title: 60 minutes
rating: high T for implied stuff. sexy stuff. yeah.
pair: Minato x femme!Shisui
gift!fic for: communicated. I hope I did this pairing justice.
prompt: 44;



summary: "I do not like the sound of closing doors."

notes: first time writing Yondaime. first time writing Shisui as a girl.

(first time writing shisui, period.)


warnings: AU.AR. Both, just to be safe. SUCH A NON-CANON PAIRING—capslock completely necessary—which, I admit, is odd for me. But I love the challenge, so I must thank communicated, for giving me the opportunity to prove my mettle.


um, what else…femme!Shisui.

disclaimer: not mine.

They live for an hour.


He finishes first, at 11:44.

She knows because her eyes have been watching the clock overhead—a worn blue timepiece that takes each breath with an air of resentment. What a strange place, she thinks, what a strange place to put a clock, on the ceiling of one's room, but then, she thinks, mouth open in a soundless scream, but then, it is better than mirrors.

Because she thinks,

(she thinks much of their predicament, she thinks, and there she goes again)

as she absently shifts to leave him room, unsurprised when he pulls away to wash the come off. He does not look at her when he shuts the door.

She loves his composition. His parts.

(not quite the wholeshe will not love the whole)

She loves his back, she thinks, the most of all. It is bronzed, and lean, all tough sinews and defined musculature, and

(the red lines are her favorite part—angry, raised, almost-visceral trails that no jutsu can disguise, the boundaries between what is hers and what she cannot touch and—

she hopes he makes love to his wife tonight)

it is familiar. A familiar sight, and she wonders if she should be saddened.

"Minato," she calls to him, voice lilting and small, and not-resigned, but no longer hopeful, and is this what they are? The remnants of infidelity on his white dress shirt

(Kushina will be appalled, she thinks, viciously—mournfully—he is so indiscreet)

—his rumpled hair the color of sunlight, the bright blue eyes she thinks she will always see with her own wide shut, and—

he does not hear her.

"Minato," she says, louder this time, with feeling! and he enters the room, all clean lines and unruffled disposition once more.

"You called?" He is fixing the collar of his half-open shirt, his mouth

(thin lips, wet tongue, all warmth and heat and too-slow breaths)

twisted into a frown of concentration.

"Leave it open," she says, looking diminutive and whole, almost significant in the middle of the soiled sheets, black hair in stark contrast to all the filtered light, and he is ashamed.

"The door," she clarifies.

"Leave it open, when you leave—"

(to go to her)

She turns away, gives him her back, its pale skin almost translucent in artificial light.

"I do not like the sound of closing doors."

He is perplexed, and it shows, in the incompletion of the arch of his brow, in the hesitance with which he fits the last mother-of-pearl through the top-most hole, and are you all right, do you feel OK, because if you want I can

(not stay, am sorry, you understand, don't you?)

get someone to help you, are you sure, and once again—

there is no offer from him.

"Why," he asks instead, a poor substitute, but then isn't she?

(no, she thinks, nononono—)

"I do not like their finality."

She turns, looks at him, her dark eyes wanting but unyielding.

"I will not live life behind their implied restrictions."

They end at 12:48.

He is four minutes late.



And so ends my attempt at (would be if it were set in canon, but it's not) yaoi. Heee.

To communicated, I hope you liked, m'dear. Happy Holidays!