By Minim Calibre
Notes: Warning: Rusty author on baby-induced perma-sleep dep with no clue where the hell this came from. (Seriously, I was curled up ready to drift off to get a few hours of sleep when it jumped out and mugged me. As is fitting When Stories Attack, Next on Fox, this is raw and has never known the touch of a beta. But, hey, first thing I’ve finished in almost a year.)
Post-fight postmortems are boring as hell, and dirty thoughts about teammates help to pass the time. Really, that’s all the justification Grace needs. Not that she’ll ever need to justify herself to anyone. Only person who’d say a word doesn’t have a leg to stand on: anything she’s thought, she knows damn well Roy’s thought longer, harder, and dirtier than even she can imagine.
Her mind decides to skip over Shift and Indy this time out. Probably for the best, if she ever wants to find the Pequod sexy again. Some things are too weird, even for Grace. She slides her tongue across the roof of her mouth, closes her eyes and pictures Anissa getting ready to shower, those slender hands reaching up and gently pushing off the waterfall of hooker-gold hair, going from brass to class the second she exposes those close-cropped black curls. Daddy’s little girl, all sugar and spice in a get-up that shows just how nice that everything really is, even before she drops the wig and starts taking off the costume.
Grace crosses and uncrosses her legs, shifts a little, then opens her eyes and looks around the room. Jade’s talking to Nightwing, hands on her hips and shoulders stiff from the effort it’s taking her to keep from ripping him a new one over whatever he’s done to piss her off this time. What the hell, might as well go for the obvious mental image of green skin encased in patent leather, a riding crop tapping impatiently against thigh-high boots. It’s one of Roy’s fantasies, ranking right up there with the one with the whole cast of the latest Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue and the jello pit, but Grace feels pretty comfortable borrowing it from time to time.
Roy she’s content to just picture going Greco-Roman with Nightwing, though she might borrow that jello pit for them if that gets old. So far, it hasn’t.
Jade asks Grace for her opinion on Nightwing’s tactics out in the field, jerking her out of her fantasy, so she grunts out a noncommittal response, just sullenly enough that she knows she’ll be left alone for the remainder of the rehash.
Four down, one to go. It’s a good thing they’re almost done talking. Thinking dirty things about the old school new chick on the block is so easy, it almost takes the fun out of it. Keyword being almost. Starfire’s at least a head taller than most women, but she’d tuck in nicely under Grace’s chin, where could Grace bury her nose in that mass of sweet-scented red hair while her hands idly caress golden skin and impossible curves.
She’s just starting to wonder what that skin tastes like–if she’s spicy like her name suggests, or salty like everyone else–when she catches Starfire watching her from across the room, her curiosity obvious. Grace looks back at her and smiles.
She bets herself a fiver that it’s spicy, and another twenty that she’ll know for sure before the month is out.