On a Whim and a Dare
By Rhianwen, a.k.a. Yezo the Yellow Priest
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters appearing in this piece. Piece of what? You, the reader, decide! Uh...anyway...The people who do are coo.' And they're also very generous, which is why they're not going to sue me for writing this. [Hint-hint]
Abridged author's notes: Excessive author's notes BAD!
Well, first things first. *Sweatdrop* I suppose this warning is necessary. I also suppose that at least one person will NOT heed it, and as a result, I shall soon resemble the last pot roast I tried to make on my own (I completely forgot that it was in the oven, roasting merrily away in its little pot, and wandered off to do something else. Much charcoal-ness. It wasn't pretty. Unless you see the hidden beauty in very well charred meat). But, yes.
Warning: This story (such as it is - I suppose vignette is a better word) is rather lemony-scented. I'm sure we all know what this means. If this bothers you, please bail out now. Also, the pairing here is (who else? Who else from FF9 does Rhianwen ever write about?) Amarant/Freya. If this is something that utterly enrages you, again, now is the time to bail out.
As well, this piece was intended as something of a character study. I'm one of those people who often put more importance on character interactions than on what is actually going on in the story. I thought that maybe if I could work my way through something that put these two in this sort of a situation, I could get a little more insight into their interaction the rest of the time. It really wasn't just an excuse to write lemon. It wasn't! Really! [Sigh.] Okay, maybe it was. :o)
Ooh...these were supposed to be abridged. Well, so much for that.
Thank-you, and, for the none of you who are still reading, enjoy.
And now, ooooooooooooooooooooooooooon with the show!!!
He leaned sideways against the doorframe at the entrance of the inn room with a small smile on his face, a wicked glint lighting his eye. His gaze remained fixed on the figure drifting about the room, setting this or that in order, readying herself for sleep - 'Sleep's not what I've got planned...' - completely unaware of his presence.
The small smile grew just a bit.
His eyes travelled from the sweep of silver-white hair falling to the middle of her back, down to the curve of her hip beneath a certain powder- blue nightgown procured from one of the drawers of the bureau.
He shuddered. That godawful nightgown had to be gotten rid of immediately. Perhaps he might enjoy flinging it from the window, and then finding an...interesting way to silence her inevitable admonishment about having a little respect for other peoples' belongings. The glint in his eye grew just that much wickeder at the way her hips swayed ever so slightly as she finished lighting the small oil lamp on the night table and crossed the room to window. Certainly, she could not be called 'voluptuous' by any stretch of the imagination, but, just as surely, he unconscious grace, the self-possession in her every movement had a far stronger effect on him.
He shook his head in bafflement. Even now, when they had been...like this for nearly a year, he still couldn't quite understand how it was that she affected him so.
'Must be that crazy little thing called love,' he reflected, eyes softening just a bit. Then he paused. 'Huh.someone should write a song about that.'
And somewhere, somehow, a Queen was inspired. But that is another story entirely. Back to this story.
His fingers tightened on the edge of the door, nearly digging into the wood, where his hand rested against it above his head. She had reached the window, and, as she leaned forward to pull it shut, the hem of the blue nightgown, falling around the knees at the best of times, slid up no inconsiderable distance.
'Yeah, that thing's definitely gotta go.'
And without a moment's hesitation.
He pushed off from the door and silently crossed the room toward the window, where she was now sliding the yellow netted lace curtains shut.
Almost there. He struggled to keep his breathing silent, wincing at his foot hit a creaky floorboard. If she heard, though, she gave no sign of it.
Perfect.
Then, just as he crept up behind her, she straightened up and began to turn away from the window. Amarant wasted no time. He flung one arm across her shoulders, the other around her waist, and pulled her to him.
She struggled vainly to twist away, but he held her fast. Suddenly, she seemed to remember that she had claws. As she reached for his midsection, he became a little nervous and decided that immediate action was needed before he was rendered quite unable to bring about what he had planned.
Keeping his arm about her waist, he snatched up first one slender wrist, then the other, in his free hand.
"And good evening to you," he murmured against the back of her ear, planting a light kiss there before working his way down her neck. A strong shudder ran through her, and all struggles to twist free ceased, as he bit down lightly on her shoulder, covered by its light dusting of fur. She murmured something that might have been a reply, but it was lost in a series of soft cries as his teeth raked gently over the sensitive flesh. As his hand roamed upwards to cover her breast, a more insistent cry escaped her. This was promptly muffled as he caught her by the shoulders, whirled her about to face him, and kissed her ardently, tracing along her lower lip with his tongue. He smiled inwardly as she responded, leaning into him and gripping his upper arms more tightly. Finally, as both became well acquainted with the fact that the brain does, in fact, need some amount of oxygen to function properly, they broke apart. Locking his gaze with hers, he stroked through the fine hairs at the back of her neck absently...and stopped abruptly in the act at her next words.
"Oh," she observed a little breathlessly, gazing up at him through heavy- lidded eyes, and with just a hint of a mischievous smile, "it's you." His hand tightened in her hair. She gasped as he tugged, with no especial attention to gentleness, to make her meet his eyes.
"Who were you expecting?" he asked in a low growl, tracing the line of her neck lightly with the tip of his finger.
"You never know," she replied, a shiver running through her at this brush of contact.
"I know this," he began, grasping her shoulder and manoeuvring them both backward until her back bumped lightly against the wall. "If it was some man, you can write him off as dead. I'm the only one who kisses you like that." Her reply was lost as his mouth covered hers in another blazing kiss, his hand sliding down the length of her spine to press her to him more fully. She drew in a sharp breath, eyes widening, as the evidence of exactly what he wanted ground insistently into her stomach. For a moment, she froze as the instinct to get away long enough to catch her bearings warred with the desire to simply let this unfold as it would. The latter won over, and she relaxed into his embrace, now pondering whether to try to gain the upper hand, or to let him keep it.
This decision was made for her as she found herself quite unmistakably without a nightgown that, she was fairly certain (although it was becoming awfully hard to think!), had been there a moment before. She gazed up at him questioningly. He smirked back before tearing back the curtains and shoving open the window. The next moment, they both watched most intently as the unoffending garment of sky-blue drifted peacefully through the chill night air to the ground far below. She turned from the window and stared up at him in astonishment.
"Why-"
This was as far as she got before her words were smothered in another kiss. What had she been trying to say again? As his hand ran up over her back and came around to cup her breast, rubbing the tip with his thumb, she decided, moaning softly against his mouth, that it mustn't have been terribly important.
Feeling her lips part beneath his own, he took the advantage to stroke the side of her tongue gently with his own. She responded immediately, sliding her hands into his hair and pulling him closer.
When, at length, they broke apart, Freya gazed up at him questioningly, hands still tangled in his hair.
"I knew you were gonna launch into some speech about treating other peoples' possessions with more respect. I had to find some way to shut you up," he replied with a smirk.
"Actually," she said, glancing nervously at the yellow curtains hanging open, "I was just going to suggest relocating to somewhere not in front of an open window."
"And where would you suggest?" Her gaze swung, from where it had rested on his, across the room, to the central piece of furniture, covered with its patchwork quilt of russet and soft yellow. He followed her gaze, then nodded thoughtfully.
"I like it."
"I should hope so," she replied, turning back to the window to draw the curtains shut. The next moment, she uttered a startled shriek as she found herself flung over his shoulder, carried across the room, and deposited on the mattress, which resembled more the consistency of a wooden plank than a mattress.
"What was that for?!" she exclaimed, falling sadly short of her attempted outrage, lost amid kinks of laughter.
"I'm showing you just how much I like it," he replied, climbing onto the bed beside her. She rolled her eyes.
"So much that I'm going to have a bruise the size of a small dog tomorrow?"
"Huh...I thought a bed would be softer. Sorry."
"Never mind." She climbed on top of him. "Shall I show you how much I like it?"
"The idea, or the bruise?"
"The idea!"
"Please."
She showed him. The next moment, he watched, amusement mingled with surprise, as his vest sailed across the room and landed in a heap against the wall.
"You don't waste any time, do you?" he murmured, the words trailing off in a gasp as her tongue found his ear, tracing the ridge lightly.
She pushed off of him and sat back against his hips, inwardly giggling with delight as he emitted a low groan at the sudden pressure.
"Excuse me?" She crossed her arms and mock-glared at him. "I'm not the one who sent a perfectly good nightgown to an untimely death by throwing it out a window."
"Forget about the damn nightgown," he ordered, sitting up and pulling her hips tightly against his. She buried her face in his shoulder with a breathless moan, soft flames shooting through her, transforming blood to liquid amber, heavy and resinous. As she clung to him, waiting for the flare of heat to subside to the point that it was possible to think again, she wondered, not for the first time, when she would ever gain some self-control where this man was concerned. She shifted slightly against him, and the next moment, found herself lying flat on her back on the mattress, out of breath.
"I'll be right back," he told her, mouth against her ear, running a hand over her hip and back up the inside of her thigh, his fingers grazing lightly against the sensitive folds at the juncture between her legs. As a bolt of sensation arced through her, her hips bucked, instinctively seeking him out, and she nearly missed his next words.
"Don't move."
With that, he climbed off of the bed and began to shed his remaining clothing, which soon joined his vest in its little pile on the floor. Until a snag was hit.
"Damn pants," he muttered, tugging at the drawstring, which had somehow tangled itself into an intricate and impossible knot, a situation not at all aided by tugging.
"I agree whole-heartedly. Damn pants, indeed."
He glanced back over his shoulder, and felt his pulse accelerate just a bit more at the sight of her leaning back, propped up on her arms, watching him with a predatory smile, bright green eyes, glowing wickedly in the dim light of the oil lamp, fixed intently on his back-side. Turning away, he redoubled his efforts to untangle the knot. This, as we can guess, ended rather badly, as the next moment, the remnants of a drawstring, ripped into several pieces, dangled from his fingers. But, although the means had been a little destructive, the result was the desired one. Smirking triumphantly, he tossed his pants and undergarment into the pile. Then, after giving the remnants of the drawstring on final dark scowl, he turned and moved toward the bed.
A breath caught in her throat, eyes glued to his chest, as he approached. He gazed down at her quizzically, climbing onto the bed and pulled her against him. Neither spoke or moved, for a moment simply savouring the closeness.
"So," he began, the corners of his mouth quirking up in a smile, the arm draped over her waist tightening to pull her closer, "what now?" Rather than answering in words, she placed a hand on his shoulder and ran it down to his chest, claws scratching lightly, just enough to register sensation. Then she pushed against his shoulder, and he complied, rolling onto his back, at the same time wrapping his other arm around her waist so that she rolled with him. A moment later, she lay atop him, arms clinging tightly around his neck. Then, once she was content that they had indeed stopped moving, she pushed back and murmured,
"You read my mind, it would seem."
"This what you were thinking, too? Hell, I'm not complaining."
"Glad to hear it."
She shifted experimentally against the pressure insistently prodding against her core, and both shuddered convulsively at the delicious friction.
But the time for such teasing caresses was drawing to a close. Reaching between their bodies, her hand closed around the eager stem of flesh, delighting for a moment in its thickness and length before she drew him urgently inside her.
At first it hurt - probably always would initially; part of the complication of a coupling between two so different - but soon her wetness enveloped him, and all pain vanished, leaving in its wake a smooth, melting warmth, a river of quicksilver.
When they made love, it was always with an urgent, almost desperate intensity, giving and taking everything, nothing held back. Tonight was no exception, and she wondered if she would ever grow used to this, this merge and exchange of souls that left each completely open and vulnerable to the other in a way that neither was as yet completely comfortable with.
Tonight, though, there was also an underlying affection, a tenderness that was less ordinary.
Both, she knew well, were far too apt to let their love go unsaid, simply assuming that the other knew without words, a tendency which stemmed from the decided discomfort of both with emotional displays, through words or otherwise.
And so when, as she felt her blood begin to rush in every direction at once, felt the spasms begin deep within her, she heard him murmur against her hair,
"I love you," a cry of pleasure escaped her, mingled with a sob.
He looked at her strangely before cradling her gently against his chest, stroking her shoulder as he spoke.
"Are you alright?"
She nodded the affirmative, and then set about effectively derailing his train of thought as, with an enigmatic smile, she moved slowly against him, urging him to continue, to find his own release.
Helpless to do otherwise, he complied. His hips ground against hers as they moved together in a wild, impossible rhythm, eyes meeting occasionally, a smile exchanged amid the cries, male and female, that split the stillness of the room. His hands tightened around her waist, pulling her closer, his thrusts becoming less controlled, more urgent. As she felt him shudder, and felt herself flooded with the warmth of his release, she repeated his earlier gesture, whispering words of love.
Afterwards, they lay like that for a long time, neither willing to move, to disturb the moment. How lovely to simply breathe together, to feel the beat of the other's heart gradually slowing in time with their own.
She shivered as a gentle breeze swept into the room, chilling the faint sheen of sweat on her skin. He raised his head, a corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
"Cold?"
She nodded.
"We never did get around to closing that window, remember?"
He shrugged.
"What can I say? I had other things on my mind."
She laughed, climbing off of him. As she made a move toward the window, though, he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
"We can close it tomorrow. C'mere."
Not especially anxious to push the issue, she pulled back the covers and climbed under. As he followed suit, she scooted closer, resting against his shoulder. He looked down in mild surprise; such a gesture of compliance and dependence was not a common thing. Then, surprise melting into a warm glow of contentment that made the more cynical part of him roll its eyes and wonder what the hell had happened to him, he smiled and wrapped an arm around her before leaning back against the pillow.
Just as his eyes slid shut and the heavy feeling of sleep began to overtake him, a small sound pierced through the silence of the room.
"Amarant?"
"Yeah?"
"Mind if I ask what all that was about, anyway?"
"Go ahead."
An irritated sigh. "What was it about, then?"
A long silence. Then...
"That nightgown. I had to find a way to get you out of that damn thing."
A longer silence.
"The...nightgown."
"Yeah."
"All that because of a nightgown?"
"Yeah."
An even longer silence.
"Idiot."
Then, in a murmur,
"I wonder if the inn would sell it to me."
"What?"
"Oh...nothing. Goodnight."
"G'night."
Ending Notes: Plot? What plot? Out-of-character? Hells, yeah! But, hey, it was a lemon...in one way or another. C'mon, read it again! You know you waaaaaaanna.
[Silence]
Okay, or maybe you don't. [Shrugs]
Oh, yes. And I am terribly sorry about the bit about a Queen becoming inspired. I really have to stop including things like that.
Anyway, whaddaya think? Didja like it? What I am trying to say, in my own special and ungrammatical little way, is 'please review often and generously.'
Bye!
[Rhianwen waves cheerily and bounces off to start writing her next lemon...one that will hopefully have a plot]
By Rhianwen, a.k.a. Yezo the Yellow Priest
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters appearing in this piece. Piece of what? You, the reader, decide! Uh...anyway...The people who do are coo.' And they're also very generous, which is why they're not going to sue me for writing this. [Hint-hint]
Abridged author's notes: Excessive author's notes BAD!
Well, first things first. *Sweatdrop* I suppose this warning is necessary. I also suppose that at least one person will NOT heed it, and as a result, I shall soon resemble the last pot roast I tried to make on my own (I completely forgot that it was in the oven, roasting merrily away in its little pot, and wandered off to do something else. Much charcoal-ness. It wasn't pretty. Unless you see the hidden beauty in very well charred meat). But, yes.
Warning: This story (such as it is - I suppose vignette is a better word) is rather lemony-scented. I'm sure we all know what this means. If this bothers you, please bail out now. Also, the pairing here is (who else? Who else from FF9 does Rhianwen ever write about?) Amarant/Freya. If this is something that utterly enrages you, again, now is the time to bail out.
As well, this piece was intended as something of a character study. I'm one of those people who often put more importance on character interactions than on what is actually going on in the story. I thought that maybe if I could work my way through something that put these two in this sort of a situation, I could get a little more insight into their interaction the rest of the time. It really wasn't just an excuse to write lemon. It wasn't! Really! [Sigh.] Okay, maybe it was. :o)
Ooh...these were supposed to be abridged. Well, so much for that.
Thank-you, and, for the none of you who are still reading, enjoy.
And now, ooooooooooooooooooooooooooon with the show!!!
He leaned sideways against the doorframe at the entrance of the inn room with a small smile on his face, a wicked glint lighting his eye. His gaze remained fixed on the figure drifting about the room, setting this or that in order, readying herself for sleep - 'Sleep's not what I've got planned...' - completely unaware of his presence.
The small smile grew just a bit.
His eyes travelled from the sweep of silver-white hair falling to the middle of her back, down to the curve of her hip beneath a certain powder- blue nightgown procured from one of the drawers of the bureau.
He shuddered. That godawful nightgown had to be gotten rid of immediately. Perhaps he might enjoy flinging it from the window, and then finding an...interesting way to silence her inevitable admonishment about having a little respect for other peoples' belongings. The glint in his eye grew just that much wickeder at the way her hips swayed ever so slightly as she finished lighting the small oil lamp on the night table and crossed the room to window. Certainly, she could not be called 'voluptuous' by any stretch of the imagination, but, just as surely, he unconscious grace, the self-possession in her every movement had a far stronger effect on him.
He shook his head in bafflement. Even now, when they had been...like this for nearly a year, he still couldn't quite understand how it was that she affected him so.
'Must be that crazy little thing called love,' he reflected, eyes softening just a bit. Then he paused. 'Huh.someone should write a song about that.'
And somewhere, somehow, a Queen was inspired. But that is another story entirely. Back to this story.
His fingers tightened on the edge of the door, nearly digging into the wood, where his hand rested against it above his head. She had reached the window, and, as she leaned forward to pull it shut, the hem of the blue nightgown, falling around the knees at the best of times, slid up no inconsiderable distance.
'Yeah, that thing's definitely gotta go.'
And without a moment's hesitation.
He pushed off from the door and silently crossed the room toward the window, where she was now sliding the yellow netted lace curtains shut.
Almost there. He struggled to keep his breathing silent, wincing at his foot hit a creaky floorboard. If she heard, though, she gave no sign of it.
Perfect.
Then, just as he crept up behind her, she straightened up and began to turn away from the window. Amarant wasted no time. He flung one arm across her shoulders, the other around her waist, and pulled her to him.
She struggled vainly to twist away, but he held her fast. Suddenly, she seemed to remember that she had claws. As she reached for his midsection, he became a little nervous and decided that immediate action was needed before he was rendered quite unable to bring about what he had planned.
Keeping his arm about her waist, he snatched up first one slender wrist, then the other, in his free hand.
"And good evening to you," he murmured against the back of her ear, planting a light kiss there before working his way down her neck. A strong shudder ran through her, and all struggles to twist free ceased, as he bit down lightly on her shoulder, covered by its light dusting of fur. She murmured something that might have been a reply, but it was lost in a series of soft cries as his teeth raked gently over the sensitive flesh. As his hand roamed upwards to cover her breast, a more insistent cry escaped her. This was promptly muffled as he caught her by the shoulders, whirled her about to face him, and kissed her ardently, tracing along her lower lip with his tongue. He smiled inwardly as she responded, leaning into him and gripping his upper arms more tightly. Finally, as both became well acquainted with the fact that the brain does, in fact, need some amount of oxygen to function properly, they broke apart. Locking his gaze with hers, he stroked through the fine hairs at the back of her neck absently...and stopped abruptly in the act at her next words.
"Oh," she observed a little breathlessly, gazing up at him through heavy- lidded eyes, and with just a hint of a mischievous smile, "it's you." His hand tightened in her hair. She gasped as he tugged, with no especial attention to gentleness, to make her meet his eyes.
"Who were you expecting?" he asked in a low growl, tracing the line of her neck lightly with the tip of his finger.
"You never know," she replied, a shiver running through her at this brush of contact.
"I know this," he began, grasping her shoulder and manoeuvring them both backward until her back bumped lightly against the wall. "If it was some man, you can write him off as dead. I'm the only one who kisses you like that." Her reply was lost as his mouth covered hers in another blazing kiss, his hand sliding down the length of her spine to press her to him more fully. She drew in a sharp breath, eyes widening, as the evidence of exactly what he wanted ground insistently into her stomach. For a moment, she froze as the instinct to get away long enough to catch her bearings warred with the desire to simply let this unfold as it would. The latter won over, and she relaxed into his embrace, now pondering whether to try to gain the upper hand, or to let him keep it.
This decision was made for her as she found herself quite unmistakably without a nightgown that, she was fairly certain (although it was becoming awfully hard to think!), had been there a moment before. She gazed up at him questioningly. He smirked back before tearing back the curtains and shoving open the window. The next moment, they both watched most intently as the unoffending garment of sky-blue drifted peacefully through the chill night air to the ground far below. She turned from the window and stared up at him in astonishment.
"Why-"
This was as far as she got before her words were smothered in another kiss. What had she been trying to say again? As his hand ran up over her back and came around to cup her breast, rubbing the tip with his thumb, she decided, moaning softly against his mouth, that it mustn't have been terribly important.
Feeling her lips part beneath his own, he took the advantage to stroke the side of her tongue gently with his own. She responded immediately, sliding her hands into his hair and pulling him closer.
When, at length, they broke apart, Freya gazed up at him questioningly, hands still tangled in his hair.
"I knew you were gonna launch into some speech about treating other peoples' possessions with more respect. I had to find some way to shut you up," he replied with a smirk.
"Actually," she said, glancing nervously at the yellow curtains hanging open, "I was just going to suggest relocating to somewhere not in front of an open window."
"And where would you suggest?" Her gaze swung, from where it had rested on his, across the room, to the central piece of furniture, covered with its patchwork quilt of russet and soft yellow. He followed her gaze, then nodded thoughtfully.
"I like it."
"I should hope so," she replied, turning back to the window to draw the curtains shut. The next moment, she uttered a startled shriek as she found herself flung over his shoulder, carried across the room, and deposited on the mattress, which resembled more the consistency of a wooden plank than a mattress.
"What was that for?!" she exclaimed, falling sadly short of her attempted outrage, lost amid kinks of laughter.
"I'm showing you just how much I like it," he replied, climbing onto the bed beside her. She rolled her eyes.
"So much that I'm going to have a bruise the size of a small dog tomorrow?"
"Huh...I thought a bed would be softer. Sorry."
"Never mind." She climbed on top of him. "Shall I show you how much I like it?"
"The idea, or the bruise?"
"The idea!"
"Please."
She showed him. The next moment, he watched, amusement mingled with surprise, as his vest sailed across the room and landed in a heap against the wall.
"You don't waste any time, do you?" he murmured, the words trailing off in a gasp as her tongue found his ear, tracing the ridge lightly.
She pushed off of him and sat back against his hips, inwardly giggling with delight as he emitted a low groan at the sudden pressure.
"Excuse me?" She crossed her arms and mock-glared at him. "I'm not the one who sent a perfectly good nightgown to an untimely death by throwing it out a window."
"Forget about the damn nightgown," he ordered, sitting up and pulling her hips tightly against his. She buried her face in his shoulder with a breathless moan, soft flames shooting through her, transforming blood to liquid amber, heavy and resinous. As she clung to him, waiting for the flare of heat to subside to the point that it was possible to think again, she wondered, not for the first time, when she would ever gain some self-control where this man was concerned. She shifted slightly against him, and the next moment, found herself lying flat on her back on the mattress, out of breath.
"I'll be right back," he told her, mouth against her ear, running a hand over her hip and back up the inside of her thigh, his fingers grazing lightly against the sensitive folds at the juncture between her legs. As a bolt of sensation arced through her, her hips bucked, instinctively seeking him out, and she nearly missed his next words.
"Don't move."
With that, he climbed off of the bed and began to shed his remaining clothing, which soon joined his vest in its little pile on the floor. Until a snag was hit.
"Damn pants," he muttered, tugging at the drawstring, which had somehow tangled itself into an intricate and impossible knot, a situation not at all aided by tugging.
"I agree whole-heartedly. Damn pants, indeed."
He glanced back over his shoulder, and felt his pulse accelerate just a bit more at the sight of her leaning back, propped up on her arms, watching him with a predatory smile, bright green eyes, glowing wickedly in the dim light of the oil lamp, fixed intently on his back-side. Turning away, he redoubled his efforts to untangle the knot. This, as we can guess, ended rather badly, as the next moment, the remnants of a drawstring, ripped into several pieces, dangled from his fingers. But, although the means had been a little destructive, the result was the desired one. Smirking triumphantly, he tossed his pants and undergarment into the pile. Then, after giving the remnants of the drawstring on final dark scowl, he turned and moved toward the bed.
A breath caught in her throat, eyes glued to his chest, as he approached. He gazed down at her quizzically, climbing onto the bed and pulled her against him. Neither spoke or moved, for a moment simply savouring the closeness.
"So," he began, the corners of his mouth quirking up in a smile, the arm draped over her waist tightening to pull her closer, "what now?" Rather than answering in words, she placed a hand on his shoulder and ran it down to his chest, claws scratching lightly, just enough to register sensation. Then she pushed against his shoulder, and he complied, rolling onto his back, at the same time wrapping his other arm around her waist so that she rolled with him. A moment later, she lay atop him, arms clinging tightly around his neck. Then, once she was content that they had indeed stopped moving, she pushed back and murmured,
"You read my mind, it would seem."
"This what you were thinking, too? Hell, I'm not complaining."
"Glad to hear it."
She shifted experimentally against the pressure insistently prodding against her core, and both shuddered convulsively at the delicious friction.
But the time for such teasing caresses was drawing to a close. Reaching between their bodies, her hand closed around the eager stem of flesh, delighting for a moment in its thickness and length before she drew him urgently inside her.
At first it hurt - probably always would initially; part of the complication of a coupling between two so different - but soon her wetness enveloped him, and all pain vanished, leaving in its wake a smooth, melting warmth, a river of quicksilver.
When they made love, it was always with an urgent, almost desperate intensity, giving and taking everything, nothing held back. Tonight was no exception, and she wondered if she would ever grow used to this, this merge and exchange of souls that left each completely open and vulnerable to the other in a way that neither was as yet completely comfortable with.
Tonight, though, there was also an underlying affection, a tenderness that was less ordinary.
Both, she knew well, were far too apt to let their love go unsaid, simply assuming that the other knew without words, a tendency which stemmed from the decided discomfort of both with emotional displays, through words or otherwise.
And so when, as she felt her blood begin to rush in every direction at once, felt the spasms begin deep within her, she heard him murmur against her hair,
"I love you," a cry of pleasure escaped her, mingled with a sob.
He looked at her strangely before cradling her gently against his chest, stroking her shoulder as he spoke.
"Are you alright?"
She nodded the affirmative, and then set about effectively derailing his train of thought as, with an enigmatic smile, she moved slowly against him, urging him to continue, to find his own release.
Helpless to do otherwise, he complied. His hips ground against hers as they moved together in a wild, impossible rhythm, eyes meeting occasionally, a smile exchanged amid the cries, male and female, that split the stillness of the room. His hands tightened around her waist, pulling her closer, his thrusts becoming less controlled, more urgent. As she felt him shudder, and felt herself flooded with the warmth of his release, she repeated his earlier gesture, whispering words of love.
Afterwards, they lay like that for a long time, neither willing to move, to disturb the moment. How lovely to simply breathe together, to feel the beat of the other's heart gradually slowing in time with their own.
She shivered as a gentle breeze swept into the room, chilling the faint sheen of sweat on her skin. He raised his head, a corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
"Cold?"
She nodded.
"We never did get around to closing that window, remember?"
He shrugged.
"What can I say? I had other things on my mind."
She laughed, climbing off of him. As she made a move toward the window, though, he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
"We can close it tomorrow. C'mere."
Not especially anxious to push the issue, she pulled back the covers and climbed under. As he followed suit, she scooted closer, resting against his shoulder. He looked down in mild surprise; such a gesture of compliance and dependence was not a common thing. Then, surprise melting into a warm glow of contentment that made the more cynical part of him roll its eyes and wonder what the hell had happened to him, he smiled and wrapped an arm around her before leaning back against the pillow.
Just as his eyes slid shut and the heavy feeling of sleep began to overtake him, a small sound pierced through the silence of the room.
"Amarant?"
"Yeah?"
"Mind if I ask what all that was about, anyway?"
"Go ahead."
An irritated sigh. "What was it about, then?"
A long silence. Then...
"That nightgown. I had to find a way to get you out of that damn thing."
A longer silence.
"The...nightgown."
"Yeah."
"All that because of a nightgown?"
"Yeah."
An even longer silence.
"Idiot."
Then, in a murmur,
"I wonder if the inn would sell it to me."
"What?"
"Oh...nothing. Goodnight."
"G'night."
Ending Notes: Plot? What plot? Out-of-character? Hells, yeah! But, hey, it was a lemon...in one way or another. C'mon, read it again! You know you waaaaaaanna.
[Silence]
Okay, or maybe you don't. [Shrugs]
Oh, yes. And I am terribly sorry about the bit about a Queen becoming inspired. I really have to stop including things like that.
Anyway, whaddaya think? Didja like it? What I am trying to say, in my own special and ungrammatical little way, is 'please review often and generously.'
Bye!
[Rhianwen waves cheerily and bounces off to start writing her next lemon...one that will hopefully have a plot]