the androgynous keeper of plushfrogs (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crossfortune) wrote2011-07-04 04:17 am
crossfortune) wrote2011-07-04 04:17 am
Entry tags:
breaking the silence;
Title: breaking the silence
fandom: World of Darkness (Mage: The Awakening)
square: worship
word count: 555
summary: You prefer the quiet, know the silence quite well.
content notes: no standard notes apply: remembered transphobia directed at the narrator in hir past.
Sullivan holds your wrists, his weight holds you facedown in his silk sheets, as he talks to you. Just talks, for now, which is natural for him: he's never quiet unless he's asleep (and you have your doubts on that, too), he talks constantly unless he's actually being stealthy and you have no doubts that he monologues in his head the entire time. Sometimes, or rather more than sometimes, you wish you could gag him with his own cravat, especially when you have to talk to your famuli, to give them instructions and get reports: between him, Macha, and Helvetica, you have enough talking to last you a year in a single hour or less, at least Briar is quiet until she starts talking about roses and then she's as bad as the rest of them.
You prefer quiet, know the silence quite well, which is quite possibly why Sullivan tries to talk to you as much as he can, especially now, trying to make you squirm, push you past what you know, break the silence.
"Pretty," he whispers, lying over you with his lips pressed against your ear: you always hated to be called pretty when you were younger, pretty girl, such a pretty daughter, but you don't know how Sullivan does it, with just his voice and how he says it he twists the word into something else, something different entirely, not the pretty that so hurt you as a child and teenager, shades of High Speech bleeding in to change the word to reflect your nature rather then what they'd tried to define you as. "Pretty androgyne," and you tremble and blush hearing the desire in his voice, how he says androgyne as if it, you, were the most desirable thing in the world rather than simply you trapped in this imperfect body, and it's something you never knew you needed to hear until now, because no one had ever said anything of the like before to you and all you'd wanted for years had been someone to tell you that your answer to the question of your own identity was right, even only one person, and then you realized that you wanted this, too.
Later, you expect that you would be irritated that Sullivan of all people, Eleventh Question though he is, was the one to figure it out when you didn't even know yourself, irritated that you can't seem to stop coming to his bed when you should know better. You've been a Guardian of the Veil since you were thirteen years old, you knew before you were entirely aware of what sex was that such attachments between Guardians was completely inappropriate beyond simply the superficial and yet you keep coming to him like this, give up control and let him tear down your masks to see your truth, break the silence that you live even if only for a moment. You should be logical, you should stop this, but logic is rather far away right now, everything hazy.
"Hold," he says, clear and firm, as you try to move with the faint fragments of thought left to you, and without thinking, you still. "Good," Sullivan murmurs and bends his head again, whispering in your ear, caressing with his voice: taking you apart and putting you back together.
fandom: World of Darkness (Mage: The Awakening)
square: worship
word count: 555
summary: You prefer the quiet, know the silence quite well.
content notes: no standard notes apply: remembered transphobia directed at the narrator in hir past.
Sullivan holds your wrists, his weight holds you facedown in his silk sheets, as he talks to you. Just talks, for now, which is natural for him: he's never quiet unless he's asleep (and you have your doubts on that, too), he talks constantly unless he's actually being stealthy and you have no doubts that he monologues in his head the entire time. Sometimes, or rather more than sometimes, you wish you could gag him with his own cravat, especially when you have to talk to your famuli, to give them instructions and get reports: between him, Macha, and Helvetica, you have enough talking to last you a year in a single hour or less, at least Briar is quiet until she starts talking about roses and then she's as bad as the rest of them.
You prefer quiet, know the silence quite well, which is quite possibly why Sullivan tries to talk to you as much as he can, especially now, trying to make you squirm, push you past what you know, break the silence.
"Pretty," he whispers, lying over you with his lips pressed against your ear: you always hated to be called pretty when you were younger, pretty girl, such a pretty daughter, but you don't know how Sullivan does it, with just his voice and how he says it he twists the word into something else, something different entirely, not the pretty that so hurt you as a child and teenager, shades of High Speech bleeding in to change the word to reflect your nature rather then what they'd tried to define you as. "Pretty androgyne," and you tremble and blush hearing the desire in his voice, how he says androgyne as if it, you, were the most desirable thing in the world rather than simply you trapped in this imperfect body, and it's something you never knew you needed to hear until now, because no one had ever said anything of the like before to you and all you'd wanted for years had been someone to tell you that your answer to the question of your own identity was right, even only one person, and then you realized that you wanted this, too.
Later, you expect that you would be irritated that Sullivan of all people, Eleventh Question though he is, was the one to figure it out when you didn't even know yourself, irritated that you can't seem to stop coming to his bed when you should know better. You've been a Guardian of the Veil since you were thirteen years old, you knew before you were entirely aware of what sex was that such attachments between Guardians was completely inappropriate beyond simply the superficial and yet you keep coming to him like this, give up control and let him tear down your masks to see your truth, break the silence that you live even if only for a moment. You should be logical, you should stop this, but logic is rather far away right now, everything hazy.
"Hold," he says, clear and firm, as you try to move with the faint fragments of thought left to you, and without thinking, you still. "Good," Sullivan murmurs and bends his head again, whispering in your ear, caressing with his voice: taking you apart and putting you back together.