( x/1999 ) we used to wait
Title: We Used To Wait
Series: X
Characters/Pairings: Sorata, Arashi. Sorashi.
Rating: PG / PG-13.
Summary/Notes: I was poking around and discovered there was once a CLAMP kink meme. I know, right? One of the unfilled Sorata/Arashi prompts was:
Sorata/Arashi
Arashi kicks ass and takes names. Sorata gets turned on.
…Yeeeeaah, that's pretty much it. Not actually porn.
One more thrust and the curse-creature falls into oily smoke and dust. She whirls, hair splayed out, looking pretty and graceful and cold, slicing into the last creature-for a moment it remains standing, a clear diagonal line from shoulder to hip, and she draws the katana back and it disintegrates. Her skirt settles and her breath comes in pants; her fringe sticks to her forehead with sweat. But they are dead now, and Arashi can afford to be weary.
Five steps behind, close but not in the way, Sorata is also out of breath. Less so, as he's a ranged fighter at heart, a distant one, one who prefers to not fight at all-he's used his abilities only to drive away or towards Arashi, then jumped out of range and watched: every stab and thrust, every step, her unflinching expression. The way her blouse began to stick against the small of her back. The shape of her neck and the angle of her chin. The half seconds when the light hit her eyes and brought blue into the gray. Of course she's in no danger-he wouldn't let her, even if they could pose a threat-but when the last falls she whirls on him angrily as he hops down from his light post.
She is breathing heavily, her heart pounding from the activity. The borrowed katana, a moment ago an extension of a limb, now hangs loose and heavy in her hand. Sweaty and tired, she is still the most beautiful person he has ever seen in his life-like a living portrait. But women in portraits rarely look so annoyed. The bottom of her shirt cuffs stick to her wrists. His heart is pounding too.
She prepares a retort to his inaction, her lips pursed and eyes a deep, deep gray; she is unmoved by his sheepish grin and slow approach, down from his safe spot. She knows full well he doesn't like to fight-but neither does she, despite the evidence otherwise, besides the thrill of adrenaline that makes even her want to grin crooked and gasping. A job is still a job, and Sorata has never seemed to grasp that. "It would go faster if you-"
Half through the sentence she realizes he is still approaching, is now close-too close!-and then she is being kissed, his hand dry and warm against her jaw, the other at her waist, his eyes already closed but he's grinning-and she's cross because they are in public and she flushes, heart pounding. But she kisses back.
There's something to be said for size differences, in height and form. He's always liked that she was small, perfect, short and thin and all angles, even if he has to crane his neck a bit to kiss her, because she fits perfectly now. He can feel her annoyance even now and loves her for it, wants to laugh: how annoyed she is as she steps closer, grabs the neck of his shirt and pulls, and when he decides to drop his hand and then slide it up her shirt-her skin hot and smooth and just slightly damp and-and she stomps on his foot and pulls away, glaring and blushing and beautiful. Pushes him, too, never content to be annoyed subtly. She still holds the katana, awkward now that it's a prop and not a weapon, and steps away, turning her back to him and crossing her arms, the sword hanging from the left at an angle.
"You're so annoying."
He embraces her from behind, arms over her shoulders, fitting together perfectly-makes his heart pound again. It's a miracle he doesn't stab himself. "You're so pretty when you're savin' the world," he sighs against her ear, and she stiffens and then relaxes. Shifts her weight to her heels and leans against him ever so slightly. She may be stronger in a fight, but he stands steady, and she can ignore that only one of his hands grips at her arms.
She wants to just close her eyes-but no. They're still in public. "We need to get back," she says. "We'll be late. They'll wonder."
"Wonder what?" Always teasing. Always laughing. She won't let him stop, even if it means him playing the fool-she turns her head away from his mouth, exposing her neck, and shivers when he moves his head, mouth, to reflect that.
Shivers and steps away, trying hard to not touch that skin. "If we can't handle simple clean up," she says, brushing her hair back. She runs her tongue along the backs of her teeth. "I need a bath."
She's walking now. He's following; she knows what without needing to check or hear him. Half a block away is the katana's discarded sheath, she picks it up with barely a pause. "Can I take a bath too?" he is asking, the lilt in his voice making clear he's not serious.
"Can you?" Her voice is clear, and he's noticed that when she tries to joke she over enunciates, each syllable perfect and nearly individual. He follows grinning, just enough steps behind that she won't object or grow shy.
"Maybe later," he says, mouth crooked in a grin, and he knows she'll know he means it.
She does not hesitate or flinch, falter or turn around. "Yes."
Series: X
Characters/Pairings: Sorata, Arashi. Sorashi.
Rating: PG / PG-13.
Summary/Notes: I was poking around and discovered there was once a CLAMP kink meme. I know, right? One of the unfilled Sorata/Arashi prompts was:
Sorata/Arashi
Arashi kicks ass and takes names. Sorata gets turned on.
…Yeeeeaah, that's pretty much it. Not actually porn.
One more thrust and the curse-creature falls into oily smoke and dust. She whirls, hair splayed out, looking pretty and graceful and cold, slicing into the last creature-for a moment it remains standing, a clear diagonal line from shoulder to hip, and she draws the katana back and it disintegrates. Her skirt settles and her breath comes in pants; her fringe sticks to her forehead with sweat. But they are dead now, and Arashi can afford to be weary.
Five steps behind, close but not in the way, Sorata is also out of breath. Less so, as he's a ranged fighter at heart, a distant one, one who prefers to not fight at all-he's used his abilities only to drive away or towards Arashi, then jumped out of range and watched: every stab and thrust, every step, her unflinching expression. The way her blouse began to stick against the small of her back. The shape of her neck and the angle of her chin. The half seconds when the light hit her eyes and brought blue into the gray. Of course she's in no danger-he wouldn't let her, even if they could pose a threat-but when the last falls she whirls on him angrily as he hops down from his light post.
She is breathing heavily, her heart pounding from the activity. The borrowed katana, a moment ago an extension of a limb, now hangs loose and heavy in her hand. Sweaty and tired, she is still the most beautiful person he has ever seen in his life-like a living portrait. But women in portraits rarely look so annoyed. The bottom of her shirt cuffs stick to her wrists. His heart is pounding too.
She prepares a retort to his inaction, her lips pursed and eyes a deep, deep gray; she is unmoved by his sheepish grin and slow approach, down from his safe spot. She knows full well he doesn't like to fight-but neither does she, despite the evidence otherwise, besides the thrill of adrenaline that makes even her want to grin crooked and gasping. A job is still a job, and Sorata has never seemed to grasp that. "It would go faster if you-"
Half through the sentence she realizes he is still approaching, is now close-too close!-and then she is being kissed, his hand dry and warm against her jaw, the other at her waist, his eyes already closed but he's grinning-and she's cross because they are in public and she flushes, heart pounding. But she kisses back.
There's something to be said for size differences, in height and form. He's always liked that she was small, perfect, short and thin and all angles, even if he has to crane his neck a bit to kiss her, because she fits perfectly now. He can feel her annoyance even now and loves her for it, wants to laugh: how annoyed she is as she steps closer, grabs the neck of his shirt and pulls, and when he decides to drop his hand and then slide it up her shirt-her skin hot and smooth and just slightly damp and-and she stomps on his foot and pulls away, glaring and blushing and beautiful. Pushes him, too, never content to be annoyed subtly. She still holds the katana, awkward now that it's a prop and not a weapon, and steps away, turning her back to him and crossing her arms, the sword hanging from the left at an angle.
"You're so annoying."
He embraces her from behind, arms over her shoulders, fitting together perfectly-makes his heart pound again. It's a miracle he doesn't stab himself. "You're so pretty when you're savin' the world," he sighs against her ear, and she stiffens and then relaxes. Shifts her weight to her heels and leans against him ever so slightly. She may be stronger in a fight, but he stands steady, and she can ignore that only one of his hands grips at her arms.
She wants to just close her eyes-but no. They're still in public. "We need to get back," she says. "We'll be late. They'll wonder."
"Wonder what?" Always teasing. Always laughing. She won't let him stop, even if it means him playing the fool-she turns her head away from his mouth, exposing her neck, and shivers when he moves his head, mouth, to reflect that.
Shivers and steps away, trying hard to not touch that skin. "If we can't handle simple clean up," she says, brushing her hair back. She runs her tongue along the backs of her teeth. "I need a bath."
She's walking now. He's following; she knows what without needing to check or hear him. Half a block away is the katana's discarded sheath, she picks it up with barely a pause. "Can I take a bath too?" he is asking, the lilt in his voice making clear he's not serious.
"Can you?" Her voice is clear, and he's noticed that when she tries to joke she over enunciates, each syllable perfect and nearly individual. He follows grinning, just enough steps behind that she won't object or grow shy.
"Maybe later," he says, mouth crooked in a grin, and he knows she'll know he means it.
She does not hesitate or flinch, falter or turn around. "Yes."