Fic: Meeting at Night
Aug. 29th, 2005 11:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
featherxquillTitle: Meeting At Night
Rating: R
Pairing: Sprout/Grubbly-Plank
Warning: HBP Spoilers, kind of.
A/N: Two birds with one stone: written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
inell's Girls Just Wanna Have Fun challenge, and angharad04's Pomona Sprout Appreciation Festival. Dedicated to tetleybag, because she's the biggest Grubbly-Plank fan on the face of the earth.
I.
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
II.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
-- Robert Browning, “Meeting at Night”
I land the broomstick on the deserted beach; the sand is soft beneath my boots. The light of the moon turns my hands blue and makes the ocean look like quicksilver. I stand and admire it for a moment, but this silent, still cool is nothing to the promise of warmth that she represents.
The grass is long, its tips tickle my palm as I weave through it, feeling dampness soaking into my feet, but not caring, just wanting to see her. Across one field, then another, over the hill, and there it is. A small cottage nestled in the trees. The moon reflects off the windows. I approach. All is dark within, but a quick tap at one of the windows and she is there, opening the door and welcoming me inside, beautiful with broken sleep, hair dishevelled and nightgown falling from one shoulder to reveal smooth skin dotted with sunspots.
I reach out and capture my unicorn in a passionate embrace, take her face between my palms and pull her toward me. Our lips meet, and our kiss is hungry, devouring, painful. Her letters have told me what has happened this year, but her kiss tells me how she has been affected. It is full of sorrow and longing and a desire to be held. I move close to her.
“Pomona.” My fingers rake through dishevelled curls, I trail them down her throat. Our bodies press against each other – the warmth I longed for, her delicious softness against my own sharp angles, and she is kissing my throat, pulling my flying robes off over my shoulders as we stumble back through the room toward the bed.
Somehow, she has stripped my robes and pushed me back on the bed in an instant, and she smiles as she kneels over me. Our faces are close, and her eyes locked with mine. “Wilhelmina.” Our names fit strangely together in a way that our bodies do not, so we use them sparingly. They are affirmation, reverence, claiming each other as our own.
She pulls the nightdress over her head, and the moonlight through the window gently captures her curves in shades of blue, splaying out across pale breast, belly and thigh, marking a map for my fingers, lips and eyes to explore.
I reach up and pull her down. She kisses me again and I am lost in it. Her fingers trail over my skin to twist a nipple; she smiles, attempting her cheeky life humour, but the expression does not reach her eyes. In her eyes there is a plea – a plea for comfort, for pleasure, for things that she feels guilty about because how dare she ask for what makes her happy when someone close to her has just been buried, when the wizarding world has become a darker place for the loss of him. She asks them of me, begs, and entreats me to grant her the release she needs, and not judge her for wanting it.
Animals are much the same as humans, in the end; they respond to touch, gentle but firm, and kind words, even if they make no sense. I trail kisses over her throat, whispering against her skin. My fingers caress her belly, and she makes little noises of pleasure in my ear. I stroke her and urge her as I would a beautiful beast, even as her hands cup me and lift me and inspire me to grow like some vast plant, twining about her and trapping her in my eager embrace, kisses against her skin, soft as the smooth flesh of leaves, sinking into this bed that is our garden, and melting up from it into potent, heady release.
I take nothing from her tonight, but I give her all that is within me, and that alone is enough. When she cries out and holds fast to me, I don’t stop, but whisper nothing words in her ear and pull a second and third orgasm from her body like notes from a violin, riding the wave with her and hearing the moans leave her lips, taking everything with them – that fierce passion, that exquisite pain, and the deep, empty grief that had settled like iron weight in her veins. When she can take no more, I release her, and we fall, sweaty, into each other’s arms. I hold her fast and close to me, and feel our hearts beating against each other.
She gasps for breath, finding her voice. “Oh, God, Mina, the funeral was horrible. Seeing him lying there was just so…”
She cannot find the word, but I know it – final. I stroke her hair; press my lips against her forehead. My voice is a whisper. “I know, Mona. I know.”
She reaches back and pulls the covers over us, then burrows back in against me, holding on as though she thinks I’m going to disappear. The room settles into silence but for our shared breathing, the occasional rustle of the sheets, the sound of crickets outside in the field. Sleep tugs at me, but I refuse it, wanting to remain sentinel over her until slumber takes her. Lightly, I trace her forehead, twist one of her curls around my finger, and she murmurs a quiet thankyou against me, and within minutes her quiet snores break the silence.
Many would suggest that we should be opposed; plants and animals, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, but we love, we support, we encourage growth, whether in animals, plants, students, or each other, and I love her even when the Hogwarts year forces us apart, when she’s covered from head to toe in dirt, or when she falls asleep in my arms and her snores keep me awake. It is this house that she comes back to, this home to which I return. My Pomona.
Rating: R
Pairing: Sprout/Grubbly-Plank
Warning: HBP Spoilers, kind of.
A/N: Two birds with one stone: written for
inell's Girls Just Wanna Have Fun challenge, and angharad04's Pomona Sprout Appreciation Festival. Dedicated to tetleybag, because she's the biggest Grubbly-Plank fan on the face of the earth.The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
II.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
-- Robert Browning, “Meeting at Night”
I land the broomstick on the deserted beach; the sand is soft beneath my boots. The light of the moon turns my hands blue and makes the ocean look like quicksilver. I stand and admire it for a moment, but this silent, still cool is nothing to the promise of warmth that she represents.
The grass is long, its tips tickle my palm as I weave through it, feeling dampness soaking into my feet, but not caring, just wanting to see her. Across one field, then another, over the hill, and there it is. A small cottage nestled in the trees. The moon reflects off the windows. I approach. All is dark within, but a quick tap at one of the windows and she is there, opening the door and welcoming me inside, beautiful with broken sleep, hair dishevelled and nightgown falling from one shoulder to reveal smooth skin dotted with sunspots.
I reach out and capture my unicorn in a passionate embrace, take her face between my palms and pull her toward me. Our lips meet, and our kiss is hungry, devouring, painful. Her letters have told me what has happened this year, but her kiss tells me how she has been affected. It is full of sorrow and longing and a desire to be held. I move close to her.
“Pomona.” My fingers rake through dishevelled curls, I trail them down her throat. Our bodies press against each other – the warmth I longed for, her delicious softness against my own sharp angles, and she is kissing my throat, pulling my flying robes off over my shoulders as we stumble back through the room toward the bed.
Somehow, she has stripped my robes and pushed me back on the bed in an instant, and she smiles as she kneels over me. Our faces are close, and her eyes locked with mine. “Wilhelmina.” Our names fit strangely together in a way that our bodies do not, so we use them sparingly. They are affirmation, reverence, claiming each other as our own.
She pulls the nightdress over her head, and the moonlight through the window gently captures her curves in shades of blue, splaying out across pale breast, belly and thigh, marking a map for my fingers, lips and eyes to explore.
I reach up and pull her down. She kisses me again and I am lost in it. Her fingers trail over my skin to twist a nipple; she smiles, attempting her cheeky life humour, but the expression does not reach her eyes. In her eyes there is a plea – a plea for comfort, for pleasure, for things that she feels guilty about because how dare she ask for what makes her happy when someone close to her has just been buried, when the wizarding world has become a darker place for the loss of him. She asks them of me, begs, and entreats me to grant her the release she needs, and not judge her for wanting it.
Animals are much the same as humans, in the end; they respond to touch, gentle but firm, and kind words, even if they make no sense. I trail kisses over her throat, whispering against her skin. My fingers caress her belly, and she makes little noises of pleasure in my ear. I stroke her and urge her as I would a beautiful beast, even as her hands cup me and lift me and inspire me to grow like some vast plant, twining about her and trapping her in my eager embrace, kisses against her skin, soft as the smooth flesh of leaves, sinking into this bed that is our garden, and melting up from it into potent, heady release.
I take nothing from her tonight, but I give her all that is within me, and that alone is enough. When she cries out and holds fast to me, I don’t stop, but whisper nothing words in her ear and pull a second and third orgasm from her body like notes from a violin, riding the wave with her and hearing the moans leave her lips, taking everything with them – that fierce passion, that exquisite pain, and the deep, empty grief that had settled like iron weight in her veins. When she can take no more, I release her, and we fall, sweaty, into each other’s arms. I hold her fast and close to me, and feel our hearts beating against each other.
She gasps for breath, finding her voice. “Oh, God, Mina, the funeral was horrible. Seeing him lying there was just so…”
She cannot find the word, but I know it – final. I stroke her hair; press my lips against her forehead. My voice is a whisper. “I know, Mona. I know.”
She reaches back and pulls the covers over us, then burrows back in against me, holding on as though she thinks I’m going to disappear. The room settles into silence but for our shared breathing, the occasional rustle of the sheets, the sound of crickets outside in the field. Sleep tugs at me, but I refuse it, wanting to remain sentinel over her until slumber takes her. Lightly, I trace her forehead, twist one of her curls around my finger, and she murmurs a quiet thankyou against me, and within minutes her quiet snores break the silence.
Many would suggest that we should be opposed; plants and animals, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, but we love, we support, we encourage growth, whether in animals, plants, students, or each other, and I love her even when the Hogwarts year forces us apart, when she’s covered from head to toe in dirt, or when she falls asleep in my arms and her snores keep me awake. It is this house that she comes back to, this home to which I return. My Pomona.
