Disclaimer: Septimus and Thomasina are property of Tom Stoppard. I receive no compensation from this work of fiction and intend no copyright infringement.
Author's Notes: Written for LJ's Porn Battle 8; prompt was 'fire'. Forgive me if this doesn't match up exactly to the play; I can't recall the dialogue right before they start dancing. It's been several years since I've seen it, and I was too busy bawling my eyes out at the time.
~*~
"I've decided what I want for my birthday," Thomasina murmurs, her face pressed tightly into the heated flesh of his neck. She feels Septimus smile against her hair.
"And what would that be, my dear?" he asks. He tries and fails to keep the true depth of his emotion out of the endearment, but she's always been too perceptive for her own good. As she lifts her head to meet his eyes, her smile is the curve of a graph that knows no limits.
"I want a kiss," she says, enunciating each word so that he cannot pretend to have misunderstood her. Even in the candlelight she can see the blush that rises to his cheeks.
"I-I'm not, ah, entirely sure that would be...appropriate," he stammers. Thomasina pouts.
"But it's my birthday," she protests. "The birthday girl gets anything she desires on her birthday." Septimus smiles indulgently at her, hand at her waist as they continue their aimless waltz around the room; they have lost all pretenses of precision in favor of the simple ability to be near to one another, and this thought makes Thomasina infinitely happy.
"And I am what you desire?" Septimus asks. The way his smile twists into a frown makes clear that he had not considered the connotation of his words before speaking them, but she does not mind. Thomasina halts them in the center of the room, pulls herself up onto her tiptoes, and presses her lips to his.
Septimus is nothing if not a gentleman; his hands stay firmly at her waist, mouth closed against her tongue's insistent advances. At least at first. But she knows herself to be quite persuasive, especially where her tutor is concerned, so Thomasina maintains her position. She brings her fingers up to the back of Septimus' neck, tracing patterns on the warm skin, and she feels a groan rumble through his body. She does it again.
It's the most delicious trigger. Septimus slides his hands up to her shoulders to press her closer, allows her access to the hot caverns of his mouth. Thomasina kisses as best she knows how, taking her lead from Septimus' wealth of knowledge; he's always been a wonderful teacher. She feels bold and sensual, far beyond her almost-sixteen years. And Septimus...oh, how he surrenders to her touch, to her. To little Thomasina Coverly, who can pull from him the most intense of reactions despite all those that he's encountered before. She shivers with the knowledge of her power. Indeed her entire body feels as if its been set ablaze, flames licking her skin in the form of Septimus' hands trailing across her nightgown, fighting to stay in "appropriate" locations. Something hard pokes against her belly, and she smirks. Her head may be full of mathematics, but she still knows a thing or two about biology. She teases him closer.
This is when Septimus wrenches them apart, panting.
"Thomasina, it's well past time you retired to bed," he scolds. Thomasina bites back the full force of her smile.
"Yes, Septimus," she says demurely. She enjoys his flushed skin and labored breathing, all her own doing. She wants nothing more than to stay with him, continue to push and pull, figure out if their actions, once set into motion, will continue to build momentum, or remain the inert force that they have been for the past four years. But even if her body sleeps, her mind rarely does, and there will be time to figure this all out tomorrow.
"Goodnight, dear," he bids her as she shuffles towards the door. Thomasina takes the candle from the desk and smiles back at him.
"I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Septimus," she responds.
The night air is not enough to cool the heat of her skin. Thomasina does a twirl in the middle of the lawn, her body positively thrumming with energy. She slips up into her bedroom and sets the candle on the bedside table. Her hands are shaking in excitement. She drops into her bed and pulls the covers up to her chin, determined to preserve the warmth that permeates her. She lifts the hem of her nightgown, lets long fingers trace skin that has been denied attention by the barrier of cloth. She follows the curve of her hip, the flat plane of her stomach, the rounded arch of her breasts. But even pinching the pebbled nipples at their peak doesn't come close to the scorching desire that Septimus' hands inspire. Frustrated, she shoves the gown back into place and watches the flame of the candle dance until she succumbs to the darkness.
As she sleeps, Thomasina burns.