drabbles: "she ain't heavy"
Title: "she ain't heavy"
Fandoms: West Wing x Buffy: the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: C.J./Tara
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: That one ep where C.J. had sex with a much younger woman? Yeah, a girl can dream, but no.
Disclaimer: Sorkin. Whedon. Considerable lack of me.
Warnings: Ridiculously self-indulgent.
Words: 200
Summary: That this too solid flesh would melt.
she ain't heavy
C.J.'s heaviness surprises her. It shouldn't; there's so much of her; those nine inches that feel like the world between Tara's head and C.J.'s. C.J. touches the sky, talks to stars. That height shifts to weight when it's horizontal, spread over Tara, when she can feel the poundage of breasts pressed against hers, when C.J. presses her lips so tightly over Tara's that she can't breathe under their weight. These kisses are not airy nothings, aren't the fantasies of a far-away lover. They are too solid and too real, nothing magic, just wet and slick, nothing special, except they're hers.
+++
C.J. has a long leg hooked around Tara's waist and a muscular thigh pressed against Tara's leg. There are six feet of Claudia Jean, and all of her is touching Tara. An elbow digs too hard into Tara's stomach, and Tara groans. Then C.J. moves one quick finger from tummy to thighs and touches Tara there, and the groan becomes a moan becomes a plea. "Please, C.J." Silently, thank you.
For this moment is not fantastic folly, but all too solid flesh. Tara won't float away on her own daydream, not with demandingly real hands prying her open, grounding her.
Fandoms: West Wing x Buffy: the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: C.J./Tara
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: That one ep where C.J. had sex with a much younger woman? Yeah, a girl can dream, but no.
Disclaimer: Sorkin. Whedon. Considerable lack of me.
Warnings: Ridiculously self-indulgent.
Words: 200
Summary: That this too solid flesh would melt.
she ain't heavy
C.J.'s heaviness surprises her. It shouldn't; there's so much of her; those nine inches that feel like the world between Tara's head and C.J.'s. C.J. touches the sky, talks to stars. That height shifts to weight when it's horizontal, spread over Tara, when she can feel the poundage of breasts pressed against hers, when C.J. presses her lips so tightly over Tara's that she can't breathe under their weight. These kisses are not airy nothings, aren't the fantasies of a far-away lover. They are too solid and too real, nothing magic, just wet and slick, nothing special, except they're hers.
+++
C.J. has a long leg hooked around Tara's waist and a muscular thigh pressed against Tara's leg. There are six feet of Claudia Jean, and all of her is touching Tara. An elbow digs too hard into Tara's stomach, and Tara groans. Then C.J. moves one quick finger from tummy to thighs and touches Tara there, and the groan becomes a moan becomes a plea. "Please, C.J." Silently, thank you.
For this moment is not fantastic folly, but all too solid flesh. Tara won't float away on her own daydream, not with demandingly real hands prying her open, grounding her.