story excerpt
Jan. 22nd, 2007 01:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tinprafrom, what i hope will be, the next part of my Little Wing story. i managed to finish a scene i had been working on for ages, due in part to some "Hey, I like this!" from friend-matt but...the muse left me. i know exactly where this story is going but it's how to get there. anywho, the beginning of the next chapter? maybe?
Frustrated, Remy rested his forehead in ball of his right hand. His fingers pushed smoothly into hair that was getting a bit too long for the role he was playing. Or maybe not, all things considered.
His fingers had memories of their own, of lushly thick hair: straight as pin, twisting and turning like a rollercoaster ride, waves that seemed to pulse as his hand moved through it.
One of his memories came and sat herself on his lap. She positioned herself so that if he opened his eyes he would be staring into hers. “Don’t worry,” she said, in that new voice that fit her body but not her. “He’s coming.” It was the timbre. “It will work out.” It was all wrong.
She slipped off his lap, sliding along his body. He heard her step into her shoes and pick up the trailing end of a dress that, even hemmed, was too long. He thought he knew where she was going – to admire the displayed loaned Faberge collection – but wouldn’t take his head out of his hand to make sure.
He shouldn’t have dragged her into this. But how else would it have got done? he asked himself. Again. Yet when he looked at her, at what a month’s worth of his training and attention had wrought, he wondered if he wasn’t better than the man they were trying to ensnare.
Frustrated, Remy rested his forehead in ball of his right hand. His fingers pushed smoothly into hair that was getting a bit too long for the role he was playing. Or maybe not, all things considered.
His fingers had memories of their own, of lushly thick hair: straight as pin, twisting and turning like a rollercoaster ride, waves that seemed to pulse as his hand moved through it.
One of his memories came and sat herself on his lap. She positioned herself so that if he opened his eyes he would be staring into hers. “Don’t worry,” she said, in that new voice that fit her body but not her. “He’s coming.” It was the timbre. “It will work out.” It was all wrong.
She slipped off his lap, sliding along his body. He heard her step into her shoes and pick up the trailing end of a dress that, even hemmed, was too long. He thought he knew where she was going – to admire the displayed loaned Faberge collection – but wouldn’t take his head out of his hand to make sure.
He shouldn’t have dragged her into this. But how else would it have got done? he asked himself. Again. Yet when he looked at her, at what a month’s worth of his training and attention had wrought, he wondered if he wasn’t better than the man they were trying to ensnare.