la petite mort (emily/victoria) nc17
title: la petite mort
fandom: corpse bride
character(s)/pairing(s): emily/victoria
rating: nc17
word count: 307
prompt: butterflies, night for the porn battle
Victoria has pretty bones. The color of cream in Sunday’s tea, she tilts her face to the neon lights of afterlife’s main street and waves her bare fingers through the air. She admires her joints, skin slowly receding from the bend, and makes a fist.
Emily’s fingertips dance over the shadows clinging in crannies there, the pearly opalescence of ligaments, quickly followed by her lips. Victoria giggles. It tickles.
(She had often acquainted women with butterflies, pinned and spread under glass, to be admired but never meant to fly. Here, a vision of tiger’s orange flits over her head in pursuit of the light. Victoria spreads her arms wide against concrete.)
Emily is kneeling between Victoria’s parted knees, her petticoats bunched around her thighs and edging toward her waist. The older girl wears slacks, found in an attic trunk; she didn’t need her wedding dress any longer.
But Victoria is day dreaming, a habit, and Emily is coyly leading her back, boney hands caging her hips, tugging her forward until her center is flush against the rough fabric.
“Darling,” Emily whispers against the curve of her breast, corset unbuttoned and flung open, “My ego is not easily bruised, but do pay attention.”
Emily had always been good at this, putting the flush of arousal high on her pale cheeks, at looking up at her with a chin rested on her belly and her gaze combed through long lashes and making her want. Victoria doesn’t think she’d ever wanted anything so much in life as she wants Emily in death.
Emily’s blueish-black hair is dragging over her thighs, Victoria’s own having escaped her high bun long ago, and her nerves tremble. She’s hyper-aware as the other woman smirks against her clit, the clash of piano keys ringing through her ears.
Funny, this wasn’t quite how she’d pictured the afterlife.