Characters: Mal, OCs
Rating: D

Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with Terry Pratchett or Discworld.
Warnings: Femslash, sex.

Together Alone
by Amazon Syren

     I'm not supposed to think about them any more. After my exile ended, I was supposed to come back into society, perfectly fine, perfectly normal. But how could that possibly be?
     I'd spent ten years all alone — how could anyone think I wouldn't be lonely, wouldn't crave the smell and taste and touch of another?
     I hover in quiet corners during gatherings, watching them walk by, listening to their voices — too many voices for me to handle so soon. It's all too much, too fast. My mother brings me to midnight socials, the way she did when I'd just turned fifty, introducing me to person after person. I am left tongue-tied, trying to greet these strangers, girls with liquid eyes and silken hair and bodies I long to touch.

     Carmine, of course, is long gone. Her parents whisked her back to Klatch before I'd even been one year through my exile. I understand that I won't see her again.
     But there are others girls like her... other girls like me.

     Sometimes we find each other.

     Usually they find me.

     They know why I was sent away. Everyone does, or so it seems. They know it's less risky to whisper my sins in the dark, to reach out with moon-white fingers and touch my cheek, my throat, and say they understand. Less risky than whispering to some other girl, who may or may not return that touch, who may or may not... appreciate their needs the way that I do.

     I wait in deserted rooms, gazing out the window, both hoping for and fearing the click of the latch opening behind me, wet at the very thought of her — whoever she is, whoever is coming tonight to spill her body into my open arms.

     The hunger for the taste of a woman's mouth, the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts, the intoxicating scent that rises from between her thighs... It's overpowering.
     Do they feel the same way? When their lips meet mine and their hands tear at my dress, when they sink their sharp teeth into my flesh or lift their skirts to my eager hands, part their thighs to my insatiable mouth... are they, too, surrendering to that aching need? Or is it only me?

     I am not fooling myself.

     I know this is not love.