grade me! validate me!
Remix will be coming soon, my dears; please bear with me just a bit longer.
In other news, it seems I stupidly set the Remix posting date for the same day as the femslash08 posting date! This isn't the reason for the slight lag -- that was due to something entirely different -- but all the same, I am glad that I only have the responsibility of running a single challenge because I clearly am discombobulated by the whole thing. ahahaha!
Here is my femslash story, at any rate. And one I never thought I'd write.
for thistlerose in the femslash08 exchange
gold star for you
Willow buys a new package of pens just about every two weeks. Sometimes they're different brands, sometimes gel and sometimes ballpoint, and she sorts them into a turny-thingy that sits on her desk. "I decided to group them by, um, complementary colours," she tells Tara brightly, clutching handfuls of a brand-new collection of pens. Tara nods.
"Even pens like to hear nice things about themselves," she says, and Willow crinkles her nose in a smile before continuing, "-- I had them all by colour-group before, but that got kind of messed up late at night. I ended up using a baby-pink for quotes instead of the fuchsia, for an entire week's worth of Media Analysis notes." She looks determined, clenching her fists on the pens like this situation is completely unacceptable. Which it probably is, as far as Willow's carefully-honed note-taking scheme goes.
But Tara's feeling pretty warm and baby-pink herself, the colour of affection as she watches Willow sprawl the pens out across her desk and busily start grouping. She closes her eyes and listens in pleasure to the sound they make, happy plastic clicks against each other, and she thinks of Willow's fast, smart fingers plucking and stroking and starts to feel little frills of fuchsia working through her. It's lovely and Tara rolls over onto her back on the bed, throwing her arms out and listening and feeling and can't help smiling in bliss.
The plastic pen chorus finishes with a flourish, and then Tara feels the bed dip and Willow's nose hovering by her ear, curls brushing her cheek. "Hey there," Willow murmurs. "You look all happy. Thinking nice things?"
"The nicest," Tara says with her eyes still closed. If she tries hard enough, she can see a Willow-shaped aura, all purples and reds and a slightly troublesome vein of black that Tara doesn't really like to look at but that perversely gets her blood racing. When she does open her eyes, the plum-and-cherry purple-red shape shimmers into realness and it takes hardly any effort to tip her chin up so the corner of Willow's mouth brushes her own. Willow pulls up just a little bit so Tara has to raise her head, and then Willow slips one leg across Tara's hips and bites her mouth, gently. Tara makes a slight effort to shift but when she'd rolled over her skirt folded up tight, wrapping her like she's a human burrito; and when she realizes that she's kind of an immobilized mummy-girl under Willow's interested thigh-pressure and hot flicks of tongue, that fuchsia ribbon rills right up through the centre of her.
"Oh, that's my girl," Willow purrs, shifting around in a way that makes her certain strategic bony places introduce themselves to Tara's certain strategic soft eager places. She has a yellow-gold pen mark along the crest of one cheekbone, and when Willow shakes her hair back Tara notes with delight that it glitters with the movement. "You bought sparkly gel pens this time!" she exclaims, bringing her fingers up to run along the pen-mark. Willow bites at the too-long sleeve of Tara's blouse and then catches Tara's fingers with her own, bringing both their hands down between them, between their bellies, between their legs.
And oh, those are the wicked fast smart fingers Tara loves, and she arches up as much as she can, greedy for it. Her eyes flutter shut but she knows that Willow will be watching every reaction on her face, every twist of her body and the rosy flush of her lips and cheeks and breasts. It's wonderful, Tara thinks deliriously, wonderful to have a lover who is so obsessed with learning, because it doesn't stop at the margins of her class notebooks. It crosses over into the margins of Tara herself and she thanks the goddesses for their blessings of knowledge as Willow nips at Tara's bottom lip right before kissing her deeply.
"Sparklies for the win," Willow laughs, and faint golden stars trail up the side of her face. "Baby, if you like glitter this much, we can make this whole place a galaxy."
"mmmmm." Tara raises her free hand to twirl Willow's hair, spirals of cherry-blossom sparkles winding through the strands. "We can go to sleep in the stars."
"Wear sequins on all our clothes, and double sequins on the ones that already have them..."
"...Decorate the furniture with glitter paints..."
"...Have chicken-and-star soup for every meal." They pause, and Willow amends, "okay, not every meal. But a chicken-and-star heavy diet, anyhow."
"Oh! I know," Tara says. "Milky Ways. Full of stars. Whole galaxies, in a metaphorical sense." They kiss and Tara's mouth slides open further, Willow's fingers making fuchsia swirls rise through her with more insistence and almost taking Tara's breath away entirely. Tara loves this part. She loves when Willow's plum-and-cherry starts to go all bright and clear and sharp, because as much as she loves regular ordinary everyday Willow (the one that balances being Bringer of The Smart and Witchy-Poo Extraordinaire with a mildly incoherent flakiness), she loves this side too. The rock-crystal clarity of want, the neverending appetite, the piercing cold logical aspect that makes Willow that formidable a witch. It's scary but it's got its appeal, one that Tara's not immune to; she herself is soft undulating greens and sages and chocolates, infinitely malleable and pliant for all its permanence. Such single-mindedness fascinates her, awakens her own hunger. This is why her and Willow work. They crave the way the other one fills those secret places, all colours and sparkles and tastes and pointy and not-pointy, and oh, oh yes, a shower of bright hot-white stars shooting up through her body and Willow's silvery-sweet mouth and genius-girl fingers and ohhh -- yes.
As the spinning of her blood slows Tara realizes that her eyes were wide open for most of it, and the tapestry of platinum sparkles sifting down over their bodies isn't just in her mind but actually there. Willow smiles, slow and sated, and shakes her head so a flurry of silver-white blossoms shiver around them. Pink on the edges, Tara notices with dazed wonder, and Willow sticks out her tongue to catch some.
When she dips her head, Tara presses her shoulder blades back into the mattress so her breasts swell up against Willow's chest, pink sparkles melting like cotton candy across her exposed skin. Willow inhales sharply, a hiss, and her eyes go big and black as her mouth reddens down deep.
Tara's a good student too when it comes to subjects she loves, and she opens her mouth to taste her reward.
In other news, it seems I stupidly set the Remix posting date for the same day as the femslash08 posting date! This isn't the reason for the slight lag -- that was due to something entirely different -- but all the same, I am glad that I only have the responsibility of running a single challenge because I clearly am discombobulated by the whole thing. ahahaha!
Here is my femslash story, at any rate. And one I never thought I'd write.
for thistlerose in the femslash08 exchange
gold star for you
Willow buys a new package of pens just about every two weeks. Sometimes they're different brands, sometimes gel and sometimes ballpoint, and she sorts them into a turny-thingy that sits on her desk. "I decided to group them by, um, complementary colours," she tells Tara brightly, clutching handfuls of a brand-new collection of pens. Tara nods.
"Even pens like to hear nice things about themselves," she says, and Willow crinkles her nose in a smile before continuing, "-- I had them all by colour-group before, but that got kind of messed up late at night. I ended up using a baby-pink for quotes instead of the fuchsia, for an entire week's worth of Media Analysis notes." She looks determined, clenching her fists on the pens like this situation is completely unacceptable. Which it probably is, as far as Willow's carefully-honed note-taking scheme goes.
But Tara's feeling pretty warm and baby-pink herself, the colour of affection as she watches Willow sprawl the pens out across her desk and busily start grouping. She closes her eyes and listens in pleasure to the sound they make, happy plastic clicks against each other, and she thinks of Willow's fast, smart fingers plucking and stroking and starts to feel little frills of fuchsia working through her. It's lovely and Tara rolls over onto her back on the bed, throwing her arms out and listening and feeling and can't help smiling in bliss.
The plastic pen chorus finishes with a flourish, and then Tara feels the bed dip and Willow's nose hovering by her ear, curls brushing her cheek. "Hey there," Willow murmurs. "You look all happy. Thinking nice things?"
"The nicest," Tara says with her eyes still closed. If she tries hard enough, she can see a Willow-shaped aura, all purples and reds and a slightly troublesome vein of black that Tara doesn't really like to look at but that perversely gets her blood racing. When she does open her eyes, the plum-and-cherry purple-red shape shimmers into realness and it takes hardly any effort to tip her chin up so the corner of Willow's mouth brushes her own. Willow pulls up just a little bit so Tara has to raise her head, and then Willow slips one leg across Tara's hips and bites her mouth, gently. Tara makes a slight effort to shift but when she'd rolled over her skirt folded up tight, wrapping her like she's a human burrito; and when she realizes that she's kind of an immobilized mummy-girl under Willow's interested thigh-pressure and hot flicks of tongue, that fuchsia ribbon rills right up through the centre of her.
"Oh, that's my girl," Willow purrs, shifting around in a way that makes her certain strategic bony places introduce themselves to Tara's certain strategic soft eager places. She has a yellow-gold pen mark along the crest of one cheekbone, and when Willow shakes her hair back Tara notes with delight that it glitters with the movement. "You bought sparkly gel pens this time!" she exclaims, bringing her fingers up to run along the pen-mark. Willow bites at the too-long sleeve of Tara's blouse and then catches Tara's fingers with her own, bringing both their hands down between them, between their bellies, between their legs.
And oh, those are the wicked fast smart fingers Tara loves, and she arches up as much as she can, greedy for it. Her eyes flutter shut but she knows that Willow will be watching every reaction on her face, every twist of her body and the rosy flush of her lips and cheeks and breasts. It's wonderful, Tara thinks deliriously, wonderful to have a lover who is so obsessed with learning, because it doesn't stop at the margins of her class notebooks. It crosses over into the margins of Tara herself and she thanks the goddesses for their blessings of knowledge as Willow nips at Tara's bottom lip right before kissing her deeply.
"Sparklies for the win," Willow laughs, and faint golden stars trail up the side of her face. "Baby, if you like glitter this much, we can make this whole place a galaxy."
"mmmmm." Tara raises her free hand to twirl Willow's hair, spirals of cherry-blossom sparkles winding through the strands. "We can go to sleep in the stars."
"Wear sequins on all our clothes, and double sequins on the ones that already have them..."
"...Decorate the furniture with glitter paints..."
"...Have chicken-and-star soup for every meal." They pause, and Willow amends, "okay, not every meal. But a chicken-and-star heavy diet, anyhow."
"Oh! I know," Tara says. "Milky Ways. Full of stars. Whole galaxies, in a metaphorical sense." They kiss and Tara's mouth slides open further, Willow's fingers making fuchsia swirls rise through her with more insistence and almost taking Tara's breath away entirely. Tara loves this part. She loves when Willow's plum-and-cherry starts to go all bright and clear and sharp, because as much as she loves regular ordinary everyday Willow (the one that balances being Bringer of The Smart and Witchy-Poo Extraordinaire with a mildly incoherent flakiness), she loves this side too. The rock-crystal clarity of want, the neverending appetite, the piercing cold logical aspect that makes Willow that formidable a witch. It's scary but it's got its appeal, one that Tara's not immune to; she herself is soft undulating greens and sages and chocolates, infinitely malleable and pliant for all its permanence. Such single-mindedness fascinates her, awakens her own hunger. This is why her and Willow work. They crave the way the other one fills those secret places, all colours and sparkles and tastes and pointy and not-pointy, and oh, oh yes, a shower of bright hot-white stars shooting up through her body and Willow's silvery-sweet mouth and genius-girl fingers and ohhh -- yes.
As the spinning of her blood slows Tara realizes that her eyes were wide open for most of it, and the tapestry of platinum sparkles sifting down over their bodies isn't just in her mind but actually there. Willow smiles, slow and sated, and shakes her head so a flurry of silver-white blossoms shiver around them. Pink on the edges, Tara notices with dazed wonder, and Willow sticks out her tongue to catch some.
When she dips her head, Tara presses her shoulder blades back into the mattress so her breasts swell up against Willow's chest, pink sparkles melting like cotton candy across her exposed skin. Willow inhales sharply, a hiss, and her eyes go big and black as her mouth reddens down deep.
Tara's a good student too when it comes to subjects she loves, and she opens her mouth to taste her reward.