[Fic] technicolour beat
Title: technicolour beat
Fandom: Crossroads (Artist AU)
Characters: Akiyama Kou, Yomohiro Tomoe | Kou/Tomoe
Word Count: 1,000
Rating: T
Warning/s: tbqh nothing much really? nudity?
Summary: The first touch of the paintbrush against her skin is light and cool - a wet line that traces the edge of her jaw. | kou, tomoe, and dark colors
Disclaimer: Kou is Miles'!
Notes: Another entry for #30DaysofErotica and set in the universe of strange symmetry. title and cut from technicolour beat by oh wonder.
The first touch of the paintbrush against her skin is light and cool - a wet line that traces the edge of her jaw. Akiyama leans above her, one palm on the checkered tiles to prop himself up. The afternoon sunlight slants across the open windows, illuminating half of his face in shadow. She swallows when his brush travels the length of her neck, swirling against the hollow of her throat.
She wonders how she must seem to him: lying on the cold kitchen floor with her left knee bent and propped up beside the right leg, outstretched; one arm curled away, a ballerina pose in stop-motion, while her other hand rests, palm up, close to her.
He glides the brush over her collarbones, sweeping up to a curl that runs around the ball of her shoulder. He bends down to detail a pattern, so close that she can feel his breath, hot against her arm. An early evening breeze gusts through the window, whispering across her hair, her chest, her unbound breasts and her naked stomach. She shivers, and hears as much as feels his quiet huff of laughter against her skin. It kindles a line of goosebumps, and when his face comes to view she isn't certain if she's imagining the almost imperceptible edge of a smirk touch the corners of his lips.
His brush skims down her sternum - a strong, definite stroke - and then feathers across the side of her breasts. He sets his brush down and picks up another with a finer point, dipping it into the palette by his side. A lock of hair sweeps across his forehead as he bends forward once more, and paints her breasts with such intent focus - the weight of his eyes on her skin heavier than the tread of his brush.
The kitchen is steeped in silence and what faint sounds come from outside the apartment are lost in the haze of Akiyama's singular attention.
He pauses, the brush tip hovering over her nipple. When he looks up to meet her gaze, a simmering heat sweeps down her belly with the faint graze of a whisper. She licks her bottom lip and Akiyama follows the motion with his eyes.
He raises his hand and she can feel the heat of him palm against her throat, as palpable as a caress though he doesn't touch her.
She exhales, her lips parting.
Akiyama inhales sharply through his nose and pulls back, a bodily motion that tenses his shoulders, his jaw clenched. His brush trembles as it starts down the plane of her stomach, or perhaps it is a figment of her imagination because his hand is steady as he begins on an intricate design. She tips her chin and looks out the window, where the dark orange of the afternoon sky dwindles to the indigo of twilight. She closes her eyes and it is entirely too easy to lose herself in the swirl of his brush, the cool wet strokes and lines, the cold touch of air as the paint dries on her skin.
Her body is a blank canvas, and she feels as unfurled and unfettered as the strands of her hair fanning out beneath her head. This is a different type of emancipation that liberates her from who she is for who she could be, even while his brush ties her to the sensations of her flesh as he remakes her. With the length of a paintbrush between them, she doesn't think she has felt as intimately close with anyone in her life; he is her creator as he destroys her and changes her to the product of his hands. In the few hours she is with him, she can be whomever she wishes to craft herself into, laid bare to her skin and flesh and the curves and the planes that mould her. With Akiyama she is not the product of everyone's expectations; to him she feels entirely like a confluence of lines, which she can take in her grasp and forge for herself.
He makes her as he breaks her down into her components.
He circles his brush around her navel and shifts to her hips. This is the way he touches her: as if she is a work of art and his paintbrush is the extension of his fingers. So when he skims the jut of her hipbones and coasts down her pubis, it is as tangible as a caress that strokes a slowly dawning ache between her legs. His breath skates across her upper thigh as he settles before her bent knee, and the fabric of his shirt grazes her skin like the faint rasp of his calloused fingertips.
She stutters on an exhale and suppresses the sharp, sudden urge to press her thighs together. He hums a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat - the first sound he makes since she arrived earlier that afternoon.
His paintbrush slithers along the outer edge of her labia; her eyes flutter open and finally, finally, she allows herself to sigh - the single syllable of his given name.
It feels as much his win as hers, this first yield she gives.
He dips his brush in fresh paint and adds the final touch: a glissade of his signature along the seam of her inner thigh. When he sits back on his heels and looks at what he had created, what she had freely given him and what he had taken, his gaze sears up her skin.
He stands abruptly, and disappears into a hallway which she surmises leads to his room. When he returns, he has a full-length mirror which he holds up so she can see for herself: the silver lines which melt into shadows, the intricate gossamer pattern of scales - the sinuous body of a dragon laid neatly on her skin.
"Beautiful." He murmurs, and in the mirror's reflection her eyes meet his, dark and heavy, almost black in the rapidly dimming evening light.
part 2 of 3
Jump into the heat
Spinning on our feet
In a technicolour beat
You and me
Caught up in a dream
In a technicolour beat
Beat
Beat
Beat
Warm unalone
Come settle down, settle down
Swing me your bones
Come settle down, settle down
Technicolour Beat | Oh Wonder
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/16018.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: Crossroads (Artist AU)
Characters: Akiyama Kou, Yomohiro Tomoe | Kou/Tomoe
Word Count: 1,000
Rating: T
Warning/s: tbqh nothing much really? nudity?
Summary: The first touch of the paintbrush against her skin is light and cool - a wet line that traces the edge of her jaw. | kou, tomoe, and dark colors
Disclaimer: Kou is Miles'!
Notes: Another entry for #30DaysofErotica and set in the universe of strange symmetry. title and cut from technicolour beat by oh wonder.
The first touch of the paintbrush against her skin is light and cool - a wet line that traces the edge of her jaw. Akiyama leans above her, one palm on the checkered tiles to prop himself up. The afternoon sunlight slants across the open windows, illuminating half of his face in shadow. She swallows when his brush travels the length of her neck, swirling against the hollow of her throat.
She wonders how she must seem to him: lying on the cold kitchen floor with her left knee bent and propped up beside the right leg, outstretched; one arm curled away, a ballerina pose in stop-motion, while her other hand rests, palm up, close to her.
He glides the brush over her collarbones, sweeping up to a curl that runs around the ball of her shoulder. He bends down to detail a pattern, so close that she can feel his breath, hot against her arm. An early evening breeze gusts through the window, whispering across her hair, her chest, her unbound breasts and her naked stomach. She shivers, and hears as much as feels his quiet huff of laughter against her skin. It kindles a line of goosebumps, and when his face comes to view she isn't certain if she's imagining the almost imperceptible edge of a smirk touch the corners of his lips.
His brush skims down her sternum - a strong, definite stroke - and then feathers across the side of her breasts. He sets his brush down and picks up another with a finer point, dipping it into the palette by his side. A lock of hair sweeps across his forehead as he bends forward once more, and paints her breasts with such intent focus - the weight of his eyes on her skin heavier than the tread of his brush.
The kitchen is steeped in silence and what faint sounds come from outside the apartment are lost in the haze of Akiyama's singular attention.
He pauses, the brush tip hovering over her nipple. When he looks up to meet her gaze, a simmering heat sweeps down her belly with the faint graze of a whisper. She licks her bottom lip and Akiyama follows the motion with his eyes.
He raises his hand and she can feel the heat of him palm against her throat, as palpable as a caress though he doesn't touch her.
She exhales, her lips parting.
Akiyama inhales sharply through his nose and pulls back, a bodily motion that tenses his shoulders, his jaw clenched. His brush trembles as it starts down the plane of her stomach, or perhaps it is a figment of her imagination because his hand is steady as he begins on an intricate design. She tips her chin and looks out the window, where the dark orange of the afternoon sky dwindles to the indigo of twilight. She closes her eyes and it is entirely too easy to lose herself in the swirl of his brush, the cool wet strokes and lines, the cold touch of air as the paint dries on her skin.
Her body is a blank canvas, and she feels as unfurled and unfettered as the strands of her hair fanning out beneath her head. This is a different type of emancipation that liberates her from who she is for who she could be, even while his brush ties her to the sensations of her flesh as he remakes her. With the length of a paintbrush between them, she doesn't think she has felt as intimately close with anyone in her life; he is her creator as he destroys her and changes her to the product of his hands. In the few hours she is with him, she can be whomever she wishes to craft herself into, laid bare to her skin and flesh and the curves and the planes that mould her. With Akiyama she is not the product of everyone's expectations; to him she feels entirely like a confluence of lines, which she can take in her grasp and forge for herself.
He makes her as he breaks her down into her components.
He circles his brush around her navel and shifts to her hips. This is the way he touches her: as if she is a work of art and his paintbrush is the extension of his fingers. So when he skims the jut of her hipbones and coasts down her pubis, it is as tangible as a caress that strokes a slowly dawning ache between her legs. His breath skates across her upper thigh as he settles before her bent knee, and the fabric of his shirt grazes her skin like the faint rasp of his calloused fingertips.
She stutters on an exhale and suppresses the sharp, sudden urge to press her thighs together. He hums a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat - the first sound he makes since she arrived earlier that afternoon.
His paintbrush slithers along the outer edge of her labia; her eyes flutter open and finally, finally, she allows herself to sigh - the single syllable of his given name.
It feels as much his win as hers, this first yield she gives.
He dips his brush in fresh paint and adds the final touch: a glissade of his signature along the seam of her inner thigh. When he sits back on his heels and looks at what he had created, what she had freely given him and what he had taken, his gaze sears up her skin.
He stands abruptly, and disappears into a hallway which she surmises leads to his room. When he returns, he has a full-length mirror which he holds up so she can see for herself: the silver lines which melt into shadows, the intricate gossamer pattern of scales - the sinuous body of a dragon laid neatly on her skin.
"Beautiful." He murmurs, and in the mirror's reflection her eyes meet his, dark and heavy, almost black in the rapidly dimming evening light.
part 2 of 3
Jump into the heat
Spinning on our feet
In a technicolour beat
You and me
Caught up in a dream
In a technicolour beat
Beat
Beat
Beat
Warm unalone
Come settle down, settle down
Swing me your bones
Come settle down, settle down
Technicolour Beat | Oh Wonder
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/16018.html. Please comment there using OpenID.