Post by max on Feb 20, 2010 8:44:48 GMT 10
Title: Bright Star II (I hate titles, can you tell?)
Rating: PG
Length: 249
Competitor: Joren
Round/Fight: 1/E
Summary: Moar moments. Hindered by the fact that I’ve been binge-listening to I Do by Gin Wigmore which is really really really bad music for me, as far as writing Kel/Joren fics goes. Anyway. Part 2.
___________________________________________
Stars don’t breathe – unless light counts – but he is very much a man, and when the shaft of wood is pressed against his windpipe, forcing him to surrender, he can only convey his disgust with his eyes.
Apparently he is good at giving looks, but – ever the apathetic blob (she is softer than they are, the way all girls are. Except… innocuously – incongruously – too clever, too dedicated to be written off as just one of a pack of giggling twits for whom he has only contempt) she doesn’t respond.
Seeing her deliver the same treatment to Lord Raoul (a hero, even if he is progressive) the day she should have fallen in the practice yard, loaded lance in hand, he realises it won’t be enough.
Not because she’s his match – she isn’t – but because she is his invert.
Everything he will never be or long to.
This has already been confirmed – she ran from them, left the redhead behind, and gender has nothing to do with cowardice – nonetheless: he had felt less victorious and more disappointed, somehow. Beating her would have meant something, in a way he can’t quite touch.
The night his fingers lace through her absurdly short hair, fists distort her girlishly soft mouth for the first time, he is looking for some kind of affirmation of ideals, and although all he gets for his pains is an aching body, it seems to be enough for the moment.
He sleeps better, despite his injuries, for fighting her.
Rating: PG
Length: 249
Competitor: Joren
Round/Fight: 1/E
Summary: Moar moments. Hindered by the fact that I’ve been binge-listening to I Do by Gin Wigmore which is really really really bad music for me, as far as writing Kel/Joren fics goes. Anyway. Part 2.
___________________________________________
Stars don’t breathe – unless light counts – but he is very much a man, and when the shaft of wood is pressed against his windpipe, forcing him to surrender, he can only convey his disgust with his eyes.
Apparently he is good at giving looks, but – ever the apathetic blob (she is softer than they are, the way all girls are. Except… innocuously – incongruously – too clever, too dedicated to be written off as just one of a pack of giggling twits for whom he has only contempt) she doesn’t respond.
Seeing her deliver the same treatment to Lord Raoul (a hero, even if he is progressive) the day she should have fallen in the practice yard, loaded lance in hand, he realises it won’t be enough.
Not because she’s his match – she isn’t – but because she is his invert.
Everything he will never be or long to.
This has already been confirmed – she ran from them, left the redhead behind, and gender has nothing to do with cowardice – nonetheless: he had felt less victorious and more disappointed, somehow. Beating her would have meant something, in a way he can’t quite touch.
The night his fingers lace through her absurdly short hair, fists distort her girlishly soft mouth for the first time, he is looking for some kind of affirmation of ideals, and although all he gets for his pains is an aching body, it seems to be enough for the moment.
He sleeps better, despite his injuries, for fighting her.