Carrot Cake 7, Coffee 3: Sensual
Title: Sensual
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Carrot cake 7 (touch), coffee 3 (bed), cherry (descriptive weirdness).
Word Count: 1206.
Rating: R. So remember how I said "Here Is" would be the closest I'd come to smut? I lied.
Summary: Ivy and Gina meditate on each other.
Notes: July 17th is The International Day of Femslash! And where I come from, it is still July 17th. So have some.
1. sight
Gina's beautiful.
Okay, so Ivy's shallow. But Gina is a special kind of beautiful. There's other girls with blonde hair frosted by platinum dye-- though Ivy prefers Gina's natural deep amber, when she sees it at last-- and eyes the color of the sky. Other girls have mouths made for kissing, and skin made for touching, and eyebrows that lift just a bit when they smile. Other girls move with that god-touched grace and tilt their heads just so.
Not all at once, of course. That's Gina's gift.
But there is this too: Gina is beautiful in a way that others aren't, in that luminous and shining way that makes her hair look as if it is always bathed in sunlight, her eyes as if they are stars. Ivy thinks of light often, with Gina: of the buttery tones of summer and the rare secret sheen of gold.
Gold. That's a decent metaphor. Something lovely and precious, rare and flawless. It's flawed, though, as all metaphors are: Gina is not malleable, to be shaped as people choose, nor a prize, to be fought over. She shares only that strange beauty that Ivy can't define.
Ivy thinks it might be love.
2. sound
Gina is surprised to learn that Ivy sings, although thinking back on it, she shouldn't be. For all that Ivy is a scientist to the bone-- always poking dangerous things, just to see what they do-- she is also surprisingly musical. She hums in the shower, dances to her own inner soundtrack without warning, plays the air-drums in stores whenever a favorite song plays over the radio.
So she sings, too. Of course she does.
It's part of the way Ivy sees the world, Gina thinks. She's one of the happiest people Gina knows, always bright if not bubbling, exploding with life and energy. It boils over into spontaneous kicklines and bursts of laughter-- why not song? There is so much joy in Ivy.
She hasn't told Ivy this, but Gina has begun to hope that a little bit of that joy is due to her. Since she found out about the singing, she has begun to see that Ivy hums when they hold hands, sings snatches of love songs on their way to dinner, belts out entire songs with Gene Kelly on movie nights.
Of course, she only sees what she's present for.
But she hopes, all the same.
3. scent
Ivy has a good nose. It's not always a blessing, living in New York City, especially when she passes people who seem to feel that perfume works best when applied in bottles instead of spritzes. Gina is a refreshing change in that regard: she wears perfume only rarely, and relies on light floral scents when she does. But that's had... well. An effect.
Scent is memory. Ivy knows this. Okay, so what she actually learned was more along the lines of "scent is one of the strongest triggers for memory," but for her, scent is memory. Now every time she smells orange blossoms, so rich she can taste them, she thinks of Gina in her red dress and heels and the pure visceral want she feels, desire like a fist in her abdomen. And jasmine, warm and tender, is Gina sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired, pressing her mouth against the pulse in Ivy's neck.
She smells roses, and thinks of Gina arranging Valentine's Day flowers, stroking the petals. Violets bring back New Year's Eve, kissing under leftover mistletoe. Magnolias are a hot Fourth of July, and Gina's hips pressed close to hers under blossoming fireworks.
She can't not think of Gina anymore.
4. touch
Ivy is not Gina's type.
She's thin, to begin with, and not a fashionable thin, but a bordering-unhealthy thin, with jutting hip- and wristbones and a metabolism so fast it would make a roadrunner jealous. Hugging her sometimes feels like hugging a tree. It's a good thing Gina likes to cook; she thinks Ivy might disappear otherwise.
Still, there's a softness about her that Gina can't remember in her other girlfriends, except rounded Lily with her serene Madonna smile. Ivy is nothing like Lily except for that elusive softness, and the tenderness of the skin inside her thighs and under her wrists and beneath her breasts.
Gina knows where Ivy yields; she has found every spot and kissed them all, smoothed them with her hands like a blind woman feeling her way across a scuplture. There's a particular spot, just beneath Ivy's jaw, where her pulse beats. Gina loves to rest her mouth there while her hand is busy elsewhere, loves to feel Ivy's heartbeat speed up and the way her moans throb in her throat in contrast with the hot wet slickness on her fingers, and there, there it is, that's her softness.
Seems Ivy is exactly her type.
5. taste
Ivy likes to taste things. In college chemistry classes, this was a problem. In her adult life, specifically her sex life, she has discovered that it has certain... benefits. Never more so than with Gina.
Because Gina tastes of honey. Honey, sweet to the eyes and sweeter to the tongue-- Ivy went through a phase as a child where she ate nothing but honey on toast and she thinks she's going through it again, only without the toast. It's the thick sweetness that she loves so much, the strength in honey that sugar does not have. There is no sugar in Gina-- nothing so insipid, so common and easily dissolved-- only this rich golden taste that slides across Ivy's tongue and fills her mouth, her mind, her soul.
She could do this for hours, could lie here with her head between Gina's legs and make her whimper and sigh and come, just for the selfish pleasure of it. But they have lives, and jobs, and things to do out of bed, so she doesn't.
But there's a little bit of honey in Gina's mouth, too, and on her skin.
Ivy can't get enough of honey. She hopes she never will.
6. sixth sense
Gina got a ghostly feeling sometimes, before Ivy. She would shiver and then turn, looking for someone who wasn't there. Vanessa mocked her for it; Lily said something about "people walking over your grave," Olivia dragged her to a tarot reader, who nodded wisely and told her that she would meet a tall dark stranger and charged her ten dollars for the privilege.
Olivia is a dear, but Gina sometimes thinks that the girl defines gullible.
She grew used to the shivers, and the sense of something missing. It was a quirk of nature, that was all, meant to add spice to her life. Maybe even a gift, sent to keep her moving.
Now, after Ivy (with Ivy?), she still gets those shivers, a cold finger stroked down her spine, but when she turns, there is always Ivy, looking at her with her sea-dark eyes and most thoughtful expression. They have never talked about it. Gina thinks they never will.
She is uncomfortable with the idea of fate, of meant-to-be, so she calls it an echo, instead. Ivy, echoing back in her life, as she has echoed back in Ivy's.
Olivia might call it fate. Gina just calls it real.
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Carrot cake 7 (touch), coffee 3 (bed), cherry (descriptive weirdness).
Word Count: 1206.
Rating: R. So remember how I said "Here Is" would be the closest I'd come to smut? I lied.
Summary: Ivy and Gina meditate on each other.
Notes: July 17th is The International Day of Femslash! And where I come from, it is still July 17th. So have some.
1. sight
Gina's beautiful.
Okay, so Ivy's shallow. But Gina is a special kind of beautiful. There's other girls with blonde hair frosted by platinum dye-- though Ivy prefers Gina's natural deep amber, when she sees it at last-- and eyes the color of the sky. Other girls have mouths made for kissing, and skin made for touching, and eyebrows that lift just a bit when they smile. Other girls move with that god-touched grace and tilt their heads just so.
Not all at once, of course. That's Gina's gift.
But there is this too: Gina is beautiful in a way that others aren't, in that luminous and shining way that makes her hair look as if it is always bathed in sunlight, her eyes as if they are stars. Ivy thinks of light often, with Gina: of the buttery tones of summer and the rare secret sheen of gold.
Gold. That's a decent metaphor. Something lovely and precious, rare and flawless. It's flawed, though, as all metaphors are: Gina is not malleable, to be shaped as people choose, nor a prize, to be fought over. She shares only that strange beauty that Ivy can't define.
Ivy thinks it might be love.
2. sound
Gina is surprised to learn that Ivy sings, although thinking back on it, she shouldn't be. For all that Ivy is a scientist to the bone-- always poking dangerous things, just to see what they do-- she is also surprisingly musical. She hums in the shower, dances to her own inner soundtrack without warning, plays the air-drums in stores whenever a favorite song plays over the radio.
So she sings, too. Of course she does.
It's part of the way Ivy sees the world, Gina thinks. She's one of the happiest people Gina knows, always bright if not bubbling, exploding with life and energy. It boils over into spontaneous kicklines and bursts of laughter-- why not song? There is so much joy in Ivy.
She hasn't told Ivy this, but Gina has begun to hope that a little bit of that joy is due to her. Since she found out about the singing, she has begun to see that Ivy hums when they hold hands, sings snatches of love songs on their way to dinner, belts out entire songs with Gene Kelly on movie nights.
Of course, she only sees what she's present for.
But she hopes, all the same.
3. scent
Ivy has a good nose. It's not always a blessing, living in New York City, especially when she passes people who seem to feel that perfume works best when applied in bottles instead of spritzes. Gina is a refreshing change in that regard: she wears perfume only rarely, and relies on light floral scents when she does. But that's had... well. An effect.
Scent is memory. Ivy knows this. Okay, so what she actually learned was more along the lines of "scent is one of the strongest triggers for memory," but for her, scent is memory. Now every time she smells orange blossoms, so rich she can taste them, she thinks of Gina in her red dress and heels and the pure visceral want she feels, desire like a fist in her abdomen. And jasmine, warm and tender, is Gina sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired, pressing her mouth against the pulse in Ivy's neck.
She smells roses, and thinks of Gina arranging Valentine's Day flowers, stroking the petals. Violets bring back New Year's Eve, kissing under leftover mistletoe. Magnolias are a hot Fourth of July, and Gina's hips pressed close to hers under blossoming fireworks.
She can't not think of Gina anymore.
4. touch
Ivy is not Gina's type.
She's thin, to begin with, and not a fashionable thin, but a bordering-unhealthy thin, with jutting hip- and wristbones and a metabolism so fast it would make a roadrunner jealous. Hugging her sometimes feels like hugging a tree. It's a good thing Gina likes to cook; she thinks Ivy might disappear otherwise.
Still, there's a softness about her that Gina can't remember in her other girlfriends, except rounded Lily with her serene Madonna smile. Ivy is nothing like Lily except for that elusive softness, and the tenderness of the skin inside her thighs and under her wrists and beneath her breasts.
Gina knows where Ivy yields; she has found every spot and kissed them all, smoothed them with her hands like a blind woman feeling her way across a scuplture. There's a particular spot, just beneath Ivy's jaw, where her pulse beats. Gina loves to rest her mouth there while her hand is busy elsewhere, loves to feel Ivy's heartbeat speed up and the way her moans throb in her throat in contrast with the hot wet slickness on her fingers, and there, there it is, that's her softness.
Seems Ivy is exactly her type.
5. taste
Ivy likes to taste things. In college chemistry classes, this was a problem. In her adult life, specifically her sex life, she has discovered that it has certain... benefits. Never more so than with Gina.
Because Gina tastes of honey. Honey, sweet to the eyes and sweeter to the tongue-- Ivy went through a phase as a child where she ate nothing but honey on toast and she thinks she's going through it again, only without the toast. It's the thick sweetness that she loves so much, the strength in honey that sugar does not have. There is no sugar in Gina-- nothing so insipid, so common and easily dissolved-- only this rich golden taste that slides across Ivy's tongue and fills her mouth, her mind, her soul.
She could do this for hours, could lie here with her head between Gina's legs and make her whimper and sigh and come, just for the selfish pleasure of it. But they have lives, and jobs, and things to do out of bed, so she doesn't.
But there's a little bit of honey in Gina's mouth, too, and on her skin.
Ivy can't get enough of honey. She hopes she never will.
6. sixth sense
Gina got a ghostly feeling sometimes, before Ivy. She would shiver and then turn, looking for someone who wasn't there. Vanessa mocked her for it; Lily said something about "people walking over your grave," Olivia dragged her to a tarot reader, who nodded wisely and told her that she would meet a tall dark stranger and charged her ten dollars for the privilege.
Olivia is a dear, but Gina sometimes thinks that the girl defines gullible.
She grew used to the shivers, and the sense of something missing. It was a quirk of nature, that was all, meant to add spice to her life. Maybe even a gift, sent to keep her moving.
Now, after Ivy (with Ivy?), she still gets those shivers, a cold finger stroked down her spine, but when she turns, there is always Ivy, looking at her with her sea-dark eyes and most thoughtful expression. They have never talked about it. Gina thinks they never will.
She is uncomfortable with the idea of fate, of meant-to-be, so she calls it an echo, instead. Ivy, echoing back in her life, as she has echoed back in Ivy's.
Olivia might call it fate. Gina just calls it real.
