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melodytreeTitle: Oshidori (おしどり)
Fandom: Heian Era RPF
Pairing/characters: Murasaki Shikibu/Lady Dainagon
Rating: R
Prompt: RPF - Heian-era Japan : Murasaki Shikibu/other female character: This wasn't like the other times, the times with men. /I sent her the following: How I long for those waters on which we lay, a longing keener than the frost on a duck's wing. To which she replied: Awakening to find no friends to brush away the frost, the mandarin duck longs for her mate at night. (The Diary of Lady Murasaki, trans. Richard Bowring, p. 35)
Summary: Murasaki remembers nights with a dear confidant, fingers curling into each other's hair and clothing.
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: At the end of the fic. Concrit is welcome.
Murasaki liked women. It wasn't that she disliked men – she had had a decent time with her husband, and she had certainly liked him, but.
But women were better, somehow, or at least the women Murasaki had been with were better than the men she had been with, softer curves and paler faces and all that shiny long black hair that Murasaki loved so. No need for so many screens to keep them parted, rarely seeing what the other looked like in-between small glimpses and night shadows. If nothing else, her clothes seemed to be less disordered in the end.
In a bout of depression she thought about her husband's death, the way it seemed like her friends were drifting away, and sometimes it was so lonely that Murasaki could hardly help if she picked up a brush to write one of them.
~!~
How I long for those waters on which we lay, a longing keener than the frost on a duck's wing.
~!~
They had laid together at night, whispering secrets to each other, exchanging talk and poetry.
And sometimes at the hours when only guards and lovers were awake, they touched.
Lady Dainagon had a round, pretty face. When Murasaki let the barest tips of her fingers trail along it, it was so soft. Her shiny silken hair was even softer when Murasaki slowly combed her fingers through it. Dainagon sighed quietly at the touch and turned her head toward it slightly, before raising her own hand to Murasaki, a light brush against lips and cheek. They moved closer together under the blanket of robes they shared, warm in the chilly night. Dainagon's clothes smelled so good, she must have recently perfumed them.
Murasaki's hand started to wander slowly down, from Dainagon's hair to her jaw, then down her neck to the collars of her juuni hitoe. She traced a hand over Dainagon's shoulder and then down over her chest, wondering if she could feel the light touch under the layers. Then she slipped the hand under the first layer of silk, a dark red that suited Dainagon perfectly.
Dainagon was tracing her face, up her cheeks and over her forehead, dusting over the place where she had painted her eyebrows in earlier, down her nose and under her eyes, then in again to meet on her lips. She moved closer again until they were nearly pressed chest-to-chest, curling her other hand into Murasaki's hair. It felt good to have someone's hand against her scalp, gently, gently pulling through her hair, down its long length until she couldn't reach farther and had to untangle her fingers from the strands. Murasaki let out a quiet breath and moved her hand down another layer – paler red, almost a dull pink.
Four five six layers deep and surely Dainagon had to feel it now, when Murasaki's hand slid over her waist and stroked over her breasts. She certainly made a pleased noise and pressed against it, and after a few moments there was a stiff little peak under Murasaki's thumb. Murasaki brushed her thumb over it, enjoying the new noise she got in return, and moved down to the other breast as Dainagon leaned her head in and started brushing lips against her jaw.
The touch was barely-there at first, like a flower brushing against skin, before becoming firmer. From the jaw Dainagon moved to Murasaki's throat, occasionally nipping at it as Murasaki lightly dragged her nails down Dainagon's back. And from the throat to that place right above where her collars crossed at the hollow of her throat, Dainagon's legs curling up against Murasaki's, hair flying over them both. Murasaki brought her hand over Dainagon's narrow hip, splayed it for a moment over her stomach before moving it underneath the nagabakama. Dainagon gasped, sharp, and Murasaki earned a bite to her throat. Nothing too hard, it didn't really hurt but rather felt good, and Murasaki gave her own gasp.
When she slid fingers up and in it got her a hastily-stifled moan, and Dainagon's eyes fluttered against Murasai's throat when she rubbed at that one nub. Murasaki went slowly, loving the expressions Dainagon had, trying to make them out in the dark. For several minutes there was nothing but the incense of Dainagon's robes, Murasaki's imagining of her prettily flushed face, the slickness against Murasaki's hand, until Dainagon's head tipped back, her eyes closed.
While Dainagon caught her breath, Murasaki wiped her hand off and rearranged Dainagon's hitoe to lie a little neater. When she moved up to check that her collars weren't too askew, Dainagon took one of her hands into her own and turned it over. A fingernail trailed down Murasaki's wrist and the start of her forearm before disappearing and just a moment later there were lips on her palm, smooth and then a little wet. Dainagon skimmed down to start nibbling at her wrist, which made Murasaki want to squirm, not helped by the feeling in-between her legs. Dainagon mouthed up her arm a little, nipping here and there, shoving Murasaki's sleeves into disarray.
Then only one hand held her arm, the other pushing between layers of silk to come up against her, and now Murasaki could barely keep herself from wriggling until the fingers teasing her gave her what she wanted. And then, oh, it felt good. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the teeth at the bone of her wrist, rocking slowly against those wonderful fingers inside of her. When she came, her toes curled against Dainagon's and there were fingers in her hair again.
Afterward, they tucked their heads together, and, exhausted of words and touches, fell into the world of dreams.
~!~
Awakening to find no friends to brush away the frost, the mandarin duck longs for her mate at night.
~!~
Murasaki read the reply several times, admiring the elegant calligraphy of the characters. It lifted her spirits, somewhat, to see that small beauty. Hopefully this melancholy might pass, but until then....
Murasaki held the paper close and breathed in the familiar incense.
~!~
A/N: The mandarin duck is a metaphor for lovers, as supposedly they are always in pairs.
This was partially inspired by Liza Dalby's The Tale of Murasaki, a fictional biography of Murasaki Shikibu inspired by her diary and other records of her life. I'm only halfway through, but it does have a very Heian feel to me, and Murasaki is bisexual, as the author interpreted the love poems between women as, well, love poems.
Fandom: Heian Era RPF
Pairing/characters: Murasaki Shikibu/Lady Dainagon
Rating: R
Prompt: RPF - Heian-era Japan : Murasaki Shikibu/other female character: This wasn't like the other times, the times with men. /I sent her the following: How I long for those waters on which we lay, a longing keener than the frost on a duck's wing. To which she replied: Awakening to find no friends to brush away the frost, the mandarin duck longs for her mate at night. (The Diary of Lady Murasaki, trans. Richard Bowring, p. 35)
Summary: Murasaki remembers nights with a dear confidant, fingers curling into each other's hair and clothing.
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: At the end of the fic. Concrit is welcome.
Murasaki liked women. It wasn't that she disliked men – she had had a decent time with her husband, and she had certainly liked him, but.
But women were better, somehow, or at least the women Murasaki had been with were better than the men she had been with, softer curves and paler faces and all that shiny long black hair that Murasaki loved so. No need for so many screens to keep them parted, rarely seeing what the other looked like in-between small glimpses and night shadows. If nothing else, her clothes seemed to be less disordered in the end.
In a bout of depression she thought about her husband's death, the way it seemed like her friends were drifting away, and sometimes it was so lonely that Murasaki could hardly help if she picked up a brush to write one of them.
They had laid together at night, whispering secrets to each other, exchanging talk and poetry.
And sometimes at the hours when only guards and lovers were awake, they touched.
Lady Dainagon had a round, pretty face. When Murasaki let the barest tips of her fingers trail along it, it was so soft. Her shiny silken hair was even softer when Murasaki slowly combed her fingers through it. Dainagon sighed quietly at the touch and turned her head toward it slightly, before raising her own hand to Murasaki, a light brush against lips and cheek. They moved closer together under the blanket of robes they shared, warm in the chilly night. Dainagon's clothes smelled so good, she must have recently perfumed them.
Murasaki's hand started to wander slowly down, from Dainagon's hair to her jaw, then down her neck to the collars of her juuni hitoe. She traced a hand over Dainagon's shoulder and then down over her chest, wondering if she could feel the light touch under the layers. Then she slipped the hand under the first layer of silk, a dark red that suited Dainagon perfectly.
Dainagon was tracing her face, up her cheeks and over her forehead, dusting over the place where she had painted her eyebrows in earlier, down her nose and under her eyes, then in again to meet on her lips. She moved closer again until they were nearly pressed chest-to-chest, curling her other hand into Murasaki's hair. It felt good to have someone's hand against her scalp, gently, gently pulling through her hair, down its long length until she couldn't reach farther and had to untangle her fingers from the strands. Murasaki let out a quiet breath and moved her hand down another layer – paler red, almost a dull pink.
Four five six layers deep and surely Dainagon had to feel it now, when Murasaki's hand slid over her waist and stroked over her breasts. She certainly made a pleased noise and pressed against it, and after a few moments there was a stiff little peak under Murasaki's thumb. Murasaki brushed her thumb over it, enjoying the new noise she got in return, and moved down to the other breast as Dainagon leaned her head in and started brushing lips against her jaw.
The touch was barely-there at first, like a flower brushing against skin, before becoming firmer. From the jaw Dainagon moved to Murasaki's throat, occasionally nipping at it as Murasaki lightly dragged her nails down Dainagon's back. And from the throat to that place right above where her collars crossed at the hollow of her throat, Dainagon's legs curling up against Murasaki's, hair flying over them both. Murasaki brought her hand over Dainagon's narrow hip, splayed it for a moment over her stomach before moving it underneath the nagabakama. Dainagon gasped, sharp, and Murasaki earned a bite to her throat. Nothing too hard, it didn't really hurt but rather felt good, and Murasaki gave her own gasp.
When she slid fingers up and in it got her a hastily-stifled moan, and Dainagon's eyes fluttered against Murasai's throat when she rubbed at that one nub. Murasaki went slowly, loving the expressions Dainagon had, trying to make them out in the dark. For several minutes there was nothing but the incense of Dainagon's robes, Murasaki's imagining of her prettily flushed face, the slickness against Murasaki's hand, until Dainagon's head tipped back, her eyes closed.
While Dainagon caught her breath, Murasaki wiped her hand off and rearranged Dainagon's hitoe to lie a little neater. When she moved up to check that her collars weren't too askew, Dainagon took one of her hands into her own and turned it over. A fingernail trailed down Murasaki's wrist and the start of her forearm before disappearing and just a moment later there were lips on her palm, smooth and then a little wet. Dainagon skimmed down to start nibbling at her wrist, which made Murasaki want to squirm, not helped by the feeling in-between her legs. Dainagon mouthed up her arm a little, nipping here and there, shoving Murasaki's sleeves into disarray.
Then only one hand held her arm, the other pushing between layers of silk to come up against her, and now Murasaki could barely keep herself from wriggling until the fingers teasing her gave her what she wanted. And then, oh, it felt good. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the teeth at the bone of her wrist, rocking slowly against those wonderful fingers inside of her. When she came, her toes curled against Dainagon's and there were fingers in her hair again.
Afterward, they tucked their heads together, and, exhausted of words and touches, fell into the world of dreams.
Murasaki read the reply several times, admiring the elegant calligraphy of the characters. It lifted her spirits, somewhat, to see that small beauty. Hopefully this melancholy might pass, but until then....
Murasaki held the paper close and breathed in the familiar incense.
A/N: The mandarin duck is a metaphor for lovers, as supposedly they are always in pairs.
This was partially inspired by Liza Dalby's The Tale of Murasaki, a fictional biography of Murasaki Shikibu inspired by her diary and other records of her life. I'm only halfway through, but it does have a very Heian feel to me, and Murasaki is bisexual, as the author interpreted the love poems between women as, well, love poems.
