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tortall_femfic

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schiarire @ 11:57 pm: Introductions. Hmmm. No, no, I'm scared of those. Have some drabbles instead!

PAIRING: Delia/Cythera
WARNINGS: Well, there is naked, but it is all very tasteful, really.
FOR: ashen_key

Your knee knocks against hers, the impact hushed under a gentle slide of silks. Your skirts are blue, pale and thin like your hope of heaven; hers are bright, and swim against your own like the earth once swam beneath the sea. You shed them with the practiced ease of habit and spread them flat and slippery against the floor. You are the first to give, the first to lie back loose-limbed, your heart racing already. You let your eyes sweep closed as her fingers smooth lightly up your thighs, your hips, your belly, teasing along your ribs when she dips her head and presses a swift kiss between your breasts. Her dark hair whispers between you, threaded through with your own, like expensive dye consuming a pool of clear water.

One kiss only, and her lips lift away, replaced by her fingertips tipped in something greasy and cool. You open your eyes and she is smearing lip-rouge down your sternum, the crimson letters lurid and shining-wet on your white skin. You recognize her name, short and sweet, the round, rolled sound of it ever on the tip of your tongue. She smiles and closes your fingers around the stick of paint, motioning for you to follow her lead.

You gaze at her for a long moment, loving the look of her, memorizing it. Your vision clouds over then, and you lose her, your eyes brimming with Sight.

Your hand moves without your direction, slicking a scarlet heart down from her collarbone and a little to her left, over her chest.

You don't fill in your name. Her heart will never belong to you. But you do write hers, with a flirted sideways glance and a murmured, "Delia's heart is for Delia, and Delia alone." A kiss for good luck.

Oh, you think as she begins to protest, laughing. Oh, Delia.

If only.


PAIRING: Delia/Josiane
WARNINGS: . . . none?
FOR: ashen_key. Again!

She's a lovely thing, fragile and fair; she will shine, you think, when you have her coiled about your little finger, like a glass ring in the sun.

She blinks at you, a soft curtain-fall of lashes so pale as to be translucent in the cold morning light, too slow not to be calculated, calculating.

"You have very pretty eyes," Josiane says, her voice a rosy whisper. A ghost of thin digits along your own smooth pink cheek, delicate as spiderweb.

You could snap them.

You don't. That is not (has never been) your way. You kiss them, silent and swift, expectant.

Again the lengthy, dreamy blink, a simple red-lipped smile.

It's not an act, you realize: the curious waif-like (wraeth-like) drift to her movements, her thoughts, her words.

A glass ring.

You spin her in and make her yours, and every press of your lips on hers is a stamp, a prayer, like a command:

Thou shalt not break.

A spell, because she is only so much velvet, honey-sweet, sticky threads on splinter-sharp teeth, and you will not let her cut you.

Comments

From:lea_hazel
Date:January 21st, 2005 01:23 pm (UTC)
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Wow. The imagery is so intricate and visual and real. I can really feel it, and the way the words sound when you read them aloud flows like music. Beautiful, and very compelling.
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From:schiarire
Date:January 21st, 2005 02:05 pm (UTC)
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Thank you!
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