(no subject)
Title: Some Velvet Morning.
Rating: PG.
A/N: OC-ish femslash.
She crouched at my feet, catlike in the way she stretched her knees to her chin and gazed into the flames before the hearth. I had known this was her way of telling me she was tired and patiently waiting on me, an unmentioned comfort to the both of us when I stayed up nights reading and didn't come to bed before a chilly winter dawn. I read on.
"I don't care what anyone says." I looked up to see her apple-cider tart, orange-stained lips tremble between cheekbones above reproach. She did care, and it bothered her. “I like your company,” she declared, straightening her shoulders beneath a white flannel nightgown, "It's perfectly natural." I curved my palms around her, watching the firelight flicker in her red-gold hair.
"There are a lot of people who wouldn't think so," I murmured thoughtlessly into her neck, and her tired face turned a little more resolute in the light. She moved to look back at me, watching me in such a way that I knew she was really studying her reflection in my eyes. I remained silent in her gaze until her eyes met mine. Her chilled hands roamed my chest, tempting buttons undone, our legs tangling like vines, my breath and my thoughts caught in her nearness; moans escaped me, surprising both of us in the crackling silence. We moved together in the dark, an undertow pulling us together into the gentle sieves of fate.
***
I held her as much as I could from then on, but try as I might, my company would not hold her attention for long. I lost her to the moon, or the noises outside, or the smothered fire in need of banking. Yet I was a child clinging to a hawk's feather, I could not resist bending her to me, with me, pulling apart the vane and barbs as she slid past my hands. As a moody spring arrived, she began to spend her nights inconsolable by the window.
"Courage," I whispered in her ear one evening, when I had seen her cry for the first time - it seemed like the sort of thing she would say, or want to hear. She snorted and sniffed a little and wiped her eyes.
"Sounds like you're at an execution," she muttered in a strangled voice, and turned her face from the lamp.
***
I am not like her, I say, I am passive and needy and opposite of all she stands for, I am not a free spirit. The cold water running in her veins cannot flow spill into my red, mortal blood, nor can mine into hers.
She doesn't move for me anymore, she moves in accordance with the stars, with the bigger world she's seen without my eyes.
Rating: PG.
A/N: OC-ish femslash.
She crouched at my feet, catlike in the way she stretched her knees to her chin and gazed into the flames before the hearth. I had known this was her way of telling me she was tired and patiently waiting on me, an unmentioned comfort to the both of us when I stayed up nights reading and didn't come to bed before a chilly winter dawn. I read on.
"I don't care what anyone says." I looked up to see her apple-cider tart, orange-stained lips tremble between cheekbones above reproach. She did care, and it bothered her. “I like your company,” she declared, straightening her shoulders beneath a white flannel nightgown, "It's perfectly natural." I curved my palms around her, watching the firelight flicker in her red-gold hair.
"There are a lot of people who wouldn't think so," I murmured thoughtlessly into her neck, and her tired face turned a little more resolute in the light. She moved to look back at me, watching me in such a way that I knew she was really studying her reflection in my eyes. I remained silent in her gaze until her eyes met mine. Her chilled hands roamed my chest, tempting buttons undone, our legs tangling like vines, my breath and my thoughts caught in her nearness; moans escaped me, surprising both of us in the crackling silence. We moved together in the dark, an undertow pulling us together into the gentle sieves of fate.
***
I held her as much as I could from then on, but try as I might, my company would not hold her attention for long. I lost her to the moon, or the noises outside, or the smothered fire in need of banking. Yet I was a child clinging to a hawk's feather, I could not resist bending her to me, with me, pulling apart the vane and barbs as she slid past my hands. As a moody spring arrived, she began to spend her nights inconsolable by the window.
"Courage," I whispered in her ear one evening, when I had seen her cry for the first time - it seemed like the sort of thing she would say, or want to hear. She snorted and sniffed a little and wiped her eyes.
"Sounds like you're at an execution," she muttered in a strangled voice, and turned her face from the lamp.
***
I am not like her, I say, I am passive and needy and opposite of all she stands for, I am not a free spirit. The cold water running in her veins cannot flow spill into my red, mortal blood, nor can mine into hers.
She doesn't move for me anymore, she moves in accordance with the stars, with the bigger world she's seen without my eyes.