"J'ai Une Soeur", Emily/Zooey, R
Ha, I wrote it already. Yay for two fics in one day!
Title: J'ai Une Soeur
Author: likecharity
Pairing: Emily/Zooey
Rating: R
Warnings: Incest, real person femslash
Summary: Zooey's scent is the thing that's so seductive about her; she picks her perfume very carefully, and Emily can't help being intrigued by it.
A/N: The little French exchange is pretty self-explanatory as far as I know (I only learned French for six months!) but just in case a translation is needed: I'm called Zooey. I have a sister. - What is your sister called? - My sister is called Emily. And the title is simply 'I have a sister.' :)
Zooey smells like girl, like sugar and spice and all things nice. She picks her perfumes with the greatest care, choosing them in the way most people choose cars or places to live. She sprays samples on her wrists in the duty-free at every airport she passes through, learning how the different scents adjust to her skin. Emily just buys what Zooey says is good, or, on impulse, chooses the one with the prettiest bottle.
Zooey can smell like swollen red cherries, sweet wet strawberries, glistening black grapes. With a spritz of a bottle or two, or an expensive new shampoo, she can smell like the seaside-salty air, driftwood-or a garden after a storm. Achingly heavy scents layered with flowers Emily's never even heard of, foods she'd never imagine would smell so good on a person's skin.
If her scent doesn't match the occasion, it will at least always match what she's wearing. She'll wear a vintage blue silky dress, cut just above the knee, and match it with her signature black tights and a pair of her favorite shoes. She'll smell like cigar smoke, rum and dark chocolate as she asks Emily to braid her hair, and Emily will breathe in her intoxicating scent, trying to distinguish between jealousy and arousal.
Her sister's flawless, really, Emily thinks. All perfect angles and smooth, porcelain skin, a sweet little mouth that brightens her whole face when she smiles. If jealousy is even a part of it, it's definitely not the only part, but Emily will never admit that to herself. Somehow it's easier-and more normal--to be jealous of her younger sister. She read in some magazine that lots of women are, but she's never been one to include herself in statistics.
She remembers sitting on the bathmat in their childhood home, teaching French to fourteen-year-old Zooey. She remembers soaping up her sister's hair, on her knees leaning over the edge of the bathtub and rubbing her fingertips against Zooey's scalp, the two of them play-fighting with handfuls of shampoo bubbles.
"Je m'appelle Zooey," Zooey would say proudly, flicking a cloud of bubbles at Emily's face. "J'ai une soeur."
Emily would splash the bubbles right back at her, trying to stop them from getting the bathroom floor wet so the two of them would stay out of trouble. "Comment s'appelle ta soeur?" she'd ask with a grin.
"Ma soeur s'appelle Emily."
The smell stays with her after all those years; shampoo that smelled like nectarines, something cheap and nasty that Zooey insisted on buying even though it took three washes with the stuff before her hair was even remotely clean. Emily stuck with the brand names, generic shampoo smell, nothing special.
In a little shop in Dublin she finds a bottle that gives her a flashback, and buys it immediately. She doesn't use it, just keeps it in her bathroom and smells it occasionally, thinking of the way Zooey's voice sounded in her fake French accent; beautiful, lilting, and saying her name.
It happens when they're getting ready for a party one day; fastening buttons, zipping each other into dresses, putting on their mascara and lipstick in the bathroom mirror. Zooey nudges Emily out of the way with her elbow-mirror's not big enough for the two of them-and Emily wobbles on her too-high heels.
She goes to get another pair, something more suitable, and when she comes back, Zooey is sitting on the edge of the bath, pulling up her stockings. Emily perches beside her to put on her shoes, and Zooey does it again-prods her in the ribs with her elbow. Emily tackles her and they topple over into the bathtub, giggling and breathless and on top of each other.
This time, Zooey smells like home. Comforting; honey and butter with a breathy veil of vanilla. Emily could blame it on the champagne they've been drinking all afternoon, but she knows she would've done it anyway. Zooey's lips are warm and taste like apples as she protests softly and insincerely against Emily's mouth.
Emily's hand slides under her sister's dress-pale green, crumpled ruffles-and Zooey's lips smear gloss across her neck. Nimble fingers tug on the zip at her back, pulling it down only minutes after they pulled it up, and Zooey makes a tiny noise in her ear as Emily slides a finger inside her.
Zooey smells like everybody else does during sex, a slick scent of salt and sweat, but it is tinged with sin and guilt.
Title: J'ai Une Soeur
Author: likecharity
Pairing: Emily/Zooey
Rating: R
Warnings: Incest, real person femslash
Summary: Zooey's scent is the thing that's so seductive about her; she picks her perfume very carefully, and Emily can't help being intrigued by it.
A/N: The little French exchange is pretty self-explanatory as far as I know (I only learned French for six months!) but just in case a translation is needed: I'm called Zooey. I have a sister. - What is your sister called? - My sister is called Emily. And the title is simply 'I have a sister.' :)
Zooey smells like girl, like sugar and spice and all things nice. She picks her perfumes with the greatest care, choosing them in the way most people choose cars or places to live. She sprays samples on her wrists in the duty-free at every airport she passes through, learning how the different scents adjust to her skin. Emily just buys what Zooey says is good, or, on impulse, chooses the one with the prettiest bottle.
Zooey can smell like swollen red cherries, sweet wet strawberries, glistening black grapes. With a spritz of a bottle or two, or an expensive new shampoo, she can smell like the seaside-salty air, driftwood-or a garden after a storm. Achingly heavy scents layered with flowers Emily's never even heard of, foods she'd never imagine would smell so good on a person's skin.
If her scent doesn't match the occasion, it will at least always match what she's wearing. She'll wear a vintage blue silky dress, cut just above the knee, and match it with her signature black tights and a pair of her favorite shoes. She'll smell like cigar smoke, rum and dark chocolate as she asks Emily to braid her hair, and Emily will breathe in her intoxicating scent, trying to distinguish between jealousy and arousal.
Her sister's flawless, really, Emily thinks. All perfect angles and smooth, porcelain skin, a sweet little mouth that brightens her whole face when she smiles. If jealousy is even a part of it, it's definitely not the only part, but Emily will never admit that to herself. Somehow it's easier-and more normal--to be jealous of her younger sister. She read in some magazine that lots of women are, but she's never been one to include herself in statistics.
She remembers sitting on the bathmat in their childhood home, teaching French to fourteen-year-old Zooey. She remembers soaping up her sister's hair, on her knees leaning over the edge of the bathtub and rubbing her fingertips against Zooey's scalp, the two of them play-fighting with handfuls of shampoo bubbles.
"Je m'appelle Zooey," Zooey would say proudly, flicking a cloud of bubbles at Emily's face. "J'ai une soeur."
Emily would splash the bubbles right back at her, trying to stop them from getting the bathroom floor wet so the two of them would stay out of trouble. "Comment s'appelle ta soeur?" she'd ask with a grin.
"Ma soeur s'appelle Emily."
The smell stays with her after all those years; shampoo that smelled like nectarines, something cheap and nasty that Zooey insisted on buying even though it took three washes with the stuff before her hair was even remotely clean. Emily stuck with the brand names, generic shampoo smell, nothing special.
In a little shop in Dublin she finds a bottle that gives her a flashback, and buys it immediately. She doesn't use it, just keeps it in her bathroom and smells it occasionally, thinking of the way Zooey's voice sounded in her fake French accent; beautiful, lilting, and saying her name.
It happens when they're getting ready for a party one day; fastening buttons, zipping each other into dresses, putting on their mascara and lipstick in the bathroom mirror. Zooey nudges Emily out of the way with her elbow-mirror's not big enough for the two of them-and Emily wobbles on her too-high heels.
She goes to get another pair, something more suitable, and when she comes back, Zooey is sitting on the edge of the bath, pulling up her stockings. Emily perches beside her to put on her shoes, and Zooey does it again-prods her in the ribs with her elbow. Emily tackles her and they topple over into the bathtub, giggling and breathless and on top of each other.
This time, Zooey smells like home. Comforting; honey and butter with a breathy veil of vanilla. Emily could blame it on the champagne they've been drinking all afternoon, but she knows she would've done it anyway. Zooey's lips are warm and taste like apples as she protests softly and insincerely against Emily's mouth.
Emily's hand slides under her sister's dress-pale green, crumpled ruffles-and Zooey's lips smear gloss across her neck. Nimble fingers tug on the zip at her back, pulling it down only minutes after they pulled it up, and Zooey makes a tiny noise in her ear as Emily slides a finger inside her.
Zooey smells like everybody else does during sex, a slick scent of salt and sweat, but it is tinged with sin and guilt.