Fic: Nightingales
Title: Nightingales
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Pamela/Ellen
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1145
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Pamela's going to push for as much as she possibly can.
AN: For the 'body alteration/injury' prompt for kinkbingo.
"Has anyone ever told you, your voice sounds like sex?"
Ellen grunts somewhere to her left. Pamela thinks she can hear the soft 'whish, whish' of a cloth sliding round the inside of a glass. It sounds purposeful. Ellen always sounds like that, like she'd be ready to save the world the moment anyone asked.
"Not the nice kind," Pamela assures her. "The dirty kind, the fun kind." She's grinning, though she's not a hundred percent sure that Ellen can see it. There's a lot Pamela can still see, but a lot of very important and obvious things which she can't. Some people would call it a trade. But that's the kind of bullshit excuse that never tries to push for more. You can be angry about things and still live with them, not let them make you less. Pamela has never accepted being less of anything. She's going to push for as much as she possibly can. Because she's always been the reckless sort.
"I think you've had enough," Ellen tells her. Pamela hears the smooth slide of glass on wood, and she knows that Ellen's just stolen the bottle. She doesn’t bother reaching a hand out to try and stop her. Instead she smiles and upends the drink she's been left, tips the glass in a salute, sure enough that Ellen's still looking. Ellen likes to watch people, woman has eyes like a hawk.
"I can't tell if you're scowling at me right now, mouth all hiked up at the edges, in that special disapproving way you have." She smiles, just in case, alcohol making her insides warm and restless. "That's sexy too."
"Pamela Barnes, exactly how many bottles did you swipe when my back was turned?"
One.
One and a half.
But then Pamela would bet Ellen already knew that. She tugs her sunglasses off, sets them down on the bar.
"Ellen, are you accusing a blind woman of stealing?" Pamela hasn't had cause to pretend to look wounded in a while, but she does her best.
Ellen doesn't answer, though Pamela thinks she hears the sound of hair shifting on cloth when she shakes her head at her. Pamela moves her hand, to where Ellen's leaning on the bar. It's easy to judge where her face is from there, to slide up on the bars of her stool, find the curve of Ellen's mouth with her fingers, and lean her way in. Ellen doesn't move back, doesn’t drift away, she doesn't try and stop her. Though her mouth isn't quite soft, when Pamela kisses it. The rush of air against Pamela's face is slow, careful.
"Stop scowling Ellen, it's damned hard to kiss someone who's scowling."
"Why are you kissing me at all?"
"Because you let me," Pamela says with a smile. It's an answer, though probably not the one Ellen was fishing for. "Because you invited me to stay after closing time. Because I remember how beautiful you are."
Ellen is giving her that look now, she can tell.
"Don't you eyebrow disbelief at me, Ellen, I'm allowed to think you're beautiful."
"You're allowed to do a lot of things, aren't you?"
Pamela hooks her fingers in the sleeve of Ellen's shirt, and gives it a tug. It disappears from her grip, but she hears the sound of a sigh, and a bottle being lifted off the shelf, boots working their way round the bar. She waits for the sound of heavy glass on wood before she stands, finds the edge of the bar with her boots. Ellen's close, and warm, and Pamela pulls, gently, not entirely sure if Ellen will come. But she does, there are firm hands with slim, strong fingers tugging on her jacket. Pamela thinks that's adventurous for Ellen.
She knows roughly how tall Ellen is, knows if she lifts her hand she'll be touching the weight of her hair, thumb against her cheek - so she does. It's not always easy finding where you want your mouth to go when you can't see, but Pamela thinks she's going to get the hang of it pretty damn quick, especially if this is her motivation. She's so used to Ellen being firm, being strong and sharp and immovable. She's much sweeter than Pamela's expecting. Easy and slow, rather than excitable. But Pamela suspects once she's burning it'll be like trying to hold a forest fire.
Ellen’s fingers are in her hair, soft and then hard, pushing it out of her face so she can see her. Pamela tips her head and lets her, lets Ellen see her eyes if she wants to. She has nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone ends up losing something in this game. But some of them you can live with.
"Pamela." It's a warning, or the start of an explanation, a rush of excuses to why this is a terrible idea.
Pamela laughs. "Say my name again."
"Trouble," Ellen mutters, and Pamela laughs again. She kisses Ellen's ear just to hear that half-irritated little noise she makes, to feel the warmth of her hair against her cheek.
"I'll make sure you don't regret it," she promises.
"Oh you will?" Ellen sounds amused and dubious.
"Absolutely." Pamela nods.
"Don't feel like going home alone?" Ellen asks, blunt as always, though Pamela has always appreciated that about her. And sometimes Pamela thinks Ellen sees almost as much as her - as much as she used to.
"Don't feel like hauling some stranger back to mine," Pamela says honestly.
"Have you done that," Ellen asks carefully. "Since you -"
"No," Pamela admits, hearing everything under the words, and answering that too. Ellen's smart enough to understand. "But I'm pretty sure I still know how to please a lady, with or without my eyes."
"You should know by now that I ain't exactly a lady."
"You look like a lady from here," Pamela assures her. "Looked like a lady every day I've known you. Every day whether you stood behind a bar, sewed up a drunk, or held a gun. Oh, you're hard at the edges sometimes, willing to put your boot in, or get dirty, put your hand inside a man's chest to save his life, do what needs to be done, but still absolutely a lady. Don't you ever forget that Ellen Harvelle."
Ellen's quiet for a long moment, and for the first time Pamela has no idea what shows on her face.
"I can't say I've ever the offer before," Ellen says carefully. There's uncertainty, and honest confusion there, but there's also something warm and rough underneath it all. It tells Pamela she's willing, unsure what she's going to find, how she's going to take what comes, but willing.
"If you don't like it, I can stop," Pamela says quietly.
Ellen gives that low, soft 'uh huh,' that Pamela thinks she's never going to stop finding dirty after tonight.
"Anyone ever ask you to stop?"
Pamela just smiles.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Pamela/Ellen
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1145
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Pamela's going to push for as much as she possibly can.
AN: For the 'body alteration/injury' prompt for kinkbingo.
"Has anyone ever told you, your voice sounds like sex?"
Ellen grunts somewhere to her left. Pamela thinks she can hear the soft 'whish, whish' of a cloth sliding round the inside of a glass. It sounds purposeful. Ellen always sounds like that, like she'd be ready to save the world the moment anyone asked.
"Not the nice kind," Pamela assures her. "The dirty kind, the fun kind." She's grinning, though she's not a hundred percent sure that Ellen can see it. There's a lot Pamela can still see, but a lot of very important and obvious things which she can't. Some people would call it a trade. But that's the kind of bullshit excuse that never tries to push for more. You can be angry about things and still live with them, not let them make you less. Pamela has never accepted being less of anything. She's going to push for as much as she possibly can. Because she's always been the reckless sort.
"I think you've had enough," Ellen tells her. Pamela hears the smooth slide of glass on wood, and she knows that Ellen's just stolen the bottle. She doesn’t bother reaching a hand out to try and stop her. Instead she smiles and upends the drink she's been left, tips the glass in a salute, sure enough that Ellen's still looking. Ellen likes to watch people, woman has eyes like a hawk.
"I can't tell if you're scowling at me right now, mouth all hiked up at the edges, in that special disapproving way you have." She smiles, just in case, alcohol making her insides warm and restless. "That's sexy too."
"Pamela Barnes, exactly how many bottles did you swipe when my back was turned?"
One.
One and a half.
But then Pamela would bet Ellen already knew that. She tugs her sunglasses off, sets them down on the bar.
"Ellen, are you accusing a blind woman of stealing?" Pamela hasn't had cause to pretend to look wounded in a while, but she does her best.
Ellen doesn't answer, though Pamela thinks she hears the sound of hair shifting on cloth when she shakes her head at her. Pamela moves her hand, to where Ellen's leaning on the bar. It's easy to judge where her face is from there, to slide up on the bars of her stool, find the curve of Ellen's mouth with her fingers, and lean her way in. Ellen doesn't move back, doesn’t drift away, she doesn't try and stop her. Though her mouth isn't quite soft, when Pamela kisses it. The rush of air against Pamela's face is slow, careful.
"Stop scowling Ellen, it's damned hard to kiss someone who's scowling."
"Why are you kissing me at all?"
"Because you let me," Pamela says with a smile. It's an answer, though probably not the one Ellen was fishing for. "Because you invited me to stay after closing time. Because I remember how beautiful you are."
Ellen is giving her that look now, she can tell.
"Don't you eyebrow disbelief at me, Ellen, I'm allowed to think you're beautiful."
"You're allowed to do a lot of things, aren't you?"
Pamela hooks her fingers in the sleeve of Ellen's shirt, and gives it a tug. It disappears from her grip, but she hears the sound of a sigh, and a bottle being lifted off the shelf, boots working their way round the bar. She waits for the sound of heavy glass on wood before she stands, finds the edge of the bar with her boots. Ellen's close, and warm, and Pamela pulls, gently, not entirely sure if Ellen will come. But she does, there are firm hands with slim, strong fingers tugging on her jacket. Pamela thinks that's adventurous for Ellen.
She knows roughly how tall Ellen is, knows if she lifts her hand she'll be touching the weight of her hair, thumb against her cheek - so she does. It's not always easy finding where you want your mouth to go when you can't see, but Pamela thinks she's going to get the hang of it pretty damn quick, especially if this is her motivation. She's so used to Ellen being firm, being strong and sharp and immovable. She's much sweeter than Pamela's expecting. Easy and slow, rather than excitable. But Pamela suspects once she's burning it'll be like trying to hold a forest fire.
Ellen’s fingers are in her hair, soft and then hard, pushing it out of her face so she can see her. Pamela tips her head and lets her, lets Ellen see her eyes if she wants to. She has nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone ends up losing something in this game. But some of them you can live with.
"Pamela." It's a warning, or the start of an explanation, a rush of excuses to why this is a terrible idea.
Pamela laughs. "Say my name again."
"Trouble," Ellen mutters, and Pamela laughs again. She kisses Ellen's ear just to hear that half-irritated little noise she makes, to feel the warmth of her hair against her cheek.
"I'll make sure you don't regret it," she promises.
"Oh you will?" Ellen sounds amused and dubious.
"Absolutely." Pamela nods.
"Don't feel like going home alone?" Ellen asks, blunt as always, though Pamela has always appreciated that about her. And sometimes Pamela thinks Ellen sees almost as much as her - as much as she used to.
"Don't feel like hauling some stranger back to mine," Pamela says honestly.
"Have you done that," Ellen asks carefully. "Since you -"
"No," Pamela admits, hearing everything under the words, and answering that too. Ellen's smart enough to understand. "But I'm pretty sure I still know how to please a lady, with or without my eyes."
"You should know by now that I ain't exactly a lady."
"You look like a lady from here," Pamela assures her. "Looked like a lady every day I've known you. Every day whether you stood behind a bar, sewed up a drunk, or held a gun. Oh, you're hard at the edges sometimes, willing to put your boot in, or get dirty, put your hand inside a man's chest to save his life, do what needs to be done, but still absolutely a lady. Don't you ever forget that Ellen Harvelle."
Ellen's quiet for a long moment, and for the first time Pamela has no idea what shows on her face.
"I can't say I've ever the offer before," Ellen says carefully. There's uncertainty, and honest confusion there, but there's also something warm and rough underneath it all. It tells Pamela she's willing, unsure what she's going to find, how she's going to take what comes, but willing.
"If you don't like it, I can stop," Pamela says quietly.
Ellen gives that low, soft 'uh huh,' that Pamela thinks she's never going to stop finding dirty after tonight.
"Anyone ever ask you to stop?"
Pamela just smiles.