Monday morning waking fantasy [no sex]

[With the usual apologies for miswriting Standring’s dialect. –S]

***

“Don’t think you can’t tell me things,” John Standring (Richard Armitage) says to Carol Boulton (Sarah Smart) in episode 3 of Sparkhouse. Source: RichardArmitageNet.com

***

I wake up in Standring’s arms, just as the sun is streaking through the narrow basement window. The bed in this room is positioned so it hits my face around an hour after sunrise. Today, 6:15 a.m. Too early. No morning chores for him here, but I’m desperate enough not to ask why he’s come. I’m grateful. I burrow up against him as tight as I can get. I kiss his collarbone, and then the underside of his chin. He stirs.

“Tha’ was some storm last night, Serv,” he remarks. “I don’t know when I’ve ever seen y’cry tha’ ‘ard.”

“Luckily it happened in the dark and no one saw it,” I whisper. “If a girl cries in the dark and no one hears her–”

“I ‘eard you,” he points out. “Else I wouldn’t ha’ been ‘ere now.”

“You’re not real,” I reply.

“You brought me ‘ere,” he responds, reasonably, and begins to stroke my arm. “So y’must think y’made a sound.”

“I’m’na make you make a sound, now,” I say, and I crane my neck up to his ear as I begin rubbing circles on his chest, and gradually downward.

“Mmmm,” he says, “no tryin’ to change the subject on me, miss,” and he stills my arm. “No’ tha’ it’s no’ welcome, but you need t’ talk, first.” He brings his hand back down, stroking over my arm.

I’m silent.

“Why were y’crying?” he asks.

“You know I can’t say,” I say, grumpily. I venture my hand toward his boxers, again, and this time he grasps it firmly and holds on before I get anywhere near where I’m going.

“‘S fear,” he says. “You’re afraid t’tell me t’reason, and so y’want t’shag, yeah?” He gathers me all the way into his arms and pulls me up on top of his body, immobilizing me.

“I want to stop blogging,” I say. “I just really need to stop. When I think about continuing to write lately, I feel queasy. And with all this other stuff going on, now–”

“Nah,” he says. “Tha’s no’ t’reason. This isn’t abou’ t’blog.”

“Oh, Mr. Incredibly Emotionally Self-Aware has an opinion about the function of the blog?” I say, meanly. He loosens his arms and pushes me off.

“Y’can be a righ’ cow, mornings.”

He’s right. Although he might be impugning the honor of cows. “I’m sorry,” I say.

“‘Tis all right, Serv,” he says, “I know how y’are, but if y’want t’sort this, y’need t’see–”

“See what?” I challenge him.

“‘Tis no’ abou’ t’blog.”

“But I feel bad, when I write.”

“Yeah, d’y’see? ‘Tis abou’ t’feeling. No’ t’blog.”

“I just can’t afford–”

“Y’canno’ decide,” he says, pulling me back into his arms again, “y’canno’ plan, how much pain y’will feel. The pain decides for y’and t’must be felt, otherwise t’will turn off t’writing again, just like before. So now is no’t’time,” and he’s stroking my hair, and kisses my cheek, “t’stop writing t’blog. No matter how bad y’think t’might get.”

I kiss him back.

“Keep feeling, keep writing?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“You won’t go?” I plead.

“No’ till y’have t’sorted,” he reassures me. “Time for breakfast?” he says, hopefully.

I hit him over the head with the pillow. “If only you’d eat it with me,” I say.

“Y’know I don’t go upstairs wi’you.”

“I fantasize about sex, and you dream of–”

“Bacon, eggs, porridge, tomatoes, sausages….”

I giggle.

~ by Servetus on June 25, 2012.