Jaguar (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kittydesade) wrote2011-09-14 03:42 am
kittydesade) wrote2011-09-14 03:42 am
Entry tags:
[Original] Love Letter
Title: Love Letter
Source: Black Stone Rising
Genre: Urban Fantasy/Romance/Erotic
Characters: Astrid Kessler, Greg Pearson
Word Count: 980
Summary: The only love letter he'll ever write to her, and he doesn't let her read it.
A/N: Written for the![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kink_bingo (WILD CARD) prompt "Writing on the body"
Astrid was half asleep already; it had been a long day. A long night, too, before she could retire to her suite with her companion. Her pet, they whispered, behind closed doors and in places where they thought she couldn't hear. By this time she had far more influence than they thought, thanks to her so-called pet.
And even now that they were curled up together, sweaty and exhausted, she couldn't stop thinking politics. And it bothered her.
"Stop that," he murmured in her ear. "You're thinking again."
She rolled over onto her stomach and buried her head under the pillow and groaned. "Make me."
Greg was silent for a moment, then something like a low, tired chuckle came from over her shoulder. Enough of a different sound that she pulled her head out from under the pillow and looked over at him, but he'd already straddled her hips and was pinning her to the bed. Unless she wanted to toss him out of it, which she didn't. He was too fragile, these days. Gone to silver hair and far, far too fragile.
She pillowed her head on her hands and looked as far over her shoulder at him as she could, blue eyes peeking at her now and again from beneath his curtain of hair. He wore it long, these days. Maybe it suited him now that he was completely silvery white, maybe it just gave him the appearance of being weak. Greg had never been weak. But they didn't know that. He wasn't one of them, so he couldn't be her mate and co-ruler, could never be the father of her children. And so they dismissed him as beneath their notice, while she still remembered those first fiery arguments and the subsequent not quite making up. Tolerance. Growing to understanding. Growing to something deeper.
Her eyes closed somewhere in this line of thinking. Astrid sighed, waiting for him to do whatever it was he had planned.
Cool liquid dripped at the furthest point of her left shoulderblade. After a second it moved, shifting, she felt some sort of brush flatten it out over her back and the sensation spread. It sent a shiver down her skin and her eyes flew open, mind all at once racing and blank as she realized what he was doing and tried to figure out what he was doing.
"Greg..."
"Mmm?" Innocuous. Innocent, except he had never been that. Not moving except to lean forward and move the brush again.
She closed her eyes and tried to focus on the strokes of the brush, but she couldn't tell what the words were. Could barely tell what language he was using. Some kind of character based language, she knew that much. "What are you doing?"
There was that smile in his voice; she could see it when he spoke. In her memories going right back to one party and a room glittering in candlelight. "Writing you a letter."
Distracting her. She laughed into the sheets and thanked him for it in a whisper soft enough that he might not hear, or if he did he only focused more on the writing. Stroke after stroke, her back covered in damp ink, cool over her skin and soothing. She forgot about the politics, forgot about the recalcitrant and sometimes openly rebellious other dragons she had dealt with that day, forgot about the problem of rule and her line of succession. Forgot about the debate about co-existence with the humans. None of that mattered now. Greg was a welcome weight against her body, and the brush was a cold tickle moving down to the base of her spine.
"Can I see it?" she asked, smiling, keeping her eyes closed and her head turned so that when she spoke it was clearly understood.
He smiled, still, too. "Not yet," he murmured, but he did get up off of her. To take a picture, maybe, or get a mirror. He'd written all over her back and down her arms, a bit; she wouldn't be able to see without one or the other.
She wouldn't be able to see at all. He'd gotten a sponge, and was now washing all that beautiful writing off, toweling it up as he went so that the inky water didn't drip onto her sheets. "Greg..." she protested, trying to move. Trying to capture some of the words.
"Shhh..." he leaned over her, stole a kiss from her mouth as she twisted. "It's better this way. You can imagine all the pretty words I covered your body..." Pretty words he might not have been able to say, otherwise. She lay still, and let him wash her.
Afterwards, she admitted he was right. The suggestion of a love letter in beautiful calligraphy all over her back and body drew her to pull him into her arms again, to tangle her fingers in the sweaty knots of his hair and pull his head down to hers and kiss him, fiercely. There might have been one or two words left, now pressed into the sheets as they made love again, but if there were she didn't see them. It was enough, she decided, that he stayed long enough for that. Once upon a time he hadn't done.
Years, even decades later, after the only thing left of him was a too-still monument carved into the side of a mountain she found a box of old things, information, real paper, and photographs. Astrid barely recognized herself on the sheets, in that old room in the palace. She did recognize the hand moving, tracing the old pictographs with a fingertip through the air above her back, writing over and over again that love letter she had never read when they'd had time.
Source: Black Stone Rising
Genre: Urban Fantasy/Romance/Erotic
Characters: Astrid Kessler, Greg Pearson
Word Count: 980
Summary: The only love letter he'll ever write to her, and he doesn't let her read it.
A/N: Written for the
kink_bingo (WILD CARD) prompt "Writing on the body"Astrid was half asleep already; it had been a long day. A long night, too, before she could retire to her suite with her companion. Her pet, they whispered, behind closed doors and in places where they thought she couldn't hear. By this time she had far more influence than they thought, thanks to her so-called pet.
And even now that they were curled up together, sweaty and exhausted, she couldn't stop thinking politics. And it bothered her.
"Stop that," he murmured in her ear. "You're thinking again."
She rolled over onto her stomach and buried her head under the pillow and groaned. "Make me."
Greg was silent for a moment, then something like a low, tired chuckle came from over her shoulder. Enough of a different sound that she pulled her head out from under the pillow and looked over at him, but he'd already straddled her hips and was pinning her to the bed. Unless she wanted to toss him out of it, which she didn't. He was too fragile, these days. Gone to silver hair and far, far too fragile.
She pillowed her head on her hands and looked as far over her shoulder at him as she could, blue eyes peeking at her now and again from beneath his curtain of hair. He wore it long, these days. Maybe it suited him now that he was completely silvery white, maybe it just gave him the appearance of being weak. Greg had never been weak. But they didn't know that. He wasn't one of them, so he couldn't be her mate and co-ruler, could never be the father of her children. And so they dismissed him as beneath their notice, while she still remembered those first fiery arguments and the subsequent not quite making up. Tolerance. Growing to understanding. Growing to something deeper.
Her eyes closed somewhere in this line of thinking. Astrid sighed, waiting for him to do whatever it was he had planned.
Cool liquid dripped at the furthest point of her left shoulderblade. After a second it moved, shifting, she felt some sort of brush flatten it out over her back and the sensation spread. It sent a shiver down her skin and her eyes flew open, mind all at once racing and blank as she realized what he was doing and tried to figure out what he was doing.
"Greg..."
"Mmm?" Innocuous. Innocent, except he had never been that. Not moving except to lean forward and move the brush again.
She closed her eyes and tried to focus on the strokes of the brush, but she couldn't tell what the words were. Could barely tell what language he was using. Some kind of character based language, she knew that much. "What are you doing?"
There was that smile in his voice; she could see it when he spoke. In her memories going right back to one party and a room glittering in candlelight. "Writing you a letter."
Distracting her. She laughed into the sheets and thanked him for it in a whisper soft enough that he might not hear, or if he did he only focused more on the writing. Stroke after stroke, her back covered in damp ink, cool over her skin and soothing. She forgot about the politics, forgot about the recalcitrant and sometimes openly rebellious other dragons she had dealt with that day, forgot about the problem of rule and her line of succession. Forgot about the debate about co-existence with the humans. None of that mattered now. Greg was a welcome weight against her body, and the brush was a cold tickle moving down to the base of her spine.
"Can I see it?" she asked, smiling, keeping her eyes closed and her head turned so that when she spoke it was clearly understood.
He smiled, still, too. "Not yet," he murmured, but he did get up off of her. To take a picture, maybe, or get a mirror. He'd written all over her back and down her arms, a bit; she wouldn't be able to see without one or the other.
She wouldn't be able to see at all. He'd gotten a sponge, and was now washing all that beautiful writing off, toweling it up as he went so that the inky water didn't drip onto her sheets. "Greg..." she protested, trying to move. Trying to capture some of the words.
"Shhh..." he leaned over her, stole a kiss from her mouth as she twisted. "It's better this way. You can imagine all the pretty words I covered your body..." Pretty words he might not have been able to say, otherwise. She lay still, and let him wash her.
Afterwards, she admitted he was right. The suggestion of a love letter in beautiful calligraphy all over her back and body drew her to pull him into her arms again, to tangle her fingers in the sweaty knots of his hair and pull his head down to hers and kiss him, fiercely. There might have been one or two words left, now pressed into the sheets as they made love again, but if there were she didn't see them. It was enough, she decided, that he stayed long enough for that. Once upon a time he hadn't done.
Years, even decades later, after the only thing left of him was a too-still monument carved into the side of a mountain she found a box of old things, information, real paper, and photographs. Astrid barely recognized herself on the sheets, in that old room in the palace. She did recognize the hand moving, tracing the old pictographs with a fingertip through the air above her back, writing over and over again that love letter she had never read when they'd had time.