[fanfic] Playing the Moon
Title: Playing the Moon
Author: legare_virtuoso
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Lesbian glory. Affairs.
Pairing/Characters: Bianchi/Nana, Reborn
Summary: Sometimes you have to play with the moon to appreciate the stars.
Author Notes: … I… I don’t know what possessed me to write this. Today’s blame is toward a questionable source. (Serious, someone asked for this and neglected to tell me their LJ name. So, at least I finished it. At least… as much as I could manage without wanting to die in a corner.
It wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now, not then, not in a million years if a million stars had winked out into unending oblivion in one moment. But it had happened, and there wasn’t much they could do against it, buried their sorrow in shared misery and wondered how it had come this far. The effects of this one night will echo across time and memory, ferried along by a capricious desire in twin sonorous hearts. If she was anything like her brother then she’d be thumbing a flame to breathe in a well deserved dash of nicotine laced smoke, but she’s not and not even that fact will save her. She’s such a traitor, her and her childish sweet one-time lover, can’t even keep herself together when her real love has vanished away from the world. The very thought makes her chest ache and tears threaten to come, a sickness that not even her own Poison Cooking could cause.
But Nana had cried when her baby went away, sat in the kitchen with a single handkerchief and blotted the trail of salted despair from her eyes. There wasn’t much to be done for the poor mother save wait with her, hold her cheek to Bianchi’s own chest and murmur soothingly. Bianchi doesn’t know a sorrow like this because she has always known, and it is not in her nature to pity someone as wonderful as Sawada Nana. They’ve been together for what seems like forever, but Bianchi knows that love overcomes all boundaries that time forgot. But she has her pride and her sense, for the Poison Scorpion has learned not tolerate anything but the utmost honesty, and Bianchi is willing to admit she loves the Vongola Madonna with less chivalrous intentions than her peers would like.
So when a crying Nana can’t stop her own tears long enough for Bianchi to get a cup of premade tea in the older woman to calm her down, Bianchi takes action.
Nana doesn’t slap Bianchi, goes stiff and shivers at the gentle touch of lip to lip. For a breath Bianchi waits, fears the oncoming blow and the ruin of everything Vongola stands for. And after a breath Nana finally responds, tongue licking like a child with a spatula of sugar sweet frosting. Nana doesn’t need to lace her fingers in Bianchi’s hair, but later the girl will thank the Madonna for keeping her grounded, could probably do without leaning in to press Bianchi to the countertop proper. Bianchi gives up control with a whimper as the salt shaker digs into her lower spine.
“I’m sorry Bianchi…” And Nana is gently pushing her out the door, snags her keys and ever so firmly shuts the front door in Bianchi’s face.
Bianchi spends the day in Takesushi, quietly sips her tea and eats her sushi with a grace of a Don’s daughter. She’s forgotten that Nana loves her husband, one of those story book romances that have endured distance and time. This is what true love is like, a snap of loose powder in a tinderbox of emotional havoc. It stings and aches at her heart, and for once Bianchi understands that there are limits to how far she is allowed to go. She’s drunk on rice and dead fish by the time she finally leaves and can’t manage to stand upright long enough to make it in the door properly.
Nana is waiting for her, half asleep with her wine glass slipping slowly out of her loose grasp.
She’ll blame it on the alcohol in their veins, from the first bowed kiss given to the princess on her couch throne to the moment Bianchi started to feel like the prince on a white horse. Their limbs tangle in their Bacchus given madness, a frenzy of passion that starts with staggering climb and spirals down into a whirlpool of mistakes. Hands touch and push, skin steadily slicks with sweat and tongues tango triple steps in the quiet darkness. The phone rings a warning, destined to be ignored, and is lost in the push and pull of the world’s oldest dance.
“This is a mistake.”
Bianchi cries behind her goggles when her brother and his Boss return, claims she needs to bring snacks and hides in the kitchen until she can throw herself back into her old façade. Reborn knows and won’t say a word, tugs at his hat with child fingers and watches while the Poison Scorpion breaks like Venetian glass. They assume she missed her little brother so much she can’t hold it any longer, but the baby and the assassin know she cries for the look of pure unadulterated joy in Nana’s eyes.
She shatters into a thousand pieces and doesn’t know how to put herself together again, reflects the light from a far away sun and refracts from a million turning winds that form her own storm of passionate desire. Bianchi wants and doesn’t know how to get it back, bakes and gags on the fumes of her own poisonous emotions. She has no crab to blame when Nana gently slips into the kitchen.
“How quickly can you move out?”
She shot for the moon and crash landed in the ocean, drowns in her love and quietly wheels her bags back to the familiar sights of Italy.
Author: legare_virtuoso
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Lesbian glory. Affairs.
Pairing/Characters: Bianchi/Nana, Reborn
Summary: Sometimes you have to play with the moon to appreciate the stars.
Author Notes: … I… I don’t know what possessed me to write this. Today’s blame is toward a questionable source. (Serious, someone asked for this and neglected to tell me their LJ name. So, at least I finished it. At least… as much as I could manage without wanting to die in a corner.
It wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now, not then, not in a million years if a million stars had winked out into unending oblivion in one moment. But it had happened, and there wasn’t much they could do against it, buried their sorrow in shared misery and wondered how it had come this far. The effects of this one night will echo across time and memory, ferried along by a capricious desire in twin sonorous hearts. If she was anything like her brother then she’d be thumbing a flame to breathe in a well deserved dash of nicotine laced smoke, but she’s not and not even that fact will save her. She’s such a traitor, her and her childish sweet one-time lover, can’t even keep herself together when her real love has vanished away from the world. The very thought makes her chest ache and tears threaten to come, a sickness that not even her own Poison Cooking could cause.
But Nana had cried when her baby went away, sat in the kitchen with a single handkerchief and blotted the trail of salted despair from her eyes. There wasn’t much to be done for the poor mother save wait with her, hold her cheek to Bianchi’s own chest and murmur soothingly. Bianchi doesn’t know a sorrow like this because she has always known, and it is not in her nature to pity someone as wonderful as Sawada Nana. They’ve been together for what seems like forever, but Bianchi knows that love overcomes all boundaries that time forgot. But she has her pride and her sense, for the Poison Scorpion has learned not tolerate anything but the utmost honesty, and Bianchi is willing to admit she loves the Vongola Madonna with less chivalrous intentions than her peers would like.
So when a crying Nana can’t stop her own tears long enough for Bianchi to get a cup of premade tea in the older woman to calm her down, Bianchi takes action.
Nana doesn’t slap Bianchi, goes stiff and shivers at the gentle touch of lip to lip. For a breath Bianchi waits, fears the oncoming blow and the ruin of everything Vongola stands for. And after a breath Nana finally responds, tongue licking like a child with a spatula of sugar sweet frosting. Nana doesn’t need to lace her fingers in Bianchi’s hair, but later the girl will thank the Madonna for keeping her grounded, could probably do without leaning in to press Bianchi to the countertop proper. Bianchi gives up control with a whimper as the salt shaker digs into her lower spine.
“I’m sorry Bianchi…” And Nana is gently pushing her out the door, snags her keys and ever so firmly shuts the front door in Bianchi’s face.
Bianchi spends the day in Takesushi, quietly sips her tea and eats her sushi with a grace of a Don’s daughter. She’s forgotten that Nana loves her husband, one of those story book romances that have endured distance and time. This is what true love is like, a snap of loose powder in a tinderbox of emotional havoc. It stings and aches at her heart, and for once Bianchi understands that there are limits to how far she is allowed to go. She’s drunk on rice and dead fish by the time she finally leaves and can’t manage to stand upright long enough to make it in the door properly.
Nana is waiting for her, half asleep with her wine glass slipping slowly out of her loose grasp.
She’ll blame it on the alcohol in their veins, from the first bowed kiss given to the princess on her couch throne to the moment Bianchi started to feel like the prince on a white horse. Their limbs tangle in their Bacchus given madness, a frenzy of passion that starts with staggering climb and spirals down into a whirlpool of mistakes. Hands touch and push, skin steadily slicks with sweat and tongues tango triple steps in the quiet darkness. The phone rings a warning, destined to be ignored, and is lost in the push and pull of the world’s oldest dance.
“This is a mistake.”
Bianchi cries behind her goggles when her brother and his Boss return, claims she needs to bring snacks and hides in the kitchen until she can throw herself back into her old façade. Reborn knows and won’t say a word, tugs at his hat with child fingers and watches while the Poison Scorpion breaks like Venetian glass. They assume she missed her little brother so much she can’t hold it any longer, but the baby and the assassin know she cries for the look of pure unadulterated joy in Nana’s eyes.
She shatters into a thousand pieces and doesn’t know how to put herself together again, reflects the light from a far away sun and refracts from a million turning winds that form her own storm of passionate desire. Bianchi wants and doesn’t know how to get it back, bakes and gags on the fumes of her own poisonous emotions. She has no crab to blame when Nana gently slips into the kitchen.
“How quickly can you move out?”
She shot for the moon and crash landed in the ocean, drowns in her love and quietly wheels her bags back to the familiar sights of Italy.