[Fic] mañana
Title: mañana
Fandom: Crossroads
Characters: Akiyama Kou, Yomohiro Tomoe | Kou/Tomoe
Word Count: 1,172
Rating: M
Warning/s: poetry??? masturbation, fingering irreverent use of neruda's immortal words i am shameless
Summary: Once, he sees her with a book of poems. | kou, tomoe, and poetry
Disclaimer: Kou is Miles'!
Notes: the original spanish version of Neruda's poems are beautiful and must be read and understood for themselves. all parts of the dialogue come from english translations of Neruda's poems, with the translators in the parentheses: Morning XXVII (Stephen Tapscott) and I like for you to be still (W.S. Merwin). i don't think neruda bb meant for his poems to be used this way though #30DaysofErotica
i would also like to point out that i finished this within the day i was just immersed in another fic to post it ok bye
Once, he sees her with a book of poems.
She is seated on her couch, one leg tucked beneath her and domestic in her cactus-printed pajamas. He is buttoning his cufflinks in the small hallway of her flat, his hair still wet from a quick shower after a short call from his father - an unanticipated meeting with some foreign investors. She spares him a glance over the top of her book, languidly stretching as she places it face-up on the coffee table and stalks towards him. He is on the phone again, mobile balanced between his cheek and shoulder as he rattles off instructions; but his eyes are trained on her as she straightens his collar, pats it, and moves back to the couch.
He glances at her book - worn, battered, littered with annotations in new and faded ink - until the person at the other end of the line says something that drives a line of tension in his shoulders and makes him hurriedly stride outside the door.
She spends the rest of the day reading until shadows slide across the walls and she has to turn on the lights to continue. Her phone is silent on the shelf; she checks it only once to know that he is well by the absence of any messages, then devotes her attention back to words and phrases spun across yellowed pages, the measured meaning, the careful thought. At eleven thirty, she shuts her book, shuts the lights, and takes a warm shower. At midnight, she slides on her robe and makes her way to the bed. The sheets are cool and crisp when she settles against the pillows.
It is relatively simple to undo the fastening of her robe and let it slip open, to bare her skin to the cold air of the airconditioning. She sighs and tips her head back, running her hand down the column of her neck, the valley of her breasts. Her nipples are pebbled when she rolls them between her thumb and forefinger, closing her eyes at the throb of pleasure that simmers through her nerves. The silence of the room is a silken veneer settling into her pores, every sensation magnified in the darkness behind her eyelids. She slides her palm over her belly, fingers skimming over the smooth skin, fingertip dipping into her navel.
She holds her breath when she hears the key slide into the lock, the knob turning and the door sliding open. At the sound of his muted footsteps, she slopes her hand lower, thumb brushing lightly against her clit. She hears him pause, one full second, and then exhale. The door shuts, he clicks the lock in place. There is a slight rustle of clothing as he pads across her polished floor.
He knows her flat well enough to navigate in the darkness. Lights from outside shine faintly through her window, and when he rounds the corner to stand by the foot of her bed the city lights glimmer like constellations on him. Shadows shift across the corded muscles of his arms as he looks down at her - her hand still caught between her thighs - and undoes the buttons of his cuffs, rolls his sleeves up to his elbows.
"Naked," he begins. He places one knee on her bed. The bed dips.
"Naked," he repeats, traversing the distance between them until they are aligned, chest to chest, close enough that she can feel his warmth. He rests on his side, turned towards her. The city lights give him a faint, iridescent halo.
"You," he exhales, breath fanning across her cheek. He places his fingertips on the back of the hand still held between her thighs; it is a faint touch, really - a gossamer caress, "are simple as one of your hands.
"Smooth," his lips are warm against her ear, "earthy," his breath hot, "small," heady, "transparent," intoxicating, "round." An electric thrill.
He fits his hand over hers, slides his fingers until they rest against her own, his palm on the back of her hand.
"You have moon-lines, apple-pathways," he presses on her middle finger and she yields, her fingertip resting on her clit.
"Naked," he breathes, and her finger skims down her slit-
"you are slender," across her wet folds-
"as a naked" up-
"grain" against-
"of wheat" her bundle of nerves.
She rubs two fingers against her in time with the cadence of his voice.
"Naked, you are blue as a night in Cuba," his slides his palm down the crest of her knuckles, the slope of her fingers, fingertip catching a dewdrop of moisture and resting against her entrance.
And then he pauses, breathes out, "You have vines," - and she can feel the curve of his smile when he presses a kiss beneath her jaw - "and stars in your hair;" a kiss against her temple, soft and tender, almost reverent, "naked, you are spacious and yellow," and she thinks there is a flower which unfurls in her chest, "as a summer in a golden church." - a springtime blossom, where her heart is supposed to be.
"Naked,"
Then he strokes the tide within her anew, sliding a finger inside her wet heat - "you are tiny as one of your nails" - slides it up to the knuckle and she arches against him - "curved, subtle, rosy," - easing it out and sliding another finger in - "till the day is born" - curling them inside her, his name tumbling from her lips in an irreverent moan.
"And you withdraw to your underground world," he slides his fingers out,
"As if a long tunnel," he drawls the words and plunges into her, "of clothing and of chores," fingers slick and wet as she welcomes him into her depths. She hears the hitch in his breathing though his tone stays level and she works her clit with her fingers, vigorous and unrestrained.
"Your clear light dims," his nose nudges her cheek, "gets dressed," his fingers pump into her, "drops its leaves and," she concentrates on his voice, biting on her lip to keep a low, keening sound.
She's almost there, close enough to feel the razor edge of her orgasm, a sharp lightning bolt of pleasure that threatens to thunder through her. And when he speaks last, his words no more than a whisper, an affirmation or a statement or a promise-
"becomes a hand again."
-she finally grasps her climax.
Once, she sees him with her book of poems.
They are reclining against her couch and she is wearing his long-sleeved shirt, nestled between his legs, her back against his chest. It's a tight fit, but he presses his cheek against her temple as he holds up her worn and dog-eared copy, and she doesn't mind.
"I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent," she reads, and reads, and reads.
"You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream, and you are like the word Melancholy."
"Let me come to be still in your silence."
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/12672.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: Crossroads
Characters: Akiyama Kou, Yomohiro Tomoe | Kou/Tomoe
Word Count: 1,172
Rating: M
Warning/s: poetry??? masturbation, fingering irreverent use of neruda's immortal words i am shameless
Summary: Once, he sees her with a book of poems. | kou, tomoe, and poetry
Disclaimer: Kou is Miles'!
Notes: the original spanish version of Neruda's poems are beautiful and must be read and understood for themselves. all parts of the dialogue come from english translations of Neruda's poems, with the translators in the parentheses: Morning XXVII (Stephen Tapscott) and I like for you to be still (W.S. Merwin). i don't think neruda bb meant for his poems to be used this way though #30DaysofErotica
i would also like to point out that i finished this within the day i was just immersed in another fic to post it ok bye
Once, he sees her with a book of poems.
She is seated on her couch, one leg tucked beneath her and domestic in her cactus-printed pajamas. He is buttoning his cufflinks in the small hallway of her flat, his hair still wet from a quick shower after a short call from his father - an unanticipated meeting with some foreign investors. She spares him a glance over the top of her book, languidly stretching as she places it face-up on the coffee table and stalks towards him. He is on the phone again, mobile balanced between his cheek and shoulder as he rattles off instructions; but his eyes are trained on her as she straightens his collar, pats it, and moves back to the couch.
He glances at her book - worn, battered, littered with annotations in new and faded ink - until the person at the other end of the line says something that drives a line of tension in his shoulders and makes him hurriedly stride outside the door.
She spends the rest of the day reading until shadows slide across the walls and she has to turn on the lights to continue. Her phone is silent on the shelf; she checks it only once to know that he is well by the absence of any messages, then devotes her attention back to words and phrases spun across yellowed pages, the measured meaning, the careful thought. At eleven thirty, she shuts her book, shuts the lights, and takes a warm shower. At midnight, she slides on her robe and makes her way to the bed. The sheets are cool and crisp when she settles against the pillows.
It is relatively simple to undo the fastening of her robe and let it slip open, to bare her skin to the cold air of the airconditioning. She sighs and tips her head back, running her hand down the column of her neck, the valley of her breasts. Her nipples are pebbled when she rolls them between her thumb and forefinger, closing her eyes at the throb of pleasure that simmers through her nerves. The silence of the room is a silken veneer settling into her pores, every sensation magnified in the darkness behind her eyelids. She slides her palm over her belly, fingers skimming over the smooth skin, fingertip dipping into her navel.
She holds her breath when she hears the key slide into the lock, the knob turning and the door sliding open. At the sound of his muted footsteps, she slopes her hand lower, thumb brushing lightly against her clit. She hears him pause, one full second, and then exhale. The door shuts, he clicks the lock in place. There is a slight rustle of clothing as he pads across her polished floor.
He knows her flat well enough to navigate in the darkness. Lights from outside shine faintly through her window, and when he rounds the corner to stand by the foot of her bed the city lights glimmer like constellations on him. Shadows shift across the corded muscles of his arms as he looks down at her - her hand still caught between her thighs - and undoes the buttons of his cuffs, rolls his sleeves up to his elbows.
"Naked," he begins. He places one knee on her bed. The bed dips.
"Naked," he repeats, traversing the distance between them until they are aligned, chest to chest, close enough that she can feel his warmth. He rests on his side, turned towards her. The city lights give him a faint, iridescent halo.
"You," he exhales, breath fanning across her cheek. He places his fingertips on the back of the hand still held between her thighs; it is a faint touch, really - a gossamer caress, "are simple as one of your hands.
"Smooth," his lips are warm against her ear, "earthy," his breath hot, "small," heady, "transparent," intoxicating, "round." An electric thrill.
He fits his hand over hers, slides his fingers until they rest against her own, his palm on the back of her hand.
"You have moon-lines, apple-pathways," he presses on her middle finger and she yields, her fingertip resting on her clit.
"Naked," he breathes, and her finger skims down her slit-
"you are slender," across her wet folds-
"as a naked" up-
"grain" against-
"of wheat" her bundle of nerves.
She rubs two fingers against her in time with the cadence of his voice.
"Naked, you are blue as a night in Cuba," his slides his palm down the crest of her knuckles, the slope of her fingers, fingertip catching a dewdrop of moisture and resting against her entrance.
And then he pauses, breathes out, "You have vines," - and she can feel the curve of his smile when he presses a kiss beneath her jaw - "and stars in your hair;" a kiss against her temple, soft and tender, almost reverent, "naked, you are spacious and yellow," and she thinks there is a flower which unfurls in her chest, "as a summer in a golden church." - a springtime blossom, where her heart is supposed to be.
"Naked,"
Then he strokes the tide within her anew, sliding a finger inside her wet heat - "you are tiny as one of your nails" - slides it up to the knuckle and she arches against him - "curved, subtle, rosy," - easing it out and sliding another finger in - "till the day is born" - curling them inside her, his name tumbling from her lips in an irreverent moan.
"And you withdraw to your underground world," he slides his fingers out,
"As if a long tunnel," he drawls the words and plunges into her, "of clothing and of chores," fingers slick and wet as she welcomes him into her depths. She hears the hitch in his breathing though his tone stays level and she works her clit with her fingers, vigorous and unrestrained.
"Your clear light dims," his nose nudges her cheek, "gets dressed," his fingers pump into her, "drops its leaves and," she concentrates on his voice, biting on her lip to keep a low, keening sound.
She's almost there, close enough to feel the razor edge of her orgasm, a sharp lightning bolt of pleasure that threatens to thunder through her. And when he speaks last, his words no more than a whisper, an affirmation or a statement or a promise-
"becomes a hand again."
-she finally grasps her climax.
Once, she sees him with her book of poems.
They are reclining against her couch and she is wearing his long-sleeved shirt, nestled between his legs, her back against his chest. It's a tight fit, but he presses his cheek against her temple as he holds up her worn and dog-eared copy, and she doesn't mind.
"I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent," she reads, and reads, and reads.
"You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream, and you are like the word Melancholy."
"Let me come to be still in your silence."
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/12672.html. Please comment there using OpenID.