Fic: Crosswards (DCU, Clark/Lois/Diana, NC-17)
Title: Crosswards
Author: amand_r
Fandom: DCU
Characters: Clark/Lois/Diana (sorta. if you squint. not all at once. maybe later.)
Warnings: NC-17, femmeslash, het. YAY.
Timeline: I have no idea when this takes place. References to Maxwell Lord, but nothing overt, so I guess after that whole oh noes! OMACS! thing before Infinite Crisis.
Summary: She wants whatever Diana is making, and so she doesn't stop her then and there, set down the whisk and the rolling pin and pull the little towel from her shoulder and lay her out on the sofa. Besides, she did that last night, and Lois only allows herself one bold moment with Diana every twenty-four hours. It assures her that she doesn't make an ass out of herself.
Written for the 14valentines challenge, whose theme today is sexuality. Yum. Sexors.
she's so number nine
she's incredible math
just incredible math
--("lithium flower", Ghost in the Shell: SAC)
Clark has always had a thing for Diana. It could be attributed to many issues: their shared abilities, their experiences in the League and beyond, their mutual mission to save Bruce from himself. It could be Diana's gentle nature (not very evident as of late), or her ability to inspire anyone around her to admiration. It could be her blue hot pants.
Lois thinks it's her hair. Clark has a thing for black hair. Sure, Lana was a red head, but it's not her twirling a gold band around her finger as she watches Diana do something scandalous with butter in the kitchen. One hand grips the handle of the skillet lightly, long fingers breaking an egg with the other. Her bathrobe is tied loosely about her waist, and it gapes open in interesting places. One curl has fallen over her shoulder and follows the path of skin down to showcase her breasts.
Diana has taken over the kitchen since she got here three days ago, mostly because the first night Lois had cooked them dinner. Diana had been really polite about it, eating nearly everything, and Clark had just shoveled everything in because beauty is sometimes in the mouth of the beholder. And since Clark can't really make anything passable except flapjacks and protein shakes (Lois doesn't understand the second one. It has to be Bruce's fault.), Diana had returned from the market with three bags of groceries, including some cheese that Lois had never even heard of let alone tasted, and a few containers of Greek yogurt that Diana uses in almost everything. Not that Lois is complaining. It's a hell of a lot better than anything she could manage to burn, er, make.
Lois has already filed her story-a real pisser, too, an expose of nursing homes and everything; people are going to go to jail-yesterday, and that has left her with nothing to do but play with Clark's manuscript and do the crossword puzzles that she saves from the Planet's Sunday editions.
Speaking of-"A six letter word for force," she says to Diana, wagging her pencil back and forth in two fingers. "Starts with M."
Diana uses the whisk like it's an extension of her hand. "Metier," she says without looking up. Her brows are drawn together as she concentrates, because apparently, cooking takes effortless effort. Lois can't remember who had told her that once. It could have been Dale down in the Living section at the Christmas Party one year, who'd criticized her frightful lack of knowledge of remoulade and white sauces. All Lois has ever learned about cooking is that she can't do it to save her life. And considering how often her life has needed saving, it's a good thing she has never been captured by a villain who cared if she knew the soft boiling point for sugar or how to use tamarind.
"Thanks," she says, leaning over the puzzle and squinting. She is going to need glasses, soon, and she keeps putting off making the appointment. She also keeps pulling gray hairs from her head in the morning, too. It means things that she doesn't want to think about.
Diana transfers the skillet from the fire and pours whatever she is making into a bowl, seemingly satisfied by what she sees or hears, because she nods to herself and dusts her hands together, like Lois has seen her do a thousand times on television, after she has just finished pounding some evil threat into the ground. While oven is preheating, is busy, Diana moves on to other things: chopping shallots, pouring herself a cup of coffee, smelling paprika so thoroughly that she sneezes, dusting a baking dish with flour. Lois frowns; she's never used that dish before. In fact, she's fairly sure she hasn't used it because she couldn't figure out what it is for, what with the false bottom that pops out of the frame. It seems to be a quiche dish.
"So that's what that's for," she mutters.
Diana lays the dough she's rolled earlier out into the pan and presses it into the scalloped edges, her long fingers working studiously; her tongue sticks out between her teeth, and for a second Clark's typing slows, probably because he has heard Lois's heartbeat speed up and her breathing hitch.
She wants whatever Diana is making, and so she doesn't stop her then and there, set down the whisk and the rolling pin and pull the little towel from her shoulder and lay her out on the sofa. Besides, she did that last night, and Lois only allows herself one bold moment with Diana every twenty-four hours. It assures her that she doesn't make an ass out of herself.
Diana has put the quiche in the oven and washed her hands by the time Lois stares at the crossword puzzle again, slightly irked. "Six letters, 'like the Ninja Turtles'."
Diana watches her chew her pen as she watches Diana chew her lip. "There are ninja turtles? Or is this another pop culture reference that I have missed?"
"Mutant," Clark says from the other room. The keys continue to clack with all due speed.
"You have to be in the room to play," Lois says, not even bothering to raise her voice like she would for a human. These are little things that she has learned over the years.
There is a rush of wind and Clark appears at the door. "Mutant." Then Lois's stack of crossword puzzles -most of them half-started and abandoned-fly all over the dining room table. Several pictures rock back and forth on the walls. The clacking of keys resumes almost instantaneously. Under her breath, Diana chuckles. Her long fingers round Lois's shoulder and dust her neck. Lois lets her touch her there, steadfastly not thinking about what those hands could do elsewhere.
"Show off," Lois mutters, but she leans back into Diana's grip and lets those fingers traverse their way across her upper ribs and sometimes dip lower, soft hands sliding under the cotton of her robe.
Six letter word for draw in," Diana murmurs, "first letter 'e'." Her hands rake Lois's hair back from her neck.
"Entice," Lois answers. "Where is...?" But Diana's hands slide her robe from her shoulders and her hair falls around Lois's face when her lips touch the back of her neck. "Oh. Oh."
She abandons the pen and turns so that she can capture Diana's mouth with hers, and Diana tastes like coffee and the honey she puts in it, and something else, something that Lois likes to call goddess, because of all of the women she has kissed (and boy in college did she rack up a lot), Diana is the only one who tastes that way. It's earthy, like the way Lois imagines the smell of forest would taste, not like pine but like damp leaves.
Diana is a face grabber, and Lois likes that. Lois holds her wrists, so very soft from all the time they spend under the bracers, and follows her down when she drops to her knees in front of Lois.
She slouches in the chair, her fingers tangling in Diana's hair when she lowers her mouth to Lois's breasts, her tongue darting out to circle one nipple before lifting the breast and kissing the underside crease, a place that most men miss for some reason but with which Diana seems to be particularly preoccupied. Lois lets out a little gasp and it occurs to her that Clark isn't there; not that she expects him to be, but the typing in the other room has continued without any change.
Lois starts to lean forward, to rise up so that she can reach inside Diana's gaping robe and feel her, touch the soft curls in between her legs (Diana, she has learned, only waxes enough to accommodate the suit. It is refreshing.), but Diana lifts her head from Lois's chest and smiles, two of her fingers pressing gently on Lois's sternum, her other hand reaching under Lois to pull the back of her robe off the chair, so that all of Lois's lower half slides towards her.
The tie is still done when Diana pulls the rest of the robe wide open, kissing her way down Lois's stomach, spending time at the navel, and Lois realizes that she isn't doing anything with her own hands. She has lost her grip on Diana, but she doesn't seem to care. All she can see of Diana is her forehead and her shoulders; her hands have disappeared and only now one of them reaches out to slide two fingers inside her at the exact moment that her tongue slides over her clit. Lois arches, her backside leaves the chair and all of her weight is on her toes and her neck. Her hands reach behind her to grasp the top rail of the back of the chair. Diana's other hand splays under her tailbone, holding her like carrying a tray.
The secret that Lois won't tell anyone, mostly because she can't, and it's not a secret for the small club of "I'm married to a metahuman" people, is that while she loves having sex with Clark, she loves fucking Diana, in all ways possible. In bed, Clark is attentive and kind and skilled, but his caresses are always a little too shallow, a little too soft, his strokes in her just a little to slow, as if he's never managed to get a handle on how much she can or will take. Diana, for whatever reason, has long ago figured out the equation of super strength versus human flesh; her fingers hook and curl and press and pull almost too hard, but never too much. Her tongue is quick and driving, and she uses her teeth in all the right places.
Lois comes in record time, even for her. As she shudders against Diana's hand and almost tips the chair in Diana's direction from yanking on it so hard, she can still hear the clacking of Clark's computer in the other room , and the smell of cheese and eggs and crust is just beginning to drift in from the kitchenette.
Diana settles her hips back on the chair and Lois straightens, grasping Diana's face in her own hands and kissing her; she's never cared to kiss men after they've done this to her, but with women, with Diana, it's different. Diana offers her mouth in the way that a man offers his cock; bold, unashamed and with just a little bit of braggadocio. And under herself, Lois can still taste goddess.
She leans forward and slides Diana's robe from her shoulders, letting it hang from the belt at her waist. It is then that she realizes that the apartment is completely silent except for the ticking of the kitchen timer.
There is another wind, and papers swirl about Lois's feet. Clark leans against the doorframe, one hand resting on the jamb, The other twirling his glasses by a stem. The breeze of his arrival has further circulated the smell from the kitchen.
"Do I still have to be in the room to play?"
Diana presses her forehead to Lois's chest, silently laughing. Lois rolls her eyes and holds out her free hand. "How would that even work?"
Clark says something too quiet for Lois to hear, but Diana laughs again, and she wonders if this is something at her expense. With any others, it probably would be, but not these two.
Diana rises and undoes the tie of her robe so that she can drape it over the back of one of the chairs. Clark's eyes follow her for a second before he reaches for Lois.
Later in the evening, after the quiche has been devoured (Diana writes the recipe out for her on a little 3x5 card and places it on the fridge with a little magnet, even though they both know Lois will never make it.), after Clark has finished up his chapter for the day, and after Lois and Diana have finished three Daily Planet crossword puzzles between them without using the dictionary once, it occurs to Lois, as Diana watches her ride Clark on the couch, that sooner or later, this all has to end.
And she doesn't mean it in the 'Diana has to go back to Themyscira' way, or that eventually, Lois and Clark will run out of paid vacation days, but that some day, she'll be dead. After all, she is only human, and she notices more things about her body than just gray hair. No, one day she will be in the ground, and the two of them will still be here. The thought stops her in mid-push, and she freezes, halfway off Clark, her palms clenching his shoulders. His hands still on her waist, and he opens his eyes to lean forward and kiss her neck.
"What?" he says softly. Diana uncurls from the other end of the sofa, pulling her hair out of her ponytail in one swift movement. She catches Lois's eyes in the lamplight and then smiles, quirking her mouth up in one corner.
Lois slides back down the length of Clark and rubs her jaw against his forehead. "Nothing."
END
Author: amand_r
Fandom: DCU
Characters: Clark/Lois/Diana (sorta. if you squint. not all at once. maybe later.)
Warnings: NC-17, femmeslash, het. YAY.
Timeline: I have no idea when this takes place. References to Maxwell Lord, but nothing overt, so I guess after that whole oh noes! OMACS! thing before Infinite Crisis.
Summary: She wants whatever Diana is making, and so she doesn't stop her then and there, set down the whisk and the rolling pin and pull the little towel from her shoulder and lay her out on the sofa. Besides, she did that last night, and Lois only allows herself one bold moment with Diana every twenty-four hours. It assures her that she doesn't make an ass out of herself.
Written for the 14valentines challenge, whose theme today is sexuality. Yum. Sexors.
she's so number nine
she's incredible math
just incredible math
--("lithium flower", Ghost in the Shell: SAC)
Clark has always had a thing for Diana. It could be attributed to many issues: their shared abilities, their experiences in the League and beyond, their mutual mission to save Bruce from himself. It could be Diana's gentle nature (not very evident as of late), or her ability to inspire anyone around her to admiration. It could be her blue hot pants.
Lois thinks it's her hair. Clark has a thing for black hair. Sure, Lana was a red head, but it's not her twirling a gold band around her finger as she watches Diana do something scandalous with butter in the kitchen. One hand grips the handle of the skillet lightly, long fingers breaking an egg with the other. Her bathrobe is tied loosely about her waist, and it gapes open in interesting places. One curl has fallen over her shoulder and follows the path of skin down to showcase her breasts.
Diana has taken over the kitchen since she got here three days ago, mostly because the first night Lois had cooked them dinner. Diana had been really polite about it, eating nearly everything, and Clark had just shoveled everything in because beauty is sometimes in the mouth of the beholder. And since Clark can't really make anything passable except flapjacks and protein shakes (Lois doesn't understand the second one. It has to be Bruce's fault.), Diana had returned from the market with three bags of groceries, including some cheese that Lois had never even heard of let alone tasted, and a few containers of Greek yogurt that Diana uses in almost everything. Not that Lois is complaining. It's a hell of a lot better than anything she could manage to burn, er, make.
Lois has already filed her story-a real pisser, too, an expose of nursing homes and everything; people are going to go to jail-yesterday, and that has left her with nothing to do but play with Clark's manuscript and do the crossword puzzles that she saves from the Planet's Sunday editions.
Speaking of-"A six letter word for force," she says to Diana, wagging her pencil back and forth in two fingers. "Starts with M."
Diana uses the whisk like it's an extension of her hand. "Metier," she says without looking up. Her brows are drawn together as she concentrates, because apparently, cooking takes effortless effort. Lois can't remember who had told her that once. It could have been Dale down in the Living section at the Christmas Party one year, who'd criticized her frightful lack of knowledge of remoulade and white sauces. All Lois has ever learned about cooking is that she can't do it to save her life. And considering how often her life has needed saving, it's a good thing she has never been captured by a villain who cared if she knew the soft boiling point for sugar or how to use tamarind.
"Thanks," she says, leaning over the puzzle and squinting. She is going to need glasses, soon, and she keeps putting off making the appointment. She also keeps pulling gray hairs from her head in the morning, too. It means things that she doesn't want to think about.
Diana transfers the skillet from the fire and pours whatever she is making into a bowl, seemingly satisfied by what she sees or hears, because she nods to herself and dusts her hands together, like Lois has seen her do a thousand times on television, after she has just finished pounding some evil threat into the ground. While oven is preheating, is busy, Diana moves on to other things: chopping shallots, pouring herself a cup of coffee, smelling paprika so thoroughly that she sneezes, dusting a baking dish with flour. Lois frowns; she's never used that dish before. In fact, she's fairly sure she hasn't used it because she couldn't figure out what it is for, what with the false bottom that pops out of the frame. It seems to be a quiche dish.
"So that's what that's for," she mutters.
Diana lays the dough she's rolled earlier out into the pan and presses it into the scalloped edges, her long fingers working studiously; her tongue sticks out between her teeth, and for a second Clark's typing slows, probably because he has heard Lois's heartbeat speed up and her breathing hitch.
She wants whatever Diana is making, and so she doesn't stop her then and there, set down the whisk and the rolling pin and pull the little towel from her shoulder and lay her out on the sofa. Besides, she did that last night, and Lois only allows herself one bold moment with Diana every twenty-four hours. It assures her that she doesn't make an ass out of herself.
Diana has put the quiche in the oven and washed her hands by the time Lois stares at the crossword puzzle again, slightly irked. "Six letters, 'like the Ninja Turtles'."
Diana watches her chew her pen as she watches Diana chew her lip. "There are ninja turtles? Or is this another pop culture reference that I have missed?"
"Mutant," Clark says from the other room. The keys continue to clack with all due speed.
"You have to be in the room to play," Lois says, not even bothering to raise her voice like she would for a human. These are little things that she has learned over the years.
There is a rush of wind and Clark appears at the door. "Mutant." Then Lois's stack of crossword puzzles -most of them half-started and abandoned-fly all over the dining room table. Several pictures rock back and forth on the walls. The clacking of keys resumes almost instantaneously. Under her breath, Diana chuckles. Her long fingers round Lois's shoulder and dust her neck. Lois lets her touch her there, steadfastly not thinking about what those hands could do elsewhere.
"Show off," Lois mutters, but she leans back into Diana's grip and lets those fingers traverse their way across her upper ribs and sometimes dip lower, soft hands sliding under the cotton of her robe.
Six letter word for draw in," Diana murmurs, "first letter 'e'." Her hands rake Lois's hair back from her neck.
"Entice," Lois answers. "Where is...?" But Diana's hands slide her robe from her shoulders and her hair falls around Lois's face when her lips touch the back of her neck. "Oh. Oh."
She abandons the pen and turns so that she can capture Diana's mouth with hers, and Diana tastes like coffee and the honey she puts in it, and something else, something that Lois likes to call goddess, because of all of the women she has kissed (and boy in college did she rack up a lot), Diana is the only one who tastes that way. It's earthy, like the way Lois imagines the smell of forest would taste, not like pine but like damp leaves.
Diana is a face grabber, and Lois likes that. Lois holds her wrists, so very soft from all the time they spend under the bracers, and follows her down when she drops to her knees in front of Lois.
She slouches in the chair, her fingers tangling in Diana's hair when she lowers her mouth to Lois's breasts, her tongue darting out to circle one nipple before lifting the breast and kissing the underside crease, a place that most men miss for some reason but with which Diana seems to be particularly preoccupied. Lois lets out a little gasp and it occurs to her that Clark isn't there; not that she expects him to be, but the typing in the other room has continued without any change.
Lois starts to lean forward, to rise up so that she can reach inside Diana's gaping robe and feel her, touch the soft curls in between her legs (Diana, she has learned, only waxes enough to accommodate the suit. It is refreshing.), but Diana lifts her head from Lois's chest and smiles, two of her fingers pressing gently on Lois's sternum, her other hand reaching under Lois to pull the back of her robe off the chair, so that all of Lois's lower half slides towards her.
The tie is still done when Diana pulls the rest of the robe wide open, kissing her way down Lois's stomach, spending time at the navel, and Lois realizes that she isn't doing anything with her own hands. She has lost her grip on Diana, but she doesn't seem to care. All she can see of Diana is her forehead and her shoulders; her hands have disappeared and only now one of them reaches out to slide two fingers inside her at the exact moment that her tongue slides over her clit. Lois arches, her backside leaves the chair and all of her weight is on her toes and her neck. Her hands reach behind her to grasp the top rail of the back of the chair. Diana's other hand splays under her tailbone, holding her like carrying a tray.
The secret that Lois won't tell anyone, mostly because she can't, and it's not a secret for the small club of "I'm married to a metahuman" people, is that while she loves having sex with Clark, she loves fucking Diana, in all ways possible. In bed, Clark is attentive and kind and skilled, but his caresses are always a little too shallow, a little too soft, his strokes in her just a little to slow, as if he's never managed to get a handle on how much she can or will take. Diana, for whatever reason, has long ago figured out the equation of super strength versus human flesh; her fingers hook and curl and press and pull almost too hard, but never too much. Her tongue is quick and driving, and she uses her teeth in all the right places.
Lois comes in record time, even for her. As she shudders against Diana's hand and almost tips the chair in Diana's direction from yanking on it so hard, she can still hear the clacking of Clark's computer in the other room , and the smell of cheese and eggs and crust is just beginning to drift in from the kitchenette.
Diana settles her hips back on the chair and Lois straightens, grasping Diana's face in her own hands and kissing her; she's never cared to kiss men after they've done this to her, but with women, with Diana, it's different. Diana offers her mouth in the way that a man offers his cock; bold, unashamed and with just a little bit of braggadocio. And under herself, Lois can still taste goddess.
She leans forward and slides Diana's robe from her shoulders, letting it hang from the belt at her waist. It is then that she realizes that the apartment is completely silent except for the ticking of the kitchen timer.
There is another wind, and papers swirl about Lois's feet. Clark leans against the doorframe, one hand resting on the jamb, The other twirling his glasses by a stem. The breeze of his arrival has further circulated the smell from the kitchen.
"Do I still have to be in the room to play?"
Diana presses her forehead to Lois's chest, silently laughing. Lois rolls her eyes and holds out her free hand. "How would that even work?"
Clark says something too quiet for Lois to hear, but Diana laughs again, and she wonders if this is something at her expense. With any others, it probably would be, but not these two.
Diana rises and undoes the tie of her robe so that she can drape it over the back of one of the chairs. Clark's eyes follow her for a second before he reaches for Lois.
Later in the evening, after the quiche has been devoured (Diana writes the recipe out for her on a little 3x5 card and places it on the fridge with a little magnet, even though they both know Lois will never make it.), after Clark has finished up his chapter for the day, and after Lois and Diana have finished three Daily Planet crossword puzzles between them without using the dictionary once, it occurs to Lois, as Diana watches her ride Clark on the couch, that sooner or later, this all has to end.
And she doesn't mean it in the 'Diana has to go back to Themyscira' way, or that eventually, Lois and Clark will run out of paid vacation days, but that some day, she'll be dead. After all, she is only human, and she notices more things about her body than just gray hair. No, one day she will be in the ground, and the two of them will still be here. The thought stops her in mid-push, and she freezes, halfway off Clark, her palms clenching his shoulders. His hands still on her waist, and he opens his eyes to lean forward and kiss her neck.
"What?" he says softly. Diana uncurls from the other end of the sofa, pulling her hair out of her ponytail in one swift movement. She catches Lois's eyes in the lamplight and then smiles, quirking her mouth up in one corner.
Lois slides back down the length of Clark and rubs her jaw against his forehead. "Nothing."
END