[ This woman, so grounded in the physical world, rushes over her like a wave; sensations and tastes and smells. There have maybe been moments, here and there, where Annie has wished she could perform that feat. The feat of being present in the world, experiencing it with the fullness of her body-- But she was not her body. She was a passenger inside this humanity, a visitor to the experience, with her mind always elsewhere, refracted into different spectrums. Neither here, nor there. A stratum of void and colors, but never one particular place, never one singular entity.
There's the wiry little body kicking beneath Lakshmi, pressing bones to bones, and then there is the slosh of some slimy water-dwelling thing that lives in her mind, that has been wallowing quietly in liquor and mud. Stirred to wakefulness by the stampeding of hooves and the biting of teeth. Its touch is a sickening cascade of color and light, intangible, indefinable.
That's the rest of Annie Westwind, a sprawling mess of every other potential.
Sex, at least, is something to put that formless energy towards, to disperse the most frenetic, molten layers into the air, like a body breathing out carbon. A lure down into the small body she was born into that is not quite hers, to make it focus and feel, burn and tremble. A machine performing a function it was made to perform in satisfaction, rather than daydreaming about an enormity which eclipsed suns.
Annie opens up, prismatic, making room for thundering horses, for pillars of fire, for strings of jewels. For Rani, who she had not thought would turn to her at all, but since she has... there's a girl in the body. Someone willful, lonely, hurting, struggling on as she has always struggled on, who would benefit from the outpour of someone much the same.
She loops her arm around Lakshmi's waist, possessive of what's there to share, of what's to be forgotten for a moment or two: what's been lost, what's been wounded, what's been scarred. They've already seen all of each other's scars, it's not the looking, not even the fingertips in the grooves of it all. The intimacy is in the willingness to expose an unease and take comfort for it. To be angry and sorrowful, in triumph. ]
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There's the wiry little body kicking beneath Lakshmi, pressing bones to bones, and then there is the slosh of some slimy water-dwelling thing that lives in her mind, that has been wallowing quietly in liquor and mud. Stirred to wakefulness by the stampeding of hooves and the biting of teeth. Its touch is a sickening cascade of color and light, intangible, indefinable.
That's the rest of Annie Westwind, a sprawling mess of every other potential.
Sex, at least, is something to put that formless energy towards, to disperse the most frenetic, molten layers into the air, like a body breathing out carbon. A lure down into the small body she was born into that is not quite hers, to make it focus and feel, burn and tremble. A machine performing a function it was made to perform in satisfaction, rather than daydreaming about an enormity which eclipsed suns.
Annie opens up, prismatic, making room for thundering horses, for pillars of fire, for strings of jewels. For Rani, who she had not thought would turn to her at all, but since she has... there's a girl in the body. Someone willful, lonely, hurting, struggling on as she has always struggled on, who would benefit from the outpour of someone much the same.
She loops her arm around Lakshmi's waist, possessive of what's there to share, of what's to be forgotten for a moment or two: what's been lost, what's been wounded, what's been scarred. They've already seen all of each other's scars, it's not the looking, not even the fingertips in the grooves of it all. The intimacy is in the willingness to expose an unease and take comfort for it. To be angry and sorrowful, in triumph. ]