you're too young & eager to love

Obscure moments of Emere's life pop into my mind all the time. I decided to write one down. Naturally, Maine is present and involved.

-




“Don’t you want to, I don’t know…” and Emere sounds sad, so sad, unlike her cold eyes and smiling mouth. A mouth of plums. Beguiling, so that Maine does not immediately recognize her tone of voice. “… Do something?”

“We are doing something.”

Emere shakes her head, stretches her arms and laughs. A ripple runs through Maine’s sternum at the sound. “No. Something lasting.”

“You need more pot.” With her paint splattered fingers (long and beautifully tapered), Maine tries to hand the half-smoked joint over to her left, but the other woman untangles herself and drinks longingly from a battle of Chopin vodka. Watching her and her movements, the fluid grace of her arms, the unintentional smooth turn of her hips, the way her dusky hands shake, Maine is struck with a feeling terrifyingly close to being serious. It’s unsettling.

“C’mon, lemon drop. Let’s make you right as rain.”

“You sound like Juniper.”

Maine takes that as a compliment.


-


New York is cruelly cold. The air is so frigid that Emere wears two coats, her dark hair tangled by the wind, the bottom half of her face mostly blanketed by a scarf. Maine is shivering but otherwise oddly unaffected. The taxi waiting by the curb honks impatiently and someone from the corner across the street yells obscenities.

“Look up.”

“I’ve seen Time Square, thanks.” Her hands are shaking so badly that she can barely light a cigarette. The wind makes her unstable in her heels. Emere has the beady-eyed look of a stubborn mare refusing to be broken, but Maine is patient. She chides under her breath and pulls on the brunette’s collar, buttons her coat more firmly against the chilled air, then tips her chin up with her fingertips.

Maine smells like paint thinner and negatives, heady marijuana smoke and cinnamon. Her fingers are dry and warm so Emere obliges, lifts her gaze to the top of the sky and the billboard that spans the tallest building. “You made that.” She tells her, soft and close to the shell of her ear.

“Your point? It’s a fucking advertisement.”

“In Time Square!” She digs her elbow into Emere’s side. “Stop ruining the moment, bitch.”

Emere laughs and, for a moment, leans her weight into the blonde.

My stepmother has switched all of the house-freshener scents to holiday smells. Our coffee creamers are even holiday flavored. As a result, I felt like writing some various fluffy holiday moment with a few characters. Except Henry and Penelope's is just fluff, but we'll assume it's set during the winter.

I'm too lazy for a cut.


-



After the leaves change, the temperature drops dramatically.

Addison covers her neck in warm scarves, red berry-colored for the season. Each night Mischa has to unwrap her like a present till the stretch of her pale throat shows, the life vein sweetly taunting. She asks if she tastes like gingerbread and powdered sugar, peppermint mocha, or eggnog.

She asks him for a fire while winding candy-canes into the branches of an oversized tree. It barely fits in her apartment. When he searches for matches and kindling, Addison stares as though disappointed. “You can’t just make one?”

“… I am making one.”

“No, with your mind, I meant.”

Mischa’s voice breaks. “Where do you get these ideas from?”

“Anne Rice. True Blood.”

“Mortal fancy.” He teases while almost getting chimney soot all over the palms of his white hands. “You probably think I sparkle too.”


-


Emere taps her foot against the floor. One hand dramatically on her hip and the other holding a martini, she stares at the stove.

“You have to turn it on. Preheat it.” Brando explains from his vantage point at the counter. Maine sits next to him, and she keeps hitting his ankle with her cold toes. She smells a little like pot and vodka and warm sugar cookies.

“Yes, thank you for the obvious statement.” Her hair has gotten too long, her brother notices. It falls far down her shoulders, scraping the middle of her spine. It’s almost as dark as the turtleneck she’s wearing, and he can tell that it’s cashmere without touching it.

Maine lights a cigarette. “C’mon hot stuff. I’m a hungry, hungry hippo.” She almost snorts from her own amusement; Emere hears it and snicker-scoffs, accidently swishing vodka from her glass when she turns to face her two guests.

“… Did any of us actually bring food to cook in the stove?”

Brando rubs his forehead, but Emere thinks she sees him grin. The tightness of his shoulders could be silent laughter. Maine hums with thought then shakes her head. “Nope, no ma’am. Not enough room for a turkey in my purse.”

“Right. I have uppers in my fridge. We don’t cook those.”

After a moment, Brando scoots his chair back and reaches for his cell phone. “How’s Chinese sound?”


-


Katerina’s skin is frozen, but she turns her face up to the wild night sky. The deep blackness above that is dashing down snow. It gets caught in her thick hair, in the fur around her shoulders, melts against the fabric of her dress.

“You’re going to catch your death out here.” Cassius flips his collar up closer, suppressing the desire to shiver.

“Impossible. In Russia we would have been blanketed by snow already. Your American winters are as weak as your American blood.”

“With my blood being the exception, of course, darling.” He kisses her hair when he steps close, and she laughs, curling against his arm and sharing the heavy weight of her fur.


-


Penelope curls deeper into the warmth of the bed. It’s feather soft now that she made Henry change the mattress.

It’s hard to see much more than a tangle of blonde hair. The blankets are less of a problem, but three Great Danes have sprawled themselves around her, breathing loud and forming a visual blockade.

Henry rubs his jaw. He needs to shave. It’s not much of a concern at the moment though since he’s more focused on trying to reclaim his side of the bed. He whistles softly, snaps his fingers. One of the dogs lifts its head and wags its whip-strong tail. The other two glance but look at him unconcernedly.

He sighs. Those dogs used to really be something, a monument to his patience and dedication, as loyal and ready to serve as any hellhound could be. Until Penelope spoiled them with treats and too many afternoon naps. His wife. Ever the unexpected interruption of his structured life.


-

My cat is trying to lick my nose while I type this >_>

Before I try to jump back into the sci-fi genre, I wanted to post some pure Emere and Mia fluff. To prove that they can, indeed, be fluffy. I had a lot more planned, but I ran out of steam because I got sleepy - which means it's just about nap time for me.

I'm amused that Emere's fluff somehow involves sex. Amused, yet not surprised.

-



Sitting Indian-style on the bed, drinking her black coffee, Emere says, “I can’t take care of you.”

Mia shifts beneath the blanket, her hips rolling in the direction of the other’s voice as her fingers search and find the warmth of her leg. “Good. I can’t take care of you either.”

Consenting, the Italian makes a noise though the rim of her coffee cup swallows it. “I was willing to look these details over, but it’s just not going to work.”

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Mia isn’t sure if she should start listening to the way her pulse has quickened. Emere sounds casual; she’s using her strictly business tone, and Mia imagines her sitting, using a mug that costs too much, looking at but not really reading the newspaper in her lap. Emere’s mostly just turning the pages to add noise to the still, morning air. “… What won’t?”

“You living with me. Your dog chases my cat. It keeps me up at night. Aren’t those types of dogs supposed to be helpful and obedient, not distracting?”

Shifting again, rolling even further towards the woman, a woman that may be, slowly, becoming hers, Mia bites her lip. She’s weighing the words, feeling a smile stretch the corners of her mouth hesitantly. “You want me to live with you?”

The bed dips when Emere moves, the newspaper rustles some before she places it on the end table. Now that she’s standing, Mia is left wondering about her location, but she thinks she feels the way Emere lifts her shoulders in a shrug through the air. “Think about it.” She suggests, pressing a kiss to her ear before leaving the bedroom, making Mia’s entire neck flush with warmth.

-

The chrome colored curtain rattles faintly, and Mia turns away fast, drawing an arm across her bare chest as if she’s cold. Emere steps into the shower behind her and draws the curtain. When she glances at the model, she sees an acre of pale skin; her eyes slid up over the bump of her collarbone, and then she moves past Mia, her Mediterranean body sliding against hers, until she’s standing under the spray of hot water. Her heavy hair darkens, sticks to the backs of her shoulders, when the water hits it.

It doesn’t make sense, but Mia’s too embarrassed to turn fully toward her - she’s all twisted up with panic and desire – but Emere makes everything easy by running her palms up her spine. Follows the knots and digs her fingers into the pressure points at the base of her neck. It makes her head loll, the steam and heat and fingers relaxing her. Emere buries her face in her hair and pulls her back, more firmly against her.

“Oh.” Mia breathes, and she’s about to twist around to kiss her when one of Emere’s hands slides down over her stomach and between her legs, pushing in and melting her spine. She almost loses her footing, but Emere has her: one arm curved around her narrow waist and her head bent so their cheeks touch.

Afterwards, she’s surprised when Emere touches her face and kisses her. There’s nothing smug about the action, just her full mouth against hers.

They both take towels, Emere looping her hair into a wet, messy ponytail that drips down her back. Sitting on the rim of ceramic that lines the shower, Mia wears her towel like a dress, rubs the cotton against her damp skin that’s still blotched red. She listens to Emere opening bathroom shelves, hears the tsk and groan of dissatisfaction.

“Your choice of product, Mia, is horrifying.”

Mia laughs loud enough that the noise reverberates off the walls.

So this is living together, she thinks, and it makes her laugh a little more.

-

Since I stayed up late, and felt inspired, I decided to write my Wednesday piece early. Extra early, since it's only 1:00 in the morning. This is smart planning, since Wednesday can sometimes be a busy day for me.

Anyway, here is some sweet and silly Addison and Mischa. Because they deserve as much care-free making out as possible. Especially after I wrote such sad things with them lately.

Addison is fun to write, because she can be so simple and happy. I don't have to get boggled down with metaphors or writing styles unless I feel like it. Also, I love writing anything with vampires <3 In case any person I know somehow missed that memo.

-


Being courted by a vampire is a strange thing.

Probably the strangest thing to happen to her, really, Addison thinks. Only slightly rivaled by the time a circus elephant got loose in her hometown and trampled the shed in her family’s backyard.

But this is definitely more interesting. She’s also relatively sure that Mischa, despite his adolescent looking body, can trample more than a shed – if need be. It’s a frightening concept, actually, or it would be, if he didn’t happen to be looking at her with such an expression of amusement. Reading her thoughts, maybe. She clears her throats, swings her arms up in a lovely arch.

“Ready?”

He nods, smiling with a mouth she thinks is beautiful, paleness and all.

Addison launches herself at him, smooth and deliberate leaps with her dancer’s legs, slinging her arms around his cold neck, and he lifts her up, and up, and up.

Mischa swings her in a circle. His arms are strong around her, and when he begins to relax them, to let her slide down again, she guides his face to hers, and takes his mouth. It’s softer than she expects, slack with surprise, but then his mouth firms up against hers, and he’s kissing her: kissing her like he wants to devour her.

It takes her a moment to realize that they’re still on stage after dance rehearsal in an empty theater. Another moment, and she also realizes that she’s the source of the noises she’s hearing. She’s groaning, fluttering noises of wet breath, struggling for composure, and to her surprise Mischa does not fight her. Her summer dress is rucked up around her thighs, and she tugs it down with one hand as she drops back to her feet. She smooths the fabric down and tucks loose strands of blonde hair behind her ears. Mischa stands there, a monument to silence and self-control, though she can read naked and monstrous longing in every line of his body, every faint twitch.

She runs her tongue over her bottom lip where his fangs brushed the skin, then tries to make her voice casual. “Would you like to walk me home?”