Porphyria was not naturally a touchy-feely type; for all she enjoyed people’s company and felt affectionate to her friends, she did not go out of her way to let them into her own personal space. So this probably ought to be uncomfortable – but all she felt was an unexpected thrill of pleasure.
And inexpressibly fond of November, who seemed to be going through a multitude of stages of grief before anyone else had died. Probably that was part of her pleasure: the more she could send November spinning, the more gleefully wild Phyri felt. As though she were winning their game.
It might be cruel of her – it was cruel of her, though Phyri had never made pretensions to be kind – but then November grasped her waist and held her there. In protest, or possessiveness – or mere animal impulse? She had called this a drowning, after all. Phyri was all impulse, now, her heart racketing about her chest; she pushed up and sat back very slightly, still on top of her – to give November a little room to breathe, but also to keep her pinned.
“Well?” Phyri asked, with a playful raise of her eyebrows. “How does drowning feel? Is it a torment, or do you like it?” Am I a torment to you? If she was, November was going to have to actually say so, try to make her stop – because Porphyria? Porphyria could write poems about this.
And inexpressibly fond of November, who seemed to be going through a multitude of stages of grief before anyone else had died. Probably that was part of her pleasure: the more she could send November spinning, the more gleefully wild Phyri felt. As though she were winning their game.
It might be cruel of her – it was cruel of her, though Phyri had never made pretensions to be kind – but then November grasped her waist and held her there. In protest, or possessiveness – or mere animal impulse? She had called this a drowning, after all. Phyri was all impulse, now, her heart racketing about her chest; she pushed up and sat back very slightly, still on top of her – to give November a little room to breathe, but also to keep her pinned.
“Well?” Phyri asked, with a playful raise of her eyebrows. “How does drowning feel? Is it a torment, or do you like it?” Am I a torment to you? If she was, November was going to have to actually say so, try to make her stop – because Porphyria? Porphyria could write poems about this.
a sublime set by Lady! <3