Today's Answers [xxxHOLiC, Clow/Yuuko, PG-13]
Title: Today's Answers
Author: rhap-chan
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: implied sex
Word Count: 863
Prompt: 1 July -- xxxholic, Clow/Yuuko, the morning after - a hangover you don’t deserve
Other: Title from a quote by Edgar Cayce.
Excerpt: "Yuuko!" he says, and the honorific has been gone for ten years or more, but that just serves to remind her how deeply she has fallen into this with him, how much she resisted, and yet how familiar his presence in her bed. They only sleep together when they are both very drunk, fumbling and laughing and biting.
A hangover is a miserable reminder of overindulgence, of choices made in last night's humid warmth that make no sense in the brightness of the humid day. The pain is both full and extremely personal, and not at all improved by someone else's morning breath gentle in one's face. The taste is nearly enough to make Yuuko vomit. She groans and rolls over, but his heat is still there at her back. She will have to deal with that in a moment, but the pounding of her head takes precedence.
"Good morning," he says, a whisper in her ear and a kiss beneath her ear, and now the headache is far from her mind. The kiss awakens a twinge in her lower belly, exacerbated by the way his fingertips skim across her naked shoulder. She lashes out, connecting solidly with her forearm into his nose, and he makes a pained noise.
"Yuuko!" he says, and the honorific has been gone for ten years or more, but that just serves to remind her how deeply she has fallen into this with him, how much she resisted, and yet how familiar his presence in her bed. They only sleep together when they are both very drunk, fumbling and laughing and biting. She knows (ten years, it may as well be one hundred) that she has a mark on her neck at her pulse point, and she will have to wear scarves and high-necked blouses for a week. No matter how she scolds him he will do it again the next time, because he likes the sound she makes when he nips her there.
"I hate you," she says, and then he laughs, his fingertips brushing her temple before he turns over and gets out of the bed. The jostling reminds her of her headache and she murmurs irritably and tosses her arm over her eyes.
He will not tell her that she is beautiful like this, even in her illness, that the morning sun gleams gold over her pale, bare skin and sinks deeply into her dark hair. He stopped that sometime in the first year of their association, after she threw the bedside pitcher at him and it left a gigantic hole in the wall screen. He patched it himself, at her insistence, but he is a magician, not a carpenter, and the repair is obvious and clumsy.
Still, he thinks it is true, but since there are better times to tell her that she is statuesque and gorgeous, he will think it secretly. She curls up in the bed, her other arm clasped to her calf. Her fingernails and her toenails are both painted black, and he kissed each of them last night as she teased him about foot fetishes. Even though she is kinder to him when she drinks, she doesn't lose all of her bite.
She is always the one who wakes with hangovers, not he. But before the hangover, she kisses him, biting his lip, taking him in her hand and guiding him to her. He knows that she uses the alcohol as an excuse, but he is happy to let her have it, and the independence that she craves. Acknowledging what they have as a relationship may mean losing it, so he will let it remain unsaid.
"I'll get you some water," Clow says, and she doesn't reply as he walks away, sliding the screen as softly as he can. When he comes back he has to coax her into sitting. He hands her the glass. Her eyes slit with anger when he dares to brush her hair back out of her eyes.
"Don't touch me, Reed."
"That wasn't what you said last night," he answers, lips curling, and when she leans forward, scowling, he catches her hand. When she tries to pull it back, he tumbles into the bed, pretending that she is dragging him. The rest of her glass of water spills down his back, but it is a welcome coolness on this warm morning. He kisses her shoulder; she pinches him under the ribcage.
"Let's go back to sleep," he says. "You'll feel better when you wake up again." He waves his hand and the bedcurtain slides closed. A mumble dries the water on the sheets, and he settles in beside her, with his back to her. After a couple of breaths, she slides back down into the bed, her gossamer-soft hair brushing his back.
He shuts his eyes and tries to doze. He is nearly asleep when the bed shifts and she presses herself into his back, her arm curling around him, hand splaying across his stomach possessively. It is too hot for cuddling, but he doesn't protest.
They doze, sticky skin and drowsy dreams, until Yuuko's hangover fades to bearable proportions. He does not move immediately when she untangles herself from him and gets up, but he follows her eventually to the bathroom to brush her hair.
And that night they drink again, until they are laughing and fighting and she crawls into his lap and kisses him sloppily. The hangover of tomorrow is far away, then, from her cool sheets and bright eyes.
Author: rhap-chan
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: implied sex
Word Count: 863
Prompt: 1 July -- xxxholic, Clow/Yuuko, the morning after - a hangover you don’t deserve
Other: Title from a quote by Edgar Cayce.
Excerpt: "Yuuko!" he says, and the honorific has been gone for ten years or more, but that just serves to remind her how deeply she has fallen into this with him, how much she resisted, and yet how familiar his presence in her bed. They only sleep together when they are both very drunk, fumbling and laughing and biting.
A hangover is a miserable reminder of overindulgence, of choices made in last night's humid warmth that make no sense in the brightness of the humid day. The pain is both full and extremely personal, and not at all improved by someone else's morning breath gentle in one's face. The taste is nearly enough to make Yuuko vomit. She groans and rolls over, but his heat is still there at her back. She will have to deal with that in a moment, but the pounding of her head takes precedence.
"Good morning," he says, a whisper in her ear and a kiss beneath her ear, and now the headache is far from her mind. The kiss awakens a twinge in her lower belly, exacerbated by the way his fingertips skim across her naked shoulder. She lashes out, connecting solidly with her forearm into his nose, and he makes a pained noise.
"Yuuko!" he says, and the honorific has been gone for ten years or more, but that just serves to remind her how deeply she has fallen into this with him, how much she resisted, and yet how familiar his presence in her bed. They only sleep together when they are both very drunk, fumbling and laughing and biting. She knows (ten years, it may as well be one hundred) that she has a mark on her neck at her pulse point, and she will have to wear scarves and high-necked blouses for a week. No matter how she scolds him he will do it again the next time, because he likes the sound she makes when he nips her there.
"I hate you," she says, and then he laughs, his fingertips brushing her temple before he turns over and gets out of the bed. The jostling reminds her of her headache and she murmurs irritably and tosses her arm over her eyes.
He will not tell her that she is beautiful like this, even in her illness, that the morning sun gleams gold over her pale, bare skin and sinks deeply into her dark hair. He stopped that sometime in the first year of their association, after she threw the bedside pitcher at him and it left a gigantic hole in the wall screen. He patched it himself, at her insistence, but he is a magician, not a carpenter, and the repair is obvious and clumsy.
Still, he thinks it is true, but since there are better times to tell her that she is statuesque and gorgeous, he will think it secretly. She curls up in the bed, her other arm clasped to her calf. Her fingernails and her toenails are both painted black, and he kissed each of them last night as she teased him about foot fetishes. Even though she is kinder to him when she drinks, she doesn't lose all of her bite.
She is always the one who wakes with hangovers, not he. But before the hangover, she kisses him, biting his lip, taking him in her hand and guiding him to her. He knows that she uses the alcohol as an excuse, but he is happy to let her have it, and the independence that she craves. Acknowledging what they have as a relationship may mean losing it, so he will let it remain unsaid.
"I'll get you some water," Clow says, and she doesn't reply as he walks away, sliding the screen as softly as he can. When he comes back he has to coax her into sitting. He hands her the glass. Her eyes slit with anger when he dares to brush her hair back out of her eyes.
"Don't touch me, Reed."
"That wasn't what you said last night," he answers, lips curling, and when she leans forward, scowling, he catches her hand. When she tries to pull it back, he tumbles into the bed, pretending that she is dragging him. The rest of her glass of water spills down his back, but it is a welcome coolness on this warm morning. He kisses her shoulder; she pinches him under the ribcage.
"Let's go back to sleep," he says. "You'll feel better when you wake up again." He waves his hand and the bedcurtain slides closed. A mumble dries the water on the sheets, and he settles in beside her, with his back to her. After a couple of breaths, she slides back down into the bed, her gossamer-soft hair brushing his back.
He shuts his eyes and tries to doze. He is nearly asleep when the bed shifts and she presses herself into his back, her arm curling around him, hand splaying across his stomach possessively. It is too hot for cuddling, but he doesn't protest.
They doze, sticky skin and drowsy dreams, until Yuuko's hangover fades to bearable proportions. He does not move immediately when she untangles herself from him and gets up, but he follows her eventually to the bathroom to brush her hair.
And that night they drink again, until they are laughing and fighting and she crawls into his lap and kisses him sloppily. The hangover of tomorrow is far away, then, from her cool sheets and bright eyes.