#troperific

[zennie-fic]

it’s the clichés that cause the trouble (4/?)

Fandom: Supergirl Pairing: Alex/Maggie Rating: M Summary: Alex and Maggie continue their fake date AN1: I continue to have insane amounts of fun with this one. AN2: Thanks to Inspector Boxer for the beta as always, and @wowthesewomen for the pre-read. 

Maggie walked hand-in-hand with Alex across the threshold and into an honest-to-god ballroom, decked out with ornate gold-and-white mardi gras decorations set against black velvet curtains lining windows and wall alcoves. The ballroom was lit well enough to see across but soft enough to feel intimate, and candles sparkled in crystals and feathers set as table decorations throughout. Jazz played through speakers but a small creole band was setting up in the corner, and Maggie had to admit she was impressed; for a policeman’s charity event, the Marcus family seemed to have gone all out.

Maggie’s glance took in the masked people moving among the cafe tables before settling back on the woman at her side. Alex was beautiful in black, her sculpted legs and calloused hands belying the creamy skin and soft curls her usually-straight hair sported. The flickering candles only enhanced her beauty, glinting off the accents in her mask and making her dark eyes more mysterious. Maggie had expected Alex would be dressed to the nines, especially after her teasing earlier, but she hadn’t expected the sight to hit her like a sucker punch to the gut.

If there had been any doubt of her attraction to the prickly agent, seeing Alex in that dress obliterated it. Tightening her grip on Alex’s hand, Maggie grinned and got a brief, affectionate smile in return. Then Alex’s eyes slid past her to another partygoer, the look behind the mask cold and professional. Stifling a sigh, Maggie forced her attention back to the who’s who of National City high society as they slowly circled the room. They were here to do a job, after all.

Read Part 4 on Ao3: it’s the cliches that cause all the trouble

And if you need a playlist, here’s what I was listening to on Spotify , especially these songs: Le Lune Bleu Jolie Fee Valse de Grand Basile Zydeco Sont Pan Sole

[zennie-fic]

it’s the clichés that cause the trouble (3/?)

Fandom: Supergirl Pairing: Alex/Maggie Rating: M Summary: In this chapter, Maggie gets into the DEO. AN1: I continue to have insane amounts of fun with this one.  AN2: Thanks to Inspector Boxer for the beta as always, and Rockstar and @rtarara for the pre-read. 

The air was cold when Maggie stepped out of the precinct to get lunch, and the clouds threatened rain. She pulled her jacket tighter around her as she headed down the street, hoping it didn’t pour before she got back.

“Detective.”

Maggie was glad she didn’t jump when Alex stepped out from the alleyway and matched her stride, although the sudden appearance of the other woman had surprised her. She stifled her grin as the agent glanced to her left appraisingly. This game of constant one-upmanship was going to be fun if Alex kept playing. “Agent Danvers,” Maggie greeted in her best so-nice-to-see-you voice. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Your presence is requested.” Alex stuffed her hands into the pockets of her near-identical leather jacket and hunched her shoulders as the wind picked up.

“Now? Oh, gosh, sorry, I’ve gotta grab lunch and file witness statements this afternoon. Maybe if you schedule an appointment?”

Alex’s sideways glance told her that Alex knew what game Maggie was playing. “Did I say request? Sorry, I meant to say you are coming with me. Now.” Maggie wondered if Alex knew just exactly how hot her voice sounded with that authoritative growl and if she were doing it on purpose.

“What about lunch?”

“You want in? This is your way in,” Alex replied, her tone blasé. Her stride lengthened, and Alex’s longer legs made it harder for Maggie to keep up, and this time Maggie didn’t hide her grin.

They passed half a block in silence, heading closer to downtown, which seemed like an unusual location for an off-the-books agency. Maggie had spent the morning researching the conspiracy theories and rumors about the DEO, including maps of possible base locations. None of those had pegged downtown National City, although the consensus had their largest base located in an elaborate underground bunker at Area 51.

“So how long were you standing there waiting for me to walk by so you could surprise me?” Alex ignored her, but a small smirk pulled at the corners of her lips. “Seems like a lot of work just to be a dramatic asshole.” Alex’s smirk widened at the characterization, but she didn’t object.

Read Part 3 on Ao3: it’s the cliches that cause all the trouble

[zennie-fic]

it’s the clichés that cause the trouble (2/?)

Fandom: Supergirl Pairing: Alex/Maggie Rating: T (thus far) Summary: Maggie is a waitress in an old broken-down diner in National City when she meets Alex for the first time. AN: Thanks to Inspector Boxer for the beta. Title from Jeanette Winterson’s Written on the Body.

AN2: No Tumblr preview today, folks. I deliberately waited to post until I had the first two chapters done cuz reasons. I am having so much fun with this one. Hopefully y’all will enjoy it too. 

Read Part 2 on Ao3: it’s the clichés that cause the trouble

[hobbitsdoitbetter]

Mambo Italiano, part 2

A SAW2020 production 

She wakes up to a heartbeat under her ear and arms around her waist.

She's drooling on something which is a)quite warm, b)quite firm and c)really rather sweaty.

It takes her a moment to realise that it's a sleeping Sherlock. A still-clothed, rakishly ruffle Sherlock.,

Well, she thinks. Damn.

Squinting into the darkness Molly spies the clock, makes out the time. It's just past three in the morning.

"Bugger," she mutters, wondering why on earth her body chose to wake her now and praying firmly that she won't have trouble falling back asleep. Praying also that her sleeping companion is still unconscious and not in a position to ask her what on earth she's doing-

"Do stop moving around, Molly."

She blinks, surprised, and looks up to find Sherlock looking blearily down at her.

He has a pillow crease across his cheek and his curls are in disarray.

He's also, inexplicably, smiling, his eyes electric blue in the gloom.

Her heart skips a beat.

"Whazzah?" She asks, her tongue thick with sleep. At his snort she blinks. Straightens. Tries to martial her thoughts. She narrows her eyes in an attempt to look both awake and imposing. "I mean, what did you say?"

"I told you to stop moving about."

And inexplicably his smile widens slightly. Gets softer. Though the words should sound bossy they're not. Despite everything, everything she's told herself about him-about them- in the last few years Molly feels her stomach flip at the sight, feels her pulse starting to climb. She is suddenly very aware of how closely they're pressed together.

God, she finds herself thinking, God, he's right there… I could just reach out and ki-

"Go back to sleep, Molly."

The words are said fondly, kindly, but they brook no disagreement. She frowns up at him, sleepily relieved at his being reasonable and yet awake enough to know that he normally wouldn't be. Awake enough to know that there's something she's missing, something he's decided not to say-

As if in answer to her questioning expression he presses a kiss to her forehead.

His lips are dry and chapped and really rather soft. They leave a burning impression where they meet her skin and she takes in a sharp breath.

"Go back to sleep," he says again, more softly. "I'll- We can talk tomorrow."

"Talk?"

"Yes, talk." Again that soft, quirking smile. "It's this thing you do with your mouth."

“It’s not the only thing.” At his snort she sticks her tongue out at him. "Git."

"Guilty as charged." Again he smiles. "Now get some sleep."

And he drops his head down to his pillow and closes his eyes. Tired, she lets her own eyes droop shut. Lets herself relax against him. If he's not going to complain about being nuzzled then she will continue to nuzzle away. "Just so long as you don't try to make any jiggy-jiggy with me," she murmurs sleepily and he laughs. Tightens his grip on her.

She finds herself thinking, disjointedly, that his hand is so big the palm covers almost the entirety of her waist.

"Were we to make the jiggy-jiggy together, Molly," he says gravely, "I assure you that we'd both be awake enough to enjoy it." He presses a kiss to her hair. "Now sleep."

Molly means to ask him about his words, she really does, but she's already halfway into slumber again. And besides, he's only joking- Isn't he? Before she can say another word sleep claims her completely.

Sherlock smiles and holds her close, buries his nose in her hair. It smells of sweat and dust and that damn Italian police sargeant's aftershave. It smells of her shampoo and the starch in their sheets and Molly, Molly, Molly.

There's nothing more soothing than the scent of Molly.

Maybe you should mention that when you’re awake, a voice which sounds a lot like John murmurs in his head.  

“Maybe I will.” He smiles at the thought and lets his mind drift, knowing he won't sleep but determined that she will...

He doesn’t even notice when he drifts off.