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STATION 72 ; mental link
KALI She Who is the Great Destroyer ; She Who wears a Garland of Skulls | LAKSHMI She Who Believes in Truth ; She Who is the Mother |
DRAUPADI She who was Born of Fire Sacrafice; | DURGA She Who is perpetually endeavouring to protect the weak and the poor and remove their misery. |
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She liked her men broad and heavy and set well, she knew that much at least. Liked to feel something broad and powerful in her hands and for all she has seen Annie do, say of herself, the things she has done - she realises, that at least, hasn't changed, simply the form of it has. But who better equipped to understand it then?
Because the form had changed, and she thinks on it. Annie was lean, not just in difference, but in that Lakshmi knew herself, where she curved, where she was slight and then fuller, but Annie was - sleek, fine boned as a racing horse. It makes her feel so light under her hands - over aware of her strength in a particular. But realises at least, she is familiar in a way that Annie, perhaps is not. It takes her nothing in the cover of their tents to unwrap the material around from with hands that don't have to look. To peel her out of layers, without ever raising her head to look at what she's doing. The pull and yank and thread apart, as she finds mouth and then her throat. A drag down over her skin as she pushes veils and material out of the way - barking laughter, in her memories - was this how Gangadhar felt unravelling her from her jewels?
( Probably not - the English were the ones hung up about covering a woman's chest. )
It's a disregarded thought, as she pinches skin between teeth, the steady cover of her mouth over it to suck dark and red on her skin, she doesn't know exactly what she's doing, - but she knows what she likes, and like this, skin to skin, the hive burning the connection of the hive between them - was there a difference in her to Annie to back again? To the deeper breath she takes as she pushes the other woman back. Annie had no harsh lines, didn't have the rigid form that Lakshmi kept herself in that with the invitation that she didn't have to, just not, not for a little while - she spreads like ghee set afire and sweet. Rich as butter could be, the long guttering flame that pushes Annie back, pushes herself up between her legs and covers her as she works at the rest of her clothes.
No middle breath, no moment before the plunge, the thunder of horses and canon in her mind. Front line cavalry charge as she moves her. ]
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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. ]
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But in some small way, that brightness, that revelry could become like sickness, was like home. A brief pause between the kisses that colour like bruises, the heavy breathes that stain like light. Face upturned and bright and the gold that hung from her, slightly askew. She was warm, and rich, and drunk - yes, on something between between here and there that is not - she knows herself, and the mistake is that somehow that formless fire isn't warm and it is destructive - but something that is Annie, stuck to the back of her teeth. The mistake always, how the things she burns will stain the smoke. Tesla had told her, that it was the chemicals that made the fire. The copper for green, magnesium for white.
It's in part to check, once she has pulled her clothes apart, knew at this - perhaps, but she knew that steady heat, where her knee pushes up deliberately between Annie's thighs. A heavy, solid weight. That grinds up slowly, hard from the riding she did, the battles she fought through. She pulls up, to gauge the reaction as her hand moves steadily - flat palmed over her breast, steady in it's killing, rough with its kindnesses, over the curve of her ribs, to count them in a low in drawn breath. To mind the scars that they had shared, lowering her head to know them like her own as her mouth curves murmurs of affection in a breathless Hindi against her skin.
This is not slow, but for a moment, she can pretend she knows how to be. She doesn't know how make beautiful things, but she knows what it is when it is in front of her and in that she does as she always does, she watches, she looks in. She observes it as a whole and leans back in again to kiss her. Not less, for the meticulous way she leans in, her hand coming to Annie's hip, the stiff sore muscles under Annie's hand stretching out as she kisses her again with that fullness. Open, and nothing less - as she revels in that bright light, that separation and togetherness that is Annie, to let is seep into all of her scars - than to know it for the beauty than it is. Her fingers sliding around and under her to press her hips up at the angle to encourage her to rock back. ]
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She has permission here, to be a mewling thing of need, to let her lips bruise and her hips rise.
It could be terrifying, to lose that much control in so fell a swoop, but in this moment it is a relaxation. Floating hopelessly, without any goal of her own. Nothing to prove, nowhere to be, no one to save. Drunk with a lack of purpose. She plays with the draping of fabric around shoulders, the loose folds at the hips, finding more places to skin to meet, carving out a cocoon of rough fabrics around the tangling of warm limbs and fallen hair; humid, glossy.
She just wants to come screaming into Lakshmi's neck, with little preference about how she finds herself there. She could do it like this, gripping hard at the other woman's ass the bring the solid presence of her thigh tight between her legs. She could do it with her own fingers, with a warm arm draped over her, warm breasts pressed into the narrow planes of her shoulder blades. She could maybe even just think herself into it, a swarm of mouths and hands only possible in imagination. It all blossoms equally, luscious and sticky, from her mind. Flesh and longing and the deep spasmodic clutches of lust that strike like lightning on them as her excitement heightens. Dizzying, breathless, wanting. ]
Rani--
[ Queenie, Queenie, Queenie; don't stop. ]
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Because she has no preference either except in the need that defines so much of herself, to give and give and give, until the fire could find quiet for while, to hold and hold and hold until she could hold onto the things she lost over again.
With it, she grips hard, against her thigh, pushing into her with a steady rock of her hips as she rolls to her knees, that cut battle tense line of muscles that holds herself just above, dragging over her throat, clavicle in a sharp, red staining, kiss. Pushing against that want without giving back anything of the ground she took. ]
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The wet slit of Lakshmi's body against her fingers is as good as her own, and her hands find their way there past those last layers of trousers.
It is all the same, they are one thing, swollen and red and slick, tasting of musk and want. Annie arcs her back with a hum, a moan, a panting breath, gripping the woman's shoulder as leverage. That's all they need now, just leverage to rub and rut, time to build and the patience to breaker. ]
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( Even if there is a pause, ragged in her movements as she catches Annie's wrist where it slips against her - words that beget feeling beget action in a seamlessly without explanation - no, not some sweet slide, she wants it hard, she wants those fingers up and curling in, she wants the heat of her palm just so - she wants her relief, and she doesn't want it mercifully given, she wants to feel and be felt and curl hard around something solid so deeply inside of herself she can't undone - she is tired and full of teeth and hanging onto her kingdom-body-woman slipping out from that hold and she hangs on in return like the ugliest of her truths - she never learned the art of letting go well, though she has a gift for self denial she would never admit too. )
A denial that she uses now even if she does nothing but shudder, her reaction sharp and quick, before she pulls up again.
Her fingers return quickly to her task, finding her slick and easy and she chuckles breathlessly - appreciatively. How easy this all is, against the bitter aftertaste on the swallow. But she can't care or have a want to know what that regret truly is. Which is appreciated, held up ugly to the light and then discarded like she always does.
She has better things to do when her fingers - one and then another - slide up in return to Annie, and she has a strict purpose here as she heaves herself up. Letting her get the angle she wants as her wrist begins to work her, quick and hard. Her own self disregarded to the want to watch her, bear down over her - gauge how she jumps and reacts, as her speed stays there, elbow planted by Annie's head. Letting her hold fast as she needs to, giving her the caged space to fall apart. A shield of hair falling free over her shoulder, pressing her up by shove of knees to push her easy apart. Because she will have every bit of her, exposed and open and wanting. ]