Post by Kit on Feb 19, 2010 22:28:56 GMT 10
Title: Peerless
Rating: R
Length: 790
Competitor: Buri
Round: 1/E
Summary: Buri reflects
Thayet was Thayet, but she was not peerless. Her lady and her charge—the first person to bring a flush to her skin and make her heart roll over from exasperation into heat. She was fastness in all senses: speed and strength and a need that would never fail or flag no matter how much it changed.
Seeing Thayet now, the ruler of a realm that kept its secrets and hid unclean justice behind layers of ink and wood and stiff fabric, Buri still saw the urgent ghost of Sarain: tasting Buri’s skin under her father’s nose, against the pillars so many had died to produce.
Alanna was laughter, and challenge. A competition neither knew they had entered until one fierce, awkward kiss the year prince Roald was born. She had trapped and held her and Alanna—her small, square fingers tangling in Buri’s braids—had allowed for seconds, minutes, until a sharper pull and the break away, breathless and apologetic.
Onua was surprise and comfort, and the taste of home. The wonder and awfulness of it; the younger woman’s body long and beautiful and broken under her hands, and Buri’s whole skin slowly, perhaps, fading the cracks in hers.
It was beautiful to watch her heel and flourish, all coppery strength as with one lingering kiss, echoed once every other year, she could walk away easy-limbed and without shame.
Evin Larse was an infatuation, pale but persistent, infuriating, buried under lilting banter and layers of mud and mockery.
Sarge was brief but urgent, silent. Roars turned inward, her lips tracing the scars of whip and time as his hands closed on her shoulders and left bruises they both needed as the world swelled around them into thoughtless flares.
Raoul was understanding, was teasing. A male body she could touch slow, knowing he could hold, could wait. He had years of waiting, and she let curiosity guide her hand and dwell in her touch, until he was gasping and hard and full of adoration that was too big for both of them. At first, she thought his hands on her might make her small, remind her of the differences between his body and her own. The sheer mechanics of it—nothing between them should have worked. But she was wrong. His hands made her swell. His mouth, unhurried, teased and coaxed and grew her, so slow and gentle that there were no cracks between them through which ghosts could slip.
Kel all of these things, somehow. Gallant girl, Alanna had called her, under her breath and watching with eyes that burned. Buri preferred simpler words. Determined. Powerful. Splendid, sometimes. And no girl. She worked and she strained and managed to work through mud and rain and ice not with a laugh, but with a shrug. An understanding of change that kept her hands steady and eyes on a dream that, slowly, Buri felt could be realised. She was calm and lithe in the baths, owning he bruises she had chosen for herself. She owned her heaviness. Her strength. The grace few eyes were trained to see. She owned the other culture beneath her skin. She stood before Jon, before Thayet, and allowed herself to dislike the words they said.
She stood before handsome boys, pretty boys, laughing boys and older men, and she fought against shivers and blushes and a heart that raced, and Buri could not help but wonder how she would feel if she caught a woman’s look, felt a change in touch, that teased similar thoughts into her skin. No one had shown her that, Buri knew, and sometimes, just sometimes, during early mornings in New Hope or Steadfast as a married woman, she wondered if someone ever would.
Rating: R
Length: 790
Competitor: Buri
Round: 1/E
Summary: Buri reflects
Thayet was Thayet, but she was not peerless. Her lady and her charge—the first person to bring a flush to her skin and make her heart roll over from exasperation into heat. She was fastness in all senses: speed and strength and a need that would never fail or flag no matter how much it changed.
Seeing Thayet now, the ruler of a realm that kept its secrets and hid unclean justice behind layers of ink and wood and stiff fabric, Buri still saw the urgent ghost of Sarain: tasting Buri’s skin under her father’s nose, against the pillars so many had died to produce.
Alanna was laughter, and challenge. A competition neither knew they had entered until one fierce, awkward kiss the year prince Roald was born. She had trapped and held her and Alanna—her small, square fingers tangling in Buri’s braids—had allowed for seconds, minutes, until a sharper pull and the break away, breathless and apologetic.
(“Mmph. I’d wondered.”
“Your first?”
“Buriram Tourakom. Are you blind?”
“No, little fool. Your first with a wom—”
“—oh, yes. Worth it, I think.” A shrug. More apology. “But I’m not going to stand in for you.”
“I know. Still, it was fun to shut you up for once.”)
Onua was surprise and comfort, and the taste of home. The wonder and awfulness of it; the younger woman’s body long and beautiful and broken under her hands, and Buri’s whole skin slowly, perhaps, fading the cracks in hers.
(“You were right to leave, you know.”
“I do. It just feels—”
“—I know.” A smile, lazy and triumphant, at the low keen as Buri curled her tongue around the dark, swollen nipple. “I know.”)
It was beautiful to watch her heel and flourish, all coppery strength as with one lingering kiss, echoed once every other year, she could walk away easy-limbed and without shame.
Evin Larse was an infatuation, pale but persistent, infuriating, buried under lilting banter and layers of mud and mockery.
(“Barely out of the cradle, Commander.”
“I know, Horsemistress. Shut your mouth.)
Sarge was brief but urgent, silent. Roars turned inward, her lips tracing the scars of whip and time as his hands closed on her shoulders and left bruises they both needed as the world swelled around them into thoughtless flares.
Raoul was understanding, was teasing. A male body she could touch slow, knowing he could hold, could wait. He had years of waiting, and she let curiosity guide her hand and dwell in her touch, until he was gasping and hard and full of adoration that was too big for both of them. At first, she thought his hands on her might make her small, remind her of the differences between his body and her own. The sheer mechanics of it—nothing between them should have worked. But she was wrong. His hands made her swell. His mouth, unhurried, teased and coaxed and grew her, so slow and gentle that there were no cracks between them through which ghosts could slip.
Kel all of these things, somehow. Gallant girl, Alanna had called her, under her breath and watching with eyes that burned. Buri preferred simpler words. Determined. Powerful. Splendid, sometimes. And no girl. She worked and she strained and managed to work through mud and rain and ice not with a laugh, but with a shrug. An understanding of change that kept her hands steady and eyes on a dream that, slowly, Buri felt could be realised. She was calm and lithe in the baths, owning he bruises she had chosen for herself. She owned her heaviness. Her strength. The grace few eyes were trained to see. She owned the other culture beneath her skin. She stood before Jon, before Thayet, and allowed herself to dislike the words they said.
She stood before handsome boys, pretty boys, laughing boys and older men, and she fought against shivers and blushes and a heart that raced, and Buri could not help but wonder how she would feel if she caught a woman’s look, felt a change in touch, that teased similar thoughts into her skin. No one had shown her that, Buri knew, and sometimes, just sometimes, during early mornings in New Hope or Steadfast as a married woman, she wondered if someone ever would.