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31_days2006-05-22 11:26 pm
yesthatnagia.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-05-22 11:26 pm
[May 22: in the gate of broken seals] [FFX] First Flowers (R)
[t]itle: First Flowers
[r]ating: R
[w]ordcount: 804
[d]ay: may 22: in the gate of broken seals (G. K. Chesterton)
[f]andom: FFX
[p]airing: Auron/Rikku.
[s]ummary: A legendary guardian. A fifteen year old girl. An unsually candid conversation, and a solution to a very long-running problem.
[n]otes: From a challenge I made with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cupcakemonster. Also, I'm going to hell, for turning a quote from a Catholic author into a fic about sex.
His left hand slides into her shorts. Her breasts are pressed up against him, and he is fingering one with his right hand. It is warm and heavy and soft and he rather likes it. Sex had almost completely consumed the society of Zanarkand-- a fascination with breasts, he remembers, was highly prevalent in the Zanarkand in which he spent ten yers. He understands why, now.
Rikku's mouth sucks eagerly at his neck.
He groans. He never imagined that her kisses would feel quite the way they do. He groans again, louder, when her teeth nip against his shoulder.
"Y-Yevon," he mumbles, momentarily forgetting how much he hates Yevon.
Inside her shorts, she is warm and wet and--
She wriggles in his lap.
Groaning, he begins to undo the pants that have not felt quite this tight in some time.
She withdraws her hands from him. Those tiny shorts that have teased him for days begin to slide off.
And here is where he must admit that he has no idea what he is doing. Determined to make her his, he falters. He swallows. She is bare to him and it is a delicious sight, but--
"Something wrong?" She asks.
He looks away. Being unsure how to proceed is one (intolerable) thing. Admitting his uncertainty is an entirely different (worse) thing.
She wriggles an eyebrow. "Auron?"
He looks at her.
"Don't you want--?"
"Yes," he says. He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably.
"Then...?" She is puzzled and confused and it would be cute in her dizzy sugary way, if one of her hands wasn't digging in his pockets.
He would glare harder, but her fingers are rubbing up against his hipbones and he isn't thinking anymore.
"So aren't you going to--?"
He looks away.
"W-wait!" She stutters, realization coming to her for the first time. "You were a monk."
He doesn't look back at her.
Her eyes widen. "Does that mean--"
"Never," he tells her, simply. His story does not consist of him lying to himself.
She flushes. "So I'd be your--?"
"My first. Yes." Admitting this feels like he has poured the precious contents of his jug out onto the ground.
He is the older one, the more experienced one, the willful one. He is the one who holds the shambling, coming-apart body together through sheer force of will. He is the one who walks a taut line between a purposeful existence-- the only existence he can have-- and fiend-dom.
More experienced in everything but this, it seems. And funny, isn't it, how here, right now, the one thing he has spent so long caring so little about-- and once mocked-- is the one thing that matters. He doesn't care that he is a Legendary Guardian. That he slays fiends with a single slice. That he has a purpose.
What he cares about is the fact that he has a teenaged girl on his lap and very little idea, in immediate terms, of how to get where he wants to be.
So she smiles, and the black pants are gone. Her lips press against his. Hard. He groans at the way she fits against him. Groans as the overcoat and the sleeveless black shirt are removed. The boots have been gone for hours.
Funny, how it isn't until she nips off the sunglasses (with her teeth, he marvels inwardly, wondering what other fine uses she could put that mouth to and then berating himself out of habit) that he feels undressed.
And then she is scrambling on top of him, and their hips are shifting. Grinding. Pelvises striking each other and everything is amazingly perfect. Her body is warm and soft and a perfect fit. Should he be as pleased with that as he is? He doesn't know.
He doesn't know much of anything right now. His hands pull her closer to him, both arms wrapping around her as his hips thrust in a gesture he isn't sure he is making. She makes soft noises against him.
When it is over, when she is liquid-- but still soft, so soft, perfectly soft-- atop him, he finds one hand lifting itself to stroke her hair.
She mumbles something he does not understand.
For a woman, virginity is a physical thing. This, he understands. The hymen. A sort of seal. Piercing the hymen, from what he was told in various explanations of The Monk's Gravest Sin, results in bleeding.
Oddly enough, Rikku is not bleeding. In fact, she did not appear to experience any sort of discomfort at all. He stews on this.
Out-grown by a fifteen year old. It is enough to make him want to grit his teeth. His teeth won't grit, though, because his body is more relaxed than Lulu's noodles.
He isn't sure he minds.
[r]ating: R
[w]ordcount: 804
[d]ay: may 22: in the gate of broken seals (G. K. Chesterton)
[f]andom: FFX
[p]airing: Auron/Rikku.
[s]ummary: A legendary guardian. A fifteen year old girl. An unsually candid conversation, and a solution to a very long-running problem.
[n]otes: From a challenge I made with
cupcakemonster. Also, I'm going to hell, for turning a quote from a Catholic author into a fic about sex.His left hand slides into her shorts. Her breasts are pressed up against him, and he is fingering one with his right hand. It is warm and heavy and soft and he rather likes it. Sex had almost completely consumed the society of Zanarkand-- a fascination with breasts, he remembers, was highly prevalent in the Zanarkand in which he spent ten yers. He understands why, now.
Rikku's mouth sucks eagerly at his neck.
He groans. He never imagined that her kisses would feel quite the way they do. He groans again, louder, when her teeth nip against his shoulder.
"Y-Yevon," he mumbles, momentarily forgetting how much he hates Yevon.
Inside her shorts, she is warm and wet and--
She wriggles in his lap.
Groaning, he begins to undo the pants that have not felt quite this tight in some time.
She withdraws her hands from him. Those tiny shorts that have teased him for days begin to slide off.
And here is where he must admit that he has no idea what he is doing. Determined to make her his, he falters. He swallows. She is bare to him and it is a delicious sight, but--
"Something wrong?" She asks.
He looks away. Being unsure how to proceed is one (intolerable) thing. Admitting his uncertainty is an entirely different (worse) thing.
She wriggles an eyebrow. "Auron?"
He looks at her.
"Don't you want--?"
"Yes," he says. He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably.
"Then...?" She is puzzled and confused and it would be cute in her dizzy sugary way, if one of her hands wasn't digging in his pockets.
He would glare harder, but her fingers are rubbing up against his hipbones and he isn't thinking anymore.
"So aren't you going to--?"
He looks away.
"W-wait!" She stutters, realization coming to her for the first time. "You were a monk."
He doesn't look back at her.
Her eyes widen. "Does that mean--"
"Never," he tells her, simply. His story does not consist of him lying to himself.
She flushes. "So I'd be your--?"
"My first. Yes." Admitting this feels like he has poured the precious contents of his jug out onto the ground.
He is the older one, the more experienced one, the willful one. He is the one who holds the shambling, coming-apart body together through sheer force of will. He is the one who walks a taut line between a purposeful existence-- the only existence he can have-- and fiend-dom.
More experienced in everything but this, it seems. And funny, isn't it, how here, right now, the one thing he has spent so long caring so little about-- and once mocked-- is the one thing that matters. He doesn't care that he is a Legendary Guardian. That he slays fiends with a single slice. That he has a purpose.
What he cares about is the fact that he has a teenaged girl on his lap and very little idea, in immediate terms, of how to get where he wants to be.
So she smiles, and the black pants are gone. Her lips press against his. Hard. He groans at the way she fits against him. Groans as the overcoat and the sleeveless black shirt are removed. The boots have been gone for hours.
Funny, how it isn't until she nips off the sunglasses (with her teeth, he marvels inwardly, wondering what other fine uses she could put that mouth to and then berating himself out of habit) that he feels undressed.
And then she is scrambling on top of him, and their hips are shifting. Grinding. Pelvises striking each other and everything is amazingly perfect. Her body is warm and soft and a perfect fit. Should he be as pleased with that as he is? He doesn't know.
He doesn't know much of anything right now. His hands pull her closer to him, both arms wrapping around her as his hips thrust in a gesture he isn't sure he is making. She makes soft noises against him.
When it is over, when she is liquid-- but still soft, so soft, perfectly soft-- atop him, he finds one hand lifting itself to stroke her hair.
She mumbles something he does not understand.
For a woman, virginity is a physical thing. This, he understands. The hymen. A sort of seal. Piercing the hymen, from what he was told in various explanations of The Monk's Gravest Sin, results in bleeding.
Oddly enough, Rikku is not bleeding. In fact, she did not appear to experience any sort of discomfort at all. He stews on this.
Out-grown by a fifteen year old. It is enough to make him want to grit his teeth. His teeth won't grit, though, because his body is more relaxed than Lulu's noodles.
He isn't sure he minds.