Post by max on Mar 29, 2011 12:38:41 GMT 10
Title: Hell for Leather I
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 239
Pairing: Jon/Kel
Round/Fight: 1/F
Summary: Essentially, a glorified midlife.
Notes: High five. I'm writing smackdown something or others.
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Because he has eyes filled with broken promises, she decides to be the one who breaks everything first.
‘There’s a tournament today,’ she says, words materialising into the cool white dawn with the bedchamber, its escort of rumpled bedclothes and silk pooled across the flagstones – Yamani-red gown she’d worn to punish him, snow-pure shirt he’d discarded to win her back –in a trail back to the desk where some of the greatest decisions affecting the country are made, seat still askew.
He shifts his head (heavy and warm against her breast, ear pressed flat to her heart) so that his still-black hair shivers across her skin. ‘I could cancel it,’ he offers from behind still-closed eyes. ‘I could summon the army to camp in the stands. I could raise a storm so that the grounds are too dangerous to use...’ These small ways in which the sorcerer-King betrays the blue-eyed lover, more powerful even than the Chrysanthemum-throned Emperor she had feared and loved all through her childhood.
Arms locked firmly around her waist. Hands pressed flat against her back.
‘No, I need to go. Now.’ How much more forceful the words would be if she could have stopped her fingers knitting through his hair, the shift into ardour as he trails a hand lower down her back and she arches her stomach up to accommodate him, hating herself in equal measure for needing to leave, and not wanting to.
QC: by Cassandra
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 239
Pairing: Jon/Kel
Round/Fight: 1/F
Summary: Essentially, a glorified midlife.
Notes: High five. I'm writing smackdown something or others.
___________________________________
Because he has eyes filled with broken promises, she decides to be the one who breaks everything first.
‘There’s a tournament today,’ she says, words materialising into the cool white dawn with the bedchamber, its escort of rumpled bedclothes and silk pooled across the flagstones – Yamani-red gown she’d worn to punish him, snow-pure shirt he’d discarded to win her back –in a trail back to the desk where some of the greatest decisions affecting the country are made, seat still askew.
He shifts his head (heavy and warm against her breast, ear pressed flat to her heart) so that his still-black hair shivers across her skin. ‘I could cancel it,’ he offers from behind still-closed eyes. ‘I could summon the army to camp in the stands. I could raise a storm so that the grounds are too dangerous to use...’ These small ways in which the sorcerer-King betrays the blue-eyed lover, more powerful even than the Chrysanthemum-throned Emperor she had feared and loved all through her childhood.
Arms locked firmly around her waist. Hands pressed flat against her back.
‘No, I need to go. Now.’ How much more forceful the words would be if she could have stopped her fingers knitting through his hair, the shift into ardour as he trails a hand lower down her back and she arches her stomach up to accommodate him, hating herself in equal measure for needing to leave, and not wanting to.
QC: by Cassandra