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Entry tags:
neapolitan
Title: Neapolitan
Rating: PG
Genre: Guess we're going with urban fantasy
Wordcount: 668
Warnings: Sort of both post- and pre-smut. Far from graphic.
Remarks: Jester is mine; Pyre is Quixote's.
She is still lying sprawled across the bed on her stomach when he gets back, chin on her folded arms and one leg stretched out straight in counterpoint to the other bent behind her at the knee. Without the highlights of clothing or inner wing, she looks like little more than the shadow of rumpled sheets, but the movement on the TV screen is reflected in the glitter of eyes and the dangling foot is bobbing very slightly to some internal rhythm, giving a hint of life to the scene.
He picks his way over the side of the bed with care—it is somehow much easier to trip on Pyre’s tangled jeans than any other kind of clothing in existence—and settles into place by one narrow hip, not bothering to try and reclaim the pillow from under curled toes. A glance at the TV shows some kind of documentary on textiles, which is as unexpected as it is uninteresting; October usually promises at least one monster movie will be available at any given moment. Another time he might pout and poke and test her indulgence, but the prize he has gleefully cradled against his chest outweighs even the tackiest special effects, and on sheer impulse he leans over to gently nip the toes hanging so invitingly near his face.
She doesn’t jump, but there is a low hiss like an alley-cat’s warning, and braided beads click together faintly as her head turns just enough to angle a crimson eye his way. For once he doesn’t bother with grand announcements, just lifts the chilled bowl up to catch the light of the TV and trusts that it will carry its own fanfare. He’s proven right when she twists further, rolling almost onto her side entirely and pushing up onto one elbow. She scrutinises the offering a little longer, gaze flicking between the bowl and his broad grin, and then holds out a hand in acceptance.
Jester draws the bowl back, clucking his tongue; the room is already warm and ice-cream in Pyre’s hands has a very short lifespan as a solid entity. Her eyes narrow, but she makes no move to sit up, and when he doesn’t relent she deliberately turns away again, putting him in her periphery as she looks back towards the TV. He can still see the sliver of an eye, though, and that’s enough for him to pick up the spoon with equal deliberation, scraping it around the edge to get the full sound of metal on ceramic as he curls a sizeable scoop from the softening dessert. It’s not entirely for her sake that he hums when he sticks it in his mouth, the Neapolitan blend holding its own as a classic.
She moves in a flash, a snake from the grass, and it startles him enough that he almost jerks away. Her hand on the back of his head prevents such an escape, fingers gripping firmly enough that the nails just prick the skin, and then her mouth is on his and her tongue swirls past lips and teeth. The spoon is pinned somewhere between them, his arm twisted to the point of strain, but it’s a distant discomfort at best compared to hot breath and cold sweetness, smoke and strawberry, her small breasts pressed against his shoulder.
He chokes a little without meaning to, vanilla sliding too far back in his throat, and she lets him go so he can swallow what’s left of his mouthful properly. It’s something of a messy detachment, and he swipes a hand across his face like he’s twelve instead of twenty-something-maybe. Pyre just settles back, her legs folded under her, and licks her lips in slow consideration and noticeable smugness. The TV flicker casts odd shadows past her silhouette, a broken halo playing across chocolate skin. He tilts the bowl towards her already knowing the answer, and when she just smiles he decides it’s a good thing he doesn’t care much for this shirt.
Rating: PG
Genre: Guess we're going with urban fantasy
Wordcount: 668
Warnings: Sort of both post- and pre-smut. Far from graphic.
Remarks: Jester is mine; Pyre is Quixote's.
She is still lying sprawled across the bed on her stomach when he gets back, chin on her folded arms and one leg stretched out straight in counterpoint to the other bent behind her at the knee. Without the highlights of clothing or inner wing, she looks like little more than the shadow of rumpled sheets, but the movement on the TV screen is reflected in the glitter of eyes and the dangling foot is bobbing very slightly to some internal rhythm, giving a hint of life to the scene.
He picks his way over the side of the bed with care—it is somehow much easier to trip on Pyre’s tangled jeans than any other kind of clothing in existence—and settles into place by one narrow hip, not bothering to try and reclaim the pillow from under curled toes. A glance at the TV shows some kind of documentary on textiles, which is as unexpected as it is uninteresting; October usually promises at least one monster movie will be available at any given moment. Another time he might pout and poke and test her indulgence, but the prize he has gleefully cradled against his chest outweighs even the tackiest special effects, and on sheer impulse he leans over to gently nip the toes hanging so invitingly near his face.
She doesn’t jump, but there is a low hiss like an alley-cat’s warning, and braided beads click together faintly as her head turns just enough to angle a crimson eye his way. For once he doesn’t bother with grand announcements, just lifts the chilled bowl up to catch the light of the TV and trusts that it will carry its own fanfare. He’s proven right when she twists further, rolling almost onto her side entirely and pushing up onto one elbow. She scrutinises the offering a little longer, gaze flicking between the bowl and his broad grin, and then holds out a hand in acceptance.
Jester draws the bowl back, clucking his tongue; the room is already warm and ice-cream in Pyre’s hands has a very short lifespan as a solid entity. Her eyes narrow, but she makes no move to sit up, and when he doesn’t relent she deliberately turns away again, putting him in her periphery as she looks back towards the TV. He can still see the sliver of an eye, though, and that’s enough for him to pick up the spoon with equal deliberation, scraping it around the edge to get the full sound of metal on ceramic as he curls a sizeable scoop from the softening dessert. It’s not entirely for her sake that he hums when he sticks it in his mouth, the Neapolitan blend holding its own as a classic.
She moves in a flash, a snake from the grass, and it startles him enough that he almost jerks away. Her hand on the back of his head prevents such an escape, fingers gripping firmly enough that the nails just prick the skin, and then her mouth is on his and her tongue swirls past lips and teeth. The spoon is pinned somewhere between them, his arm twisted to the point of strain, but it’s a distant discomfort at best compared to hot breath and cold sweetness, smoke and strawberry, her small breasts pressed against his shoulder.
He chokes a little without meaning to, vanilla sliding too far back in his throat, and she lets him go so he can swallow what’s left of his mouthful properly. It’s something of a messy detachment, and he swipes a hand across his face like he’s twelve instead of twenty-something-maybe. Pyre just settles back, her legs folded under her, and licks her lips in slow consideration and noticeable smugness. The TV flicker casts odd shadows past her silhouette, a broken halo playing across chocolate skin. He tilts the bowl towards her already knowing the answer, and when she just smiles he decides it’s a good thing he doesn’t care much for this shirt.