[Fic] salad days
Title: salad days
Fandom: Crossroads
Characters: Kunisaki Chiaki, Kunisaki (née Yomohiro) Tomoe | Chiaki/Tomoe
Word Count: 1,470
Rating: M
Warning/s: graphic sex
Summary: The children are away at summer camp for three weeks. | chiaki, tomoe, and the kids are gone for the day
Disclaimer: Chiaki is Momo's!
Notes: this was born from a conversation with momo because i'm an excited little shit fastforwarding to the future when my character doesn't even think of her character as a friend yet #30DaysofErotica btw, chiaki is fully endorsed by momo i am not genderbending characters for the sake of my kalandian agenda. title and lj-cut from salad days by mac demarco
The children are away at summer camp for three weeks.
The house feels strangely deserted, hushed, and there are vestiges of them left: from the discarded shirt by the foot of the stairs, to a kitchen drawer halfway shut with a piece of paper sticking out. She would like to think she isn't one of those mothers she sees at school, who tag along after their children with handkerchiefs drawn out and ready to wipe away snot and sweat. First, her children are more cultured than them and thusly superior in manners, and second, she wants to give them the free reign to express themselves without their mother hovering over their shoulders.
Perhaps after keeping away their shirts and properly shutting drawers.
It doesn't quite discount the fact that they hadn't been gone thirty minutes, Chiaki bringing them over to school with their packed backpacks and sleeping bags. Children grow too fast in the expanse of time they are known to you. She has already resigned herself to the realization that she would never be able to sprint fast enough to ever think her time with them is enough.
She sets the plates and utensils in the sink when she hears Chiaki's car rumble in the driveway, and picks up the glasses when the front door opens and closes with a soft click. She knows the weight of his footsteps enough to know that he's making his way to the kitchen, leaning against the threshold to watch her with a calm nonchalance she's long since associated with peaceful early mornings.
She turns on the tap and watches the water flow.
Maybe she can get some reading done before lunch. A journal article on new neurosurgery techniques had been recently published and between work and the children, she hadn't had time to enjoy herself with a good read and a cup of tea. With both of them on leave and the children well on their way to splashing about under the sun, she could try and cajole her husband into baking a cake for her.
She glances at Chiaki and gets the first inkling that her self-appointed plans for the day might get an unexpected hitch by the way he's lounging far too casually against the wall, hands tucked deep in his pockets.
"When was the last time we were left alone in the house like this." The corner of his mouth kicks up in a slow smirk.
Ah. An unexpected hitch indeed.
She shuts the tap and dries her hands with the dishrag: a purposeful slide against her palms, a careful wipe of each finger until she finishes her thumb with a slow, deliberate pull on the towel.
"I wonder," she drawls, discarding the rag on top of the sink, sidling across the room with just a notch of sway to her hips.
"So, Kunisaki." She leans against the counter just across him, her forearm flat on the cool marble top.
He hums and pushes off the wall, towards her, where he stops with a light hand on her waist and his lips dipped close to her ear.
"How do you want it," He murmurs, and she feels the heat of anticipation rise up in her.
She tips her chin up, a haughty unspoken challenge that is a remnant of their college days. She feels young, then, and alive the way a fire latches on a piece of wood and grows brighter.
"It's been quite some time," she says, a matter-of-fact statement that is at odds with the hand she flits over his chest. "Your skills might be, ah, rusty-"
And then he leans down and fits the seam of his lips over hers, a casual caress meant to explore and remap charted territory. He slides his palm up her back, warm through the flimsy material of her shirt - and she sighs against his touch, his tongue tracing her bottom lip and delving into her mouth. One of his hands slips beneath her shirt to caress the bare skin above her hip and he changes the angle of his kiss.
His fingertips are rough as he strokes a line up her side, dragging the shirt up, his thumb dipping beneath the wire of her brassiere to skim against the underside of her breast. She can take this to their bedroom where they can make slow love against the newly pressed bedsheets, wrinkling the blankets and untidying the pillows as they relearn each other or-
she tugs on his belt loops and pulls him flush against her
-or they can do this hard and fast now, and continue it in their bedroom later.
He murmurs something she doesn't quite catch, it might've been a "whoa there" or her name, or another such sound she can't give enough of a damn about because the only thing that she wants to hear is the way he groans when she palms him. She fumbles with the buttons of his pants but he touches the back of her hand and slides his fingers around her wrists to pull them away and anchor them by her sides.
He nips at the base of her jaw, the pulse of her neck. He kisses the back of her ear with a steady purpose, too achingly slow for her, which he amends by rolling his hips against hers.
When he reaches her collarbones, she's half-angry and half-aroused and has half the mind to tell him they can do slow and steady later when they could be doing it hard and fast now.
Either he understands her or he's teasing her, or both, really, because he pushes her shirt up to her shoulders, dragging his palms up her sides with a leisurely caress. He watches, eyes trained intently on each inch of skin he exposes, and he exhales a soft, almost dreamy sigh when he looks at her pale skin clothed in the ratty old cotton of her brassiere.
"Chiaki," she warns, and he surges forward and presses an open-mouthed kiss against the top of her breast, working the skin with a nibble of his teeth because once she'd told him, in passing, that she liked it when he marked her. She can't help clutching at his head, holding him close with her fingers buried in his hair, a stuttered "O-Oh" that he undoubtedly hears because his hands are reaching behind her and unclasping the hooks.
He pushes the brassiere up and considers her for one heated second, branding her wanton image in his mind, before touching the tip of his finger against a pebbled nipple and drawing a light circle around it.
"Kunisaki-" she clips out, and he pinches her nipple with a thumb and forefinger in a manner that sends heat directly between her thighs. He bends, catches her other nipple, sucking it with such a sweet, tortuous, unhurried pace that she tugs on his hair - insistent and demanding, and if this is his payback for that time she tied him up then all dues have well been paid and she just wants sex now.
"I want you inside me, Chiaki," She gasps, when he trails his lips down to her navel, and he looks up at her, hair disheveled, his pupils so dilated she can barely see the turquoise of his eyes.
Finally, finally, he straightens up and undoes the laces of her pajamas, slipping a warm, warm hand inside to stroke her flesh, dipping into her damp folds and moving back up to her clit in a feathery circular motion that has her bucking against him and clutching at his shoulder with a white-knuckled grip.
He cants his head down and catches her lips in a kiss, and it's almost embarrassing how desperate she is to grind against his palm, dropping her hands to his pants and taking two tries too many to undo the button and to pull down the zipper. Dimly, she registers the rumble of an engine drawing closer, a car door slamming shut, but he's hot and hard in her grasp and his mouth is insistent and warm and she just-
She just wants to-
"Oh god, oh god Soujirou-" She moans, kissing him and pulling away.
"Soujirou what." His eyes are hazy, his lips wet, and he looks torn between rightful confusion and stern reprimand so he settles for a deadpan look, offset by the hand down her pants.
The doorbell rings.
"Your brother is visiting today," she says, stealing a look at the fridge calendar and yes, right there, Soujirou-visit inked in neat handwriting beside the date today.
Chiaki follows her train of thought, horror dawning on him.
"We gave him the keys."
And the door flings open, Soujirou walking in on something he would never ever want to see again.
- note - Soujirou has the keys because you know sometimes Tomoe is in the hospital for duty and there might be emergencies with Chiaki
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/14156.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: Crossroads
Characters: Kunisaki Chiaki, Kunisaki (née Yomohiro) Tomoe | Chiaki/Tomoe
Word Count: 1,470
Rating: M
Warning/s: graphic sex
Summary: The children are away at summer camp for three weeks. | chiaki, tomoe, and the kids are gone for the day
Disclaimer: Chiaki is Momo's!
Notes: this was born from a conversation with momo because i'm an excited little shit fastforwarding to the future when my character doesn't even think of her character as a friend yet #30DaysofErotica btw, chiaki is fully endorsed by momo i am not genderbending characters for the sake of my kalandian agenda. title and lj-cut from salad days by mac demarco
The children are away at summer camp for three weeks.
The house feels strangely deserted, hushed, and there are vestiges of them left: from the discarded shirt by the foot of the stairs, to a kitchen drawer halfway shut with a piece of paper sticking out. She would like to think she isn't one of those mothers she sees at school, who tag along after their children with handkerchiefs drawn out and ready to wipe away snot and sweat. First, her children are more cultured than them and thusly superior in manners, and second, she wants to give them the free reign to express themselves without their mother hovering over their shoulders.
Perhaps after keeping away their shirts and properly shutting drawers.
It doesn't quite discount the fact that they hadn't been gone thirty minutes, Chiaki bringing them over to school with their packed backpacks and sleeping bags. Children grow too fast in the expanse of time they are known to you. She has already resigned herself to the realization that she would never be able to sprint fast enough to ever think her time with them is enough.
She sets the plates and utensils in the sink when she hears Chiaki's car rumble in the driveway, and picks up the glasses when the front door opens and closes with a soft click. She knows the weight of his footsteps enough to know that he's making his way to the kitchen, leaning against the threshold to watch her with a calm nonchalance she's long since associated with peaceful early mornings.
She turns on the tap and watches the water flow.
Maybe she can get some reading done before lunch. A journal article on new neurosurgery techniques had been recently published and between work and the children, she hadn't had time to enjoy herself with a good read and a cup of tea. With both of them on leave and the children well on their way to splashing about under the sun, she could try and cajole her husband into baking a cake for her.
She glances at Chiaki and gets the first inkling that her self-appointed plans for the day might get an unexpected hitch by the way he's lounging far too casually against the wall, hands tucked deep in his pockets.
"When was the last time we were left alone in the house like this." The corner of his mouth kicks up in a slow smirk.
Ah. An unexpected hitch indeed.
She shuts the tap and dries her hands with the dishrag: a purposeful slide against her palms, a careful wipe of each finger until she finishes her thumb with a slow, deliberate pull on the towel.
"I wonder," she drawls, discarding the rag on top of the sink, sidling across the room with just a notch of sway to her hips.
"So, Kunisaki." She leans against the counter just across him, her forearm flat on the cool marble top.
He hums and pushes off the wall, towards her, where he stops with a light hand on her waist and his lips dipped close to her ear.
"How do you want it," He murmurs, and she feels the heat of anticipation rise up in her.
She tips her chin up, a haughty unspoken challenge that is a remnant of their college days. She feels young, then, and alive the way a fire latches on a piece of wood and grows brighter.
"It's been quite some time," she says, a matter-of-fact statement that is at odds with the hand she flits over his chest. "Your skills might be, ah, rusty-"
And then he leans down and fits the seam of his lips over hers, a casual caress meant to explore and remap charted territory. He slides his palm up her back, warm through the flimsy material of her shirt - and she sighs against his touch, his tongue tracing her bottom lip and delving into her mouth. One of his hands slips beneath her shirt to caress the bare skin above her hip and he changes the angle of his kiss.
His fingertips are rough as he strokes a line up her side, dragging the shirt up, his thumb dipping beneath the wire of her brassiere to skim against the underside of her breast. She can take this to their bedroom where they can make slow love against the newly pressed bedsheets, wrinkling the blankets and untidying the pillows as they relearn each other or-
she tugs on his belt loops and pulls him flush against her
-or they can do this hard and fast now, and continue it in their bedroom later.
He murmurs something she doesn't quite catch, it might've been a "whoa there" or her name, or another such sound she can't give enough of a damn about because the only thing that she wants to hear is the way he groans when she palms him. She fumbles with the buttons of his pants but he touches the back of her hand and slides his fingers around her wrists to pull them away and anchor them by her sides.
He nips at the base of her jaw, the pulse of her neck. He kisses the back of her ear with a steady purpose, too achingly slow for her, which he amends by rolling his hips against hers.
When he reaches her collarbones, she's half-angry and half-aroused and has half the mind to tell him they can do slow and steady later when they could be doing it hard and fast now.
Either he understands her or he's teasing her, or both, really, because he pushes her shirt up to her shoulders, dragging his palms up her sides with a leisurely caress. He watches, eyes trained intently on each inch of skin he exposes, and he exhales a soft, almost dreamy sigh when he looks at her pale skin clothed in the ratty old cotton of her brassiere.
"Chiaki," she warns, and he surges forward and presses an open-mouthed kiss against the top of her breast, working the skin with a nibble of his teeth because once she'd told him, in passing, that she liked it when he marked her. She can't help clutching at his head, holding him close with her fingers buried in his hair, a stuttered "O-Oh" that he undoubtedly hears because his hands are reaching behind her and unclasping the hooks.
He pushes the brassiere up and considers her for one heated second, branding her wanton image in his mind, before touching the tip of his finger against a pebbled nipple and drawing a light circle around it.
"Kunisaki-" she clips out, and he pinches her nipple with a thumb and forefinger in a manner that sends heat directly between her thighs. He bends, catches her other nipple, sucking it with such a sweet, tortuous, unhurried pace that she tugs on his hair - insistent and demanding, and if this is his payback for that time she tied him up then all dues have well been paid and she just wants sex now.
"I want you inside me, Chiaki," She gasps, when he trails his lips down to her navel, and he looks up at her, hair disheveled, his pupils so dilated she can barely see the turquoise of his eyes.
Finally, finally, he straightens up and undoes the laces of her pajamas, slipping a warm, warm hand inside to stroke her flesh, dipping into her damp folds and moving back up to her clit in a feathery circular motion that has her bucking against him and clutching at his shoulder with a white-knuckled grip.
He cants his head down and catches her lips in a kiss, and it's almost embarrassing how desperate she is to grind against his palm, dropping her hands to his pants and taking two tries too many to undo the button and to pull down the zipper. Dimly, she registers the rumble of an engine drawing closer, a car door slamming shut, but he's hot and hard in her grasp and his mouth is insistent and warm and she just-
She just wants to-
"Oh god, oh god Soujirou-" She moans, kissing him and pulling away.
"Soujirou what." His eyes are hazy, his lips wet, and he looks torn between rightful confusion and stern reprimand so he settles for a deadpan look, offset by the hand down her pants.
The doorbell rings.
"Your brother is visiting today," she says, stealing a look at the fridge calendar and yes, right there, Soujirou-visit inked in neat handwriting beside the date today.
Chiaki follows her train of thought, horror dawning on him.
"We gave him the keys."
And the door flings open, Soujirou walking in on something he would never ever want to see again.
- note - Soujirou has the keys because you know sometimes Tomoe is in the hospital for duty and there might be emergencies with Chiaki
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/14156.html. Please comment there using OpenID.