FIC: Safe (Dead Like Me) Daisy/George
So, geonncannon wrote 31 stories for the Merry Month of Masturbation, including stories for The Facts of Life, Stargate OT3 and OT4, House, The X-Files, and even Dead Like Me. ;) This was a ficathon I considered and quickly dismissed. I am not that awesome.
But he is that awesome, so he gets one masturbation story from me for completing his 31 days. Happy June 1st!
Title: Safe
Date: 06/01/06
Source: Dead Like Me
Pairing: Daisy Adair/Georgia Lass
Notes: Spoilers for near the end of Season 2, but it's Dead Like Me... if a spoiler falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it really make a sound?
Summary: Daisy was afraid to sleep alone.
* * *
Daisy was a fallen starlet, deceased 1939, before her time, creeping into a bedroom in 2003 where a sleeping young dead woman already occupied the bed. Daisy was relieved to see her there. She was afraid to sleep alone. Daisy pushed open the bedroom door. A night light glowed from a floor outlet. George didn't like the dark. She never had, she'd told Daisy, and the phobia had followed her to the other side. Darkness reminded her of death, strangely, and George didn't want to be dead. She was young. She'd learn.
Funny how people mostly died in the daytime. Accidents and diseases and murder came out in the light. Darkness meant rest. Despite all caveman logic, people were safest when they were asleep in their beds. Daisy wondered what it would be like to work on the natural death ward, watching people slip away. Morbid.
She followed the same cycle as death; Rising in the morning, sleeping at night. Only, she hadn't been sleeping. She'd been creeping into George's bed and listening to George sleep. Tonight, she unraveled her scarf and folded it to set on the dresser. Her reflection in the mirror above was murky and indistinct.
George grunted and turned over in bed. Daisy smiled at herself in the mirror. She unrolled her stockings. Her nightgown hung on a hook behind the closet door. Daisy grabbed it and took it into the bathroom. George always slept in a tank top and shorts, despite Daisy's pleading instruction. A girl should always look beautiful in bed.
When Daisy came out of the bathroom, smelling of peppermint and roses, George was lying in the same position. The room was as still as a tomb. Daisy sat on the edge of the bed. She looked down at her hands, and squared her shoulders. "George. I haven't been honest with you."
George remained unmoving. Daisy curled on her side on top of the covers. The comforter separated them and kept them from inappropriate contact. Daisy could move into the lumpy heat. She could curl against the solidness that George offered, like it was a stuffed animal and not another soul.
She heard George grunt, and asked, "Are you dreaming, George?"
Daisy wanted to confess. She wanted forgiveness, absolution. No more sleepless nights, no more gravelings. But she'd given up on God, and God had returned the favor. People walked around killing each other, and men hadn't changed in several lifetimes.
Men.
"I haven't been honest... about my feelings," Daisy said.
George shifted, rolling into Daisy's back. Hot breath blew across Daisy's neck. Daisy closed her eyes. She didn't feel guilty for what she'd done to Ray; just scared. Unsafe. Sleeping was safe, and George was the only one in the house asleep. Asleep and unable to comfort her--How selfish. "George," she called.
So many men. Famous men, always. Never the crew. Never the grip or the script reader or the guy who brought her coffee. And never a woman, even though Greta Garbo had once cornered her in a bathroom at the Algonquin. Even though she'd watched the silent films and dreamed about kissing Joan Crawford. Dark theaters crowded with men stroking their dicks for the silver screen. Daisy wanted the part.
She rolled over to face George. George's forehead was wrinkle-free. She could have been beautiful, if only she'd listen to Daisy about fashion. Or any woman. Hadn't she had a mother? George lacked ambition and slept soundly at night. But then, she'd never been hungry, or witnessed her sister's murder. Must be nice.
Daisy snuggled closer. She kissed George's forehead. Her lips lingered on too-warm skin. She inhaled suburbia and death, a true product of her era, just as Daisy probably stank of the olden days. Never should the twain meet, and yet, here they were in bed together, like ghosts.
George stirred. Daisy withdrew her lips.
"Daisy," George mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. "Fucking go to sleep."
"All right, George," Daisy said. She rolled onto her back. The ceiling had cracks that stuck out like black veins in the dark. One day the police would come to the door and demand to know what they were doing in a dead woman's house. "We're dead, officer," Daisy would say, and smile demurely.
No one would come tonight, so Daisy was free to lie in bed and wonder about George. She didn't have to wonder about Mason. What he wanted from her was naked in his eyes. Even with Rube, she could picture the way he would touch her, if he were ever so inclined. She knew men. But George...
A few weeks ago Daisy's thoughts would never have strayed. George would not have been a sexual creature. But she'd lost her virginity, with Daisy too wrapped up in Ray to look out for her. Judging from George's depression, the man had been boorish. Had he even known it was George's deflowering? Had he known to be tender? That he should have run his hands slowly down her body, awakening it, showing it how to feel. That it was all right to feel.
Daisy pictured George's breasts. Small, the same dusky color of the rest of her, with large nipples that hardened at the slightest provocation. George often kept her arms crossed over them, scowling, as if her body had failed her. Daisy wondered if she could make George's nipples tighten with just her breath. Maybe she'd have to use her hands. Maybe her mouth. She would know how to negotiate George's body.
The sheer silk gown--She'd tired to explain this to George--made Daisy feel sexy. She drew up the hem, just to feel the silk slide across her legs. George could wake up at any moment and catch her. The wicked thought made Daisy wet. She tried to picture it:
"You can't sleep here if you're going to fucking masturbate in my bed, Daisy."
George angry sent a thrill through Daisy. She tingled where her hand clutched her gown. Making George talk, making George growl, was tempting, but then George would be awake and Daisy wouldn't be able to touch herself. Better to let her lie in innocence, away from Daisy's multitude of sins.
Errol Flynn, eat your heart out. Daisy's middle finger pushed between her swollen lips. Her legs were spread, her secrets exposed by the night light. She found her clitoris, hard and aching underneath her fingers. Her hips rocked, responding to her strokes. George receded from her mind as she focused on her own body. Her eyes closed. The silk against her belly, the slickness of her fingers, her own gasps ringing in her ears as she tried to choke them down--it all made her alive again.
She came. A reaper orgasm was no shattering crescendo, just bones settling and currents stilling, just wet thighs and short breaths. She withdrew her fingers and smoothed her nightgown, aware of George's steady breathing next to her. George's lips were slightly parted.
Mouth breather, Daisy thought. The youth of today had no class. She rolled over and pressed her lips to George's. The chaste kiss stayed on George's lips until George shifted, tilting her head. Daisy felt the pressure against her mouth and pulled back. Cold air brushed her lips.
"Daisy," George said. Her eyes were closed.
"What?"
"Go to sleep."
Daisy sighed, and said, "I will."
"It's okay."
Daisy shifted onto her back. George's head settled onto her shoulder. "Want me to sing you a lullaby?" George asked.
"Go to sleep, George."
George snorted. Daisy closed her eyes. The bedroom was beyond the domain of men. George would keep her close, and she wouldn't have to worry about Ray until tomorrow. Tonight, she could rest.
END
But he is that awesome, so he gets one masturbation story from me for completing his 31 days. Happy June 1st!
Title: Safe
Date: 06/01/06
Source: Dead Like Me
Pairing: Daisy Adair/Georgia Lass
Notes: Spoilers for near the end of Season 2, but it's Dead Like Me... if a spoiler falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it really make a sound?
Summary: Daisy was afraid to sleep alone.
* * *
Daisy was a fallen starlet, deceased 1939, before her time, creeping into a bedroom in 2003 where a sleeping young dead woman already occupied the bed. Daisy was relieved to see her there. She was afraid to sleep alone. Daisy pushed open the bedroom door. A night light glowed from a floor outlet. George didn't like the dark. She never had, she'd told Daisy, and the phobia had followed her to the other side. Darkness reminded her of death, strangely, and George didn't want to be dead. She was young. She'd learn.
Funny how people mostly died in the daytime. Accidents and diseases and murder came out in the light. Darkness meant rest. Despite all caveman logic, people were safest when they were asleep in their beds. Daisy wondered what it would be like to work on the natural death ward, watching people slip away. Morbid.
She followed the same cycle as death; Rising in the morning, sleeping at night. Only, she hadn't been sleeping. She'd been creeping into George's bed and listening to George sleep. Tonight, she unraveled her scarf and folded it to set on the dresser. Her reflection in the mirror above was murky and indistinct.
George grunted and turned over in bed. Daisy smiled at herself in the mirror. She unrolled her stockings. Her nightgown hung on a hook behind the closet door. Daisy grabbed it and took it into the bathroom. George always slept in a tank top and shorts, despite Daisy's pleading instruction. A girl should always look beautiful in bed.
When Daisy came out of the bathroom, smelling of peppermint and roses, George was lying in the same position. The room was as still as a tomb. Daisy sat on the edge of the bed. She looked down at her hands, and squared her shoulders. "George. I haven't been honest with you."
George remained unmoving. Daisy curled on her side on top of the covers. The comforter separated them and kept them from inappropriate contact. Daisy could move into the lumpy heat. She could curl against the solidness that George offered, like it was a stuffed animal and not another soul.
She heard George grunt, and asked, "Are you dreaming, George?"
Daisy wanted to confess. She wanted forgiveness, absolution. No more sleepless nights, no more gravelings. But she'd given up on God, and God had returned the favor. People walked around killing each other, and men hadn't changed in several lifetimes.
Men.
"I haven't been honest... about my feelings," Daisy said.
George shifted, rolling into Daisy's back. Hot breath blew across Daisy's neck. Daisy closed her eyes. She didn't feel guilty for what she'd done to Ray; just scared. Unsafe. Sleeping was safe, and George was the only one in the house asleep. Asleep and unable to comfort her--How selfish. "George," she called.
So many men. Famous men, always. Never the crew. Never the grip or the script reader or the guy who brought her coffee. And never a woman, even though Greta Garbo had once cornered her in a bathroom at the Algonquin. Even though she'd watched the silent films and dreamed about kissing Joan Crawford. Dark theaters crowded with men stroking their dicks for the silver screen. Daisy wanted the part.
She rolled over to face George. George's forehead was wrinkle-free. She could have been beautiful, if only she'd listen to Daisy about fashion. Or any woman. Hadn't she had a mother? George lacked ambition and slept soundly at night. But then, she'd never been hungry, or witnessed her sister's murder. Must be nice.
Daisy snuggled closer. She kissed George's forehead. Her lips lingered on too-warm skin. She inhaled suburbia and death, a true product of her era, just as Daisy probably stank of the olden days. Never should the twain meet, and yet, here they were in bed together, like ghosts.
George stirred. Daisy withdrew her lips.
"Daisy," George mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. "Fucking go to sleep."
"All right, George," Daisy said. She rolled onto her back. The ceiling had cracks that stuck out like black veins in the dark. One day the police would come to the door and demand to know what they were doing in a dead woman's house. "We're dead, officer," Daisy would say, and smile demurely.
No one would come tonight, so Daisy was free to lie in bed and wonder about George. She didn't have to wonder about Mason. What he wanted from her was naked in his eyes. Even with Rube, she could picture the way he would touch her, if he were ever so inclined. She knew men. But George...
A few weeks ago Daisy's thoughts would never have strayed. George would not have been a sexual creature. But she'd lost her virginity, with Daisy too wrapped up in Ray to look out for her. Judging from George's depression, the man had been boorish. Had he even known it was George's deflowering? Had he known to be tender? That he should have run his hands slowly down her body, awakening it, showing it how to feel. That it was all right to feel.
Daisy pictured George's breasts. Small, the same dusky color of the rest of her, with large nipples that hardened at the slightest provocation. George often kept her arms crossed over them, scowling, as if her body had failed her. Daisy wondered if she could make George's nipples tighten with just her breath. Maybe she'd have to use her hands. Maybe her mouth. She would know how to negotiate George's body.
The sheer silk gown--She'd tired to explain this to George--made Daisy feel sexy. She drew up the hem, just to feel the silk slide across her legs. George could wake up at any moment and catch her. The wicked thought made Daisy wet. She tried to picture it:
"You can't sleep here if you're going to fucking masturbate in my bed, Daisy."
George angry sent a thrill through Daisy. She tingled where her hand clutched her gown. Making George talk, making George growl, was tempting, but then George would be awake and Daisy wouldn't be able to touch herself. Better to let her lie in innocence, away from Daisy's multitude of sins.
Errol Flynn, eat your heart out. Daisy's middle finger pushed between her swollen lips. Her legs were spread, her secrets exposed by the night light. She found her clitoris, hard and aching underneath her fingers. Her hips rocked, responding to her strokes. George receded from her mind as she focused on her own body. Her eyes closed. The silk against her belly, the slickness of her fingers, her own gasps ringing in her ears as she tried to choke them down--it all made her alive again.
She came. A reaper orgasm was no shattering crescendo, just bones settling and currents stilling, just wet thighs and short breaths. She withdrew her fingers and smoothed her nightgown, aware of George's steady breathing next to her. George's lips were slightly parted.
Mouth breather, Daisy thought. The youth of today had no class. She rolled over and pressed her lips to George's. The chaste kiss stayed on George's lips until George shifted, tilting her head. Daisy felt the pressure against her mouth and pulled back. Cold air brushed her lips.
"Daisy," George said. Her eyes were closed.
"What?"
"Go to sleep."
Daisy sighed, and said, "I will."
"It's okay."
Daisy shifted onto her back. George's head settled onto her shoulder. "Want me to sing you a lullaby?" George asked.
"Go to sleep, George."
George snorted. Daisy closed her eyes. The bedroom was beyond the domain of men. George would keep her close, and she wouldn't have to worry about Ray until tomorrow. Tonight, she could rest.
END