Sweat misting her skin under the spotlight, lithe curves demanding his touch. Palm rested on the bone of her hip. Energy simmered the air, tension pulled them together-- entwine these two bodies under the thrum of bass. Their one night as partners, a pair of dancers amidst motley strobes and a circle of blurred faces, floated in his mind as a cherished memory.
The colors swirled. The faces disappeared. He pictured her naked on her back, pressed against the cobalt tiles of the dance floor. Her flushed cheeks, her attempts to cover her embarrassment by complaining that it was cold-- he didn't mind. He sank to his knees, clothed her with his shadow and warmed her with his own bare skin. Her neck and collar carried the taste of salt from the passion of their dance. He marveled at the soft firmness of cupped breasts, the paradox of soothing arousal from her hands rubbing his back and chest, lower.
He mirrored her intentions, exploring the cleft between her legs. Such a foreign sensation, such a refreshing opposite to the cool, dry, unyielding surface of murderous darts. And she didn't care about those telling calluses and scars on his fingertips, as long as they kept their rhythm against her need. And he didn't care that the father she loved was the father he hated, as long as she opened her legs to him as readily as she opened her heart.
She did, of course. She'd do anything for him, and he loved her for it.
Her body welcomed entry, embracing him in forbidden heat. His hips mimicked an old cycle of withdrawing from her only to be pulled back in; he couldn't stay away from her. Buzzing, shivering, building need. He thrust his tongue in her mouth and listened to her moans hum against his kiss. Electric tingling lit his nerves to the unbearable precipice of euphoria. For one moment, he thought he would scream.
Then release. The pulse of relief rippled through his body, stole all his strength of will and muscle. He fell on her with no breath left for names; they weren't needed. Her heartbeat was strong against his ear as he rested his head between her breasts, and he could still remember: this was how it felt to have family that loved you.
Sweat misting his skin under the moonlight, lithe sleekness demanding his own touch. Palm rested on the bone of his hip. Energy fizzled from the air, reality pulled them apart-- untangle this lone body from the cotton sheets-- this pathetic proxy for her arms and legs. The room was silent and it didn't matter; Omi knew her soft giggle so well he could still hear it haunting the edges of his twisted mirage. Their one night as partners, a pair of dancers amidst toxic secrets and undercurrents of lust, festered in his mind as a tarnished memory. He turned and pulled his hand from his boxers.
Ouka.
Don't cry, he told himself, and there's no need to feel cold. In the bullet-proof safety of your fantasies, you can dance again and again.