La Femme Nikita: Zero Point by JayBee

Zero Point (Nikita/Madeline | NC17 | 7,753 words) is Nikita reviewing Madeline at the end of the series and then flashing back to when Nikita had first joined Section. This is the story that showed me what an amazingly beautiful thing femslash could be. The characterizations of Nikita and Madeline are so utterly prefect, it's almost painful. Madeline was always very good at what she did in the show, and it's the same here. I also love all the descriptions of people's voices.

Excerpt:
"If you want to live," Madeline said, her voice lowering in warning, "it has to be on their terms. So please, do sit down."

Despite the gracious manner with which it was delivered, the threat was clear. Nikita made her way toward the vanity table, scuffing her boots reluctantly along the floor as she walked. She slumped into the waiting chair and flung one leg across the other.

When she felt a hand touch her shoulder, she nearly flinched. It moved to her cheek, and her muscles tensed in reaction, halfway anticipating a blow. Instead, fingers pressed against her skin gently, turning her head until she faced the mirror. There, in the warm glow of the recessed lights, she saw her own reflection and that of Madeline leaning over her.

"Look at yourself," invited Madeline. Her voice was soft and rich, her expression solemn. "Admire yourself. See your beauty."

Nikita searched, but saw nothing to admire. Blue eyes stared back from a face pale with uncertainty.

Madeline stroked her hair. The gesture startled Nikita, yet it was strangely soothing, evoking memories so distant she had forgotten even to miss them. Of comfort. Affection. Tenderness. Belonging. When had she last felt those things?

"You can learn to shoot. You can learn to fight. But there's no weapon as powerful as your femininity."

Nikita heard the words, but they didn't quite make sense. Femininity wasn't a weapon. It was a vulnerability. Something that attracted unwanted attention, that only women like Nikita's mother flaunted in their frantic desperation. But the mellifluous resonance of Madeline's voice said otherwise.

Lord of the Rings: The Condensed Parody Version of the FotR Script by LemonLye

The Condensed Parody Version of the FotR Script (ensemble | PG13 | 3,957 words) is really, really, really funny. So much of it is quotablely hilarious.

Excerpt:
RIVENDELL, DIFFERENT ROOM

GANDALF: So, Elrond, you're going to take the Ring and hide it behind one of these candle sconces, and nobody will ever know. Sound good?

ELROND: No way. I was there, Gandalf. I was there when Men ran out of strength. And conditioner.


FLASHBACK: MT. DOOM

ELROND watches as fuzzy-headed ISILDUR stands with the RING in the special Place to Throw Stuff Into Lava Room.

RING: (sniffle) You wouldn't destroy poor, sweet, little ol' me, would you, Isildur? You handsome... strong... powerful man?

ISILDUR: Mmm...'scuse me, Elrond, the Ring and I need some privacy.

ISILDUR walks out, cuddling the RING.

ELROND: Noooo!

due South: American Way by Resonant

American Way (Fraser/RayK | NC17 | 18,227 words) has Fraser pretending to be American for the sake of a case. An American Fraser makes a delectable picture, one that neither I nor RayK misses noticing. The case is pretty good too.

Excerpt:
Fraser looked sheepish as they walked out onto the sidewalk. "I'm afraid I'm not doing very well."

"Well, it's no wonder, when you got so many coaches," Ray said. "Look, you got any experience at all with impersonation?"

"I'm afraid not, Ray. I was cast in the role of Alfie Doolittle for our high school production of 'My Fair Lady,' but on the night of the performance, the auditorium had to be closed due to the migration of ... it's not important."

"Yeah, well, I never been onstage, but I done a little undercover work here and there. And the thing I learned, you can't be generic. You gotta be specific." They waited for the light, then started across the street. "I mean, you can't go to a meet thinking, Small-time runner looking to make big. You gotta have somebody in particular in mind, somebody you can think about and sorta get in the state of mind. See, you been trying to be some generic American, but that won't work. You gotta be somebody in particular." Ray steered them into the shade of a bank's awning. "You got it?"

Fraser gave him a serious look. "I -- think so." His thumb came up in the direction of his eyebrow, and then he seemed to catch himself, and his hand stopped halfway to his face.

"Yeah, you can't do all that fussy little fidget stuff there, Fraser. Shake it out." Ray shook out his arms encouragingly.

Fraser began to follow his lead, shaking -- hands, arms, shoulders. Rolling his head on his neck, rolling his shoulders, and shaking, shaking.

With every shake his shoulders got looser, his movements more fluid.

Until at last he bent his head, leaned his shoulders against the bank's brick wall, stuck three fingers in his jeans pocket, and looked up at Ray through his eyelashes.

Jesus. He looked like sex on a stick over there.

"Who," Ray said a little hoarsely, "who the hell are you supposed to be?"

Fraser raised his eyebrows and gave Ray an open-mouthed grin.

"You, Ray."