Post by Kit on Aug 19, 2012 0:24:54 GMT 10
Title: Glorious layabouts
Rating: PG-13
Words: 400
Summary: Mundane rituatuals are part of life. Rosethorn is glad to return to them. A challenge piece for Kiwi, who wanted something about Rosethorn and Lark and their different nakedness habits.
“What are you doing?”
Lark stretches, enjoying the feeling of these warm, familiar words in her mouth as much as the ease in her muscles; the small aches and shifts that brought a whole world back to her after years of absence.
There had been a war and half a decade since the last time Rosethorn had been in her bed, squinting at her in too-warm candle light, and untangling herself from sheets. Lark listens to the creak in her floorboards as her friend moves from washbasin to clothes chest, bringing out the spare nightshirt that Lark has always kept amongst her things.
“I’m not you, Lark.” Rosethorn shakes her head, all the new white in her hair lost in this midsummer evening half-light, just like the new lines in both their faces. “To layabout all glorious, after. I like clothes.”
Lark did not mime the words. She just smiled, and squeezed her own hand tight, the pressure of fingertips to palm seeming to press them into her skin. “I’m the one who makes them, dear heart.”
“Hmph.” The bed creaks as Rosethorn returns to it, leaning forward to tap her nose. “And no one would ever know it, seeing you now.”
“Ah, Rosie, come here.”
Rosethorn does, settling herself against the long, lean body, and letting her head rest against Lark’s shoulder. With eyes closed, they are all skin and cotton, breath and sex and verbena soap. They are the small motions of shared space—concessions in the arch of one back, in the straightening of a knee. “We’ve always had this conversation,” Rosethorn grumbles. “Some people just don’t like to sleep naked.”
“But I’ve missed this conversation,” Lark murmers, kissing the top of Rosethorn’s head. “I’ve missed everything about you.”
“I love you, too,” Rosethorn says. At least, it’s what she thinks she says; she may have simply dreamed it, since most of her—body and garments both redolent of Lark—has already been gentled into sleep.
Rating: PG-13
Words: 400
Summary: Mundane rituatuals are part of life. Rosethorn is glad to return to them. A challenge piece for Kiwi, who wanted something about Rosethorn and Lark and their different nakedness habits.
“What are you doing?”
Lark stretches, enjoying the feeling of these warm, familiar words in her mouth as much as the ease in her muscles; the small aches and shifts that brought a whole world back to her after years of absence.
There had been a war and half a decade since the last time Rosethorn had been in her bed, squinting at her in too-warm candle light, and untangling herself from sheets. Lark listens to the creak in her floorboards as her friend moves from washbasin to clothes chest, bringing out the spare nightshirt that Lark has always kept amongst her things.
“I’m not you, Lark.” Rosethorn shakes her head, all the new white in her hair lost in this midsummer evening half-light, just like the new lines in both their faces. “To layabout all glorious, after. I like clothes.”
Lark did not mime the words. She just smiled, and squeezed her own hand tight, the pressure of fingertips to palm seeming to press them into her skin. “I’m the one who makes them, dear heart.”
“Hmph.” The bed creaks as Rosethorn returns to it, leaning forward to tap her nose. “And no one would ever know it, seeing you now.”
“Ah, Rosie, come here.”
Rosethorn does, settling herself against the long, lean body, and letting her head rest against Lark’s shoulder. With eyes closed, they are all skin and cotton, breath and sex and verbena soap. They are the small motions of shared space—concessions in the arch of one back, in the straightening of a knee. “We’ve always had this conversation,” Rosethorn grumbles. “Some people just don’t like to sleep naked.”
“But I’ve missed this conversation,” Lark murmers, kissing the top of Rosethorn’s head. “I’ve missed everything about you.”
“I love you, too,” Rosethorn says. At least, it’s what she thinks she says; she may have simply dreamed it, since most of her—body and garments both redolent of Lark—has already been gentled into sleep.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!