Jaguar (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kittydesade) wrote2010-04-07 10:21 pm
kittydesade) wrote2010-04-07 10:21 pm
Entry tags:
[Fic] First Night
Title: First Night
'Verse: Western
Word Count: 2,226
Rating: PG-13 for explicit, though not graphic sex.
Characters: Laedecker, Clara
Summary: Mrs. Clara Laedecker's wedding night.
A/N: Maybe now the bunnies will stop taking over my brain and actually let me work on some other stuff.
It wasn't the wedding she'd dreamed of. But then, he was hardly the husband she'd imagined. Painted as he was, having the dignity to hide it as he did behind his plain shirts and faded fancy vests and ties. She had seen him at the carnival, leading his band of strange, strange folk. He had a way about him. Treated everyone with respect. Spoke softly.
And he had a way of looking at her that made her feel that she was the only anyone in the world.
She said yes, when he asked her, after an interval that was barely long enough to be suitable rather than audacious. Not that she had to worry about that. She had no family but the priest that took her in, and she had no idea what passed as suitable among the painted man's folk. Laedecker, they called him. Timothy, he said, was his given name.
Still, it all seemed so fast. One day she was helping at the ministry and the next evening she was dressed up in borrowed finery and being brushed pretty by the old large seer woman, told how lovely she looked and how beautiful a bride she'd be.
And she was. They did marry, though her priest clucked his tongue sadly at her choice of a husband. They jumped the broom and were married in a ceremony both familiar and strange, among a crowd of people most of whom she didn't even know. And they all laughed anyway, made her welcome. Were sweet to her.Treated her as though she had always been one of their own, as though the adoration he quietly lavished upon her were all it took to make her adored by them as well. And perhaps it did.
If she'd had her way they would have danced all night, but there were traditions to be observed and that was all right by her, too. Especially when he seemed almost more shy than she felt as he led her up to his cozy wagon. Biggest in the carnival and still smaller than the church house she was used to. Then again, it suited her. In a way she hadn't yet found the words to explain to him, though maybe she should have when he looked back at the home she'd left behind, this was home now, too. Small wagon and close quarters, it was different, but it wasn't bad.
No, turning around to face her new husband, looking down with his hat in his hand as he was, it was better than just not bad. It was everything.
She moved to take his hat and put it on the night-stand, one hand resting over his. Of all the things she might have been afraid of, her wedding night was not one of them. She told him, told him that she loved him, and kissed him.
When they broke apart from that first kiss he kissed her again, and this time it lasted longer. Was more comfortable, more like not the first awkward set of kisses they'd exchanged but the second, when they were more sure of themselves and their feelings. His arms slid around her back, warm and close and not too tight; she could feel his worn and smooth palm against her exposed back where the dress plunged down in a v-shape. Her arms tightened around his waist and she felt the welcome warmth and strength of him beneath the shirt.
For a little while it was enough just to be held and kissed, and to hold him and kiss him and feel that he was real in return. And then, she couldn't be sure which one of them began, but the mood shifted. Their kisses became smaller but more urgent, a quick kiss, a breath with lips a scant distance apart, and eyes flicking up to meet each other's gaze as though to confirm that this was happening. That this was real. Yes, it very much was.
He was still hesitant, this time about bearing her down to the bed, but she told him it was just a piece of furniture, and he laughed a little at that. A quiet chuckle and a small smile but most importantly a relaxing of the set of his shoulders. They sat, hand in hand, and kissed again.
And that was when his fingers brushed the fabric of her dress a bare inch down over her shoulder. It was the tiniest movement and it still sent a flush of nervousness over her skin. A shiver of both fear and delight. She was, well, coming as a virgin to her marriage bed, and he knew, though she hadn't told him in so many words. But she was not in the least bit ignorant of the ways of man and woman. Both by knowing and, a bit, by doing. And still she was nervous. The evening carried so much weight to it, it made her nervous.
Her fingers slid into the fine, short-cropped hair, cupped over the back of his neck. His kisses trailed over familiar paths down from the corner of her mouth over the curve of her neck to the curve of her shoulder, but there familiarity ended. He hesitated as his other hand undid the first buttons at her back, an action that would free her dress to fall from her shoulders and leave her bare. Hesitated just long enough for her to reach up and open the buttons of his vest with careful, deliberate movements, feeling the give of fabric and the shift of the button first left, then right. She felt the edge of his palm against her back as he did the same. Her head tilted back as his kisses sank lower, over her collarbone, the swell of her breast. His hair and the upper edge of his ear brushed her cheek and made her smile with how sensitive she was that those small points of contact could feel so welcome and so good.
She opened his vest and without pushing it to one side, began to open his shirt as well. He leaned back to watch her hands and confined his caresses to fingertips only while she did. And it didn't occur to her why, until she had all of the buttons open and could slide both shirt and vest off, the tie having been discarded some time ago, and see the intricate lines and shades of color that covered his body. Patterns and pictures not all of which she could even discern, so crowded was his chest. Shoulders. Everywhere, everywhere that she had not seen before because he was so neatly dressed. And now, her fingers traced the lines drawn on his body as though her mind could take it all in, understand the origins and meanings of the pictures, just by touch.
He all but held his breath. She didn't know whether he was ashamed of the markings or afraid of her response to them. She wasn't sure of her response, herself. It seemed so at odds with the soft, well-spoken, handsome and shrewd man she had just married a few hours earlier. She looked up at him, her fingertips still resting above his heart.
Rather than respond in words, she decided something inside, and returned her other hand to cupping his face and kissing him, pulling him closer.
His deep exhale against her mouth told her how afraid he had been. How silly, she thought, a little, to be afraid. But she couldn't have explained why she thought it was silly if he asked. And their mouths were too busy for questions and answers. Her hands were careful with him, careful to touch and not seem afraid, and his mouth was careful on her skin to bring her to arch against him and moan. Of all the mouths she had permitted on her body his was most delicious, most skilled. And with it, the added thrill that came to her mind as she combed her fingers through his hair, traced the muscle and no longer the pattern on his shoulders, thought in frantic breaths as his mouth moved lower, my husband. Mine.
He took care that she appreciated with a gasping laugh and a comment afterwards to bring her to pleasure before anything else. She had an idea why, but it was still much appreciated, and worth saying so. By now she was naked, and he was shy again. So she sat up, tangled her legs around his thighs and crossed her ankles to keep him there, and started to undo his trousers.
"Of the two of us, caro mio, you are the one acting like a virgin." He laughed quietly, and that seemed to dispel most of the lingering tension.
They sank back to the bed again, her arms loose around his neck. He was so much taller than her, he loomed over her as they fell back onto the sheets. One hand propped him up while the side of his small finger trailed down her cheek, down the side of her neck, down to fingertips over her breast again. The look in his eyes warred between gentle concern and a heat she had never seen there before. It was for her to choose.
She pulled him down to her and kissed him, awkward, but firmly.
The first moment he touched her was when she realized how strange it felt, how simply odd it was to touch another person or be touched like this. And then as he was easing in she thought that it really was no stranger than kissing, than the deep and wanton kisses they shared. And then she realized, with a slightly panicked thought just before the discomfort set in, that she was thinking so hard about this to distract her from what was happening between her legs. No matter how relaxed and pleasured she was, it still felt strange. It still hurt, a little, her body being stretched and pulled in a way that it never had before and that last little push did make her cry out.
And he froze. Rising up on one arm, brushing the fingers of his other hand through her hair, watching her with wide-eyed concern again. She put her fingers to his lips and told him it was nothing.
"Shhh, caro mio. It's nothing."
She had the feeling he didn't quite believe her, even when she kissed him, until she wriggled her hips down a little and even if it made the angle awkward and they had to shift their hips until they were aligned again -- and that did make her laugh. The awkwardness of it. One or two false tries, and his apologetic grin. And the second time it hurt less. Was a bit easier. And his fingers trailed over her skin, as did his kisses where he could reach, and she felt the warmth of his body working over her and inside of her and now, yes, it was easier to understand how a person could get lost in this.
Towards the end she had taken her pleasure again, from his fingers too, but it was almost starting to hurt again when he grunted and moaned and shuddered against her. His fingers curled tight in the sheets, knuckle brushing her cheek in the movement. She was sore when he pulled out, her breath hissing. And he froze again, half-balanced on one foot on the floor and half-straddling above her, and she laughed.
"You look ridiculous." Did all men look ridiculous, so naked and half-aroused? She didn't imagine a one of them could look dignified.
His mouth stayed half-gaped for a second before it twisted into a smile, eyes softening, warm. The swirling color of cafe con leche. "You look lovely."
It wasn't entirely true. From an observer point of view. She was, even if only a tiny bit, bleeding. Bridal proof. She was sweaty, dripping, sticky, but as she thought he was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen, yes. She could imagine that to him she looked beautiful. No, she knew she did. She saw it in his smile.
He stayed up long enough to fetch them a glass of water and then came back to bed, settling in beside her, pulling her into his arms. She tucked her cheek to his chest and traced now the curve and groove of muscle, since she couldn't see the tattoos through half-closed eyes. Only the blur of color behind her lashes.
Her body ached. Between her legs especially ached, felt strange where he had been inside of her, she was so very aware that he had pushed his way inside of her. In her heart she felt sated and complete, well-exhausted and completely safe. The touch through her hair and down her spine, the murmur of his voice as he asked if she was cold (she nodded), the night-time sounds of the carnival as they put things away and retired to their own beds. The few animals that were left to sing their night songs.
The scent, unmistakeable, of sex in the air. The warmth of his completely naked body pressed to hers.
She drifted off to sleep with the last few thoughts chasing themselves in circles around in her head. My husband. My sweet, sweet husband. And I, your wife. How wonderful, to be your particular wife.
'Verse: Western
Word Count: 2,226
Rating: PG-13 for explicit, though not graphic sex.
Characters: Laedecker, Clara
Summary: Mrs. Clara Laedecker's wedding night.
A/N: Maybe now the bunnies will stop taking over my brain and actually let me work on some other stuff.
It wasn't the wedding she'd dreamed of. But then, he was hardly the husband she'd imagined. Painted as he was, having the dignity to hide it as he did behind his plain shirts and faded fancy vests and ties. She had seen him at the carnival, leading his band of strange, strange folk. He had a way about him. Treated everyone with respect. Spoke softly.
And he had a way of looking at her that made her feel that she was the only anyone in the world.
She said yes, when he asked her, after an interval that was barely long enough to be suitable rather than audacious. Not that she had to worry about that. She had no family but the priest that took her in, and she had no idea what passed as suitable among the painted man's folk. Laedecker, they called him. Timothy, he said, was his given name.
Still, it all seemed so fast. One day she was helping at the ministry and the next evening she was dressed up in borrowed finery and being brushed pretty by the old large seer woman, told how lovely she looked and how beautiful a bride she'd be.
And she was. They did marry, though her priest clucked his tongue sadly at her choice of a husband. They jumped the broom and were married in a ceremony both familiar and strange, among a crowd of people most of whom she didn't even know. And they all laughed anyway, made her welcome. Were sweet to her.Treated her as though she had always been one of their own, as though the adoration he quietly lavished upon her were all it took to make her adored by them as well. And perhaps it did.
If she'd had her way they would have danced all night, but there were traditions to be observed and that was all right by her, too. Especially when he seemed almost more shy than she felt as he led her up to his cozy wagon. Biggest in the carnival and still smaller than the church house she was used to. Then again, it suited her. In a way she hadn't yet found the words to explain to him, though maybe she should have when he looked back at the home she'd left behind, this was home now, too. Small wagon and close quarters, it was different, but it wasn't bad.
No, turning around to face her new husband, looking down with his hat in his hand as he was, it was better than just not bad. It was everything.
She moved to take his hat and put it on the night-stand, one hand resting over his. Of all the things she might have been afraid of, her wedding night was not one of them. She told him, told him that she loved him, and kissed him.
When they broke apart from that first kiss he kissed her again, and this time it lasted longer. Was more comfortable, more like not the first awkward set of kisses they'd exchanged but the second, when they were more sure of themselves and their feelings. His arms slid around her back, warm and close and not too tight; she could feel his worn and smooth palm against her exposed back where the dress plunged down in a v-shape. Her arms tightened around his waist and she felt the welcome warmth and strength of him beneath the shirt.
For a little while it was enough just to be held and kissed, and to hold him and kiss him and feel that he was real in return. And then, she couldn't be sure which one of them began, but the mood shifted. Their kisses became smaller but more urgent, a quick kiss, a breath with lips a scant distance apart, and eyes flicking up to meet each other's gaze as though to confirm that this was happening. That this was real. Yes, it very much was.
He was still hesitant, this time about bearing her down to the bed, but she told him it was just a piece of furniture, and he laughed a little at that. A quiet chuckle and a small smile but most importantly a relaxing of the set of his shoulders. They sat, hand in hand, and kissed again.
And that was when his fingers brushed the fabric of her dress a bare inch down over her shoulder. It was the tiniest movement and it still sent a flush of nervousness over her skin. A shiver of both fear and delight. She was, well, coming as a virgin to her marriage bed, and he knew, though she hadn't told him in so many words. But she was not in the least bit ignorant of the ways of man and woman. Both by knowing and, a bit, by doing. And still she was nervous. The evening carried so much weight to it, it made her nervous.
Her fingers slid into the fine, short-cropped hair, cupped over the back of his neck. His kisses trailed over familiar paths down from the corner of her mouth over the curve of her neck to the curve of her shoulder, but there familiarity ended. He hesitated as his other hand undid the first buttons at her back, an action that would free her dress to fall from her shoulders and leave her bare. Hesitated just long enough for her to reach up and open the buttons of his vest with careful, deliberate movements, feeling the give of fabric and the shift of the button first left, then right. She felt the edge of his palm against her back as he did the same. Her head tilted back as his kisses sank lower, over her collarbone, the swell of her breast. His hair and the upper edge of his ear brushed her cheek and made her smile with how sensitive she was that those small points of contact could feel so welcome and so good.
She opened his vest and without pushing it to one side, began to open his shirt as well. He leaned back to watch her hands and confined his caresses to fingertips only while she did. And it didn't occur to her why, until she had all of the buttons open and could slide both shirt and vest off, the tie having been discarded some time ago, and see the intricate lines and shades of color that covered his body. Patterns and pictures not all of which she could even discern, so crowded was his chest. Shoulders. Everywhere, everywhere that she had not seen before because he was so neatly dressed. And now, her fingers traced the lines drawn on his body as though her mind could take it all in, understand the origins and meanings of the pictures, just by touch.
He all but held his breath. She didn't know whether he was ashamed of the markings or afraid of her response to them. She wasn't sure of her response, herself. It seemed so at odds with the soft, well-spoken, handsome and shrewd man she had just married a few hours earlier. She looked up at him, her fingertips still resting above his heart.
Rather than respond in words, she decided something inside, and returned her other hand to cupping his face and kissing him, pulling him closer.
His deep exhale against her mouth told her how afraid he had been. How silly, she thought, a little, to be afraid. But she couldn't have explained why she thought it was silly if he asked. And their mouths were too busy for questions and answers. Her hands were careful with him, careful to touch and not seem afraid, and his mouth was careful on her skin to bring her to arch against him and moan. Of all the mouths she had permitted on her body his was most delicious, most skilled. And with it, the added thrill that came to her mind as she combed her fingers through his hair, traced the muscle and no longer the pattern on his shoulders, thought in frantic breaths as his mouth moved lower, my husband. Mine.
He took care that she appreciated with a gasping laugh and a comment afterwards to bring her to pleasure before anything else. She had an idea why, but it was still much appreciated, and worth saying so. By now she was naked, and he was shy again. So she sat up, tangled her legs around his thighs and crossed her ankles to keep him there, and started to undo his trousers.
"Of the two of us, caro mio, you are the one acting like a virgin." He laughed quietly, and that seemed to dispel most of the lingering tension.
They sank back to the bed again, her arms loose around his neck. He was so much taller than her, he loomed over her as they fell back onto the sheets. One hand propped him up while the side of his small finger trailed down her cheek, down the side of her neck, down to fingertips over her breast again. The look in his eyes warred between gentle concern and a heat she had never seen there before. It was for her to choose.
She pulled him down to her and kissed him, awkward, but firmly.
The first moment he touched her was when she realized how strange it felt, how simply odd it was to touch another person or be touched like this. And then as he was easing in she thought that it really was no stranger than kissing, than the deep and wanton kisses they shared. And then she realized, with a slightly panicked thought just before the discomfort set in, that she was thinking so hard about this to distract her from what was happening between her legs. No matter how relaxed and pleasured she was, it still felt strange. It still hurt, a little, her body being stretched and pulled in a way that it never had before and that last little push did make her cry out.
And he froze. Rising up on one arm, brushing the fingers of his other hand through her hair, watching her with wide-eyed concern again. She put her fingers to his lips and told him it was nothing.
"Shhh, caro mio. It's nothing."
She had the feeling he didn't quite believe her, even when she kissed him, until she wriggled her hips down a little and even if it made the angle awkward and they had to shift their hips until they were aligned again -- and that did make her laugh. The awkwardness of it. One or two false tries, and his apologetic grin. And the second time it hurt less. Was a bit easier. And his fingers trailed over her skin, as did his kisses where he could reach, and she felt the warmth of his body working over her and inside of her and now, yes, it was easier to understand how a person could get lost in this.
Towards the end she had taken her pleasure again, from his fingers too, but it was almost starting to hurt again when he grunted and moaned and shuddered against her. His fingers curled tight in the sheets, knuckle brushing her cheek in the movement. She was sore when he pulled out, her breath hissing. And he froze again, half-balanced on one foot on the floor and half-straddling above her, and she laughed.
"You look ridiculous." Did all men look ridiculous, so naked and half-aroused? She didn't imagine a one of them could look dignified.
His mouth stayed half-gaped for a second before it twisted into a smile, eyes softening, warm. The swirling color of cafe con leche. "You look lovely."
It wasn't entirely true. From an observer point of view. She was, even if only a tiny bit, bleeding. Bridal proof. She was sweaty, dripping, sticky, but as she thought he was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen, yes. She could imagine that to him she looked beautiful. No, she knew she did. She saw it in his smile.
He stayed up long enough to fetch them a glass of water and then came back to bed, settling in beside her, pulling her into his arms. She tucked her cheek to his chest and traced now the curve and groove of muscle, since she couldn't see the tattoos through half-closed eyes. Only the blur of color behind her lashes.
Her body ached. Between her legs especially ached, felt strange where he had been inside of her, she was so very aware that he had pushed his way inside of her. In her heart she felt sated and complete, well-exhausted and completely safe. The touch through her hair and down her spine, the murmur of his voice as he asked if she was cold (she nodded), the night-time sounds of the carnival as they put things away and retired to their own beds. The few animals that were left to sing their night songs.
The scent, unmistakeable, of sex in the air. The warmth of his completely naked body pressed to hers.
She drifted off to sleep with the last few thoughts chasing themselves in circles around in her head. My husband. My sweet, sweet husband. And I, your wife. How wonderful, to be your particular wife.