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31_days2005-10-24 04:10 pm
yesthatnagia.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-10-24 04:10 pm
[Oct 24] [FFVII] The Rose and the Dandelion
[t]itle: The Rose and the dandelion.
[r]ating: G, because it's so. Freaking. Vague.
[w]ordcount: 665
[d]ay: Oct 24/The pavilions of love and the tents of war
[f]andom: FFVII (even though it doesn't look like it's any fandom, it's FFVII, I PROMISE)
[p]airing: Vincent/Yuffie (...you should expect this, coming from me)
[s]ummary: A red and yellow tree grows in the gazebo. It is made of people.
[n]otes: In a gazebo in a hotel in south Florida (I've actually been to this hotel, too). With random bits of fantasy/sci-fi thrown in, because I can.
A flower, crisp and red and fragrant, blooms above him. The last one on the vine.
He stares at it, ignores the sea beyond him, ignores the crash and roar, the ruthless, unending call. Much as he would like to take her to walk by the sea, the beach is not a good one. He nearly lost his ankles to some sort of rock thing under the water. Maybe next time, they'll go to Hawaii for their 'fun'.
His left hand--- slightly paler than his right, this is the only clue, because it feels like flesh and is warm like flesh--- reaches out, grasping a tendril of that short short hair. He runs the fine black strands through his fingers, pretends he can feel its softness.
Dark gray eyes, almond shaped, peer up at him. In her right hand, a folded paper flower wilts in the heat.
They ignore the warmth of the air, the moist feeling it brings to their skin. They ignore the way people peer at them.
A man in his twenties and a young girl. A giant, a hero, swathed in red and black. A maiden, a child, floating in clouds of yellow and green. A rose and a dandelion.
They make such a pretty picture. Red and yellow, black and green, a mixture of brightness and darkness. Visually, they suit each other.
The lady and her knight. The damsel and the dragon. The rescued is the respected; the rescuer is the malevolent one.
Her hand twines with his. Their fingers, swathed in gloves, are grapes on a vine.
He drops her hair, bends a little. His lips capture hers, twine with hers.
His hands capture her wrists. He holds those slender wrists high in the air.
A red and yellow tree grows in the gazebo.
Beneath his hands, a flower blooms, luscious and pink-lipped. She tastes not of honey, but of honeysuckle.
He, she says, tastes of something altogether else. Something rich and red and salty and metallic. Something that is thick and traps itself in her mouth.
He would reach out and pluck the flower for her, but his hands are restrained in restraining her hands. He is bound by her even as he binds her, and he loves every moment of it.
But even dandelions have to breathe.
They both of them look fragile, but she is hardier than the dandelion, and he more dangerous than the thorns of all the roses in the world.
The teeth of the dandelion show themself in a wheel, bright silver and red and yellow, flashing like a child's painted windwheel in the sun. The wheel flies out and returns, loyal and proud as any lioness.
And the rose and the dandelion continue on, wending their way through a city that until now was beautiful. Too beautiful. A city that was stained glass, beautiful and colourful and too bright to touch.
They have touched it, now. It is stained, now.
The rose and the dandelion flee the city. This is not their first. This will not be their last.
She fully intends to keep on running until she has to stop, until the dandelion in her finally wants to sprout leaves and sink its roots into rich, fertile soil.
The dandelion loves it when they camp in the mud. She digs her hand, her tiny, childlike hands, in the wet dirt. She spreads it up her arms. Rubs it between her fingers. She splays her toes in the mud and listens to the squelching sound.
He hates it when she's muddy.
In reality, though, he loves it when she's muddy, because then she has to get clean. And there is this spot on her back that she can never reach with her green toothy limbs.
But he likes it better when her hands are covered in blood. He licks her clean, then. She squirms and laughs and squeals, very much a dandelion. She laughs at him when he licks the teeth on her hands, blushes when he sucks them.
And sometimes they take their sleeping packs and roll them out by a riverbed, underneath the stars. They lull the river to sleep with their noises, and the river lulls them to sleep with its laughter.
EL FIN
[r]ating: G, because it's so. Freaking. Vague.
[w]ordcount: 665
[d]ay: Oct 24/The pavilions of love and the tents of war
[f]andom: FFVII (even though it doesn't look like it's any fandom, it's FFVII, I PROMISE)
[p]airing: Vincent/Yuffie (...you should expect this, coming from me)
[s]ummary: A red and yellow tree grows in the gazebo. It is made of people.
[n]otes: In a gazebo in a hotel in south Florida (I've actually been to this hotel, too). With random bits of fantasy/sci-fi thrown in, because I can.
A flower, crisp and red and fragrant, blooms above him. The last one on the vine.
He stares at it, ignores the sea beyond him, ignores the crash and roar, the ruthless, unending call. Much as he would like to take her to walk by the sea, the beach is not a good one. He nearly lost his ankles to some sort of rock thing under the water. Maybe next time, they'll go to Hawaii for their 'fun'.
His left hand--- slightly paler than his right, this is the only clue, because it feels like flesh and is warm like flesh--- reaches out, grasping a tendril of that short short hair. He runs the fine black strands through his fingers, pretends he can feel its softness.
Dark gray eyes, almond shaped, peer up at him. In her right hand, a folded paper flower wilts in the heat.
They ignore the warmth of the air, the moist feeling it brings to their skin. They ignore the way people peer at them.
A man in his twenties and a young girl. A giant, a hero, swathed in red and black. A maiden, a child, floating in clouds of yellow and green. A rose and a dandelion.
They make such a pretty picture. Red and yellow, black and green, a mixture of brightness and darkness. Visually, they suit each other.
The lady and her knight. The damsel and the dragon. The rescued is the respected; the rescuer is the malevolent one.
Her hand twines with his. Their fingers, swathed in gloves, are grapes on a vine.
He drops her hair, bends a little. His lips capture hers, twine with hers.
His hands capture her wrists. He holds those slender wrists high in the air.
A red and yellow tree grows in the gazebo.
Beneath his hands, a flower blooms, luscious and pink-lipped. She tastes not of honey, but of honeysuckle.
He, she says, tastes of something altogether else. Something rich and red and salty and metallic. Something that is thick and traps itself in her mouth.
He would reach out and pluck the flower for her, but his hands are restrained in restraining her hands. He is bound by her even as he binds her, and he loves every moment of it.
But even dandelions have to breathe.
They both of them look fragile, but she is hardier than the dandelion, and he more dangerous than the thorns of all the roses in the world.
The teeth of the dandelion show themself in a wheel, bright silver and red and yellow, flashing like a child's painted windwheel in the sun. The wheel flies out and returns, loyal and proud as any lioness.
And the rose and the dandelion continue on, wending their way through a city that until now was beautiful. Too beautiful. A city that was stained glass, beautiful and colourful and too bright to touch.
They have touched it, now. It is stained, now.
The rose and the dandelion flee the city. This is not their first. This will not be their last.
She fully intends to keep on running until she has to stop, until the dandelion in her finally wants to sprout leaves and sink its roots into rich, fertile soil.
The dandelion loves it when they camp in the mud. She digs her hand, her tiny, childlike hands, in the wet dirt. She spreads it up her arms. Rubs it between her fingers. She splays her toes in the mud and listens to the squelching sound.
He hates it when she's muddy.
In reality, though, he loves it when she's muddy, because then she has to get clean. And there is this spot on her back that she can never reach with her green toothy limbs.
But he likes it better when her hands are covered in blood. He licks her clean, then. She squirms and laughs and squeals, very much a dandelion. She laughs at him when he licks the teeth on her hands, blushes when he sucks them.
And sometimes they take their sleeping packs and roll them out by a riverbed, underneath the stars. They lull the river to sleep with their noises, and the river lulls them to sleep with its laughter.
EL FIN