still working on challenges, but in the mean-time...
...there is nothing redeeming about this post whatsoever. Other than Muun thought "DAMNIT I AM GOING TO WRITE PORN" for the sake of the attempt. And attempt she did. Attempt. Not quite work-safe, although not anything terribly graphic...? The author, she is bad at this. Anyway, short and very plot-lite. Er, enjoy.
He wakes to the feel of something cool sliding into his bed. For a hazy moment ice settles into his blood and he thinks the worst-but then his fingers encounter the scar tissue where the skin of her upper arm has been sewn together. He knows her. He stares up at the blur that is her face.
“Is this acceptable?” she says. She is straddling his stomach.
“I…” he says, frowning at the thickness in his throat. He swallows. He can’t see-- “I wasn’t expecting…”
She is still as his fingers fumble over the stitch work of her collar. “My apologies.” His palm rests below its rise of bone. “I am early. Would you prefer that I come tomorrow, instead.”
He doesn’t doubt for a moment that’s exactly what she would do, just as he doesn’t doubt the purposefulness of the way she shifts her weight from one folded leg to the other, bringing his attention sharply to point where they meet. She is very exposed right now and his nightshirt has ridden up. It is a warm, warm prickle.
“Ah, you needn’t--” His words break oddly. “--do that.”
She tips her head. “I see.” With mechanical smoothness, she folds her hands over his, pressing his index and middle fingers together. “Then it is good to see you.” Then, she takes his wrist and pulls it downwards. Her thighs shudder only slightly, and as she pushes those fingers slickly between them she lets out a soft, soft sigh.
There was a hand down his hakama. This was a fact that had not, despite the circumstances, escaped him. It was at the top of a list of uncomfortable aspects of that present situation. There was a mop jabbing him in the back. One of his feet had kicked something over. The light was scarce. It smelled too strongly of disinfectants. His cheek was scraping the wall, his ear was being bitten, there was a hand down his hakama and he was--rather helplessly--thrusting into it. He came with a startled choke and his upperclassman’s teeth against his throat.
He felt the mop slide down behind him. After a few moments he cracked his eyes open again, feeling rather sticky and confused. The hand was gone and his upperclassman was fixing the front of his uniform, squinting back at him. “Class,” he said gruffly, the slanting light through the door streaked over the tattoo on his cheek. “See ya.” He stepped out.
…it took Izuru a few more moments to come to be decidedly cranky about the whole thing. He was in a strange mood for the rest of the day.
She turns her nose up, lips tightening. “…I have no idea what you are talking about.” She slides her sword back into its sheath and brushes her thumb over the back of her hand. The red line fades. Her breathe is staggered and her leg lifts an inch.
He scoffs against fabric across her stomach. “Yeah?” He noses a bit lower.
She frowns, folding her hand over the back of his neck. “Absolutely not.”
“…heh,” he says, and takes a hold of her knees. “Bitch,” he says, pulling them apart. “This.”
It is an undignified position. She draws her back up hard against the wall. “…proves nothing,” she says stiffly. “It is understandable that when one is in battle their bodies will react in certain ways in accordance with their heightened--”
His voice is a hum against her. “This”
She aches, quite instantly. “Well. That is…” and then his mouth is against her, moving. “Ah,” she says. It is a thin layer, keeping her from feeling the full of it. “If you believe that that...” He breathes out against her and her voice trails off in a shiver.
It is just as well night falls. Her eyes focus on the darkening skies as she lifts her legs and he helps her with it. She settles them over his shoulders. “That I,” she breathes, squirming under his shifting lips. “That this has anything to do with--”
His hand pushes the cloth away with a simple swipe. His tongue takes a long, lazy taste of her. It is a loud wet noise. It feels simply disgusting. He does it again, and again, and again. “That.” She squeaks, between strokes. “…then you are very much mistaken.”
He wakes to the feel of something cool sliding into his bed. For a hazy moment ice settles into his blood and he thinks the worst-but then his fingers encounter the scar tissue where the skin of her upper arm has been sewn together. He knows her. He stares up at the blur that is her face.
“Is this acceptable?” she says. She is straddling his stomach.
“I…” he says, frowning at the thickness in his throat. He swallows. He can’t see-- “I wasn’t expecting…”
She is still as his fingers fumble over the stitch work of her collar. “My apologies.” His palm rests below its rise of bone. “I am early. Would you prefer that I come tomorrow, instead.”
He doesn’t doubt for a moment that’s exactly what she would do, just as he doesn’t doubt the purposefulness of the way she shifts her weight from one folded leg to the other, bringing his attention sharply to point where they meet. She is very exposed right now and his nightshirt has ridden up. It is a warm, warm prickle.
“Ah, you needn’t--” His words break oddly. “--do that.”
She tips her head. “I see.” With mechanical smoothness, she folds her hands over his, pressing his index and middle fingers together. “Then it is good to see you.” Then, she takes his wrist and pulls it downwards. Her thighs shudder only slightly, and as she pushes those fingers slickly between them she lets out a soft, soft sigh.
There was a hand down his hakama. This was a fact that had not, despite the circumstances, escaped him. It was at the top of a list of uncomfortable aspects of that present situation. There was a mop jabbing him in the back. One of his feet had kicked something over. The light was scarce. It smelled too strongly of disinfectants. His cheek was scraping the wall, his ear was being bitten, there was a hand down his hakama and he was--rather helplessly--thrusting into it. He came with a startled choke and his upperclassman’s teeth against his throat.
He felt the mop slide down behind him. After a few moments he cracked his eyes open again, feeling rather sticky and confused. The hand was gone and his upperclassman was fixing the front of his uniform, squinting back at him. “Class,” he said gruffly, the slanting light through the door streaked over the tattoo on his cheek. “See ya.” He stepped out.
…it took Izuru a few more moments to come to be decidedly cranky about the whole thing. He was in a strange mood for the rest of the day.
She turns her nose up, lips tightening. “…I have no idea what you are talking about.” She slides her sword back into its sheath and brushes her thumb over the back of her hand. The red line fades. Her breathe is staggered and her leg lifts an inch.
He scoffs against fabric across her stomach. “Yeah?” He noses a bit lower.
She frowns, folding her hand over the back of his neck. “Absolutely not.”
“…heh,” he says, and takes a hold of her knees. “Bitch,” he says, pulling them apart. “This.”
It is an undignified position. She draws her back up hard against the wall. “…proves nothing,” she says stiffly. “It is understandable that when one is in battle their bodies will react in certain ways in accordance with their heightened--”
His voice is a hum against her. “This”
She aches, quite instantly. “Well. That is…” and then his mouth is against her, moving. “Ah,” she says. It is a thin layer, keeping her from feeling the full of it. “If you believe that that...” He breathes out against her and her voice trails off in a shiver.
It is just as well night falls. Her eyes focus on the darkening skies as she lifts her legs and he helps her with it. She settles them over his shoulders. “That I,” she breathes, squirming under his shifting lips. “That this has anything to do with--”
His hand pushes the cloth away with a simple swipe. His tongue takes a long, lazy taste of her. It is a loud wet noise. It feels simply disgusting. He does it again, and again, and again. “That.” She squeaks, between strokes. “…then you are very much mistaken.”