The sweet up-tempo bass line reverberated in her core like it was coming from the earth itself, shaking the translucent stems of grass that teased prickling across her cheek, poked into her ear. The picture in front of her was framed by the bright green blades: tanned ankles, bright-colored flip-flops, tattooed feet, bright purple toenails, bare feet, anklets with bells that tingled, unheard under the notes that scattered the air, the dirt, the clouds. Morgana closed her eyes, tumbled onto her back, stretched her arms high above her, far enough that she could feel the pull in the backs of her shoulders, far enough that, if she kept her eyes closed, she could imagine herself reaching out and tugging the clouds from the sky, wrapping herself in the billowy air and toppling down the hill, the clouds like a comforter, breaking her fall, keeping her safe as she spun to the beat. With an exhale, a torrent of air wooshing from the base of her belly to the back of throat to join the air swimming around her, she flung her arms wide to the side into a T, opening her lungs, her heart, herself to everything that flickered and moved and danced and lived above her around her underneath her. The sun bloomed its warmth on her face and she dug her toes into the grainy dirt, waved her shoulders from side to side in time with the floaty spinning feet around her, felt a wide grin splitting her face. She was jitterbugging with the earth, with the energy spiraling around her, with the music that coiled its way into her chest.
Over the bright see-through red pushing down on her eyelids, a shadow fell. Morgana opened her eyes. Backlit by an aura of gleaming white sunshine, a woman stood at her shoulder, wild curly dark hair pinned back with strings of pearls and violets, brown eyes intent and warm, smile creases at the edges of kissable lips. A purple and white flowered sundress skimmed high above her dusky, strong thighs, and Morgana wanted nothing more than to peek under it, to taste her skin. The sweet silence that grew between them as they watched each other was the nicest way to say hello, Morgana decided.
The woman cocked her head, bit her full lip. “I like the way you dance,” she said dreamily, the words loose and smooth like thick vanilla ice cream on her tongue.
Morgana reached out to curl her fingers around the woman’s ankle, trailed up the soft muscle of her calf, kneaded behind her shin, ran the backs of her short fingernails over the tender flesh behind her knee. From this angle, Morgana could watch the quickening rise and fall of her breasts under the dress’s tight fabric. The woman closed her eyes, eyelashes dark and thick, and Morgana felt herself damp and hot between her legs, desire warm and lazy diffusing into her bloodstream like the heavy punch of too much wine.
“C’mere, then,” Morgana grinned at her, exerting just enough pressure on the warm skin of the woman’s thighs.
The woman held Morgana’s gaze, looked at her like she knew her, like she knew exactly what Morgana wanted, like her hands had mapped Morgana’s body a thousand times, like she could already taste her on her tongue. She sank ever so slowly to her knees, straddling Morgana’s waist. A needy, shivering sound keened from the back of Morgana’s throat, and she latched both arms around the woman’s neck, hauled her closer.
“Hi,” the woman sighed, lightly brushing the tip of her nose against Morgana’s twice.
“Hey there,” Morgana replied, tightness like spun sugar coiling in her core, in her throat, in her voice.
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while our blood's still young 1/2 (warnings for public sex, and possible drug use)
Date: 2011-09-05 11:52 pm (UTC)Over the bright see-through red pushing down on her eyelids, a shadow fell. Morgana opened her eyes. Backlit by an aura of gleaming white sunshine, a woman stood at her shoulder, wild curly dark hair pinned back with strings of pearls and violets, brown eyes intent and warm, smile creases at the edges of kissable lips. A purple and white flowered sundress skimmed high above her dusky, strong thighs, and Morgana wanted nothing more than to peek under it, to taste her skin. The sweet silence that grew between them as they watched each other was the nicest way to say hello, Morgana decided.
The woman cocked her head, bit her full lip. “I like the way you dance,” she said dreamily, the words loose and smooth like thick vanilla ice cream on her tongue.
Morgana reached out to curl her fingers around the woman’s ankle, trailed up the soft muscle of her calf, kneaded behind her shin, ran the backs of her short fingernails over the tender flesh behind her knee. From this angle, Morgana could watch the quickening rise and fall of her breasts under the dress’s tight fabric. The woman closed her eyes, eyelashes dark and thick, and Morgana felt herself damp and hot between her legs, desire warm and lazy diffusing into her bloodstream like the heavy punch of too much wine.
“C’mere, then,” Morgana grinned at her, exerting just enough pressure on the warm skin of the woman’s thighs.
The woman held Morgana’s gaze, looked at her like she knew her, like she knew exactly what Morgana wanted, like her hands had mapped Morgana’s body a thousand times, like she could already taste her on her tongue. She sank ever so slowly to her knees, straddling Morgana’s waist. A needy, shivering sound keened from the back of Morgana’s throat, and she latched both arms around the woman’s neck, hauled her closer.
“Hi,” the woman sighed, lightly brushing the tip of her nose against Morgana’s twice.
“Hey there,” Morgana replied, tightness like spun sugar coiling in her core, in her throat, in her voice.