Title: Early, Lazy Mornings
The shrill, piercing beeps from her phone's alarm rouse Jaimie from her pleasant slumber. Beside her, Osvalda whines and buries herself closer into Jaimie's side, while Ed bolts upright, eyes wild.
"Lie down, love," Jaimie mumbles softly, fingers reaching out to gently tug the other's sleeve. She relaxes, settles back down, and Jaimie takes a moment to admire the way the brunette's hair lays against the white of the pillow, the hair that's usually kept in an elegant bob fanned out messily on the cotton. Of the three womens', Ed's hair is closest to red, something that is clearly visible when a light shines on it. On the other hand, Osvalda's dark hair is in a french braid that falls across her shoulder and onto the bed, while Jaimie imagines her own short blonde hair is sticking up every-which-way, as it is wont to do in the mornings.
Unfortunately, just as she's about to drift back off, the alarm sounds again, drawing her- and her bedmates- back to the land of Wide-Awake.
"I thought I told you to set it so it doesn't go off on weekends," Osvalda grumps, green eyes blinking in the sunlight.
"Sorry," Jaimie apologises, sheepishly. Ed just shakes her head at their disagreement and climbs out from under a mountain of blankets, but not before Jaimie pulls her down for a chaste kiss.
Ed wrinkles her nose, bats at her. "Eww, morning breath," she complains, and gets out of the bed, sliding on a pair of slippers, and goes to the bathroom to wash her face.
"Where's my kiss?" Osvalda pouts, and Jaimie chuckles slightly.
"C'mere, you," she mumbles, draws the other in close and peppers her face with kisses.
Osvalda squaks in surprise, flails for a moment, and her wings fan out, smoky plumage silvery in the morning sunlight. "No fair!" she protests, but after a minute, settles down, a hum of pleasure in the back of her throat as Jaimie cards her fingers through the feathers.
A small cough draws them back to reality. It's Ed, an amused smirk adorning her face. "I suggest we use combs," she says, a bottle of feather-oils in one hand and a set of combs in the other.
Osvalda agrees heartily, claiming that Jaimie's fingers will tangle the feathers.
"Hey!" Jaimie defends, "That's not what you were saying a minute ago!" Ed laughs at the look of betrayal on her face.
Nevertheless, she grabs the bottle of oils and starts rubbing them into Osvalda's feathers, the mob Queen laying on her stomach, wings splayed across the bed, the tips hanging off the side. Then, after Ed goes through the feathers with the wide-toothed comb, Jaimie uses the fine-toothed one to carefully brush each feather. By the end of the process, Osvalda's practically melted into the mattress, mumbling incoherently and practically purring.
Reluctantly, she rises and Ed takes her place, presenting her green plumes for the other two. She rolls her shoulders, and Jaimie presses a kiss between her shoulder-blades.
She catches Osvalda's expression and pecks her cheek. "See? No need to be jealous."
"Hurry up," Ed whines, "My feathers are dry and my muscles are sore." Osvalda grins lewdly.
"Oz, I know what face you're making," Ed warns, muffledly. Osvalda rearranges her face, eyes wide and expression innocent.
"Who, me?" Osvalda asks, and Ed just groans something indecipherable, but which is most likely another plea to hurry up. Jaimie rolls her eyes at their antics and begins to massage the oils in, and after a moment, Osvalda follows suit. Slowly, Ed relaxes, sighing as they comb through her feathers, making sure each is in its proper place. Eventually, she rises, shakes her wings slightly.
Jaimie tries to ignore the way her girlfriends' gaze settles on her, uncomfortable. "My feathers are fine, really," she protests weakly, but to no avail.
"Come on, Liebchen," Osvalda coaxes, gently herding her to the bed. Once she surrenders and lays down, Ed leans over and massages her shoulders and under her shoulder-blades, an action that sends a pleasant tingling through her, and her wings unfurl. Even now, knowing that she won't be spat at for her wings, she chokes back an instinctive whimper.
"My beautiful raven," Ed whispers, and Jaimie relaxes, remembers that, no matter what, Ed and Oz aren't going to judge her- if anything, they pile her with affection and adore her dark, inky-black plumage.
Within minutes, her girlfriends' ministrations turn Jaimie into a purring puddle, their careful, attentive actions leaving her practically senseless.
Life is good.