porn battle pt.2: the office and pushing daisies (chuck/olive, pam/karen, angela/pam) pg13
title: paint me a color world
fandom: the office
character(s)/pairing(s): pam/karen
rating: pg13
word count: 338
prompt: paint for femslash_today's porn battle
spoilers: none
summary: pam and karen on a sunday morning in new york.
Small studio apartments fill with sunlight nearly as quickly as they fill with oven heat, like water from an over-flowing bathtub. Pam watches the parallel lines of morning’s fingers reach into their bedroom, pressing thumbs into corners and drifting down the walls.
Karen is usually an early riser, with Sunday mornings being the only exception. Not even black coffee and a grape jelly doughnut will rouse her from her comatose state, ten hours since they fell asleep, satiated and sticky, last night. Karen’s back is bare, one arm shoved under the pillow and the other crooked above her head, an invitation for something Pam hasn’t decided on yet.
It strikes her like her muse would if she was something tangible, like inspiration and genius on a small, quiet scale.
Pam swings her legs over the edge of the bed, letting them drift like clock pendulums whispering time, before pressing them down onto the wood floors and padding over to her easel. Chartreuse and violet and sienna and scarlet fisted in her hand, Pam kneels down on the bedspread. She dabs a little auburn in her palm, placing a possessive handprint on Karen’s shoulder.
The Brooklyn Bridge where their eyes caught in traffic spans her lower back in indigo; train tracks just like the ones they first kissed under weave over her spin in red. Red like passion and love and the blood she’d metaphorically bleed if Karen ever said done. Green from Central Park and yellow like the cowardice that postponed the meeting of you and me to make us. Little polka-dots of orange, each for another sunset that predicts a sunrise where they’ll still be here, like this, together.
Karen sighs out an awake little breath, adjusting her shoulders; not enough to make the paint smear. Pam sits back on her heels. She surveys her work and admires the woman beneath it, the woman that is it. She waits for a response with baited breath.
But Karen smiles, grins even, blinking out sleep and motioning her closer.
“Morning.”
title: i wrote a valley winter song to play for you
fandom: the office
character(s)/pairing(s): angela/pam
rating: pg13
word count: 358
prompt: wood for femslash_today's porn battle
spoilers: none; set during s3
summary: pam and angela make snow angels.
The snow forms miniature mountains around them, a growing valley where their arms drift side to side. If Pam had to guess this morning where she’d be on her break, she’s about 98% sure she wouldn’t have said lying in the snow with Angela. But the blonde is sprawled out passively beside her, every few minutes making a soft sound that could be mistaken for contentment if she isn’t careful.
And for some reason all Pam can think about is how she’d used the phrase “knock on wood” once, and how Angela had accused her of witchcraft. It seems so at odds with this quietness. This gentle existence. It makes her wonder how Angela could be so polar. Like how breath is warm huffed through an open mouth, but cold through pursed lips.
She experimentally breathes out wide and hot, watching as the air crystallizes into a fog just above her nose.
Maybe Angela’s just trying to save her soul, or some such thing, even if Pam is fairly certain her own words are on the whole more gentile than Angela’s.
But Angela doesn’t tell her she’s going to hell. Or that God is going to strike her down. She doesn’t even speak at all. Their girl time coffee talk presents itself in her memory and she wonders if maybe she’s the only girl Angela knows under the age of forty.
Angela’s actual breath humidifies the side of Pam’s neck just seconds before she scoots in close, her grey, wool coat pressing up tight to Pam’s arm. The snow compacts, shuffles into another bank by their feet and hair, top and bottom, and Pam turns her head just slightly to ask something pertaining to just what she thinks she’s doing (what they’re doing) but Angela’s lips silence her.
So maybe it’s not just a friend Angela needs.
Her hand hovers over Pam’s poofy winter coat before settling on her chest, an approximation of where her breast could, might, possibly be under all those layers, and Pam sighs even if she can’t really feel much more than the pressure of her tiny, pale hand.
It’s the gesture that counts.
title: some days it pays to read vogue
fandom: pushing daisies
character(s)/pairing(s): chuck/olive
rating: pg13
word count: 359
prompt: dresses for femslash_today's porn battle
spoilers: none.
summary: visual memory has its advantages.
Chuck looks pretty today. Sure, she’s always been pretty girl, from the second she stepped into the Pie Hole and Olive hated her on the spot. She was still pretty, because Olive still had eyes. But today… today she’s especially flamboyantly pulchritudinous. It could have something to do with the dress. It’s the color of strawberry frosting swirled on the crest of a cupcake, and Olive could almost taste powdered sugar and fruit when she oh-so-sneakily breathed in the air around her neck.
And, okay, so maybe whenever she sees that dress all that manages to hijack and death pilot her mind is a memory of that flippy skirt pushed up around her waist and Chuck’s hippity high-heeled foot propped up on the back of a booth with the matching pink shoe dangling off her toes but, hey, Olive isn’t one to be picky. Her thoughts today happen to be especially porny and if her eyes slot-machine their way to triple-Xs instead of cherries or dollar signs when Chuck brushes by her, that’s a’okay with her. Although from the subtle wink Chuck throws her afterwards, Olive is preeeeeety sure she’s doing it on purpose.
But where was she? Oh, right. The dress.
It’s not really her fault that whenever the eyelet sweeps over her knuckles she remembers how soft her blushing cheek had been against those same fingers. Or that the satin wrap around the waist had slipped against her sweaty palms. (She wasn’t anxious. No, really.) Or that whenever Chuck leans over the counter to stare out the window to people watch, Olive can’t decide whether to recall her position the last time she was on that counter top, or what she’d find if she snuck a peek down her shirt. See? Not her fault.
Of course it isn’t exactly the dress’ fault either. Because the ivory silk would just remind her of the Pie Hole’s freezer. And the robin’s egg blue cotton would only dredge up memories of that park bench.
Jade taffeta… their living room couch.
Raspberry sweater… backseat on a stake-out.
Canary yellow tulle… library.
…
Okay, so maybe it is a little her fault.
fandom: the office
character(s)/pairing(s): pam/karen
rating: pg13
word count: 338
prompt: paint for femslash_today's porn battle
spoilers: none
summary: pam and karen on a sunday morning in new york.
Small studio apartments fill with sunlight nearly as quickly as they fill with oven heat, like water from an over-flowing bathtub. Pam watches the parallel lines of morning’s fingers reach into their bedroom, pressing thumbs into corners and drifting down the walls.
Karen is usually an early riser, with Sunday mornings being the only exception. Not even black coffee and a grape jelly doughnut will rouse her from her comatose state, ten hours since they fell asleep, satiated and sticky, last night. Karen’s back is bare, one arm shoved under the pillow and the other crooked above her head, an invitation for something Pam hasn’t decided on yet.
It strikes her like her muse would if she was something tangible, like inspiration and genius on a small, quiet scale.
Pam swings her legs over the edge of the bed, letting them drift like clock pendulums whispering time, before pressing them down onto the wood floors and padding over to her easel. Chartreuse and violet and sienna and scarlet fisted in her hand, Pam kneels down on the bedspread. She dabs a little auburn in her palm, placing a possessive handprint on Karen’s shoulder.
The Brooklyn Bridge where their eyes caught in traffic spans her lower back in indigo; train tracks just like the ones they first kissed under weave over her spin in red. Red like passion and love and the blood she’d metaphorically bleed if Karen ever said done. Green from Central Park and yellow like the cowardice that postponed the meeting of you and me to make us. Little polka-dots of orange, each for another sunset that predicts a sunrise where they’ll still be here, like this, together.
Karen sighs out an awake little breath, adjusting her shoulders; not enough to make the paint smear. Pam sits back on her heels. She surveys her work and admires the woman beneath it, the woman that is it. She waits for a response with baited breath.
But Karen smiles, grins even, blinking out sleep and motioning her closer.
“Morning.”
title: i wrote a valley winter song to play for you
fandom: the office
character(s)/pairing(s): angela/pam
rating: pg13
word count: 358
prompt: wood for femslash_today's porn battle
spoilers: none; set during s3
summary: pam and angela make snow angels.
The snow forms miniature mountains around them, a growing valley where their arms drift side to side. If Pam had to guess this morning where she’d be on her break, she’s about 98% sure she wouldn’t have said lying in the snow with Angela. But the blonde is sprawled out passively beside her, every few minutes making a soft sound that could be mistaken for contentment if she isn’t careful.
And for some reason all Pam can think about is how she’d used the phrase “knock on wood” once, and how Angela had accused her of witchcraft. It seems so at odds with this quietness. This gentle existence. It makes her wonder how Angela could be so polar. Like how breath is warm huffed through an open mouth, but cold through pursed lips.
She experimentally breathes out wide and hot, watching as the air crystallizes into a fog just above her nose.
Maybe Angela’s just trying to save her soul, or some such thing, even if Pam is fairly certain her own words are on the whole more gentile than Angela’s.
But Angela doesn’t tell her she’s going to hell. Or that God is going to strike her down. She doesn’t even speak at all. Their girl time coffee talk presents itself in her memory and she wonders if maybe she’s the only girl Angela knows under the age of forty.
Angela’s actual breath humidifies the side of Pam’s neck just seconds before she scoots in close, her grey, wool coat pressing up tight to Pam’s arm. The snow compacts, shuffles into another bank by their feet and hair, top and bottom, and Pam turns her head just slightly to ask something pertaining to just what she thinks she’s doing (what they’re doing) but Angela’s lips silence her.
So maybe it’s not just a friend Angela needs.
Her hand hovers over Pam’s poofy winter coat before settling on her chest, an approximation of where her breast could, might, possibly be under all those layers, and Pam sighs even if she can’t really feel much more than the pressure of her tiny, pale hand.
It’s the gesture that counts.
title: some days it pays to read vogue
fandom: pushing daisies
character(s)/pairing(s): chuck/olive
rating: pg13
word count: 359
prompt: dresses for femslash_today's porn battle
spoilers: none.
summary: visual memory has its advantages.
Chuck looks pretty today. Sure, she’s always been pretty girl, from the second she stepped into the Pie Hole and Olive hated her on the spot. She was still pretty, because Olive still had eyes. But today… today she’s especially flamboyantly pulchritudinous. It could have something to do with the dress. It’s the color of strawberry frosting swirled on the crest of a cupcake, and Olive could almost taste powdered sugar and fruit when she oh-so-sneakily breathed in the air around her neck.
And, okay, so maybe whenever she sees that dress all that manages to hijack and death pilot her mind is a memory of that flippy skirt pushed up around her waist and Chuck’s hippity high-heeled foot propped up on the back of a booth with the matching pink shoe dangling off her toes but, hey, Olive isn’t one to be picky. Her thoughts today happen to be especially porny and if her eyes slot-machine their way to triple-Xs instead of cherries or dollar signs when Chuck brushes by her, that’s a’okay with her. Although from the subtle wink Chuck throws her afterwards, Olive is preeeeeety sure she’s doing it on purpose.
But where was she? Oh, right. The dress.
It’s not really her fault that whenever the eyelet sweeps over her knuckles she remembers how soft her blushing cheek had been against those same fingers. Or that the satin wrap around the waist had slipped against her sweaty palms. (She wasn’t anxious. No, really.) Or that whenever Chuck leans over the counter to stare out the window to people watch, Olive can’t decide whether to recall her position the last time she was on that counter top, or what she’d find if she snuck a peek down her shirt. See? Not her fault.
Of course it isn’t exactly the dress’ fault either. Because the ivory silk would just remind her of the Pie Hole’s freezer. And the robin’s egg blue cotton would only dredge up memories of that park bench.
Jade taffeta… their living room couch.
Raspberry sweater… backseat on a stake-out.
Canary yellow tulle… library.
…
Okay, so maybe it is a little her fault.