Dark Things (1/1)
Title: Dark Things
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: Pushing Daisies
Word Count: 632.
Rating: Light R. It's more sensual than sexual.
Spoilers: None, really.
Characters: Ned/Chuck.
Excerpt: "Chuck," the piemaker whimpered, "I don't know if I can keep myself from touching you."
Author's Note: Painfully late offering for the February Challenge at pd-playtime, which is an awesome community that you should all watch.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved;
Pablo Neruda
Leon Cowell had been a manufacturer of fine gloves for fourteen years, seventy-two days, six hours, and five minutes exactly. At this very moment, he was sketching out designs for his winter collection, and growing frustrated with their inability to seem both warm and glamorous at the same time. His dark brown moustache twitched as though it were a creature with a mind of its own, and the nib of his pen shook above his drawing-book.
He was in great distress, and it was unlikely that he would cheer up anytime soon, even if it were possible for him to know that across town there were two attractive young people enjoying his handiwork more than he ever imagined his handiwork could be enjoyed.
"Chuck," the piemaker whimpered, "I don't know if I can keep myself from touching you."
"Don't," she replied right away and grinned, breathing so close to his ear that he almost had a heart attack.
"You're sure your hair will stay up?" he asked.
"Shh," she said, and sat up to kiss one gloved hand. She was still in her canary-yellow dress, and she drew Ned's fingers to the bodice, still smiling down at him with that reckless twinkle in her eye.
"It always happened so fast," he mumbled.
"What?"
"I'd touch somebody - I'd just touch them - and they'd be dead. The kind of dead where I'm powerless."
His eyes were somber, and Chuck stopped smiling, but she kept both of his hands clutched in her own, holding them close to her chest.
"It still feels wrong," he whispered. "It feels wrong to touch anybody. Like I'm going to -"
"Shh," said the girl called Charlotte Charles. "Shh. We do what we can." She opened his palms, guiding them down her body. Over her breasts, around her waist, gently across her stomach. Under her dress.
"Chuck," he stammered. He always said it like that - like he was frightened of what she might do.
"Nothing is happening," she said, gazing into his eyes so he could see her honesty, her love, her own fear. "Even if it were, it's worth it for this."
Ned shook his head, instinctively. His hands moved slowly away from hers, his eyes apologetic. She let him go, but she followed; her own fingers danced across his belt, smoothed the black cotton of his shirt.
"I could always have moved away," she whispered.
He stared at her for a few seconds, and then seized her hand again, pulling it up to his mouth. Chuck watched as he closed his eyes and kissed her fingertips, one, two, three, four, thumb - over and over again. She breathed, in and out; she had to remind herself to do it. She could see him smiling as he realized.
She forced herself to voice it: "Ned," she said softly. His eyes opened. Chuck, looking at his face, found herself thinking how sweet it was that he never called her Charlotte. She bent down, snuggled into him a bit, and kissed the top of his left shoulder. The shirt tasted warm in her mouth.
It got even warmer, if that was possible, as she moved over his chest and stomach, listening to his heart, pressing her lips and hands and even nose to every clothed surface he offered. When she got to his hips, she sighed, and propped herself on one elbow to gaze back at him.
"Our story is a bit dark, isn't it?" Chuck said. "I keep touching you, the closer we both are to death."
Ned's expression looked different, and when his gloved palm stroked her cheek, he didn't first shudder slightly in hesitation.
For a moment, there was no dread in his eyes.
"What do you want for breakfast tomorrow?" he asked her.
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: Pushing Daisies
Word Count: 632.
Rating: Light R. It's more sensual than sexual.
Spoilers: None, really.
Characters: Ned/Chuck.
Excerpt: "Chuck," the piemaker whimpered, "I don't know if I can keep myself from touching you."
Author's Note: Painfully late offering for the February Challenge at pd-playtime, which is an awesome community that you should all watch.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved;
Pablo Neruda
Leon Cowell had been a manufacturer of fine gloves for fourteen years, seventy-two days, six hours, and five minutes exactly. At this very moment, he was sketching out designs for his winter collection, and growing frustrated with their inability to seem both warm and glamorous at the same time. His dark brown moustache twitched as though it were a creature with a mind of its own, and the nib of his pen shook above his drawing-book.
He was in great distress, and it was unlikely that he would cheer up anytime soon, even if it were possible for him to know that across town there were two attractive young people enjoying his handiwork more than he ever imagined his handiwork could be enjoyed.
"Chuck," the piemaker whimpered, "I don't know if I can keep myself from touching you."
"Don't," she replied right away and grinned, breathing so close to his ear that he almost had a heart attack.
"You're sure your hair will stay up?" he asked.
"Shh," she said, and sat up to kiss one gloved hand. She was still in her canary-yellow dress, and she drew Ned's fingers to the bodice, still smiling down at him with that reckless twinkle in her eye.
"It always happened so fast," he mumbled.
"What?"
"I'd touch somebody - I'd just touch them - and they'd be dead. The kind of dead where I'm powerless."
His eyes were somber, and Chuck stopped smiling, but she kept both of his hands clutched in her own, holding them close to her chest.
"It still feels wrong," he whispered. "It feels wrong to touch anybody. Like I'm going to -"
"Shh," said the girl called Charlotte Charles. "Shh. We do what we can." She opened his palms, guiding them down her body. Over her breasts, around her waist, gently across her stomach. Under her dress.
"Chuck," he stammered. He always said it like that - like he was frightened of what she might do.
"Nothing is happening," she said, gazing into his eyes so he could see her honesty, her love, her own fear. "Even if it were, it's worth it for this."
Ned shook his head, instinctively. His hands moved slowly away from hers, his eyes apologetic. She let him go, but she followed; her own fingers danced across his belt, smoothed the black cotton of his shirt.
"I could always have moved away," she whispered.
He stared at her for a few seconds, and then seized her hand again, pulling it up to his mouth. Chuck watched as he closed his eyes and kissed her fingertips, one, two, three, four, thumb - over and over again. She breathed, in and out; she had to remind herself to do it. She could see him smiling as he realized.
She forced herself to voice it: "Ned," she said softly. His eyes opened. Chuck, looking at his face, found herself thinking how sweet it was that he never called her Charlotte. She bent down, snuggled into him a bit, and kissed the top of his left shoulder. The shirt tasted warm in her mouth.
It got even warmer, if that was possible, as she moved over his chest and stomach, listening to his heart, pressing her lips and hands and even nose to every clothed surface he offered. When she got to his hips, she sighed, and propped herself on one elbow to gaze back at him.
"Our story is a bit dark, isn't it?" Chuck said. "I keep touching you, the closer we both are to death."
Ned's expression looked different, and when his gloved palm stroked her cheek, he didn't first shudder slightly in hesitation.
For a moment, there was no dread in his eyes.
"What do you want for breakfast tomorrow?" he asked her.