[lotrips] drabbles


Miranda threaded the leather reins through her fingers, waiting for the wrangler.

Dominic stepped closer.

"Isn't this uncomfortable?" Fingered the chain mail sleeve.

His hand twined in the reins with hers.

"It’s heavy. Restricting."

::::

He grinned, twisted her arm and she landed on his lap. They played blinking contests until they were touching noses. He pulled her hair when she worked the buckle on his left wrist.

Another hand closed on Dominic's wrist, pulled the strap firmly.

"Tighter, Miranda," said Cate.

“Harder, Dominic.”

::::

“You like him,” said Cate.

She tugged hard on the leather strap.

Miranda gasped.

“Yes.”

::




Early: not even five, but sunrise in summer. She sits reading in a camp chair, feet propped up on another, cap pulled low over sleep-bundled hair. One half-on sneaker has an untied shoelace.

She swings that foot to gesture at the passing - ears and feet, no wig - almost-hobbit.

"Morning, interchangeable minor hobbit," she grins, waggling her shoe. "Would you be so kind?"

His eyebrows raised in mock-offense, he stops and leans over the chair to tie the lace. Fingers circle behind her bare anklebones with little strokes. He watches her squirm as his touches become wandering tickles along her calves. Pokes his tongue out.

"Of course, interchangeable Australian blonde."

::




Statue tag Orlando whispers in her ear, I'll give you fifty and she goes. He counts. Miranda waits, alert breathing loud, wetly throbbing on a whole day's frustration. Blood thunders in her ears as she strains to listen for the whispered hands up and the twang and whoosh and thwack when the arrow embeds above her head.

You freeze when tagged. Gotta wait 'til someone goes between your legs.

He trails upandunder the white dress to push his fingers inside her and move his thumb in circles for her impatient gasps. He clamps over her mouth as she comes, clenching hot and strong with unfocused eyes.

"You're it," he says.

::





Choose the flat ones he says, greeneyed appraising the strewn implements on the counter. He examines the nibs one-by-one, absently stroking the tips across his outstretched palm.

This is what you want, he smiles. Picking up her hand he turns it, splays it flat against the glass and tickles angled metal in the soft hollow of her palm. It's flexible, but not too much. Sharp. Heavy He watches her eyes follow his fingers as he traces lazy patterns, lightly scratching flourishes that fade almost instantly, revelling in her shiver.

With careful strokes he writes his invitation.

::

She learns that the proper movement comes not from the fingers but from the wrist. She learns to squint to assess the balance of thick and thin strokes, of straight lines versus curves. She learns that the flourish - the graceful finish that completes a phrase - is the hardest thing to master.

Only now, when he is tracing the fine arc of a Y across her tailbone, the flourish seems ridiculously easy. She feels the wet swipe of indigo over her freckles, drenching tiny hairs. Acrid ink stings slightly where the pen has nicked her skin.

He blows warm breath across her back.

::