Warning: These stories involve two women together. Don't like? Don't read.
Commentary: I wrote these because I had a sudden mental cramp over writing, and I hoped some exercises would help. I asked a friend to provide me a few random words. These small stories, each written in no more than thirty minutes, are the resulting flickers—short snapshots from the lives of Haruka and Michiru as inspired by the gifted words.
I will put up more of these in the future because I feel like they do help me get better at writing. If you would like to help me too, please review—or email/PM/IM me your own words. If they flicker, I'll write them—and I'll say thank you, thank you, thank you. Heck, I'll say that anyway and always. Right now, to the giver of these first words, and to those who encouraged me as I struggled through these: thank you, thank you, thank you.
These flickers are in chronological order.
To all of you who read, review, message, question, critique, and encourage me: thank you so much. Please continue to do so.
As always, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Disclaimer: I do not own the BSSM franchise. It belongs to the goddess Takeuchi Naoko.
Word One: CONCRETE
The monster hooks its claws in the blasted bow over her buttocks and hauls her backward. She yelps, surprised and scared and caught off guard—she spins in an effort to free herself. She is too late. Snarl-spitting its name over and over again in the mindless revelry of brainwashed battle, the monster buries the talons of its other hand in her hair, jerks her into its embrace, huffs its hot, fetid breath down the nape of her neck. Its mammoth breasts squish into her shoulders and it giggles, "Gonna break you, pretty baby!"
It used to be a karaoke machine. It twitters a few twisted bars of Elvis Presley's Love Me Tender. It hitches her over its head, twirls her like a baton. Her scalp sears and her spine crackles dangerously and when it, loon-leering like a banshee, finally lets her go, she Frisbees out into open air. Her world is a sudden slurry of sky-trees-ground and then her hip hits the blacktop of the basketball court with a tearing shuck. Her elbow folds under her, makes a popping sound not unlike that of a cork leaving a wine bottle. Momentum snaps her head down. Her cheek scrapes over the concrete. The flesh there peels away and the monster laughs, laughs, laughs and Neptune chokes and opens her mouth, her poor mouth full of blood, and screams.
Another sound joins it, primal and keening and furious. Neptune's partner has arrived. Neptune's partner is pissed. She thrusts a hand skyward and creates her own personal sun in the studious spire of her fingers, and when she sends that new solar orb blazing toward the monster, she ensures that the stupid creature seizes and shakes and shudders until it is nothing but a ruin of shivery odd-colored guts. They explode out like streamers, those guts, before they ripple back into some semblance of the machine they were once, a scattered spread of cracked knobs, brightly bent plastic, dented microphones.
Uranus slips to Neptune's side, helps her stagger upright. Neptune has already made an ichorous ochre puddle on the blacktop.
"Your arm," Uranus hisses. And then, horrified, "The elbow's dislocated. God, it looks like a tennis ba—"
Neptune interrupts the other woman by stomping on a disc from the karaoke machine that miraculously managed to survive her partner's attack. It splinters into harassed silver shards. "Break that, pretty baby," she mutters.
She turns her head—her neck throbs with the motion—to cough out gore and grit and what she hopes is a rock rather than a tooth. She looks down at her awkward arm. Uranus is right. The elbow, a full moon folly rising beneath strained, bubble-bruised flesh, does look like a tennis ball.
"Well," she observes, "that's lovely." She reaches out, curls her gloved fingers about the protrusion, pushes. The joint grinds back into place and she smiles, looks up at Uranus, assures her, "But no har—"
The reality of what she has just done and the tremendous agony of it too slam together into Neptune's consciousness. She gags: her eyes roll up and catch her partner's. She falls into the gray foam of senselessness and the taller soldier's arms.
Later, she wakes in Uranu—no, Haruka's bed with a patch on her cheek, a cold compress resting in the crook of an elbow now mostly numb. The woman who saved her is dozing nearby, her temple propped on the nightstand, her mouth yawning open in the brief beginnings of a drooly snore. She has waiting for Michiru already a glass of water, a pair of bottle-blue aspirin, a toothbrush. The bristles of the last bear an expectant swoop of toothpaste.
Partaking of that offering first, Michiru swabs her mouth free of the day's duty. Her other hand snakes out to lace through Haruka's hair, and she wonders—not without awe—how she ever did this by herself.
Word Two: DOORKNOB
One hotel room. One bed. Two women. Two hearts anxiously aflutter, because there were supposed to be two beds.
"Too tired to care," Michiru groaned. She dropped her small suitcase at the edge of the closet, folded her knees, and fell facefirst onto the mattress. She groped for a pillow, found one, and drew it near to hug it, growling in satisfaction. "Plush," she told Haruka. And then, muffled, "I get the side nearest the aircon."
"Fine, fine," Haruka acquiesced. She swung her duffel up onto the unoccupied pillow, tweaked Michiru's vulnerable toes. Her fellow soldier giggled protest and jerked her foot away. They studied each other as Haruka sorted her socks from the duffel, Michiru above the fringe of the pillow and across the small swell of her bicep, Haruka down the bridge of her strong nose. They flushed as one, flicked their eyes to foreign corners of the room. Haruka cleared her throat, smirk tugging the corner of her mouth aright. Michiru bit her lip to hide a sheepish half-grin.
"Do you want the shower first?" Michiru asked. "Since I took the aircon, I mean. I suppose I owe you that much."
"Yeah," Haruka said gratefully. "Even exchange and all—"
"Are those socks pink?" Michiru queried. She gave her elbow a sharp thrust and sat up again, pillow still clutched in arms, eyes affixed on the small bundle in Haruka's fingers.
The tall woman turned her gaze down. Sure enough, the socks she had absently rifled from her duffel were the bright parti-pastel pallor of a three-year-old girl's princess costume. Humiliation wove red banners across her cheeks. "They're athletic socks," she attempted. "They were in the bargain bin. They came in a pack of six…"
Michiru leaned in closer. Her arm snapped out, viper-like—she seized the socks. She turned them over in her hands, her expression something close to awe, her brightwater eyes dancing. "Haruka," she started. She giggled. She held up the socks much as she might have brandished a mirror. "They," she informed the other soldier, "have little white hearts all over them."
"They're comfortable!" Haruka defended.
"They're girly!" Michiru rejoined.
Well, no denying that. Snatching the socks back, Haruka stuffed them into the deepest recesses of her duffel and muttered, "I can't have girly things?"
"It shatters your whole image, I'm afraid. I thought the girliest thing you owned was a bra," Michiru offered. She chewed her lip and admitted, "And tampons, of course. And that little Sanrio keychain you keep trying to hide."
Horrified, the blonde choked out, "…a gift!"
"That you kept." Michiru was enjoying this, clearly. She folded her legs and flipped a gleeful, meditative glance to Haruka's duffel, kneading her fingers over the pillow in her possession. "What other such treasures are in there, I wonder? What other windows to your feminine side?"
"None of your business." Haruka picked up the bag, opened the nearby dwarf-sized closet, and tossed it haphazardly inside. Not that a door could keep Michiru from snooping if she really wanted to—not that Haruka would have taken many more measures to stop her either—but preliminary precautions never hurt anything, did they? Haruka intended to take a few more the minute Michiru wasn't looking, starting with a pink-socked purge of her entire wardrobe.
"Aw," pouted the smaller woman. "Does the great Tenoh Haruka have a skirt sequestered amidst her socks, maybe?"
"Not even."
"A frilly nightgown, then."
"Nice try, but no dice."
"Pink," Michiru put in, "panties. Red hearts this time. To match the socks. I can sense it. I have a way with these things, you know."
"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response, Underwear Extraordinaire." Haruka opened the closet again. A quick rifle through the duffel provided her the night's necessities. Turning, she displayed her findings to Michiru: an old t-shirt, a sports bra, a pair of plain cotton undergarments. White socks too—a safe bet, she thought smugly. "See?" she pressed.
Michiru twirled a woop-woop finger. "All right, all right. Your feminine side is suitably hidden. I give, I give." She sighed, smiled, and nudged her friend, "Go shower. I'll look downstairs to see if I can find a local newspaper in the meantime."
"Mm?"
"Yes." The faint laughlines around Michiru's mouth hardened, abrupt dark-dredge dents. "To look for reports of strange things here. To check for any traces of the enemy."
"I didn't feel anything driving up," Haruka murmured. She closed her eyes partway, stretched out the extra wind-wielder's perception a soldier's birthright had afforded her. Her breezes brought her nothing but night movements and nettle-near numbness. Caught in fall's fading clasp, they were cold. "I still don't," she told Michiru.
"Me either," agreed her partner. "Still, I don't mind having a look." She bit her lip. The shadows ran away from her face. She hedged, "Besides, there's—uhm. I saw a theater on the way in, and I thought if I found film times, maybe we…" She trailed off, looked hopefully at Haruka. "We could, you know…"
Haruka smiled. Her heart gave a lurching leap in her chest. She didn't mind. "Yeah," she consented. "Yeah, that would be good." And then, reflective, "I saw a café near there too, I think. What about dinner and a movie?"
Michiru pressed her hands together and tucked her eager smile into the hook between her forefingers. "Please," she requested.
"It's a date," Haruka said. She froze, lungs icelocked, pulse a rachet-run ram in her ears. "I—I mean—only if, uh, I mean it doesn't have to be a—"
"Good," Michiru decided. Pink-cheeked herself, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and tossed the pillow back into place. "Unlike some people I know, I happen to have a skirt in my bag. And I've been hoping for an occasion to wear it before it gets too cold." She stood. She smoothed her hands down her jeans—she made for the door. "If it is that kind of occasion, of course," she provided, and glanced at Haruka again. Offering her a way out. Hoping she wouldn't take it.
"Well," the taller woman sighed, waving a hand, "I guess it is, then. If you really want to wear it." She hesitated. Her face burned and her pride hitched and she swallowed it, hook-line-sinker. She softened the tease with, "I'd like to see it on you. The skirt, I mean."
Michiru beamed. "I'll find a newspaper," she promised. She took the doorknob in hand, spun it, stepped out of the room. Unaware of her audience, Haruka saw the smaller woman perform a little hopping skip of victory in her meander down the hall. She waited until Michiru was lost to sight and the door safely closed again before, on her way to the shower, she sashayed her hips and echoed the sentiment.
Word Three: SWEETLY
"What are you reading?"
Haruka flicked her eyes aloft. Superimposed over the spine of her small book was Michiru, a divinity of hotel towels and shower-steam. The violinist ruffled the end of one such towel through her soaked curls and provided Haruka a curious smile. Gleaming glass beads ran trickle-teasing down her throat, collected in charm bracelets in the hinge of her pearl-snap collar. She smelled of soap, sunlight, soft things.
"Uh," Haruka said. Capacity for speech fled her. Rendered wordless so, she closed the book and offered it, cover up, to the other woman.
Michiru took it, studied it, flipped it open again. "Your car's manual," she observed. Her fingers left swirled, seeping prints on the book's surface. She hitched the tail of her towel up to wipe apologetically at them, granting Haruka a vista of supple wet thigh the hue of polished ivory. Michiru shifted—the thigh shivered, all coiled tension and temptation. Haruka's soul shivered with it. "You've been looking at this for the past three nights," Michiru realized.
"Mmhm," Haruka managed. She looked surreptitiously down the line of her lover's leg, mouth dry, chest aching, hands clenched into fists over her knees.
"And there's nothing wrong with the car." Nearly a question, this—but mostly not. Michiru surveyed Haruka over a furl of densely packed pages. A fuel system schematic hid what the blonde knew was an evaluative frown.
"…no," Haruka admitted. She flicked her gaze to Michiru's feet. She noted—with an instant's surprise—that the woman had neglected to paint her toenails.
"Hmm." Michiru shut the book. She pressed it to her lips, tapped it against the upper one thoughtfully. Her eyes winked like a summer's sea, special and searing. "Could it be that you want something to be wrong with the car?" she ventured. Carefully settling the creased tome on the nightstand, she took a seat next to her partner and sighed. Smiled. Touched her cheek to Haruka's shoulder.
Haruka went the color of a vine-ripe tomato. She licked her lips. "I'm just—" she attempted.
"Bored?" Michiru finished for her.
Haruka's mouth worked. The hum of chatter from the reception downstairs muffled her mutterings. Someone at the party distantly called for a toast, and in the space between the hems and haws Michiru dropped a hand over the taller woman's knee, squeezed it. They waited. They listened to the toast together, polite to a fault. They applauded the health and accolades of a stranger in their shared silence.
A self-deprecating smirk took Haruka's lips when it was done. "Am I really good for you, Michiru, during things like this?" she asked. She nudged her knuckles to Michiru's thumb. Her flesh rasped against the violinist's, sand over silk, and she jerked her fingers away again.
"What do you mean?" Michiru's teal-trace eyebrows went up, questioning curves. She watched Haruka's touch retreat, regret in her eyes—but not pursuit.
"I don't do that," Haruka explained. She motioned to the door, to the gathering downstairs at which Michiru had been the star performer—and Haruka the stunned spectator—two hours prior, to the throngs of milling people snug in white jackets and well-to-do waistcoats. Another toast rang out. The merry ting-ting-ting of tines to a wine glass sent fretting fritters of tension down Haruka's spine. She shook her head. "I don't fit. I don't do it well," she tried. "Not like—"
Michiru took her hand. She said, cutting in with all the snipping grace of scissors, "Not like you do running, and racing, and saving the world. Mm?"
"And you," Haruka put in helpfully.
Michiru giggled, rolled her eyes—but didn't protest the assessment. She worried Haruka's palm fondly between both of her own, counting its low ridges, rills, ripples; the dew-dime droplets of water in her lashes caught the light from the bedside table's lamp. She persisted, "Why do you think you don't do this well, Haruka?" And then, ginger, "Do you not like it here? With me?"
"It's not that," the taller woman hastily assured her counterpart. She tightened her fingers over Michiru's for emphasis. "It's just—I don't toast you," she continued. She winced at the mere thought, went on: "I don't bring you flowers after your performances, usually. I'm there—I want to be there. Here. To hear your music. Always that. But—"
"The rest is insignificant," Michiru murmured. "To you." Her mouth quirked.
"No! No—"
"Yes." Firm.
"…yes." Grudging. Honest.
Michiru sighed. "Haruka," she pressed her partner, "do you think I asked you to tour with me so you could give me flowers? They're lovely, really—but they make me sneeze."
"Well…"
"And if you did toast me, what could you possibly say about your appreciation for me that you didn't already when you died with your hand in mine?"
Haruka choked—not on tears, but on startlement. Michiru nuzzled her shoulder soothingly, reached up with her free hand to cup her cheek, her chin. She went on, "I asked you to come with me because you fit where it matters. You're right, you don't do this well—you do it perfectly. You give me what I need. You give it to me when I need it. That's not something anyone could do with Bordeaux or bouquets. All right?"
"Michiru—"
"You don't fit. Hmph," Michiru repeated, tone full of false scorn. "You haven't seen yourself in dress pants, have you?"
"I—"
"Haruka, love. Hush." The violinist looked down at their hands, tied together in a thread of fingers. She smiled. Lifting Haruka's aright, she guided it beneath the slack seam of her towel and said sweetly, "The manual's worn out. Read me tonight?"
Haruka did.