Author's Note: I wrote this many years ago and am transferring it to this account after some heavy editing. It was really just an exploration piece; I started writing it on an off-body-image day and watched as it formed itself. I don't think it fits incredibly well within the Emelan realm-or at least within the Living Circle theology-but Tris did get made fun of for her weight and that one witch did start a pox by trying to craft a weight-loss potion (I believe) so it is not completely outside the possibility. Plus I tried to make it clear here that Rosethorn and Lark are a bit younger-the Circle children haven't come about yet-so perhaps experiences like these could be one of the many ways Rosethorn got to be so comfortable with herself. Regardless, here it is!
Dreams, dreams… Rosethorn thought as she drifted off to sleep.
Lark had directed her to consider this as she approached the nearly-synthetic sleep. It would be true sleep in the end, but she was in Lark's room, Lark's bed, Lark's environment; Lark was next to her, singing and knitting. There was an odd tingling of magic in the room but Rosethorn ignored it: something was wrong if there was not the tingling of magic in Discipline Cottage.
"The ocean swelled upon the shore / and the drifting starfish was no more. / The little girl, lost and alone, / by the sun was quite outshone. / She cried in mourning / upon learning / about her family's undeserved demise. / The sea drowned out all of her cries / 'til all was dry around her eyes."
Eventually Lark's voice drifted away, the tune remaining but the words unnoticed. Rosethorn thought she observed a slight parallel between the song and her past, but…
A picture similar to the other nightmares she had recently experienced overtook her: she was walking the winding path during a popular hour, stark naked. She looked down at the body from her younger years and reddened from head to foot.
She wasn't fat—not that she found fault in that—but she wasn't like many her age. Her work kept her strong but not outwardly fit; the muscles were hidden within. She was ashamed of the softness of her body, the places where the flesh bulged slightly. It was an embarrassment to her, and now the whole path—many of her colleagues and friends—could see it. Tears stung at her eyes.
A pair of arms whisked her away, arms that were thin the way hers weren't; dark, golden, smooth… She felt a robe envelop her and gasped out her relief as she was nudged behind a path-side bush. At least she was covered now. She turned to look at her savior and found it to be Lark.
Lark was an incredibly statuesque and striking woman…in her birthday suit. Goose-pimples speckled her skin, for the weather had taken a sudden dive. The sun had shirked away behind a cloud; the wind picked up to pluck at Lark's dark curls.
The woman covered as much of herself as she could with her arms and blew the hair out of her mouth. When she looked down to Rosethorn, her dark eyes were pleading and humiliated. Rosethorn was safely out of sight behind the bushes, but Lark was at the entrance and mooning the entire walkway.
Rosethorn sucked in a breath and reached to pull Lark into an embrace, bringing her behind the bushes and onto the bench placed within the garden patch bordering the winding path. Lark shivered into Rosethorn; her breathing was coming too quickly and her eyes were wet. The dream-aware Rosethorn imagined this Lark as the one from years ago, who had lost her lifestyle and all she had known to an incurable disease.
Rosethorn had passed her vulnerability onto Lark. Guilt ate at her for this inadvertent exchange.
She opened the robes and let it pass over the two of them, pressing their bodies together beneath it. Eventually they would have to make their way home, somehow…
Lark yielded and allowed her head fall onto Rosethorn's, a great sigh escaping her lips. Rosethorn tucked her head more securely under Lark's, in the graceful curve of her dancer's neck. It was quiet on all fronts, as if life were paused. Rosethorn didn't know if others were walking the path; everything seemed frozen.
The feeling continued as Lark's warm palm landed on Rosethorn's knee. It was slender but soft—a tumbler's hand. It trailed up, leaving in its wake goose-pimpled flesh; Rosethorn shivered, independent of the weather. Lark was keeping her too warm—hot—to notice anything so inconsequential.
Now the hand revealed active fingers moving quickly up Rosethorn's thigh. They made her squirm. Lark's face revealed nothing; her hand seemed to act of its own accord. It passed the crevice between Rosethorn's legs up to her hip, stroking the bone affectionately.
It came to a stop on one delicate love-handle, perfect recipient of caresses and gentle care.
Lark's upper torso at last acknowledged the action of its limbs. She bent forward and pressed her lips to the skin just below one of Rosethorn's ample breasts. Rosethorn arched back; the feelings made her body move.
Lark continued down, trailing her lips and offering light pecks. When she arrived at the rounder flesh surrounding Rosethorn's navel, she took extra care to love the area: she smothered it in kisses and licks, nuzzles and light warm breaths. For once, Rosethorn smiled at the thought of her stomach—because it was there and able to receive such exquisite attention.
"Mmm," she breathed. Unable to think of anything else, she murmured it again. "Mmm…"
Lark cupped Rosethorn's powerful thigh, using all her fingers to massage the supple skin and the muscle beneath. The bulk made it all the easier to hold and spoil with attention; Lark knelt down and shared secret kisses with the skin there. Rosethorn's head journeyed back, her silent whispers of thanks mingling with the warming air beyond. The trees were rousing at a cellular level.
Her lover journeyed down, gifting the products of her lips, tongue, and teeth. At last she reached Rosethorn's floral core, past the thorn and self-conscious flesh: it was warm, inviting, fleshy, damp. Lark licked at the petals extending beyond the outer lips. Rosethorn gasped at the contact. Shivers ran up her body as she heated all over.
Lark probed deeper. Receiving positive reactions, she wandered up to prod lightly at Rosethorn's peeking pearl; the woman bit her lip and grabbed at the material of their shared robe in response. Lark replaced the fabric with her own golden hand.
Rosethorn opened her eyes for a moment and smiled down at her lover, uncaring of any extra chin the action might produce. She gave Lark's hand a gentle squeeze and positively beamed, rare as the expression was.
As her dream-lover brought her to a climax, Rosethorn awoke to find herself comfortably in Lark's bed. Lark's room. Lark's environment. Lark's tongue…
Rosethorn rolled over and rested her temple on her bent elbow, allowing the sheets to hug her curves; her womanly, beautiful curves with loveable flesh and powerful muscles.
"Lark?"
The woman looked up, smiled, and dropped her knitting to her lap. "Yes, Rosie?"
"You are wonderful."
Lark put her knitting aside, slipped out of her nightgown, and slid into the sheets.
"You're the wonder, love," she whispered into the waves of Rosethorn's hair. Rosethorn smiled up at her.
There was one thing the dream had been missing: Rosethorn smiled up at Lark and pressed their lips together.
Lark always kissed with everything she had, everything she wanted, everything she could dream; it was a heady mix that sent sparks from Rosethorn's breasts to the back of her knees and beyond both ways. They kissed slowly, steadily—securing the knowledge that they fit and that Rosethorn worked the way she was: that Lark loved Rosethorn, fleshy curves and all, and Rosethorn had permission to do the same.
Lark rolled over to top Rosethorn and prove it.