Drabbles for femslash100.
Drabbletag 5 at femslash100 is closing, so there's a drabbleathon to fill as many prompts as possible before it does. I've done... well, 4 for now.
Burn This Floor
Agents of SHIELD | Skye/Jemma | G | ponytail | set season one/pre-Jemma’s haircut | title from Pound The Alarm by Nicki Minaj
Jemma is running, something that might be Nicki Minaj leaking out of her headphones, head dipping down occasionally to look at the StarkPad attached to the machine, swiping fingers over whatever it is she and Fitz have decided to try and build this week, unable to switch off entirely. She’s in pink sneakers and a faded My Little Pony t-shirt, ponytail bouncing along to the rhythm of her strides.
There’s all kinds of things Skye could be watching from this image, so it’s kind of weird that she’s just watching Jemma’s ponytail, the neat elastic that matches her sneakers - for real - holding back all but a few tendrils that are trickling down Jemma’s cheeks as she bites her lower lip and pokes at the graphics in front of her.
“You could be more obvious,” Trip says behind her, wearing a vest and a smirk, clearly down here for the weights.
“I’m being very discreet,” Skye replies, even though she last laid a punch on the bag in front of her about three and a half minutes ago.
“Maybe ask May to go through that again with you,” Trip suggests cheerfully, adding: “c’mon, you can spot for me.”
Skye considers her options. “I’m kind of distracted,” she admits.
Trip claps a hand against her shoulder. “I know,” he says, “but the angle’s better over there anyway.”
It’s not like she’s going to get any more defence training done today anyway, Skye reflects. “I’m very subtle,” she repeats, and Trip just grins.
Trade Negotiations
Disney Princesses | Elsa/Merida | R | patience | I ship these two so much tbh
Trade negotiations have been going on for hours, while the castle prepares for the ball tonight. It will celebrate the new alliance between their kingdoms, the two queens joining forces.
The best thing about “trade negotiations” is that no one is ever likely interrupt them: they sound just important and boring enough for people to stay away, leaving a respectful distance.
Merida is the giggly one, twining messy fingers in Elsa’s hair as she kisses her, the ties at the front of her gown falling easily apart under Elsa’s touch. The fashions in Arendelle are not nearly so accessible - perhaps something Elsa will discreetly bring up with a tailor before the next visit - so Elsa is the one with her hands full of Merida’s pale, freckled breasts, fingers twisting a nipple with occasional icy sparks to make Merida gasp into her mouth, while Merida claws at the velvet front of Elsa’s bodice with no matching luck.
“This is unfair,” Merida pants, kissed-wet mouth drawing into a pout.
“We’ve still got several more terms to negotiate,” she reminds Merida. Merida groans and huffs but acquiesces easily enough when Elsa ducks her head to curl her tongue around a warm stiff nipple.
Elsa’s skin is craving touch in a way she wasn’t allowed for years; Merida likes to have things when she wants them, a by-product from a childhood snatching things from her brothers, but Elsa can be a little more cerebral about later happiness, especially with her queen shivering against her.
Shut Up and Drive
Young Avengers | Kate/America | G | road trip | title from Rihanna | (also for femslash100100 - 161. camera)
Kate’s in charge of the driving, because America is more used to kicking holes in the universe when she wants to get places, and they’re trying to do this cliché properly. America complains about the slowness of the journey and makes obnoxious playlists using Kate’s iPod and leans her long legs on the dashboard until Kate nearly crashes at least three times because thighs, but she also takes endless pictures of the trip.
Billy and Teddy and David and Loki like various Instagram pictures of Kate yawning over the steering wheel, dirty hair piled up on top of her head, tacky rhinestone sunglasses picked up from a gas station hiding her eyes; pictures of America posing next to the ridiculous highway attractions they keep finding (World’s Longest Length of Floss This Way), of the two of them taking a selfie of themselves in a shitty motel with cotton candy and cheap beer, Kate pressing her lips into America’s cheek, America scowling badly for the camera.
These aren’t all of it, of course: there’s the fights on the side of the road with a flat and no charge left in either of their cell phones, and the bickering that leads to bruises, and the endless hot afternoons ignoring each other while pretending the talk show radio hosts are their new best friends, and the nights sleeping in the car when they can’t find a motel, America’s hair in Kate’s face, Kate’s elbow in America’s ribs.
It’s the best trip ever, basically.
Damask
The Musketeers | Constance/Anne | PG | dress fitting | vague season two spoilers
The queen absolutely does not need to be present for Constance’s dress fitting; Constance is sure of this. It’s a menial little thing she needs to have done - because the clothes that were appropriate and even pretty for the wife of a cloth merchant aren’t nearly suitable enough for court. It’s both exciting and a burden, to have new finery to worry about on top of everything else about her new position.
There are seamstresses and tailors enough at court, all good at their trade, and there is really no need for Anne to be overseeing the process, making the nervous woman measuring Constance’s waist constantly drop her mouthful of pins, apologising and your majesty-ing. It’s making something Constance wasn’t planning on enjoying ten times worse, actually.
The queen’s gaze is warm and penetrating enough to make Constance’s heart and stomach flutter beneath the bodice being pinned around her, make her wonder if the flush in her cheeks is too obvious and can be explained for something else. Anne’s expression is one of calm innocence; it makes Constance wonder what else she’s hiding, what else she could carry off in plain sight.
Anne steps forward, runs a light fingertip along the neckline of Constance’s dress, touch just skimming the tops of her breasts, pressed eagerly upwards by her corset. Constance’s breath catches, and if she looks anywhere but at the ceiling she’ll be lost.
“This could be tighter, I think,” Anne remarks, light, conversational, helpful.
It’s nothing short of torture.
Burn This Floor
Agents of SHIELD | Skye/Jemma | G | ponytail | set season one/pre-Jemma’s haircut | title from Pound The Alarm by Nicki Minaj
Jemma is running, something that might be Nicki Minaj leaking out of her headphones, head dipping down occasionally to look at the StarkPad attached to the machine, swiping fingers over whatever it is she and Fitz have decided to try and build this week, unable to switch off entirely. She’s in pink sneakers and a faded My Little Pony t-shirt, ponytail bouncing along to the rhythm of her strides.
There’s all kinds of things Skye could be watching from this image, so it’s kind of weird that she’s just watching Jemma’s ponytail, the neat elastic that matches her sneakers - for real - holding back all but a few tendrils that are trickling down Jemma’s cheeks as she bites her lower lip and pokes at the graphics in front of her.
“You could be more obvious,” Trip says behind her, wearing a vest and a smirk, clearly down here for the weights.
“I’m being very discreet,” Skye replies, even though she last laid a punch on the bag in front of her about three and a half minutes ago.
“Maybe ask May to go through that again with you,” Trip suggests cheerfully, adding: “c’mon, you can spot for me.”
Skye considers her options. “I’m kind of distracted,” she admits.
Trip claps a hand against her shoulder. “I know,” he says, “but the angle’s better over there anyway.”
It’s not like she’s going to get any more defence training done today anyway, Skye reflects. “I’m very subtle,” she repeats, and Trip just grins.
Trade Negotiations
Disney Princesses | Elsa/Merida | R | patience | I ship these two so much tbh
Trade negotiations have been going on for hours, while the castle prepares for the ball tonight. It will celebrate the new alliance between their kingdoms, the two queens joining forces.
The best thing about “trade negotiations” is that no one is ever likely interrupt them: they sound just important and boring enough for people to stay away, leaving a respectful distance.
Merida is the giggly one, twining messy fingers in Elsa’s hair as she kisses her, the ties at the front of her gown falling easily apart under Elsa’s touch. The fashions in Arendelle are not nearly so accessible - perhaps something Elsa will discreetly bring up with a tailor before the next visit - so Elsa is the one with her hands full of Merida’s pale, freckled breasts, fingers twisting a nipple with occasional icy sparks to make Merida gasp into her mouth, while Merida claws at the velvet front of Elsa’s bodice with no matching luck.
“This is unfair,” Merida pants, kissed-wet mouth drawing into a pout.
“We’ve still got several more terms to negotiate,” she reminds Merida. Merida groans and huffs but acquiesces easily enough when Elsa ducks her head to curl her tongue around a warm stiff nipple.
Elsa’s skin is craving touch in a way she wasn’t allowed for years; Merida likes to have things when she wants them, a by-product from a childhood snatching things from her brothers, but Elsa can be a little more cerebral about later happiness, especially with her queen shivering against her.
Shut Up and Drive
Young Avengers | Kate/America | G | road trip | title from Rihanna | (also for femslash100100 - 161. camera)
Kate’s in charge of the driving, because America is more used to kicking holes in the universe when she wants to get places, and they’re trying to do this cliché properly. America complains about the slowness of the journey and makes obnoxious playlists using Kate’s iPod and leans her long legs on the dashboard until Kate nearly crashes at least three times because thighs, but she also takes endless pictures of the trip.
Billy and Teddy and David and Loki like various Instagram pictures of Kate yawning over the steering wheel, dirty hair piled up on top of her head, tacky rhinestone sunglasses picked up from a gas station hiding her eyes; pictures of America posing next to the ridiculous highway attractions they keep finding (World’s Longest Length of Floss This Way), of the two of them taking a selfie of themselves in a shitty motel with cotton candy and cheap beer, Kate pressing her lips into America’s cheek, America scowling badly for the camera.
These aren’t all of it, of course: there’s the fights on the side of the road with a flat and no charge left in either of their cell phones, and the bickering that leads to bruises, and the endless hot afternoons ignoring each other while pretending the talk show radio hosts are their new best friends, and the nights sleeping in the car when they can’t find a motel, America’s hair in Kate’s face, Kate’s elbow in America’s ribs.
It’s the best trip ever, basically.
Damask
The Musketeers | Constance/Anne | PG | dress fitting | vague season two spoilers
The queen absolutely does not need to be present for Constance’s dress fitting; Constance is sure of this. It’s a menial little thing she needs to have done - because the clothes that were appropriate and even pretty for the wife of a cloth merchant aren’t nearly suitable enough for court. It’s both exciting and a burden, to have new finery to worry about on top of everything else about her new position.
There are seamstresses and tailors enough at court, all good at their trade, and there is really no need for Anne to be overseeing the process, making the nervous woman measuring Constance’s waist constantly drop her mouthful of pins, apologising and your majesty-ing. It’s making something Constance wasn’t planning on enjoying ten times worse, actually.
The queen’s gaze is warm and penetrating enough to make Constance’s heart and stomach flutter beneath the bodice being pinned around her, make her wonder if the flush in her cheeks is too obvious and can be explained for something else. Anne’s expression is one of calm innocence; it makes Constance wonder what else she’s hiding, what else she could carry off in plain sight.
Anne steps forward, runs a light fingertip along the neckline of Constance’s dress, touch just skimming the tops of her breasts, pressed eagerly upwards by her corset. Constance’s breath catches, and if she looks anywhere but at the ceiling she’ll be lost.
“This could be tighter, I think,” Anne remarks, light, conversational, helpful.
It’s nothing short of torture.