Entry tags:
Femslash Drabbles - Mixed Bag
Archiving these from their original place at femslash100. All from 2012 - 2013. One Mass Effect, one Rizzoli & Isles, and three Dragon Age ficlets.
Title: Blood Rush to the Head
Author:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lavendre
Fandom: Rizzoli & Isles
Prompt: #378 - lock
Pairing: Jane/Maura
Rating: all audiences
Word Count: 250
[A/N]: Takes place during "Killer in High Heels."
There was little Maura could do in the holding cell but sit and wait. Her attacker came and she went, and Maura remained hunched against the double-paned window while Paddy pulled strings perhaps a thousand feet away. In retrospect, orange really wasn't her shade of choice, but she was in no position to complain when everyone around her was matching in color.
There was a clock on the far wall – probably used to taunt the inmates into a guilty conscience – and benches around the gray room, crowded with other women as dark and foul as herself. They watched her with interest, perhaps searching for the tell-tale signs of an efficient killer in her posture. She hoped they noticed the practicality and clenched fists and not the vulnerability of a terrified woman that doggedly stuck.
Maura counted the pulse she could feel in her temple and held her cheek where the skin felt battered. She didn't need a mirror or the polished floor to know her face was an unpleasant shade of violet, the color of Angela's favorite hydrangeas.
In an hour or so Jane would walk in and the first thing she would take notice of was the color, beneath bagged eyes and a swollen cheek. Her face would darken and she'd touch Maura on the shoulder and inquire who and when. The icepack by then would have numbed her face completely. She'd shake her head in warning.
Jane would offer a squeeze and it wouldn't happen again.
Liara ran a palm over the arm thrown across her waist, her movements heavy. Shepard's head was resting in the crook of her neck, her freckled cheeks angled down. Time was passing regularly, the stars were aglow outside the window of her cabin, the fish swam in the tank across the room. The resulting quiet – the absence of Shepard's teasing voice, her roving hands – left her with too much time to think.
A thousand thoughts ran through her head at once: wordless questions; her final conversation with Benezia; the fate of the reapers should they succeed; Prothean ruins buried beneath dead garden worlds; the outcome of the war; Thessia burned to ash; the casualties.
Oh goddess, the casualties. Was she ever going to see this place again? Better yet, would Shepard? Unbreakable, short-lived, human spectre Shepard?
Warm breath on her neck kept her grounded. Liara inclined her head. Shepard's brilliant eyes were open now, her face impassive.
Liara watched the stars.
How easy it would be to stay and let the galaxy die. To stay, and know the war's outcome ended with them, the final fight. But Shepard would never agree to it. And now, neither could she.
Title: stop and reverse
Prompt: #377: elusive
Fandom: Dragon Age
Pairing: Isabela/Marian Hawke
Rating: T
Word Count: 250
Isabela doesn't want to be hidden away any more than she wants to be found. The roar is still loud in her ears though, the drink still running hot down the back of her throat. This success is her ultimate triumph, and the relic is safe in her hands. She should be happy. She should be pleased. She can feel the euphoria pounding in her chest, the sweetness that's limbered her joints and made the escape easier.
But her mind's another place and no longer is it enough to win.
She tossed Hawke to the hounds and it's never going to be enough to convince herself that Hawke would have done the same.
She tries to reason with herself: it's better this way and no one needs to know. Sensibly, she thinks, no one will have to clean her little bits off any courtly carpets of the Viscount's. That counts for something.
But it's in her nature to leave. She's a pirate and a rogue, not a saint. And Hawke is just another pretty face among all the others. So what if she has an extraordinarily nice face, with creamy skin and rounded curves and sharp eyes that could swallow her whole? She's sensible enough and downright heavenly in bed, but she's loyal and Isabela is not.
The thought's enough to make her stop.
Just another face. Just another bed partner. Just another woman --
But the guilt is heavy and Isabela is cursing herself long before she turns around.
Title: Iron Bars
Author:lavendre
Fandom: Dragon Age
Prompt: #378 - lock
Pairing: Isabela/Marian Hawke
Rating: all audiences
Word count: 250
Prison cells aren't unfamiliar places to Isabela. She visits them often enough. Mostly for trivial things: bar fights, petty thievery, a little too much on her tab. Sometimes the visits are for others behind the bars -- a conversation with a mother she knew who killed her husband in exchange for freedom; a villain who traded in slaves and lyrium and seeks redemption in the Maker's eyes; a woman, by any other name than Hawke, who stepped on too many toes in one evening and wasn't fast enough in her escape.
(They share a cell together now. It's not one of their brightest moments, Isabela knows. She loves it nonetheless.)
By now, she's seen every prison. They all have the same familiar, territorial design: thick iron bars for a door, a lone glassy window that's been warped by years of harsh summer heat -- the Free Marches would just as easily kill one in the summer as they would the winter, she very well knows -- and a cot attached to the wall. She could also swear there was a ball-and-chain at one point -- but the musty cell they inhabit now only has a lame lot of misguided fools.
Isabela pulls a dull and useless shiv from her boot then and methodically uses it to scrape the sweat off her skin. It peals away shiny and clumpy, a result of too many days without a bath. Hawke watches her, looking bored, and flushes pleasantly when caught.
She only winks.
Title: Impressions
Author:lavendre
Prompt: #379 - snapshot
Fandom: Dragon Age
Pairing: Isabela/Marian Hawke
Rating: all audiences
Word Count: 250
Portraits cost an arm and a leg. Hawke scrapes the money together from under her bed. No one ever thinks to ask her about her thievery. The family's kept together in oil and the sticky residue of paint even when she's alone.
It's one of the few things that survived the run from Lothering. Leandra had determinedly hidden it in her skirts. Hawke isn't sure whether to be thankful or sad that the canvas stands its ground among all the others. She takes it out of the chest in her room frequently, tracing the rough brushwork over the curve of her father's jaw, the smooth, eloquent lines that make her mother's smile. It's a time not lost on her, but Hawke feels the weight of the loss all the same. She still can't bring herself to hang it up with the rest. That seems too mundane for family. Or maybe she's still looking for the twins in the background.
She's sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace when the knock comes on her bedroom door. It swings open on smooth hinges, and she can tell from the serious look that Isabela had been given some kind of warning; at this, Hawke is thankful that no explanation is necessary.
The pirate's eyes are alight with something unrecognizable though. Mischief. Concern. Some fear? Her smile curves into a softer version of itself.
"A party takes two sweet-thing," she says simply. Hawke pats the rug.
She thinks she'd like another portrait.
Title: Blood Rush to the Head
Author:
lavendreFandom: Rizzoli & Isles
Prompt: #378 - lock
Pairing: Jane/Maura
Rating: all audiences
Word Count: 250
[A/N]: Takes place during "Killer in High Heels."
There was little Maura could do in the holding cell but sit and wait. Her attacker came and she went, and Maura remained hunched against the double-paned window while Paddy pulled strings perhaps a thousand feet away. In retrospect, orange really wasn't her shade of choice, but she was in no position to complain when everyone around her was matching in color.
There was a clock on the far wall – probably used to taunt the inmates into a guilty conscience – and benches around the gray room, crowded with other women as dark and foul as herself. They watched her with interest, perhaps searching for the tell-tale signs of an efficient killer in her posture. She hoped they noticed the practicality and clenched fists and not the vulnerability of a terrified woman that doggedly stuck.
Maura counted the pulse she could feel in her temple and held her cheek where the skin felt battered. She didn't need a mirror or the polished floor to know her face was an unpleasant shade of violet, the color of Angela's favorite hydrangeas.
In an hour or so Jane would walk in and the first thing she would take notice of was the color, beneath bagged eyes and a swollen cheek. Her face would darken and she'd touch Maura on the shoulder and inquire who and when. The icepack by then would have numbed her face completely. She'd shake her head in warning.
Jane would offer a squeeze and it wouldn't happen again.
Title: The World Won't Wait
Author: lavendre
Prompt: #361 - need
Fandom: Mass Effect
Pairing: Liara/Shepard (or "FemShep")
Rating: all audiences
Word Count: 200
A/N: I haven't finished the series yet, but I adore these two.
Liara ran a palm over the arm thrown across her waist, her movements heavy. Shepard's head was resting in the crook of her neck, her freckled cheeks angled down. Time was passing regularly, the stars were aglow outside the window of her cabin, the fish swam in the tank across the room. The resulting quiet – the absence of Shepard's teasing voice, her roving hands – left her with too much time to think.
A thousand thoughts ran through her head at once: wordless questions; her final conversation with Benezia; the fate of the reapers should they succeed; Prothean ruins buried beneath dead garden worlds; the outcome of the war; Thessia burned to ash; the casualties.
Oh goddess, the casualties. Was she ever going to see this place again? Better yet, would Shepard? Unbreakable, short-lived, human spectre Shepard?
Warm breath on her neck kept her grounded. Liara inclined her head. Shepard's brilliant eyes were open now, her face impassive.
Liara watched the stars.
How easy it would be to stay and let the galaxy die. To stay, and know the war's outcome ended with them, the final fight. But Shepard would never agree to it. And now, neither could she.
Title: stop and reverse
Prompt: #377: elusive
Fandom: Dragon Age
Pairing: Isabela/Marian Hawke
Rating: T
Word Count: 250
Isabela doesn't want to be hidden away any more than she wants to be found. The roar is still loud in her ears though, the drink still running hot down the back of her throat. This success is her ultimate triumph, and the relic is safe in her hands. She should be happy. She should be pleased. She can feel the euphoria pounding in her chest, the sweetness that's limbered her joints and made the escape easier.
But her mind's another place and no longer is it enough to win.
She tossed Hawke to the hounds and it's never going to be enough to convince herself that Hawke would have done the same.
She tries to reason with herself: it's better this way and no one needs to know. Sensibly, she thinks, no one will have to clean her little bits off any courtly carpets of the Viscount's. That counts for something.
But it's in her nature to leave. She's a pirate and a rogue, not a saint. And Hawke is just another pretty face among all the others. So what if she has an extraordinarily nice face, with creamy skin and rounded curves and sharp eyes that could swallow her whole? She's sensible enough and downright heavenly in bed, but she's loyal and Isabela is not.
The thought's enough to make her stop.
Just another face. Just another bed partner. Just another woman --
But the guilt is heavy and Isabela is cursing herself long before she turns around.
Title: Iron Bars
Author:
lavendreFandom: Dragon Age
Prompt: #378 - lock
Pairing: Isabela/Marian Hawke
Rating: all audiences
Word count: 250
Prison cells aren't unfamiliar places to Isabela. She visits them often enough. Mostly for trivial things: bar fights, petty thievery, a little too much on her tab. Sometimes the visits are for others behind the bars -- a conversation with a mother she knew who killed her husband in exchange for freedom; a villain who traded in slaves and lyrium and seeks redemption in the Maker's eyes; a woman, by any other name than Hawke, who stepped on too many toes in one evening and wasn't fast enough in her escape.
(They share a cell together now. It's not one of their brightest moments, Isabela knows. She loves it nonetheless.)
By now, she's seen every prison. They all have the same familiar, territorial design: thick iron bars for a door, a lone glassy window that's been warped by years of harsh summer heat -- the Free Marches would just as easily kill one in the summer as they would the winter, she very well knows -- and a cot attached to the wall. She could also swear there was a ball-and-chain at one point -- but the musty cell they inhabit now only has a lame lot of misguided fools.
Isabela pulls a dull and useless shiv from her boot then and methodically uses it to scrape the sweat off her skin. It peals away shiny and clumpy, a result of too many days without a bath. Hawke watches her, looking bored, and flushes pleasantly when caught.
She only winks.
Title: Impressions
Author:
lavendrePrompt: #379 - snapshot
Fandom: Dragon Age
Pairing: Isabela/Marian Hawke
Rating: all audiences
Word Count: 250
Portraits cost an arm and a leg. Hawke scrapes the money together from under her bed. No one ever thinks to ask her about her thievery. The family's kept together in oil and the sticky residue of paint even when she's alone.
It's one of the few things that survived the run from Lothering. Leandra had determinedly hidden it in her skirts. Hawke isn't sure whether to be thankful or sad that the canvas stands its ground among all the others. She takes it out of the chest in her room frequently, tracing the rough brushwork over the curve of her father's jaw, the smooth, eloquent lines that make her mother's smile. It's a time not lost on her, but Hawke feels the weight of the loss all the same. She still can't bring herself to hang it up with the rest. That seems too mundane for family. Or maybe she's still looking for the twins in the background.
She's sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace when the knock comes on her bedroom door. It swings open on smooth hinges, and she can tell from the serious look that Isabela had been given some kind of warning; at this, Hawke is thankful that no explanation is necessary.
The pirate's eyes are alight with something unrecognizable though. Mischief. Concern. Some fear? Her smile curves into a softer version of itself.
"A party takes two sweet-thing," she says simply. Hawke pats the rug.
She thinks she'd like another portrait.