collected Fireworks ficlets:
FROPLAY!
[BtVS. Faith/Buffy. "Who Are You?" NC-17. Map. 191 words]
The World, Upside Down
The first thing she does, fizzy, dizzy in the new body (Buffy's) is: she sinks into the bubble bath and explores. She says (to herself, the only girl listening) this is wrong, this is rape, this is the ultimate control, this is Faith and Buffy's body, just as she always wanted, yielding, arching, meeting Faith's fingers with her aching thighs. She tells herself, sighing into the foamy heat, that Buffy's what she always wanted, just like this, bubbles tickling her spine, the unexpected gasp when she touches her own breast, the wrong size, the wrong shape. She laughs at herself and digs her fingers in, learning the route into Buffy's cunt from her clit, mapping the way, even though, of course, she'll never come this route again, not when the body's Buffy's, not --
she's not preparing for some future seduction, not --
she's not expecting to return like any explorer, intoxicated by this new,native, virgin land, she's not, she's just having a little fun in Buffy's body before it's hers (hers), before it's hers, for keeps.
The first thing she does, dizzied, is: she makes Buffy come.
[Ultimate X-Men. Jean/Ororo. After #45/46(?) . NC-17. Drowning. 424 words.]
In the Oceans of Your Excellence
"Storm." The voice breaks into her thoughts like lightning, and, automatically, she triggers a tiny storm, drawing the electricity to her till her fingertips crackle. "Come down from there."
"Go away, Marvel Girl," she says, and whips her head around, stirring up a breeze. Her newly short hair doesn't weigh her down anymore, and she can actually feel the difference in her altitude.
"Do I need to retrieve you manually? Because I don't think you want me fucking with your thoughts."
"Go fuck with someone else's head, Jean."
"No."
She finds the thunder in herself and almost spits it out when Jean's voice thuds again in her head, more persistent, and accompanied by the image of Jean's ass in black leather.
"You're only hurting yourself, hon."
"Don't condescend. And get out of my head."
"Come down and we'll talk about it."
With a whiplash of lightning, Ororo lets herself down, but she's still bristling all over with electricity, so that when Jean touches her, there's a spark that's more than attraction.
"What do you think you're doing, Ororo?" Jean asks, her mouth a quizzical, kissable question mark.
Ororo can't answer; rage sticks in her throat and blinds her; she thrusts herself at Jean so their groins clash and her lips finally find Jean's. She can taste the fake smear of cosmetics and underneath it, something more powerful, something like what Hank was, but different and tinged with older -- she hates to say magic, it's all science, all genetics, a trick of her body, the things she can do, but that doesn't stop her from whipping Jean's frizz of hair back with a well-timed gust of wind, lifting both of them in a gale, raindrops for kisses, then sleet when Jean lifts her shirt and starts to fondle her breasts.
"I think," Jean moans, and then the words are all in Ororo's head; Jean's mouth is too busy with kisses, making Ororo arch her back and expose herself to the terrible storm, "you have issues."
"No shit," Ororo thinks, and Jean's hand slides under her skirt and pushes aside the slip of lace and digs a finger into Ororo's pussy. Ororo squirms, and lets the storm be background music for her groans, and Jean's fingers are streaks of lightning, and Ororo splits apart like a hurricane, and in the eye of her grief, there is Jean, prying into her private thoughts, prying open her private parts, driving her to orgasm that's an ecological disaster waiting to happen, and to the tears that finally fall.
[Crossover: Wicked (book) x Wizard of Oz (mythos). Elphaba/Wicked Witch of the West. NC-17. Rain. 434 words.]
Now When the Rain Comes
With friends like Glinda, who needed a mirror?
With a persistent water allergy and plenty of mead, who needed a wishing well, anyway?
Besides which, who needed anything, anything at all, in the first place?
Not Elphaba.
She didn't need the scrying pool when glass would do just as well and last twice as long and had the added advantage of being non-fatal unless ground, put in soup, and swallowed.
Who needed it? No one, that's who.
But Elphaba had a scrying pool, and through it she saw herself, bent double, hunched with wickedness and wrinkled with brooding, undeniably a Wicked Witch.
"Hello, pretty," said the Witch.
"Hello, um, hello, ma'am," said Elphaba, thinking it wisest.
"You look ravishing," said the Witch, and Elphaba thought it best to say nothing at all, even when the Witch took off her hat and then, carefully, slowly, unembarrassed, the rest of her clothes, pounds and pounds of heavy twill. "We witches need to stick together."
"Thanks, although I'm not sure I'm ready to identify as a witch," Elphaba told her, "until I've had more experience in the area."
"We could see to that, pretty," said the Witch, and stepped, finally, into her full nakedness. Elphaba felt overdressed for the first time in her life. "Why don't you try undressing? Going skyclad is remarkably easy once you've done it once."
Elphaba unclasped her cloak and let it fall, but felt more embarrassment than arousal as she took off the rest of her clothes. She felt, more than anything, homesick for Fiyero, who'd been the last person to see her like this. When she first touched herself, she closed her eyes tightly, and thought of him, and pretended she couldn't hear the Witch clawing at her own cunt and breathing heavily every time Elphaba's fingers slipped a little.
"That's right, my pretty," said the Witch, and sighed. Elphaba's curiosity got the better of her; she opened her eyes and watched the Witch's fingers circle her nipples, her clit, and for a minute, she could forget the Wickedness and only focus, in fascination, on the Witch's fingers. She hardly noticed that she'd increased her own rhythm, that her breathing was becoming jerky, that her fingers were slipping over her wetness.
Then suddenly, just when they were sighing towards completion, a drop fell on either side of the water, and the Witch scrambled, and Elphaba, skin burning, scrambled too, and without goodbyes they hurried away, fearful, scrambling, burning with unsatisfied arousal and with the wicked water, so they were safe inside their castles when the storm came, washing the world clean.
[West Wing. Donna/CJ. NC-17. Monsters. Homophobic language. 464 words.]
Like the Creatures Who Killed Princess Di
There are monsters under the bed and they are lesbians. There are monsters over the bed and they are tall girls, tripping. There are monsters in the windowpane and they are leering, lying. There are monsters whose heads are alight with the blaze of too much desire, sexuality that consumes, burns away gray matter and then vocal cords and then hands and feet and leaves only flaming cunt, burning, and nothing to touch it, no hands, no tongue, only parched cunt and yearning breasts, like a woman from the cover of a seedy porno, not the high class mags she's sure Toby reads, but something dirtier, baser, a woman who's nothing but sex.
There are monsters in the headlines, "Press Secretary CJ Cregg Is Outed," and other, worse, tabloid words, dyke and queer and The Hottest Lezzie in DC.
She dreams these monsters every night.
They have nothing to do with Donna. Donna, whose skin is perfection, whose laughter is aphrodisical, whose wide, eager smile, too ready to please, lopsided, makes CJ want to mother her, coddle her, forcibly make her grow a backbone.
CJ knows Donna's backbone, every vertebrae, bones she can almost taste through Donna's skin, the ridges she's licked while her hands cup Donna's breasts and make Donna sigh and plead for more. CJ knows Donna's staunch refusal to leave the office, come back to CJ's place, when there's work to be done for Josh. This is a kind of resolve, but not CJ's brand. She is not buying.
Donna's monsters manifest as a bitten lower lip, sweet tongue worrying its way out of her mouth, a wrinkled forehead, a frown, a confused question, an "are you sure this is okay?" Donna's monsters can be soothed away with carefully chosen words and with delicate fingers removing her bra, exposing her. Donna can't think straight when CJ's fingers breach her, and CJ's taken advantage of that, more than once.
CJ's monsters can't be stilled that way; CJ will lie still, muscles tensing when Donna's fingers and tongue find a sweet spot, relaxing when Donna's hands make wider circles, tensing again when the tip of Donna's tongue teases her clit, and then, in an instant, she'll see herself as the paparazzi see, splayed, wanton, compromised, no longer in any position of moral authority but a slut and a dyke and a story, begging to be front page news. The tension will start in her neck and work its way into her head, she'll sigh, and sit up, push Donna aside, refuse the kisses that taste suddenly like poison. That night, there will be no sleep for CJ as she sits working, driving the monsters away with the dedicated tap-tap-tap of keyboard keys, waiting for her cunt to become numb, dry, presentable, and safe.
[BSC. Claudia/Kristy/Mary Anne. Post-series, aged up to 15. Spoilerfree. NC-17. Beginning. 562 words.]
What They Discovered
Look what I discovered," said Kristy, and she reaches under her bed triumphantly to pull out what looks to Mary Anne like a very large, very oddly shaped plastic vegetable of some sort.
"Ewwwww," says Claudia. "Where did you find that?"
"Mom's room," says Kristy nonchalantly. "I guess Watson's not, you know."
"Ewwww," Claudia repeats.
"What is it?" asks Mary Anne, and Kristy laughs, but Claudia whispers in her ear till Mary Anne's eyes go wide.
"But... really? And you put it in your, you know? Really?"
"Only if you can't find someone to do it for you," Kristy says. "Or if you're in a hurry, or whatever. I don't know. I don't see the appeal of putting a big, penis-shaped thing in my vagina, but..."
"Well," Claudia says, and suddenly she's got mischief in her eyes, "why don't we show you!"
Kristy looks suspicious. "The last time you tried to show me that something that seemed appalling was really super fun, I ended up with red junk all over my lips and my cheeks and I had to shower like, three times, before it would all come off."
"Stacey told you to use cold cream," Claudia says, rolling her eyes and reaching for the vibrator. "Mary Anne, you want to get out, or..."
"No," Mary Anne says, bravely. "I'll watch." She looks like she's about to pass out, though, so Kristy crawls over and gives her an awkward pat on the shoulder, then somehow can't move, and puts her other hand on Mary Anne's leg to push herself up, but Mary Anne misinterprets the movement and puts her hands around Kristy's waist and Kristy has no choice but to kiss her, which she does with a good deal more tongue than Logan ever used. But somehow Kristy's tongue doesn't feel gross like Logan's did, but nice, inviting, and Kristy's mouth is full of secrets. Mary Anne tries to get herself further inside Kristy's mouth, forgetting all about Claudia.
"Hey!"
"Sorry," Kristy says, gasping for air. Then, seeing an opportunity, she says, "If you'll put Mom's sex toys back under my bed where they belong, I'll kiss you, too."
Claudia knows a good deal when she hears it, hastily hides the vibrator, and opens one more button on her oversized men's dress shirt, revealing the tops of her breasts. "Kiss me?"
Kristy's eyes widen, but she gamely bends to kiss Claudia's breasts, and Mary Anne feels herself getting very squirmy and uncomfortable and like she really, really needs to touch herself, so she does, and Claudia grins over the top of Kristy's head, which encourages Mary Anne to pull her nightgown off and she can't believe she's doing this, she's never done this, but Claudia's glowing, sweaty skin and Kristy's kisses... she feels itchy, and sticky, and wants to touch herself everywhere, and Kristy to touch her everywhere, and Claudia, and when they finally do come over, when Claudia grabs Mary Anne's hand and puts it against her vagina, when Kristy starts kissing Mary Anne there, it's all too much and too dreamy and Mary Anne floats away and then shakes hard, and jerks against Kristy's bookshelf, hitting her head on The Cat Ate My Gymsuit, and feels so good she can't describe it.
It feels like hours later that Claudia whispers, "Next time, though, I want to check out that vibrator."
[Anne of Green Gables. Anne/Diana. Set during Anne of Ingleside. R. Alias. 335 words.]
A Day of Do You Remember
It's a day full of do-you-remembers, forget-me-nots, and every excellent kind of cake. It's a day when Diana feels slender, when Anne feels carefree, when their smiles are almost girlish, when the sun is a new-found friend, when Diana's back doesn't bother her even after a two-mile hike through the woods, when the roses in Hester's garden are as sweet as ever, and Anne's flushed face as mesmerizing.
It's a day when Mrs. Wright and Mrs. Blythe set off from Green Gables in the morning, and disappear before noon, leaving two girls who only slightly resemble them, who are flushed and happy and perfectly content to be silent together, until Anne, not Mrs. Blythe today, grabs Diana's hand, and squeezes, and Diana rests her head on Anne's shoulder. Anne smiles, and runs her slim finger between Diana's plump ones, slow, delicate touches, till Diana shivers beside her. "Do you remember?" Anne asks, and Diana nods.
Anne moves her hand to Diana's leg, and, through three layers of skirt and petticoat, she can still feel Diana's thigh quiver and rise to meet her, and if she closes her eyes, the still, whispered moan is the same as ever, soft and surprised, and when she wraps her hand around the inside of Diana's leg, letting her fingers do the same mysterious dances, she still feels more alive then ever.
The tastes are all the same, the sensations, the hundreds of delicate buttons, the softness of Diana's lips, the trembling skin all pressed close to her mouth, the aroma of wildflowers that isn't entirely Hester's garden, but something native to Diana herself, homegrown and familiar and headier than Diana herself realizes. Anne's eyes are bright as ever when she brings her legs around Diana's waist, and her mouth as eager, and a trick of the light makes her gray eyes sparkle at the touch of Diana's fingers, and Mrs. Wright surprises herself by drawing the same laughing moans from Anne that black-haired Diana did so many years ago.
[Firefly. Kaylee/Inara. NC-17. Wonder. 472 words.]
Which She Has Never Studied
Inara can't remember the last time she saw such wild-eyed want on a face so gentle as Kaylee's, and Kaylee knows she's never seen nothing so wondrous as Inara, each inch of skin a new miracle and a discovery, each silken shawl falling in folds to Inara's floor a whole new universe uncovered. Kaylee's eyes widen and her breasts swell; Inara has listened so long that she can hear Kaylee's heartbeat as it quickens, and she knows Kaylee the way Kaylee knows Serenity, could tell without looking the precise moment when Kaylee's wet enough for two fingers, for three, though Inara hasn't touched her yet, and won't, till she's washed her back and breasts and hair, till time ripens and Kaylee's juices flow.
Kaylee stirs, and twists, and stares, and has no thought of what is rude or proper, for Inara makes everything holy, and the water that pours from her fingers, over her breasts, back to the basin, seems to seep straight into Kaylee's cunt; she feels herself gush, wants so bad to touch, but Inara said to wait, so Kaylee waits, propped up on her elbows and gazing. Inara lowers her eyes, sees the stain of wetness on Kaylee's thin cotton britches, and allows herself a slight smile as she undoes the ribbon that holds her own pants up, and ties it, softly, with a kiss, around Kaylee's eyes.
Without vision, Kaylee's lost, but only for a moment; she can still hear the reassuring hum of Serenity's engine, far away, and the close-by comfort of Inara's footsteps. If she listens close, she can hear water pouring, and the gentle scratch of Inara's nails on her tabletop, the sound of tea being stirred, and she can still sigh, and can imagine Inara's nakedness, and, when Inara finally sits, Kaylee can feel the squelch of Inara's quim against her own thigh. She gulps.
"Relax, mei-mei," whispers Inara, and through Kaylee's cotton pants, she touches her, rubbing her fingers softly against the bulge of skin, letting Kaylee's own wetness be her guide, curling her knuckles against Kaylee's clitoris in slow, practiced rhythms. Kaylee swallows hard, pushes back against the heel of Inara's hand, as if that could relieve the pressure, but Inara is insistent, and the pressure stays, and builds, and Kaylee doesn't think she can stay still any longer, only, for Inara, of course she can, and does, and only jerks her hips a little and opens her mouth to beg, but before she can, Inara has taken off her pants, has pushed half her hand inside Kaylee's cunt, and Kaylee lets out a wail of relief and comes without asking, shuddering around Inara's hand.
Inara withdraws, smiles, unwraps the blindfold, and is surprised at her own amazement when Kaylee throws herself into Inara's embrace, covering her face with smiling, indecent kisses.
[BtVS. Faith/Buffy. "Who Are You?" NC-17. Map. 191 words]
The World, Upside Down
The first thing she does, fizzy, dizzy in the new body (Buffy's) is: she sinks into the bubble bath and explores. She says (to herself, the only girl listening) this is wrong, this is rape, this is the ultimate control, this is Faith and Buffy's body, just as she always wanted, yielding, arching, meeting Faith's fingers with her aching thighs. She tells herself, sighing into the foamy heat, that Buffy's what she always wanted, just like this, bubbles tickling her spine, the unexpected gasp when she touches her own breast, the wrong size, the wrong shape. She laughs at herself and digs her fingers in, learning the route into Buffy's cunt from her clit, mapping the way, even though, of course, she'll never come this route again, not when the body's Buffy's, not --
she's not preparing for some future seduction, not --
she's not expecting to return like any explorer, intoxicated by this new,native, virgin land, she's not, she's just having a little fun in Buffy's body before it's hers (hers), before it's hers, for keeps.
The first thing she does, dizzied, is: she makes Buffy come.
[Ultimate X-Men. Jean/Ororo. After #45/46(?) . NC-17. Drowning. 424 words.]
In the Oceans of Your Excellence
"Storm." The voice breaks into her thoughts like lightning, and, automatically, she triggers a tiny storm, drawing the electricity to her till her fingertips crackle. "Come down from there."
"Go away, Marvel Girl," she says, and whips her head around, stirring up a breeze. Her newly short hair doesn't weigh her down anymore, and she can actually feel the difference in her altitude.
"Do I need to retrieve you manually? Because I don't think you want me fucking with your thoughts."
"Go fuck with someone else's head, Jean."
"No."
She finds the thunder in herself and almost spits it out when Jean's voice thuds again in her head, more persistent, and accompanied by the image of Jean's ass in black leather.
"You're only hurting yourself, hon."
"Don't condescend. And get out of my head."
"Come down and we'll talk about it."
With a whiplash of lightning, Ororo lets herself down, but she's still bristling all over with electricity, so that when Jean touches her, there's a spark that's more than attraction.
"What do you think you're doing, Ororo?" Jean asks, her mouth a quizzical, kissable question mark.
Ororo can't answer; rage sticks in her throat and blinds her; she thrusts herself at Jean so their groins clash and her lips finally find Jean's. She can taste the fake smear of cosmetics and underneath it, something more powerful, something like what Hank was, but different and tinged with older -- she hates to say magic, it's all science, all genetics, a trick of her body, the things she can do, but that doesn't stop her from whipping Jean's frizz of hair back with a well-timed gust of wind, lifting both of them in a gale, raindrops for kisses, then sleet when Jean lifts her shirt and starts to fondle her breasts.
"I think," Jean moans, and then the words are all in Ororo's head; Jean's mouth is too busy with kisses, making Ororo arch her back and expose herself to the terrible storm, "you have issues."
"No shit," Ororo thinks, and Jean's hand slides under her skirt and pushes aside the slip of lace and digs a finger into Ororo's pussy. Ororo squirms, and lets the storm be background music for her groans, and Jean's fingers are streaks of lightning, and Ororo splits apart like a hurricane, and in the eye of her grief, there is Jean, prying into her private thoughts, prying open her private parts, driving her to orgasm that's an ecological disaster waiting to happen, and to the tears that finally fall.
[Crossover: Wicked (book) x Wizard of Oz (mythos). Elphaba/Wicked Witch of the West. NC-17. Rain. 434 words.]
Now When the Rain Comes
With friends like Glinda, who needed a mirror?
With a persistent water allergy and plenty of mead, who needed a wishing well, anyway?
Besides which, who needed anything, anything at all, in the first place?
Not Elphaba.
She didn't need the scrying pool when glass would do just as well and last twice as long and had the added advantage of being non-fatal unless ground, put in soup, and swallowed.
Who needed it? No one, that's who.
But Elphaba had a scrying pool, and through it she saw herself, bent double, hunched with wickedness and wrinkled with brooding, undeniably a Wicked Witch.
"Hello, pretty," said the Witch.
"Hello, um, hello, ma'am," said Elphaba, thinking it wisest.
"You look ravishing," said the Witch, and Elphaba thought it best to say nothing at all, even when the Witch took off her hat and then, carefully, slowly, unembarrassed, the rest of her clothes, pounds and pounds of heavy twill. "We witches need to stick together."
"Thanks, although I'm not sure I'm ready to identify as a witch," Elphaba told her, "until I've had more experience in the area."
"We could see to that, pretty," said the Witch, and stepped, finally, into her full nakedness. Elphaba felt overdressed for the first time in her life. "Why don't you try undressing? Going skyclad is remarkably easy once you've done it once."
Elphaba unclasped her cloak and let it fall, but felt more embarrassment than arousal as she took off the rest of her clothes. She felt, more than anything, homesick for Fiyero, who'd been the last person to see her like this. When she first touched herself, she closed her eyes tightly, and thought of him, and pretended she couldn't hear the Witch clawing at her own cunt and breathing heavily every time Elphaba's fingers slipped a little.
"That's right, my pretty," said the Witch, and sighed. Elphaba's curiosity got the better of her; she opened her eyes and watched the Witch's fingers circle her nipples, her clit, and for a minute, she could forget the Wickedness and only focus, in fascination, on the Witch's fingers. She hardly noticed that she'd increased her own rhythm, that her breathing was becoming jerky, that her fingers were slipping over her wetness.
Then suddenly, just when they were sighing towards completion, a drop fell on either side of the water, and the Witch scrambled, and Elphaba, skin burning, scrambled too, and without goodbyes they hurried away, fearful, scrambling, burning with unsatisfied arousal and with the wicked water, so they were safe inside their castles when the storm came, washing the world clean.
[West Wing. Donna/CJ. NC-17. Monsters. Homophobic language. 464 words.]
Like the Creatures Who Killed Princess Di
There are monsters under the bed and they are lesbians. There are monsters over the bed and they are tall girls, tripping. There are monsters in the windowpane and they are leering, lying. There are monsters whose heads are alight with the blaze of too much desire, sexuality that consumes, burns away gray matter and then vocal cords and then hands and feet and leaves only flaming cunt, burning, and nothing to touch it, no hands, no tongue, only parched cunt and yearning breasts, like a woman from the cover of a seedy porno, not the high class mags she's sure Toby reads, but something dirtier, baser, a woman who's nothing but sex.
There are monsters in the headlines, "Press Secretary CJ Cregg Is Outed," and other, worse, tabloid words, dyke and queer and The Hottest Lezzie in DC.
She dreams these monsters every night.
They have nothing to do with Donna. Donna, whose skin is perfection, whose laughter is aphrodisical, whose wide, eager smile, too ready to please, lopsided, makes CJ want to mother her, coddle her, forcibly make her grow a backbone.
CJ knows Donna's backbone, every vertebrae, bones she can almost taste through Donna's skin, the ridges she's licked while her hands cup Donna's breasts and make Donna sigh and plead for more. CJ knows Donna's staunch refusal to leave the office, come back to CJ's place, when there's work to be done for Josh. This is a kind of resolve, but not CJ's brand. She is not buying.
Donna's monsters manifest as a bitten lower lip, sweet tongue worrying its way out of her mouth, a wrinkled forehead, a frown, a confused question, an "are you sure this is okay?" Donna's monsters can be soothed away with carefully chosen words and with delicate fingers removing her bra, exposing her. Donna can't think straight when CJ's fingers breach her, and CJ's taken advantage of that, more than once.
CJ's monsters can't be stilled that way; CJ will lie still, muscles tensing when Donna's fingers and tongue find a sweet spot, relaxing when Donna's hands make wider circles, tensing again when the tip of Donna's tongue teases her clit, and then, in an instant, she'll see herself as the paparazzi see, splayed, wanton, compromised, no longer in any position of moral authority but a slut and a dyke and a story, begging to be front page news. The tension will start in her neck and work its way into her head, she'll sigh, and sit up, push Donna aside, refuse the kisses that taste suddenly like poison. That night, there will be no sleep for CJ as she sits working, driving the monsters away with the dedicated tap-tap-tap of keyboard keys, waiting for her cunt to become numb, dry, presentable, and safe.
[BSC. Claudia/Kristy/Mary Anne. Post-series, aged up to 15. Spoilerfree. NC-17. Beginning. 562 words.]
What They Discovered
Look what I discovered," said Kristy, and she reaches under her bed triumphantly to pull out what looks to Mary Anne like a very large, very oddly shaped plastic vegetable of some sort.
"Ewwwww," says Claudia. "Where did you find that?"
"Mom's room," says Kristy nonchalantly. "I guess Watson's not, you know."
"Ewwww," Claudia repeats.
"What is it?" asks Mary Anne, and Kristy laughs, but Claudia whispers in her ear till Mary Anne's eyes go wide.
"But... really? And you put it in your, you know? Really?"
"Only if you can't find someone to do it for you," Kristy says. "Or if you're in a hurry, or whatever. I don't know. I don't see the appeal of putting a big, penis-shaped thing in my vagina, but..."
"Well," Claudia says, and suddenly she's got mischief in her eyes, "why don't we show you!"
Kristy looks suspicious. "The last time you tried to show me that something that seemed appalling was really super fun, I ended up with red junk all over my lips and my cheeks and I had to shower like, three times, before it would all come off."
"Stacey told you to use cold cream," Claudia says, rolling her eyes and reaching for the vibrator. "Mary Anne, you want to get out, or..."
"No," Mary Anne says, bravely. "I'll watch." She looks like she's about to pass out, though, so Kristy crawls over and gives her an awkward pat on the shoulder, then somehow can't move, and puts her other hand on Mary Anne's leg to push herself up, but Mary Anne misinterprets the movement and puts her hands around Kristy's waist and Kristy has no choice but to kiss her, which she does with a good deal more tongue than Logan ever used. But somehow Kristy's tongue doesn't feel gross like Logan's did, but nice, inviting, and Kristy's mouth is full of secrets. Mary Anne tries to get herself further inside Kristy's mouth, forgetting all about Claudia.
"Hey!"
"Sorry," Kristy says, gasping for air. Then, seeing an opportunity, she says, "If you'll put Mom's sex toys back under my bed where they belong, I'll kiss you, too."
Claudia knows a good deal when she hears it, hastily hides the vibrator, and opens one more button on her oversized men's dress shirt, revealing the tops of her breasts. "Kiss me?"
Kristy's eyes widen, but she gamely bends to kiss Claudia's breasts, and Mary Anne feels herself getting very squirmy and uncomfortable and like she really, really needs to touch herself, so she does, and Claudia grins over the top of Kristy's head, which encourages Mary Anne to pull her nightgown off and she can't believe she's doing this, she's never done this, but Claudia's glowing, sweaty skin and Kristy's kisses... she feels itchy, and sticky, and wants to touch herself everywhere, and Kristy to touch her everywhere, and Claudia, and when they finally do come over, when Claudia grabs Mary Anne's hand and puts it against her vagina, when Kristy starts kissing Mary Anne there, it's all too much and too dreamy and Mary Anne floats away and then shakes hard, and jerks against Kristy's bookshelf, hitting her head on The Cat Ate My Gymsuit, and feels so good she can't describe it.
It feels like hours later that Claudia whispers, "Next time, though, I want to check out that vibrator."
[Anne of Green Gables. Anne/Diana. Set during Anne of Ingleside. R. Alias. 335 words.]
A Day of Do You Remember
It's a day full of do-you-remembers, forget-me-nots, and every excellent kind of cake. It's a day when Diana feels slender, when Anne feels carefree, when their smiles are almost girlish, when the sun is a new-found friend, when Diana's back doesn't bother her even after a two-mile hike through the woods, when the roses in Hester's garden are as sweet as ever, and Anne's flushed face as mesmerizing.
It's a day when Mrs. Wright and Mrs. Blythe set off from Green Gables in the morning, and disappear before noon, leaving two girls who only slightly resemble them, who are flushed and happy and perfectly content to be silent together, until Anne, not Mrs. Blythe today, grabs Diana's hand, and squeezes, and Diana rests her head on Anne's shoulder. Anne smiles, and runs her slim finger between Diana's plump ones, slow, delicate touches, till Diana shivers beside her. "Do you remember?" Anne asks, and Diana nods.
Anne moves her hand to Diana's leg, and, through three layers of skirt and petticoat, she can still feel Diana's thigh quiver and rise to meet her, and if she closes her eyes, the still, whispered moan is the same as ever, soft and surprised, and when she wraps her hand around the inside of Diana's leg, letting her fingers do the same mysterious dances, she still feels more alive then ever.
The tastes are all the same, the sensations, the hundreds of delicate buttons, the softness of Diana's lips, the trembling skin all pressed close to her mouth, the aroma of wildflowers that isn't entirely Hester's garden, but something native to Diana herself, homegrown and familiar and headier than Diana herself realizes. Anne's eyes are bright as ever when she brings her legs around Diana's waist, and her mouth as eager, and a trick of the light makes her gray eyes sparkle at the touch of Diana's fingers, and Mrs. Wright surprises herself by drawing the same laughing moans from Anne that black-haired Diana did so many years ago.
[Firefly. Kaylee/Inara. NC-17. Wonder. 472 words.]
Which She Has Never Studied
Inara can't remember the last time she saw such wild-eyed want on a face so gentle as Kaylee's, and Kaylee knows she's never seen nothing so wondrous as Inara, each inch of skin a new miracle and a discovery, each silken shawl falling in folds to Inara's floor a whole new universe uncovered. Kaylee's eyes widen and her breasts swell; Inara has listened so long that she can hear Kaylee's heartbeat as it quickens, and she knows Kaylee the way Kaylee knows Serenity, could tell without looking the precise moment when Kaylee's wet enough for two fingers, for three, though Inara hasn't touched her yet, and won't, till she's washed her back and breasts and hair, till time ripens and Kaylee's juices flow.
Kaylee stirs, and twists, and stares, and has no thought of what is rude or proper, for Inara makes everything holy, and the water that pours from her fingers, over her breasts, back to the basin, seems to seep straight into Kaylee's cunt; she feels herself gush, wants so bad to touch, but Inara said to wait, so Kaylee waits, propped up on her elbows and gazing. Inara lowers her eyes, sees the stain of wetness on Kaylee's thin cotton britches, and allows herself a slight smile as she undoes the ribbon that holds her own pants up, and ties it, softly, with a kiss, around Kaylee's eyes.
Without vision, Kaylee's lost, but only for a moment; she can still hear the reassuring hum of Serenity's engine, far away, and the close-by comfort of Inara's footsteps. If she listens close, she can hear water pouring, and the gentle scratch of Inara's nails on her tabletop, the sound of tea being stirred, and she can still sigh, and can imagine Inara's nakedness, and, when Inara finally sits, Kaylee can feel the squelch of Inara's quim against her own thigh. She gulps.
"Relax, mei-mei," whispers Inara, and through Kaylee's cotton pants, she touches her, rubbing her fingers softly against the bulge of skin, letting Kaylee's own wetness be her guide, curling her knuckles against Kaylee's clitoris in slow, practiced rhythms. Kaylee swallows hard, pushes back against the heel of Inara's hand, as if that could relieve the pressure, but Inara is insistent, and the pressure stays, and builds, and Kaylee doesn't think she can stay still any longer, only, for Inara, of course she can, and does, and only jerks her hips a little and opens her mouth to beg, but before she can, Inara has taken off her pants, has pushed half her hand inside Kaylee's cunt, and Kaylee lets out a wail of relief and comes without asking, shuddering around Inara's hand.
Inara withdraws, smiles, unwraps the blindfold, and is surprised at her own amazement when Kaylee throws herself into Inara's embrace, covering her face with smiling, indecent kisses.