Martha Ficathon: Definitive Articles
Title: Definitive Articles
Pairing: Martha/Ace
Rating: R (of a lighter variety)
Notes: Written for livii. There's femmeslash with Ace and, I guess, for kicks there's a 1940's period suit, so. Thanks to tellitslant for telling me it wasn't the twenty words I had to describe it. I still would have preferred to produce something short and witty... I blame Statistics and my drunk, Cuban-nationalist muse.
Martha was at a costume party, with one of her friends- oh Rachel, or Jennifer, she can’t remember now. Doesn’t even remember why she was wearing that particular costume, only that she kept pulling at the white gloves, and the hat was unbearably itchy, and that she (not Martha) hadn’t been wearing a dress.
Martha had been wearing a dress, short skirt, 1940’s, right out of her grandmother’s closet, smelled like moth balls. She’d aired it out for days, declared it passable- medical student, no money really to do much else but reuse old clothes. The rest was inexpensive enough, the eyebrow pencil to draw stockings on her legs, the white gloves, the hat- she hated it now, second-hand hat, itchy, unbearably itchy.
At first it had seemed fun (quaint, quirky, different), but by the time she saw her (not Martha), it had gotten quite old, and quite wearying, and Martha was ready to throw most of it off and wander about naked, and she might have if not for the fit her mum would have thrown about it.
She- the other she, her, the not Martha- is wearing leather and sunglasses, all black except for, well her, and she’s leaning against something and just watching like she’s waiting for someone, and Martha is intrigued despite herself. Not that there is much else to be intrigued about- Trevor goes on about his incessant study habits, blah, blah, blah, and Rachel is going off with yet another guy who looks older than her dad, and why aren’t there more drinks at this party?
Martha can’t help but wander over, slight sway to her step, one half alcohol, one half trying to look like maybe she’s worth looking over at. She usually relies on her eyes, one slight downward tilt of her head and a straight on gaze, but she doesn’t know if she’s quite clear minded enough to pull it off.
She does try, when the head of the other woman turns towards her, and Martha can just barely make out eyes beneath the shades. “And what are you supposed to be?” she manages with a smirk, her words only slurred at the very, very edges.
She (the not Martha) shrugs. A casual shrug. “I don’t know. Guess.”
Martha looks her up and down, raises an eyebrow. She leans forward before she whispers, “I don’t think it’s something my mother would appreciate very much.”
The intrigue is definitely two-way (Martha loves the way she acts like because she’s wearing the glasses she thinks Martha won’t notice the slight tip of her head downwards, and there’s that pleasure that races through her because it takes more than a second for the downwards to be upwards again).
Then finally, finally “No, probably not.”
---
Ace puts her jacket on the chair by the door, slides off her sunglasses, looks at the girl who’s already laid herself out on the bed and pulled off her gloves. For a moment, she wants to ask the standard questions, the name, the age, and then she just doesn’t. She takes in the bedroom, pink, standard little girl complete with teddy bears and… it’s almost sickeningly like a picture out of a book.
Miss Nineteen Forty props herself up on her elbows and watches Ace. “Are you coming, or do I have to drag you over here?”
The age question comes up again, but Ace is distracted by the way material is riding up coffee-colored, purposely-parted thighs, and for a moment she just wants to feel at least twenty-five again (when did she become twenty-nine?).
Her hands slide up that skin despite herself- like she’s gone to this room despite herself- material of the skirt brushing over the top of her fingers. Ace is rewarded with a “finally”, two hands on her wrists guiding them upwards, the flexing of muscle under her palms that she does enjoy (and it gets pointed out, raised eyebrow, “like that?”. Cocky girl).
There’s a nipping at her jaw, and Ace can smell the alcohol and the old-fashioned perfumed over a scent that’s purely human, and she likes it- thirteen, Perivale, Manisha, no. Her eyes shut tightly, and “we should role play a little, this being a costume party and all” tickles over her ear.
Ace laughs. “Yeah, what kind of story you got for this one?”
There are fingers that make their way down to her zipper, and with an almost artful precision- a clear, sharp tug- they unzip them. “War rationing. I obviously want the leather from your clothing. Feed my starving children or something.”
“And why am I letting you have it?” Ace asks.
She’s met by brown eyes that shine with mischievousness before hands slide her trousers down, and a warm mouth brushes over her cheek. “Because. Obviously you have a bit of money, wearing the leather in the first place, and…” There’s a hand, over the curve of her side, down to the back of her thigh. “Obviously you have certain tastes.”
There’s a graze of teeth on her shoulder, and Ace tips her head to the other side. (Does she have certain tastes?) The girl’s hands push up over her breast, as nips turn into bites. She pushes to her feet, rising to Ace’s height, and suddenly Ace has her back against a bureau. There are handles poking into her skin, nails digging just hard enough to hurt- Does she like it? Yes. The mouth curves over her shoulder, down her collar. Maybe.
There’s still a shirt of material between the tongue and skin, but it just makes her use more teeth, and Ace likes that (since when did she- twenty-nine, tastes…). She touches hair that she can just smooth her fingers over, pushes off a hat that falls to the floor. It joins the pile of leather- prices, rationing- and barely misses getting crushed by a knee as Miss Nineteen Forty makes her way to the bottom edge of Ace’s shirt. It (the hat) almost makes Ace think at some point in her life there might have been a spell around this, where it would have been like they were in another time period and she wasn’t older and she wasn’t a drunk college student. But she had been there (other times, other places… 1940? She didn’t think so), and she wants to just say to the girl that playing them is stupid, because playing them is nothing like being them or doing them but...
Ace just closes her eyes -again- because it isn’t that important. There is a drunk college student tracing a wet line down her stomach, there are handles of a little girl’s dresser poking into her back, and she loves it for being absolutely here and now and so immediate that she almost forgets how she always feels like she’s always there and now (still). Ace wants to be absolutely in a moment (tastes, pain, dressers, Perivale, drunk college students aside. Her, her, her). The girl’s as useful with her tongue as she is with her fingers- deft, skilled. She seems pleased with herself as Ace pushes her hips from the dresser (but this isn’t about her). There’s the feel of wood under her hands as she curls them around the bottom edge of a drawer (her sensation, who she is, her moment. Her).
She feels herself being driven against the dresser, breath sucked in, thighs barely supporting her, hearing pictures rattle behind her. She leans against it, ignores the clatter of something falling to the floor, ignores the sharp pant in her ear- there’s another graze of teeth, and tastes, yes, tastes, yes, the fine line where pain is driving pleasure and she’s there, there, there (and she knows where there is). It’s sharp and it’s white, and Ace is just closing her eyes, and she ignores the rest of it, the rough feel beneath her fingers, the clicking of metal and glass. It’s her, she’s here, and yes.
It gets as concentrated as it gets, and then Ace falls over the edge of it. Miss Nineteen Forty gives her a resentful look as she rises from her knees. “You near broke my nose.” She wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist, exactly once, and that’s all she says before she falls back on the bed, closes her eyes.
There are images lying over the floor of thirteen year olds holding arms over each other and smiling. There’s still a hat and her trousers around her ankles. She’s still- tastes, twenty-nine- out of breath.
It’s easy to put the world back in order, the pictures, her clothes. The only thing left is Miss Nineteen Forty, the worst anachronism Ace has ever met, already snoring, and Ace almost wishes she had some aspirin for that hangover, but she doesn’t have much of anything on her.
For a moment, Ace watches her (she wants to lie and say she doesn’t want this disorientation more than the one waiting for her back downstairs, she does… not). It only takes her a second before she turns back towards the door.
Pairing: Martha/Ace
Rating: R (of a lighter variety)
Notes: Written for livii. There's femmeslash with Ace and, I guess, for kicks there's a 1940's period suit, so. Thanks to tellitslant for telling me it wasn't the twenty words I had to describe it. I still would have preferred to produce something short and witty... I blame Statistics and my drunk, Cuban-nationalist muse.
Martha was at a costume party, with one of her friends- oh Rachel, or Jennifer, she can’t remember now. Doesn’t even remember why she was wearing that particular costume, only that she kept pulling at the white gloves, and the hat was unbearably itchy, and that she (not Martha) hadn’t been wearing a dress.
Martha had been wearing a dress, short skirt, 1940’s, right out of her grandmother’s closet, smelled like moth balls. She’d aired it out for days, declared it passable- medical student, no money really to do much else but reuse old clothes. The rest was inexpensive enough, the eyebrow pencil to draw stockings on her legs, the white gloves, the hat- she hated it now, second-hand hat, itchy, unbearably itchy.
At first it had seemed fun (quaint, quirky, different), but by the time she saw her (not Martha), it had gotten quite old, and quite wearying, and Martha was ready to throw most of it off and wander about naked, and she might have if not for the fit her mum would have thrown about it.
She- the other she, her, the not Martha- is wearing leather and sunglasses, all black except for, well her, and she’s leaning against something and just watching like she’s waiting for someone, and Martha is intrigued despite herself. Not that there is much else to be intrigued about- Trevor goes on about his incessant study habits, blah, blah, blah, and Rachel is going off with yet another guy who looks older than her dad, and why aren’t there more drinks at this party?
Martha can’t help but wander over, slight sway to her step, one half alcohol, one half trying to look like maybe she’s worth looking over at. She usually relies on her eyes, one slight downward tilt of her head and a straight on gaze, but she doesn’t know if she’s quite clear minded enough to pull it off.
She does try, when the head of the other woman turns towards her, and Martha can just barely make out eyes beneath the shades. “And what are you supposed to be?” she manages with a smirk, her words only slurred at the very, very edges.
She (the not Martha) shrugs. A casual shrug. “I don’t know. Guess.”
Martha looks her up and down, raises an eyebrow. She leans forward before she whispers, “I don’t think it’s something my mother would appreciate very much.”
The intrigue is definitely two-way (Martha loves the way she acts like because she’s wearing the glasses she thinks Martha won’t notice the slight tip of her head downwards, and there’s that pleasure that races through her because it takes more than a second for the downwards to be upwards again).
Then finally, finally “No, probably not.”
---
Ace puts her jacket on the chair by the door, slides off her sunglasses, looks at the girl who’s already laid herself out on the bed and pulled off her gloves. For a moment, she wants to ask the standard questions, the name, the age, and then she just doesn’t. She takes in the bedroom, pink, standard little girl complete with teddy bears and… it’s almost sickeningly like a picture out of a book.
Miss Nineteen Forty props herself up on her elbows and watches Ace. “Are you coming, or do I have to drag you over here?”
The age question comes up again, but Ace is distracted by the way material is riding up coffee-colored, purposely-parted thighs, and for a moment she just wants to feel at least twenty-five again (when did she become twenty-nine?).
Her hands slide up that skin despite herself- like she’s gone to this room despite herself- material of the skirt brushing over the top of her fingers. Ace is rewarded with a “finally”, two hands on her wrists guiding them upwards, the flexing of muscle under her palms that she does enjoy (and it gets pointed out, raised eyebrow, “like that?”. Cocky girl).
There’s a nipping at her jaw, and Ace can smell the alcohol and the old-fashioned perfumed over a scent that’s purely human, and she likes it- thirteen, Perivale, Manisha, no. Her eyes shut tightly, and “we should role play a little, this being a costume party and all” tickles over her ear.
Ace laughs. “Yeah, what kind of story you got for this one?”
There are fingers that make their way down to her zipper, and with an almost artful precision- a clear, sharp tug- they unzip them. “War rationing. I obviously want the leather from your clothing. Feed my starving children or something.”
“And why am I letting you have it?” Ace asks.
She’s met by brown eyes that shine with mischievousness before hands slide her trousers down, and a warm mouth brushes over her cheek. “Because. Obviously you have a bit of money, wearing the leather in the first place, and…” There’s a hand, over the curve of her side, down to the back of her thigh. “Obviously you have certain tastes.”
There’s a graze of teeth on her shoulder, and Ace tips her head to the other side. (Does she have certain tastes?) The girl’s hands push up over her breast, as nips turn into bites. She pushes to her feet, rising to Ace’s height, and suddenly Ace has her back against a bureau. There are handles poking into her skin, nails digging just hard enough to hurt- Does she like it? Yes. The mouth curves over her shoulder, down her collar. Maybe.
There’s still a shirt of material between the tongue and skin, but it just makes her use more teeth, and Ace likes that (since when did she- twenty-nine, tastes…). She touches hair that she can just smooth her fingers over, pushes off a hat that falls to the floor. It joins the pile of leather- prices, rationing- and barely misses getting crushed by a knee as Miss Nineteen Forty makes her way to the bottom edge of Ace’s shirt. It (the hat) almost makes Ace think at some point in her life there might have been a spell around this, where it would have been like they were in another time period and she wasn’t older and she wasn’t a drunk college student. But she had been there (other times, other places… 1940? She didn’t think so), and she wants to just say to the girl that playing them is stupid, because playing them is nothing like being them or doing them but...
Ace just closes her eyes -again- because it isn’t that important. There is a drunk college student tracing a wet line down her stomach, there are handles of a little girl’s dresser poking into her back, and she loves it for being absolutely here and now and so immediate that she almost forgets how she always feels like she’s always there and now (still). Ace wants to be absolutely in a moment (tastes, pain, dressers, Perivale, drunk college students aside. Her, her, her). The girl’s as useful with her tongue as she is with her fingers- deft, skilled. She seems pleased with herself as Ace pushes her hips from the dresser (but this isn’t about her). There’s the feel of wood under her hands as she curls them around the bottom edge of a drawer (her sensation, who she is, her moment. Her).
She feels herself being driven against the dresser, breath sucked in, thighs barely supporting her, hearing pictures rattle behind her. She leans against it, ignores the clatter of something falling to the floor, ignores the sharp pant in her ear- there’s another graze of teeth, and tastes, yes, tastes, yes, the fine line where pain is driving pleasure and she’s there, there, there (and she knows where there is). It’s sharp and it’s white, and Ace is just closing her eyes, and she ignores the rest of it, the rough feel beneath her fingers, the clicking of metal and glass. It’s her, she’s here, and yes.
It gets as concentrated as it gets, and then Ace falls over the edge of it. Miss Nineteen Forty gives her a resentful look as she rises from her knees. “You near broke my nose.” She wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist, exactly once, and that’s all she says before she falls back on the bed, closes her eyes.
There are images lying over the floor of thirteen year olds holding arms over each other and smiling. There’s still a hat and her trousers around her ankles. She’s still- tastes, twenty-nine- out of breath.
It’s easy to put the world back in order, the pictures, her clothes. The only thing left is Miss Nineteen Forty, the worst anachronism Ace has ever met, already snoring, and Ace almost wishes she had some aspirin for that hangover, but she doesn’t have much of anything on her.
For a moment, Ace watches her (she wants to lie and say she doesn’t want this disorientation more than the one waiting for her back downstairs, she does… not). It only takes her a second before she turns back towards the door.