(no subject)
Title: Held In
Fandom: FFX
Characters: Lulu/Wakka
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 348
Notes: Yeah, so. I guess I just wrote a Lulu/Wakka. Whut.
"Your hair smells nice." Wakka says, because he figures Lu was the kind of gal who liked her poetry. "Like the ocean."
"The ocean," she snaps, "smells like dead fish, salt and seaweed."
She turns her head, braids swinging and clacking together. Course, he'd seen her hide her smile too many times to be fooled. He wasn't about to let her get away so easy, not this time. But he lets her get some ways ahead, cause he likes the way she walks when she's pretend-angry --hips swaying, back stiff. He sucks in a chestful of air. This was gonna be a deep dive.
"I always liked you, Lu!" It was easier than he thought --yelling it across the beach like that. Loud and fast and not-looking-back.
She pauses for a moment without turning around.
Besaid born, bred and proud, Wakka's an easy, slow kinda guy. But he can be quick when he needs to --a good thing in a guy with a thing for a grumpy mage. He bounds to a crouch before her, stomach gooey with the memory of one-too-many bouts of firaga. She peers down at him sharply.
"Put that nose any higher, and I'll see clear to your brain, ya?"
She laughs. She laughs and it scares him worse than a doublecast of flare.
"Kiss me, then." There's no question in her voice. There almost never is.
She flicks a drooping strand of hair from his face. He lets out his breath and pulls her in.
She doesn't taste like plums, or pyreflies, or the night air. She tastes like a girl, and that's everything he needs for his hands to go from her too-white shoulders, and down past the tickle of fox-fur. She's been wearing that corset for too long, all tied up and held in. That can't be too comfortable. Or so he hopes when he reaches for the laces at the small of her back.
She doesn't stop him, but he's feeling too much of everything else to be very surprised.
Fandom: FFX
Characters: Lulu/Wakka
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 348
Notes: Yeah, so. I guess I just wrote a Lulu/Wakka. Whut.
"Your hair smells nice." Wakka says, because he figures Lu was the kind of gal who liked her poetry. "Like the ocean."
"The ocean," she snaps, "smells like dead fish, salt and seaweed."
She turns her head, braids swinging and clacking together. Course, he'd seen her hide her smile too many times to be fooled. He wasn't about to let her get away so easy, not this time. But he lets her get some ways ahead, cause he likes the way she walks when she's pretend-angry --hips swaying, back stiff. He sucks in a chestful of air. This was gonna be a deep dive.
"I always liked you, Lu!" It was easier than he thought --yelling it across the beach like that. Loud and fast and not-looking-back.
She pauses for a moment without turning around.
Besaid born, bred and proud, Wakka's an easy, slow kinda guy. But he can be quick when he needs to --a good thing in a guy with a thing for a grumpy mage. He bounds to a crouch before her, stomach gooey with the memory of one-too-many bouts of firaga. She peers down at him sharply.
"Put that nose any higher, and I'll see clear to your brain, ya?"
She laughs. She laughs and it scares him worse than a doublecast of flare.
"Kiss me, then." There's no question in her voice. There almost never is.
She flicks a drooping strand of hair from his face. He lets out his breath and pulls her in.
She doesn't taste like plums, or pyreflies, or the night air. She tastes like a girl, and that's everything he needs for his hands to go from her too-white shoulders, and down past the tickle of fox-fur. She's been wearing that corset for too long, all tied up and held in. That can't be too comfortable. Or so he hopes when he reaches for the laces at the small of her back.
She doesn't stop him, but he's feeling too much of everything else to be very surprised.