The Good Ship Lesbian (NEXTWAVE - Elsa/Monica)
Author: daughtersofisis.
Recipient:
Prompt: "Thank god we're hot chicks with super-powers."
Title: The Good Ship Lesbian.
Fandom: NEXTWAVE.
Pairing: Elsa Bloodstone/Monica Rambeau.
Summary: Elsa gets on people's tits.
Beta Reader: twitchdemon.
Word Count: 1330.
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings: Extreme crack (but then, this is NEXTWAVE).
Author’s Note: Wrote it halfway, realized it was shit, started over with a new idea. Was late, consequently. But really, what can be done? I appear to have a disconcerting penchant for first-person narration in stories where hot chicks get nailed by hot chicks. Elsa talks like Glen Duncan's Lucifer, for which I apologise (but not very much).
---
THE GOOD SHIP LESBIAN.
---
One can always tell when one gets on someone's tits, can't one? And by 'one', I mean 'you', and by 'you', I mean 'not me'. A strange thing it is, but I can never quite identify when I've irritated somebody - largely, of course, because I always irritate everyone. I am eternally on everyone's tits, no mean feat given how many tits there are in the known and unknown universe, but one that I pull off with grace, panache, and lots of loud noises. There's no real reason for me to be aware of something that's a constant state, now, is there?
Yanks, of course, despise me. I am the English ****, you see; I can tell from that how insecure I make them with my class, superb vocabulary, counting skills, and style. (Only the British look good in orange.) There are exceptions, of course, such as that horrid little breadbox, but exceptions must exist to make the rules, and in any case I believe he was knocked silly by my tits. Bloody thing deserved to be shat out by a lizard, in my humble opinion.
But, digressions aside, sometimes even an oblivious girl like myself has to contend with someone who loathes them just so very much that it sinks through the vague fog of ordinary annoyance and becomes a dangerous rising pattern of how very pissed we are, darling. So it is with Monica Rambeau, the dear. I must confess I do try somewhat with her, if only to distract her from the fact that (you may not be aware) she once ran the Avengers. The Avengers? Honestly. Shoddy name, shoddy organisation. Not a patch on a Bloodstone. I've occasionally thought to clone myself and make a superteam of Bloodstones, but I always remember that we'd all have to wear matching suits and subsequently lose all enthusiasm because I honestly can't be arsed. Although, now I think of it, the idea of a horde of Elsas to have my way with is all too appealing.
Regardless of the brilliance of my ideas, even the sincere ones (rare birds, those), Monica has a dreadful tendency to shoot them down in a dreadfully offended, almost sorrowful manner. How could I presume to have an idea? Had I ever run the Avengers? No? She thought not. Now get back to toilet-scrubbing, me. Naughty Elsa. Even my fashion hints ("Darling, that suit does not match your anything.") and my efforts at bonding ("Mo, you ****, whyever won't you join in my Lara Croft/Kill Bill marathon?") are devastatingly dismissed. Hand to brow - I am wounded. Monica is resoundly unimpressed.
"Why don't you like me, Monica?" is what I do not say, though my eyes, I'm sure, communicate the depth of the Existenzangst her brusqueness has triggered. She merely rolls her eyes in an incredibly uncouth manner and shrugs her big, manly shoulders. Such an American. What am I to do?
What I am to do, I tell myself, is extract a cunning plan from the depths of my brain. We will Bond, I whisper, evil temptress that I am. We will become Mates, Friends, Buddies. Tabby shall become jealous and spontaneously combust out of spite. Then darling Mo and I will drug the robot and shave his bollocks. Assuming he has bollocks. Do robots have bollocks?
As it turns out, I never quite get that far, because - of all the rude things - when I come up to her with open arms and the incredibly sensitive gift of a shirt reading, "I am lucky because Elsa Bloodstone loves me" (I was wearing one that said, "Monica Rambeau is lucky because Elsa Bloodstone loves her," so we could match), she punches me in the mouth. The only natural response to this, of course, is to punch her back. I do not punch her in the mouth, of course. I aim lower.
"If you've made me sterile, heads will roll, ****," Monica chides gently as she trips me with some sort of ridiculous gamma-watt laser ray. (She has to shout the name of every attack she tries, incidentally. Why not just give me a complete list of what this evening's grapple will entail, mon cherie? What are you, a bloody Pikachu?)
"Monica wants children? How precious!" I give her a winning smile as I smash her head into the cruiser's panelling. "Cooked or raw?"
"You're asking to be dumped out the door, Bloodstone," she snarls, lip curled fetchingly, and I decide that her lack of cooperation can no longer be tolerated with impunity.
"Ah-ah, darling," I croon, grabbing her by the foul little headband. "Violence is the resort of the violent. And we are not violent, are we?"
"You've met yourself, correct?"
"I am only violent when violence is called for." I sigh with regret and pin her to the control panel. "It is called for all too often, I'm afraid. But do you really want to go there? I fear I could out-catfight you any day of the week, darling."
Monica snorts like a dog with hayfever. "Whatever you say, girl. I've had my share of ****slap fights. But if you take off that goddamn shirt, we can call it even."
Surprise! And is there any joy in the universe greater than purposefully misinterpreting an innocent remark? "Why, Monica!" I cry, hand fluttering at my chest. "I didn't know you cared. Well, if you insist . . . "
I reach down, start to tug at the hem, but to my not-very-great surprise my progress is arrested by a hand on my wrist. "Whatthe****doyouthinkyou'redoing," Monica growls, terrier impression complete.
"Oh, only what you've asked me to!" I purr, leaning down towards her; I can hear the delicate pop of her personal space bubble. "I had no idea, you know. It's no wonder Avengers Mansion was such a trial for you. So few women to choose from. Ahh, but worry not, Auntie Elsa's here now." I give her my patented Holy Terror grin. To her credit, she keeps her pants dry.
"Elsa, you idiot, get off me," she mutters. "I don't do girls."
"Mo-mo, darling, you don't do anyone," I chuckle. "You're a bloody nun. We can't have that, now, can we?" I run one finger down her side, and she squirms - it must be awfully uncomfortable for her, lying as she is on the various levers and buttons of the ship's panel - but, and here's the clincher, she doesn't throw me off. Interesting. Tell me more. "Tell me, Monica, do you want me? Do I have lovely tits? Do I look just fabulous in orange? You can tell me, you know. I won't mind." Forgive me a slight streak of egotism, but, really, can you blame me?
She squeezes her eyes shut. "This is a nightmare," she mutters. "Soon I'll wake up, and Ant-Man will be hitting on me again."
"Yes, yes, darling," I sigh, never a fan of overacting. "Would you like me to lick your cunt before that, then?"
"I'm not answering that."
"No news is good news," I quip, and remove my shirt.
"Holy Christ," Monica says, and removes hers. (It's my tits. I can't help it. They just have this effect on people.)
"Aaron, for god's sakes, get a tripod!" The Captain shouts, and we whip our heads about to see . . .
The robot, camera glued to his eyeball, wantonly flung shirts draped elegantly across his tin-pan head, and his hand on his . . . his . . . well, look, robots have bollocks, all right? Permit me a traumatised shudder.
We glance at each other, Monica and I, and come to an instant understanding, that most-basic of all understandings: It's a good thing that we're hot super-chicks, because we have a toaster to pound.
And as we launch ourselves across the room, bosoms flapping asunder, we hike back our metal-toed boots and kick our rendezvous time into Aaron's metal hide. Life is fine, you see, on the good ship Lesbian.
Recipient:
Prompt: "Thank god we're hot chicks with super-powers."
Title: The Good Ship Lesbian.
Fandom: NEXTWAVE.
Pairing: Elsa Bloodstone/Monica Rambeau.
Summary: Elsa gets on people's tits.
Beta Reader: twitchdemon.
Word Count: 1330.
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings: Extreme crack (but then, this is NEXTWAVE).
Author’s Note: Wrote it halfway, realized it was shit, started over with a new idea. Was late, consequently. But really, what can be done? I appear to have a disconcerting penchant for first-person narration in stories where hot chicks get nailed by hot chicks. Elsa talks like Glen Duncan's Lucifer, for which I apologise (but not very much).
---
THE GOOD SHIP LESBIAN.
---
One can always tell when one gets on someone's tits, can't one? And by 'one', I mean 'you', and by 'you', I mean 'not me'. A strange thing it is, but I can never quite identify when I've irritated somebody - largely, of course, because I always irritate everyone. I am eternally on everyone's tits, no mean feat given how many tits there are in the known and unknown universe, but one that I pull off with grace, panache, and lots of loud noises. There's no real reason for me to be aware of something that's a constant state, now, is there?
Yanks, of course, despise me. I am the English ****, you see; I can tell from that how insecure I make them with my class, superb vocabulary, counting skills, and style. (Only the British look good in orange.) There are exceptions, of course, such as that horrid little breadbox, but exceptions must exist to make the rules, and in any case I believe he was knocked silly by my tits. Bloody thing deserved to be shat out by a lizard, in my humble opinion.
But, digressions aside, sometimes even an oblivious girl like myself has to contend with someone who loathes them just so very much that it sinks through the vague fog of ordinary annoyance and becomes a dangerous rising pattern of how very pissed we are, darling. So it is with Monica Rambeau, the dear. I must confess I do try somewhat with her, if only to distract her from the fact that (you may not be aware) she once ran the Avengers. The Avengers? Honestly. Shoddy name, shoddy organisation. Not a patch on a Bloodstone. I've occasionally thought to clone myself and make a superteam of Bloodstones, but I always remember that we'd all have to wear matching suits and subsequently lose all enthusiasm because I honestly can't be arsed. Although, now I think of it, the idea of a horde of Elsas to have my way with is all too appealing.
Regardless of the brilliance of my ideas, even the sincere ones (rare birds, those), Monica has a dreadful tendency to shoot them down in a dreadfully offended, almost sorrowful manner. How could I presume to have an idea? Had I ever run the Avengers? No? She thought not. Now get back to toilet-scrubbing, me. Naughty Elsa. Even my fashion hints ("Darling, that suit does not match your anything.") and my efforts at bonding ("Mo, you ****, whyever won't you join in my Lara Croft/Kill Bill marathon?") are devastatingly dismissed. Hand to brow - I am wounded. Monica is resoundly unimpressed.
"Why don't you like me, Monica?" is what I do not say, though my eyes, I'm sure, communicate the depth of the Existenzangst her brusqueness has triggered. She merely rolls her eyes in an incredibly uncouth manner and shrugs her big, manly shoulders. Such an American. What am I to do?
What I am to do, I tell myself, is extract a cunning plan from the depths of my brain. We will Bond, I whisper, evil temptress that I am. We will become Mates, Friends, Buddies. Tabby shall become jealous and spontaneously combust out of spite. Then darling Mo and I will drug the robot and shave his bollocks. Assuming he has bollocks. Do robots have bollocks?
As it turns out, I never quite get that far, because - of all the rude things - when I come up to her with open arms and the incredibly sensitive gift of a shirt reading, "I am lucky because Elsa Bloodstone loves me" (I was wearing one that said, "Monica Rambeau is lucky because Elsa Bloodstone loves her," so we could match), she punches me in the mouth. The only natural response to this, of course, is to punch her back. I do not punch her in the mouth, of course. I aim lower.
"If you've made me sterile, heads will roll, ****," Monica chides gently as she trips me with some sort of ridiculous gamma-watt laser ray. (She has to shout the name of every attack she tries, incidentally. Why not just give me a complete list of what this evening's grapple will entail, mon cherie? What are you, a bloody Pikachu?)
"Monica wants children? How precious!" I give her a winning smile as I smash her head into the cruiser's panelling. "Cooked or raw?"
"You're asking to be dumped out the door, Bloodstone," she snarls, lip curled fetchingly, and I decide that her lack of cooperation can no longer be tolerated with impunity.
"Ah-ah, darling," I croon, grabbing her by the foul little headband. "Violence is the resort of the violent. And we are not violent, are we?"
"You've met yourself, correct?"
"I am only violent when violence is called for." I sigh with regret and pin her to the control panel. "It is called for all too often, I'm afraid. But do you really want to go there? I fear I could out-catfight you any day of the week, darling."
Monica snorts like a dog with hayfever. "Whatever you say, girl. I've had my share of ****slap fights. But if you take off that goddamn shirt, we can call it even."
Surprise! And is there any joy in the universe greater than purposefully misinterpreting an innocent remark? "Why, Monica!" I cry, hand fluttering at my chest. "I didn't know you cared. Well, if you insist . . . "
I reach down, start to tug at the hem, but to my not-very-great surprise my progress is arrested by a hand on my wrist. "Whatthe****doyouthinkyou'redoing," Monica growls, terrier impression complete.
"Oh, only what you've asked me to!" I purr, leaning down towards her; I can hear the delicate pop of her personal space bubble. "I had no idea, you know. It's no wonder Avengers Mansion was such a trial for you. So few women to choose from. Ahh, but worry not, Auntie Elsa's here now." I give her my patented Holy Terror grin. To her credit, she keeps her pants dry.
"Elsa, you idiot, get off me," she mutters. "I don't do girls."
"Mo-mo, darling, you don't do anyone," I chuckle. "You're a bloody nun. We can't have that, now, can we?" I run one finger down her side, and she squirms - it must be awfully uncomfortable for her, lying as she is on the various levers and buttons of the ship's panel - but, and here's the clincher, she doesn't throw me off. Interesting. Tell me more. "Tell me, Monica, do you want me? Do I have lovely tits? Do I look just fabulous in orange? You can tell me, you know. I won't mind." Forgive me a slight streak of egotism, but, really, can you blame me?
She squeezes her eyes shut. "This is a nightmare," she mutters. "Soon I'll wake up, and Ant-Man will be hitting on me again."
"Yes, yes, darling," I sigh, never a fan of overacting. "Would you like me to lick your cunt before that, then?"
"I'm not answering that."
"No news is good news," I quip, and remove my shirt.
"Holy Christ," Monica says, and removes hers. (It's my tits. I can't help it. They just have this effect on people.)
"Aaron, for god's sakes, get a tripod!" The Captain shouts, and we whip our heads about to see . . .
The robot, camera glued to his eyeball, wantonly flung shirts draped elegantly across his tin-pan head, and his hand on his . . . his . . . well, look, robots have bollocks, all right? Permit me a traumatised shudder.
We glance at each other, Monica and I, and come to an instant understanding, that most-basic of all understandings: It's a good thing that we're hot super-chicks, because we have a toaster to pound.
And as we launch ourselves across the room, bosoms flapping asunder, we hike back our metal-toed boots and kick our rendezvous time into Aaron's metal hide. Life is fine, you see, on the good ship Lesbian.