Post by Carbon Kiwi on Apr 24, 2011 8:20:08 GMT 10
Title: Underland
Rating: R
Word Count: 489
Pairing: Lark / Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 2B
Warnings: Definite implied sex
Summary: Lark already knew Rosie was soft.
Notes: Senses for the win.
Sounds were loud in the hot heat of the under-land, the land of gasp and groans and screams. They filtered into her and circulated in her mind, beyond the pounding of blood in her ears and heart and core. Sounds reverberated from the cloth, bounding from cotton straight at her and pelting her with noises that struck her between the legs.
Sights were brilliant within the covered canvas of the under-land, the land of sunlight sneaking through weft and warp or darkness surrounding bodies that undulated and jerked. They were set to the backdrop of virgin white in daytime, darkest black or flickering flame-warmth colours by evening; the sights of hills and dips quenched her hungry eyes, but never enough, always wanting more. Sights played before her, gathering behind her eyes and enhancing every curve and rise—the intake of a breath, the indent of a cry.
Smells were potent within the confined curve of the under-land, the land of spices and cool earth beyond the forest and looms. They wafted in her face and up her nose, tugging the finest memories from the farthest corners of her mind, to make them a reality once more. Smells of dirt and aloe and basil and pine and more trapped with her—so gloriously trapped with her—for her to appreciate and adore, breathing them as treasured textures to the weave of her mind.
Tastes were divine in the passionate place of the under-land, the land of salt and slickness. They exploded over her tongue and washed over her other senses, overwhelming and perfect and addictive. Tastes were collected everywhere, a game of hunt-and-seek, tongue dragging and dipping to garner every single one that could be found and then again, again, do it again.
Touches were the court of the queendom of the under-land, the land of softness and scratches and sliding. They pressed every pore and segment of her skin, pressing her to touch more, feel more, trace and tickle and tantalise, safe from the sensation of the overbearing over-land. Touches were ubiquitous and gentle and hard and scorching, the muse for all other senses of the queendom: the keen sounds, the soft sighs, the aphrodisiac smells, the taste of triumph…
If pressed to describe Rosethorn in the sheets, that’s what Lark would have implied—with a blush, a grin and a flippant comment.
But Lark knew that what most honed her senses in the sacred stretch of the under-land was a sixth sense, one that Rosethorn would have thwacked her for until she laughed, because the foundation for all her other senses in any heated moment with Rosie was love. And love made little flowers bloom in Rosie’s tummy until she was ticklish from inside-out, a feeling that Lark knew the woman loved and grumbled about at once for fear it made her soft.
Lark already knew Rosie was soft. No one could hide in the under-land of underneath-the-sheets.
QC by PeroxidePirate
Rating: R
Word Count: 489
Pairing: Lark / Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 2B
Warnings: Definite implied sex
Summary: Lark already knew Rosie was soft.
Notes: Senses for the win.
Sounds were loud in the hot heat of the under-land, the land of gasp and groans and screams. They filtered into her and circulated in her mind, beyond the pounding of blood in her ears and heart and core. Sounds reverberated from the cloth, bounding from cotton straight at her and pelting her with noises that struck her between the legs.
Sights were brilliant within the covered canvas of the under-land, the land of sunlight sneaking through weft and warp or darkness surrounding bodies that undulated and jerked. They were set to the backdrop of virgin white in daytime, darkest black or flickering flame-warmth colours by evening; the sights of hills and dips quenched her hungry eyes, but never enough, always wanting more. Sights played before her, gathering behind her eyes and enhancing every curve and rise—the intake of a breath, the indent of a cry.
Smells were potent within the confined curve of the under-land, the land of spices and cool earth beyond the forest and looms. They wafted in her face and up her nose, tugging the finest memories from the farthest corners of her mind, to make them a reality once more. Smells of dirt and aloe and basil and pine and more trapped with her—so gloriously trapped with her—for her to appreciate and adore, breathing them as treasured textures to the weave of her mind.
Tastes were divine in the passionate place of the under-land, the land of salt and slickness. They exploded over her tongue and washed over her other senses, overwhelming and perfect and addictive. Tastes were collected everywhere, a game of hunt-and-seek, tongue dragging and dipping to garner every single one that could be found and then again, again, do it again.
Touches were the court of the queendom of the under-land, the land of softness and scratches and sliding. They pressed every pore and segment of her skin, pressing her to touch more, feel more, trace and tickle and tantalise, safe from the sensation of the overbearing over-land. Touches were ubiquitous and gentle and hard and scorching, the muse for all other senses of the queendom: the keen sounds, the soft sighs, the aphrodisiac smells, the taste of triumph…
If pressed to describe Rosethorn in the sheets, that’s what Lark would have implied—with a blush, a grin and a flippant comment.
But Lark knew that what most honed her senses in the sacred stretch of the under-land was a sixth sense, one that Rosethorn would have thwacked her for until she laughed, because the foundation for all her other senses in any heated moment with Rosie was love. And love made little flowers bloom in Rosie’s tummy until she was ticklish from inside-out, a feeling that Lark knew the woman loved and grumbled about at once for fear it made her soft.
Lark already knew Rosie was soft. No one could hide in the under-land of underneath-the-sheets.
QC by PeroxidePirate