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out_thereThis is what I worked on today. As I'm not supposed to be writing at work, I probably won't get a chance to send this to beta until next weekend (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
michellek? simplylyric? Would either of you guys be available for beta duties?)
Anyway, it's SN, it's Lisa/Dana set during the mythical pre-Lonestar, L.A. days and it's rated NC-17.
It's the first time I've written femslash, or femslash smut, so if there's some descriptions or whatever that make you stop and think "WTF?", please leave a comment and let me know. (And, as always, I have no title. I forgot I have a title. A dodgy title, but still, it's something. If you have a better title suggestion, feel free to leave it.)
Girls' Night In
"I think he's in love with you," Lisa says, staring at the ceiling in contemplation.
You look over, and you're still vaguely surprised that it's short. Her hair, not the ceiling. It's cut in a straight bob, and the strawberry blonde strands brush her bare shoulders when she turns to look at you. It's stylish and mature, the type of haircut that makes you think of smart suits, businesswomen, and oddly enough, Lois Lane. You vaguely miss Lisa's curls. "What?"
"I think he's in love with you," she repeats with soft eyes and you shake your head. Your long earrings bounce lightly against the side of your neck, and you remember why you like small studs. Far less annoying.
"Jerry isn't serious." He's a nice guy, sweet and successful, but not exactly charming. So far, it's been a couple of casual dates, and you're already wondering when he'll stop calling.
She looks down at her hands, and you notice that her nails are even shorter than in college. "Not Jerry. Casey."
"He's your husband," you remind her.
"That doesn't mean anything, Dana."
"He's married to you. You're his wife." It seems so logical, so obvious to you. "Of course he loves you."
"He loves Charlie. He loves being a father. He loves being someone's husband. I just don't think he loves me." Her eyes are wide and soft, and she blinks as she looks at you. "He's definitely not in love with me."
"He's not in love with me," you parrot back and she smiles. Her smiles always lit up her face; this one just haunts it.
"I think he is. He just doesn't want to admit it." She looks over at the wine glasses, and you don't know what to say.
You're starting to think that this was a bad idea. Dan had blown into town for the weekend, so Casey had celebrated by going out drinking, "a boys' night out". Lisa had suggested a girls' night in, movies, girl-talk and drinks, just like college. She chose the movies and organised snacks, and you brought the bottles of wine, but the camaraderie isn't here. The years between college and L.A. have changed both of you too much for this to be comfortable.
It's only been a couple of years, but suddenly Lisa isn't the aspiring lawyer she once was. She's a housewife with a toddler wandering around, with a successful husband and a cosy baby-proofed house. You've got your Masters, and your associate producer position, and your career is falling into place while your love life just falls apart.
She breaks the silence, placing her wine glass back on the table. "I'm sorry. I think I've had too much to drink."
"Or not enough," you say, because that used to be a familiar joke. The pair of you weren't drunk enough unless you were blaring KC and the Sunshine Band and dancing wildly around the room. You reach over for the bottle of white wine but she places her hand over the glass.
"I should stop. Casey will be hung over tomorrow. We don't need both of us wincing when Charlie wakes up."
You nod, but this is unfamiliar territory. You don't have to worry about looking after a child the next day; you can just drag yourself to bed and spend the next day with the blinds closed. "You need a nanny."
Lisa nods. "As soon as we can afford one. It would be nice to be able to moan and groan together."
You snicker at the phrasing, because your sense of humour tends to regress when you're drunk, and she stares at you. Then, she starts to snigger too, giggling to herself and then shaking with laughter. She's laughing too hard to sit up straight, and slides sideways against your shoulder. "You're impossible, Dana."
"No, I'm improbable," you say, and it only makes her laugh louder. Her laughter is infectious, and you find yourself cackling at the weak joke. "Big difference."
After a moment, you both settle down, but when you meet her amused eyes, it's enough to start you giggling again. This is something you miss from college, having someone who understands your jokes. Someone just as silly and just as easily amused as you are. You've always had a quirky sense of humour, but Lisa is one of the few people who can fall into hysterics with you.
When you stop laughing, you're both haphazardly sprawled across the couch and your glass is just out of arms-reach. "Are you sure you don't want any more to drink?" you ask, mainly because it gives you an excuse not to move for another few seconds.
"I'm sure," she says as she turns to you. Her mouth brushes your cheek, which is pure accident. It's the way that she doesn't pull back that makes you stop and think. Admittedly, your thoughts are a bit hazy, but the pair of you are slouched against the cushions and her breath wafts warmly across your jaw line. It seems like a pretty clear signal.
You turn your head a little more, and graze her lips with your own, waiting for her to pull back, waiting for her to say you've misinterpreted this... this thing, this whatever it is that's making your pulse hammer, that's making you hold your breath. But she doesn't pull away, she presses up and opens her lips slightly. Her lips taste of white wine and peanuts. Leaning back, you trace her wet lips and let your fingers wander down her neck.
She's soft under your hands. Gentle curves and soft skin, and her perfume is sweetly floral when you breathe in. You trace over her shoulders, over the pale skin that never quite tans. Her eyes close, and you watch her chest rise and fall, her breathing become heavier.
The straps of her cotton summer top rest lightly on her skin, and it's easy to push them down her shoulders.
You stop for a moment and feel yourself start to frown as you think about her top. It's a pale peach, pretty enough, but you wonder how to take it off her. Lisa's eyes flutter open. You wish her green eyes didn't look as uncertain as you feel. She bites her lower lip, and looks away, but you don't want this to end yet. It's selfish and needy, and has far more to do with the throbbing between your legs than what's best for both of you.
Running a finger over the hem of her top, you watch her until she turns back to you. "I like this." She smiles nervously and you beam back at her. "It looks good on you."
She nods and when she speaks, her voice is tremulous. "There was a-a light blue one, too. I thought of you when I saw it."
She's nervous. You knew this, but... it suddenly hits you that she's *nervous*. Lisa, ever gracious Lisa, the girl who always managed to appear cool and collected, confident and self-assured, is nervous. It gives you a sudden burst of excitement, a sudden sense of power that almost makes you squirm in your seat. You've always been the uncertain one; in college, you looked to her for guidance, to reassure you how you should act, what you should say.
Suddenly, it's all reversed; she's looking to you, waiting for you to lead her.
You slide your hands up her tank top, feeling the press of her nipples against your palms. Moving your hands back down, you cup her breast gently. "You look good," you say gruffly, and her breath rushes out in a hiss.
Her breasts fit your hands well, and you like the heavy warmth of them against your palms. You can feel the under-wire of her bra, the layers of soft material between your hands and her skin, and you guess that he still wears the plain, practical bras she favoured in college. The ones designed not to be noticed under clothes, to be comfortable and gently supportive.
Her nipples harden further as you move your fingers, breaking the smooth line of the cotton. Running your thumbs over them in feather-light circles makes her moan softly and arch her back. You do it again and again, until her mouth is parted and her eyes are closed, until she's gasping little breathy moans. Her hand reaches out blindly, landing on your jaw line and curling fingers around your neck.
It's all the encouragement you need.
You shift forward, capturing her mouth in a kiss. This time, you notice the flavour of her lip balm. Raspberry, or strawberry; something sweet and smooth that you scrape off her lips with your teeth. Her fingers claw your shoulders, but you're too distracted by the way she kisses you back. Soft. Wet. Slow, graceful kisses that slide into your mouth, and make you melt. Make you pull at her top, push it up to run hands over yielding skin.
You insinuate fingers under the binding material of her bra and hold warm, supple flesh in your chilled hands, catching her nipple with your thumb. She gasps and breaks the kiss, leaning back and pulling the tank top over her head. The bra is tan and cotton, and just as practical as you'd expected. Then she's kissing you again, leaning forward into your hands.
You keep kissing her, swallowing her breathy moans, and stealing a hand around her back. Between the different angle, and the way her tongue invades your mouth, it takes you a few long moments to unclasp her bra-strap. It finally comes apart, and she pulls it off her arms without any further encouragement.
Pressing forward, you push her back against the couch, your hands holding her jaw firmly. You trace over her cheekbones, high and fine and then drag your hands down her long, slender neck. Over her collarbone, down her chest, exploring her with fingers and palms. You move slower over her sensitive nipples, but don't stop. You slide your hands around her waist, around her sides, and then decide to follow your hands with your mouth.
Lisa's eyes flutter open when you pull away from her luscious mouth, but they close again when you latch onto that tender spot just below her jaw. You work your way down, your hands drawing patterns over her ribs as you suck reddened marks onto her neck. You have the urge to mark her, to bite down hard, but when you press your teeth against her skin, she hisses and pushes you away. You can see his name in her eyes, but you kiss her before she can say it.
"Dana?"
"Shhhh..." You nod, silencing her with two fingers against her shiny, well-kissed lips. "I'll be good." She closes her eyes, taking your hypocritical promise at face value. You take a good look at her neck, and decide it probably won't show in the morning.
She's naked from the waist up, but a thin, floating skirt covers her legs. That really isn't fair. You've always admired her legs; it isn't fair you can't see them. You lean back in, pressing soft, safe kisses across her shoulders while you pull her skirt up slowly. The material slithers up her legs, making a gentle rasping sound that you can barely hear over her heavy breathing.
You trail your mouth lower, and keep pulling at her skirt. Eventually, it reveals long, shapely thighs and a pair of sweet, cotton panties. They're white with some red pattern, love-hearts or flowers, just as plain as her bra. You trace fingertips over her knees, up her thighs, and press your lips against her breast. Sucking a nipple into your mouth, you scratch lightly at her inner thighs. She gasps and spreads her legs wider for you.
Her skin is smooth under your fingers, and the cotton feels almost rough in comparison. The material's already damp. You run your fingers over the wet cotton, and she gasps again, arching under you. You sit back, and then urge her hips up. She shimmies, helping you to pull the panties down and off her. As she kicks them out of the way, you drop to your knees between her legs. For a brief instant, your thankful you wore jeans. It's not a lot of padding for your knees, but it's far better than bare legs.
"Dana, you don't have to-" You stop her half-hearted excuse by sucking a kiss to her inner thigh. She closes her eyes, and relaxes back into the couch cushions, which is much better. You wonder why she'd give you such an easy out when she's slick and needy, and obviously wants more. For a second you think of Casey, resentfully wonder when he last did this for her. Then her hand lightly settles on your shoulders and you wish you hadn't thought his name.
Slowly, you lick a wet path up her leg, pausing when you get to her smooth bikini line. Her hair here is darker, a stronger red. Short ginger curls frame her pussy, and you spend a moment looking at her; red and swollen, open and wet. It's familiar and kind of alien, and it's almost enough to unnerve you, so you close your eyes and press your mouth against her leg. It's easier like this, soft skin against your tongue, her thigh flexing under your hand.
She groans, parting her legs wider, and you move your mouth across. The hair tickles against your lips, and you press a series of short, firm kisses as you work your mouth across. When you press one of those kisses against her clit, she curls up, grabbing at you. You pause with your mouth almost touching her, just breathing against her skin as she settles back down.
Licking your lips, you think you can do this. You've had it done to you often enough to be able to figure this out. Admittedly, a lot of those times were pretty bad, but on the other hand, you're a good deal smarter than a lot of the guys you date.
You lick her again, lightly brushing your tongue against the tip of her clit, and she sighs. You do it again, getting used to the taste of her. It's different. Not bad, certainly no worse than a guy, but different. You keep licking her, trying to describe her taste, but nothing comes to mind. Just slick and complex. Earthy, maybe. Another light lick. Different.
She squirms beneath you and you try something else. You point your tongue, stabbing at her quickly, and she trembles. You flatten your tongue against her, and she breathes out your name. She smooths her hands over your hair, and you suck against her clit just to hear your name again. It's an addictive sound, that broken whisper.
It's so easy to fall into a pattern, of licking and sucking, stabbing and pressing, tasting her until you're sure you'll never get her flavour out of your mouth. The best part is the way she squirms and arches, whispering hoarsely, "Dana, Dana, Dana."
When you look up, her head's thrown back against the headrest, eyes scrunched closed. She's biting her lip, and hissing your name between almost-closed teeth. Her hand is on her breast, pinching the nipple tighter than you would have dared. You're reminded of your college anthropology class, of mother figures and goddesses. She seems made of curves, the curve of hips and belly and breasts; of her thighs under your hands and her pussy under your mouth.
Her breathing hitches and becomes ragged. You recognise that sound, that feeling of being so close, so very close, that breathing is a secondary concern. Her thighs tense under your hands, and her hips arch up, straining closer. You run a finger up her leg, teasing over that slick opening, and her hand clenches in your hair. It's almost painful, but it's hint enough for you to push a finger inside her.
She's tighter than you expected; wet and warm around your finger. You press in, press up against the spot that always drives you wild. You work your tongue harder against her clit, rubbing her inside, and it's just enough to push her over the edge. She hisses a breath in, straining up for a moment, her nails clawing against your scalp, and clenches around your finger. Then she sighs, falling back against the couch, but you can still feel her muscles contract around you. You drag a light kiss across her thigh, and leave your finger inside her until the last aftershocks fade away.
Leaning back on your heels, you look up at her. Legs wide apart, eyes half-closed, her hand resting loosely on her stomach. Her lips are parted and that pale skin is flushed. All in all, Lisa looks thoroughly debauched. You watch her breath, deep slow breaths that make her breasts rise and fall, and you suck your finger into your mouth. Different is still the best way you can describe it.
She lies still, and you twist, the seam of your jeans rubbing against you. It makes you feel awkward for a moment, the way you always do after sex, when you're not sure if you should stay or go. Not sure if he wants you to stick around. So, you do the same thing you do with guys. "I've sort of got an early start in the morning, so if you want me to go...?" You shrug, and wait for her to say yes.
She blinks her eyes open, a frown forming between her pale eyebrows. "You don't have an early start tomorrow."
"What?" That isn't the way people respond to that suggestion.
"Casey has the day off. Why would you have to go in?" Of course, she'd know from Casey. You're Casey's producer; you work with him and work when he works.
You could say that just because Casey has the day off, doesn't mean you can relax. He doesn't have to worry about his job. Sports, and sports reporting, are a man's occupation, and jobs for the boys is just a established in LA as anywhere else. You're not one of the guys. And lately, you've had reason to worry about your position. You could say that, but you don't want to. Instead, you shrug. "I should probably go."
Lisa leans over, and gently wraps a hand around your wrist. "Stay until tomorrow morning."
It's a stay of execution, an extension on death row, but you love her for it. You don't want to go home to an empty bed, and you don't want to think about what you've done, what it means to you and to Jerry, to Lisa and Casey. You really don't want to spend the night thinking about it, and if you go home, you will. Your serious thoughts must show on your face, because she leans over and kisses you.
It's sleepy and satisfied, and when she pulls your wrist, you scramble up to the couch. She lies down, stretching out on the long couch, and pulling you beside her.
She leans over you, kissing you thoroughly, exploring all of the secrets of your mouth. Her hair, her too-short bob, brushes against your cheek and your neck, making you laugh as it tickles. Then her hand is on your flat stomach, pulling at the waistband of your jeans. You help her undo the button and zipper and she says, "I haven't... um..."
You lick a wet stripe across her throat as she talks and she tries again. "I mean, with another girl..."
"Do what you like," you mutter into her skin. "I'm a big girl. I can speak up if I don't like it." You've said that to guys a couple times, but they always look a little put-out by the idea. Lisa doesn't. She just nods happily and kisses you, sliding a hand straight under your panties.
Her fingers are cold on your skin. She quickly slips two fingers against you, one on each side of your clit, and starts moving the skin in tiny circles. It's surprisingly good. When she starts moving her fingers faster, it's extremely good. It's right where you need to be touched, and not too intense, and the pressure is just right, and all you can do is cling onto her and kiss her back. You writhe against her, press up against her hand, but her hand is trapped between your skin and your jeans; she can't get any closer to you.
She bends her head, biting sharply against the pulse in your neck. "Oh, god!" Her mouth and her hands, and it's so good, but you're empty and throbbing. You need more. "Lisa, please..."
She presses a quick kiss to your lips, then asks breathily, "What?"
Her hand doesn't stop against your clit, and it's impossible that she wants you to think. "More." She grins, and goes back to sucking your neck, but that wasn't what you meant. It takes an eternity to get the words to your lips. Every time they come close, there's the sudden sting of her teeth, or the flare of her fingers twisting against you. Eventually, you just tug on her wrist, pulling it down and beg, "Deeper."
She pulls her hand back, which is not what you wanted. You're panting now, and it's just not right that her hand isn't down the front of your jeans. "Lisa..."
"Take your jeans off."
"Huh?" You're squirming and pulsing and so damn close, and she's worried about clothes?
She kisses you, careful and firm, and says, "Jeans. Off. Now."
You nod, wriggling on the couch, and pulling them off. Of course, they won't come off easily, and you end up sitting up, tugging them over your ankles. It's why you always wear skirts on dates. You've never found a graceful way to take off a pair of pants. Eventually, they're off, and then Lisa tugs at your panties, so you pull the red lace off too.
"Better," she says, kissing you and pressing you down onto the cushions. You're not sure it is until her fingers start moving on your clit again. Then her fingers slide back, and she presses two fingers in, curling them up against you. That's worlds better.
She's stroking in further, and all you can do is grasp onto her wrist, and urge, "Deeper." You mean that it's good, that it's great, that her fingers are magic, and that's just the right spot, but all that comes out of your mouth is, "Deeper, deeper." When she moves her thumb against your clit, it's beyond magic. Your fingers are digging into her arm, hard enough to bruise, but your helpless to anything but muffle your grunt against her shoulder, and come.
Her fingers are still moving inside you as your body spasms around her, and then you're melting into the cushions, slipping into that post-orgasmic haze.
You only stir when you feel her fingers against your jaw, and hear her quiet voice. "Stay until morning?"
You nod. You can smell yourself on her fingers, and you're pretty sure you can still taste her on your lips. It doesn't seem like such a bad thing.
You pull her down against you, and you both shuffle a bit, getting comfortable. You fall asleep with her arm draped over your hip, and the smell of her shampoo in your nose. It really doesn't feel bad.
It doesn't feel bad until the next morning.
You both wake up on the couch, hearing the same noises. There's the low murmur of a man's voice cursing, and the jangle of keys. You share a panicked look, and then spring up. She's naked from the waist up, and you're naked from the waist down, and you're both scrambling into clothes as the key scratches in the lock. She's pulling down her top, and you're buttoning up your jeans as the door opens.
For once, you're incredibly glad to see Dan. Then, you take a good look at his eyes, at the way they skim over your crumpled clothing, and flicker over to Lisa's bra sitting on the couch. You wonder if you really do have a hickey on your neck, but refuse to lift your hand to cover it.
He blinks, slowly, and the pure look of disgust on his face is almost gruesome. You wait for him to start yelling, but instead, his voice is icy. "Lisa, your *husband* is in my car. He's hung over and refusing to get out." He throws car keys to Lisa, and unsurprisingly, she doesn't catch them. She never was good at hand-eye co-ordination.
She bends down and picks the keys up, then looks straight at Dan. "I'll go get him." You never realised Lisa's voice could sound that cold and aloof. She doesn't hurry out the door, and she doesn't give Dan eye contact as she passes.
Suddenly, you realise this night was a really bad idea.
Dan stalks closer to you, *stalks*, and it takes all your courage not to back down, not to apologise. You're not sure you're sorry, but you are sure he expects an apology. Instead, you stay silent.
"How could you?!" he hisses, barely a foot away. "She's his wife. How could you?"
"It's nothing to do with you, Dan."
Dan's eyes narrow into slits, and his voice is furious. "He's my best friend, Dana. I thought he was your friend, too."
"Lisa's my friend, too," you state firmly, because she is. She was. You aren't sure right now if she still is, but she certainly was.
"And Casey means nothing?"
"Don't, Dan." That makes you see red. You're sick of this. Sick of Casey's slowly suffocating marriage, sick of supposedly being friends with both of them. Sick of Dan's judgemental attitudes against Lisa. "Casey's my friend too, but unlike you, I don't have the luxury of choosing to ignore reality and just believe Casey's version of it," you hiss back at him, and take a step closer. "I appreciate that you're Casey's best friend. I appreciate that you get to take his side one hundred percent of the time. But I'm Lisa's friend, too. I can't do that."
You both twist around when the not-so-happy couple come in the front door. Casey's dragging his feet, one hand hiding his eyes from the sun, and the other arm slung around Lisa's shoulders as she leads him inside. Lisa quickly rolls her eyes at you, and you grin back. You both know how much of a baby Casey can be when it comes to a bad hangover.
Dan glares at you, and at her, and then opens his mouth. For a moment, time slows into an eternity of dread, your heart pounding in your chest as you wait for Dan to announce his suspicions to Casey. "You are such a wuss, Casey."
You snigger at the comment. Most of your reaction is caused by pure relief.
Casey groans under his breath as Lisa leads him up the stairs. "Drop dead."
Dan laughs, and if you didn't see the strain around his eyes, you would have thought it was genuine. "It's not mu fault you can't hold your liquor."
Abruptly, you find your voice. "What did you drink?"
Casey mumbles something under his breath, and Lisa pauses on the stairs. You can't make out what Casey said, but Lisa scowls and glares at Dan. "Jagermiester, Dan? You got him drunk on Jagermiester?"
Of all the things that are going to lead to a cranky, hung-over Casey, Jagermeister is the worst. He'll spend all day in bed, playing the dying swan for hours.
"He's a grown man, Lisa," Dan replies sharply. "He shouldn't need to be protected from the world."
Lisa glowers at him but says nothing. Casey groans against her shoulder, and she leads him the rest of way upstairs.
As soon as their bedroom door closes, Dan turns to you. "You can't stand by and be friends to both of them. You have to choose a side, Dana." You close your eyes, because you don't want to think about that; don't want to think about the fact that if, and when, Casey and Lisa break up you have to choose one of them.
"And you know you'll choose Casey," Dan states firmly.
Dan's right, but you don't want him to be. At the end of the day, your career is hitched to Casey's. You'd like to choose Lisa, because she's your friend, because you've known her longer, because you see her with Casey and think that she needs someone to be on her side. But you love your job. You've worked too hard to sacrifice your career for a friendship.
Dan looks down for a moment, and when he looks back at you, the anger's softer. In fact, he almost looks understanding. Then, he says gently, "She isn't a good substitute for him."
For a moment, you just stare at him in shock. Then, pure fury takes over and before you know it, you've slapped him hard. There's a bright red imprint on his cheek, and you're so angry you can barely speak. "How dare you...!" Your jaw clenches, and you can't get the rest of the words out. How dare he say that? How dare he suggest that the reason, the only reason, someone would be attracted to Lisa would be because of Casey? It's ridiculous and stupid, and just plain hurtful.
Lisa comes back at that moment. You're staring at him, furious, and he has a hand on his cheek, blinking at you in surprise. You can almost see your fingerprints on his face, but Lisa doesn't even ask about that. "Thanks for taking him home, Dan. I'm sure he'll call you when he's sober."
It's as clear a dismissal as you've ever heard, and Dan gets the hint. "Fine," he says, and then gives you a firm look, like a naughty school-child. "I'll give you a lift home, Dana."
"No, thanks," you manage to say tightly.
"Dana..." You'll say one thing for Dan Rydell: he has guts. He'd have to, trying that tone on you. You're five years his senior, and you're not going to be pushed around by some boy a few years out of his teens.
You straighten your spine, refusing to be cowed by some friend of Casey's. "I'll drive home, Dan."
"Whatever," Dan says, but shoots a foul look at both of you as he strides out the door.
When he's out of sight, you let out a breath you hadn't been aware you were holding. "Lisa?" She's standing there, biting her lower lip again, and you have the irrational urge to kiss her. "Are you okay?"
She glances upstairs, to where Casey and Charlie are fast asleep, and then turns back to you with resigned eyes. "You'd better go."
"I can help you clean up," you offer, looking around the living room at the empty glasses and half-filled bowls.
"You'd better go," she says firmly, setting her shoulders.
You nod, because there's nothing else you can do. You've never been able to read when you've overstayed your welcome. "Give me a call sometime. We'll catch up."
She smiles tightly and nods. "Sure," she says, leading you to the front door, and you know it's a lie. "Drive safely."
When you look at her, her eyes are worried, and you know she's not thinking of your travel back to your apartment. "I will," you promise solemnly. You stare at her for another moment, standing on her doorstep, then Charlie cries.
"I've got to go," Lisa says and you nod, stepping away. She closes the door behind you without another word.
You open your car door, and scrub your face with your hands. You doubt you'll ever figure out exactly what just happened, but you don't think you and Lisa are technically friends any more. As you start the engine, you guess that at least she made it easy to choose a side.
On your way home, you drive past your church. You think about stopping. It's Sunday morning, and you'd only be fifteen minutes late for Mass. But your clothes are rumpled, your hair's untidy, and there's still the faint taste of her in your mouth, so you drive straight home. When you get there, it occurs to you that L.A. might not be a good place for Dana Whittaker.
The End
michellek? simplylyric? Would either of you guys be available for beta duties?)Anyway, it's SN, it's Lisa/Dana set during the mythical pre-Lonestar, L.A. days and it's rated NC-17.
It's the first time I've written femslash, or femslash smut, so if there's some descriptions or whatever that make you stop and think "WTF?", please leave a comment and let me know. (
Girls' Night In
"I think he's in love with you," Lisa says, staring at the ceiling in contemplation.
You look over, and you're still vaguely surprised that it's short. Her hair, not the ceiling. It's cut in a straight bob, and the strawberry blonde strands brush her bare shoulders when she turns to look at you. It's stylish and mature, the type of haircut that makes you think of smart suits, businesswomen, and oddly enough, Lois Lane. You vaguely miss Lisa's curls. "What?"
"I think he's in love with you," she repeats with soft eyes and you shake your head. Your long earrings bounce lightly against the side of your neck, and you remember why you like small studs. Far less annoying.
"Jerry isn't serious." He's a nice guy, sweet and successful, but not exactly charming. So far, it's been a couple of casual dates, and you're already wondering when he'll stop calling.
She looks down at her hands, and you notice that her nails are even shorter than in college. "Not Jerry. Casey."
"He's your husband," you remind her.
"That doesn't mean anything, Dana."
"He's married to you. You're his wife." It seems so logical, so obvious to you. "Of course he loves you."
"He loves Charlie. He loves being a father. He loves being someone's husband. I just don't think he loves me." Her eyes are wide and soft, and she blinks as she looks at you. "He's definitely not in love with me."
"He's not in love with me," you parrot back and she smiles. Her smiles always lit up her face; this one just haunts it.
"I think he is. He just doesn't want to admit it." She looks over at the wine glasses, and you don't know what to say.
You're starting to think that this was a bad idea. Dan had blown into town for the weekend, so Casey had celebrated by going out drinking, "a boys' night out". Lisa had suggested a girls' night in, movies, girl-talk and drinks, just like college. She chose the movies and organised snacks, and you brought the bottles of wine, but the camaraderie isn't here. The years between college and L.A. have changed both of you too much for this to be comfortable.
It's only been a couple of years, but suddenly Lisa isn't the aspiring lawyer she once was. She's a housewife with a toddler wandering around, with a successful husband and a cosy baby-proofed house. You've got your Masters, and your associate producer position, and your career is falling into place while your love life just falls apart.
She breaks the silence, placing her wine glass back on the table. "I'm sorry. I think I've had too much to drink."
"Or not enough," you say, because that used to be a familiar joke. The pair of you weren't drunk enough unless you were blaring KC and the Sunshine Band and dancing wildly around the room. You reach over for the bottle of white wine but she places her hand over the glass.
"I should stop. Casey will be hung over tomorrow. We don't need both of us wincing when Charlie wakes up."
You nod, but this is unfamiliar territory. You don't have to worry about looking after a child the next day; you can just drag yourself to bed and spend the next day with the blinds closed. "You need a nanny."
Lisa nods. "As soon as we can afford one. It would be nice to be able to moan and groan together."
You snicker at the phrasing, because your sense of humour tends to regress when you're drunk, and she stares at you. Then, she starts to snigger too, giggling to herself and then shaking with laughter. She's laughing too hard to sit up straight, and slides sideways against your shoulder. "You're impossible, Dana."
"No, I'm improbable," you say, and it only makes her laugh louder. Her laughter is infectious, and you find yourself cackling at the weak joke. "Big difference."
After a moment, you both settle down, but when you meet her amused eyes, it's enough to start you giggling again. This is something you miss from college, having someone who understands your jokes. Someone just as silly and just as easily amused as you are. You've always had a quirky sense of humour, but Lisa is one of the few people who can fall into hysterics with you.
When you stop laughing, you're both haphazardly sprawled across the couch and your glass is just out of arms-reach. "Are you sure you don't want any more to drink?" you ask, mainly because it gives you an excuse not to move for another few seconds.
"I'm sure," she says as she turns to you. Her mouth brushes your cheek, which is pure accident. It's the way that she doesn't pull back that makes you stop and think. Admittedly, your thoughts are a bit hazy, but the pair of you are slouched against the cushions and her breath wafts warmly across your jaw line. It seems like a pretty clear signal.
You turn your head a little more, and graze her lips with your own, waiting for her to pull back, waiting for her to say you've misinterpreted this... this thing, this whatever it is that's making your pulse hammer, that's making you hold your breath. But she doesn't pull away, she presses up and opens her lips slightly. Her lips taste of white wine and peanuts. Leaning back, you trace her wet lips and let your fingers wander down her neck.
She's soft under your hands. Gentle curves and soft skin, and her perfume is sweetly floral when you breathe in. You trace over her shoulders, over the pale skin that never quite tans. Her eyes close, and you watch her chest rise and fall, her breathing become heavier.
The straps of her cotton summer top rest lightly on her skin, and it's easy to push them down her shoulders.
You stop for a moment and feel yourself start to frown as you think about her top. It's a pale peach, pretty enough, but you wonder how to take it off her. Lisa's eyes flutter open. You wish her green eyes didn't look as uncertain as you feel. She bites her lower lip, and looks away, but you don't want this to end yet. It's selfish and needy, and has far more to do with the throbbing between your legs than what's best for both of you.
Running a finger over the hem of her top, you watch her until she turns back to you. "I like this." She smiles nervously and you beam back at her. "It looks good on you."
She nods and when she speaks, her voice is tremulous. "There was a-a light blue one, too. I thought of you when I saw it."
She's nervous. You knew this, but... it suddenly hits you that she's *nervous*. Lisa, ever gracious Lisa, the girl who always managed to appear cool and collected, confident and self-assured, is nervous. It gives you a sudden burst of excitement, a sudden sense of power that almost makes you squirm in your seat. You've always been the uncertain one; in college, you looked to her for guidance, to reassure you how you should act, what you should say.
Suddenly, it's all reversed; she's looking to you, waiting for you to lead her.
You slide your hands up her tank top, feeling the press of her nipples against your palms. Moving your hands back down, you cup her breast gently. "You look good," you say gruffly, and her breath rushes out in a hiss.
Her breasts fit your hands well, and you like the heavy warmth of them against your palms. You can feel the under-wire of her bra, the layers of soft material between your hands and her skin, and you guess that he still wears the plain, practical bras she favoured in college. The ones designed not to be noticed under clothes, to be comfortable and gently supportive.
Her nipples harden further as you move your fingers, breaking the smooth line of the cotton. Running your thumbs over them in feather-light circles makes her moan softly and arch her back. You do it again and again, until her mouth is parted and her eyes are closed, until she's gasping little breathy moans. Her hand reaches out blindly, landing on your jaw line and curling fingers around your neck.
It's all the encouragement you need.
You shift forward, capturing her mouth in a kiss. This time, you notice the flavour of her lip balm. Raspberry, or strawberry; something sweet and smooth that you scrape off her lips with your teeth. Her fingers claw your shoulders, but you're too distracted by the way she kisses you back. Soft. Wet. Slow, graceful kisses that slide into your mouth, and make you melt. Make you pull at her top, push it up to run hands over yielding skin.
You insinuate fingers under the binding material of her bra and hold warm, supple flesh in your chilled hands, catching her nipple with your thumb. She gasps and breaks the kiss, leaning back and pulling the tank top over her head. The bra is tan and cotton, and just as practical as you'd expected. Then she's kissing you again, leaning forward into your hands.
You keep kissing her, swallowing her breathy moans, and stealing a hand around her back. Between the different angle, and the way her tongue invades your mouth, it takes you a few long moments to unclasp her bra-strap. It finally comes apart, and she pulls it off her arms without any further encouragement.
Pressing forward, you push her back against the couch, your hands holding her jaw firmly. You trace over her cheekbones, high and fine and then drag your hands down her long, slender neck. Over her collarbone, down her chest, exploring her with fingers and palms. You move slower over her sensitive nipples, but don't stop. You slide your hands around her waist, around her sides, and then decide to follow your hands with your mouth.
Lisa's eyes flutter open when you pull away from her luscious mouth, but they close again when you latch onto that tender spot just below her jaw. You work your way down, your hands drawing patterns over her ribs as you suck reddened marks onto her neck. You have the urge to mark her, to bite down hard, but when you press your teeth against her skin, she hisses and pushes you away. You can see his name in her eyes, but you kiss her before she can say it.
"Dana?"
"Shhhh..." You nod, silencing her with two fingers against her shiny, well-kissed lips. "I'll be good." She closes her eyes, taking your hypocritical promise at face value. You take a good look at her neck, and decide it probably won't show in the morning.
She's naked from the waist up, but a thin, floating skirt covers her legs. That really isn't fair. You've always admired her legs; it isn't fair you can't see them. You lean back in, pressing soft, safe kisses across her shoulders while you pull her skirt up slowly. The material slithers up her legs, making a gentle rasping sound that you can barely hear over her heavy breathing.
You trail your mouth lower, and keep pulling at her skirt. Eventually, it reveals long, shapely thighs and a pair of sweet, cotton panties. They're white with some red pattern, love-hearts or flowers, just as plain as her bra. You trace fingertips over her knees, up her thighs, and press your lips against her breast. Sucking a nipple into your mouth, you scratch lightly at her inner thighs. She gasps and spreads her legs wider for you.
Her skin is smooth under your fingers, and the cotton feels almost rough in comparison. The material's already damp. You run your fingers over the wet cotton, and she gasps again, arching under you. You sit back, and then urge her hips up. She shimmies, helping you to pull the panties down and off her. As she kicks them out of the way, you drop to your knees between her legs. For a brief instant, your thankful you wore jeans. It's not a lot of padding for your knees, but it's far better than bare legs.
"Dana, you don't have to-" You stop her half-hearted excuse by sucking a kiss to her inner thigh. She closes her eyes, and relaxes back into the couch cushions, which is much better. You wonder why she'd give you such an easy out when she's slick and needy, and obviously wants more. For a second you think of Casey, resentfully wonder when he last did this for her. Then her hand lightly settles on your shoulders and you wish you hadn't thought his name.
Slowly, you lick a wet path up her leg, pausing when you get to her smooth bikini line. Her hair here is darker, a stronger red. Short ginger curls frame her pussy, and you spend a moment looking at her; red and swollen, open and wet. It's familiar and kind of alien, and it's almost enough to unnerve you, so you close your eyes and press your mouth against her leg. It's easier like this, soft skin against your tongue, her thigh flexing under your hand.
She groans, parting her legs wider, and you move your mouth across. The hair tickles against your lips, and you press a series of short, firm kisses as you work your mouth across. When you press one of those kisses against her clit, she curls up, grabbing at you. You pause with your mouth almost touching her, just breathing against her skin as she settles back down.
Licking your lips, you think you can do this. You've had it done to you often enough to be able to figure this out. Admittedly, a lot of those times were pretty bad, but on the other hand, you're a good deal smarter than a lot of the guys you date.
You lick her again, lightly brushing your tongue against the tip of her clit, and she sighs. You do it again, getting used to the taste of her. It's different. Not bad, certainly no worse than a guy, but different. You keep licking her, trying to describe her taste, but nothing comes to mind. Just slick and complex. Earthy, maybe. Another light lick. Different.
She squirms beneath you and you try something else. You point your tongue, stabbing at her quickly, and she trembles. You flatten your tongue against her, and she breathes out your name. She smooths her hands over your hair, and you suck against her clit just to hear your name again. It's an addictive sound, that broken whisper.
It's so easy to fall into a pattern, of licking and sucking, stabbing and pressing, tasting her until you're sure you'll never get her flavour out of your mouth. The best part is the way she squirms and arches, whispering hoarsely, "Dana, Dana, Dana."
When you look up, her head's thrown back against the headrest, eyes scrunched closed. She's biting her lip, and hissing your name between almost-closed teeth. Her hand is on her breast, pinching the nipple tighter than you would have dared. You're reminded of your college anthropology class, of mother figures and goddesses. She seems made of curves, the curve of hips and belly and breasts; of her thighs under your hands and her pussy under your mouth.
Her breathing hitches and becomes ragged. You recognise that sound, that feeling of being so close, so very close, that breathing is a secondary concern. Her thighs tense under your hands, and her hips arch up, straining closer. You run a finger up her leg, teasing over that slick opening, and her hand clenches in your hair. It's almost painful, but it's hint enough for you to push a finger inside her.
She's tighter than you expected; wet and warm around your finger. You press in, press up against the spot that always drives you wild. You work your tongue harder against her clit, rubbing her inside, and it's just enough to push her over the edge. She hisses a breath in, straining up for a moment, her nails clawing against your scalp, and clenches around your finger. Then she sighs, falling back against the couch, but you can still feel her muscles contract around you. You drag a light kiss across her thigh, and leave your finger inside her until the last aftershocks fade away.
Leaning back on your heels, you look up at her. Legs wide apart, eyes half-closed, her hand resting loosely on her stomach. Her lips are parted and that pale skin is flushed. All in all, Lisa looks thoroughly debauched. You watch her breath, deep slow breaths that make her breasts rise and fall, and you suck your finger into your mouth. Different is still the best way you can describe it.
She lies still, and you twist, the seam of your jeans rubbing against you. It makes you feel awkward for a moment, the way you always do after sex, when you're not sure if you should stay or go. Not sure if he wants you to stick around. So, you do the same thing you do with guys. "I've sort of got an early start in the morning, so if you want me to go...?" You shrug, and wait for her to say yes.
She blinks her eyes open, a frown forming between her pale eyebrows. "You don't have an early start tomorrow."
"What?" That isn't the way people respond to that suggestion.
"Casey has the day off. Why would you have to go in?" Of course, she'd know from Casey. You're Casey's producer; you work with him and work when he works.
You could say that just because Casey has the day off, doesn't mean you can relax. He doesn't have to worry about his job. Sports, and sports reporting, are a man's occupation, and jobs for the boys is just a established in LA as anywhere else. You're not one of the guys. And lately, you've had reason to worry about your position. You could say that, but you don't want to. Instead, you shrug. "I should probably go."
Lisa leans over, and gently wraps a hand around your wrist. "Stay until tomorrow morning."
It's a stay of execution, an extension on death row, but you love her for it. You don't want to go home to an empty bed, and you don't want to think about what you've done, what it means to you and to Jerry, to Lisa and Casey. You really don't want to spend the night thinking about it, and if you go home, you will. Your serious thoughts must show on your face, because she leans over and kisses you.
It's sleepy and satisfied, and when she pulls your wrist, you scramble up to the couch. She lies down, stretching out on the long couch, and pulling you beside her.
She leans over you, kissing you thoroughly, exploring all of the secrets of your mouth. Her hair, her too-short bob, brushes against your cheek and your neck, making you laugh as it tickles. Then her hand is on your flat stomach, pulling at the waistband of your jeans. You help her undo the button and zipper and she says, "I haven't... um..."
You lick a wet stripe across her throat as she talks and she tries again. "I mean, with another girl..."
"Do what you like," you mutter into her skin. "I'm a big girl. I can speak up if I don't like it." You've said that to guys a couple times, but they always look a little put-out by the idea. Lisa doesn't. She just nods happily and kisses you, sliding a hand straight under your panties.
Her fingers are cold on your skin. She quickly slips two fingers against you, one on each side of your clit, and starts moving the skin in tiny circles. It's surprisingly good. When she starts moving her fingers faster, it's extremely good. It's right where you need to be touched, and not too intense, and the pressure is just right, and all you can do is cling onto her and kiss her back. You writhe against her, press up against her hand, but her hand is trapped between your skin and your jeans; she can't get any closer to you.
She bends her head, biting sharply against the pulse in your neck. "Oh, god!" Her mouth and her hands, and it's so good, but you're empty and throbbing. You need more. "Lisa, please..."
She presses a quick kiss to your lips, then asks breathily, "What?"
Her hand doesn't stop against your clit, and it's impossible that she wants you to think. "More." She grins, and goes back to sucking your neck, but that wasn't what you meant. It takes an eternity to get the words to your lips. Every time they come close, there's the sudden sting of her teeth, or the flare of her fingers twisting against you. Eventually, you just tug on her wrist, pulling it down and beg, "Deeper."
She pulls her hand back, which is not what you wanted. You're panting now, and it's just not right that her hand isn't down the front of your jeans. "Lisa..."
"Take your jeans off."
"Huh?" You're squirming and pulsing and so damn close, and she's worried about clothes?
She kisses you, careful and firm, and says, "Jeans. Off. Now."
You nod, wriggling on the couch, and pulling them off. Of course, they won't come off easily, and you end up sitting up, tugging them over your ankles. It's why you always wear skirts on dates. You've never found a graceful way to take off a pair of pants. Eventually, they're off, and then Lisa tugs at your panties, so you pull the red lace off too.
"Better," she says, kissing you and pressing you down onto the cushions. You're not sure it is until her fingers start moving on your clit again. Then her fingers slide back, and she presses two fingers in, curling them up against you. That's worlds better.
She's stroking in further, and all you can do is grasp onto her wrist, and urge, "Deeper." You mean that it's good, that it's great, that her fingers are magic, and that's just the right spot, but all that comes out of your mouth is, "Deeper, deeper." When she moves her thumb against your clit, it's beyond magic. Your fingers are digging into her arm, hard enough to bruise, but your helpless to anything but muffle your grunt against her shoulder, and come.
Her fingers are still moving inside you as your body spasms around her, and then you're melting into the cushions, slipping into that post-orgasmic haze.
You only stir when you feel her fingers against your jaw, and hear her quiet voice. "Stay until morning?"
You nod. You can smell yourself on her fingers, and you're pretty sure you can still taste her on your lips. It doesn't seem like such a bad thing.
You pull her down against you, and you both shuffle a bit, getting comfortable. You fall asleep with her arm draped over your hip, and the smell of her shampoo in your nose. It really doesn't feel bad.
It doesn't feel bad until the next morning.
You both wake up on the couch, hearing the same noises. There's the low murmur of a man's voice cursing, and the jangle of keys. You share a panicked look, and then spring up. She's naked from the waist up, and you're naked from the waist down, and you're both scrambling into clothes as the key scratches in the lock. She's pulling down her top, and you're buttoning up your jeans as the door opens.
For once, you're incredibly glad to see Dan. Then, you take a good look at his eyes, at the way they skim over your crumpled clothing, and flicker over to Lisa's bra sitting on the couch. You wonder if you really do have a hickey on your neck, but refuse to lift your hand to cover it.
He blinks, slowly, and the pure look of disgust on his face is almost gruesome. You wait for him to start yelling, but instead, his voice is icy. "Lisa, your *husband* is in my car. He's hung over and refusing to get out." He throws car keys to Lisa, and unsurprisingly, she doesn't catch them. She never was good at hand-eye co-ordination.
She bends down and picks the keys up, then looks straight at Dan. "I'll go get him." You never realised Lisa's voice could sound that cold and aloof. She doesn't hurry out the door, and she doesn't give Dan eye contact as she passes.
Suddenly, you realise this night was a really bad idea.
Dan stalks closer to you, *stalks*, and it takes all your courage not to back down, not to apologise. You're not sure you're sorry, but you are sure he expects an apology. Instead, you stay silent.
"How could you?!" he hisses, barely a foot away. "She's his wife. How could you?"
"It's nothing to do with you, Dan."
Dan's eyes narrow into slits, and his voice is furious. "He's my best friend, Dana. I thought he was your friend, too."
"Lisa's my friend, too," you state firmly, because she is. She was. You aren't sure right now if she still is, but she certainly was.
"And Casey means nothing?"
"Don't, Dan." That makes you see red. You're sick of this. Sick of Casey's slowly suffocating marriage, sick of supposedly being friends with both of them. Sick of Dan's judgemental attitudes against Lisa. "Casey's my friend too, but unlike you, I don't have the luxury of choosing to ignore reality and just believe Casey's version of it," you hiss back at him, and take a step closer. "I appreciate that you're Casey's best friend. I appreciate that you get to take his side one hundred percent of the time. But I'm Lisa's friend, too. I can't do that."
You both twist around when the not-so-happy couple come in the front door. Casey's dragging his feet, one hand hiding his eyes from the sun, and the other arm slung around Lisa's shoulders as she leads him inside. Lisa quickly rolls her eyes at you, and you grin back. You both know how much of a baby Casey can be when it comes to a bad hangover.
Dan glares at you, and at her, and then opens his mouth. For a moment, time slows into an eternity of dread, your heart pounding in your chest as you wait for Dan to announce his suspicions to Casey. "You are such a wuss, Casey."
You snigger at the comment. Most of your reaction is caused by pure relief.
Casey groans under his breath as Lisa leads him up the stairs. "Drop dead."
Dan laughs, and if you didn't see the strain around his eyes, you would have thought it was genuine. "It's not mu fault you can't hold your liquor."
Abruptly, you find your voice. "What did you drink?"
Casey mumbles something under his breath, and Lisa pauses on the stairs. You can't make out what Casey said, but Lisa scowls and glares at Dan. "Jagermiester, Dan? You got him drunk on Jagermiester?"
Of all the things that are going to lead to a cranky, hung-over Casey, Jagermeister is the worst. He'll spend all day in bed, playing the dying swan for hours.
"He's a grown man, Lisa," Dan replies sharply. "He shouldn't need to be protected from the world."
Lisa glowers at him but says nothing. Casey groans against her shoulder, and she leads him the rest of way upstairs.
As soon as their bedroom door closes, Dan turns to you. "You can't stand by and be friends to both of them. You have to choose a side, Dana." You close your eyes, because you don't want to think about that; don't want to think about the fact that if, and when, Casey and Lisa break up you have to choose one of them.
"And you know you'll choose Casey," Dan states firmly.
Dan's right, but you don't want him to be. At the end of the day, your career is hitched to Casey's. You'd like to choose Lisa, because she's your friend, because you've known her longer, because you see her with Casey and think that she needs someone to be on her side. But you love your job. You've worked too hard to sacrifice your career for a friendship.
Dan looks down for a moment, and when he looks back at you, the anger's softer. In fact, he almost looks understanding. Then, he says gently, "She isn't a good substitute for him."
For a moment, you just stare at him in shock. Then, pure fury takes over and before you know it, you've slapped him hard. There's a bright red imprint on his cheek, and you're so angry you can barely speak. "How dare you...!" Your jaw clenches, and you can't get the rest of the words out. How dare he say that? How dare he suggest that the reason, the only reason, someone would be attracted to Lisa would be because of Casey? It's ridiculous and stupid, and just plain hurtful.
Lisa comes back at that moment. You're staring at him, furious, and he has a hand on his cheek, blinking at you in surprise. You can almost see your fingerprints on his face, but Lisa doesn't even ask about that. "Thanks for taking him home, Dan. I'm sure he'll call you when he's sober."
It's as clear a dismissal as you've ever heard, and Dan gets the hint. "Fine," he says, and then gives you a firm look, like a naughty school-child. "I'll give you a lift home, Dana."
"No, thanks," you manage to say tightly.
"Dana..." You'll say one thing for Dan Rydell: he has guts. He'd have to, trying that tone on you. You're five years his senior, and you're not going to be pushed around by some boy a few years out of his teens.
You straighten your spine, refusing to be cowed by some friend of Casey's. "I'll drive home, Dan."
"Whatever," Dan says, but shoots a foul look at both of you as he strides out the door.
When he's out of sight, you let out a breath you hadn't been aware you were holding. "Lisa?" She's standing there, biting her lower lip again, and you have the irrational urge to kiss her. "Are you okay?"
She glances upstairs, to where Casey and Charlie are fast asleep, and then turns back to you with resigned eyes. "You'd better go."
"I can help you clean up," you offer, looking around the living room at the empty glasses and half-filled bowls.
"You'd better go," she says firmly, setting her shoulders.
You nod, because there's nothing else you can do. You've never been able to read when you've overstayed your welcome. "Give me a call sometime. We'll catch up."
She smiles tightly and nods. "Sure," she says, leading you to the front door, and you know it's a lie. "Drive safely."
When you look at her, her eyes are worried, and you know she's not thinking of your travel back to your apartment. "I will," you promise solemnly. You stare at her for another moment, standing on her doorstep, then Charlie cries.
"I've got to go," Lisa says and you nod, stepping away. She closes the door behind you without another word.
You open your car door, and scrub your face with your hands. You doubt you'll ever figure out exactly what just happened, but you don't think you and Lisa are technically friends any more. As you start the engine, you guess that at least she made it easy to choose a side.
On your way home, you drive past your church. You think about stopping. It's Sunday morning, and you'd only be fifteen minutes late for Mass. But your clothes are rumpled, your hair's untidy, and there's still the faint taste of her in your mouth, so you drive straight home. When you get there, it occurs to you that L.A. might not be a good place for Dana Whittaker.
The End
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-04-18 01:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-04-18 01:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-04-19 02:49 am (UTC)And it has reminded me of the scraps of Lisa/Dana college-era femmeslash sitting in my fic notebook...
no subject
Date: 2004-04-19 01:42 pm (UTC)Thank you. Well, as I was writing, I kept getting a disapproving Danny-voice in the back of my head, saying I couldn't really do that to Casey (for some reason, the rationale that Casey would never know just didn't seem to comfort that voice). Hence, I bribe my Danny muse with a cameo. *g*
And it has reminded me of the scraps of Lisa/Dana college-era femmeslash sitting in my fic notebook...
Oooooh! *is interested*