Notes: Hello mina. This is my first fanfic to put up here, so please let
me know what you think. This story is my take on how Haruka and Michiru
met and fell in love and doesn't follow continuity. It takes place during
ep 198 (or so, whichever ep they're killed in). Rated PG-13 for some
Haruka/Michiru romance stuff (nothing explicit).
Disclaimer: Do I look like a rich Japanese woman? No; therefore, I am not Naoko Takeuchi and I don't own Haruka, Michiru, or anything else associated with BSSM.
I Just Want to Touch You
"I just want to touch you."
That's all I've ever wanted, really. It's all I want now, even as we both lay dying, our heart's blood spilling out on this hard cold floor. I see you lying there, struggling to breathe. I try to move my arm, to reach you, but I can't quite reach. We lock eyes. Painfully, you pull your arm away from your battered body and stretch out towards me, determined to fulfill my final desire. That burning passion in your soul kindles memories I have long cherished.
I remember when I first saw you. It was a Sunday, and I was walking home from a recital. I heard you first, your sweet melodic voice yelling words that were anything but. I and everyone else stared at you as you stalked around your recently scratched convertible. Then, I don't know why, but you looked up. You looked at me. And I knew. I knew what none of the others knew. I saw through the disguise you wore, saw beyond the pretenses, saw underneath your tailored pants and your name brand jacket. I wasn't fooled, not by the clothes, the hair, the car. I knew who you were in body, in heart, in soul.
I remember how your mask slipped briefly from your face at that moment. Your emotions stood out in start relief as your protective shell of coldness thawed. Anger was there, yes, but not at me. Never was your anger at me. Passion, of course. Your gaze always holds a fiery passion, although I was not yet the cause. Shock, at feeling our souls connect. Uncertainty, at what this meant. Fear too, fear that I would reveal what you tried to hide from the world. And last, a tiny, tiny spark of hope, hope that perhaps you could finally find a partner, an equal, a love.
I remember when you first came to see me. It was three days after our first fateful meeting. Minutes from the curtain rising, I saw you take a seat in the front row. I don't know how you found out my name or why you had decided to come listen to me play. I didn't care. You were there; your eyes were on me and me alone. From that point on, I've never played for anyone but you.
I remember when, finally, we first spoke. I was practicing a new piece at the amphitheater in the park. Once again fate had conspired to bring us together despite the odds. You appeared like a mirage out of the hot spring air, watching from the shadow of an old oak tree as I drew lonesome notes out of the catgut. Then you applauded.
I remember when I first saw you compete. You pretended it didn't matter, that you didn't care if I was there. You told me I'd be bored, that I, a cultured lady, would find no enjoyment in seeing the steel dancing of motor racing. I pretended to accept those reasons, knowing full well that you'd never admit the truth. You were afraid of me watching, afraid of losing, afraid of not being the quintessential man you pretended to be. You should have known by then that I loved you, that you could never be anything but amazing in my eyes. You were like Atlanta that day, leaving even the wind behind. Then you let me catch you.
I remember the first time we kissed. Alone in your garage, you sweaty and dirty from lying beneath the only thing that I sometimes imagine has a larger place in your heart than I do. I had brought you lunch, although you always say that I needn't go to the trouble, that I don't always have to play the caretaker. As you hastily wipe your grease-stained hands on a rag, I once again point out that you don't always have to play the strong one. Honestly, sometimes I think you've forgotten that you only wear the guise of a man. It was at that moment, as I pulled you up off the roll-around, that we both realized how much our lives were intertwined. As our lips met, we felt the bonds of our relationship cementing themselves into place, to be reaffirmed over and over again with each successive brush of our hands, our lips, our bodies.
I remember the first time we made love. You, so daring and bold in daylight, were suddenly so timid and shy. Your gentle caresses were full of hesitation, each touch a question. How odd it was that I, the gentle one, was the aggressor in the bedroom. But then, you've always hidden your vulnerability, always ran from anything that could pierce your tough façade and strike your heart. That night, for the first, but certainly not the last time, you let me touch you. It's all I've ever wanted.
I just want to touch you.
Disclaimer: Do I look like a rich Japanese woman? No; therefore, I am not Naoko Takeuchi and I don't own Haruka, Michiru, or anything else associated with BSSM.
I Just Want to Touch You
"I just want to touch you."
That's all I've ever wanted, really. It's all I want now, even as we both lay dying, our heart's blood spilling out on this hard cold floor. I see you lying there, struggling to breathe. I try to move my arm, to reach you, but I can't quite reach. We lock eyes. Painfully, you pull your arm away from your battered body and stretch out towards me, determined to fulfill my final desire. That burning passion in your soul kindles memories I have long cherished.
I remember when I first saw you. It was a Sunday, and I was walking home from a recital. I heard you first, your sweet melodic voice yelling words that were anything but. I and everyone else stared at you as you stalked around your recently scratched convertible. Then, I don't know why, but you looked up. You looked at me. And I knew. I knew what none of the others knew. I saw through the disguise you wore, saw beyond the pretenses, saw underneath your tailored pants and your name brand jacket. I wasn't fooled, not by the clothes, the hair, the car. I knew who you were in body, in heart, in soul.
I remember how your mask slipped briefly from your face at that moment. Your emotions stood out in start relief as your protective shell of coldness thawed. Anger was there, yes, but not at me. Never was your anger at me. Passion, of course. Your gaze always holds a fiery passion, although I was not yet the cause. Shock, at feeling our souls connect. Uncertainty, at what this meant. Fear too, fear that I would reveal what you tried to hide from the world. And last, a tiny, tiny spark of hope, hope that perhaps you could finally find a partner, an equal, a love.
I remember when you first came to see me. It was three days after our first fateful meeting. Minutes from the curtain rising, I saw you take a seat in the front row. I don't know how you found out my name or why you had decided to come listen to me play. I didn't care. You were there; your eyes were on me and me alone. From that point on, I've never played for anyone but you.
I remember when, finally, we first spoke. I was practicing a new piece at the amphitheater in the park. Once again fate had conspired to bring us together despite the odds. You appeared like a mirage out of the hot spring air, watching from the shadow of an old oak tree as I drew lonesome notes out of the catgut. Then you applauded.
I remember when I first saw you compete. You pretended it didn't matter, that you didn't care if I was there. You told me I'd be bored, that I, a cultured lady, would find no enjoyment in seeing the steel dancing of motor racing. I pretended to accept those reasons, knowing full well that you'd never admit the truth. You were afraid of me watching, afraid of losing, afraid of not being the quintessential man you pretended to be. You should have known by then that I loved you, that you could never be anything but amazing in my eyes. You were like Atlanta that day, leaving even the wind behind. Then you let me catch you.
I remember the first time we kissed. Alone in your garage, you sweaty and dirty from lying beneath the only thing that I sometimes imagine has a larger place in your heart than I do. I had brought you lunch, although you always say that I needn't go to the trouble, that I don't always have to play the caretaker. As you hastily wipe your grease-stained hands on a rag, I once again point out that you don't always have to play the strong one. Honestly, sometimes I think you've forgotten that you only wear the guise of a man. It was at that moment, as I pulled you up off the roll-around, that we both realized how much our lives were intertwined. As our lips met, we felt the bonds of our relationship cementing themselves into place, to be reaffirmed over and over again with each successive brush of our hands, our lips, our bodies.
I remember the first time we made love. You, so daring and bold in daylight, were suddenly so timid and shy. Your gentle caresses were full of hesitation, each touch a question. How odd it was that I, the gentle one, was the aggressor in the bedroom. But then, you've always hidden your vulnerability, always ran from anything that could pierce your tough façade and strike your heart. That night, for the first, but certainly not the last time, you let me touch you. It's all I've ever wanted.
I just want to touch you.