That Which Does or Doesn't Lead Up to a Sexy Pillow Fight (Michelle/Camille)
Title: That Which Does or Doesn't Lead Up to a Sexy Pillow Fight
Author: goodbyesheesha
Pairing: Camille Nolan/Michelle DaRosa
Rating: PG
Word Count: approx 1,200
Summary: Camille loves John, and maybe Michelle is just an extension of John; she's his feminine second half.
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. All real names, places, and events are used in a fictitious manner.
Author's Notes: This fic is dedicated to everyone who helped me with it (including those to whom I simply asked bizarre hypothetical questions), but most of all whatcircus. Also, a big thanks to her for the title.
It makes sense somewhere-- or at least Camille reasons that it does. She's not sure if she would be able to remain sane, otherwise. She's not sure if she is even sane now. But it has to make sense. Camille loves John, and maybe Michelle is just an extension of John; she's his feminine second half. It's evident in everything they do: it's in their music; it's in their personalities; it's in their speech habits. And Camille is left on the sidelines, attached only to the masculine side. The situation is bound to inspire these feelings. How could Camille be satisfied with only half? This isn't her fault. And it isn't her fault when she begins to long for the other half.
At first, it's barely anything: Camille will smile when she notices the similarities between John and Michelle; maybe she'll let her hugs linger a little too long; she might take more photos of Michelle than is appropriate. It's nothing worrying, and no one seems to notice. She simply has a casual fascination with Michelle.
Then everything starts to intensify-- it spins out of control-- and Camille finds herself sitting too close to Michelle. After a few drinks (It is only a few. Camille has never been much of a drinker, and she's still a lightweight) Camille is practically in Michelle's lap. This could very possibly be the point when it really starts. She has made contact-- skin to skin, but still pure everywhere outside of Camille's mind. This is when lust kicks in.
Maybe it is just the alcohol, but Michelle's skin is hot against Camille's, sticky like leather on a warm, humid day. Camille can feel Michelle's pulse. Her skin thrums with it. It probably is the alcohol when Camille leans forward and rests her face in Michelle's neck. She breathes into the crook of Michelle's shoulder, trying to take her into herself. Michelle is tense, but not making any move to push Camille off her. The guys notice it, but nothing seems off to them. Jeff whistles, and Camille can't keep from being a little offended. Michelle is simply laughing. Nothing is wrong; Camille has just had too much to drink.
The next day, Camille doesn't even feel hungover, but she wishes she did. Maybe if she had drank more, she wouldn't remember herself all over Michelle. Although, maybe if she had drank more, she would have gone a lot further than she did. Regret is a tricky thing, and it is usually wrong.
"Are you feeling okay?" John greets, when Camille stumbles into the living room. The room indicates that she slept in much later than planned: there is no sign of the morning paper, which has been read and recycled; John is fully dressed and fully alert; and the last dregs of coffee are left in the pot, acidic, long cold and left to the fate of being poured down the sink. There's a fair chance Camille simply slept through her hangover. The thought is vaguely disappointing.
"Yeah, yeah," Camille responds, snapping back into focus for John's question. "What time is it?"
"Around one," John says offhandedly. He continues, "So, Jeff called. He wants to know if we're interested in coming over for dinner tomorrow night. I said it was fine, but I figured I ought to confirm with you."
Camille nods her response, and she's not even worried. She'll be sober, and it's not like she doesn't spent plenty of time around Michelle to begin with. She can control herself. She has up until now.
The dinner is casual: jeans and t-shirts (neither Michelle nor Jeff are wearing socks, and Camille notes that Michelle has the last traces of chipped red polish on her toes), but Michelle's apartment is still much cleaner than Camille's own. Jeff does most of the cooking, with Michelle watching over, giving instructions and advice in a quietly commanding voice. Camille watches them wistfully, while John helps himself to the fridge. He comes back with a beer, but doesn't offer Camille one; she understands why, and is mildly embarrassed.
Conversation is light and only skims over surfaces. They all know each other well enough that there is little need to go any further than simple pleasantries-- at one point they even discuss the weather.
At some point caught between discourse and dinner, Camille has to use the washroom. She doubts that anyone will notice if she takes a brief detour through Jeff and Michelle's bedroom. It is Camille's first time in the room, and she is rather unimpressed. The space is filled with the dark, rich colours that occupy every trashy lovers' suite in every trashy, overpriced honeymoon hotel. There is a vase on the bedside table, filled with dried and wilted roses, and Camille can't help but think of how unoriginal it is. The room could belong to anyone; it holds no traces of its inhabitants. Even Michelle's sweet, buttery smell is nonexistent, replaced by something harsh and musky.
Camille blames curiousity for her next move. Michelle's dresser sits opposite he doorway, seemingly staring Camille down, and she can't help herself. She's already plotting out excuses in her mind: 'I got my period, unexpectedly, and needed to borrow some knickers, but I was too shy to ask'.
The photographer in Camille is thrilled and awestruck by the assortment of colours, tight and bundled together-- Michelle doesn't fold her underwear. She also must not wash them terribly well or often, because Michelle's scent makes its way into the crevices of Camille's nose, tingling and tickling. It's sweet and smooth, but with a tartness beneath that that could only come from such an intimate garment.
"Cam?" comes Michelle's voice, and Camille turns around sharply. The doorway is empty, so Camille can only hope and assume that the sound came from the end of the hallway-- the food must be ready. Camille quickly grabs two pairs of panties-- one black and one pink-- and shoves them into her pocket. The bulge of the bundled fabric is too noticeable, so Camille thinks twice. They find themselves down Camille's pants, tucked safely beneath her own undergarments.
There is an edge is disappointment when the slow wafting scent of food hits Camille's nose, wiping away the odour previously trapped inside.
A general dryness hangs in the air: dry chicken, dry rice, dry humour-- mostly from John, and poorly executed to boot. For once, it makes Camille feel like she's part of a proper marriage. It is nothing like the lazy comfort of meals on tour.
One point that Camille almost overlooks-- and doesn't even notice until right before it is too late-- is that Michelle is silent. She isn't passive, but she has no input aside from her small, twitchy smiles and frowns; she doesn't even laugh. While Michelle has never been a loud woman, she appreciates conversation, and likes to have her opinion known. When she passes up an opportunity to quietly mock John, it's concerning.
"John," Michelle says, somewhere just above a whisper. She may be saying her brother's name, but her eyes are focused in on Camille. "I figured I ought to tell you this first. I'm leaving the band."
"Why?" John asks. His tone is sharp, even while he tries to cover it with concern.
"I've just been feeling unappreciated. The kids are there to see you, John." But Michelle's eyes are still on Camille, and she's readable; she wants to be. Camille can't help but think-- know?-- that Michelle is really saying 'I can't deal with your creepy panty sniffing wife'.
And, somehow, Camille is okay with this.
Author: goodbyesheesha
Pairing: Camille Nolan/Michelle DaRosa
Rating: PG
Word Count: approx 1,200
Summary: Camille loves John, and maybe Michelle is just an extension of John; she's his feminine second half.
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. All real names, places, and events are used in a fictitious manner.
Author's Notes: This fic is dedicated to everyone who helped me with it (including those to whom I simply asked bizarre hypothetical questions), but most of all whatcircus. Also, a big thanks to her for the title.
It makes sense somewhere-- or at least Camille reasons that it does. She's not sure if she would be able to remain sane, otherwise. She's not sure if she is even sane now. But it has to make sense. Camille loves John, and maybe Michelle is just an extension of John; she's his feminine second half. It's evident in everything they do: it's in their music; it's in their personalities; it's in their speech habits. And Camille is left on the sidelines, attached only to the masculine side. The situation is bound to inspire these feelings. How could Camille be satisfied with only half? This isn't her fault. And it isn't her fault when she begins to long for the other half.
At first, it's barely anything: Camille will smile when she notices the similarities between John and Michelle; maybe she'll let her hugs linger a little too long; she might take more photos of Michelle than is appropriate. It's nothing worrying, and no one seems to notice. She simply has a casual fascination with Michelle.
Then everything starts to intensify-- it spins out of control-- and Camille finds herself sitting too close to Michelle. After a few drinks (It is only a few. Camille has never been much of a drinker, and she's still a lightweight) Camille is practically in Michelle's lap. This could very possibly be the point when it really starts. She has made contact-- skin to skin, but still pure everywhere outside of Camille's mind. This is when lust kicks in.
Maybe it is just the alcohol, but Michelle's skin is hot against Camille's, sticky like leather on a warm, humid day. Camille can feel Michelle's pulse. Her skin thrums with it. It probably is the alcohol when Camille leans forward and rests her face in Michelle's neck. She breathes into the crook of Michelle's shoulder, trying to take her into herself. Michelle is tense, but not making any move to push Camille off her. The guys notice it, but nothing seems off to them. Jeff whistles, and Camille can't keep from being a little offended. Michelle is simply laughing. Nothing is wrong; Camille has just had too much to drink.
The next day, Camille doesn't even feel hungover, but she wishes she did. Maybe if she had drank more, she wouldn't remember herself all over Michelle. Although, maybe if she had drank more, she would have gone a lot further than she did. Regret is a tricky thing, and it is usually wrong.
"Are you feeling okay?" John greets, when Camille stumbles into the living room. The room indicates that she slept in much later than planned: there is no sign of the morning paper, which has been read and recycled; John is fully dressed and fully alert; and the last dregs of coffee are left in the pot, acidic, long cold and left to the fate of being poured down the sink. There's a fair chance Camille simply slept through her hangover. The thought is vaguely disappointing.
"Yeah, yeah," Camille responds, snapping back into focus for John's question. "What time is it?"
"Around one," John says offhandedly. He continues, "So, Jeff called. He wants to know if we're interested in coming over for dinner tomorrow night. I said it was fine, but I figured I ought to confirm with you."
Camille nods her response, and she's not even worried. She'll be sober, and it's not like she doesn't spent plenty of time around Michelle to begin with. She can control herself. She has up until now.
The dinner is casual: jeans and t-shirts (neither Michelle nor Jeff are wearing socks, and Camille notes that Michelle has the last traces of chipped red polish on her toes), but Michelle's apartment is still much cleaner than Camille's own. Jeff does most of the cooking, with Michelle watching over, giving instructions and advice in a quietly commanding voice. Camille watches them wistfully, while John helps himself to the fridge. He comes back with a beer, but doesn't offer Camille one; she understands why, and is mildly embarrassed.
Conversation is light and only skims over surfaces. They all know each other well enough that there is little need to go any further than simple pleasantries-- at one point they even discuss the weather.
At some point caught between discourse and dinner, Camille has to use the washroom. She doubts that anyone will notice if she takes a brief detour through Jeff and Michelle's bedroom. It is Camille's first time in the room, and she is rather unimpressed. The space is filled with the dark, rich colours that occupy every trashy lovers' suite in every trashy, overpriced honeymoon hotel. There is a vase on the bedside table, filled with dried and wilted roses, and Camille can't help but think of how unoriginal it is. The room could belong to anyone; it holds no traces of its inhabitants. Even Michelle's sweet, buttery smell is nonexistent, replaced by something harsh and musky.
Camille blames curiousity for her next move. Michelle's dresser sits opposite he doorway, seemingly staring Camille down, and she can't help herself. She's already plotting out excuses in her mind: 'I got my period, unexpectedly, and needed to borrow some knickers, but I was too shy to ask'.
The photographer in Camille is thrilled and awestruck by the assortment of colours, tight and bundled together-- Michelle doesn't fold her underwear. She also must not wash them terribly well or often, because Michelle's scent makes its way into the crevices of Camille's nose, tingling and tickling. It's sweet and smooth, but with a tartness beneath that that could only come from such an intimate garment.
"Cam?" comes Michelle's voice, and Camille turns around sharply. The doorway is empty, so Camille can only hope and assume that the sound came from the end of the hallway-- the food must be ready. Camille quickly grabs two pairs of panties-- one black and one pink-- and shoves them into her pocket. The bulge of the bundled fabric is too noticeable, so Camille thinks twice. They find themselves down Camille's pants, tucked safely beneath her own undergarments.
There is an edge is disappointment when the slow wafting scent of food hits Camille's nose, wiping away the odour previously trapped inside.
A general dryness hangs in the air: dry chicken, dry rice, dry humour-- mostly from John, and poorly executed to boot. For once, it makes Camille feel like she's part of a proper marriage. It is nothing like the lazy comfort of meals on tour.
One point that Camille almost overlooks-- and doesn't even notice until right before it is too late-- is that Michelle is silent. She isn't passive, but she has no input aside from her small, twitchy smiles and frowns; she doesn't even laugh. While Michelle has never been a loud woman, she appreciates conversation, and likes to have her opinion known. When she passes up an opportunity to quietly mock John, it's concerning.
"John," Michelle says, somewhere just above a whisper. She may be saying her brother's name, but her eyes are focused in on Camille. "I figured I ought to tell you this first. I'm leaving the band."
"Why?" John asks. His tone is sharp, even while he tries to cover it with concern.
"I've just been feeling unappreciated. The kids are there to see you, John." But Michelle's eyes are still on Camille, and she's readable; she wants to be. Camille can't help but think-- know?-- that Michelle is really saying 'I can't deal with your creepy panty sniffing wife'.
And, somehow, Camille is okay with this.