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Dec. 15th, 2008 12:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
miss_princeLAST ONE I SWEAR. I'm actually quite proud of this one, and I actually found a neat title! :D
Title: Effeuiller la Iris
Pairing: Dahlia/Iris
Rating: PG-13, I guess?
Prompt: Dahlia turns Iris into an iris. Meaning the flower.
Iris stands on the cliff overlooking Eagle River. The sun is sinking lower and lower in the sky; it will be setting soon. The waters below churn as they always have, always had from long before she was born, always would until long after she was gone. It is autumn at its pinnacle, that glorious peak of red-gold beauty before the long descent into winter. Dusky Bridge sways as the wind picks up, and Iris becomes dimly aware that she is cold.
Arms encircle her.
Iris doesn't need to turn, doesn't need to think; she knows, by smell and feel and that deep sixth sense she cannot question, and she leans back into the warmth of her sister. There is silence for a long while, the two of them gazing at the beauty of the mountain, listening to the crash of the river.
"I thought I'd find you here."
There is no question for Iris to answer; she says nothing. One of Dahlia's hands slips upward to play idly with a lock of her sister's dark hair. There is another long silence, the feel of breath rising and falling, the rhythm of heartbeats.
"You're so lucky." And now Dahlia's hands have started wandering in ways sisters' hands should not; Iris feels a kiss pressed to her neck, feels Dahlia's lips brushing against her skin as she speaks. "You've always been the lucky one." The slow dance of her fingers is hypnotic. Iris is falling gently into herself; her eyelids drift closed. "This beautiful place, this safe haven, is your home. You've taken root here, blossomed, thrived." Something is shifting, changing, but Dahlia's hands both soothe her nerves and awaken her desire, and so Iris drifts, unresisting. She does not open her eyes. She has no eyes. "And what of me…?"
And now Dahlia's fingers stroke down her stem; Dahlia's lips brush against her petals. She is blind, but she knows those elegant fingers, and their touch is causing her to tremble in ecstasy. My Iris… She cannot hear, but feels her sister's lips moving against her, thrums with the subtle vibration of her voice, and Iris understands.
The wind bends her, ruffles her petals, and Iris realizes that it's well past her season, and it is cold. But Dahlia's hands keep stroking, and she is warm. Dahlia kisses each petal in turn, and waves of pleasure wash over her. You have been loved… Her sister has brought her close to her body; Iris can feel her heat once more. Sister Bikini, Feenie… everywhere you go you seem to find it. And I…? Dahlia's hands caress her leaves for a moment before one moves to cup her flower, tracing exquisite lines along her petals. I thought I had you. She stills her movements; the haze of pleasure fades slightly, just enough to let the words penetrate into Iris's consciousness. She can sense the gravity in this moment, and danger. There is a long pause.
Do you love me, Iris?
A question, which requires an answer. Expectation charges the air. And Iris tries to assure her, to tell Dahlia yes, of course she loves her, has always loved her -- but she cannot speak. She tries to reach out, to comfort her sister, but she cannot move. She is powerless, helpless. She can do nothing… just as she has always done.
No answer? …Perhaps there is another way to find out.
Fingers against her petals again, caressing before taking firm grip. And then searing pain.
She loves me.
Iris cannot scream, cannot cry. Dahlia grips another petal and tears it from her.
She loves me not.
It hurts worse than anything she has ever felt, pieces ripped from her body and scattered on the wind. Another petal torn away.
She loves me.
Iris is sobbing, in her mind, in her soul, but Dahlia cannot hear her. Another petal, and another.
She loves me not. She loves me.
Dahlia pauses. Agony ripples through Iris in waves.
I should have known. Iris struggles to make out the words through her anguish. This is what you are, Iris. You can't change your nature. I thought perhaps… but it was foolish, wasn't it? I've learned my lesson. And now I know the truth.
Dahlia plucks the final petal, sends it fluttering away, and lets the stem tumble from her hand toward the river below. And as Iris falls, she can feel, through the darkness and the pain, those last words that drop from Dahlia's lips…
She loves me not.
--
Iris starts awake, tense and drenched in sweat. She is disoriented for a moment, a fleeting instant of alarm.
Her room. She's home, at the temple, in her own bed. Dahlia was never here. Of course not.
Dahlia is long dead.
Iris turns over, curls her knees up to her chest, and cries herself back to sleep.
Title: Effeuiller la Iris
Pairing: Dahlia/Iris
Rating: PG-13, I guess?
Prompt: Dahlia turns Iris into an iris. Meaning the flower.
Iris stands on the cliff overlooking Eagle River. The sun is sinking lower and lower in the sky; it will be setting soon. The waters below churn as they always have, always had from long before she was born, always would until long after she was gone. It is autumn at its pinnacle, that glorious peak of red-gold beauty before the long descent into winter. Dusky Bridge sways as the wind picks up, and Iris becomes dimly aware that she is cold.
Arms encircle her.
Iris doesn't need to turn, doesn't need to think; she knows, by smell and feel and that deep sixth sense she cannot question, and she leans back into the warmth of her sister. There is silence for a long while, the two of them gazing at the beauty of the mountain, listening to the crash of the river.
"I thought I'd find you here."
There is no question for Iris to answer; she says nothing. One of Dahlia's hands slips upward to play idly with a lock of her sister's dark hair. There is another long silence, the feel of breath rising and falling, the rhythm of heartbeats.
"You're so lucky." And now Dahlia's hands have started wandering in ways sisters' hands should not; Iris feels a kiss pressed to her neck, feels Dahlia's lips brushing against her skin as she speaks. "You've always been the lucky one." The slow dance of her fingers is hypnotic. Iris is falling gently into herself; her eyelids drift closed. "This beautiful place, this safe haven, is your home. You've taken root here, blossomed, thrived." Something is shifting, changing, but Dahlia's hands both soothe her nerves and awaken her desire, and so Iris drifts, unresisting. She does not open her eyes. She has no eyes. "And what of me…?"
And now Dahlia's fingers stroke down her stem; Dahlia's lips brush against her petals. She is blind, but she knows those elegant fingers, and their touch is causing her to tremble in ecstasy. My Iris… She cannot hear, but feels her sister's lips moving against her, thrums with the subtle vibration of her voice, and Iris understands.
The wind bends her, ruffles her petals, and Iris realizes that it's well past her season, and it is cold. But Dahlia's hands keep stroking, and she is warm. Dahlia kisses each petal in turn, and waves of pleasure wash over her. You have been loved… Her sister has brought her close to her body; Iris can feel her heat once more. Sister Bikini, Feenie… everywhere you go you seem to find it. And I…? Dahlia's hands caress her leaves for a moment before one moves to cup her flower, tracing exquisite lines along her petals. I thought I had you. She stills her movements; the haze of pleasure fades slightly, just enough to let the words penetrate into Iris's consciousness. She can sense the gravity in this moment, and danger. There is a long pause.
Do you love me, Iris?
A question, which requires an answer. Expectation charges the air. And Iris tries to assure her, to tell Dahlia yes, of course she loves her, has always loved her -- but she cannot speak. She tries to reach out, to comfort her sister, but she cannot move. She is powerless, helpless. She can do nothing… just as she has always done.
No answer? …Perhaps there is another way to find out.
Fingers against her petals again, caressing before taking firm grip. And then searing pain.
She loves me.
Iris cannot scream, cannot cry. Dahlia grips another petal and tears it from her.
She loves me not.
It hurts worse than anything she has ever felt, pieces ripped from her body and scattered on the wind. Another petal torn away.
She loves me.
Iris is sobbing, in her mind, in her soul, but Dahlia cannot hear her. Another petal, and another.
She loves me not. She loves me.
Dahlia pauses. Agony ripples through Iris in waves.
I should have known. Iris struggles to make out the words through her anguish. This is what you are, Iris. You can't change your nature. I thought perhaps… but it was foolish, wasn't it? I've learned my lesson. And now I know the truth.
Dahlia plucks the final petal, sends it fluttering away, and lets the stem tumble from her hand toward the river below. And as Iris falls, she can feel, through the darkness and the pain, those last words that drop from Dahlia's lips…
She loves me not.
--
Iris starts awake, tense and drenched in sweat. She is disoriented for a moment, a fleeting instant of alarm.
Her room. She's home, at the temple, in her own bed. Dahlia was never here. Of course not.
Dahlia is long dead.
Iris turns over, curls her knees up to her chest, and cries herself back to sleep.
