god feared in whose arms i'm sleeping (gentleman jack | anne/mariana)

[fiachairecht]

god feared in whose arms i'm sleeping. gentleman jack, anne/mariana. it's morning in paris, and breakfast is easier than confronting mismatched expections. 1.3k words, rated m. for DCBrierton in femslashex 2019

It is summer in Paris, and the bright fall of the morning sun across Mariana's face is not so much what wakes her as is the slowly growing awareness that Anne is no longer in their bed. Mariana stretches, rolls over, reaches out across the (warm) sheet and the (crumpled) pillow, and listens for any signs of life in their small flat.

She doesn't wait for long. The scrape of a key in the lock drags across her senses before she's even opened her eyes, and Mariana yawns as she pulls herself to sitting, letting the sheets pool around her waist. She'll show Anne what she'd been missing.

Anne, however, clatters through the kitchen like a whirlwind, showing no indication of heading back to the bedroom. Mariana can hear the water running in the sink, the creaky tap that they've laughed at every night they've been here, the opening and shutting of the cupboard doors. Was Anne ... making breakfast?

Mariana kicks the covers all the way to the foot of the bed and swings her legs over the side. She considers, briefly, her nightdress where it lays discarded on the floor after last night, and then the thin wrap hanging against the far wall. She had hoped they might have fun of the morning, making the most of their last few days in Paris, but Anne's attention seems entirely fixed on whatever she's doing in the other room.

A surprise for her? Anne's surprises tended more towards the grand — Paris itself had been a surprise — but Mariana knows that Anne's whims, especially when trying to please her lover, are more changeable than the weather. Best, perhaps, to see what Anne thought she was doing and remind her of all the other temptations of a Parisian morning alone afterwards.

She crosses the small room quickly: though their top-floor flat collects afternoon heat quite well, it still does take some time to warm every morning. Normally she doesn't notice, too preoccupied with Anne next to her in bed, but today she shivers as she dresses. Mariana arranges the wrap as suggestively as possible over her shoulders, the silk brushing across her breasts, slipping down her shoulders, and barely kissing the tops of her thighs.

She would much rather have Anne's mouth there, but even in Paris, it seems, there were things that one had to work for much harder than one would find ideal.

The kitchen is large and airy, something Anne had laughed about when they first walked in. When, she had asked, are we going to need to make use of this? Mariana had kissed the laughter from her lips and tugged her through the kitchen by the billowing sleeve of her coat.

The table will hold your hat for now, she'd said, and— we'll call a serving girl up— she'll bring us the finest breads and cheeses in all of France— 

That was as far as she had gotten before Anne had tumbled her onto the bed, the excitement of their first night alone in the city too much to bear. Anne's fingers making quick work of her dress' complicated fastenings — oh, Mariana remembers thinking, she's done this before — and the thrill of it, of the flat to themselves and the locks on the doors and the big soft bed and Anne's fingers cupping her with surprising gentleness between her thighs, was all so much more important to think about than the details of the kitchen.

Mariana sighs and bites her lip at the memory, suddenly very aware of the sensation of the silk of her wrap against her tightened nipples and pebbled skin. Anne could have her way with her even in memory, and still the excitement was the same.

Opening the door to the kitchen to find Anne standing over the stove, fully dressed with her brow furrowed in consternation as she poked at the breads laid out on the countertop, did nothing to ease that excitement. Anne was dressed like the finest of Parisian gentlemen, her trousers tucked into tall city-walking boots, the sleeves of her white buttoned shirt rolled up to her elbows, the watch dangling from her waist steadily ticking over into the silence. Only her overcoat and walking stick are missing, and those are given pride of place on the coatrack by the door.

It feels like something that might be a home one day, and even though Mariana knows it to be impossible she allows herself to linger in the doorway. She stays quiet, hoping that if she doesn't speak - if Anne stays so absorbed in her work - Anne will take no notice of her and leave her time to admire Anne at work, but it's hardly a minute before Anne turns around, not quite as aware of Mariana as Mariana was of her, but aware enough that warmth curls in her chest.

"Oh!" Anne exclaims. "You're awake. I meant to surprise you with, well." She gestures to the half-set breakfast spread on the table. It's a mix of coffee and pastries and mismatched silverware, the exact sort of table Mariana expected from someone like Anne who knew full well what a properly luxurious meal ought to look like but had never been responsible for setting one herself.

But Mariana's gaze is drawn immediately to Anne, to her pinned back hair and pristine shirt, her hat and walking stick leaning against the counter. "Did you go out like that?" She's not sure why she hasn't put that together yet, her sleep-fogged brain too preoccupied with Anne, here and hers, to think about what propriety might lie outside their walls.

"Well, I could hardly go out in the state you left me in last night. Or do you want me to show off the marks you've left on me, here …" she trails a finger down her chest, resting it between her breasts where Mariana's mouth had spent a large portion of last night, "or perhaps over here,"  her other hand trails suggestively over her inner thigh, "where you were so eager to remove my underthings, last night and every night before?"

Mariana's cheeks flame at the thought. It was hardly what she'd meant, that Anne should go about naked with Mariana's marks all over her skin, and Anne surely knew that as well, but she was, as ever, the worst of teases. "Dressed as ... you know," she gestures uselessly at Anne, like a man, the words she can't quite bring herself to say, because she loves how handsome Anne looks and she knows Anne knows, but still, there was a difference between Anne dressing like that with her and dressing like that in public, alone, for the kind of shopping a woman could do alone in Paris. "What if they think I'm ... entertaining strange men, or, if they start talking about you—"

She's not sure which is worse, why she's suddenly so sure that it matters that Freddie is someone Anne is only with her, but the possessiveness takes root in her heart anyway. Anne's smile fades as she realises that Mariana, at least, is quite serious. "I'm not ashamed, Mariana, and surely you wouldn't want me to get in trouble all alone," Anne says, but she abandons her breakfast preparations to come to Mariana's side, to take hold of her hand and kiss her palm. "But I've upset you. Come, sit down, let me make it up to you."

Mariana feels rather as though she should protest. But as Anne leads her to one of the kitchen chairs and sits her down, kneels in front of her and lifts the hem of her wrap to blow a cool breath along Mariana's already overheating skin, she cannot quite remember the words. It's not Anne back in their bed, and it's not something that will last forever. It's just Anne, Mariana's alone for days more, and Anne's mouth on hers is all the convincing she needs to leave the rest of the conversation for later.