The sunlight streams through the lace covering the windows in a
dappled pattern, sending all the cream of the wainscotting and the
blue of the rugs into a washed out haze, dust motes drifting through
the air, all that white and bleached periwinkle
like a photograph left out for years in the sun and they’re both
still as the figures in a photograph too, Carin in her chair and him
on the floor beside it, his legs tucked under himself – those legs
are going dead and the air is thickening to treacle (even those specs
of dust, in suspended animation now) but Carin’s skin, her wrist,
draped over the arm of the chair, remains so vibrant he cannot tear
his eyes away and his mouth parts slightly as he thinks of pressing
the tip of his tongue to her pulse there, just for one moment.The plush, stocky body of Ragnar, Carin’s
wildcat daemon
reclines on a little patch of floor where the sun is beating in
hardest, in the relative shadows nearby Ursula has her nose to the
floor, snuffling around, creeping slowly around the perimeter with
her tail in the air and her little paws making small incursions,
drawing back, scuffling forward again, all the while Ragnar’s tail
lilts dreamily from side to side and his eyes are half closed in
pleasure from the warmth beating down on his belly.Hermann lets out a little sigh and when Carin’s
eyes meet his he finds he’s clenching his jaw so hard it hurts and it
does hurt,
not the grinding of his teeth but how badly he wants to confess that
the only word he can think to describe her is ‘goddess’, that no one
has ever made him feel this way, amazing that someone could matter more than
him, that if she would only give him one single, intimate touch, he
would be hers, utterly, forever and as he’s staring up at her,
feeling like a small boy, Ursula pounces on Ragnar and is instantly
swatted away by those large, heavy paws, swatted and then pounced on
herself at the same as Carin pushes off one of her shoes and presses
her foot into Hermann’s groin and tells him, stay.
Tag: AU:daemon
daemon AU
Everyone busies themselves with stirring their coffee and steadfastly avoiding the slightest glance toward the corner of the room where Ursula (Hermann’s dæmon: a plump, sleek-furred raccoon with a magisterial, entitled strut to her pawsteps that more than match Göring
himself) has given one final, determined wriggle of her rear end before pouncing on the fluttering form of Goebbels’ dæmon Aello, clasping the tiny sparrow between her clever, greedy hands.
Someone coughs and tries to draw the conversation onto some boisterous subject that will make it easier for them all to politely ignore how Goebbels’ stream of chatter has clattered to a sudden halt; to pretend that they don’t see the flush of pink painted across his face or notice the smug, lazy smile that’s spread across
Göring’s and certainly they’re all too preoccupied to pick up on the subtle sound of a soft raccoon tongue lapping away at a bundle of paralysed feathers.
No one dares to challenge Göring‘s behaviour in his own kingdom and afterwards, if it is mentioned at all, it will be with a vague air and an appeal to eccentricity and a shared unspoken agreement there was no choked off whimper from the little doctor when Ursula had clambered into Hermann’s lap, allowed him pluck the trembling sparrow from her jaws and enclose it in his heavy fist.
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