eldorne_girl | (no subject)

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[being warm seems like a luxury after so long being cold, and being able to run around in bare feet and a singlet top seems almost sinfully nice]

[if Tortallans and Delia had a strong idea about 'sin', that is]

[leaving that aside, Delia is out in the greenhouse. It's night, but it's summer and so thus it's jeans and bare feet and a lavender top with spaghetti straps and a few layers of sheer, lovely fabric - Indy bought it for her, on their trip to London, but she doesn't think about that. Instead, she just walks through and trails her fingers against the flowers]

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"You can always remind me," breath uneven.

Josie's eyes are closed now, forehead hot resting against Delia's neck, one hand clutching the back of her neck, the other hooked into her waistband.

What if, what would they see? Two girls embracing, long skirts wrapped around them. The blonde hanging onto the brunette as if her legs won't support her, trembling slightly.

I intend to.

[uneven is good, but speechless would be better - flattering to the ego, that someone could make tall, elegant and fragile Josiane whimper and moan because of the things that your fingers are doing...

and Delia's always had a weakness for things that improve the ego]

Whimper - her breath is catching in the back of her throat, high and near-sobbing. Moan - oh, she does, softly, needing, lips hot and wet against Delia's throat.

"Delia. . ." And her legs won't hold any more, and she sinks to the floor, pulling Delia with her. Propriety be damned, open doors be damned.

[and there's that laugh again, dark and breathy and boys and men have fought each other to have that laugh directed at them]

[but this is what she wanted, Josiane of the Copper Isles, perfect blonde scion of the Rittevon line in all their madness and beauty, whimpering and moaning and pulling her to the ground.]

[the dress may never be the same again, but that's not the point, is it?]

Of course it wasn't the point. The point is, that however long they may be apart, whatever either one of them is doing, they will always have each other. Always and forever, Josie thinks, always and always and always.

If she can think, that is, for Delia is wicked.

[indeed Delia is. A very wicked child, the Daughters used to say at the convent.]

[not that Delia is thinking of the convent now, of course, not when she strokes her fingers like that and brushes her knuckles against Josie just there...]

No, Josie really isn't thinking of anything at all, beyond stars behind her eyelids and fire in her belly and earth beneath her hands and Delia above her. She cries out, and tips her head back.

[Delia just watches her, props herself up on her free hand and watches Josie writhe and cry out beneath her and clever, clever fingers]

[and after Josie cries out and arches her back, Delia ducks her head down and kisses her gently. Lovingly.]

Josie kisses Delia as if she's afraid she'll never have her again, as if this were their last moment together. Grips Delia's wrist tightly in her fingers, steely beyond their delicacy.

At last, is limp beneath her, face turned to the side, cheek in the dirt. Hardly perfect now, mussed and dusty. Hair tangled, dress ruined.

"Oh."

I love you.

[Delia whispers, reaching up to stroke Josie's hair.]

"Truly?"

Not her usual imperious tone, not confident at all.

"Truly and for always? You wno't leave me?"

[Delia's lovely face is serious, intent]

Never. Never, ever, ever. I will never leave you, Josie. I promise.

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