, and Alicia realized she must have said those things out loud.

"For what it's worth," she continued, "I think you're more interesting without your reserve."

"I don't care," Alicia said, but it was unconvincing to her own ears. She pushed herself up, and there was magically another shot in front of her. She was just about to tip it back into her mouth when Kalinda's hand appeared in her vision, salt dusting a wet strip of skin like glitter. Alicia looked down at Kalinda's hand, and then up at Kalinda, who was as cool as she ever was when she met Alicia head-on.

Feeling something in her break, Alicia dipped her head and ran the flat of her tongue along the salt, dragging it slowly just because she could, She dipped back into her chair, swaying slightly, and threw back the shot with the salt still on her tongue. As she put the lime from the bar napkin into her mouth, she watched Kalinda shake salt onto the line Alicia's mouth had left behind and go through the same motion.

Kalinda didn't take her lime wedge. "I think we're going to get a cab now," she said, and pushed the bill towards Alicia, handing her a pen. The tip was already filled out. Alicia would have laughed if she hadn't still been so angry, angry and sad.

Chicago was still cool, even with the promise of summer forthcoming. Alicia tugged her jacket around her, eyeing Kalinda as she held Alicia's bag and hailed a cab. They got in, and the driver asked for an address; Kalinda started to tell him Alicia's apartment, but Alicia broke in. "No," she said. "I don't want to go there. The kids are with their father, I don't--I don't want to go there. Somewhere else please."

Kalinda was silent long enough that the driver, irritated, asked again for an address. Alicia didn't recognize the one Kalinda gave; she leaned her spinning head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

She opened them again, roused by a soft tap on her shoulder. They were at an apartment building Alicia didn't recognize in what looked like Bucktown. Kalinda tapped at the keypad and got them into the building, calling the elevator down. She hit the button for the tenth floor, and Alicia said, "Are we going to your apartment?"

Kalinda just nodded, staring straight forward.

"I am not a one-night stand, no matter how drunk I am," Alicia said, trying to make her words as clear as possible through the slur of tequila.

"You're not a one-night anything," Kalinda said in response, existing the elevator onto the tenth floor. Alicia trailed after, watching the bob of her purse on Kalinda's arm. It looked so out of place--Kalinda rarely carried a bag, as if she expected to get into a street fight at any moment and need the full range of motion. Knowing Kalinda was like watching a movie happen to someone else--if Alicia was a classic black and white, Kalinda was one of those indie action films with no dialogue and lots of capoeira fighting.

God, she really was significantly drunk.

Once they were inside, Alicia pulled off her coat; the apartment was warm, and she felt the prickle of sweat on the back of her neck. She stood in the foyer, taking in the living room with its dark blue walls and large brown sofa, until Kalinda handed her a large glass of water and looked at her until she drank it all down. It tasted amazing; Alicia was no longer an accomplished drinker, if she ever was.

She carefully stepped her way over to the couch and pulled off her shoes. "I hate heels," she said with feeling. "My feet are so fucked up from wearing them for so many years. But I don't know how to wear flats. My mother always said a lady wore heels, and she wanted me to be a lady," Alicia said, hearing herself ramble.

When Alicia looked up, Kalinda's hand was over her mouth and it looked like she was hiding her smile. Alicia wanted to smile back, but then she remembered the well of anger and hurt so close to the surface and leaned back instead.

She almost drifted off then, but she felt a thin blanket being placed over her and heard the thump of a glass on the coffee table. A shadow crossed her face, and she felt soft lips press against her forehead. "Kalinda," she said, her voice soft and a little broken.

"If I had known then what I know now, I never would have done it," Kalinda said quietly, fiercely. "I could never have."

Alicia wanted to ask what Kalinda knew, but sleep came between one breath and the next.

As It Should Be (Legend of the Seeker, Cara/Dahlia)

2011-08-17T15:40:07Z

Title: As It Should Be
Author: toss_toss_love
Recipient: seriousfic
Fandom: Legend of the Seeker
Pairing: Cara/Dahlia
Rating: R
Word Count: 1078
Warnings: Dom/Sub relationship
Summary: Cara and Dahlia make up for lost time.

Cara looked at her fellow Mord'Sith expectantly. Dahlia acquiesed to the silent request and began removing Cara's leathers. She started with the gloves, unlacing the sleeves and tugging off the gloves using her teeth. She kissed, nibbled, and licked each of Cara's fingers.

"Dahlia." So much meaning behind one word. I missed you. I need you. I love you. Always.

Dahlia trailed her hand down the vee of Cara's leathers, stopping her hand over Cara's heart.

"Cara." I missed you. I need you. I love you. Always.

The taller Mord'Sith grasped the other's collar and pulled Cara flush against her. Dahlia rubbed her nose along Cara's cheek. Cara smelled so good, so familiar. This was home. This was hers.

Cara tilted her her head and pressed her lips to Dahlia's, gently, then rested her forehead against her lover's. Both woman closed their eyes and relished in the warm breath that they shared. Dahlia removed Cara's top, her hands palming the free breasts. Both moaned at the contact. Cara started to remove her pants, but Dahlia swatted her hands away. Cara pushed Dahlia away with such force that she fell to the ground. Dahlia blinked rapidly. Cara offered a raised eyebrow. Dahlia smirked before lowering her eyes to the ground.

"I'm sorry Mistress." Dahlia kneeled in supplication, though she looked up at Cara defiantly through her lowered lashes.

Cara grunted and shucked off the remaining leather. "You will be, pet."

The blonde backed up until her felt the cool stone graze her shoulderblades and ass. Cara spread the legs and ran her hands down her body, stopping to tweak her nipples before cupping her dripping sex. Dahlia whimpered. Cara laughed harshly at her reaction, then motioned Dahlia to come to her. Dahlia crawled towards Cara, making sure to sway her hips and shake her ass. When she neared, Cara roughly grabbed her braid and pulled Dahlia face so close to her wetness that the Mord'Sith needed only to extend the tongue and she would be able to taste Cara. But she didn't, knowing that Cara would punish her for such disobedience.

Cara used her other hand to spread her lips. Dahlia's mouth watered at the sight of Cara's glistening folds and protuding clit. She licked the her lips in anticipation.

"Do you want a taste, Dahlia?"

Cara's voice was hoarse with lust.

"Yes." Dahlia whispered.

Cara tugged on Dahlia's braid, hard. Tears welled up in Dahlia's eyes, but she didn't cry.

"What?"

Dahlia realized her mistake. "Yes, Mistress. I want to taste your pussy and I want to fuck you with my tongue and swallow your come. Please let me, Mistress." The younger woman knew that though Cara was a woman of very little words, she loved hearing Dahlia describing exaxtly what she wanted to do to Cara.

"Well played, pet." Cara shoved Dahlia's face between her legs and started thrusting her hips towards Dahlia's eager tongue.

-

The world was as it should be. Cara was back where she belonged - with Dahlia... and her other Sisters of the Agiel, and Lord Rahl.

Cara quickly resumed her position as Lord Rahl's most trusted Mord'Sith; Dahlia just a step behind her. It was always the two of them. Even during the years of training. Especially during training when they promised to survive, to be strong for each other. Cara and Dahlia - together they were stronger than any of the other girls.

Among the Mord'Sith, one was rarely seen without the other.

Soon, Denna caught on to their "special" relationship. She made Cara watch as Denna trained Dahlia with Cara's agiel for hours. Each time the agiel screamed against her skin, Dahlia smiled. Nothing could keep the two apart. And after Dahlia was released, Cara took her virginity and covered the agiel marks with her own. However, the training session was not completely ineffective. Cara and Dahlia learned to keep their tangible affinity for each other hidden from prying eyes.

Together the pain was always a precursor to the pleasure they found in each other. Cara and Dahlia - nothing in the New or Old world could stop them, not even the Keeper.

-

Wakened by Dahlia stroking the cuts and bruises on her back left by her re-breaking, Cara let out a contented sigh and turned onto her back.

Dahlia resumed her attentions, trailing her fingers up and down Cara's abdomen.

"Dahlia, what is it?"

The brunette smiled softly, "I've missed you."

Cara propped herself up on her elbows. "Dahlia."

"The Seeker is weak. He made you weak," Dahlia said, almost pouting.

"I not weak anymore." Cara smirked and straddled Dahlia's hips. "Or do you need another demonstration?"

"No." Dahlia stretched up and pecked Cara lightly on the lips. "You're different. He changed you. I don't like it."

Cara huffed and bumped her pelvis against Dahlia's. "You seemed to like it earlier."

Dahlia turned her face to the side and blinked rapidly to prevent the welling tears from falling.

"I want to kill him and then give him the Breath of Life and kill him again." Dahlia's voice was hoarse with emotion.

"Dahlia."

"And the Wizard."

"Dahlia."

"And especially the Mother Confessor. I don't like the way she looked at you. Or the way she touched you so casually."

"Mistress Dahlia, are you jealous?" Cara nuzzled her neck to lessen the sting of the joke.

Dahlia turned her head sharply and stared at Cara coldly. "Should I be?"

The blonde merely laughed and rolled off of Dahlia.

"Soon, Lord Rahl will regain control of D'Hara and defeat the Seeker. It's not our place to just go off and kill the Seeker and his friends."

Dahlia sat up and crossed her arms. "But we could do it. We could kill them. It would be SO easy," Dahlia said indignantly.

"Lord Rahl will see to it."

"Cara, don't make me beg."

"But I love it when you beg."

"Cara, they hurt you. I want to hurt them."

Dahlia crawled on top of Cara and rested her head on the blonde's chest, right above her heart. "Please."

"I'll suggest it to Lord Rahl then."

Dahlia giggled and cuddled closer to Cara. "Of course, you'll get the honor of killing the Seeker. It's only just after he made you betray the true Lord Rahl. But, I want the Mother Confessor."

"Whatever you want Dahlia." Cara pushed Dahlia off of her and pinned her down. "I think we need to test my strength again."

Fic: Meminerunt Omnia Amantes, Lost Girl (Bo/Lauren) , R

2011-08-17T11:05:59Z

Title: Meminerunt Omnia Amantes
Author: thrace_
Recipient: hivesix
Fandom: Lost Girl
Pairing: Bo/Lauren
Summary: Lovers remember all. Bo intervenes when Lauren's memory goes awry.
Rating: R
Word count: ~13,970
A/N: LATE, late, I'm very very sorry.

Part 1
Part 2

HELLCATS FIC :: "She Never Will" [Alice/Marti, R]

2011-08-17T04:03:15Z

Title: She Never Will
Author: A. Magiluna Stormwriter
Email: stormwriter@shatterstorm.net
Rating: PG13
Pairings: Alice/Marti
Date Written: 15-16 August 2011
Written for: femslash11
Recipient: amaresu
Word Count: 3024
Summary: " I don't think she's wired that way."
Spoilers: Consider the entire series up for grabs, though this takes place in an AU'ed version of Episode 01x22 "I’m Sick Y'all" [see author's note for full AU explanation].
Warnings: No standard warnings apply.
Website: ShatterStorm Productions -- Doggie Duo
Link to: http://bdkk.shatterstorm.net/
Archive: ShatterStorm Productions & AO3 only…all others ask for permission & we'll see…

Author’s Disclaimer: "Hellcats", the characters and situations depicted are the property of Bonanza Productions, Tom Welling Productions, CBS Television Studios, and Warner Bros. Television. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This site is in no way affiliated with "Hellcats", CW, or any representatives of the actors.

Author’s Notes: The minute I saw this flash by as a pinch hit request, I hit reply and prayed that I'd get it because I wanted to write Alice/Marti for Hellcats like whoa! Thankfully, my prayers were answered. And then I pondered just what the hell I was going to do with it. *chuckles* And then this idea just HIT me. So I veered off canon a bit for this one. Alice and Lewis got back together in name/appearance only. Marti and Julian? Yeah, that was an infatuation-type fling that didn't last, due to Nationals and his issues with his daughter knowing that Marti was his girlfriend.

All internal dialogue is in italics.

Dedication: My muses, for always being willing to try something different.

Beta: Many thanks to for the last minute beta work, and for the title.

"She Never Will"
By A. Magiluna Stormwriter

"Don't hang up, and don't say my name."

The Republic of Heaven, Game of Thrones, for netgirl_y2k

2011-08-17T04:00:54Z

Title: The Republic of Heaven
Author: kitsunejin
Recipient: netgirl_y2k
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Pairing: Daenerys/Doreah
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2200
Warnings: No standard warnings apply
Summary: Doreah has dreamed of this for all the days of her life. Doreah is following the dragon.

The Republic of Heaven

Fullmetal Alchemist, Hang Fire (Riza/Rebecca)

2011-08-17T03:33:08Z

Title: Hang Fire
Author: juxtaposie
Recipient: likeadeuce
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Riza Hawkeye/Rebecca Catalina
Rating: (gentle) R
Word count: 3,047
Disclaimer: I don’t own FMA, but y’all probably already knew that…
Warnings: None
Summary: Hang Fire – n. A dangerous situation resulting occasionally from the use of outdated old ammunition where the primer does not fire upon being struck by the firing pin. The cartridge may fire in a virtual instant or some seconds later. In the event that a cartridge fails to fire immediately upon the pull of the trigger, always count out ten seconds before opening the breech. Or, five times Riza and Rebecca sought comfort from each other, and one time Rebecca wouldn’t be comforted.
Notes: this wouldn't have gotten done without artemisrae to coax me through. she's awesome, y'all.

They have a 20-minute window to shower.