Long awaited Kuchiki (not) pr0n.
Aug. 6th, 2005 05:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonsheenand then on the fine silk three drops of blood.
She stands turned away from the mirror. Her eyes are dark in consideration. After a moment she sets the comb aside, walks to him, and kneels as she has always assumed is proper. Her head is held at an awkward angle, there is nothing relaxed in her posture. She has always been ready to spring, to move, to fight for her life. He looks down at her and feels something wind in his throat. It is a sameness they have, this.
“My lord,” she says, hooking her thumb into the collar of her kimono, moving to push it aside—
His hand closes over her shoulder. “No,” he says, with a tone that unsettles not for its force but for the fact that it truly surprises him. The skin and muscle under his palm is narrow like a bird’s but absolutely hard. He pulls the cloth—folds of it, red and white-- back over her. He lingers, with pressure, as though ordering it in a touch to stay but it is nothing nearly so... he withdraws. “That will not be necessary.”
She breathes in as though she’s felt the cool of his sword. He decides his own leave, as he’s always done. She murmurs into the breeze he takes with him. She clutches where his hand had been, only one in the world able to argue for the heat of it.
This is morning, and she is gone for the rest of the day on her business, on her life. She catches only his silhouette through the paper door of his study, watching it a moment in all its perfect posture and efficiency. She moves on, briskly. Knowing her presence was noted, leaving word of her day’s departure silently, knowing he does so value space between verses.
It is noon. She has not yet returned. He has been horribly productive and, as though knowing this, the day summons Shiba Kaien from the depths of irreverence. The man is discovered, unannounced, sunning himself by the pond in the garden. It is taken as the natural order of things.
“Hey there,” the presumptuous guest grins crookedly, waving the toes of one bare, filthy foot.
“…oh, has something noisy arrived,” murmurs his unimpressed host. The Shiba clan head rolls to his feet with a sound that would be hurt if a laugh were not so swift at its heel. They draw swords by way of an old acquaintance, but also by way of courting the afternoon, which comes with dark gold and no sign of her.
It is early evening, and somewhere she is wandering.
It is early evening and he finds her comb on the table in the room that looks out on distant bend of the river. It is where he likes to watch the stars come out some evenings and she knows this. The comb itself is a smooth, polished white. He picks it up and lets it lie in his palm, as though he could order it to tell him what it means—
--but when he lifts his eyes the sky through the window has turned the color of the camellia that grow among the division complexes. He forgets the question, and remembers how that morning she had been brushing her hair in the mirror, and how she had turned from it and turned to him. How it was far too much to ask…
“My lord.”
It is night. It is simply night. She stands in the door, opened just enough to admit her—which is barely a crack of light in their dark room. Her hip bumps against the wooden frame. He is cross-legged on the futon, his eyes shut and the line of a gash dark on his cheek.
“It is not as he thinks,” she says, a flash of defiance. “It is…”
And she finds herself for lack of words, so instead she walks over to him and takes the comb from his hands. She stands before him, brushing her fingers through her hair.
“For a woman such as this…” She pins it, clumsily. “My lord’s hand needn’t tremble.”
He looks up at her with his own hair in his eyes. A foreign perspective; a difference they have, this. Hisana, with all the grace of one with no breeding or history behind her, gathers her kimono high up her thighs. Red cloth over white skin, she presses herself into his lap.
She stands turned away from the mirror. Her eyes are dark in consideration. After a moment she sets the comb aside, walks to him, and kneels as she has always assumed is proper. Her head is held at an awkward angle, there is nothing relaxed in her posture. She has always been ready to spring, to move, to fight for her life. He looks down at her and feels something wind in his throat. It is a sameness they have, this.
“My lord,” she says, hooking her thumb into the collar of her kimono, moving to push it aside—
His hand closes over her shoulder. “No,” he says, with a tone that unsettles not for its force but for the fact that it truly surprises him. The skin and muscle under his palm is narrow like a bird’s but absolutely hard. He pulls the cloth—folds of it, red and white-- back over her. He lingers, with pressure, as though ordering it in a touch to stay but it is nothing nearly so... he withdraws. “That will not be necessary.”
She breathes in as though she’s felt the cool of his sword. He decides his own leave, as he’s always done. She murmurs into the breeze he takes with him. She clutches where his hand had been, only one in the world able to argue for the heat of it.
This is morning, and she is gone for the rest of the day on her business, on her life. She catches only his silhouette through the paper door of his study, watching it a moment in all its perfect posture and efficiency. She moves on, briskly. Knowing her presence was noted, leaving word of her day’s departure silently, knowing he does so value space between verses.
It is noon. She has not yet returned. He has been horribly productive and, as though knowing this, the day summons Shiba Kaien from the depths of irreverence. The man is discovered, unannounced, sunning himself by the pond in the garden. It is taken as the natural order of things.
“Hey there,” the presumptuous guest grins crookedly, waving the toes of one bare, filthy foot.
“…oh, has something noisy arrived,” murmurs his unimpressed host. The Shiba clan head rolls to his feet with a sound that would be hurt if a laugh were not so swift at its heel. They draw swords by way of an old acquaintance, but also by way of courting the afternoon, which comes with dark gold and no sign of her.
It is early evening, and somewhere she is wandering.
It is early evening and he finds her comb on the table in the room that looks out on distant bend of the river. It is where he likes to watch the stars come out some evenings and she knows this. The comb itself is a smooth, polished white. He picks it up and lets it lie in his palm, as though he could order it to tell him what it means—
--but when he lifts his eyes the sky through the window has turned the color of the camellia that grow among the division complexes. He forgets the question, and remembers how that morning she had been brushing her hair in the mirror, and how she had turned from it and turned to him. How it was far too much to ask…
“My lord.”
It is night. It is simply night. She stands in the door, opened just enough to admit her—which is barely a crack of light in their dark room. Her hip bumps against the wooden frame. He is cross-legged on the futon, his eyes shut and the line of a gash dark on his cheek.
“It is not as he thinks,” she says, a flash of defiance. “It is…”
And she finds herself for lack of words, so instead she walks over to him and takes the comb from his hands. She stands before him, brushing her fingers through her hair.
“For a woman such as this…” She pins it, clumsily. “My lord’s hand needn’t tremble.”
He looks up at her with his own hair in his eyes. A foreign perspective; a difference they have, this. Hisana, with all the grace of one with no breeding or history behind her, gathers her kimono high up her thighs. Red cloth over white skin, she presses herself into his lap.
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(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-07 01:10 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-07 02:33 am (UTC)The way they are with each other, that hesitant dance and your prose refects both of them so well. Awesome job.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-07 03:11 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-07 06:45 pm (UTC)It's NC-17 when *I* think about it. :)
Date: 2005-08-07 04:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-07 06:49 pm (UTC)uke still and but ever!Lovely, simply lovely.(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-07 07:30 pm (UTC)...Oh I'm sorry I was was supposed to notice the actual focus of the story?
(....which is also awesome, btw. MUCH HEARTAGE and all ♥)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-14 06:15 am (UTC)