2019 Writing Review
Dec. 31st, 2019 05:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lady_mabI did actually manage to write something each month! Here we go!
JANUARY
(“You sound like a mother hen,” he says whenever he catches Cass doing that. And then he’ll cluck in the approximation of what Cass can only guess is a chicken.)
FEBRUARY
Ballad's smile is bright like the sun, so they close their eyes to block it out, and kiss him to feel the warmth of it on their face.
MARCH
“Oh?” This time, there is a degree of honest surprise, but Merril would be damned if Kerri knew an honest emotion if it smacked her in the face. “After everything I’ve done for you?”
APRIL
Ephrim kisses him despite the salt water dripping off his ears and winding tiny rivulets from his hair to his chin. He can feel Throndir’s trembling, and it’s more than just the cold.
MAY
“Really?” They lift an eyebrow, pulling out a folded up schedule from their back pocket. “Because according to your assistant—” and here, her eyes widen and her cheeks mottled— “you’ve got nothing scheduled for, hm… almost a week?”
JUNE
“Are we fighting?” Ephrim asks, voice wavering in a way that he would only ever let Throndir hear. “I don’t want you to leave—” if we’re fighting, he means to say, but his courage peters out and he can’t manage the strength.
JULY
"We'll be alright. And then you can scold me for my hands after, and my mom will give us both a million kisses and cry over us and we'll be heroes."
AUGUST
It's hard lifting an eyebrow with the right amount of sass when they're half-buried in the pillows. "My freckles?"
"They make little constellations," Signet says, and traces one on their bicep with a lazy swish of her wrist.
SEPTEMBER
"Maybe you can take him to play fetch next time," she teases before taking up the map and rising from the couch.
"Now who's being mean," Hella says, enjoying the sound of Adaire's laugh as she walks away.
OCTOBER
There is a scar on the dark skin, burned in like it was a brand not a sword that struck the blow, and Dorian traces the shape of the key as the tips of his fingers tell stories across the planes of Zachary's chest and stomach. Presses his lips to tender skin, savors the taste and the warmth, the way Zachary's breath hitches in the silence of their room.
NOVEMBER
The kiss is barely that, but sweet in a way that Jon misses as soon as Martin pulls back. Across the kitchenette, the kettle hisses in promises off a boiling scream, though Jon catches a brief look of reluctance as Martin rises to his feet — fixing his own glasses, fixing his shirt, touching his fingers briefly to the back of his neck then to his own lips.
DECEMBER
(A week and three days later, Martin finds himself standing in front of Jon on a just barely too crowded train. His horoscope that morning said to be on the lookout for what turns out to be Jon’s button-down lilac shirt and dark charcoal blazer. He gives Jon his number — well, he gives Jon his business card. This time, Jon’s answer is a bemused snort, but he takes the card anyway, and Martin considers that a victory.)
JANUARY
(“You sound like a mother hen,” he says whenever he catches Cass doing that. And then he’ll cluck in the approximation of what Cass can only guess is a chicken.)
FEBRUARY
Ballad's smile is bright like the sun, so they close their eyes to block it out, and kiss him to feel the warmth of it on their face.
MARCH
“Oh?” This time, there is a degree of honest surprise, but Merril would be damned if Kerri knew an honest emotion if it smacked her in the face. “After everything I’ve done for you?”
APRIL
Ephrim kisses him despite the salt water dripping off his ears and winding tiny rivulets from his hair to his chin. He can feel Throndir’s trembling, and it’s more than just the cold.
MAY
“Really?” They lift an eyebrow, pulling out a folded up schedule from their back pocket. “Because according to your assistant—” and here, her eyes widen and her cheeks mottled— “you’ve got nothing scheduled for, hm… almost a week?”
JUNE
“Are we fighting?” Ephrim asks, voice wavering in a way that he would only ever let Throndir hear. “I don’t want you to leave—” if we’re fighting, he means to say, but his courage peters out and he can’t manage the strength.
JULY
"We'll be alright. And then you can scold me for my hands after, and my mom will give us both a million kisses and cry over us and we'll be heroes."
AUGUST
It's hard lifting an eyebrow with the right amount of sass when they're half-buried in the pillows. "My freckles?"
"They make little constellations," Signet says, and traces one on their bicep with a lazy swish of her wrist.
SEPTEMBER
"Maybe you can take him to play fetch next time," she teases before taking up the map and rising from the couch.
"Now who's being mean," Hella says, enjoying the sound of Adaire's laugh as she walks away.
OCTOBER
There is a scar on the dark skin, burned in like it was a brand not a sword that struck the blow, and Dorian traces the shape of the key as the tips of his fingers tell stories across the planes of Zachary's chest and stomach. Presses his lips to tender skin, savors the taste and the warmth, the way Zachary's breath hitches in the silence of their room.
NOVEMBER
The kiss is barely that, but sweet in a way that Jon misses as soon as Martin pulls back. Across the kitchenette, the kettle hisses in promises off a boiling scream, though Jon catches a brief look of reluctance as Martin rises to his feet — fixing his own glasses, fixing his shirt, touching his fingers briefly to the back of his neck then to his own lips.
DECEMBER
(A week and three days later, Martin finds himself standing in front of Jon on a just barely too crowded train. His horoscope that morning said to be on the lookout for what turns out to be Jon’s button-down lilac shirt and dark charcoal blazer. He gives Jon his number — well, he gives Jon his business card. This time, Jon’s answer is a bemused snort, but he takes the card anyway, and Martin considers that a victory.)
