[Wild Roses] Some Kind of Love Song
Title: dawn
'Verse/characters: Some Kind of Love Song; Arianhrod, Takashi
Prompt: 18D "under"
Word Count: 294
Notes: expanded from the spark "brown sugar sand", still fairly sketchy.
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He's worn scars, but they've never been truth. She's never seen so much as a freckle on the skin she's forced to assume is his own, the one she sees no matter how hard she looks, whether he's conscious or half-curled on his side in the bed they're sharing, his back and arm one long spill of gentle muscle beneath skin the colour of brown sugar mixed with sand.
In his own shape, in his own skin, he's a startling contrast to her. Never a reflection--she's yet to catch him wearing freckles, or eyes the shade she sees in the mirror--but contrast and complement, tall enough to prop his chin on the top of her head and fearless enough to do it, yellow eyes and rusty-red hair that's shorter and coarser and far straighter than hers.
There's never a question of which of them's shed into the bedclothes or into the brush--unless he cheats, and even then once shed his hairs have a tendency to revert to their own shape, given time. She's actually had the chance to watch, bemused, as what she'd assumed was a tangled nest of her own hairs uncoiled, aging like fallen leaves to his shade of red from hers.
She flicks a stray hair off his back with a delicate curl of power, then lays her hand gently along the curve of his shoulderblade. She likes the way her hands stand out on his skin--never so deep a contrast as with her first husband, though her hands are darker now than they'd been then. But her pale freckled fingers and pink nailbeds are clear against his molasses-touched skin, and he's curling around under her hand, pulling his head from beneath the pillow and giving her a sleepy predator's smile.
'Verse/characters: Some Kind of Love Song; Arianhrod, Takashi
Prompt: 18D "under"
Word Count: 294
Notes: expanded from the spark "brown sugar sand", still fairly sketchy.
---------
He's worn scars, but they've never been truth. She's never seen so much as a freckle on the skin she's forced to assume is his own, the one she sees no matter how hard she looks, whether he's conscious or half-curled on his side in the bed they're sharing, his back and arm one long spill of gentle muscle beneath skin the colour of brown sugar mixed with sand.
In his own shape, in his own skin, he's a startling contrast to her. Never a reflection--she's yet to catch him wearing freckles, or eyes the shade she sees in the mirror--but contrast and complement, tall enough to prop his chin on the top of her head and fearless enough to do it, yellow eyes and rusty-red hair that's shorter and coarser and far straighter than hers.
There's never a question of which of them's shed into the bedclothes or into the brush--unless he cheats, and even then once shed his hairs have a tendency to revert to their own shape, given time. She's actually had the chance to watch, bemused, as what she'd assumed was a tangled nest of her own hairs uncoiled, aging like fallen leaves to his shade of red from hers.
She flicks a stray hair off his back with a delicate curl of power, then lays her hand gently along the curve of his shoulderblade. She likes the way her hands stand out on his skin--never so deep a contrast as with her first husband, though her hands are darker now than they'd been then. But her pale freckled fingers and pink nailbeds are clear against his molasses-touched skin, and he's curling around under her hand, pulling his head from beneath the pillow and giving her a sleepy predator's smile.