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Toby - "Regards to Anne Sexton"
Title: Regards to Anne Sexton
Author: Maeve
Character: Toby Ziegler
Rating: PG
Notes: Toby/Andrea, pre-admin. It's lacking in word count and actual content but real life is kicking my ass.
It was easier for him to write while she was asleep, her slim hips pressing flat on the bed, hair a tangle that he never dared touch. There was a certain comfort to the silence that they made when he was creating and she was dreaming.
Toby hadn’t really noticed it before, but his words were better when he could hear her breathing, his thoughts flowed like the curve of her spine as she shifted on the worn mattress they’d yet to replace. There was something in the radiance of her hair, a reddening smolder, that drew him into a daze and haze of words.
He wrote them on her sometimes, forgetting the paper and the pen, letting his fingertips become the tools that he needed to tell their story. He would skim his fingernails on her skin, leaving marks that made sense to him, made the words that should have been between them. The silence of her sleep always let him write (breathe) better.
He didn’t believe in muses.
His faith was in talent.
"Keep writing." There was sleep in her voice, jumbled and murmured and somewhere supportive. "You’re not finished yet."
She was a siren to him.
"I can’t." he knew he could, if she would just slip back to sleep.
Andrea turned her head, eyes green and gray and worthy of a better author than he, cheek on the pillowcase, "You can. Now go."
He had no love for muses. Only for her kind.
Author: Maeve
Character: Toby Ziegler
Rating: PG
Notes: Toby/Andrea, pre-admin. It's lacking in word count and actual content but real life is kicking my ass.
It was easier for him to write while she was asleep, her slim hips pressing flat on the bed, hair a tangle that he never dared touch. There was a certain comfort to the silence that they made when he was creating and she was dreaming.
Toby hadn’t really noticed it before, but his words were better when he could hear her breathing, his thoughts flowed like the curve of her spine as she shifted on the worn mattress they’d yet to replace. There was something in the radiance of her hair, a reddening smolder, that drew him into a daze and haze of words.
He wrote them on her sometimes, forgetting the paper and the pen, letting his fingertips become the tools that he needed to tell their story. He would skim his fingernails on her skin, leaving marks that made sense to him, made the words that should have been between them. The silence of her sleep always let him write (breathe) better.
He didn’t believe in muses.
His faith was in talent.
"Keep writing." There was sleep in her voice, jumbled and murmured and somewhere supportive. "You’re not finished yet."
She was a siren to him.
"I can’t." he knew he could, if she would just slip back to sleep.
Andrea turned her head, eyes green and gray and worthy of a better author than he, cheek on the pillowcase, "You can. Now go."
He had no love for muses. Only for her kind.