Post by Kit on Apr 6, 2011 3:04:01 GMT 10
Title: Second glance
Rating: R
Wordcount: 792
Pairing:Team Circlecest
Round: 1/H
Summary: Sandry tells a secret and asks a question, and one revelation leads to another.
Warning: Sex
The question was a slow one, Sandry’s blush scalding her face as she held her saati’s hands. A confession was in it, too, twined as close to the question—to need, to sharing—as their fingers. Sandry laughed saying it, and Daja laughed hearing it, while each held the other.
“You’ll not know when, though,” Daja said steadily, grinning at her until Sandry began to squirm behind the ducal boxwood desk she had claimed as her own. “That would ruin it.”
“And you wouldn’t get to torment me.” Sandry sighed, releasing the taller woman’s hands to clasp her own together.
“Which would ruin it.”
***
Questions lead to further ones. And Tris, kneading bread in the house they shared, knew this very well. Her lips quirked.
“And which of you is responsible for this particular perversity?”
Daja, watching early evening sunlight braid itself through Tris’s pinned hair, touching copper and sparking silver alike, thought that Tris had gone into Lightsbridge as herself and back out of it again as more so, but with Niko’s vocabulary. She shrugged. “Do you really have to ask?”
“No.” Rye dough thumped the counter. “But it’s fun.”
***
Sandry sighed, fingers pressed to her temples. Figures swam before her eyes. Cattle yields. The cotton harvest was bursting at the seams. Erdogun’s mother was terribly ill; how could he ever be persuaded to take the time off? Franzen’s wife was terribly ill; how could she ever make ‘best wishes’ sound convincing? She looked at the crystal on her desk until spots danced in her vision and she could press a hand over her eyes. If it had been a candle, she might at least know how much time had passed…
No. The incandescent lump of rock held too many memories. And many nights in these offices would become intolerably lonely without it there.
Warmth. The slow, easy motion of arms fitting about her waist from behind, and a body fitting into her own. She felt lips press to one shoulder and she wanted to turn, to see, to let her whole length press up and hold, but she was kept still. There was a leg between hers and a hand on her lower back, giving steady, urging pressure. A quick, bright nip at her skin, almost hard enough to mark.
Sandry flushed, hands falling limply to the desk. She closed her eyes. She closed her eyes. Her nipples were hard, skin tight and barely holding her heartbeat as she strained into smaller, skilled hands.
Realisation made her groan. —Daja!
There was a breathless quality to the laughing inner voice –Hush. You said you wanted to watch.
—This is more than…
There was a knock at the door, and Sandry nearly swayed. Instead, she bit her lip. “Yes?”
“If you’re down to one word answers, Duchess, you’ve officially been here too long.” Briar, safe in long practise and the most unconvential (and unconvincing) Ducal staff appointments the Palace and Emelan had ever seen, sauntered into the room, taking Daja’s usual posture and leaning over the desk.
He tweaked her nose. When this provoked a whimper instead of the typical spluttered cry for vengeance, he eyed her again. “Sandry?”
--Are you open?
Hands reinforced the words, slipping into her, fingers sure and steady and ever so carefully stretching, and she laughed while she gasped.
--Can she see, Daja?
--you could find that out yourself.
--Well, yes. But I want you to say it.
--yes, merchant girl. She can see. She’s in her office far too late, and she’s right here with—oh.
—Don’t you two stop just because I stumbled in. It’d make me cry.
—this isn’t for you, Briar!
“Duchess,” Briar breathed with no little awe, blinking away afterimages of what he had caught through Tris’s eyes—blurred, but no less compelling for it. “I love it when you’re just that little bit filthier than we all think.”
Sandry laughed, the sound coming high and hoarse. “She’s right, you know. This was for me.”
“And I can’t be giving? Honestly, woman.” Smirking, he straightened and moved to close the door.
—Coppercurls? Keep doing that. He grinned at Sandry’s outraged laugh, at the resonances of it that he felt through Tris and Daja.
—I hardly need you to direct me, Briar.
Briar shrugged, returning to Sandry and letting his hand move to the back of her neck. He kissed her, and she returned it happy, possessive, familiar ease—teasing his lower lip in a way that made even this go blank for half a second.
—Direct me, then, he thought.
Tris smirked while, in her house and at the palace, both Daja and Sandry cried out.
It had been a good time for Sandry’s question.
QC by PeroxidePirate
Rating: R
Wordcount: 792
Pairing:Team Circlecest
Round: 1/H
Summary: Sandry tells a secret and asks a question, and one revelation leads to another.
Warning: Sex
The question was a slow one, Sandry’s blush scalding her face as she held her saati’s hands. A confession was in it, too, twined as close to the question—to need, to sharing—as their fingers. Sandry laughed saying it, and Daja laughed hearing it, while each held the other.
“You’ll not know when, though,” Daja said steadily, grinning at her until Sandry began to squirm behind the ducal boxwood desk she had claimed as her own. “That would ruin it.”
“And you wouldn’t get to torment me.” Sandry sighed, releasing the taller woman’s hands to clasp her own together.
“Which would ruin it.”
***
Questions lead to further ones. And Tris, kneading bread in the house they shared, knew this very well. Her lips quirked.
“And which of you is responsible for this particular perversity?”
Daja, watching early evening sunlight braid itself through Tris’s pinned hair, touching copper and sparking silver alike, thought that Tris had gone into Lightsbridge as herself and back out of it again as more so, but with Niko’s vocabulary. She shrugged. “Do you really have to ask?”
“No.” Rye dough thumped the counter. “But it’s fun.”
***
Sandry sighed, fingers pressed to her temples. Figures swam before her eyes. Cattle yields. The cotton harvest was bursting at the seams. Erdogun’s mother was terribly ill; how could he ever be persuaded to take the time off? Franzen’s wife was terribly ill; how could she ever make ‘best wishes’ sound convincing? She looked at the crystal on her desk until spots danced in her vision and she could press a hand over her eyes. If it had been a candle, she might at least know how much time had passed…
No. The incandescent lump of rock held too many memories. And many nights in these offices would become intolerably lonely without it there.
Warmth. The slow, easy motion of arms fitting about her waist from behind, and a body fitting into her own. She felt lips press to one shoulder and she wanted to turn, to see, to let her whole length press up and hold, but she was kept still. There was a leg between hers and a hand on her lower back, giving steady, urging pressure. A quick, bright nip at her skin, almost hard enough to mark.
Sandry flushed, hands falling limply to the desk. She closed her eyes. She closed her eyes. Her nipples were hard, skin tight and barely holding her heartbeat as she strained into smaller, skilled hands.
Realisation made her groan. —Daja!
There was a breathless quality to the laughing inner voice –Hush. You said you wanted to watch.
—This is more than…
There was a knock at the door, and Sandry nearly swayed. Instead, she bit her lip. “Yes?”
“If you’re down to one word answers, Duchess, you’ve officially been here too long.” Briar, safe in long practise and the most unconvential (and unconvincing) Ducal staff appointments the Palace and Emelan had ever seen, sauntered into the room, taking Daja’s usual posture and leaning over the desk.
He tweaked her nose. When this provoked a whimper instead of the typical spluttered cry for vengeance, he eyed her again. “Sandry?”
--Are you open?
Hands reinforced the words, slipping into her, fingers sure and steady and ever so carefully stretching, and she laughed while she gasped.
--Can she see, Daja?
--you could find that out yourself.
--Well, yes. But I want you to say it.
--yes, merchant girl. She can see. She’s in her office far too late, and she’s right here with—oh.
—Don’t you two stop just because I stumbled in. It’d make me cry.
—this isn’t for you, Briar!
“Duchess,” Briar breathed with no little awe, blinking away afterimages of what he had caught through Tris’s eyes—blurred, but no less compelling for it. “I love it when you’re just that little bit filthier than we all think.”
Sandry laughed, the sound coming high and hoarse. “She’s right, you know. This was for me.”
“And I can’t be giving? Honestly, woman.” Smirking, he straightened and moved to close the door.
—Coppercurls? Keep doing that. He grinned at Sandry’s outraged laugh, at the resonances of it that he felt through Tris and Daja.
—I hardly need you to direct me, Briar.
Briar shrugged, returning to Sandry and letting his hand move to the back of her neck. He kissed her, and she returned it happy, possessive, familiar ease—teasing his lower lip in a way that made even this go blank for half a second.
—Direct me, then, he thought.
Tris smirked while, in her house and at the palace, both Daja and Sandry cried out.
It had been a good time for Sandry’s question.
QC by PeroxidePirate