Ficlets -- with kissing!
My responses for the Makeouts Meme that has been circling lj. :)
glee | brittany/santana | don't drown
(For mayonegg's prompt "Brittana, The NYC hotel room, before Nationals.")
Santana is sitting in the bathroom with her pajama pants rolled up to the knee and her feet in the tub, staring at tiny bottles of hotel shampoo. Little bars of hotel soap. She splashes her feet in the water and likes that, that weird blend of cutesy and violent.
A knock at the door.
"Don't drown," says Brittany's voice.
There's that bitch-jolt, the temptation not to answer. To let Brittany think she drowned herself in the bathtub the night before the biggest day of their lives. (So far. Whatever.) Brittany probably would think it.
But the thing is, no. She decided. She's not doing that anymore. She's trying this just friends thing. Just friends with Brittany is better than no Brittany at all. She's learning this.
She sighs. "It's unlocked."
Brittany comes inside. She's in her pajamas too. One of her tanktop straps is sliding down her shoulder. Santana's fingers curl around the edge of the tub.
"New York is weird," Brittany says.
"Yeah," Santana agrees. All the people. All the rush. Honestly it feels kind of like her brain's exploding even walking on the sidewalk. She hadn't expected that. She's never really thought of herself as a small town girl before. Gotta love wakeup calls. Guess what, Santana Lopez: you're actually pathetic. There's been a lot of that lately.
Brittany hovers behind her, over her, a few inches away. Santana imagines leaning back, screw the inches, and resting against her. "Can I sit with you?"
Santana nods.
Brittany makes a happy little sound (well, it's more like sad-happy; all the happy stuff is sad-happy with them these days) and rolls her pajama pants up like Santana's. Then she steps in carefully, one foot then the other, and lowers herself next to Santana. They're careful not to touch. It sucks.
"Why do you think they named their underground trains after a sandwich shop?" Brittany wonders.
"Other way around, Brit," Santana says. She's still good at this. "Subways, then Subway."
"Oh," Brittany says. "That makes sense."
"Yeah," Santana agrees.
Brittany splashes her feet in the water. Her toenails are pink.
"Are you scared?" she says.
"No," Santana says.
Brittany waits.
"Yeah," Santana admits. To the tiny shampoo bottles. "It's so stupid. It's nothing. It's glee club. I don't know why I care so much."
Splash, splash, splash.
"I like it when you care about things."
Santana looks at Brittany. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Brittany says. She bumps her ankle against Santana's.
Santana closes her eyes. "Brittany--"
And then Brittany is kissing her. Maybe Santana should be thinking things like Oh no, you do not just come crawling back to me after you break my heart and What about your bewheeled boy toy and I made up that thing about the different plumbing, you know, and I don't want to make you a cheater anymore, you're too good for that, you're too good for me.
She doesn't think any of that stuff. All she thinks is Yes.
dollhouse | dewitt/dominic | memento mori
(For sunney's [CRAZY] prompt: "DeWitt/Dominic: stranded at an old folks home during a torrential downpour")
"I think I preferred Arizona," Adelle says wanly.
Mr. Dominic keeps his eyes trained on their game of checkers with admirable stoicism. "That's saying something."
"Indeed." She's going to lose again. This game is intolerable. Never again is she leaving the House as a courtesy, no matter how prestigious the client or how beloved his grandmother. Adelle supposes there is a certain romance in allowing an old woman to spend her last weeks with the cherished husband she lost nearly forty years before, but coming all this way to shake hands with -- well, you'll have heard of him, no doubt, but discretion is essential in her line of work -- why, she doesn't know what possessed her. Boredom is the most likely culprit.
And now this damned storm. Boredom certainly doesn't show any signs of leaving her in peace anytime soon.
"I think I've had enough, Mr. Dominic, thank you," she says, pushing the checkerboard back with decisive fingertips.
"Game's almost done," Mr. Dominic says; she can detect a flash of rather playful irritation underneath his usual even tones.
"And I've no doubt you would've beat me soundly," Adelle says, and adds, under her breath, "Yet again."
Mr. Dominic smirks very slightly.
"Care for a walk?" she offers, and he nods.
They stroll the corridor, looking austere and elegant, altogether out of place in their black coats. Her heels seem uncommonly loud against the floor. All around them, old age: quiet and shrinking and harmless, profoundly depressing. She feels almost guiltily aware of her own body. Still upright and obedient, still graceful, not at all unattractive. You always hear how quickly the time slips by. Right out from between your fingers. (And here she is, ever approaching forty, no family on this continent, no close friends to speak of. But very, very good at her job. Why be coy?: the best, really. Unburdened by the typical things, the things that make up most peoples' utterly ordinary lives. She has always striven rather higher.)
"The love letters," Adelle says. "The ones provided to ensure the imprint was as thorough as possible -- did you read any of them?"
"A few," Mr. Dominic says. He does not elaborate.
"Quite stirring." She glances at him; the glance is a little teasing. She wonders if he will react. He usually doesn't.
"They were young," Mr. Dominic says. Unflinching as ever. Bless him. "Kids in love -- it's pretty typical."
I wonder if you think of me as often as I think of you. I don't think you can. I don't think it's possible. I've become perfectly useless. It drives me crazy, Becs, thinking about you. All the places I've touched and all the places I haven't yet.
"Yes," Adelle says. "Quite."
They return to the lounge and checkers. He lets her win. A gallant little gesture -- one that might annoy her, under other circumstances. Today she is more obliging. She blames the love letters, which ghost through her head in half-remembered phrases. All I want is to be kissing you, all the time. It's impractical but there it is. Let's make a whole life of it. What do you say?
"Your turn," Mr. Dominic prompts.
She returns her eyes to the board. "Mmm. Yes."
"You all right?" he asks. Always so attentive. (Professionally; it goes without saying.) She briefly considers the quirk of his mouth. Funny, that those lips should belong to someone so serious. "You seem distracted."
"Just thinking," she says, and of course he does not ask Of what?
"That rain's still coming down hard," he says.
"Yes," she says, "one wonders if it will ever let up."
community | jeff/annie | getting dirty
(For firthgal's prompt: "Jeff/Annie, in the stairwell during/after cleaning the black mold")
"See!" Annie says, but with zero pep. She looks terrible. And when Annie looks terrible, the apocalypse is nigh. "That wasn't so ... bad ..."
"Annie," Jeff says, "that was the definition of so bad. That was us hanging out with mold for four hours. Even you can't put a perky spin on that kind of suffering. Admit it: that sucked."
She doesn't admit it. "Thank you," she says instead. Her eyes even manage to sparkle a little bit. Suddenly, she looks way less like a bog monster and way more like a hot girl. How does she do that?
"Yeah, well," he says, "I owed you one."
She makes one of those affectionate little squealy noises that should be stupid but never are and throws her (grubby) arms around him. Oh, great, hugging. Because that's exactly what he wants to be doing when he's covered in black mold and shame.
"We make a good team, huh?" she says happily into his shoulder.
"Yeah," Jeff agrees, "we get it done."
She kisses him on the cheek. Which, no big deal. Because all right, maybe the two of them have had some problems with Sudden Feelings in the past, but right now, it is literally impossible to feel attraction -- just grime -- and so they should really be just God, how is it that he can feel her fingertips through his shirt and those stupid yellow rubber gloves she's wearing, that shouldn't be possible, should it, and why is she tracing little circles onto his shoulders that's just hot, no, WEIRD, and that smudge of sentient flesh-eating bacteria masquerading as mold looks kind of cute on her nose, but it's hard to focus on it for long when her mouth is right there and--
"Damn it!" Jeff yelps. "Why do we keep doing this??"
"I don't know!" Annie whines, leaping back. "I thought we would be okay this time! 'Cause--"
"The gloves!"
"Yeah! And the mold! I mean, I can't possibly be attractive to you right now, can I?" She puts her hands on her hips and stands there, looking really dirty. And, hey, what a coincidence: he's feeling really dirty.
"Attractive?" Jeff says, and tries some derisive laughter. It fails. "No ... way."
"Good!" Annie says. "And you also look ... yucky." She bites her lower lip.
"Thank you," he scowls.
"Well, you do!" she cries.
They stare at each other. Reveling in each other's grossness. Reveling ... reveling ...
"Screw it?" Jeff suggests hopefully-slash-hornily. Hopefulornily.
"Screw it," Annie agrees fervently, tugging the rubber gloves off and rushing into his arms.
harry potter | ron/hermione | wish you were here
(For mollivanders's prompt: "Ron/Hermione, broom closets")
Lavender is fantastic at finding broom closets to snog in. At first, Ron thought it was quite cool. Now it's starting to scare him a little. It's just -- he has a life, you know! He's got friends and Quidditch and schoolwork and stuff. He can't spend all his time snogging Lavender Brown, girlfriend or not. It's just not practical, is it?
He thinks Hermione'd appreciate that bit about the schoolwork.
He wonders what Hermione would do if they ever wound up in a broom closet together. Not that they ever would. It's just curiosity. Speculation. Doesn't mean anything. He just -- wonders.
For one thing, he thinks, she'd be sure to charm the door locked right away so no one could intrude. Ron always forgets about stuff like that. Not Hermione, though. She'd tap her wand against the doorknob and it'd just be the two of them, sealed away in their own little world. A world full of Filch's mops and buckets, sure, but a world that was only theirs, for a little while. Like a little secret. Then she'd ... then she'd just sort of look at him, that look she gets when she's looking at him sometimes, that Well then? look. Like she's waiting for something. But it'd be different. Softer. Maybe she'd smile a bit too. And he'd put his hands on her waist -- because he could, in this world. She'd let him. She'd look up at him, getting closer and closer, her lips parting, and he'd lean down to meet her, sometimes he thinks he'd do anything to meet her--
"Hermi'ne..."
"What?" Lavender says sharply, pulling away from him.
"Um," Ron says, coming back to the real broom closet. Bloody stupid runaway thoughts. "My knee. My knee. I think I've banged it on a -- a bucket. Ow!" he throws in, to make it more convincing.
"Oh, Won-Won!" Lavender gasps, bending down to inspect it. "Your poor little kneezie! Don't worry, Wonnie's kneezie, I'll kiss it all better!"
And then she does. She kisses his knee. Loads of times.
That's just weird.
He imagines Hermione watching right now, her eyes know-it-all bright, her mouth twitching with laughter. Her mouth.
Ron sighs.
battlestar galactica | gaius/(caprica) six | i only have eyes for you
(For sunshine_queen's prompt: "Gaius and Caprica, a gala event where he's with someone else and she has no invitation.")
"Fancy seeing you here," he says, catching her in a secluded corner. His eyes have followed her since she stepped into the room. She'd intended that, but it's still pleasing, she finds. How eagerly he drinks in the sight of her. One of his hands goes to her hip at once, fondly tracing the curve. "How ever did you wrangle your way in without an invite? I swear, you're too good to be true."
"I have my ways," she says, and he chuckles appreciatively. Not daring to doubt as much.
"Shouldn't you get back to your date?" she adds, casting a glance across the room. She can't see the woman he'd come with, but she knows she must be milling about somewhere, looking for what she's lost.
"Date?" he murmurs, his fingers dancing away from her hip to circle her wrist. "Have I got one of those?"
"Yes," she says like a patient mother. She frees her wrist, but only so she can lace her fingers with his properly. He lets her do it; he trusts her with his body. Always has. "And she's looking for you right now, I'd imagine."
"Don't tell me you're jealous," he says, looking tickled by the thought.
"Jealous? No."
"Good." He chances a kiss to her neck. (Never mind who sees -- though of course he does. He's selfish, and likes to keep her secret. She encourages this.) "Darling, you know I've only got eyes for you."
She smirks. "It's not your eyes I'm worried about." Her free hand wanders, briefly.
Even that's not enough to distract him. He can be so relentless once he decides the cause is worthy of his attention. "So you are worried?"
She kisses him to shut him up.
gemma doyle trilogy | felicity/pippa | fear no more the heat o' the sun
(For lovestories's prompt: "Felicity/Pippa, a lake.")
The heat is excruciating. It isn't even summer yet, not properly, which makes it all the more offensive. Felicity would like nothing more than to strip naked and run mad about the grounds of Spence in some desperate hope of catching a breeze on her skin -- even the hint of a breeze. She smirks to herself, imagining Mrs. Nightwing's reaction. The woman would probably drop dead on the spot.
Speaking of dropping dead:
"I swear, I shall perish," Pippa says, waving her hat languidly up and down. Her fair skin is turning pink, and shines with sweat. Her curls cling to her neck, sticky from the heat. She ought to be a sorry, blotchy sight, but she isn't. She is Pippa Cross, and therefore exquisite against all odds. Like always. "We weren't made to withstand such climes! It's ghastly. If it carries on another day, I'll throw myself into the lake like Ophelia."
"Ophelia was mad and wished to die," Felicity reminds her. "You're only melodramatic. And perspiring."
"Felicity Worthington, how dare you accuse me of such a thing!" Pippa says, and hits Felicity soundly with her hat.
Felicity laughs. There is something incomparably wonderful about Pippa when she's being petty.
The fact that Felicity doesn't burst into tears at the hat attack makes Pippa wilt back into sluggishness. "Oh, ugh. If only every day weren't so the same here. I yearn for a distraction. Something, anything to take my mind off this agony."
Felicity considers her: such a perfect, lovely portrait of feminine misery. And, well. Since running naked across the grounds is not an option, she settles for the next best and next most foolish thing. She leans across the small distance between them, with no thought for grass stains, and presses her mouth against Pippa's. Heat radiates from both of them. It's no reprieve from the heat, this promise of lips on lips; it is the heat, hot and greedy, so eager to consume.
It's just a small kiss. Chaste and neat.
When Felicity pulls away, Pippa's eyes are wide. Her hat has been dropped onto the grass. "What--"
"You wanted a distraction," Felicity says wickedly.
"I did," Pippa admits, her eyes wide still. Her fingers drift to her lips and stay there to marvel. Felicity watches without quite meaning to.
"You are incorrigible, you know," Pippa says at last, lofty again. It's as if something has broken, some spell or fever.
"I know," Felicity says cheerfully as she can.
They sink back into their hot, lazy silence.
"I'd never been kissed before," Pippa says then. "Like that."
"It's not as if it counted, you ninny," Felicity replies a few seconds too late. "It was only you and me."
30 rock | liz/wesley | my waxy valentine
(For zombie_boogie's prompt: "Liz/Wesley, wax museum")
"This is a weird idea for a date," Liz announces.
Wesley snorts. "Agreed."
"What? Wesley, this was your idea. Your weird, creepy, totally unsurprising idea."
"Well, forgive me for trying to do something special for my lady fair. Fear not: I shan't do it again."
"A) I know you're just saying 'shan't' because you're showing off that you can, whereas when I and all other Americans say it it just sounds douchey and weird, so knock it off, and B) What?? Why would you think I would like this?"
"Oh, give it up, Liz. It's too late now to pretend that you didn't tell me about your erotic fondness for wax figures. That's not the kind of thing a man just forgets. And forget it I shan't. (It does have a nice ring, doesn't it? When I say it, I mean? You probably shouldn't try.)"
"Okay, that was one wax figure! One! Can I help it if John Stamos looks even better that way? No. And I told you that in confidence!"
"Don't worry. I haven't told anyone else. Yeesh. This one's particularly hideous, isn't it?"
"So we are on a date at a wax museum because ... you want to make fun of me?"
"We are on a date at a wax museum," Wesley says, "because you've seemed especially harried lately, my sweet -- mentally as well as leggily -- and I thought a nice romantic afternoon might be just what the apothecary prescribed."
"Doctor ordered."
"Well, yes, if you want to talk like one of those Jersey Shore ruffians," Wesley scoffs.
"So this is you being nice to me?" Liz tests, giving him her most scrutinizing stare. There's a reason they call her the Human Lie Detector. Or, okay, they don't, but -- there's a reason they could. If she worked a little harder on her most scrutinizing stare.
"Well, yes," Wesley says. No apparent signs of baldfaced lying.
"You are so bizarre," Liz decides.
"Whereas you are a portrait of exquisite normalcy," Wesley says, and pulls -- a piece of lettuce out of her hair. Damn it.
"Where did that even come from?" Liz wonders. "Neither of us had lettuce with lunch."
"I'm starting to think it might originate from your scalp," Wesley says, peering curiously down at said scalp. Idiot.
"Just what every girl wants to hear."
"Probably not every girl," Wesley says fairly, "but you are special."
"Special, huh?" Liz slips her hand into his. "Like a snowflake?"
"Or a mental asylum escapee," Wesley says. "Or one of those monkeys who can play the cymbols on command, and wears a little hat--"
Liz turns her attention to the wax figures, which are less annoying. "They don't have a John Stamos, do they?"
"They do indeed," Wesley says. "Second floor. I made sure to check beforehand."
Why is he so awesome sometimes. WHY.
"You are gettin' some tonight, mister," Liz says, poking his arm.
Wesley raises an eyebrow, in a way that makes Liz think the word 'scallawag.' It is equal parts doofy and ... strangely attractive. "Tonight?"
They barely make it to second base before they get kicked out for lewd behavior by the wax museum employees (a.k.a. dictators).
Still: overall, pretty good date.
glee | brittany/santana | don't drown
(For mayonegg's prompt "Brittana, The NYC hotel room, before Nationals.")
Santana is sitting in the bathroom with her pajama pants rolled up to the knee and her feet in the tub, staring at tiny bottles of hotel shampoo. Little bars of hotel soap. She splashes her feet in the water and likes that, that weird blend of cutesy and violent.
A knock at the door.
"Don't drown," says Brittany's voice.
There's that bitch-jolt, the temptation not to answer. To let Brittany think she drowned herself in the bathtub the night before the biggest day of their lives. (So far. Whatever.) Brittany probably would think it.
But the thing is, no. She decided. She's not doing that anymore. She's trying this just friends thing. Just friends with Brittany is better than no Brittany at all. She's learning this.
She sighs. "It's unlocked."
Brittany comes inside. She's in her pajamas too. One of her tanktop straps is sliding down her shoulder. Santana's fingers curl around the edge of the tub.
"New York is weird," Brittany says.
"Yeah," Santana agrees. All the people. All the rush. Honestly it feels kind of like her brain's exploding even walking on the sidewalk. She hadn't expected that. She's never really thought of herself as a small town girl before. Gotta love wakeup calls. Guess what, Santana Lopez: you're actually pathetic. There's been a lot of that lately.
Brittany hovers behind her, over her, a few inches away. Santana imagines leaning back, screw the inches, and resting against her. "Can I sit with you?"
Santana nods.
Brittany makes a happy little sound (well, it's more like sad-happy; all the happy stuff is sad-happy with them these days) and rolls her pajama pants up like Santana's. Then she steps in carefully, one foot then the other, and lowers herself next to Santana. They're careful not to touch. It sucks.
"Why do you think they named their underground trains after a sandwich shop?" Brittany wonders.
"Other way around, Brit," Santana says. She's still good at this. "Subways, then Subway."
"Oh," Brittany says. "That makes sense."
"Yeah," Santana agrees.
Brittany splashes her feet in the water. Her toenails are pink.
"Are you scared?" she says.
"No," Santana says.
Brittany waits.
"Yeah," Santana admits. To the tiny shampoo bottles. "It's so stupid. It's nothing. It's glee club. I don't know why I care so much."
Splash, splash, splash.
"I like it when you care about things."
Santana looks at Brittany. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Brittany says. She bumps her ankle against Santana's.
Santana closes her eyes. "Brittany--"
And then Brittany is kissing her. Maybe Santana should be thinking things like Oh no, you do not just come crawling back to me after you break my heart and What about your bewheeled boy toy and I made up that thing about the different plumbing, you know, and I don't want to make you a cheater anymore, you're too good for that, you're too good for me.
She doesn't think any of that stuff. All she thinks is Yes.
dollhouse | dewitt/dominic | memento mori
(For sunney's [CRAZY] prompt: "DeWitt/Dominic: stranded at an old folks home during a torrential downpour")
"I think I preferred Arizona," Adelle says wanly.
Mr. Dominic keeps his eyes trained on their game of checkers with admirable stoicism. "That's saying something."
"Indeed." She's going to lose again. This game is intolerable. Never again is she leaving the House as a courtesy, no matter how prestigious the client or how beloved his grandmother. Adelle supposes there is a certain romance in allowing an old woman to spend her last weeks with the cherished husband she lost nearly forty years before, but coming all this way to shake hands with -- well, you'll have heard of him, no doubt, but discretion is essential in her line of work -- why, she doesn't know what possessed her. Boredom is the most likely culprit.
And now this damned storm. Boredom certainly doesn't show any signs of leaving her in peace anytime soon.
"I think I've had enough, Mr. Dominic, thank you," she says, pushing the checkerboard back with decisive fingertips.
"Game's almost done," Mr. Dominic says; she can detect a flash of rather playful irritation underneath his usual even tones.
"And I've no doubt you would've beat me soundly," Adelle says, and adds, under her breath, "Yet again."
Mr. Dominic smirks very slightly.
"Care for a walk?" she offers, and he nods.
They stroll the corridor, looking austere and elegant, altogether out of place in their black coats. Her heels seem uncommonly loud against the floor. All around them, old age: quiet and shrinking and harmless, profoundly depressing. She feels almost guiltily aware of her own body. Still upright and obedient, still graceful, not at all unattractive. You always hear how quickly the time slips by. Right out from between your fingers. (And here she is, ever approaching forty, no family on this continent, no close friends to speak of. But very, very good at her job. Why be coy?: the best, really. Unburdened by the typical things, the things that make up most peoples' utterly ordinary lives. She has always striven rather higher.)
"The love letters," Adelle says. "The ones provided to ensure the imprint was as thorough as possible -- did you read any of them?"
"A few," Mr. Dominic says. He does not elaborate.
"Quite stirring." She glances at him; the glance is a little teasing. She wonders if he will react. He usually doesn't.
"They were young," Mr. Dominic says. Unflinching as ever. Bless him. "Kids in love -- it's pretty typical."
I wonder if you think of me as often as I think of you. I don't think you can. I don't think it's possible. I've become perfectly useless. It drives me crazy, Becs, thinking about you. All the places I've touched and all the places I haven't yet.
"Yes," Adelle says. "Quite."
They return to the lounge and checkers. He lets her win. A gallant little gesture -- one that might annoy her, under other circumstances. Today she is more obliging. She blames the love letters, which ghost through her head in half-remembered phrases. All I want is to be kissing you, all the time. It's impractical but there it is. Let's make a whole life of it. What do you say?
"Your turn," Mr. Dominic prompts.
She returns her eyes to the board. "Mmm. Yes."
"You all right?" he asks. Always so attentive. (Professionally; it goes without saying.) She briefly considers the quirk of his mouth. Funny, that those lips should belong to someone so serious. "You seem distracted."
"Just thinking," she says, and of course he does not ask Of what?
"That rain's still coming down hard," he says.
"Yes," she says, "one wonders if it will ever let up."
community | jeff/annie | getting dirty
(For firthgal's prompt: "Jeff/Annie, in the stairwell during/after cleaning the black mold")
"See!" Annie says, but with zero pep. She looks terrible. And when Annie looks terrible, the apocalypse is nigh. "That wasn't so ... bad ..."
"Annie," Jeff says, "that was the definition of so bad. That was us hanging out with mold for four hours. Even you can't put a perky spin on that kind of suffering. Admit it: that sucked."
She doesn't admit it. "Thank you," she says instead. Her eyes even manage to sparkle a little bit. Suddenly, she looks way less like a bog monster and way more like a hot girl. How does she do that?
"Yeah, well," he says, "I owed you one."
She makes one of those affectionate little squealy noises that should be stupid but never are and throws her (grubby) arms around him. Oh, great, hugging. Because that's exactly what he wants to be doing when he's covered in black mold and shame.
"We make a good team, huh?" she says happily into his shoulder.
"Yeah," Jeff agrees, "we get it done."
She kisses him on the cheek. Which, no big deal. Because all right, maybe the two of them have had some problems with Sudden Feelings in the past, but right now, it is literally impossible to feel attraction -- just grime -- and so they should really be just God, how is it that he can feel her fingertips through his shirt and those stupid yellow rubber gloves she's wearing, that shouldn't be possible, should it, and why is she tracing little circles onto his shoulders that's just hot, no, WEIRD, and that smudge of sentient flesh-eating bacteria masquerading as mold looks kind of cute on her nose, but it's hard to focus on it for long when her mouth is right there and--
"Damn it!" Jeff yelps. "Why do we keep doing this??"
"I don't know!" Annie whines, leaping back. "I thought we would be okay this time! 'Cause--"
"The gloves!"
"Yeah! And the mold! I mean, I can't possibly be attractive to you right now, can I?" She puts her hands on her hips and stands there, looking really dirty. And, hey, what a coincidence: he's feeling really dirty.
"Attractive?" Jeff says, and tries some derisive laughter. It fails. "No ... way."
"Good!" Annie says. "And you also look ... yucky." She bites her lower lip.
"Thank you," he scowls.
"Well, you do!" she cries.
They stare at each other. Reveling in each other's grossness. Reveling ... reveling ...
"Screw it?" Jeff suggests hopefully-slash-hornily. Hopefulornily.
"Screw it," Annie agrees fervently, tugging the rubber gloves off and rushing into his arms.
harry potter | ron/hermione | wish you were here
(For mollivanders's prompt: "Ron/Hermione, broom closets")
Lavender is fantastic at finding broom closets to snog in. At first, Ron thought it was quite cool. Now it's starting to scare him a little. It's just -- he has a life, you know! He's got friends and Quidditch and schoolwork and stuff. He can't spend all his time snogging Lavender Brown, girlfriend or not. It's just not practical, is it?
He thinks Hermione'd appreciate that bit about the schoolwork.
He wonders what Hermione would do if they ever wound up in a broom closet together. Not that they ever would. It's just curiosity. Speculation. Doesn't mean anything. He just -- wonders.
For one thing, he thinks, she'd be sure to charm the door locked right away so no one could intrude. Ron always forgets about stuff like that. Not Hermione, though. She'd tap her wand against the doorknob and it'd just be the two of them, sealed away in their own little world. A world full of Filch's mops and buckets, sure, but a world that was only theirs, for a little while. Like a little secret. Then she'd ... then she'd just sort of look at him, that look she gets when she's looking at him sometimes, that Well then? look. Like she's waiting for something. But it'd be different. Softer. Maybe she'd smile a bit too. And he'd put his hands on her waist -- because he could, in this world. She'd let him. She'd look up at him, getting closer and closer, her lips parting, and he'd lean down to meet her, sometimes he thinks he'd do anything to meet her--
"Hermi'ne..."
"What?" Lavender says sharply, pulling away from him.
"Um," Ron says, coming back to the real broom closet. Bloody stupid runaway thoughts. "My knee. My knee. I think I've banged it on a -- a bucket. Ow!" he throws in, to make it more convincing.
"Oh, Won-Won!" Lavender gasps, bending down to inspect it. "Your poor little kneezie! Don't worry, Wonnie's kneezie, I'll kiss it all better!"
And then she does. She kisses his knee. Loads of times.
That's just weird.
He imagines Hermione watching right now, her eyes know-it-all bright, her mouth twitching with laughter. Her mouth.
Ron sighs.
battlestar galactica | gaius/(caprica) six | i only have eyes for you
(For sunshine_queen's prompt: "Gaius and Caprica, a gala event where he's with someone else and she has no invitation.")
"Fancy seeing you here," he says, catching her in a secluded corner. His eyes have followed her since she stepped into the room. She'd intended that, but it's still pleasing, she finds. How eagerly he drinks in the sight of her. One of his hands goes to her hip at once, fondly tracing the curve. "How ever did you wrangle your way in without an invite? I swear, you're too good to be true."
"I have my ways," she says, and he chuckles appreciatively. Not daring to doubt as much.
"Shouldn't you get back to your date?" she adds, casting a glance across the room. She can't see the woman he'd come with, but she knows she must be milling about somewhere, looking for what she's lost.
"Date?" he murmurs, his fingers dancing away from her hip to circle her wrist. "Have I got one of those?"
"Yes," she says like a patient mother. She frees her wrist, but only so she can lace her fingers with his properly. He lets her do it; he trusts her with his body. Always has. "And she's looking for you right now, I'd imagine."
"Don't tell me you're jealous," he says, looking tickled by the thought.
"Jealous? No."
"Good." He chances a kiss to her neck. (Never mind who sees -- though of course he does. He's selfish, and likes to keep her secret. She encourages this.) "Darling, you know I've only got eyes for you."
She smirks. "It's not your eyes I'm worried about." Her free hand wanders, briefly.
Even that's not enough to distract him. He can be so relentless once he decides the cause is worthy of his attention. "So you are worried?"
She kisses him to shut him up.
gemma doyle trilogy | felicity/pippa | fear no more the heat o' the sun
(For lovestories's prompt: "Felicity/Pippa, a lake.")
The heat is excruciating. It isn't even summer yet, not properly, which makes it all the more offensive. Felicity would like nothing more than to strip naked and run mad about the grounds of Spence in some desperate hope of catching a breeze on her skin -- even the hint of a breeze. She smirks to herself, imagining Mrs. Nightwing's reaction. The woman would probably drop dead on the spot.
Speaking of dropping dead:
"I swear, I shall perish," Pippa says, waving her hat languidly up and down. Her fair skin is turning pink, and shines with sweat. Her curls cling to her neck, sticky from the heat. She ought to be a sorry, blotchy sight, but she isn't. She is Pippa Cross, and therefore exquisite against all odds. Like always. "We weren't made to withstand such climes! It's ghastly. If it carries on another day, I'll throw myself into the lake like Ophelia."
"Ophelia was mad and wished to die," Felicity reminds her. "You're only melodramatic. And perspiring."
"Felicity Worthington, how dare you accuse me of such a thing!" Pippa says, and hits Felicity soundly with her hat.
Felicity laughs. There is something incomparably wonderful about Pippa when she's being petty.
The fact that Felicity doesn't burst into tears at the hat attack makes Pippa wilt back into sluggishness. "Oh, ugh. If only every day weren't so the same here. I yearn for a distraction. Something, anything to take my mind off this agony."
Felicity considers her: such a perfect, lovely portrait of feminine misery. And, well. Since running naked across the grounds is not an option, she settles for the next best and next most foolish thing. She leans across the small distance between them, with no thought for grass stains, and presses her mouth against Pippa's. Heat radiates from both of them. It's no reprieve from the heat, this promise of lips on lips; it is the heat, hot and greedy, so eager to consume.
It's just a small kiss. Chaste and neat.
When Felicity pulls away, Pippa's eyes are wide. Her hat has been dropped onto the grass. "What--"
"You wanted a distraction," Felicity says wickedly.
"I did," Pippa admits, her eyes wide still. Her fingers drift to her lips and stay there to marvel. Felicity watches without quite meaning to.
"You are incorrigible, you know," Pippa says at last, lofty again. It's as if something has broken, some spell or fever.
"I know," Felicity says cheerfully as she can.
They sink back into their hot, lazy silence.
"I'd never been kissed before," Pippa says then. "Like that."
"It's not as if it counted, you ninny," Felicity replies a few seconds too late. "It was only you and me."
30 rock | liz/wesley | my waxy valentine
(For zombie_boogie's prompt: "Liz/Wesley, wax museum")
"This is a weird idea for a date," Liz announces.
Wesley snorts. "Agreed."
"What? Wesley, this was your idea. Your weird, creepy, totally unsurprising idea."
"Well, forgive me for trying to do something special for my lady fair. Fear not: I shan't do it again."
"A) I know you're just saying 'shan't' because you're showing off that you can, whereas when I and all other Americans say it it just sounds douchey and weird, so knock it off, and B) What?? Why would you think I would like this?"
"Oh, give it up, Liz. It's too late now to pretend that you didn't tell me about your erotic fondness for wax figures. That's not the kind of thing a man just forgets. And forget it I shan't. (It does have a nice ring, doesn't it? When I say it, I mean? You probably shouldn't try.)"
"Okay, that was one wax figure! One! Can I help it if John Stamos looks even better that way? No. And I told you that in confidence!"
"Don't worry. I haven't told anyone else. Yeesh. This one's particularly hideous, isn't it?"
"So we are on a date at a wax museum because ... you want to make fun of me?"
"We are on a date at a wax museum," Wesley says, "because you've seemed especially harried lately, my sweet -- mentally as well as leggily -- and I thought a nice romantic afternoon might be just what the apothecary prescribed."
"Doctor ordered."
"Well, yes, if you want to talk like one of those Jersey Shore ruffians," Wesley scoffs.
"So this is you being nice to me?" Liz tests, giving him her most scrutinizing stare. There's a reason they call her the Human Lie Detector. Or, okay, they don't, but -- there's a reason they could. If she worked a little harder on her most scrutinizing stare.
"Well, yes," Wesley says. No apparent signs of baldfaced lying.
"You are so bizarre," Liz decides.
"Whereas you are a portrait of exquisite normalcy," Wesley says, and pulls -- a piece of lettuce out of her hair. Damn it.
"Where did that even come from?" Liz wonders. "Neither of us had lettuce with lunch."
"I'm starting to think it might originate from your scalp," Wesley says, peering curiously down at said scalp. Idiot.
"Just what every girl wants to hear."
"Probably not every girl," Wesley says fairly, "but you are special."
"Special, huh?" Liz slips her hand into his. "Like a snowflake?"
"Or a mental asylum escapee," Wesley says. "Or one of those monkeys who can play the cymbols on command, and wears a little hat--"
Liz turns her attention to the wax figures, which are less annoying. "They don't have a John Stamos, do they?"
"They do indeed," Wesley says. "Second floor. I made sure to check beforehand."
Why is he so awesome sometimes. WHY.
"You are gettin' some tonight, mister," Liz says, poking his arm.
Wesley raises an eyebrow, in a way that makes Liz think the word 'scallawag.' It is equal parts doofy and ... strangely attractive. "Tonight?"
They barely make it to second base before they get kicked out for lewd behavior by the wax museum employees (a.k.a. dictators).
Still: overall, pretty good date.