Six Sarah/Cameron Crack AUs
There's too much serious on LJ for me. I can't do anything about that, but I can balance it out in my own journal. And what could be less serious than a half-dozen of the crackiest SCC AUs I could think of? Because let's face it, it doesn't get much crackier than Cameron-the-big-scary-robot as a Regency Miss or a wannabe fashion model.
The following does not belong to me, and should not be taken seriously. Obviously.
Regency
Miss Cameron Phillips clutched her reticule close, and tried to cover her nervousness. She'd never been good at socializing. She tried to follow the rules, but she always felt a little out-of-step.
Having a Season in London hadn't been her idea, but her mysterious benefactor had insisted on it. So here she was, headed for the ball the widowed Lady Connor was throwing for her son. (Her handsome, available son, her benefactor had said.)
She was escorted through the door, and introduced to her hosts. John Connor bowed politely over her hand. He had a nice smile, Cameron noticed, though he looked a little distracted as he went to greet his next guest.
And then she found herself face-to-face with Lady Sarah Connor. And the world fell out from under her as her slipper slid on the marble floor.
A surprisingly strong hand caught her arm, steadied her. "Are you all right?"
"Yes." Startling green eyes threatened to swallow her whole. "My foot slipped."
"I noticed." The voice would have been mocking, if not for the warmth lying just beneath the surface. "I can take you out to the balcony, if you need to get some air."
"I'd like that."
High School
Sarah dribbled the basketball lazily, and then tossed it casually through the hoop. Practice didn't start for another fifteen minutes, but she always made a point of being early. She had to be the best, if she wanted a scholarship.
"Excuse me."
She turned, and was surprised to see the new girl. Her father worked for the tech company at the edge of the town -- not on the assembly line, but in management -- but that was all Sarah knew about her.
Well, that and the fact that everybody said she was a total freak.
"Is this where the cheerleading tryouts are?"
Yeah, you can tell by how I'm shooting baskets. But Sarah bit back the sarcastic remark. Her father had been out of work for almost a year, and unemployment was running out. Being nice to the weirdo whose father worked at the plant was the least she could do. "It's over on the other side of the gym. You're early."
"Being on time is important."
"Yeah." She sunk another basket. "It is."
The other girl smiled. "Thank you."
Suddenly, Sarah wanted to warn her away from the cheerleaders. They'd rip her to shreds. "Good luck," she whispered.
Genderswap/Military
Cam Phillips straightened as Sergeant Connor walked down the row of recruits, his green eyes searching for any possible fault. He wouldn't, Cam thought, find anything wrong with him.
For the past six weeks, he'd made it is business to be the perfect recruit, to try and satisfy even the most trivial bit of minutiae.
Though he'd never be able to admit why he felt such an urgent need to satisfy the man.
He'd always been able to keep his attraction to men under wraps. To channel his attraction to what his father would consider more appropriate targets. And it wasn't that he didn't like girls, it was just that he liked boys as much.
And he'd had the misfortune to be assigned to an all-male company.
"Skylarking, Phillips?"
He startled back to attention, and found himself the focus of that green-eyed gaze -- filled with contempt, now.
"Drop and give me fifty!"
As he went to push-up position in front of those perfectly shined boots, he thought of what he'd heard earlier: President Obama had said that he wanted to end Don't Ask, Don't Tell. As far as Cam was concerned, the president couldn't change the policy soon enough!
Pirate
"Black Sarah" Connor, Captain of the Wily Wench, studied her opponent carefully. In the six months since she'd come to the Caribbean, the captain of the Terminatrix had earned a reputation for being a dangerous sort. But to Sarah's eyes she looked like little more than a child.
But then the younger woman looked up, and her expression hardened. A chill went down Sarah's back. But she would not let her fear show on her face.
She slammed her knife, blade-first, into the table. "Captain Cameron -- "
"That's me name," the younger woman said, her tone curiously flat. "I'll thank yeh not to wear it out."
"They said you were claimin' all the waters of the Caribbean for yer own huntin' ground."
Cameron raised her chin a notch. "That I be."
"I been preyin' on ships here since before yer mother spat yeh out, girlie, and I ain't plannin' on retiring just yet."
The younger pirate tilted her head to the side. Then she ran her finger up the edge of Sarah's knife, her expression thoughtful. Her fingers explored the place on Sarah's wrist where her blood pulsed beneath her skin. "I think we'd both profit more by co-operation."
High Fashion
Cameron Phillips walked through the doors of Haute! Magazine's New York office. Wearing the Mary Quant miniskirt she'd brought back from London, her hair freshly bobbed, she was ready to take the fashion world by storm.
The bored receptionist looked up from filing her nails.
"I'm here to see Miss Connor?" Suddenly she was nervous. What if she was here on the wrong day, the wrong time -- what if they'd forgotten about her? But she forced her shoulders back.
"Third door to your left."
"Thank you."
Head up, shoulders back, she reminded herself as she walked down the hall. She was just trying to get her nerve up to knock when it swung inward.
She was surprised to find herself face-to-face with Sarah Connor -- Haute's editor-in-chief -- herself. Though she hardly looked like the cool, collected photograph that graced her monthly column. This woman looked harried, almost frantic as she called out orders to her staff.
Then her eyes came back to Cameron. Grasped her chin with strong, warm fingers; turned her this way and that.
"Very Twiggy, but with just a hint of the exotic to set you apart. And you've got lovely eyes. Yes, you'll do."
Roman/Slavefic
Severa Conora watched from beneath heavy-lidded eyes as her husband's new slave girl danced for their guests.
The girl was lovely, she had to admit. Though she was still irritated with him for the purchase. The household's budget was not up to the level of entertaining he wanted to do. Not if he was going to be a Senator.
But the girl was lovely.
And with her husband out politicking, she knew she would face a lot of long nights at home. A lot of long, hot, boring nights. And until she gave her husband an heir that he could call his own, she didn't dare take a boy to her bed.
This girl, though, would create no such problem. She could satisfy Severa with fingers and lips and tongue -- and teeth -- and leave her husband none the wiser. And if he did find out?
He would forgive her. As long as she let him watch.
The girl's dance came to an end, and she dropped to her knees. But then her head came up, and her eyes met Severa's.
Severa smiled behind the rim of her goblet. Her husband's campaign wouldn't be such a burden, after all.
The following does not belong to me, and should not be taken seriously. Obviously.
Regency
Miss Cameron Phillips clutched her reticule close, and tried to cover her nervousness. She'd never been good at socializing. She tried to follow the rules, but she always felt a little out-of-step.
Having a Season in London hadn't been her idea, but her mysterious benefactor had insisted on it. So here she was, headed for the ball the widowed Lady Connor was throwing for her son. (Her handsome, available son, her benefactor had said.)
She was escorted through the door, and introduced to her hosts. John Connor bowed politely over her hand. He had a nice smile, Cameron noticed, though he looked a little distracted as he went to greet his next guest.
And then she found herself face-to-face with Lady Sarah Connor. And the world fell out from under her as her slipper slid on the marble floor.
A surprisingly strong hand caught her arm, steadied her. "Are you all right?"
"Yes." Startling green eyes threatened to swallow her whole. "My foot slipped."
"I noticed." The voice would have been mocking, if not for the warmth lying just beneath the surface. "I can take you out to the balcony, if you need to get some air."
"I'd like that."
High School
Sarah dribbled the basketball lazily, and then tossed it casually through the hoop. Practice didn't start for another fifteen minutes, but she always made a point of being early. She had to be the best, if she wanted a scholarship.
"Excuse me."
She turned, and was surprised to see the new girl. Her father worked for the tech company at the edge of the town -- not on the assembly line, but in management -- but that was all Sarah knew about her.
Well, that and the fact that everybody said she was a total freak.
"Is this where the cheerleading tryouts are?"
Yeah, you can tell by how I'm shooting baskets. But Sarah bit back the sarcastic remark. Her father had been out of work for almost a year, and unemployment was running out. Being nice to the weirdo whose father worked at the plant was the least she could do. "It's over on the other side of the gym. You're early."
"Being on time is important."
"Yeah." She sunk another basket. "It is."
The other girl smiled. "Thank you."
Suddenly, Sarah wanted to warn her away from the cheerleaders. They'd rip her to shreds. "Good luck," she whispered.
Genderswap/Military
Cam Phillips straightened as Sergeant Connor walked down the row of recruits, his green eyes searching for any possible fault. He wouldn't, Cam thought, find anything wrong with him.
For the past six weeks, he'd made it is business to be the perfect recruit, to try and satisfy even the most trivial bit of minutiae.
Though he'd never be able to admit why he felt such an urgent need to satisfy the man.
He'd always been able to keep his attraction to men under wraps. To channel his attraction to what his father would consider more appropriate targets. And it wasn't that he didn't like girls, it was just that he liked boys as much.
And he'd had the misfortune to be assigned to an all-male company.
"Skylarking, Phillips?"
He startled back to attention, and found himself the focus of that green-eyed gaze -- filled with contempt, now.
"Drop and give me fifty!"
As he went to push-up position in front of those perfectly shined boots, he thought of what he'd heard earlier: President Obama had said that he wanted to end Don't Ask, Don't Tell. As far as Cam was concerned, the president couldn't change the policy soon enough!
Pirate
"Black Sarah" Connor, Captain of the Wily Wench, studied her opponent carefully. In the six months since she'd come to the Caribbean, the captain of the Terminatrix had earned a reputation for being a dangerous sort. But to Sarah's eyes she looked like little more than a child.
But then the younger woman looked up, and her expression hardened. A chill went down Sarah's back. But she would not let her fear show on her face.
She slammed her knife, blade-first, into the table. "Captain Cameron -- "
"That's me name," the younger woman said, her tone curiously flat. "I'll thank yeh not to wear it out."
"They said you were claimin' all the waters of the Caribbean for yer own huntin' ground."
Cameron raised her chin a notch. "That I be."
"I been preyin' on ships here since before yer mother spat yeh out, girlie, and I ain't plannin' on retiring just yet."
The younger pirate tilted her head to the side. Then she ran her finger up the edge of Sarah's knife, her expression thoughtful. Her fingers explored the place on Sarah's wrist where her blood pulsed beneath her skin. "I think we'd both profit more by co-operation."
High Fashion
Cameron Phillips walked through the doors of Haute! Magazine's New York office. Wearing the Mary Quant miniskirt she'd brought back from London, her hair freshly bobbed, she was ready to take the fashion world by storm.
The bored receptionist looked up from filing her nails.
"I'm here to see Miss Connor?" Suddenly she was nervous. What if she was here on the wrong day, the wrong time -- what if they'd forgotten about her? But she forced her shoulders back.
"Third door to your left."
"Thank you."
Head up, shoulders back, she reminded herself as she walked down the hall. She was just trying to get her nerve up to knock when it swung inward.
She was surprised to find herself face-to-face with Sarah Connor -- Haute's editor-in-chief -- herself. Though she hardly looked like the cool, collected photograph that graced her monthly column. This woman looked harried, almost frantic as she called out orders to her staff.
Then her eyes came back to Cameron. Grasped her chin with strong, warm fingers; turned her this way and that.
"Very Twiggy, but with just a hint of the exotic to set you apart. And you've got lovely eyes. Yes, you'll do."
Roman/Slavefic
Severa Conora watched from beneath heavy-lidded eyes as her husband's new slave girl danced for their guests.
The girl was lovely, she had to admit. Though she was still irritated with him for the purchase. The household's budget was not up to the level of entertaining he wanted to do. Not if he was going to be a Senator.
But the girl was lovely.
And with her husband out politicking, she knew she would face a lot of long nights at home. A lot of long, hot, boring nights. And until she gave her husband an heir that he could call his own, she didn't dare take a boy to her bed.
This girl, though, would create no such problem. She could satisfy Severa with fingers and lips and tongue -- and teeth -- and leave her husband none the wiser. And if he did find out?
He would forgive her. As long as she let him watch.
The girl's dance came to an end, and she dropped to her knees. But then her head came up, and her eyes met Severa's.
Severa smiled behind the rim of her goblet. Her husband's campaign wouldn't be such a burden, after all.