A/N: My first foray outside the Harry Potter fandom. I had to struggle a bit not to have Melody drinking firewhiskey. Oh, and if Melody's interior monologuing and/or choice in magazines are disturbing, "Cafe Disaffecto" (Daria # 104) is available on YouTube. Thanks to Sara Winters for the excellent (and prompt!) beta job, as well as the original kick-in-the-ass to go ahead and write it.


Melody Powers hated Boston. The traffic was nightmarish, the streets claustrophobic, and the men nothing but effete intellectuals that were either too full of their own academic accomplishments or riddled with mommy-complexes. The city didn't even have a decent newspaper. It was either the patently unreadable Boston Herald, or the Globe, which was so left-leaning it might as well have been called Pravda. And having to listen to all those pansy-assed Red Sox fans whine about 80 some-odd years of futility just made her want to put a slug in her AM radio. She turned it off instead as she exited I-93 at North Station, her red Lamborghini hugging the sharp curves of the off-ramp nearly as tightly as her black leather catsuit hugged the curves of her hips. "No," she mused, "this is certainly not the right city in which to find a man." But it would have to do.

Melody had earned tonight. Burke back at HQ said she was up for a commendation after taking down the sleeper cell masquerading as a Berklee-based Joe Satriani appreciation society. Not that the job itself didn't come with some satisfaction – nothing beats brass guitar strings for strangulation, of course – but it had been an exhausting three days. She was to rendezvous with Bob in eighteen hours for the flight back home, so if she was going to find some carnal amusement, Melody didn't have much time to 'bag him and tag him,' as she put it.

Which is why she wound up spinning the red sports car with a satisfying squeal into a parking garage underneath the Boston Garden just as the Bruins were heading into the third period against Montréal. Liquored-up frat boys might not be her first choice lovers, as they had positively no clue what to do with a woman's body upon finding themselves face to face with one, but Melody knew that once she pointed them in the right direction they could go all night. Thinking about College Park, Maryland and TKE house in 1997 put a smile on Melody's face as she flipped her voluptuous blond mane over the collar of her black leather jacket. She slapped the valet on the ass playfully and handed him a hundred dollar bill with a wink before stepping out into a late-Autumn night in Boston.

Fairly strutting down Causeway Street in her leather combat boots, Melody peered into several watering holes, but to no avail. Too skeezy, too old, too pretentious (and only in Boston can a sports bar be pretentious), and too many couples were what she saw. She was giving up and walking towards the Green Line T to head to a BC party some of her Berklee contacts told her of when she heard the unmistakable thumping of a discotheque's sound system. Further investigations revealed a two-story building with more glass on the outside than should be able to hold that noise safely. Adorning the outside of the building were a rainbow flag and a large banner proclaiming: "Thursday Nights are Girls' Nights At Club Lace!"

"Oh look," Melody said to herself, checking her watch to see that it was, indeed, Thursday. "I'm right on time."

The music didn't quite stop when Melody walked into the club, but she couldn't help but make an impression with her entrance. Blonde, buxom, and dressed (quite literally) to kill, Melody was the object of more than a few stares as she took a moment to reconnoiter. Being a boys' club six nights a week, the disco had the requisite gallery-like second floor that overlooked the dance floor and a blessedly well-stocked bar, illustrating gay men's two favorite pastimes: consuming large amounts of alcohol in groups and watching each other.

The gallery meant that dancing was out, but Melody didn't feel much like dancing, anyway. She saddled up to the bar instead, ordering a double of Jameson, neat, with a Sam Adams chaser from a young lipstick bar-back who lost the ability to form coherent thoughts when Melody placed her order.

"Excuse me," a flat but insistent voice called out from two stools over, "those seats are taken."

"Honey, it's a full house in here tonight and I don't see anyone sitting here. Why don't you just give the tough girl routine a rest and let's all just have a good time, okay?"

Melody took a moment to size up the first person to talk back to her in as long as she could remember. Pretty young girl, too smart for her own good. Large round glasses a decade out of style helped that image. Obviously still in school. Non-descript outfit of a green blazer, gold tee and knee-length pleated black skirt suggested a bit of a bookworm. Maybe library sciences, possibly linguistics. Oh, but those boots told a different story altogether. Solid black jump boots that came nearly to her knees betrayed a much more artistic bend to her character. There was something going on behind those glasses, and Melody had to figure out what that something was.

"Look, my friends are on their way back, will you get up when they get here?" the girl asked in a huff.

"Sure thing, babycakes. Keep your skirt on." The girl became indignant.

"I'm sorry, but I don't remember asking you to call me anything, or for that matter come to this end of the bar. So why don't you just head back to whatever Lara Croft casting call you stepped out of and leave me the hell alone? Okay, babycakes?"

"Okay, fine…" Melody held her hands up in surrender. "I'll leave when your friends get back. How long should that be, anyway?"

Five tedious minutes later, the girl tossed back the last of her amber lager. Melody motioned to the stuttering bar-back that she was to refill the girl's beer and charge Melody for it.

"You don't have to do that, you know," said the girl.

"What if I just wanted to?"

"You're just wasting your money."

"Buying a pretty girl a drink? Never seemed like a waste before. What's your name, hon?"

The girl looked at Melody sheepishly, a faint blush beginning to bloom on her cheeks.

"Danica. Danica Morningtown. And thanks for the beer. What's your name?"

"You can call me Melody." Danica looked at her with a rather appraising smirk.

"But I'm afraid you then have me at a disadvantage, Melody," Danica replied with a smile. Melody had had quite enough of this L.U.G. bullshit. It was time to close the deal. She plopped down onto the stool next to Little Miss Coed and leaned in to whisper.

"No. When I have you naked, blindfolded and tied up spread-eagle on the king-sized bed in my hotel room, then I'll have you at a disadvantage. Right now you just don't know my last name." Danica's eyes opened to the size of saucers and she blushed furiously before she composed herself.

"I can do things to you that that skinny little thing in your Women's Studies seminar who wears too much patchouli wouldn't dare. And your Journalism major boyfriend, the one you keep around for your parents' approval? I know places on your body he's never heard of that will have you screaming for mercy." Melody took out a pen and scribbled "Langham, suite 1801" on a bar napkin. She handed it to Danica abruptly.

"You just let me know, sugar." And with that, Melody stood up and headed towards the door.

"Wait!" Danica was flushed and shaking slightly, but managed to maintain a determined exterior. "I – I don't know where that hotel is."

Melody grinned. Fifteen minutes was longer than it usually took, but she had a feeling this little girl would be worth it.

"I'm parked on Causeway. Let's go." Danica followed along side, and Melody gave her a swat on the ass along with a smile. Danica blushed, and Melody pulled the younger woman to her by the lapels of her blazer. She kissed her firmly, almost predator-like and then released the suddenly unsteady brunette. Melody watched this, let go a triumphant snort and whispered in Danica's ear again.

"I bet your boyfriend never made you feel like that, did he?" She didn't wait for an answer.


Melody flung the keys to the Lamborghini in the air for the valet to catch. She met Danica on the other side of the car, placed a comforting arm around her shoulder, and the two of them entered the sumptuous hotel lobby. An army of bellhops, doormen, concierges and valets met them at every turn, choreographed as if they were a 1950s Broadway chorus, every one with a helpful "anything you need, Miss Powers?" on their lips. With one hand jauntily holding her motorcycle jacket over her shoulder, and her other arm still draped around Danica's shoulders, Melody strutted past these distractions and into a waiting elevator.

The elevator attendant was summarily ignored as Melody pulled her evening's entertainment in for another lingering kiss. Hearing obvious mewls of pleasure coming from Danica's throat, Melody ran a hand up the younger woman's bare thigh and under her pleated black skirt. That hand wound its way underneath Danica's cotton panties where it was met by another, both cupping the girl's tensing ass. Danica luxuriated in the attention, and threaded her hands through her companion's thick blonde hair. She leaned into Melody, who was leaning against the elevator wall.

A baritone "Your suite, Miss Powers" nearly broke the spell as the elevator opened up directly into Melody's hotel room. The attendant's droll "Have a pleasant evening" was not quite heard by the ladies, who went crashing into the suite, still a tangle of arms, legs, lips and hands. Arriving at the back of a sofa, Melody took a moment to remove Danica's green blazer, placed her glasses gently on a nearby end table on top of the current National Review, and began to massage her breasts roughly through her goldenrod tee, which Danica simply removed herself. A deft snap of Melody's wrist took care of her bra, and the blonde took a moment to admire the young student.

"So this is what you've been hiding underneath there. Get yourself a new wardrobe, kid, let the girls get a little face time."

Danica thought that was a particularly apropos suggestion and shut Melody up quickly by pulling the leather-clad woman's face straight to her breasts with a smirk. She began nibbling and tugging on the taut …

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"You know, Daria, while I'm a firm believer that it's never too early for proper breast health, what you're doing with your other hand is just going to stretch out a perfectly good pair of knickers."

Daria jumped out of her skin at the sound of her roommate's voice. She paused a moment to straighten out her pleated skirt and goldenrod tee before taking a breath and gathering whatever dignity she had left.

"Jane, you weren't supposed to be home at all tonight. What happened to Girls' night?"

"Annika bailed on us, and that pretty much killed it for everyone. But it looks like the real party was happening here – let's see what's got you all hot and bothered tonight."

Daria began to fumble for the Apple-Tab keys to take her story off of the screen, but Jane was a little too quick.

"Has it come to this, Morgendorffer? Are you writing your own porn now? Well, let's just take a look-see, shall we?"

Daria paced back and forth behind the computer, blushing furiously as Jane read her story aloud. She noticed that there wasn't clearance enough for her to hide under her bed, and was just figuring out how to swing from her bedroom window to the fire escape when Jane finished.

"I don't suppose you'd let me call this a self-insert story, would you?" Jane said with a laugh.

"Not if you want to keep those teeth you've gotten attached to."

"Easy now, Daria… it's okay. Look, it could have been Quinn or Helen that walked in on you back in Lawndale, right? No harm done. Now, get dressed. We're going out."

"Excuse me? Who said I was going anywhere?"

"I did," Jane replied, tossing her roommate her jacket. "It is Thursday night, after all, amiga. There's a whole wide wonderful world outside of J.P. and Raft – experience it. And the lipstick bar-back? Her name is Jennifer. I'll introduce you."

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More A/N: Like I said, first time playing in this sandbox. So if I managed to trip over every cliche in the fandom, apologies. Of course, the best way to ensure I don't do that again comes via the wee little button below. You know, the one that says "Submit Review?"