you're too young & eager to love (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
impertinences) wrote2016-05-15 05:50 pm
impertinences) wrote2016-05-15 05:50 pm
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Blurbs! Because I didn't feel like writing an actual piece.
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“You tart,” he teases, his mouth on the inside of your wrist, blunt teeth biting lightly.
There must be a sudden shift that happens in your eyes, a stillness in your fingers, because he pauses (he has been doing this for months now – reading the subtle signs your body makes and interpreting them the way gypsies interpret palms). He is soft again, smoothing his hand across your cheek, brushing a thumb over your rose bud mouth. “I am sorry.”
You are not used to this – a member of royalty apologizing to you with all the genuineness of a man of the cloth. You still think yourself a child, at times, hiding behind the heavy curtains in your father’s library. You have the good grace to shake your head, catching his thumb in your mouth, voice hot on his skin, “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
Gerhard makes a quiet noise of agreement.
“Do you sometimes feel much older than your years?”
“I’m a crown prince of Cissai. I feel a hundred.”
You slap his shoulder, squeaking in the way you know amuses him when he catches your wrist and waist with both hands, pulling you to his lap. There is the rustle of your skirts against his legs, the scratch of his beard on your neck, and the heat of him that is always, somehow, gentle rather than scorching. It would not even burn the lace of your bodice, so you lean into it with craving.
“Peaches,” Renan said without lifting his eyes from the map of boundary territories he was perusing. “She smells like peach blossom.”
Miriam turned her shrewd gaze to her second son, the black of her mourning dress making the sharpness of her gaze all the bluer. She arched a thin eyebrow. “How observant of you.”
“Now, mother, ask Gerhard if she tastes like it too.”
Your riding jacket is torn. You notice it when your horses have slowed. You father taught you to never stop a sweating mare, to let them walk after a heavy run, till the sweat cooled on their coats. You have always loved riding, have always loved the feel of the beast beneath you, its power and endurance somehow transferring to you the more you leaned into its breakneck speed.
Only your ride today has done nothing but tousle your pretty blonde hair, flush your cheeks, and rip your right sleeve. You think it appropriate, really, this red-faced and sweaty look. The expensive velvet, as yellow as daffodils, makes you look gilded. The flesh of your arm is white beneath, cream to be licked. Only Renan is like a child with a new toy, overzealous, preferring to break in his eagerness than savor. You keep expecting to bruise but your body’s stamina continues to surprise you.
Renan watches you as though you are his prize, a trophy provided to him by right and heritage rather than earned with merit. He does not shy away from his brother’s gaze when the two of you bring the horses to the stables, Renan’s stallion a pace above your own. He is King now. He will never have to hide his gaze again.
You cannot say the same.
-
“You tart,” he teases, his mouth on the inside of your wrist, blunt teeth biting lightly.
There must be a sudden shift that happens in your eyes, a stillness in your fingers, because he pauses (he has been doing this for months now – reading the subtle signs your body makes and interpreting them the way gypsies interpret palms). He is soft again, smoothing his hand across your cheek, brushing a thumb over your rose bud mouth. “I am sorry.”
You are not used to this – a member of royalty apologizing to you with all the genuineness of a man of the cloth. You still think yourself a child, at times, hiding behind the heavy curtains in your father’s library. You have the good grace to shake your head, catching his thumb in your mouth, voice hot on his skin, “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
Gerhard makes a quiet noise of agreement.
“Do you sometimes feel much older than your years?”
“I’m a crown prince of Cissai. I feel a hundred.”
You slap his shoulder, squeaking in the way you know amuses him when he catches your wrist and waist with both hands, pulling you to his lap. There is the rustle of your skirts against his legs, the scratch of his beard on your neck, and the heat of him that is always, somehow, gentle rather than scorching. It would not even burn the lace of your bodice, so you lean into it with craving.
“Peaches,” Renan said without lifting his eyes from the map of boundary territories he was perusing. “She smells like peach blossom.”
Miriam turned her shrewd gaze to her second son, the black of her mourning dress making the sharpness of her gaze all the bluer. She arched a thin eyebrow. “How observant of you.”
“Now, mother, ask Gerhard if she tastes like it too.”
Your riding jacket is torn. You notice it when your horses have slowed. You father taught you to never stop a sweating mare, to let them walk after a heavy run, till the sweat cooled on their coats. You have always loved riding, have always loved the feel of the beast beneath you, its power and endurance somehow transferring to you the more you leaned into its breakneck speed.
Only your ride today has done nothing but tousle your pretty blonde hair, flush your cheeks, and rip your right sleeve. You think it appropriate, really, this red-faced and sweaty look. The expensive velvet, as yellow as daffodils, makes you look gilded. The flesh of your arm is white beneath, cream to be licked. Only Renan is like a child with a new toy, overzealous, preferring to break in his eagerness than savor. You keep expecting to bruise but your body’s stamina continues to surprise you.
Renan watches you as though you are his prize, a trophy provided to him by right and heritage rather than earned with merit. He does not shy away from his brother’s gaze when the two of you bring the horses to the stables, Renan’s stallion a pace above your own. He is King now. He will never have to hide his gaze again.
You cannot say the same.