[Wild Roses] Some Kind of Love Song
Title: a gentle sort of intimacy
'Verse/characters: Some Kind of Love Song; Arianhrod, Takashi
Prompt: 03A "the space between"
Word Count: 732
Notes: follows from Come, we'll go dancing--, which, while a great spot for a rest, ain't the end. :D
I woke to someone planting delicate kisses along my side, atop each of my ribs, from the floating up to the ones beneath my armpit. He was beginning to work his way back down, concentrating that time on the spaces between my ribs when I half-rolled over, onto my back.
He grinned, leaned down to kiss the underside of my breast. "Good morning."
"Mm," I agreed, stretched out my spine and my legs, felt the pleasant ache of last night's exertions. He'd left no bruises on me; I noted a pair of fingerprints on his shoulder, remembered what he'd been doing when I'd grabbed his shoulder, squeezed, and grinned up at him. "You're good at this."
He beamed. "Thank you, I try."
I half-sat up, propping myself on my elbows, and looked around the room, noting that I'd apparently tossed his shirt well more than halfway across the room and onto a standing brazier that had fortunately not been lit at the time.
My braid was underneath me, I realised when he leaned in, nosed at my sternum, then reached across to kiss my other breast. I tried to remember if anyone else had seen the scar, after it had healed over enough to lay my hair over it, or an illusion of untouched skin if I had an expectation of someone moving my braid aside. I couldn't think of a single one, aside from the fox in my bed, and Winter, what was I thinking last night?
"Ground rules," I said, and he licked my belly. I half-scowled at the back of his head, then shifted my weight enough to rest on one elbow, raised a hand and tweaked his currently invisible tails. "Ground rules," I repeated when he lifted his head, laughter visible in his eyes.
The yellow was going to take some getting used to. "You don't change faces where anyone can spot you," I told him, "I don't want you exposed as a fox in the event the King is home and in a foul mood."
"Doesn't like foxes?" he asked, and I waggled my hand, see-sawing.
"If he were the sort to go on four feet, he'd be a hound," I explained, "Foxes make him kind of crazy."
"No wonder Lehseet's hanging around."
I thought about asking what that meant, but decided it was better to pretend he wasn't distracting. "Whenever you meet me with a new face, court, please--I won't gain a reputation of being easy to capture." My brothers would trip my feet out from under me and demand to know where their real sister was, for one. "Don't borrow someone's face and rank," I continued, "no matter how low."
He frowned. "Not even for fun?"
"Think about picking up the pieces afterwards," I told him, dry, and sat up, dislodging him briefly before he sat up too, crossing his legs tailor-fashion, spine straight. Foxes keep a lot of their length in their bodies, I saw, looking at him, and I startled a little when he leaned in, kissed me, smiling.
I kissed back, fighting the desire to laugh.
"May I?" he asked, touching the end of my braid, and after a moment, I nodded.
It felt . . odd, to have someone else unbinding my hair, running gentle nails through the mass of it, spreading it down my back and a little onto his legs, crossed behind me. Mages only rarely let someone else at their hair; there are so many spells that can be hidden in it that it's easiest to deal with it alone, tying in surprises or last-resorts where no one else can see. Mothers stop when their daughters start weaving in their own spells, and it is a brave lover who wades into a mage's hair with nothing but their fingers.
He was all but purring, behind me, his nails scratching just hard enough against my scalp that I let my head fall backwards, and he leaned forward to kiss my temple.
The scar on my neck felt cold, exposed to the morning air instead of hidden beneath my hair. My skin pebbled whenever I let myself think about it, and I tried to concentrate instead on the warmth of the man behind me, the feel of his fingers combing through the length of my curls.
I didn't let myself think about what a bad idea this could turn out to be.
'Verse/characters: Some Kind of Love Song; Arianhrod, Takashi
Prompt: 03A "the space between"
Word Count: 732
Notes: follows from Come, we'll go dancing--, which, while a great spot for a rest, ain't the end. :D
I woke to someone planting delicate kisses along my side, atop each of my ribs, from the floating up to the ones beneath my armpit. He was beginning to work his way back down, concentrating that time on the spaces between my ribs when I half-rolled over, onto my back.
He grinned, leaned down to kiss the underside of my breast. "Good morning."
"Mm," I agreed, stretched out my spine and my legs, felt the pleasant ache of last night's exertions. He'd left no bruises on me; I noted a pair of fingerprints on his shoulder, remembered what he'd been doing when I'd grabbed his shoulder, squeezed, and grinned up at him. "You're good at this."
He beamed. "Thank you, I try."
I half-sat up, propping myself on my elbows, and looked around the room, noting that I'd apparently tossed his shirt well more than halfway across the room and onto a standing brazier that had fortunately not been lit at the time.
My braid was underneath me, I realised when he leaned in, nosed at my sternum, then reached across to kiss my other breast. I tried to remember if anyone else had seen the scar, after it had healed over enough to lay my hair over it, or an illusion of untouched skin if I had an expectation of someone moving my braid aside. I couldn't think of a single one, aside from the fox in my bed, and Winter, what was I thinking last night?
"Ground rules," I said, and he licked my belly. I half-scowled at the back of his head, then shifted my weight enough to rest on one elbow, raised a hand and tweaked his currently invisible tails. "Ground rules," I repeated when he lifted his head, laughter visible in his eyes.
The yellow was going to take some getting used to. "You don't change faces where anyone can spot you," I told him, "I don't want you exposed as a fox in the event the King is home and in a foul mood."
"Doesn't like foxes?" he asked, and I waggled my hand, see-sawing.
"If he were the sort to go on four feet, he'd be a hound," I explained, "Foxes make him kind of crazy."
"No wonder Lehseet's hanging around."
I thought about asking what that meant, but decided it was better to pretend he wasn't distracting. "Whenever you meet me with a new face, court, please--I won't gain a reputation of being easy to capture." My brothers would trip my feet out from under me and demand to know where their real sister was, for one. "Don't borrow someone's face and rank," I continued, "no matter how low."
He frowned. "Not even for fun?"
"Think about picking up the pieces afterwards," I told him, dry, and sat up, dislodging him briefly before he sat up too, crossing his legs tailor-fashion, spine straight. Foxes keep a lot of their length in their bodies, I saw, looking at him, and I startled a little when he leaned in, kissed me, smiling.
I kissed back, fighting the desire to laugh.
"May I?" he asked, touching the end of my braid, and after a moment, I nodded.
It felt . . odd, to have someone else unbinding my hair, running gentle nails through the mass of it, spreading it down my back and a little onto his legs, crossed behind me. Mages only rarely let someone else at their hair; there are so many spells that can be hidden in it that it's easiest to deal with it alone, tying in surprises or last-resorts where no one else can see. Mothers stop when their daughters start weaving in their own spells, and it is a brave lover who wades into a mage's hair with nothing but their fingers.
He was all but purring, behind me, his nails scratching just hard enough against my scalp that I let my head fall backwards, and he leaned forward to kiss my temple.
The scar on my neck felt cold, exposed to the morning air instead of hidden beneath my hair. My skin pebbled whenever I let myself think about it, and I tried to concentrate instead on the warmth of the man behind me, the feel of his fingers combing through the length of my curls.
I didn't let myself think about what a bad idea this could turn out to be.