[dream] Week 5, Day 6
WARNING: Rated R for sexual and potentially disturbing content and utter, utter crack. Neither work- nor brainsafe.
This time, she is a boy. A prim and proper boy, of samurai descent, swords at his side. She is a boy, yet she is also still Rin, except she isn't that either, because in this realm, she has no name. Doesn't need one.
She-the-boy is doing his kata. He can do them swiftly and without too much effort, but if she doesn't keep doing them, he'll soften. He'll be weak and defenseless. So she does them, step, stroke, sweep, beneath the hot midday sun. It is summer, high summer.
High summer and he's not sweating at all, is locked in her routine while the sun stares down and laughs: Oh, you're so cute. Sorry, I just wanted to tease you.
Pinwheels drop onto the hard-clay road. They alight without sound.
More steps and strokes, forever clocklike. I had two kids, you know.
"What are your kids doing now?" The question comes out of her throat without that his mouth ever opened. He turns around and doves fly into the sky. A figure appears around the corner of the path and that tree. Tall, with a spiky topknot and scars all over. He wears a black-and-white kimono and a forehead protector. His expression is strange: it looks like a smile, but if you were to turn your head a bit that way, you'd see it was a smirk. That's what she-the-boy is sure of, even without looking.
"Never you mind," says the man. "I know, there's an easy way to solve all problems."
Suddenly, all the sweat and grime is pooling in she-the-boy's neck. He is bent; all ka, all question.
That in the man's face, that's definitely a smirk, now. "How about I just sleep with you?"
Her-his face lights up with joy. "Yes, Iruka-sensei!"
Then she-the-boy's clothes are off, folded neatly at the side, and he's leaning against the air, and Iruka-sensei's smile is warm and his hand down there, up her opening, touching deeply, spreading her. To the sun that is also prying her open, turning her inside out, her skin turned back and her heart coming to the surface. He's consumed, engulfed in warmth, in a world consisting just of sun and smirk-smile and spiky topknot. Not a very orderly hairstyle, not a very proper kind of person at all, his sensei. And so his love is unorthodox, too: it's tying she-the-boy up lovingly and planting roses in her shoulder. Roses, briars that sting. He should be nicer than that.
The sun is ogling them. It has a face, and it is Hyakurin, laughing. Doesn't look like Hyakurin at all, with the reddish, curly hair, but it is her. So, your Mister Manji? How's he in the sack?
"Ah, well," answers the child. Even if it is nice.
She looks at a treetop a few paces over, and its shades are a grin, too, and its leaves turn white at the fringes, as if there was the moon behind it. It is a face, too, he realizes as his breath gets short and fast, to the rhythm of sensei's strokes, it is Shira's face with a perpetual grin on it, slash-slash into his cheeks. Do you like fucking the bitch? he says. You gotta be shitting me.
She-the-boy cannot retort much now, for a storm of hot-cold is eating her up, so all she can think is but you can't catch me, for he is wrapped in thorns and pleasure.
Yet, as she is swirling, Shira holds out an open stump of an arm -- and drips blood on the briars.
[It is dark as Rin wakes up. She pulls herself out of sleep by force, opens her eyes wide and moves them, looking around the room for a movement. She doesn't move. Nothing there, all quiet -- only when that is certain, she puts her hand against her forehead. The other arm, she drapes around the comforter over her chest, and there she takes note that her nipples are half-hardened, and not with cold. She swallows; what kind of dream was that, anyway? Definitely one of the weirder ones she's had. Right now, she's not too disturbed by it, but she might be if she thinks more deeply about it, so she decides not to.
She must keep herself busy today.]
This time, she is a boy. A prim and proper boy, of samurai descent, swords at his side. She is a boy, yet she is also still Rin, except she isn't that either, because in this realm, she has no name. Doesn't need one.
She-the-boy is doing his kata. He can do them swiftly and without too much effort, but if she doesn't keep doing them, he'll soften. He'll be weak and defenseless. So she does them, step, stroke, sweep, beneath the hot midday sun. It is summer, high summer.
High summer and he's not sweating at all, is locked in her routine while the sun stares down and laughs: Oh, you're so cute. Sorry, I just wanted to tease you.
Pinwheels drop onto the hard-clay road. They alight without sound.
More steps and strokes, forever clocklike. I had two kids, you know.
"What are your kids doing now?" The question comes out of her throat without that his mouth ever opened. He turns around and doves fly into the sky. A figure appears around the corner of the path and that tree. Tall, with a spiky topknot and scars all over. He wears a black-and-white kimono and a forehead protector. His expression is strange: it looks like a smile, but if you were to turn your head a bit that way, you'd see it was a smirk. That's what she-the-boy is sure of, even without looking.
"Never you mind," says the man. "I know, there's an easy way to solve all problems."
Suddenly, all the sweat and grime is pooling in she-the-boy's neck. He is bent; all ka, all question.
That in the man's face, that's definitely a smirk, now. "How about I just sleep with you?"
Her-his face lights up with joy. "Yes, Iruka-sensei!"
Then she-the-boy's clothes are off, folded neatly at the side, and he's leaning against the air, and Iruka-sensei's smile is warm and his hand down there, up her opening, touching deeply, spreading her. To the sun that is also prying her open, turning her inside out, her skin turned back and her heart coming to the surface. He's consumed, engulfed in warmth, in a world consisting just of sun and smirk-smile and spiky topknot. Not a very orderly hairstyle, not a very proper kind of person at all, his sensei. And so his love is unorthodox, too: it's tying she-the-boy up lovingly and planting roses in her shoulder. Roses, briars that sting. He should be nicer than that.
The sun is ogling them. It has a face, and it is Hyakurin, laughing. Doesn't look like Hyakurin at all, with the reddish, curly hair, but it is her. So, your Mister Manji? How's he in the sack?
"Ah, well," answers the child. Even if it is nice.
She looks at a treetop a few paces over, and its shades are a grin, too, and its leaves turn white at the fringes, as if there was the moon behind it. It is a face, too, he realizes as his breath gets short and fast, to the rhythm of sensei's strokes, it is Shira's face with a perpetual grin on it, slash-slash into his cheeks. Do you like fucking the bitch? he says. You gotta be shitting me.
She-the-boy cannot retort much now, for a storm of hot-cold is eating her up, so all she can think is but you can't catch me, for he is wrapped in thorns and pleasure.
Yet, as she is swirling, Shira holds out an open stump of an arm -- and drips blood on the briars.
[It is dark as Rin wakes up. She pulls herself out of sleep by force, opens her eyes wide and moves them, looking around the room for a movement. She doesn't move. Nothing there, all quiet -- only when that is certain, she puts her hand against her forehead. The other arm, she drapes around the comforter over her chest, and there she takes note that her nipples are half-hardened, and not with cold. She swallows; what kind of dream was that, anyway? Definitely one of the weirder ones she's had. Right now, she's not too disturbed by it, but she might be if she thinks more deeply about it, so she decides not to.
She must keep herself busy today.]