Porcelain Doll, PG-13
Title: Porcelain Doll [fic]
Rating: PG-13
Subject: Novel
A/N: written in the second person. I HATE fics written in the second person. I don't know what came over me when writing this. x-posted at the_1st_time.
“I don’t like people touching me,” she confesses, and you have to admit you’re a little surprised because outwardly, she appears to be the epitome of frivolous affection. “They always seem to want to, and I don’t know why but it makes me feel horribly tense.”
Her voice sounds so forlorn that instinctively you reach for her hand, before remembering the topic in question and hastily letting go
“No,” she says softly, taking your hand back. “I don’t mind it when you do.”
She looks down to try and mask the shyness in her voice, a rosy blush creeping up her cheeks. You sit there in strained silence for several minutes before she continues, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Just a simple embrace makes me flinch, while the very idea of -” (she lowers her voice to an embarrassed whisper) “- being with a man terrifies me. I said as much to my mother once, but all she did was laugh and say that every girl was nervous and excited the first time, and that it was a while off in any case. But I’m not just nervous and excited - the idea of someone touching me so intimately makes me feel physically ill. I can’t imagine it ever being pleasant.”
She still hasn’t relinquished your hand and tentatively you move your thumb up and down, rubbing softly because you’re unsure of what to say. This wasn’t where you had imagined the conversation heading when you began sharing trivial secrets earlier in the evening.
She gives a mirthless chuckle. “Can I tell you something?”
“Now you’re asking?” you return with a grin, that she tosses back with a shrug.
“It’s silly, but when Boq tried that, I felt nauseous. I froze.”
You halt, but she doesn’t try to free her hand. “That was with Boq. With you...it feels nice. See? Silly,” she laughs again, to try and cover up her embarrassment.
“Not at all,” you tell her, glancing down at your intertwined fingers. You can’t recall the last time somebody held your hand - just as people want to touch her, they shy away from any physical contact with you. You’ve grown so used to it, that the mere thought of being touched makes you feel as uncomfortable as it does her.
The actual act, however...
“I think I trust you,” she suddenly continues. “I think I know that you’re not going to hurt me. You’re safe.”
She won’t look at you, but you suddenly wish that she would. It seems impossible that this is the same girl you started rooming with a year ago: the silly, fancy, shallow princess that you took one look at and knew you’d never entirely get along with, let alone be friends with.
But that had been Galinda, and this is Glinda - without the shell, minus the dizzy façade. And right now she is certainly exposed, stripped of all pretence. Hesitantly, you let your hand slide up her arm as far as the elbow, then back down again, wondering at the same time what made you want to do such a thing. There is also a twinge of guilt, because you know she abhors this kind of thing, and it seems ridiculous that you, of all people, are the exception.
Although perhaps you are not you right now - in this dim firelight, you are no longer the green girl. You are dappled and shadowed; she can’t see enough of you to be repulsed.
You don’t realize you’ve let go of her until she reaches out to take your hand again.
“Do things ever frighten you, Elphie?”
“I try not to let them.”
You hope she can’t hear the catch in your voice, or guess that you’re frightened right now because the way her skin feels against yours is making you think things you’ve never thought before, things you once decided you were immune to feeling in the first place.
“I try, too, but sometimes...I suppose the world just gets too big for me,” she sighs. “I feel lost, and I have no one to turn to because my life is so perfectly structured that there’s no room to be lost. It’s all ‘do this’ and ‘go here’ and ‘wear these’, and that’s all it will ever be, and I hate it.”
“Then why put up with it?” you ask, but she shakes her head.
“Things work differently where I’m from. I will be married as soon as I graduate. My first child will be expected within the first year, or people will talk. The marriage has been arranged for years - a second cousin of my mother’s, Sir Warvick. We should have been married this fall, but when I was accepted into Shiz, they agreed to postpone it.”
“’They agreed’?” you repeat. “It’s your life, who are ‘they’ to decide?”
“I’m the eldest daughter of a wealthy clan and good lineage. It’s not my life.” Her voice is bitter, understandably. “Surely as part of the Thropp line you are in a similar position?”
“It is only expected that I govern, if the need arises. If I marry, so be it, but I don’t believe anyone expects that I will in any case.”
“Would you want to?”
You pause; it’s something you’ve tried not to think about. You are, after all, aware of what you look like.
“No, not particularly. I don’t believe I’m that type of person.”
In a strange way, you and she are alike, truly comfortable only with each other. She’s safe. You continue, “the idea of being with a man doesn’t terrify me as it does you, but it doesn’t excite me either. It doesn’t strike me as something I would enjoy. Who knows, maybe I would, but as of now, I’m simply not interested. Perhaps that’s simply a defence mechanism, though, as I know no one will ever be interested in me.”
“Why not?”
“Oh for pity’s sake, Glinda, I know what I look like.”
“Looks aren’t everything, Elphie.” She reaches forward, pushing your hair behind your ear. “You’re a beautiful person. No, really,” she says, when you can’t suppress a scoff. “It’s not what you look like that matters, but who you are. Look at Pfannee - a glamorous bitch. Look at me,” she adds, “two hours curling my hair, yet not a second spare to be kind.”
It’s the first time she’s ever acknowledged the old Galinda, and you can hear the shame in her voice so you quip back, “now you’re going to seed, but at least you’re tolerable to live with.”
She giggles, rocking forward. Her face hovers almost against yours for a second, her breath warm on your cheek. Then she’s further away again, but once more holding your hand and impulsively, you also take her free one, squeezing it lightly.
Then, because you haven’t been thinking for the past minute and why start now, you lean forward and kiss her gently. You mean for it to brush against her cheek, but somehow you overshoot the mark and find that your lips are instead pressed against hers. Her grip on you tightens in surprise, and then she lets go; you have one second where horror, self-loathing, and humiliation all compete with each other before suddenly her palm is cradling your jaw, and tilting your face just so, and then she picks up where you so abruptly left off. Her lips somehow encourage yours to part, allowing her tongue into your mouth. Your hands are pressed against the sides of her face, holding her in place as much as anchoring yourself because this is what it feels like to be kissed.
Kissing was something you’d never wasted any thought on, either.
She begins reclining, pulling you with her until you are stretched out, side-by-side on the hearthrug. Her hand slides over your waist and down your back, and you want to flinch before reminding yourself that this is Glinda, and she won’t hurt you either.
More because your elbow is growing numb than anything else, you move your hand down her body, breath hitching when you accidentally feel her breast through her nightgown. You remove your hand hastily, but Glinda just as quickly takes it back, then ducks her face away, embarrassment coloring every inch of her from the neck up. She waits a few seconds before undoing the buttons at her throat and urging your hand inside, pressing it to her bare skin. She stiffens at the initial contact; you desperately want to stop because she’s obviously still afraid, but she won’t let you.
“I do want this,” she whispers, though she is trembling. “I want to know what it’s like, with somebody I’m comfortable with...with you. I want you to touch me.”
She kisses you again as you tentatively cup her breast, rolling the nipple in a lopsided circle until it hardens, and she lets out a muffled yelp. Still cautious, you trail your mouth down her neck and to her exposed chest, hoping that she’s letting you continue because she’s enjoying this, and not just because she’s determined to get through the ordeal.
The way she brings her leg up between yours suggests the former, and why did you both wait so long before taking advantage of your lack of chaperone? Then she caresses your neck, and reaches for your buttons, and stupidly, you wrench away as though shot.
And there, you’ve hurt her. Brow creased, she sits up slowly, pulling her nightgown closed. The silence is painful, and you’re about to say something to break it, perhaps an apology, when Glinda suddenly pulls her nightgown over her head, casting it aside with forced boldness. She covers herself for second before reaching out a hand to grip yours.
“I trust you.”
You nod, undoing one button before pausing again.
“You don’t have to.”
But you want to, she is too vulnerable right now to be left alone. And this is Glinda, you remind yourself. Glinda won’t laugh or sneer. You undo another button, then, before you can hesitate, slide the garment off.
You can’t help but give her a challenging look as she sees you for the first time, not realizing that to her, you appear more frightened than defensive. Her eyes sweep up and down, then back up to your own where she meets your gaze until you can’t hold the expression any longer. She doesn’t speak, simply pulls you down again with another kiss, hands roaming freely.
In theory, you hated this. Now, you want her to touch you everywhere, to bring every inch of you to life. You had never before considered how receptive certain parts of your body would be - after all, no one has ever touched them before apart from yourself, and that hardly counts. Glinda’s palms cover your breasts hesitantly, and you arch into her almost instinctively, looping your legs around her to draw her closer.
She never once comments on all the things you find hideous and, as her fingers skim over all of the bones that protrude sharply without any apparent disgust, you can’t help but wonder if perhaps your lifelong self-loathing has given you a slightly distorted view of yourself. Glinda, after all, is still Galinda somewhere underneath it all, there must still be some hint of snobbery about her.
Then she feathers a thumb down your ribcage as she whispers, “I told you you were beautiful”, and you can’t help but send up a prayer that she doesn’t wake up any time soon, doesn’t come to her senses and make a bolt for the shower block.
She doesn’t. All she does is kiss you again.
She still hasn’t by daybreak, either. You awake first, her head against your shoulder, her body curved into yours beneath a jumble of bedclothes that you had somehow hauled onto the floor during the night. You know she’s going to regret this and you don’t want to wake her, but eventually she does, of course, possibly because your stare is boring holes into her psyche.
She stirs a little, then moves closer to you; then freezes, instantly turning beet red.
“Good morning,” you greet her casually, as if this is any other morning and you’re not waking up clad only in the briefest of undergarments (and one sock, because the floor is drafty but in the darkness you couldn’t find a full pair).
“Good morning,” she replies, then giggles. Though her face is still flushed and her eyes uncertain, she moves closer, nestling up against you as she had so many times during the night when you were the only one awake. Then she smiles, and you can’t help but smile back, because you suddenly know that no matter what else happens during the day, each morning is going to be the same for as far forward as you dare imagine.
Although you consider that when Nanny and your sister arrive next week, you might want to start locking the connecting door.
Rating: PG-13
Subject: Novel
A/N: written in the second person. I HATE fics written in the second person. I don't know what came over me when writing this. x-posted at the_1st_time.
“I don’t like people touching me,” she confesses, and you have to admit you’re a little surprised because outwardly, she appears to be the epitome of frivolous affection. “They always seem to want to, and I don’t know why but it makes me feel horribly tense.”
Her voice sounds so forlorn that instinctively you reach for her hand, before remembering the topic in question and hastily letting go
“No,” she says softly, taking your hand back. “I don’t mind it when you do.”
She looks down to try and mask the shyness in her voice, a rosy blush creeping up her cheeks. You sit there in strained silence for several minutes before she continues, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Just a simple embrace makes me flinch, while the very idea of -” (she lowers her voice to an embarrassed whisper) “- being with a man terrifies me. I said as much to my mother once, but all she did was laugh and say that every girl was nervous and excited the first time, and that it was a while off in any case. But I’m not just nervous and excited - the idea of someone touching me so intimately makes me feel physically ill. I can’t imagine it ever being pleasant.”
She still hasn’t relinquished your hand and tentatively you move your thumb up and down, rubbing softly because you’re unsure of what to say. This wasn’t where you had imagined the conversation heading when you began sharing trivial secrets earlier in the evening.
She gives a mirthless chuckle. “Can I tell you something?”
“Now you’re asking?” you return with a grin, that she tosses back with a shrug.
“It’s silly, but when Boq tried that, I felt nauseous. I froze.”
You halt, but she doesn’t try to free her hand. “That was with Boq. With you...it feels nice. See? Silly,” she laughs again, to try and cover up her embarrassment.
“Not at all,” you tell her, glancing down at your intertwined fingers. You can’t recall the last time somebody held your hand - just as people want to touch her, they shy away from any physical contact with you. You’ve grown so used to it, that the mere thought of being touched makes you feel as uncomfortable as it does her.
The actual act, however...
“I think I trust you,” she suddenly continues. “I think I know that you’re not going to hurt me. You’re safe.”
She won’t look at you, but you suddenly wish that she would. It seems impossible that this is the same girl you started rooming with a year ago: the silly, fancy, shallow princess that you took one look at and knew you’d never entirely get along with, let alone be friends with.
But that had been Galinda, and this is Glinda - without the shell, minus the dizzy façade. And right now she is certainly exposed, stripped of all pretence. Hesitantly, you let your hand slide up her arm as far as the elbow, then back down again, wondering at the same time what made you want to do such a thing. There is also a twinge of guilt, because you know she abhors this kind of thing, and it seems ridiculous that you, of all people, are the exception.
Although perhaps you are not you right now - in this dim firelight, you are no longer the green girl. You are dappled and shadowed; she can’t see enough of you to be repulsed.
You don’t realize you’ve let go of her until she reaches out to take your hand again.
“Do things ever frighten you, Elphie?”
“I try not to let them.”
You hope she can’t hear the catch in your voice, or guess that you’re frightened right now because the way her skin feels against yours is making you think things you’ve never thought before, things you once decided you were immune to feeling in the first place.
“I try, too, but sometimes...I suppose the world just gets too big for me,” she sighs. “I feel lost, and I have no one to turn to because my life is so perfectly structured that there’s no room to be lost. It’s all ‘do this’ and ‘go here’ and ‘wear these’, and that’s all it will ever be, and I hate it.”
“Then why put up with it?” you ask, but she shakes her head.
“Things work differently where I’m from. I will be married as soon as I graduate. My first child will be expected within the first year, or people will talk. The marriage has been arranged for years - a second cousin of my mother’s, Sir Warvick. We should have been married this fall, but when I was accepted into Shiz, they agreed to postpone it.”
“’They agreed’?” you repeat. “It’s your life, who are ‘they’ to decide?”
“I’m the eldest daughter of a wealthy clan and good lineage. It’s not my life.” Her voice is bitter, understandably. “Surely as part of the Thropp line you are in a similar position?”
“It is only expected that I govern, if the need arises. If I marry, so be it, but I don’t believe anyone expects that I will in any case.”
“Would you want to?”
You pause; it’s something you’ve tried not to think about. You are, after all, aware of what you look like.
“No, not particularly. I don’t believe I’m that type of person.”
In a strange way, you and she are alike, truly comfortable only with each other. She’s safe. You continue, “the idea of being with a man doesn’t terrify me as it does you, but it doesn’t excite me either. It doesn’t strike me as something I would enjoy. Who knows, maybe I would, but as of now, I’m simply not interested. Perhaps that’s simply a defence mechanism, though, as I know no one will ever be interested in me.”
“Why not?”
“Oh for pity’s sake, Glinda, I know what I look like.”
“Looks aren’t everything, Elphie.” She reaches forward, pushing your hair behind your ear. “You’re a beautiful person. No, really,” she says, when you can’t suppress a scoff. “It’s not what you look like that matters, but who you are. Look at Pfannee - a glamorous bitch. Look at me,” she adds, “two hours curling my hair, yet not a second spare to be kind.”
It’s the first time she’s ever acknowledged the old Galinda, and you can hear the shame in her voice so you quip back, “now you’re going to seed, but at least you’re tolerable to live with.”
She giggles, rocking forward. Her face hovers almost against yours for a second, her breath warm on your cheek. Then she’s further away again, but once more holding your hand and impulsively, you also take her free one, squeezing it lightly.
Then, because you haven’t been thinking for the past minute and why start now, you lean forward and kiss her gently. You mean for it to brush against her cheek, but somehow you overshoot the mark and find that your lips are instead pressed against hers. Her grip on you tightens in surprise, and then she lets go; you have one second where horror, self-loathing, and humiliation all compete with each other before suddenly her palm is cradling your jaw, and tilting your face just so, and then she picks up where you so abruptly left off. Her lips somehow encourage yours to part, allowing her tongue into your mouth. Your hands are pressed against the sides of her face, holding her in place as much as anchoring yourself because this is what it feels like to be kissed.
Kissing was something you’d never wasted any thought on, either.
She begins reclining, pulling you with her until you are stretched out, side-by-side on the hearthrug. Her hand slides over your waist and down your back, and you want to flinch before reminding yourself that this is Glinda, and she won’t hurt you either.
More because your elbow is growing numb than anything else, you move your hand down her body, breath hitching when you accidentally feel her breast through her nightgown. You remove your hand hastily, but Glinda just as quickly takes it back, then ducks her face away, embarrassment coloring every inch of her from the neck up. She waits a few seconds before undoing the buttons at her throat and urging your hand inside, pressing it to her bare skin. She stiffens at the initial contact; you desperately want to stop because she’s obviously still afraid, but she won’t let you.
“I do want this,” she whispers, though she is trembling. “I want to know what it’s like, with somebody I’m comfortable with...with you. I want you to touch me.”
She kisses you again as you tentatively cup her breast, rolling the nipple in a lopsided circle until it hardens, and she lets out a muffled yelp. Still cautious, you trail your mouth down her neck and to her exposed chest, hoping that she’s letting you continue because she’s enjoying this, and not just because she’s determined to get through the ordeal.
The way she brings her leg up between yours suggests the former, and why did you both wait so long before taking advantage of your lack of chaperone? Then she caresses your neck, and reaches for your buttons, and stupidly, you wrench away as though shot.
And there, you’ve hurt her. Brow creased, she sits up slowly, pulling her nightgown closed. The silence is painful, and you’re about to say something to break it, perhaps an apology, when Glinda suddenly pulls her nightgown over her head, casting it aside with forced boldness. She covers herself for second before reaching out a hand to grip yours.
“I trust you.”
You nod, undoing one button before pausing again.
“You don’t have to.”
But you want to, she is too vulnerable right now to be left alone. And this is Glinda, you remind yourself. Glinda won’t laugh or sneer. You undo another button, then, before you can hesitate, slide the garment off.
You can’t help but give her a challenging look as she sees you for the first time, not realizing that to her, you appear more frightened than defensive. Her eyes sweep up and down, then back up to your own where she meets your gaze until you can’t hold the expression any longer. She doesn’t speak, simply pulls you down again with another kiss, hands roaming freely.
In theory, you hated this. Now, you want her to touch you everywhere, to bring every inch of you to life. You had never before considered how receptive certain parts of your body would be - after all, no one has ever touched them before apart from yourself, and that hardly counts. Glinda’s palms cover your breasts hesitantly, and you arch into her almost instinctively, looping your legs around her to draw her closer.
She never once comments on all the things you find hideous and, as her fingers skim over all of the bones that protrude sharply without any apparent disgust, you can’t help but wonder if perhaps your lifelong self-loathing has given you a slightly distorted view of yourself. Glinda, after all, is still Galinda somewhere underneath it all, there must still be some hint of snobbery about her.
Then she feathers a thumb down your ribcage as she whispers, “I told you you were beautiful”, and you can’t help but send up a prayer that she doesn’t wake up any time soon, doesn’t come to her senses and make a bolt for the shower block.
She doesn’t. All she does is kiss you again.
She still hasn’t by daybreak, either. You awake first, her head against your shoulder, her body curved into yours beneath a jumble of bedclothes that you had somehow hauled onto the floor during the night. You know she’s going to regret this and you don’t want to wake her, but eventually she does, of course, possibly because your stare is boring holes into her psyche.
She stirs a little, then moves closer to you; then freezes, instantly turning beet red.
“Good morning,” you greet her casually, as if this is any other morning and you’re not waking up clad only in the briefest of undergarments (and one sock, because the floor is drafty but in the darkness you couldn’t find a full pair).
“Good morning,” she replies, then giggles. Though her face is still flushed and her eyes uncertain, she moves closer, nestling up against you as she had so many times during the night when you were the only one awake. Then she smiles, and you can’t help but smile back, because you suddenly know that no matter what else happens during the day, each morning is going to be the same for as far forward as you dare imagine.
Although you consider that when Nanny and your sister arrive next week, you might want to start locking the connecting door.