kiss kiss bang bang
Smoochin' drabbles, yep.
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2014-02-05 10:26 am (UTC)
It's a strange thing to forget, but it's not until she's got a pile of exhausted, heartbroken cat leaning against her that Heather remembers she's actually
than Konoe. Maybe it's just because she's used to seeing him with Asato for context, taller and darker and more muscled, that she thinks of Konoe as small and pale and slight. It's probably at least partially the fact that she doesn't think of herself as small. It's still a surprise to her when she finally,
coaxes him into laying down and she can't do the thing.
It had been a good plan, she thought – not to make him forget about Asato's extended sleep, she's pretty sure nothing short of brain surgery would do the trick there, but to try to make him feel safe enough to close his damn eyes and grab maybe an hour. Hell, she'd settle for half. But when she tucks herself in behind him and curls her arms around him he's taller and broader than she is, and that's not how this is supposed to work, right?
She gives it her best goddamn shot anyway. Strokes her hand softly over his arm, quietly hums a tune her father sang to her when she was small, because she dimly remembers there's something about music, about singing. And it's – well, it's fucking weird. Konoe's too big for her to think of him as a child, and too much
Asato's goddamn boyfriend
for her not to feel just a little weird despite her pure intentions and the complete and utter lack of sexual
between them. It's
, but she sticks it out, stroking and humming, and then all at once the tension seems to go out of both of them and it's not weird at all.
His breathing changes, slower, heavier. She leans her head in close to press a sisterly kiss to his pale hair, and reminds herself to save the high-five for when he wakes up.
2014-02-05 10:28 (UTC)
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2014-02-07 03:17 am (UTC)
This is the tricky part.
Taking him apart almost comes naturally, once they feel out the boundaries and spaces, the places where what he wants lines up with what she's willing to do. She's still trying to coax him into telling her what he needs instead of just shortening the list of what he won't accept, but figuring it out (she's never slapped anyone in her life, if she's mad enough to hit she does it with a closed fist but
this is different
and she's shocked by the sharp ringing of her open palm on his flesh, shocked by the sound he makes, shocked by the way she looks at the reddening print of her hand on his skin and likes it and
wants to do it again
) is part of the fun. She turns it around, forbids him to make a sound and talks low and fast and harsh to him before she presses teeth into his skin, makes him stand and works fingers into him slower and gentler than he wants and tells him the moment he moves is the moment she stops. Prods and pulls and twists and coaxes and strips things away piece by piece until he's all that's left, and she thought she was doing it
but god, he's beautiful like that.
No, taking him apart is easy. He practically does it himself. It's the putting back together that worries her. Hard to find the balance between not enough and too much, hard to remind herself when he tucks in close and needy that this part, at least, needs to be all for him. Not that she doesn't love it – every little touch, every quiet little sound he makes. She'd take it further if she thought she could, bathe the sweat from his skin if it didn't mean the risk of other people seeing and she has the decency to be ashamed that it's possesiveness rather than protectiveness that makes her hate the idea.
She holds her tongue. Doesn't say the things she wants to say (
I love you, love you, love you
) that make him blush and drop his eyes at the best of times because she's supposed to be making him steady, not putting him off balance. But they build up, while she strokes his hair and rubs the ache from muscles pulled from tying, words filling up her mouth like a gulp of red wine that'll pour out and stain everything if she opens it. She doesn't want to say what he won't be comfortable hearing, but she can't swallow it down.
Compromise, then. She can hold him. Pull him in when he comes close, touch her mouth to his. She doesn't close her eyes. Watches the blur of his face too close to focus on, rubs a thumb over the damp of his cheek. Feels the warmth of his breath mingling with hers, breathes him in, air from his lungs and the thick, familiar scent of him, parts her lips against the bite-swollen softness of his and spills it into him instead, lets the kiss do the telling.
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for... Alyssa I should have thought of a better labeling system
2014-02-08 03:20 am (UTC)
The first time she sees him, she can't look away. The sight of him sets some deep-buried instinct jangling, and she tells herself it's normal. He's a smuggler, certainly dangerous, probably big enough to pick her up and pitch her out the airlock one-handed if she gets on his bad side. Besides which, the voice of reason tells her, it's rude to stare.
She laughs aloud at that thought. The career-dropping, family-abandoning, fiance-ditching runaway telling herself to mind her manners with the professional criminal. The noise slips out before she can catch it and he looks at her sharply, one hand full of unmarked credit chits and his remarkable eyes full of a question, and she thinks for a moment she sees recognition in his face.
It's stupid. Of course she hasn't seen him before. A man that tall, she'd remember.
The nagging feeling doesn't leave. Everything is strange and new and terrifying and
but he feels familiar despite his every effort to discourage familiarity. He shushes her when she tries to tell him anything – her
, for God's sake – and tells her nothing of himself. He tolerates her presence, though, even smiling when she announces that since he won't tell her where he's from she's going to make it up. Out of work actor too clumsy to wait tables, heir to a dynasty determined to upset his parents. One day she tells him: country boy with a taste for adventure, left his big family with a promise to make them a fortune, headed to space and discovered he had no marketable skills except being big and looking kind of scary. He doesn't smile at that one. She drops it.
She thinks she loves him, maybe. That's idiotic. But in the moments when she's not watching him she feels
, eyes trailing her when she slips from room to room largely ignored by the rest of the crew, following the movement of her hands when she twists her hair up behind her head to keep it out of her face. Curiosity, probably. They know she's got some kind of money, must have to be able to pay her way. Expensive DNA locked cases, too, and when it's anybody but him watching her she can't help wondering why it didn't occur to her before she ran away that she's got the same DNA dead as alive, but something tells her
he won't let them hurt you
, and she believes it.
There's a fight. His nose is broken. She tells him to expect two black eyes and to call her immediately if he feels numbness, tingling, if his vision is affected. Then she lifts her hands to straighten it and like that – facing him, hands on his face – she has the urge to lean her forehead against his and tell him she understands now. She doesn't know what she's supposed to understand, but it takes her a moment to pull her hands back anyway.
Enough is enough, she thinks. She sneaks out of her room one night and over to his, lets herself in when he calls in answer to her knock. Crosses to where he sits and plants her feet either side of his, puts her hands back on his face and kisses him. Waits for it to snap into place -
yes, this is what was missing
- as her tongue bridges the border between his lips and hers and her hand slips back into his hair. His hands settle on her waist and it's gentle, almost delicate, like they're there to keep her from overbalancing rather than any reflection of desire. She makes a quiet sound of vexation, kisses harder, bites his lip, almost pulls his hair, and -
no. She drops her hands, pulls back, distressed and angry at still not having the answer and moreso and the look of surprised amusement on his face.
“This isn't it, is it,” she says, defeated, and he shakes his head. She's so frustrated she could cry, and then he says
“I don't know
Much, much later, when they're planetside and lying belly to belly in a strange bed, tangled-limbed and skirting the edges of sleep, she'll look at his face and remember that moment and laugh, and when she thinks she sees recognition in his face
it'll be real.
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2014-02-09 07:24 pm (UTC)
There are a few things she expects when she turns up for this job. A gentle reminder of dos and don'ts from his mother, who doesn't exactly treat her like she's dumb enough to forget but is very, very careful about her strange little son. Where she'll be, what time she'll be back, how to reach her if it's required. A sweet, quiet little hello, because no matter how many times they see each other it always takes the kid a while to warm up to her, like he's afraid
is going to be the time she decides he's a freak after all.
expect - wouldn't even if she remembered the date - is for that hello to include a heart-shaped piece of card pressed shyly but determinedly into her hand before the little guy darts back behind the shelter of his mother's legs. And it's -
oh. Well. It's slimy, for one thing, enough that the edges look like they're about to start peeling back. There's an absolute
of color, blobby flowers with sunshine yellow faces and petals in every hue in the box, by the looks of it. There are butterflies in shades that would make a lepidopterist weep. There's
. Restraint has clearly not been a factor here. It's big and bright and it just about screams in a holiday where she's pretty sure whispered sweet nothings are the norm.
It's the best goddamn thing she's ever seen.
"C'mere, Asato," she says, dropping to one knee and stretching out her arms. When he comes close - still cautious - she catches him up with a laugh, slime be damned, and kisses him firmly right between the eyes.
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