"No, I don't think you need to be concerned about that."
About other things? Maybe. There were so many women who would murmur in the moments just after that they were cold, so cold, so cold that they never thought they'd be warm again. They would turn away from him and huddle into the blankets (or whatever was passing for blankets at the time) and hide their faces. They would turn their eyes away when they took him, like he was some bad omen hanging over them. There were those who went mad, of course. And there was Gabrielle, since she was well on his mind at the moment, who had neither gone mad nor turned her eyes away, and he wondered sometimes what there was inside her that was twisted and blackened--either before they crossed paths or during or after.
The floor was freezing, Cordelia had said. This stone altar wasn't much better. And how much colder would she be after? She was warm now, in and out. Would she still feel it then? Or would she huddle and murmur and look away after?
Maybe her light would keep her warm.
If she was working at his belt, then he'd just go even further: and without further delay, he slid his hand between her legs, up and up, feeling for the edges of her underwear (if she was wearing any; sometimes one wonders).
Ah.
Now. What color might they be? Black? Red? Red lace? Wait, no, they couldn't be red lace, because he still had that pair that he'd taken from the doorknob. Unless it was another pair of the same, which was possible. Blue? Pure, virginal white? He gave an experimental tug.
no subject
About other things? Maybe. There were so many women who would murmur in the moments just after that they were cold, so cold, so cold that they never thought they'd be warm again. They would turn away from him and huddle into the blankets (or whatever was passing for blankets at the time) and hide their faces. They would turn their eyes away when they took him, like he was some bad omen hanging over them. There were those who went mad, of course. And there was Gabrielle, since she was well on his mind at the moment, who had neither gone mad nor turned her eyes away, and he wondered sometimes what there was inside her that was twisted and blackened--either before they crossed paths or during or after.
The floor was freezing, Cordelia had said. This stone altar wasn't much better. And how much colder would she be after? She was warm now, in and out. Would she still feel it then? Or would she huddle and murmur and look away after?
Maybe her light would keep her warm.
If she was working at his belt, then he'd just go even further: and without further delay, he slid his hand between her legs, up and up, feeling for the edges of her underwear (if she was wearing any; sometimes one wonders).
Ah.
Now. What color might they be? Black? Red? Red lace? Wait, no, they couldn't be red lace, because he still had that pair that he'd taken from the doorknob. Unless it was another pair of the same, which was possible. Blue? Pure, virginal white? He gave an experimental tug.