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last_pleasureentry #04, fantasy in pink minor by Sei Shonagon
synopsis: Kaya has gender issues.
ratings/warnings: NC-17 / gender...issues
entered in: category 1 (open)
additional notes: Centered phrases are quotes from the English version of (the song) "Paradise Lost" included on the "Glitter" album.
concrit: 2.5
He slips his smooth body into darkness
(And buries his thoughts)
“It’s just that it doesn’t fit!” Kaya’s outflung hand knocks the rim of Hora’s shotglass but it doesn’t budge, the liquid merely slipping back down the sides as Hora holds the base firm. An inch between them and Kaya can’t wrench his eyes from that gap. He imagines the beat of his heart is roughened to a static tremble through the black lace of his bodice, and slumps forward, blurring into the beat of the night’s club.“It’s incongruous, looking in the mirror-”
“You have quite the vocabulary when drunk,” Hora might be smiling as he turns the glass under the unsteady lights, if only he looked up.
“-my clavicles make this dotted line where the wrong piece was glued on underneath, and it feels...” A dancer in white twirls beyond them, and Kaya watches for the instant her skirt stains amber through the glass. Her? “Feels like something’s missing when I t...” he trails off again - catches himself - as Hora downs the last of it and pulls out his wallet. “But I guess you don’t know what I mean.”
“It’s late,” Hora shrugs, stands. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
“Yeah.” Kaya licks his lips, swallows disappointment acrid as the heavy smoke, and follows.
(And is eroded by dark now)
A pounding hangover drives him to the kitchen on the heels of morning sunlight. Setting water to boil on the apartment’s single burner, he fumbles the curtains closed and leans back against his mini-fridge, eyes roving the floor for the cool darkness of its wood. Orderly, straight lines and not a single impression of a footprint; he only notices the clutter on his desk when the tea kettle whistles and he jumps.
A glass of water, bufferin, a spiral-bound notebook wide as the open palms bracing him against the top of the fridge, and a note unfolded on white paper.
Early meeting.
Drink, eat.
Space. Kaya pictures Hora tapping his fist against the table, the way he unconsciously tries to knock words out when they won’t come.
Everything is forgiven here.
He grabs at the water and drinks to keep from smiling, but his fingers itch above what he now sees is a sketchbook, and it takes no time to open.
The first page darkens in languid sweeps of charcoal up from the bottom of the full skirt. He touches its edge and can feel the tafetta that hangs in his closet, moves up the satin ink of the simple laced bodice and pauses where the dress rounds over a feminine chest. And above it... his own face, bare, as Hora’s only glimpsed over his shoulder in the bathroom mirror on mornings unembellished by light.
Breath catches in his throat, or maybe a wish, its wings of emotion folding sharp to prick his voice raw for the thousandth time. He turns the page.
A gasp flies out of his mouth. This sketch is in pencil, and here he imagines the pause on the note and closes his eyes.
His face, teeth worrying his bottom lip, head cocked gently. Strands of hair disarrayed over his shoulders, soft shadows in the hollow of his throat, the same beauty mark to the side of his nipple stretched in the swell of a modest breast, tinted rose with a drop of watercolor.
There’s not enough air in the room; the sketch falls on down the page in rounded hips and long limbs and a patch of darkness in the center that has his pulse so wild he puts a hand to his own chest and feels-
He doesn’t dare open his eyes. He knows he is trembling. He breathes deeply from his lungs and the flesh surges against the palm of his hand, round, skin suddenly unstrange under his fingers. More pressure, rolling up with the heel of his palm, and his knees buckle from the unexpectedness of the sensation. His other hand circles up from his side of its own volition, brushing fingertips just light enough to feel up, up, hesitating up and down his breastbone, then skimming nails over his nipple and his moan is as brief as the touch.
The floor under his knees has never felt quite like this before, the desk never quite so under his forearm as he curls forward against it. Everything is forgiven here and he shakes his head, turns his head further into the crook of his elbow and struggles for breath. Tentatively, he touches his thigh. Draws his hand back up and sighs.
Once more, with just the side of his hand, he angles slow down the groove of his hip, in, and her whole body jolts. Sounds tangle in her throat, ripped ragged by quick breaths; she spreads her knees wider, turns her hand and slides long fingers against herself. She’s wet, liquid hot around her fingers, and her hips jerk with every back and forth. That Hora drew, Hora’s hands traced her open on paper- it’s too much, too fast for it’s seizing up from her toes blinding hot and--
Minutes, she realizes, minutes must pass as she catches her breath, for the sun shifts warm across her back, slipping under the curtains. Finally, she raises her head. The page is washed out with too much light, throbbing distant behind her eyes. Her legs are limp and she has to lean heavily on the desk before she can move, while the sun falls off her shoulder and carves across the floor.
The bathroom mirror is narrow as ever, tacked to the inside of the door. Her face, bottom lip swollen, head cocked gently. Neck flushed, protruding collarbones overlooking a flat chest... He swallows, turns on the water, and reaches for his toothbrush.
And roses bloom on him
Who is tonight’s guest?
synopsis: Kaya has gender issues.
ratings/warnings: NC-17 / gender...issues
entered in: category 1 (open)
additional notes: Centered phrases are quotes from the English version of (the song) "Paradise Lost" included on the "Glitter" album.
concrit: 2.5
(And buries his thoughts)
“It’s just that it doesn’t fit!” Kaya’s outflung hand knocks the rim of Hora’s shotglass but it doesn’t budge, the liquid merely slipping back down the sides as Hora holds the base firm. An inch between them and Kaya can’t wrench his eyes from that gap. He imagines the beat of his heart is roughened to a static tremble through the black lace of his bodice, and slumps forward, blurring into the beat of the night’s club.“It’s incongruous, looking in the mirror-”
“You have quite the vocabulary when drunk,” Hora might be smiling as he turns the glass under the unsteady lights, if only he looked up.
“-my clavicles make this dotted line where the wrong piece was glued on underneath, and it feels...” A dancer in white twirls beyond them, and Kaya watches for the instant her skirt stains amber through the glass. Her? “Feels like something’s missing when I t...” he trails off again - catches himself - as Hora downs the last of it and pulls out his wallet. “But I guess you don’t know what I mean.”
“It’s late,” Hora shrugs, stands. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
“Yeah.” Kaya licks his lips, swallows disappointment acrid as the heavy smoke, and follows.
A pounding hangover drives him to the kitchen on the heels of morning sunlight. Setting water to boil on the apartment’s single burner, he fumbles the curtains closed and leans back against his mini-fridge, eyes roving the floor for the cool darkness of its wood. Orderly, straight lines and not a single impression of a footprint; he only notices the clutter on his desk when the tea kettle whistles and he jumps.
A glass of water, bufferin, a spiral-bound notebook wide as the open palms bracing him against the top of the fridge, and a note unfolded on white paper.
Drink, eat.
Space. Kaya pictures Hora tapping his fist against the table, the way he unconsciously tries to knock words out when they won’t come.
He grabs at the water and drinks to keep from smiling, but his fingers itch above what he now sees is a sketchbook, and it takes no time to open.
The first page darkens in languid sweeps of charcoal up from the bottom of the full skirt. He touches its edge and can feel the tafetta that hangs in his closet, moves up the satin ink of the simple laced bodice and pauses where the dress rounds over a feminine chest. And above it... his own face, bare, as Hora’s only glimpsed over his shoulder in the bathroom mirror on mornings unembellished by light.
Breath catches in his throat, or maybe a wish, its wings of emotion folding sharp to prick his voice raw for the thousandth time. He turns the page.
A gasp flies out of his mouth. This sketch is in pencil, and here he imagines the pause on the note and closes his eyes.
His face, teeth worrying his bottom lip, head cocked gently. Strands of hair disarrayed over his shoulders, soft shadows in the hollow of his throat, the same beauty mark to the side of his nipple stretched in the swell of a modest breast, tinted rose with a drop of watercolor.
There’s not enough air in the room; the sketch falls on down the page in rounded hips and long limbs and a patch of darkness in the center that has his pulse so wild he puts a hand to his own chest and feels-
He doesn’t dare open his eyes. He knows he is trembling. He breathes deeply from his lungs and the flesh surges against the palm of his hand, round, skin suddenly unstrange under his fingers. More pressure, rolling up with the heel of his palm, and his knees buckle from the unexpectedness of the sensation. His other hand circles up from his side of its own volition, brushing fingertips just light enough to feel up, up, hesitating up and down his breastbone, then skimming nails over his nipple and his moan is as brief as the touch.
The floor under his knees has never felt quite like this before, the desk never quite so under his forearm as he curls forward against it. Everything is forgiven here and he shakes his head, turns his head further into the crook of his elbow and struggles for breath. Tentatively, he touches his thigh. Draws his hand back up and sighs.
Once more, with just the side of his hand, he angles slow down the groove of his hip, in, and her whole body jolts. Sounds tangle in her throat, ripped ragged by quick breaths; she spreads her knees wider, turns her hand and slides long fingers against herself. She’s wet, liquid hot around her fingers, and her hips jerk with every back and forth. That Hora drew, Hora’s hands traced her open on paper- it’s too much, too fast for it’s seizing up from her toes blinding hot and--
Minutes, she realizes, minutes must pass as she catches her breath, for the sun shifts warm across her back, slipping under the curtains. Finally, she raises her head. The page is washed out with too much light, throbbing distant behind her eyes. Her legs are limp and she has to lean heavily on the desk before she can move, while the sun falls off her shoulder and carves across the floor.
The bathroom mirror is narrow as ever, tacked to the inside of the door. Her face, bottom lip swollen, head cocked gently. Neck flushed, protruding collarbones overlooking a flat chest... He swallows, turns on the water, and reaches for his toothbrush.
Who is tonight’s guest?
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Dartboard
Date: 2007-01-07 01:52 pm (UTC)Mechanics and style.
Dart 2 (Red) ~~ worth up to 35 points 32
Storytelling and effectiveness.
Dart 3 (Yellow) ~~ worth up to 30 points 25
Characterization, and dialogue if applicable.
Personal Board: +10
Others:
This is a fic I'd never thought I'd see entered. And it's also a theme that doesn't carry much weight in v-kei fic generally, as it's either dealt with in a sort of fetish-y manner, or a I-hate-dresses-I'm-a-MAN-DAMNIT- sort of way. But this is a different sort of approach.
I have no impression of what Kaya and Hora are like so I'll be hard-pressed to say whether they are IC or OOC, but I like the way the gender thing brought up, with how the dress fits. And how Kaya acknowledges to himself that Hora may not/ won't understand (only to be surprised later on). But the reader does come to get it, because right smack in the middle of something the pronouns switch very fluidly (if you'll pardon the godawful pun!) -- and there they are. The most intense moment in the fic is experienced while being female -- and that works well when the fic winds down and I do feel as Kaya does the shock of being back in a male body. The disorientation.
It's a very sensual fic (in more ways that one -- each description is as much a part of the sensory pleasure as is Kaya's masturbation. ) What is very pleasing as much as it is a surprise is when Kaya discovers the sketch. That Hora in some way understands and partakes of his reality, which is really satisfying.
And above it... his own face, bare, as Hora’s only glimpsed over his shoulder in the bathroom mirror on mornings unembellished by light.
Exactly that. Not only that it's the face not usually presented to the world, but also that this says many things about Hora, his being observant and his care ...
The interspersed quotes work well with the rest of the fic. It IS musical -- for that it is aptly titled. And also adorably titled? Like a sort of song for a ballet. Makes me think of little girls and sugar. But it's not a melancholy fic, so it's not an out-of-place title. The quotes are there in a sort of image-linking-to-image manner, which fits in well with this particular sort of writing that is so much about imagery, and the flow and taste of words. Fits in unobstrusively, but adds to it. What is nice is the snippet of lyrics that got worked into being the note. I feel like it helps because it's sort of like the knot that anchors the embroidery to the cloth, and makes them come together. If you pardon my terrible analogy. Otherwise they as might well be two parallel parts.
Re: Dartboard
Date: 2007-01-08 02:55 pm (UTC)Re: Dartboard
Date: 2007-01-17 09:41 am (UTC)"And above it" was one of the first parts that occurred to me. Glad it works! It`s also good to hear it ties up well. Thanks again!
no subject
Date: 2007-01-12 05:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-17 09:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-17 05:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-18 12:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-19 04:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-15 07:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-17 09:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-18 08:45 am (UTC)Love:
swallows disappointment acrid as the heavy smoke, and follows.
wide as the open palms bracing him against the top of the fridge, and a note unfolded on white paper.
Concrit? hahaha...as if I could. (Although I should disclaim this, because I don't know Kaya or Hora at all.)
The only thing I can think of is say, A gasp flies out of his mouth. Watch that gasp soar! ...>.>
no subject
Date: 2007-01-18 08:56 pm (UTC)I know you'd like a detailed comment on this. So. I'll... try. I can't promise anything, though. *loser*
He imagines the beat of his heart is roughened to a static tremble through the black lace of his bodice, and slumps forward, blurring into the beat of the night’s club.
That was the first sentence that really made me pause. I love the imagery and the... how do you say that? Association of ideas? The way he goes from rigid-frigid to slumping-drunk is wonderfully smooth.
A dancer in white twirls beyond them, and Kaya watches for the instant her skirt stains amber through the glass. Her?
Hmm. That gave me a curious feeling. I love how I can connect to Kaya right from the start, even though I don't have such issues myself.
“Yeah.” Kaya licks his lips, swallows disappointment acrid as the heavy smoke, and follows.
That's so right there again. I feel really really bad for poor thing, and have this urge to hit Hora, even though he's just... what, being a typical male?
he only notices the clutter on his desk when the tea kettle whistles and he jumps.
This, and that whole paragraph, is so... disturbed and fragile. *involuntarily shudder* I can almost taste his insecurity and confusion.
Breath catches in his throat, or maybe a wish, its wings of emotion folding sharp to prick his voice raw for the thousandth time.
Hurrrts.
More pressure, rolling up with the heel of his palm, and his knees buckle from the unexpectedness of the sensation.
Oh my... when did we get to the sexy business? It should have been abrupt, but it wasn't since we progressed from breathless panic to another kind of breathlessness.
Everything is forgiven here and he shakes his head, turns his head further into the crook of his elbow and struggles for breath.
This sentence made me want to scream YES IT IS. *bites down on lower lip desperately*
Once more, with just the side of his hand, he angles slow down the groove of his hip, in, and her whole body jolts.
That first her brought me such a huge sense of relief... *wide-eyed*
He swallows, turns on the water, and reaches for his toothbrush.
... I just want to curl up and cry. I think you would have given me gender issues if I didn't already have boobies. *clutches at the protectively*
Kaya is my new tragic hero. Heroine. Whatever. *confused* I can't even imagine how could I live with myself the way he/she does. It's incredibly cruel and I think you managed to get that across brilliantly.
Now I'm really curious about Hora and his real feelings about this.
Aaand... I know you wanted me to poke at something, but I seriously can't. (Let's say I'm easily pleased, if that helps. xD;)