Worthless Rhythm Is Our Guide - WMC
Jul. 16th, 2011 03:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
whedonistTitle: Worthless Rhythm Is Our Guide
Disclaimer: The majority of the characters contained herein do not belong to me. They belong to other people and I’m just using them for a little bit of recreational fun. No harm. No foul. No monies made…
Fandom: Women’s Murder Club
Pairing: Various
Rating: PG-13 - NC-17
Summary: A set of shorts featuring the ladies of WMC set to the rhythm of a few songs from The Black Keys
A/N: Happy International Day of Femslash! I can’t participate in Con festivities, but I hope everyone has a good time. This bit is my contribution to celebrate today. I hope that if you read, you enjoy what I’ve done, some is A.U. and some is centered around canon.
Everlasting Light
It seemed excessive.
Too much.
Too soon.
Way too many implied promises that threatened to run the inspector asunder if they weren’t kept.
That wouldn’t be kept, the voice in the back of her head whispered. It would, the persistent, niggling, wiggling, voice of experience hissed in her ear, end like it did with Tom. Lindsay would push and push and eventually check out of the relationship until the other had no recourse but to renege on promises made that were too close to the ones being offered tonight.
The complication for Lindsay was that even though doubt ran hot through her veins, something else, far more persuasive, cooled the fires it stoked.
With the certainty of the damned and the acceptance of what this meant to her, Lindsay pulled the door open to allow Cindy into her home. The reporter didn’t bother to shed the sopping jacket or worry about her wet hair as she pulled Lindsay to her. Lindsay figured that if she was damned, at least Cindy would provide a bit of brightness before the end.
The Only One
Twirling a lock of silky brown hair, Cindy stares passed the crack in the drapes and into the San Francisco night. The woman lying in her arms breathes causing the fine hairs on the reporter’s arm to stir. Lindsay’s even breathing is the only sound she can hear.
It's the only sound she needs to hear.
Oddly enough, it takes her back to memories of the first person she shared this type of intimacy with. Cindy thought that was the first time she'd ever been in love. Dylan evoked in her an understanding and a passion she hadn't felt before.
She's realized that Dylan was an aberration. While she was her first girlfriend, the emotion Dylan stirred in her couldn't have adequately prepared Cindy for meeting and falling irrevocably in love with Inspector Lindsay Boxer.
Howlin' For You
The plastic cuff cut into Lindsay's wrist. She twisted them through the pain the bindings caused. Knowing that of all the messed up ways this could have happened, she couldn't believe, accept or reconcile the idea that some punk gang banger would be the one to do it.
She just wanted a loaf of bread for her date tonight. She took a quick jog down to the corner store. The same corner store she'd been frequenting since she moved to the neighborhood years ago to pick it up.
Lindsay's head shook from side to side as she closed her eyes. Of all the days she forgot to bring her service weapon with her.
"Hey!" the kid barked, smacking Lindsay on top of the head with the butt of his gun. "Cut that shit out!"
She winced on impact, but stopped moving. Her right cracked open and she looked up. "They are going to kill you," she stated blandly.
No sooner had the words been uttered when a canister came crashing through the store's front window. Lindsay rolled to her side, ignoring the stabbing pain and the cries around her. She focused on her diminishing ability to breath. Right before she passed out she thought she heard Cindy calling her name.
Never Gonna Give You Up
The din of the diner was akin to wrapping a pink, fuzzy blanket around your shoulders, or so Jill thought. It was her pocket of sanity in a very insane world. "You know," the lawyer drawled out, garnering the attention of the booths other occupants, "You three are better than Xanax!"
Across from her, Lindsay and Cindy exchanged looks while Claire scooted Jill's martini out of the lawyer's reach.
"I think someone's getting cut-off," the inspector informed her friend.
"Awe, but Linds…" Jill pouted.
Holding her hand up, Lindsay made her case, "You just compared us to a benzodiazepine. You're done counselor.”
The frown deepened as the lawyer persisted, "It's just 'cause I love you three so much…"
"And we love you too," Claire agree patting her friend's hand, "but, you're still not getting another drink."
The Go-Getter
Looking down at her watch, Cindy quickened her pace. She hiked her bag further up her shoulder as she scurried up the steps and stopped on the landing. The reporter's eyes fluttered closed as her back straightened. "You can do this," she muttered to herself, "You're right, she's wrong." Her eyes popped open and she approached the door, rapping her knuckles against the surface in an imitation of the inspector she was here to see.
The door swung open a few moments later revealing an annoyed police officer in thread bear S.F.P.D. sweat pants and a black tank top. Lean muscled arms pushed disorderly locks away from squinted eyes as Lindsay barked, "No!"
Undeterred, Cindy pushed her way through the doorway and stated, "Yes." She spun around to face the inspector and asked rhetorically, "Do you want to know why?"
Lindsay pushed the door shut and faced the redhead. Folding her arms across her chest, she waited for the reporter to get on with it.
Cindy didn't disappoint, "Because it makes sense. I feel it. You feel it. I know you do." She shifted on her feet and continued, "Because I sent you a kick ass arrangement of flowers, I'm hot and," she pulled a small folded piece of paper out of her bag and handed it off to the inspector, "I got you a lead on that double homicide from last week."
Rolling her eyes, Lindsay finally relented, "Fine, pick me up at eight."
Cindy squealed triumphantly. Readying to leave, she pecked her date on the cheek and left.
Too Afraid to Love You
Lindsay held onto Cindy's upper arm, searching her red rimmed eyes for something, anything that would give the inspector a glimmer of hope.
"This is crazy," Cindy whimpered as she dropped her gaze to the space between their feet.
Lindsay couldn't argue, not really. For her to pursue whatever lay between them was insanity. In every sense of the word. She had fought against it, pushed away from it, from Cindy, once she recognized the emotions for what they were. The attempt, she quickly realized, was futile. Between the talks she had with Jill, then Claire, Lindsay resigned herself to the only recourse left to her. So she pleaded, "Please?"
"I can't, Lindsay," Cindy's mouth opened and closed, struggling to find the words, "I...I'm afraid."
Lindsay's eyes slammed shut at the plaintive tone. Admitting to her and the other woman, "Yeah, well, I'm too afraid not to."
Your Touch
Lindsay leaned back to rest against the soft pillows and watched as the charcoal colored pencil skirt of her lover was unzipped. It fell in a puddle against slim ankles. Her eyes trekked north, over soft peaks and rounded edges of the alabaster skin. Licking her lips, she laced her hands behind her head and waited. She always waited. It was a game between her and her counterpart – one that she usually won.
Jill was many things, smart, funny, beautiful, sarcastic, cynical and loyal. She was not patient, especially where Lindsay was concerned. When the inspector finally broke down and they tumbled into bed, it went against their collective better judgment.
Neither could seem to care – especially when Jill lowered her body on to Lindsay's. Doubly so when Jill carved a trail with her lips and tongue down the inspector's body, spread her open and turned Lindsay mute with persistent swipes of her tongue.
Disclaimer: The majority of the characters contained herein do not belong to me. They belong to other people and I’m just using them for a little bit of recreational fun. No harm. No foul. No monies made…
Fandom: Women’s Murder Club
Pairing: Various
Rating: PG-13 - NC-17
Summary: A set of shorts featuring the ladies of WMC set to the rhythm of a few songs from The Black Keys
A/N: Happy International Day of Femslash! I can’t participate in Con festivities, but I hope everyone has a good time. This bit is my contribution to celebrate today. I hope that if you read, you enjoy what I’ve done, some is A.U. and some is centered around canon.
It seemed excessive.
Too much.
Too soon.
Way too many implied promises that threatened to run the inspector asunder if they weren’t kept.
That wouldn’t be kept, the voice in the back of her head whispered. It would, the persistent, niggling, wiggling, voice of experience hissed in her ear, end like it did with Tom. Lindsay would push and push and eventually check out of the relationship until the other had no recourse but to renege on promises made that were too close to the ones being offered tonight.
The complication for Lindsay was that even though doubt ran hot through her veins, something else, far more persuasive, cooled the fires it stoked.
With the certainty of the damned and the acceptance of what this meant to her, Lindsay pulled the door open to allow Cindy into her home. The reporter didn’t bother to shed the sopping jacket or worry about her wet hair as she pulled Lindsay to her. Lindsay figured that if she was damned, at least Cindy would provide a bit of brightness before the end.
Twirling a lock of silky brown hair, Cindy stares passed the crack in the drapes and into the San Francisco night. The woman lying in her arms breathes causing the fine hairs on the reporter’s arm to stir. Lindsay’s even breathing is the only sound she can hear.
It's the only sound she needs to hear.
Oddly enough, it takes her back to memories of the first person she shared this type of intimacy with. Cindy thought that was the first time she'd ever been in love. Dylan evoked in her an understanding and a passion she hadn't felt before.
She's realized that Dylan was an aberration. While she was her first girlfriend, the emotion Dylan stirred in her couldn't have adequately prepared Cindy for meeting and falling irrevocably in love with Inspector Lindsay Boxer.
The plastic cuff cut into Lindsay's wrist. She twisted them through the pain the bindings caused. Knowing that of all the messed up ways this could have happened, she couldn't believe, accept or reconcile the idea that some punk gang banger would be the one to do it.
She just wanted a loaf of bread for her date tonight. She took a quick jog down to the corner store. The same corner store she'd been frequenting since she moved to the neighborhood years ago to pick it up.
Lindsay's head shook from side to side as she closed her eyes. Of all the days she forgot to bring her service weapon with her.
"Hey!" the kid barked, smacking Lindsay on top of the head with the butt of his gun. "Cut that shit out!"
She winced on impact, but stopped moving. Her right cracked open and she looked up. "They are going to kill you," she stated blandly.
No sooner had the words been uttered when a canister came crashing through the store's front window. Lindsay rolled to her side, ignoring the stabbing pain and the cries around her. She focused on her diminishing ability to breath. Right before she passed out she thought she heard Cindy calling her name.
The din of the diner was akin to wrapping a pink, fuzzy blanket around your shoulders, or so Jill thought. It was her pocket of sanity in a very insane world. "You know," the lawyer drawled out, garnering the attention of the booths other occupants, "You three are better than Xanax!"
Across from her, Lindsay and Cindy exchanged looks while Claire scooted Jill's martini out of the lawyer's reach.
"I think someone's getting cut-off," the inspector informed her friend.
"Awe, but Linds…" Jill pouted.
Holding her hand up, Lindsay made her case, "You just compared us to a benzodiazepine. You're done counselor.”
The frown deepened as the lawyer persisted, "It's just 'cause I love you three so much…"
"And we love you too," Claire agree patting her friend's hand, "but, you're still not getting another drink."
Looking down at her watch, Cindy quickened her pace. She hiked her bag further up her shoulder as she scurried up the steps and stopped on the landing. The reporter's eyes fluttered closed as her back straightened. "You can do this," she muttered to herself, "You're right, she's wrong." Her eyes popped open and she approached the door, rapping her knuckles against the surface in an imitation of the inspector she was here to see.
The door swung open a few moments later revealing an annoyed police officer in thread bear S.F.P.D. sweat pants and a black tank top. Lean muscled arms pushed disorderly locks away from squinted eyes as Lindsay barked, "No!"
Undeterred, Cindy pushed her way through the doorway and stated, "Yes." She spun around to face the inspector and asked rhetorically, "Do you want to know why?"
Lindsay pushed the door shut and faced the redhead. Folding her arms across her chest, she waited for the reporter to get on with it.
Cindy didn't disappoint, "Because it makes sense. I feel it. You feel it. I know you do." She shifted on her feet and continued, "Because I sent you a kick ass arrangement of flowers, I'm hot and," she pulled a small folded piece of paper out of her bag and handed it off to the inspector, "I got you a lead on that double homicide from last week."
Rolling her eyes, Lindsay finally relented, "Fine, pick me up at eight."
Cindy squealed triumphantly. Readying to leave, she pecked her date on the cheek and left.
Lindsay held onto Cindy's upper arm, searching her red rimmed eyes for something, anything that would give the inspector a glimmer of hope.
"This is crazy," Cindy whimpered as she dropped her gaze to the space between their feet.
Lindsay couldn't argue, not really. For her to pursue whatever lay between them was insanity. In every sense of the word. She had fought against it, pushed away from it, from Cindy, once she recognized the emotions for what they were. The attempt, she quickly realized, was futile. Between the talks she had with Jill, then Claire, Lindsay resigned herself to the only recourse left to her. So she pleaded, "Please?"
"I can't, Lindsay," Cindy's mouth opened and closed, struggling to find the words, "I...I'm afraid."
Lindsay's eyes slammed shut at the plaintive tone. Admitting to her and the other woman, "Yeah, well, I'm too afraid not to."
Lindsay leaned back to rest against the soft pillows and watched as the charcoal colored pencil skirt of her lover was unzipped. It fell in a puddle against slim ankles. Her eyes trekked north, over soft peaks and rounded edges of the alabaster skin. Licking her lips, she laced her hands behind her head and waited. She always waited. It was a game between her and her counterpart – one that she usually won.
Jill was many things, smart, funny, beautiful, sarcastic, cynical and loyal. She was not patient, especially where Lindsay was concerned. When the inspector finally broke down and they tumbled into bed, it went against their collective better judgment.
Neither could seem to care – especially when Jill lowered her body on to Lindsay's. Doubly so when Jill carved a trail with her lips and tongue down the inspector's body, spread her open and turned Lindsay mute with persistent swipes of her tongue.
