fic: in the short grey winter afternoon
Mar. 12th, 2011 02:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: in the short grey winter afternoon
Series: Loveless
Character/Pairing: Kouya/Yamato
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 514
Author's note: comment_fic: Author's choice, any f/f pairing, "Like a summer with a thousand Julys, you intoxicate my soul with your eyes". Title (and poetry quoted) is Adrienne Rich's 'My Mouth Hovers Over Your Breasts'. Part of a collection of Kouya/Yamato stuff I'm doing forpowerofbondage in help_nz charity.
The bed is still messed up from last night. There's a handprint of drying white on the blue sheets, like a cloud. Kouya doesn't bother with clothes because Yamato will just take them off again and it defeats the purpose. When they go out they'll put on clothes. Too much clothes, Yamato will say, so that she'll try and strip away a scarf wrapped around Kouya's neck, peel off her gloves until their bare hands can touch again, steal her hat and make it her own.
The blue sheets are down to Yamato's waist, her breasts exposed above them, nipples turned hard and wine red from cold. She's brought a small, silvery knife from the kitchen, and with it Yamato peels the apple slowly, the thin, red skin of it falling in slow motion down to the bed. They are a long ways from Zero, from spells and clinging together and feeling nothing. It is a cold winter where they are, listed as sisters no less–Yamato's idea of course, as some joke on the lot of them. She did not seem to think of what the neighbors might think of the sounds of love: low sighs, sudden gasps and louder, unbidden cries of pleasure. But the neighbors seem uninterested, holed up in their own problems and their own worlds, and the custodian is absent at best, incompetent at worst.
She slices the apple in pieces, bit by bit and feeds the pieces to Kouya. It's crisp and sweet, with a hint of sourness. Yamato gives her this look of such intimacy which says far more than a declaration of love. A slow smile. Amusement. A kiss.
A long way off there's the sounds of the city: people driving to their mundane lives; dogs barking; the buzz and hum of city lights. All are just a background cacophony to Yamato as she murmurs the words of a poem she found by accident and memorized. It was the first poem she found which described them, their love, and not the mix of feminine and masculine which predominates most poems.
in the short grey winter afternoon, she murmurs, her hands playful and twirling Kouya's hair.
in this bed we are delicate, Yamato says in a whisper. She touches along Kouya's side now, tracing down her waist in an unhurried manner.
and touch so hot with joy we amaze ourselves are the final words, but not the final words of the poem, for they are both lost in kisses that taste faintly of apples on a winter's day too cold and dreary to leave the bed for.
Series: Loveless
Character/Pairing: Kouya/Yamato
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 514
Author's note: comment_fic: Author's choice, any f/f pairing, "Like a summer with a thousand Julys, you intoxicate my soul with your eyes". Title (and poetry quoted) is Adrienne Rich's 'My Mouth Hovers Over Your Breasts'. Part of a collection of Kouya/Yamato stuff I'm doing for
powerofbondage in help_nz charity.The bed is still messed up from last night. There's a handprint of drying white on the blue sheets, like a cloud. Kouya doesn't bother with clothes because Yamato will just take them off again and it defeats the purpose. When they go out they'll put on clothes. Too much clothes, Yamato will say, so that she'll try and strip away a scarf wrapped around Kouya's neck, peel off her gloves until their bare hands can touch again, steal her hat and make it her own.
The blue sheets are down to Yamato's waist, her breasts exposed above them, nipples turned hard and wine red from cold. She's brought a small, silvery knife from the kitchen, and with it Yamato peels the apple slowly, the thin, red skin of it falling in slow motion down to the bed. They are a long ways from Zero, from spells and clinging together and feeling nothing. It is a cold winter where they are, listed as sisters no less–Yamato's idea of course, as some joke on the lot of them. She did not seem to think of what the neighbors might think of the sounds of love: low sighs, sudden gasps and louder, unbidden cries of pleasure. But the neighbors seem uninterested, holed up in their own problems and their own worlds, and the custodian is absent at best, incompetent at worst.
She slices the apple in pieces, bit by bit and feeds the pieces to Kouya. It's crisp and sweet, with a hint of sourness. Yamato gives her this look of such intimacy which says far more than a declaration of love. A slow smile. Amusement. A kiss.
A long way off there's the sounds of the city: people driving to their mundane lives; dogs barking; the buzz and hum of city lights. All are just a background cacophony to Yamato as she murmurs the words of a poem she found by accident and memorized. It was the first poem she found which described them, their love, and not the mix of feminine and masculine which predominates most poems.
in the short grey winter afternoon, she murmurs, her hands playful and twirling Kouya's hair.
in this bed we are delicate, Yamato says in a whisper. She touches along Kouya's side now, tracing down her waist in an unhurried manner.
and touch so hot with joy we amaze ourselves are the final words, but not the final words of the poem, for they are both lost in kisses that taste faintly of apples on a winter's day too cold and dreary to leave the bed for.
