Untitled Norribeth Ficlet
ETA: Unrequited norribeth fic. More lyrical
My muse is a horny little monkeybone. And I haven't an inkling of control over it. But at least I am *writing.* Wheee!
Essentials: Norribeth, PG-13/R-ish, companion piece to this slightly longer ficlet (not required to read, but along the same lines).
~*~
Oh he wanted her -- would never tell her, but still desired her. He wanted to see every inch of her flesh, glide his hands across the smooth dip of her back and over the rise of her bottom, wanted to trace his fingers delicately along her inner thigh -- make her feel each of those fingers, the calluses on them, the soft whirl of ridges playing notes on her delicate skin, up and up, enticingly, teasingly.
And she would look at him, with those brown eyes of hers -- and make the world stop spinning, make his world stop spinning -- and he would only feel the silence thick in the air like a pool of honey glimmering a secret beneath the sun. He would then carefully stretch toward her face, run a thumb along the plump lower lip, watch how those eyes would follow his every movement, how they would suddenly flicker up toward his, and he would be lost in them, oh heavens he would be lost in them.
He would kiss her then, carefully and slowly, lowering his face to let their lips touch gently together, to let the sensation of skin to skin contact on such sensitized skin bring a warm flame and chill spinning outward, spreading the desire for touch. Her hand would tangle in his hair, and pull him down and down, and then there would be tongue, and wetness, wet lips, warm tongue, the caress of intimacy over and over again.
Her breath would seem to flutter like a butterfly against his skin, and he would trail his hands lovingly over her, exploring that strange clever spot near her hipbone that would make her jerk in his arms, wandering the trickle of his thoughts along her body -- pale and smooth, and how she would twist and arch as if she were a snake shedding her skin, and he were a charmer that lit her body aflame.
He would have loved her, cherished her because there was no other woman that he would rather spend the rest of his life and eternity with. But he would never now -- never know the way her skin would feel pressed against his lips, never touch the soft strands of her hair, or have her look at him as if he were her entire world.
And even though he shouldn't, he still dreams of her -- and her phantom double, seductive and beautiful, descending from the moonlight and kissing him the way he would kiss her. And even if it is only a dream, a weak smoky spiral streaming from a crack in his honor, he still lingers in his dream world after dark, because it is the only thing he has left of her, and even though she is no more real than the other fragments of his imagination, it brings some measure of happiness -- if only for a moment.
But when that moment fades and the reality of an empty room filled with only his own harsh breathing solidifies, the happiness dissolves as if the emotion itself were only a dream -- as unobtainable as she is. He lies awake in the darkness with only the company of the moon gliding cool light across his bare skin, listening to the silence, and feeling the pain of loneliness keener than in the daytime. If he is lucky, he will be able to close his eyes and fall asleep, but more often than not, the sleep and the accompanying dreams will not return.
~*~
My muse is a horny little monkeybone. And I haven't an inkling of control over it. But at least I am *writing.* Wheee!
Essentials: Norribeth, PG-13/R-ish, companion piece to this slightly longer ficlet (not required to read, but along the same lines).
~*~
Oh he wanted her -- would never tell her, but still desired her. He wanted to see every inch of her flesh, glide his hands across the smooth dip of her back and over the rise of her bottom, wanted to trace his fingers delicately along her inner thigh -- make her feel each of those fingers, the calluses on them, the soft whirl of ridges playing notes on her delicate skin, up and up, enticingly, teasingly.
And she would look at him, with those brown eyes of hers -- and make the world stop spinning, make his world stop spinning -- and he would only feel the silence thick in the air like a pool of honey glimmering a secret beneath the sun. He would then carefully stretch toward her face, run a thumb along the plump lower lip, watch how those eyes would follow his every movement, how they would suddenly flicker up toward his, and he would be lost in them, oh heavens he would be lost in them.
He would kiss her then, carefully and slowly, lowering his face to let their lips touch gently together, to let the sensation of skin to skin contact on such sensitized skin bring a warm flame and chill spinning outward, spreading the desire for touch. Her hand would tangle in his hair, and pull him down and down, and then there would be tongue, and wetness, wet lips, warm tongue, the caress of intimacy over and over again.
Her breath would seem to flutter like a butterfly against his skin, and he would trail his hands lovingly over her, exploring that strange clever spot near her hipbone that would make her jerk in his arms, wandering the trickle of his thoughts along her body -- pale and smooth, and how she would twist and arch as if she were a snake shedding her skin, and he were a charmer that lit her body aflame.
He would have loved her, cherished her because there was no other woman that he would rather spend the rest of his life and eternity with. But he would never now -- never know the way her skin would feel pressed against his lips, never touch the soft strands of her hair, or have her look at him as if he were her entire world.
And even though he shouldn't, he still dreams of her -- and her phantom double, seductive and beautiful, descending from the moonlight and kissing him the way he would kiss her. And even if it is only a dream, a weak smoky spiral streaming from a crack in his honor, he still lingers in his dream world after dark, because it is the only thing he has left of her, and even though she is no more real than the other fragments of his imagination, it brings some measure of happiness -- if only for a moment.
But when that moment fades and the reality of an empty room filled with only his own harsh breathing solidifies, the happiness dissolves as if the emotion itself were only a dream -- as unobtainable as she is. He lies awake in the darkness with only the company of the moon gliding cool light across his bare skin, listening to the silence, and feeling the pain of loneliness keener than in the daytime. If he is lucky, he will be able to close his eyes and fall asleep, but more often than not, the sleep and the accompanying dreams will not return.
~*~