This is just plain weird.
Mar. 30th, 2005 05:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonsheenBleach. Ishida/Nemu. Warnings for mild sexual content, definate creep factor, and a heterosexual Ishida.
He is thirty-six when they first make love. By then he is doctor, well off at it. He gets less sleep than he should; he works long hours, he lives in a very expensive apartment. She is visiting, as she does periodically: every few years with a punctuality measured in half-decades with such care taken with time and date he wonders sometimes how long it feels to her. She is the woman perched on his couch, wearing a business suit, paging through one of his old school textbooks. A chapter on the body, a chapter on the muscles, a chapter on skin peeled away to show the veins and meat of the form. Her spine is a perfect straight line as she sits. Her hands touch the pages delicately. He is the man watching her as he comes home from work, working late as always, who is still in white with the cross bumping his wrist for old sentiments. Eventually he breathes in deeply, feels his ribs expand as he begins to say: “Ah, would you--” and before they can contract she looks up and, closing the book, says: “I believe I would like that.”
It is a simple affair. The room is dark. Her hair is impossibly long unbraided. Her skin is white in the scant light allotted by the blinds, her fingers long and thin, he can feel the bones as she spreads them over his chest and, after some pause, pushes him back. The bed is unmade and clean under him. She is cool and graceful over him. There’s a strange texture across her shoulders and the skin of her collarbone feels foreign to his mouth, but he doesn’t pause to ask. He doesn’t pause at all.
Afterwards he is the gentleman and pulls back the sheets, and watches the rise of her hip beneath the comforter, dozes, wakes, remembers belatedly that it is late fall and he hasn’t turned on the heat. She will be cold in the morning. He gets up to fix this and to get a drink of water, pulling on some pants and turning on a hallway light.
It’s quickly done and he’s quick to return, lips wet, but as he reaches for the light switch he nearly shouts: for an apparition is standing in the doorway, one with frighteningly long limbs, tangled black hair spilling rampant, and skin the color of fresh paper arranged across the body in taut segments—bound over the bone and muscle by thick black and red suture marks, knotted over the ribs, the shoulders, the upper arms, the breastbone—
--not the neck however, because of the black ribbon bound about the throat. The body’s only modesty, he blinks, and she is blinking back under the fall of her unbound hair. She is asking: “Are you well?” And it’s then he realizes the apparition’s vanished, the marks have not, and that, if he thinks about it, he can recall the very taste of them against his tongue.
And though his fingers eventually uncurl from their instinctive defensive crooks, and though he goes back to bed, it is some time before his pulse levels out, and it is some time before, slowly, he touches the line of her upper thigh, closes his eyes, feels along the scar tissue and tries to put it out of his mind.
He is thirty-six when they first make love. By then he is doctor, well off at it. He gets less sleep than he should; he works long hours, he lives in a very expensive apartment. She is visiting, as she does periodically: every few years with a punctuality measured in half-decades with such care taken with time and date he wonders sometimes how long it feels to her. She is the woman perched on his couch, wearing a business suit, paging through one of his old school textbooks. A chapter on the body, a chapter on the muscles, a chapter on skin peeled away to show the veins and meat of the form. Her spine is a perfect straight line as she sits. Her hands touch the pages delicately. He is the man watching her as he comes home from work, working late as always, who is still in white with the cross bumping his wrist for old sentiments. Eventually he breathes in deeply, feels his ribs expand as he begins to say: “Ah, would you--” and before they can contract she looks up and, closing the book, says: “I believe I would like that.”
It is a simple affair. The room is dark. Her hair is impossibly long unbraided. Her skin is white in the scant light allotted by the blinds, her fingers long and thin, he can feel the bones as she spreads them over his chest and, after some pause, pushes him back. The bed is unmade and clean under him. She is cool and graceful over him. There’s a strange texture across her shoulders and the skin of her collarbone feels foreign to his mouth, but he doesn’t pause to ask. He doesn’t pause at all.
Afterwards he is the gentleman and pulls back the sheets, and watches the rise of her hip beneath the comforter, dozes, wakes, remembers belatedly that it is late fall and he hasn’t turned on the heat. She will be cold in the morning. He gets up to fix this and to get a drink of water, pulling on some pants and turning on a hallway light.
It’s quickly done and he’s quick to return, lips wet, but as he reaches for the light switch he nearly shouts: for an apparition is standing in the doorway, one with frighteningly long limbs, tangled black hair spilling rampant, and skin the color of fresh paper arranged across the body in taut segments—bound over the bone and muscle by thick black and red suture marks, knotted over the ribs, the shoulders, the upper arms, the breastbone—
--not the neck however, because of the black ribbon bound about the throat. The body’s only modesty, he blinks, and she is blinking back under the fall of her unbound hair. She is asking: “Are you well?” And it’s then he realizes the apparition’s vanished, the marks have not, and that, if he thinks about it, he can recall the very taste of them against his tongue.
And though his fingers eventually uncurl from their instinctive defensive crooks, and though he goes back to bed, it is some time before his pulse levels out, and it is some time before, slowly, he touches the line of her upper thigh, closes his eyes, feels along the scar tissue and tries to put it out of his mind.