Author's Note: Well, my dears, I am back. I am going to take this opportunity to brag a bit on my youngest sister, who is the reason for my absence: she has graduated from her undergrad college and is now moved (over the past few days) to her graduate school. Unfortunately for my stories, they have been put on hold for this event. But now that she is settled in, I am free to add to this conflagration of shorts.
And now, something inspired by InkPaperDoll488.
Grapple training is not her strong suit.
He'd brought up concern about her strikes, and thought perhaps they should supplement with holds, a thought she was most adamantly against. But he is persuasive when he wants to be, so now she finds herself, yet again, plastered to the mat and not at all enjoying the situation.
He tells her to bend her body this way, and angle it that way and use everything she can to take advantage of any situation.
She thinks he hasn't been paying attention to her previous attempts.
They square off again, his large frame shifting easily as her own awkward, slightly smaller - she has to give herself credit, she isn't a tiny little thing - body moves with its own sort of staggered grace, her mind running through scenarios as if they are programs to be sifted and classified.
She takes too long using her mind.
He wastes no time.
His body impacts hers, his hands snake around her body, her head, twisting her around and settling in for a rather unfair maneuver, one she is quite certain she hasn't learned yet.
Well, to be honest, he tries to twist her around.
Suddenly there is pain sprouting from the back of her head, and a hissed sorry comes hurriedly out of his mouth. He releases her, only to find his fingers caught in the band holding back her blonde curls, soon delicately venturing to untangle himself, though failing rather miserably.
Before she can react, his idle hand reaches around, fingers hooking under the hair tie and pulling if clear in one abrupt, surprisingly painless gesture.
Her sweaty, mussed mane immediately fluffs down around her shoulders, freeing up his hand and giving her the appearance of a wild thing.
She is certain her flushed cheeks aren't helping the matter.
He slowly, gently removes his fingers from those golden curls, and she catches a look as it flits over his features, a look that speaks of something more, a transient warmth in his cold blue eyes that causes an unknown part of her to tighten.
His hand feathers over her jaw for the briefest of moments, then falls back to his side, another sorry murmuring through pursed lips as he returns to his side of the mat. She blinks, once, twice, before rushing to manage her tangled locks, drawing them back into the very state they had started in.
Flustered doesn't cover her thoughts.
Grappling is not her strong suit.