A/N: First foray into Rurouni Kenshin. Actually saw only four episodes, hence the OOCness of the characters. Not a real lemon as it doesn't have the blatant words of lemon fics. I try. By the by, I'm not sure if I'll run in RK again; too many other series to get fixing, you know. Onto the fic.
Extremo Disclaimer (made smaller so you can go to the poem itself): This fic is geared towards mature audiences, who aren't that mature because they tend to be above 18 years old, which would then be considered young, but young can not be considered mature, because then it'd be believed by the attorneys and big time guys the young aren't up for mature content, but some of the young consider themselves mature, so we presume the young are mature enough to read the said content, which is said to fit mature audiences, who can not believe the mature rating actually permits the entry of some young people, who consider themselves mature enough despite the beliefs that they're too young to understand the mature content, which they do not believe is in itself a very mature statement worth dispersing to the young, and thus the young realize that a lot of mature stuff isn't mature, but rather young, and many think it was the fault of some young people to think they owned the laws of the mature, but the mature people do mind or care about what the young people think about mature, because they are mature enough to know what being mature is, while the young people must realize they are young until they are mature.
In four words, for mature audiences only!
- An RK lemon poem (?/?)
Flickering, flickering, flicker, flicker, flick.
Her tongue rolled over what it had just licked, and for those few seconds she could spare, she tried to recall how she got herself planted here,
on this room, on her knees,
sowing the seeds of her love
while her flower began its enlivening bloom.
Oh, how well she knew how to taste the tastes of others,
but those were but relatives, friends, not lovers,
and she never had much of the latter in such great detail
that she had tasted them as glorious as this new endeavor.
I'm making a fool of myself, no doubt, she thought,
because by now I'm feeling dry as a drought,
and my love here is noticing
that I've got good hands, pretty good for me.
But that means he knows what I did before,
Not a matter of who, a matter of how.
I don't want to let him know that now.
But it's something too late for me to conceal.
The last, last time, it couldn't have been her first time,
no, it wasn't, there were faces,
but Ah! what terrible time to pick them up,
for someone who hid her preferences in the dark,
only to wait for another to be her sun.
Then, when it was said and done,
the sun would set,
and the dark came back again.
Not as dark as the rest, darker. Again. The rest.
Woman. The woman of women was what she was. It cracked her aplenty,
to think that.
But the hands of her volition had never been accustomed to battle,
She liked giving birth to the dead,
and to those dead she give life to those still living.
The dead were all those things detached, like her,
but the right trim, the proper heat, the suitable unity,
all could make the dead bring such joy
to anyone, for everyone lived by them.
And she knew her love lived by them too.
He had stumbled here for sustenance,
and now she got to gorge in a different sustenance for her own.
A sustenance of his own making.
"I thought you knew women," she smiled.
"You ever learn something new every day?
I could get used to learning someone."
The words, the words, quite easy to say,
but once were said, never always to stay,
so in one of those seconds she could spare, the wonder of what words had put them here
came into her fragile little mind, and failed her.
She could but remember the rough arms of greed.
Like a kiss, they gripped with rapture, but sounds they made feeble
over the little shoulders draped with the garbs of a business
closed down until people felt hollow inside again.
The seconds of thinking came by like something to say.
Did she want it to stay? Not a chance;
memories erased their words and colored their romance.
A tinge, a tingle. Both came about in her confessing ripples
as business fell, crumpling away for fullness
to come into play.
And for once, weighty musings had fallen down in kind. So kind.
She looked down at his fingers and they were like animals frozen stark; they did not anticipate ripeness to grow from sanctuary so dark.
She wished the warmth emerging was born from her place of work,
but he worked like a shade before her.
Then her mirrors reflected his, and the warmth fanned out of her,
her skin bearing the torch of a soul's lone fire.
She felt one last weight above her. Square. Soft. A cloth.
Her soft collection of fingers mousily clung to the cloth, and thus forth
his mirrors inclined
and met with her shifting arms,
illustrating the momentum of her breasts
pouring in energy,
like tear drops that could never go away.
Thrilled that he was, his knees clambered,
knock, knock, knocking with her silence as welcome,
and his chin slid over her belly between the circles of richness,
each of his hands touching when it seemed she was of illusory substance,
thinkable and untouchable.
She exhaled a breath of the breadth of excitement.
The weight was lost on her head
and now too on her waist,
the solid, bloodthirsty
hands snatching her curtains, giving it to nobody. No body.
Her love was not a delicacy
with a sense of the culinary in his mind,
more like a relentlessly smooth vagrant
with a dip of horseradish dipped on the rind.
Kuso, he thought, why did I think so hard
of one day ladies and not the more permanent ones
who won't crush your heart to shards?
Crush. Favorite word of his, ringing of the sound of truth.
The lovely crush and bloody crush.
He knew his friend was crushed,
a woman never to know the real jolt of voltage
from a lifestyle disparaged
by a world abandoning the samurai.
Not that the style thrived no longer in his eyes;
a fist of heat, a heart of fire,
lived on in him,
but needing normalcy, he was tired,
and chose to combine with her instead,
for love too long was dread.
And he dipped through,
the patience and restraint he threw
as the flower, used and ravaged,
was ravaged anew. Cry became the verb of hers,
a verb she mastered from unhappy lures
with the people she did not want. But him she would want,
a man who'd flaunt and hunt and take lodging in her busy haunt.
She clutched her love; he was hers, or so she could hope,
since hope cancelled mope and kept life from hanging on ropes.
Her mirrors dimmed, her volumes and music rising,
while the man's visage, a harsh wary face teamed with a crop of thorny tresses,
saved face fretfully, for love was such a heavy venture to accomplish,
and he wasn't sure where to do and feel good,
and so often she reminded him.
He thanked her for that.
The clammy rush she could take, just as any other day,
when other matters could take his place.
It was a shifting place outside,
and they both acted wry
to fool all others, for honesty doesn't ride on one fine line.
They were so far a couple who loved what they did,
and all they hid
meant so much to them.
The sounds had stopped.
The whiffs of fervor slept.
They remained awake.
"Sano, I never wanted to prod you around with this question, but....should we....?" She stopped in mid-sentence. Always she asked this.
He looked at her. "Wake up tomorrow and we'll see," he said. "We'll see."
Always he said this.
She stopped and rose up, and fell back down.
"I'll make breakfast before the customers come."
And they stayed in her place of business.
Empty and full, full and empty.
Whichever is left and right,
The definitions come into the night.
Alright, that was weird. I had no poem structure so that may be why some stanzas rhyme and others don't. Don't ask me why I picked this couple; I thought it was a missed opportunity. Oh, and ask why Tae and Kamatari are not in the FFN character list (for gosh sakes even Chou and Tsubame made the cut!)...
R.K. by Nobuhiro Watsuki
a good friend on the edge during the summer.
JCA fan writers. They're the best troupe around.
Tajeri Lynn now says Adios, and Make Your Impact Known!