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tamingthemuseTitle: Random Pages from the Histories, II
Fandom: Original Fiction
Prompt: Woolly
Warnings: Mild Language, Sexual Suggestion
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sylvie and Kincaid prepare to spend a romantic Valentine’s Day together.
Word Count: 1,759
Author’s Note: Still working from The Histories, I have a feeling I won’t work on any single ‘long’ piece, but each of these will have the same characters, etc., even though some will rotate in and out. This week, I’ve retained Sylvie from last week, but I’ve brought in her lover Kincaid. Hopefully, I’ll be able to revive Declan next week, as he’s one of my favorites.
Woolly. Tough prompt for me. {g}
Random Pages from the Histories, II
It wasn’t, of course, the most romantic of Valentine’s Days. It wasn’t the most romantic of any day for that matter. Sylvie questioned her sanity in even attempting to plan a getaway in the weather they were having. With a glare at the heavens and a curse aimed at all the gods, she pushed aside the edge of the curtain - again - and stamped her foot in frustration at the rain slaking down the leaded window in her father’s study. Still, it was Valentine’s Day, and for just a little while anyway, they were at peace.
No war. No enemy lurking behind the overgrown shrubbery. No training in the gym from dawn to dusk, sessions broken only by the need for strategy meetings around the kitchen table, mugs of steaming coffee and tea held between their hands.
University was behind her. For the moment, threat was banished. All that remained were vague plans for the future and this brief respite in Devon with her beloved. Well, that and the nebulous Valentine’s Day.
She’d wanted to do something special. No, not special. Extraordinary. Beyond extraordinary. Who in the name of the Goddess had decided Valentine’s should be in bloody February anyway? It was ridiculous.
With a sigh of disgust, she let the curtain drop and turned at the sound of footsteps approaching from the hall. Heavy footsteps. She smiled a small, secretive smile.
Kincaid entered the study soft-footed but big as the Cambrian Mountains, making her own five feet appear miniature, her seven stone no more than a few ounces. She smiled wider. If he were any more beautiful, she might swoon, and she detested women who swooned.
“Happy Valentine’s, love.” She reached on tiptoe with her lips pursed, and he bent obligingly to receive a quick kiss.
In answer, he swept one arm around her waist and lifted her off the floor, crushing her against his chest in one of the powerful death grips she’d learned were his way of assuring himself she was safe and simply there.
“Christ, Sylvie.”
“Stop being melodramatic, Kincaid, and do put me down. I’ve things to do.”
“What things?” he asked with interest, not putting her down but turning to brace her back against the wall.
“Plan our day for one. It’s going to wonderful…” she glanced to the closed curtains and sighed again. “Or it will be if the rain ever stops.”
“Hmm… sounds promising…” He bent and kissed her neck, just under the line of her jaw, causing a single, long tremor to run straight to the core of her and causing him to laugh as he felt it, the sound reverberating through his deep chest under which one of her hands lay.
“Do put me down,” she repeated without much force, and that time, he complied.
She turned away from him and walked back to the window, pushing aside the curtain and resuming her baleful vigil of the weather. Behind her, he spoke softly.
“Whatever these plan are, could they include you taking your hair down?”
Without turning, she smiled, sure he could see her reflection in the glass. She raised a hand to her head and felt the sloppy chignon at the back of her neck. She’d pulled it up only for helping her mother clean earlier. Unbound, it would fall to mid-thigh, would cover them both as they lay together, would spark just slightly brighter than his own dark blond crew cut. In the window, she looked and caught his chocolate gaze staring into her own eyes. Her smile widened.
“I believe that might be arranged.”
“Then finish your plans, my love. I’ll be in the gym with Etienne.”
He blew her a kiss and left, and she let the curtain fall again. Pressing the fingers of her hand to her lips, seeking to capture the feel of his mouth on hers, she collapsed on the sofa and pulled her legs under her. Well, and why shouldn’t he walk across the garden to the gym? Just because shewas taking a hiatus didn’t mean he had to. If he wouldn’t spend all day in bed with her, she knew without knowing he wouldn’t spend it anywhere else. Kincaid, quite simply, didn’t feel complete without a sword in his hand.
Two hours later, the rain had stopped, and cold or no cold, Sylvie was determined they were going to have a romantic Valentine’s retreat. A picnic on the hillside or the beach was out of the question. It was too damned cold for one thing. Too wet for another. There was a small, abandoned cottage in a nearby wood though… small enough that it boasted only a single room… large enough that it contained an operable fireplace. She’d discovered it as a child, had often made use of it in adolescence when she simply had to get away, had taken Kincaid there just once in the past five years. It was just the right place. No more than a ten minute drive, ten more minutes to get the fire going. They could pack a basket of easy foods, a bottle of Xavier’s wine, a couple of rugs from the closet…
She told Kincaid, and they set out shortly after tea. The sky was dark and leaden, lending a cloistering feeling to the air now the rain was past. With Kincaid behind the wheel, she hunkered into her Mack and navigated from her seat to his left. Their small basket sat on the seat behind them, the rugs beside the basket, and inside her Mack, she felt buoyed by the knowledge that soon they would be warmed by one another in ways no fireplace could hope to match.
The cabin stood just as she remembered it, and she followed Kincaid inside, appreciating the effortless way he carried both the basket laden with their fare and his own bulk, the smooth muscles sliding in perfect harmony beneath the snug denims. As they stepped over the threshold, he set the basket down just inside the doorway and turned to hand her across. He bent to kiss her thoroughly, and she slid her hands from the pockets of her Mack and up around his neck.
“All right, Mr. Blair, inside you go,” she said a little breathless, breaking away and taking a few steps inside the cabin. “We need a fire, and I do believe Ineed a drink if you don’t mind.”
Fire lit and wine poured, they returned to each other, too comfortable with their purpose and their love to rush to the wooden settle against the far wall of the small room. They talked, ate, toyed with each other mercilessly. After an hour or two, eyes slightly blurred from the wine, the smoke from the fire, and a long-smoldering desire, Sylvie decided it was time to oblige him. Handing Kincaid her wine glass, she pulled her feet from where they’d rested on his lap and sat up straight. With deft fingers, she reached behind her head and pulled loose the dozen pins holding her hair in its clumsy bun. When it fell in a cascade of spilled honey and amber, she heard his sudden intake of breath and couldn’t help a half-drunk smile of superiority from blooming across her face.
She managed to disrobe completely in record time, aided in no small part by the chill air in the cabin. Kincaid watched in silent appreciation, chuckling only when a sudden breeze caused her nipples to harden and the skin of her belly to break out in gooseflesh. Sylvie squealed and dashed for the quilted settle.
“Your turn,” she laughed from under its thin comfort. “And hurry! It’s bloody freezing in here!”
Not needing a second invitation, Kincaid rose and pulled his jersey over his head. He toed his shoes off and reached for the buckle on the belt around his denims. Sylvie watched each movement with the appreciation of the long in love and still admiring. He was a stunning man and he was hers. Why shouldn’t she watch? The denims hit the floor, and he stepped out of them.
That’s when she noticed them, and for a moment, she could do nothing but stare. Eventually, she coughed and cleared her throat.
“Where,” she said with great deliberation so as to not laugh aloud, “did you get those?”
Kincaid seemed confused and looked down the length of his naked body until his eyes met what hers couldn’t seem to stop looking at.
“What? My socks?”
“Yes, your socks.” Sylvie took care to continue in the same tone. She really didn’t want to offend him, but Sweet Goddess, she’d never seen anything quite like them. Never. Kincaid always wore the same sort of socks. Always. On ordinary days, training days and the like, he wore basic white athletic socks, thick and comfortable, sweat-absorbing so he didn’t work horrendous blisters onto his feet and ankles. On days requiring refinement, basic black trouser socks of the variety favored by Xavier and her father. Never had she seen anything quite so… garish.
“They were a gift from Declan. He said they’d be better at keeping my feet warm in the winter. They are warm, I’ll give him that. A little scratchy though.”
Kincaid’s face screwed up into something unsure. It was a look she was unaccustomed to seeing on his face, and it was harder still not to laugh.
“Well, darling, they’re scratchy because they’re woolly. I mean, woolen socks and in fuschia, Kincaid? Do you really not understand they were a gag?”
Kincaid laughed uncertainly. “Of course I thought they might be, but Declan seemed so sincere, and well, wool socks… seems practical.”
“And so they are, but not so much maybe on days like this and not in fuschia!”
Kincaid stood in the center of the cold little cabin shivering, and Sylvie finally took pity on him. Patting the bed, she smiled.
“Come on over here. The socks are fine, love, truly, I just didn’t expect them. If you like them, we can buy you more… perhaps in more sedate colors, but we can buy you more.” When he made no move to join her, Sylvie picked up a hank of hair and wagged it in his direction. “Come on… it’s got to be warmer in here than out there… though probably not by much…”
Finally, Kincaid took a step in her direction, then another, then another. Halfway to the bed, he paused and shook a warning finger.
“I’ll come, Sylvie, but it’s goddamned cold in here. I’m not taking the socks off.”
Fandom: Original Fiction
Prompt: Woolly
Warnings: Mild Language, Sexual Suggestion
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sylvie and Kincaid prepare to spend a romantic Valentine’s Day together.
Word Count: 1,759
Author’s Note: Still working from The Histories, I have a feeling I won’t work on any single ‘long’ piece, but each of these will have the same characters, etc., even though some will rotate in and out. This week, I’ve retained Sylvie from last week, but I’ve brought in her lover Kincaid. Hopefully, I’ll be able to revive Declan next week, as he’s one of my favorites.
Woolly. Tough prompt for me. {g}
Random Pages from the Histories, II
It wasn’t, of course, the most romantic of Valentine’s Days. It wasn’t the most romantic of any day for that matter. Sylvie questioned her sanity in even attempting to plan a getaway in the weather they were having. With a glare at the heavens and a curse aimed at all the gods, she pushed aside the edge of the curtain - again - and stamped her foot in frustration at the rain slaking down the leaded window in her father’s study. Still, it was Valentine’s Day, and for just a little while anyway, they were at peace.
No war. No enemy lurking behind the overgrown shrubbery. No training in the gym from dawn to dusk, sessions broken only by the need for strategy meetings around the kitchen table, mugs of steaming coffee and tea held between their hands.
University was behind her. For the moment, threat was banished. All that remained were vague plans for the future and this brief respite in Devon with her beloved. Well, that and the nebulous Valentine’s Day.
She’d wanted to do something special. No, not special. Extraordinary. Beyond extraordinary. Who in the name of the Goddess had decided Valentine’s should be in bloody February anyway? It was ridiculous.
With a sigh of disgust, she let the curtain drop and turned at the sound of footsteps approaching from the hall. Heavy footsteps. She smiled a small, secretive smile.
Kincaid entered the study soft-footed but big as the Cambrian Mountains, making her own five feet appear miniature, her seven stone no more than a few ounces. She smiled wider. If he were any more beautiful, she might swoon, and she detested women who swooned.
“Happy Valentine’s, love.” She reached on tiptoe with her lips pursed, and he bent obligingly to receive a quick kiss.
In answer, he swept one arm around her waist and lifted her off the floor, crushing her against his chest in one of the powerful death grips she’d learned were his way of assuring himself she was safe and simply there.
“Christ, Sylvie.”
“Stop being melodramatic, Kincaid, and do put me down. I’ve things to do.”
“What things?” he asked with interest, not putting her down but turning to brace her back against the wall.
“Plan our day for one. It’s going to wonderful…” she glanced to the closed curtains and sighed again. “Or it will be if the rain ever stops.”
“Hmm… sounds promising…” He bent and kissed her neck, just under the line of her jaw, causing a single, long tremor to run straight to the core of her and causing him to laugh as he felt it, the sound reverberating through his deep chest under which one of her hands lay.
“Do put me down,” she repeated without much force, and that time, he complied.
She turned away from him and walked back to the window, pushing aside the curtain and resuming her baleful vigil of the weather. Behind her, he spoke softly.
“Whatever these plan are, could they include you taking your hair down?”
Without turning, she smiled, sure he could see her reflection in the glass. She raised a hand to her head and felt the sloppy chignon at the back of her neck. She’d pulled it up only for helping her mother clean earlier. Unbound, it would fall to mid-thigh, would cover them both as they lay together, would spark just slightly brighter than his own dark blond crew cut. In the window, she looked and caught his chocolate gaze staring into her own eyes. Her smile widened.
“I believe that might be arranged.”
“Then finish your plans, my love. I’ll be in the gym with Etienne.”
He blew her a kiss and left, and she let the curtain fall again. Pressing the fingers of her hand to her lips, seeking to capture the feel of his mouth on hers, she collapsed on the sofa and pulled her legs under her. Well, and why shouldn’t he walk across the garden to the gym? Just because shewas taking a hiatus didn’t mean he had to. If he wouldn’t spend all day in bed with her, she knew without knowing he wouldn’t spend it anywhere else. Kincaid, quite simply, didn’t feel complete without a sword in his hand.
Two hours later, the rain had stopped, and cold or no cold, Sylvie was determined they were going to have a romantic Valentine’s retreat. A picnic on the hillside or the beach was out of the question. It was too damned cold for one thing. Too wet for another. There was a small, abandoned cottage in a nearby wood though… small enough that it boasted only a single room… large enough that it contained an operable fireplace. She’d discovered it as a child, had often made use of it in adolescence when she simply had to get away, had taken Kincaid there just once in the past five years. It was just the right place. No more than a ten minute drive, ten more minutes to get the fire going. They could pack a basket of easy foods, a bottle of Xavier’s wine, a couple of rugs from the closet…
She told Kincaid, and they set out shortly after tea. The sky was dark and leaden, lending a cloistering feeling to the air now the rain was past. With Kincaid behind the wheel, she hunkered into her Mack and navigated from her seat to his left. Their small basket sat on the seat behind them, the rugs beside the basket, and inside her Mack, she felt buoyed by the knowledge that soon they would be warmed by one another in ways no fireplace could hope to match.
The cabin stood just as she remembered it, and she followed Kincaid inside, appreciating the effortless way he carried both the basket laden with their fare and his own bulk, the smooth muscles sliding in perfect harmony beneath the snug denims. As they stepped over the threshold, he set the basket down just inside the doorway and turned to hand her across. He bent to kiss her thoroughly, and she slid her hands from the pockets of her Mack and up around his neck.
“All right, Mr. Blair, inside you go,” she said a little breathless, breaking away and taking a few steps inside the cabin. “We need a fire, and I do believe Ineed a drink if you don’t mind.”
Fire lit and wine poured, they returned to each other, too comfortable with their purpose and their love to rush to the wooden settle against the far wall of the small room. They talked, ate, toyed with each other mercilessly. After an hour or two, eyes slightly blurred from the wine, the smoke from the fire, and a long-smoldering desire, Sylvie decided it was time to oblige him. Handing Kincaid her wine glass, she pulled her feet from where they’d rested on his lap and sat up straight. With deft fingers, she reached behind her head and pulled loose the dozen pins holding her hair in its clumsy bun. When it fell in a cascade of spilled honey and amber, she heard his sudden intake of breath and couldn’t help a half-drunk smile of superiority from blooming across her face.
She managed to disrobe completely in record time, aided in no small part by the chill air in the cabin. Kincaid watched in silent appreciation, chuckling only when a sudden breeze caused her nipples to harden and the skin of her belly to break out in gooseflesh. Sylvie squealed and dashed for the quilted settle.
“Your turn,” she laughed from under its thin comfort. “And hurry! It’s bloody freezing in here!”
Not needing a second invitation, Kincaid rose and pulled his jersey over his head. He toed his shoes off and reached for the buckle on the belt around his denims. Sylvie watched each movement with the appreciation of the long in love and still admiring. He was a stunning man and he was hers. Why shouldn’t she watch? The denims hit the floor, and he stepped out of them.
That’s when she noticed them, and for a moment, she could do nothing but stare. Eventually, she coughed and cleared her throat.
“Where,” she said with great deliberation so as to not laugh aloud, “did you get those?”
Kincaid seemed confused and looked down the length of his naked body until his eyes met what hers couldn’t seem to stop looking at.
“What? My socks?”
“Yes, your socks.” Sylvie took care to continue in the same tone. She really didn’t want to offend him, but Sweet Goddess, she’d never seen anything quite like them. Never. Kincaid always wore the same sort of socks. Always. On ordinary days, training days and the like, he wore basic white athletic socks, thick and comfortable, sweat-absorbing so he didn’t work horrendous blisters onto his feet and ankles. On days requiring refinement, basic black trouser socks of the variety favored by Xavier and her father. Never had she seen anything quite so… garish.
“They were a gift from Declan. He said they’d be better at keeping my feet warm in the winter. They are warm, I’ll give him that. A little scratchy though.”
Kincaid’s face screwed up into something unsure. It was a look she was unaccustomed to seeing on his face, and it was harder still not to laugh.
“Well, darling, they’re scratchy because they’re woolly. I mean, woolen socks and in fuschia, Kincaid? Do you really not understand they were a gag?”
Kincaid laughed uncertainly. “Of course I thought they might be, but Declan seemed so sincere, and well, wool socks… seems practical.”
“And so they are, but not so much maybe on days like this and not in fuschia!”
Kincaid stood in the center of the cold little cabin shivering, and Sylvie finally took pity on him. Patting the bed, she smiled.
“Come on over here. The socks are fine, love, truly, I just didn’t expect them. If you like them, we can buy you more… perhaps in more sedate colors, but we can buy you more.” When he made no move to join her, Sylvie picked up a hank of hair and wagged it in his direction. “Come on… it’s got to be warmer in here than out there… though probably not by much…”
Finally, Kincaid took a step in her direction, then another, then another. Halfway to the bed, he paused and shook a warning finger.
“I’ll come, Sylvie, but it’s goddamned cold in here. I’m not taking the socks off.”
