Post by Kit on Jul 17, 2010 15:50:24 GMT 10
Title: Morning Break
Length: 450
Rating: R. Well. A pretty soft R.
Summary: After you have woken and cried and screamed and torn at the world in someone’s arms—even someone you know very well—it is difficult to meet their eyes the next morning. And the next. Again and again, as weight bares you and bears down, until you’re sure that any break is final. Until, sometimes, you can breathe again. Rosethorn remembers how to breathe.
“Rosie?”
Warmth and surprise in the syllables, easing up and between them both as Lark stretches, slides herself against new weight and familiar skin. The light shows ivory tinted gold. This is her own time, cool and quiet and just-wakeful. Her own room, with her curtains trapping and spreading eastern light into brightness through the weave. Her own bed shared, unlike many mornings when she returns, tired and shaken, from the dimness and easy, full earth that her beloved needs.
Nights have been dark for them, since Gyonxe.
Now, she gasps at lips against her throat, and the pulse there. Rosethorn is trying to be slow, and it shows in every caught breath. It shows in the tension of her hands, the pull in the slight distance between her palms and Lark’s skin. In the soft, hoarse groan that slips from her as those palms ease up Lark’s thighs and hips. Lark leans into the touch, and Rosethorn barely leans back, and the pull remains.
“Rosie.”
Her throat works, and Rosethorn speaks into her words before as they’re formed, tongue shocking that skin.
“I’m here,” she says. “Finally here.”
Lark flushes. Need is always a surprise to her. An old friend gone suddenly swift and searing-sweet into her limbs, in the arch of her hips and back and, now, in her hand curling into Rosethorn’s short, rich hair and pulling her up, and into the kiss waiting between the two of them.
Rosethorn’s hands around her face. Their foreheads touching. Pale, shifting skin over her own, and Rosethorn’s eyes, very wide and dark in the morning light.
“You are beautiful.” Years of this, and she still sounds surprised. Faintly challenging. Lark’s shivers, eyes closing, enjoying the warmth of her own smile. She did not need to see her to kiss her again,
“I’m serious.”
“You always are, love.”
“The thought of you, here, in all this, kept me sane.”
Lark opens her eyes. Presses her lips to the skin of Rosethorn’s cheek, her jaw. “This room?”
“Always yours. In the morning. It was always morning.” Her voice cracks a little even as she presses a small, steady hand to Lark’s heart, and then, lighter, over her breast, fingers wandering even as she kept her eyes on Lark’s face.
“Rosie—”
“Always morning and just like this.” She laughed; shuddered as Lark kissed tears from her cheeks.
“Well, less weeping.”
Morning. Always morning, and Rosethorn in her bed. Her hand on her heart and breast and down and hear in her face as, oh, sweet gods, this dearest and best beloved smiles at her, breaking through the shadows in her face. Here. And here. Finally—here.
“Rosie.”
“Yes, Lark?”
“Touch me.”
Length: 450
Rating: R. Well. A pretty soft R.
Summary: After you have woken and cried and screamed and torn at the world in someone’s arms—even someone you know very well—it is difficult to meet their eyes the next morning. And the next. Again and again, as weight bares you and bears down, until you’re sure that any break is final. Until, sometimes, you can breathe again. Rosethorn remembers how to breathe.
“Rosie?”
Warmth and surprise in the syllables, easing up and between them both as Lark stretches, slides herself against new weight and familiar skin. The light shows ivory tinted gold. This is her own time, cool and quiet and just-wakeful. Her own room, with her curtains trapping and spreading eastern light into brightness through the weave. Her own bed shared, unlike many mornings when she returns, tired and shaken, from the dimness and easy, full earth that her beloved needs.
Nights have been dark for them, since Gyonxe.
Now, she gasps at lips against her throat, and the pulse there. Rosethorn is trying to be slow, and it shows in every caught breath. It shows in the tension of her hands, the pull in the slight distance between her palms and Lark’s skin. In the soft, hoarse groan that slips from her as those palms ease up Lark’s thighs and hips. Lark leans into the touch, and Rosethorn barely leans back, and the pull remains.
“Rosie.”
Her throat works, and Rosethorn speaks into her words before as they’re formed, tongue shocking that skin.
“I’m here,” she says. “Finally here.”
Lark flushes. Need is always a surprise to her. An old friend gone suddenly swift and searing-sweet into her limbs, in the arch of her hips and back and, now, in her hand curling into Rosethorn’s short, rich hair and pulling her up, and into the kiss waiting between the two of them.
Rosethorn’s hands around her face. Their foreheads touching. Pale, shifting skin over her own, and Rosethorn’s eyes, very wide and dark in the morning light.
“You are beautiful.” Years of this, and she still sounds surprised. Faintly challenging. Lark’s shivers, eyes closing, enjoying the warmth of her own smile. She did not need to see her to kiss her again,
“I’m serious.”
“You always are, love.”
“The thought of you, here, in all this, kept me sane.”
Lark opens her eyes. Presses her lips to the skin of Rosethorn’s cheek, her jaw. “This room?”
“Always yours. In the morning. It was always morning.” Her voice cracks a little even as she presses a small, steady hand to Lark’s heart, and then, lighter, over her breast, fingers wandering even as she kept her eyes on Lark’s face.
“Rosie—”
“Always morning and just like this.” She laughed; shuddered as Lark kissed tears from her cheeks.
“Well, less weeping.”
Morning. Always morning, and Rosethorn in her bed. Her hand on her heart and breast and down and hear in her face as, oh, sweet gods, this dearest and best beloved smiles at her, breaking through the shadows in her face. Here. And here. Finally—here.
“Rosie.”
“Yes, Lark?”
“Touch me.”