Post by max on Mar 29, 2011 12:51:41 GMT 10
Title: Hell for Leather II
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 315
Pairing: Jon/Kel
Round/Fight: 1/F
Summary: Essentially, a glorified midlife.
_____________________________
He hears her breathing quicken. Feels her heat, and heartbeat against his body.
She is right, though – always. From first time she called after him in a blaze of righteous light across a courtroom ten years in the past and ever since – so he kisses her ribs, and sighs in the engagement of drowsy triceps, retrieving from her lovely young body his weight.
‘Fine then. Go...’ Watching as she slithers across the bed for a pair of his breeches from a drawer (complacent now in her possession of him – and how he adores being possessed. That one thing he has never had a right to, as the man who can have everything), bright feathery hair slipping around her face as she pulls on boots (dress boots – and how lucky he is in her height and filly grace; able to meet the skin revealed under leather with his mouth), wrapping herself quickly into a Yamani-inspired wraparound shirt. Waiting until she is at the door to exact his conditional. ‘If you don’t love me.’
She freezes, and turns with an apologetic grimace, and from its longbow-curve, he takes comfort in the safety that she is his, not only in the name she has been since she rose from beneath a blade when she was eighteen, but since she first whispered his name against his collar, her back against a cold marble column, formality nowhere and eyes hazy green, in deed.
And what is most confusing, when she is found to have left, with her dog and her birds and her horses, an ostler eventually procured to attest that the Lady Knight came into the stables before the watch called the seventh hour of the morning, is that there is nothing in her actions he can account for to displace him of this knowledge.
So it is that he resolves to follow (forever) where she has gone.
QC by: journeycat
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 315
Pairing: Jon/Kel
Round/Fight: 1/F
Summary: Essentially, a glorified midlife.
_____________________________
He hears her breathing quicken. Feels her heat, and heartbeat against his body.
She is right, though – always. From first time she called after him in a blaze of righteous light across a courtroom ten years in the past and ever since – so he kisses her ribs, and sighs in the engagement of drowsy triceps, retrieving from her lovely young body his weight.
‘Fine then. Go...’ Watching as she slithers across the bed for a pair of his breeches from a drawer (complacent now in her possession of him – and how he adores being possessed. That one thing he has never had a right to, as the man who can have everything), bright feathery hair slipping around her face as she pulls on boots (dress boots – and how lucky he is in her height and filly grace; able to meet the skin revealed under leather with his mouth), wrapping herself quickly into a Yamani-inspired wraparound shirt. Waiting until she is at the door to exact his conditional. ‘If you don’t love me.’
She freezes, and turns with an apologetic grimace, and from its longbow-curve, he takes comfort in the safety that she is his, not only in the name she has been since she rose from beneath a blade when she was eighteen, but since she first whispered his name against his collar, her back against a cold marble column, formality nowhere and eyes hazy green, in deed.
And what is most confusing, when she is found to have left, with her dog and her birds and her horses, an ostler eventually procured to attest that the Lady Knight came into the stables before the watch called the seventh hour of the morning, is that there is nothing in her actions he can account for to displace him of this knowledge.
So it is that he resolves to follow (forever) where she has gone.
QC by: journeycat