Drive-by Tortallporn!
When Alanna had been just a boy, many years ago now, George had taught her to fight: to work at close quarters, with body and knife. There had been that look of concentration in her eyes, as she studied his moves carefully. Then, still with same intense concentration, she would make the same move herself. Slowly at first, and then with more confidence, until she was sure she had made the move her own.
She had the same serious attitude to kissing him, George noticed, and it made him chuckle low in his throat. Out there in the garden, she had turned her face up to him and let him take the lead. This should have happened a long time ago, she’d said, and George wasn’t quite sure what she meant by that, but he had known for years that he would take anything Alanna offered him and give the world in exchange if she’d let him. ‘Come with me, darlin’ girl,’ he’d said, and she’d taken his hand and come. The door safely closed behind them, he’d pulled her to him with one arm and cupped her face with his free hand, memorising with his fingers the features his mind’s eye knew perfectly. He’d kissed her again, slow and gentle. Her lips were rough, chapped from the wind and the sun, and she parted them with a little sigh when George flicked his tongue across them. Alanna kissed him slowly, letting him make a move and then imitating it. When George pulled back to look at her, his hand still cradling her cheek, there was that look of concentration, the same one she’d worn all those years ago.
When he chuckled, Alanna slid her hand up the back of his neck. There were sword-calluses on her fingers, and the realisation - this was Alanna, this could only be Alanna, no one else would ever feel the same as Alanna - sent a shiver down George’s spine. She smiled up at him, a tiny quirk at the side of her mouth, and, winding her fingers in his hair, pulled his head down and kissed him. This time it was her tongue flicking over his lips, and George giving way with a sigh. He kissed back, harder, and she matched him. The hand on her cheek he brought around to tangle in her hair; she still had hers at the back of his neck, and had brought the other around his waist and pulled him closer in to her. George was hardening in his breeches already, and he contemplated scooping her up and depositing her in the bed, or peeling her dress from her body and going down to his knees before her. On reflection, however, he thought he ought to put up a show of self-control.
Taking advantage of Alanna’s tight grasp on his waist, he stepped back, pulling her a few steps further into the room. George pivoted her carefully until he was behind her, one arm fitting snugly across her body. Lifting her hair with his other hand, he indulged himself for a moment (it was so rare he saw her hair any way but tied securely back), inhaling the scent of it. He trailed kisses up her neck and was rewarded when she sank back into him. He kissed his way down the scoop at the back of her dress, and back up again to the other side of her neck. Here, Alanna turned her face up to him and caught his lip with her teeth. George’s breath hitched in his throat and he leaned into her, trying to deepen the kiss. Alanna flicked her tongue out, over his lips, and then pulled back around to face him, her palms flat against his chest.
Alanna’s laugh was not one he’d heard before, a low, purring sound that robbed him of all coherent thought for a moment. Then she had pulled his head down and kissed him again, harder and faster and messier than before, and her free hand was pulling the buttons of his shirt undone. Next, the shirt was on the floor and Alanna was walking George backwards across the room. He felt unaccountably self-conscious as she pressed her lips to his chest, just to the side of his nipple. She’d seen him naked before, of course, but that was years ago, and she was a boy then, and why was he, George, feeling self-conscious anyway? This was most definitely not like hand-to-hand fighting, he decided, as his legs hit something and he folded up into the chair. Alanna was smirking at him, she was actually smirking. He could still take her down in a fight, he was sure of it, but this was another matter entirely. Alanna was repeating his earlier motion, slipping around behind him and kissing up one side of his neck. He was certain she was better at it than he, or maybe he was biased. If sex was like fighting, he ought to have the upper hand here, he had far more years of both behind him. But then, if sex was like fighting, an excess of affection for the other party could put you - now she had his earlobe and was nibbling at it - well, it could put you on your back foot.
Alanna tilted his head up and delivered him a kiss which robbed him of all coherent thought for a few moments. If this was like hand-to-hand fighting, then she hadn’t been uncertain before, she’d been taking his measure. Her hands were trailing over his shoulders and down his chest, toying with his nipples and raking her nails gently over the skin. George reached out to pull her onto his lap, crush her into him, kiss every part of her within reach. Rather than folding neatly across his lap, as any woman used to skirts would have done, Alanna stepped around to straddle him, bunching her skirts up around her.
George grinned up at her, running his hands down the outside of her thighs. Stockings, garters, and then - nothing. There was a low pleased sound in the back of Alanna’s throat as George slid his hands over the skin of her arse. Somehow she had her head low enough to be licking and teasing his nipples, and had adjusted herself on his lap so that she could rock and grind herself against his trousers. Between these three things, George thought his breeches were definitely too tight now, and Alanna was certainly overdressed. He went to pull his hands out of her dress and unbutton it, but his hands had better ideas, ideas which elicited more delightful involuntary noises, and earnt him hard, fast, kisses; demanding kisses with teeth and tongue and teeth again. She was hot and slippery against his fingers, pushing forward against his hand, reaching around behind her and fumbling at her buttons at the same time. He steadied her, his palm flat against the small of her back.
‘’s good,’ she muttered, kissing him again. George grinned and nipped at her lips. ‘’s good.’ The last of her buttons had given way, and her dress was slipping off her shoulders now. George leant into kiss the newly exposed skin, Alanna arching back against his steadying hand. A few more moments, his fingers warm and slick against her, her skin flushed against his lips, and then George drew back. Alanna narrowed her eyes at him, and he gave her the Rogue’s best lewd wink as he stood up, trusting her reflexes to put her back on her feet too. Dear gods, he wanted to get this right, get it right the first time in case it was the last. Alanna stepped out of the dress as he peeled it from her body, letting it fall, petticoat and all, to the floor.
‘You’re staring,’ Alanna said tersely. There was that combative set to her jaw which he knew well enough by now meant the lady knight was unsure but damned if she’d show it. Armour or dresses, he realised, they were both disguises, of a sort, and he had her in his arms without them. Should he comfort or reassure her? Swear on his honour as a rogue that the sight of her, all lean muscle and scars standing there in stockings and ridiculous impractical shoes, was enough to send him out of his mind? Instead, he swept his gaze up and down her body, following eyes with hands, pushing her back onto the bed.
‘I’m staring,’ he agreed, kneeling down to tug off the foolish shoes, pull off the garters, and roll the stockings down after them. ‘Would you blame me?’ It wasn’t a particularly high bed, and George was a tall man: where he knelt, his face was almost level with Alanna’s as she sat. She fisted her hand hand in his hair and tilted his head back, holding him still, so that he was unable to lean up and meet her lips. She was smiling again, that tiny little one-sided smirk, and she leant down to just barely touch her lips to George’s. Just - barely. And again, ever so lightly. George strained forward, testing her grip: she forbore to yank on his hair, but leaned out of his reach, eyes dancing.
‘Take off your breeches,’ she ordered, dropping her hand from his hair abruptly. George ignored her. His hands had crept up her legs again, and he moved gently to run his thumb along her cleft. Alanna pushed her hips forward a little, but pulled him back by the hair. ‘George…’
George swallowed, and leaned back to unlace his boots and tug them off. He stood up, and Alanna was standing up too, and his breeches came off in a tangle of kisses and hands everywhere. George nudged her backwards onto the bed, taking a moment to kiss her softly, and then working his way down her body with lips and hands. Please Goddess, if she’d any sympathy for a rogue, he desperately wanted to get this right. Without warning, Alanna had one of her legs between his, and then he was on his back, and she was kneeling over him, holding him down by the shoulders, and all George could think was I taught her that. Certainly he hadn’t thought that lesson would ever be used against him in this particular context.
His hips jerked when she wrapped her hand around his cock, fingers sliding up and down. Taking his measure, in the literal sense. George realised her other hand was busy between her own legs, and he tried to reach up to take over, but she shook her head, making swift adjustments and then taking him inside her with an easy roll of her hips. Dear gods. George pushed up against her, his head falling back on the pillow. Dear gods.
‘George.’ She’d stilled, hands on his hips.
It took him an effort of concentration even to speak. ‘Darlin’?’ How had he taken his eyes off her, even for a moment?
‘Hold me.’
George smiled, touched her face and her hair, and then let his hands fall to her waist, long fingers splayed out over her hips.
‘Any time.’
~
1. Well, it's working title was 'damn I wish I thought of THIS when I was fifteen.' It says a lot about my teenage years that I have every word of the last third of pg 176, and 2/3 of page 177, learnt by rote; the book falls open naturally two or three places, and this is one of them (guess which ones the others are?); but nevertheless, I had given absolutely no thought to how That Which Is Implied happened. None. Not a skerrick of imagination. Thus, this is all entirely new work, and if it's crap, I can't blame my inner fifteen year old.
Some further notes, from flipping through the places where the book falls naturally open:
* Geez, Tamora Pierce sucked at writing sex scenes. All fade-to-black, thank goodness, because someone who writes 'in the time that followed, they knew they still desired each other' should be banned from writing sex scenes.
* Comparing Alanna to Kel... Tamora Pierce has come a LONG way since her first series. Kel's relationships, and relationship angst, are so much more believable. Alanna/Jon and Alanna/George work as PAIRINGS, but the sex is... a plot device. You can tell they're together when they have sex. Whereas Kel actually has a relationship without automatic boinking; she has to think through what's going on, and the sexual element (in her case, Sex She's Not Having) has a clear impact on her. The only one of Alanna's relationships where the sex actually has an impact or tells us anything about the characters is the one with Liam, because it's all about the sex (and the heroics. Don't forget the heroics).
I tried to write this so you could see how the sex has an impact upon all concerned. But I'm not sure if it worked. Also the pacing was giving me trouble, and I find it really hard to write about women. Concrit on all of these things is appreciated.