British Circle: Public Appearances (Red: 011)
Title: Public Appearances
’Verse/characters: British Circle/ Rheon and Cacia
Prompt: 11) Red
Word Count: 577
Rating: PG-13 for sexual references
Notes: Written for
sophonica, who wondered outloud how the relationship between my villains works. More fool her. ;)
Cacia is wearing the red dress on Christmas Eve, when the candles are lit in the window alcoves and the great hall sings with the snowy cinnamon smell of Christmas. It fits her well - Cacia is very conscious that things must fit- and circles her waist like a hand gloving a wrist. The colour is beautiful, shifting in depth as it spirals around her from foot to shoulder, like a bloody tongue of flame.
Rheon chose the colour, of course, weeks before. “Wear red,” even as he lazily runs a hand along the long, sensitive curve of her neck and shoulder so that- though Cacia attempts to murmur a protest against it- she instead falls silent in the prickling tension of the stillness that surrounds the brushing of fingertips against skin.
“Red is noticeable,” he tells her, some time later when the jumbled tangle of legs and mouths and hands has settled once more into the heavy, embracing stillness of their bedroom, as she sits at her dressing table and smoothes her cascading hair with long, easy brushstrokes. She watches Rheon’s dark eyes glow in the light of the lamp, heavy-lidded with nearing sleep, barely listening to the words but enjoying the certainty of his decisions.
He is propped on his elbows, almost-curling hair slipping from behind his ears, and Cacia watches the muscles of his bare shoulders brace and ripple against the tension of his weight. She loves the sheathed power in his face, his movements, and the lazy manner in which he uses it; like a cat, flexing its claws without conscious thought or decision.
“Noticeable?” she asks, and her voice is husky with gentling thoughts.
Rheon inclines his head. “No-one forgets a red dress,” he murmurs, holding out one hand to her. “And no one will forget us.”
She stands, of course, her dressing gown settling into folds as she walks to his side. Smiling, she takes his hand- long fingers, crooked to receive her own- and sits on the edge of the bed. The weight of the duvet shifts beneath her as Rheon leans towards her, and her dressing gown falls with it.
It is this memory that slips a smile across her face as she pauses at the top of the curved spine that is the great stair. In truth the dress is magnificent, even against the shimmering backdrop of her red-gold hair. Cacia doesn’t consider that Rheon was right. She knew he would be.
“I chose well,” he says softly from behind her, and Cacia turns to face him quickly, “You look wonderful.”
He is wonderful too, she thinks, in black tuxedo and with his bow tie positioned more precisely even than Thorn’s. She tells him so as he leans to touch the tips of his fingers to her bare back, and she rests against the pressure with a curious feeling of releasing something tightly held inside her.
As they walk down together, feet unconsciously slipping into coordinated steps, Christmas falls around them in showers of laughter and clove-scented candlelight. Cacia smiles at Rheon Silvera, who breathes force and removes responsibility from her with such certainty and such a touch- fingers against her lips, cold- that she does not even miss it.
Power rolls from him in washing waves, and as they rush and ebb they pull Cacia inexorably closer, closer, closer. She twines her fingers around his and they walk- noticed, forever noticed- into the crowds of the Authority.
’Verse/characters: British Circle/ Rheon and Cacia
Prompt: 11) Red
Word Count: 577
Rating: PG-13 for sexual references
Notes: Written for
sophonica, who wondered outloud how the relationship between my villains works. More fool her. ;)
Cacia is wearing the red dress on Christmas Eve, when the candles are lit in the window alcoves and the great hall sings with the snowy cinnamon smell of Christmas. It fits her well - Cacia is very conscious that things must fit- and circles her waist like a hand gloving a wrist. The colour is beautiful, shifting in depth as it spirals around her from foot to shoulder, like a bloody tongue of flame.
Rheon chose the colour, of course, weeks before. “Wear red,” even as he lazily runs a hand along the long, sensitive curve of her neck and shoulder so that- though Cacia attempts to murmur a protest against it- she instead falls silent in the prickling tension of the stillness that surrounds the brushing of fingertips against skin.
“Red is noticeable,” he tells her, some time later when the jumbled tangle of legs and mouths and hands has settled once more into the heavy, embracing stillness of their bedroom, as she sits at her dressing table and smoothes her cascading hair with long, easy brushstrokes. She watches Rheon’s dark eyes glow in the light of the lamp, heavy-lidded with nearing sleep, barely listening to the words but enjoying the certainty of his decisions.
He is propped on his elbows, almost-curling hair slipping from behind his ears, and Cacia watches the muscles of his bare shoulders brace and ripple against the tension of his weight. She loves the sheathed power in his face, his movements, and the lazy manner in which he uses it; like a cat, flexing its claws without conscious thought or decision.
“Noticeable?” she asks, and her voice is husky with gentling thoughts.
Rheon inclines his head. “No-one forgets a red dress,” he murmurs, holding out one hand to her. “And no one will forget us.”
She stands, of course, her dressing gown settling into folds as she walks to his side. Smiling, she takes his hand- long fingers, crooked to receive her own- and sits on the edge of the bed. The weight of the duvet shifts beneath her as Rheon leans towards her, and her dressing gown falls with it.
It is this memory that slips a smile across her face as she pauses at the top of the curved spine that is the great stair. In truth the dress is magnificent, even against the shimmering backdrop of her red-gold hair. Cacia doesn’t consider that Rheon was right. She knew he would be.
“I chose well,” he says softly from behind her, and Cacia turns to face him quickly, “You look wonderful.”
He is wonderful too, she thinks, in black tuxedo and with his bow tie positioned more precisely even than Thorn’s. She tells him so as he leans to touch the tips of his fingers to her bare back, and she rests against the pressure with a curious feeling of releasing something tightly held inside her.
As they walk down together, feet unconsciously slipping into coordinated steps, Christmas falls around them in showers of laughter and clove-scented candlelight. Cacia smiles at Rheon Silvera, who breathes force and removes responsibility from her with such certainty and such a touch- fingers against her lips, cold- that she does not even miss it.
Power rolls from him in washing waves, and as they rush and ebb they pull Cacia inexorably closer, closer, closer. She twines her fingers around his and they walk- noticed, forever noticed- into the crowds of the Authority.