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bonnefoisThere are two (and a half, considering the utterly awesome character piece by Lizzy Rebel) P/M pieces on FF.net. THIS MUST BE FIXED IMMEDIATELY.
tales you have told
Pelleas counts down the days until she returns. Pelleas/Micaiah
note: done for the kink meme, and entirely innocent, spoiler-less fluff. Edited and somewhat expanded from the original, by the way. Um, I usually don’t post the drabbles up here unless I like them a lot, but P/M doesn’t get enough love as it is~ I figured I’d give my contribution until I finish something longer.
wordcount: just under 500 words.
Whenever she returns Pelleas feels the same awkwardness and apprehension, even before she reaches the library. He calls for tea with more calm than he actually feels, and flips through the books, idly waiting to hear her footsteps at the door.
When the maid arrives with the heated drinks, he has to steady his fingers on the porcelain cup, lest they shake and the cup fall. It has happened before, even with lessons, he is at heart a country orphan with no manners. A pig dressed in silks is still a pig.
Her hair pools about her in soft waves and her gold, enigmatic eyes seem to bore deep into him. Even if she can read his fears, his unease, she has never rebuked him for it.
Micaiah is the only one who believes in him. She alone trusts him, too much, he thinks. Far too much.
She reports the events, and he loses track of her words, too lost in her skin and the sum of her, her breathing. He is utterly fascinated by every blink and movement.
“Prince Pelleas, are you listening?” She says softly.
“I–Er”
The cup slips from his fingers and shatters on the floor with a sickening sound, and he simply stares at it, liquid sinking into the threadbare antique floral carpet.
Pelleas feels so much younger in that moment, like a whipped boy. He waits for her frustration at his clumsy, inept ways.
“I’ll call–”
“There’s no need,” she murmurs and he hears a trill, a hum on the air and her fingers curled with light emanating from them.
The cup reassembles itself in her hands: glass spinning back into place, flowers regrowing, birds flying over them, caught forever in still motion.
“Thank you..”
“It’s nothing, my prince,” She says, and smiles at him as he hands over the cup.
He stalls the conversation. He tries every conceivable topic, bringing up philosophical points, the weather, expanding on plans for the future – anything to keep her there a little longer. But eventually, he runs out of things to say, and is forced to reluctantly let her leave.
Pelleas counts down the days until she returns.
tales you have told
Pelleas counts down the days until she returns. Pelleas/Micaiah
note: done for the kink meme, and entirely innocent, spoiler-less fluff. Edited and somewhat expanded from the original, by the way. Um, I usually don’t post the drabbles up here unless I like them a lot, but P/M doesn’t get enough love as it is~ I figured I’d give my contribution until I finish something longer.
wordcount: just under 500 words.
Whenever she returns Pelleas feels the same awkwardness and apprehension, even before she reaches the library. He calls for tea with more calm than he actually feels, and flips through the books, idly waiting to hear her footsteps at the door.
When the maid arrives with the heated drinks, he has to steady his fingers on the porcelain cup, lest they shake and the cup fall. It has happened before, even with lessons, he is at heart a country orphan with no manners. A pig dressed in silks is still a pig.
Her hair pools about her in soft waves and her gold, enigmatic eyes seem to bore deep into him. Even if she can read his fears, his unease, she has never rebuked him for it.
Micaiah is the only one who believes in him. She alone trusts him, too much, he thinks. Far too much.
She reports the events, and he loses track of her words, too lost in her skin and the sum of her, her breathing. He is utterly fascinated by every blink and movement.
“Prince Pelleas, are you listening?” She says softly.
“I–Er”
The cup slips from his fingers and shatters on the floor with a sickening sound, and he simply stares at it, liquid sinking into the threadbare antique floral carpet.
Pelleas feels so much younger in that moment, like a whipped boy. He waits for her frustration at his clumsy, inept ways.
“I’ll call–”
“There’s no need,” she murmurs and he hears a trill, a hum on the air and her fingers curled with light emanating from them.
The cup reassembles itself in her hands: glass spinning back into place, flowers regrowing, birds flying over them, caught forever in still motion.
“Thank you..”
“It’s nothing, my prince,” She says, and smiles at him as he hands over the cup.
He stalls the conversation. He tries every conceivable topic, bringing up philosophical points, the weather, expanding on plans for the future – anything to keep her there a little longer. But eventually, he runs out of things to say, and is forced to reluctantly let her leave.
Pelleas counts down the days until she returns.
