11 April 01
Aurora/Marrow

Moment to moment.

Disclaimers: If they belonged to us, there'd probably be casualties.

Authors' Note: Another installment in the Marrowthon. We're starting to run out of volunteers.

Acknowledgments: To the concept of Muses, because Te so dearly loves believing Marrow's in the corner, scritching Peasie's belly with a half-blunted extra femur.
 
 

Luminous Bloody
by Janete

There are moments when Aurora wants so badly she can taste it where her teeth and throat meet. Hard to resist. And with this girl in front of her, she isn't at all sure that she needs to. All the screaming voices are unified in this wanting.

But when she reaches out who will show up? The vamp or the hellbitch or the schoolmistress or the goddamned eternal penitent? And what will Marrow make of the change, from the playful, danger-edged creature she met into something so completely alien?

Aurora laughs and pounces. Fucking raw. Fucking right. There.

All over Marrow now, rubbing up against her, ignoring the bone, and the scent of her own blood is fucking awful. Fucking right, m'dieu yes.

Loves the hiss of it in her mind, bone on silk, just like this, skirting around the spike ruining the shape of Marrow's mouth for a kiss that makes the girl growl.

Loves it. Dangerous and wonderful and a little bloody. Every hollow of the girl's mouth that she can reach has echoes of someone who's been beaten for a long time. Rendered bruised and fierce and brave by it.

Pulls back and rips her shredded blouse open, stands there translucent and bleeding and heavy-breasted, waiting to see if the girl will follow her back.

Glittering eyes confused eyes shift shift shift no but when she shakes herself free she understands. Understands everything looking up at the scarred, beautiful face, the face that knows.

Jeanne-Marie falls to her knees then, as gracefully as she can.

Bows her head.

Waits for command.

Long breaths while she waits, until one bone-carved hand sinks into her hair and tilts her head to one side and the other.

"You're pretty."

"Yes." Softly. Known but not terribly important. Secondary right now to the rapture in her at this girl's body.

She rises when the hand pulls her, brings her own hands up enough to peel back the girl's own shirt and the soft cotton underneath it. Instant in which they stand breast to breast, watching each other, before the girl pushes her sharply back and hisses. And a new bone emerges out of the floating ribs, curves upward and slits the thin skin on the underside of her breast. Bloody, and blood on Jeanne-Marie's hands and under her nails when she lifts the flesh out of harm's way.

Keeps her head lowered, chuff of breath moving her hair when the girl -- her mistress -- laughs.

"Can't hold 'em for me all day, can you? Bet you'd like to try . . ."

Can't repress the need to swallow, and it's loud in her dry throat. Caught out caught bad caught and Mistress laughs again.

"You're one fucked up little chick, aren't you?"

Jeanne-Marie nods, solemnly. Dares to look up into eyes glittering with something like amused bemusement, complexity of the emotion calling to her, older sister to younger. Yes, Mistress understands.

"May I speak?"

"I don't know, girly. You might have to be punished for that." Laughter everywhere about Mistress, even with the knowing she has, and yes, the best jokes are serious as death.

"I know, Mistress."

"Well, alright, then. Talk."

"May . . . May I serve you?"

Long, measuring stare back, and for a moment Jeanne-Marie thinks that what she said was entirely wrong. Ready for whatever humiliation Mistress intends to hurl at her. Something horrified, moment of wrongness, something she didn't understand.

But she only says, "Sure." Takes her own breast back and lets Jeanne-Marie's hand slide down to her bone-scored torso. Looks down and nods to the cutting bone. Bloody and jagged over its whiteness. Her palm slices open when she wraps her hand around it, but she doesn't let go. Grips harder instead and twists sharply over and down, and the bloody thing comes away in her hand. And then she can drop it.

Lean in and kiss the wound on the underside of the girl's breast, pressing her own aching palm against the odd, scarred texture of her abdomen.

Keeps kissing even when Mistress twists away from her, just follows and staggers and closes her free hand on one solid hip. Bent forward now, one step away from kneeling but still determined to raise some pleasured reaction out of the body in her mouth. Slides her mouth down from the wound, finding the worst scars and mouthing along them. Little shivers at that, and an undemanding hand settles on the back of her neck, holding her there --

Until she licks at her Mistress' navel and tries to go lower, ease the waist of her pants down, and finds herself knocked away. Faint sense of white scars where she almost touched. Brutal in the shallow pan of Mistress' body below her belly's swell, where no one should suffer.

Jeanne-Marie kneels, holding her bruised cheek, and looks up into the suddenly angry face. And reaches out a hand to stroke her again, uncareful of the protruding bones. Line of a single finger along the insweep of her waist, slow and deliberately worshipful, and this time when she moves to pull the pants away, Mistress lets her.

Jeanne-Marie should snarl, too, but can't against the sight of scarred and torn flesh. A martyr before her, a saint unrecognized by all but her. It's all right. They'll know when it's time. For now, her Mistress is her own, and there are none to dispute, even when, greatly daring, she lays a kiss on the round of a hip.

Shifts to slide her cheek over and over it, scarcely aware of her own moan.

Looks up to find Mistress frowning down at her.

"You really want this, don't you?"

"Yes, please . . ."

Slow nod, troubled but understanding, and the sudden knowledge that Mistress doesn't want her to be hurt, that even in her pain Jeanne-Marie is special to her, something to be cherished . . .

Blinking back tears, she brings her free and shaking hand to the waistband of the pants and starts to pull them down farther. Catches herself and moves to the scuffed and dusty boots, instead. Kisses each on the toe and unlaces them quickly. Lifts one foot against her chest to pull it off, then the other, head bowed as is fitting.

Mistress wears no socks and Jeanne-Marie caresses the flesh there, as well.

"Do you wish me to bathe them, Mistress?"

Unidentifiable sound, then, "no. No. Ah . . . not now."

Jeanne-Marie can smell Mistress' sex, and knows her urgency like her own. Slips the pants down finally and noses at the hair there, at the livid bare patch where some other bone had done her harm. Licks and kisses, nuzzles and purrs, somewhere down deep.

The groan her Mistress gives when Jeanne-Marie presses her open mouth to that flesh is gratifying. Little shivers run down into her mouth, answering gift to Jeanne-Marie's tongue. Stroking the lovely, delicate inner lips, flower-soft and sweet, some buried innocence she can reach towards, as attractive as her Mistress' suffering.

The bud of flesh that brushes against her tongue is not quite as distracting as the slightly ridged scar just above it. She massages both, soaking them and sucking gently, teasing at the softness she's abandoned with her fingers. Her Mistress staggers slightly when Jeanne-Marie slides one small finger up her, forcing her head back. Looking up along the scarred, white planes of that body, now, and she finds it's not uncomfortable, really, only a stretch of her worship.

She can balance, can stroke the solid legs and kiss at the same time. Tease the backs of knees and long calf muscles.

Something terribly appropriate about her Mistress' scars. Almost-holy almost-virgin, without the terrible vanity that holds Jeanne-Marie back. On some level, this is what she should have been, hard and fierce and dedicated as a sister, barely-contained anger focussed toward some greater achievement.

She crouches lower to angle her head and pushes her tongue inside. The liquid sharpness across her tongue startling and right, tempting on a particular level. Strong muscles work back against her, and her Mistress is holding her head now, pushing her whole face in. Quite perfectly what she wants.

Still relishing the gasps when they change tenor, so that it takes her a moment to understand that the last, tearing moan had less to do with her than with the emergent bone now curving out from Mistress' wrist to brush the rim of Jeanne-Marie's face. Moment of that threat in which she stills and waits, accepting. Only returns to her soft-mouthed worship when the bone-knife slides out of her peripheral vision and touches again on her back.

Tear of her blouse and it's entirely wrong of her to flinch from this. She should be exposed if it's what her Mistress desires. But the white lines of her own old punishments have no place in this, and to bring them out now would contaminate this thing she's found.

She shakes loose of the hand and looks up again, catches Mistress' eyes and tries to make it plain. Jeanne-Marie is to serve. Not punishment, but penance, and surely she understands that. Mistress has to, it's the way of things, the march of rites old and noble, but when Jeanne-Marie dips again into Mistress' sex the touch comes again.

Fingertips softly abrasive on the skin just above. Just where. On her, on her scars, naming them and touching them and no. Lashing little snakebite on the girl's thigh, once and again until all that terrible bone and strength is against her. Barefoot kick to the muscle of Jeanne-Marie's thigh and she doubles over.

Snarling words above her and she snarls right back, coming up for another attack that ends when Marrow simply throws her. Jeanne-Marie's back hits the foot of the bed, snapping her head back and there's something wrong with her vision, something bloody fucking wrong with her it's always her, her fault not mine her fault her fault --

"What the fuck?"

Shuddering back in on herself with an angry cry and there's one way, her way. Short nails digging into her own neck scraping down and down, flesh tearing and blood and evil spilling out all over her awful white skin and yes. This way. This is the only way.

No truth. No penance. No redemption mutie evil freak and Marrow flashes in and out of her vision, mostly nude and reaching for her at the convent, walking through nuns like ghosts and reaching and just for a moment she clings and yes, pierced more than scratched, bleeding and bleeding and.

Laughing.

"You crazy bitch! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

And laughing.

janete
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