fic: She Paints Me Blue
Jun. 25th, 2011 11:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: She Paints Me Blue
Series: Loveless
Character/Pairing:
Rating: R
Word count: 616
Author's note: comment_fic: Author's choice; author's choice; I fell into the moon And it covered you in blue (Angie Hart, "Blue"). Part of the package forpowerofbondage.
Kouya comes home to a canvas and Yamato finding her next new thing. Yamato is always airy, bright and restless. The canvas is a mess of colors without any seeming rhyme or reason. It is all in shades of varying blues, like a world of nothing but oceans and skies. Her hands are covered in it, old clothes streaked in paint.
Yamato smiles and reaches for her, smudging paint onto Kouya's cheek as she kisses her. It only takes a moment later until she is ripping at Kouya's shirt with a purr of welcome home, dear. It's a mockery of a housewife, of course. Soon her clothes are ruined ("We'll buy more.") Splotchy and blue, with new rips. Kouya barely has it in her to protest, because it's been a long day and Yamato's touch is a welcome one.
"Just think, you'll be all blue inside and I'll be the only one to know. It'll be our little secret," Yamato says whimsically.
Kouya pushes up her glasses. "I don't think paint was made for that. It'd probably kill me in the end."
"It's a different kind of paint," Yamato says with a bright laugh. "Natural kind. I got it just to play with you."
She undoes her own bra to save at least that–it's a front clasping one for ease of access. Through the kisses, Yamato leaves fingerprints of azure and cerulean, indigo and navy over her. It seems as if each finger was dipped in a different vat of paint. Kouya grips around her waist, breathless as Yamato massages more of the paint over Kouya's smaller breasts. She kneads Kouya's nipples between her fingers until they are hard and tender. Kouya stifles a moan, painted blue as Yamato moves on to her neck, adding purple bruises to the canvas.
Blue lines form down her waist as Yamato's fingers go down. Kouya reaches up to stroke over her back, to steal a kiss. Yamato smiles, pleased between her attentions.
She looks mischievous, and nips at Kouya's collarbone, cupping and seeking and finding with her fingers. She dips them in the blue-medley of paints–or perhaps they are simply soluble dyes, now that Kouya thinks about it. She swirls a blue spiral on Kouya's stomach, clouds on Kouya's thighs and little flowers on her knees. She kisses where she paints, leaving smudges and blue lips, with flecks of dye on her teeth and tongue.
"You're making a mess," Kouya murmurs. A breath, a sigh.
"A beautiful mess," Yamato responds.
Kouya lets her fingers linger on Yamato's cheeks. They're blue now too, and it leaves little lines, like a tiger's stripes on Yamato's face.
Kouya doesn't want this moment to ever end. She takes in a shaky breath and holds it, memorizes the taste and smell, the feel of this moment entirely. Every moment with Yamato she feels like she can't love her anymore but Yamato disproves this. There seems no limit to the boundaries of love she can feel for this one person.
I would gladly die for you, but I'd rather live for you Kouya thinks.
And it's moments like this, on the verge of coming, coming, covered in paint in a sticky mess that she thinks they are two halves, even as they are Fighter and Sacrifice no longer.
"It's a masterpiece," Yamato says. Her voice is a breathy sigh. They are both warm in their sticky, messy conentment.
Yes, we are, Kouya thinks.
Series: Loveless
Character/Pairing:
Rating: R
Word count: 616
Author's note: comment_fic: Author's choice; author's choice; I fell into the moon And it covered you in blue (Angie Hart, "Blue"). Part of the package for
powerofbondage.Kouya comes home to a canvas and Yamato finding her next new thing. Yamato is always airy, bright and restless. The canvas is a mess of colors without any seeming rhyme or reason. It is all in shades of varying blues, like a world of nothing but oceans and skies. Her hands are covered in it, old clothes streaked in paint.
Yamato smiles and reaches for her, smudging paint onto Kouya's cheek as she kisses her. It only takes a moment later until she is ripping at Kouya's shirt with a purr of welcome home, dear. It's a mockery of a housewife, of course. Soon her clothes are ruined ("We'll buy more.") Splotchy and blue, with new rips. Kouya barely has it in her to protest, because it's been a long day and Yamato's touch is a welcome one.
"Just think, you'll be all blue inside and I'll be the only one to know. It'll be our little secret," Yamato says whimsically.
Kouya pushes up her glasses. "I don't think paint was made for that. It'd probably kill me in the end."
"It's a different kind of paint," Yamato says with a bright laugh. "Natural kind. I got it just to play with you."
She undoes her own bra to save at least that–it's a front clasping one for ease of access. Through the kisses, Yamato leaves fingerprints of azure and cerulean, indigo and navy over her. It seems as if each finger was dipped in a different vat of paint. Kouya grips around her waist, breathless as Yamato massages more of the paint over Kouya's smaller breasts. She kneads Kouya's nipples between her fingers until they are hard and tender. Kouya stifles a moan, painted blue as Yamato moves on to her neck, adding purple bruises to the canvas.
Blue lines form down her waist as Yamato's fingers go down. Kouya reaches up to stroke over her back, to steal a kiss. Yamato smiles, pleased between her attentions.
She looks mischievous, and nips at Kouya's collarbone, cupping and seeking and finding with her fingers. She dips them in the blue-medley of paints–or perhaps they are simply soluble dyes, now that Kouya thinks about it. She swirls a blue spiral on Kouya's stomach, clouds on Kouya's thighs and little flowers on her knees. She kisses where she paints, leaving smudges and blue lips, with flecks of dye on her teeth and tongue.
"You're making a mess," Kouya murmurs. A breath, a sigh.
"A beautiful mess," Yamato responds.
Kouya lets her fingers linger on Yamato's cheeks. They're blue now too, and it leaves little lines, like a tiger's stripes on Yamato's face.
Kouya doesn't want this moment to ever end. She takes in a shaky breath and holds it, memorizes the taste and smell, the feel of this moment entirely. Every moment with Yamato she feels like she can't love her anymore but Yamato disproves this. There seems no limit to the boundaries of love she can feel for this one person.
I would gladly die for you, but I'd rather live for you Kouya thinks.
And it's moments like this, on the verge of coming, coming, covered in paint in a sticky mess that she thinks they are two halves, even as they are Fighter and Sacrifice no longer.
"It's a masterpiece," Yamato says. Her voice is a breathy sigh. They are both warm in their sticky, messy conentment.
Yes, we are, Kouya thinks.
