by Vermillion Flame (vermillion_flame@hotmail.com)
Archive: Yes
Category: PWP
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Pairing: Q/O
Summary: reflections on an obsession
Feedback: Yes! Please! Please!
Notes: This plot bunny attacked while I was out running this
afternoon. It made quite a nice distraction. Hope all you
fetishists out there enjoy it.
We slide into our robes as we move toward the door of our
quarters, en route to the transport bay. Donning robes is
something we have each done thousands of times, but lately I
have come to disdain these garments. I realize from the
quizzical expression on your face that I must be frowning. I
shake my head in a small, dismissive gesture and give you a
quick smile. You seem reassured and wave me through the door
before you.
Walking down the cool stone corridors of the Temple, I catch
myself glancing at your sides. More specifically, I am looking
at the rough fabric that covers the object of my obsession,
your hands. I know they are there, in their infinite
complexity, hidden from my vision. This fascination is one of
the few things, I think, that you have yet to discover in the
months that we have shared as lovers.
I have indulged myself often when you are paying me no mind,
focused on matters requiring your complete concentration. I
watch those hands out of the corner of my eye, wondering how
hands so strong can be so beautiful. I have seen them brush
away a tear from the face of a war-scarred child. I have
witnessed their fury in battle, with light-saber or lance. I
have seen their power in direct combat, trained to be weapons
in themselves. I have watched them in repose, patiently
awaiting some purpose during negotiations and endless meetings.
All these uses of your hands I have catalogued over the years,
but new to me are your hands as those of a lover. Quite simply,
it takes my breath away to know the power they are capable of
as they instead caress my lips. I savor the roughness of the
callouses as they explore my skin. I rub my tongue over the
tough pads as I suck each finger. I shiver as they skim over my
body, just as a dry leaf floats along the surface of a flowing
stream, hurrying in places, only to be stopped in some nook for
a longer visit before moving on. Your hands possess me, and I
give my body to them eagerly.
We have reached our transport, and move quickly to settle into
our positions for departure. I watch as you shrug out of your
robe, and smile inwardly to see the capable hands executing the
movements they have been trained for. How can hands so strong
move like butterflies over the ship's controls? I have to
restrain myself from the impulse of grabbing one of them just
to feel its warmth in mine.
I think of my own hands, tucked into the sleeves of my robe.
They are large and clumsy. The hands of an oaf, I think.
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