This is as close as I'll ever come to Clow/Yuuko porn.
Honestly, I feel as if I've already cheapened the entire dynamic of their wonky, defined-by-subtlety-and-implication relationship by even attempting limey-type action.
I can't imagine someone actually pulling the sexitiemz well for this coupling (myself included). These two just sort of seem to defy all the conventional trappings of a normal, functional relationship. Nonetheless, here's my attempt to write something somewhat tasteful in the way of Clow/Yuuko porny-porn-porn.
I'm a tasty cheeto-penguin.
a madness most discreet
--her legs are moon-pale opalescence, long, smooth, and lithe around his—
They do not speak of it lightly, with regret or nostalgia, with careful contemplation or lazy, sated abandon.
--she is incongruous synergy: simultaneously the bold embrace of eternity and the tenacious diffidence of inexperience; her hands are the fierce knots in his scalp, her voice the liquid sibilance of new rapture—
They do not speak of it in silence, with weighted, knowing glances or fraught, lingering touch, with awkwardness of manner or freshly exposed vulnerability.
--his shoulders are broad (she cannot see anything behind them) and his hands are soft, 'like a woman's,' she teases, and his answering chuckle ripples against her neck—
They do not speak of it with passive resentment or telling avoidance, with clipped words or carefully deliberate evasion. Lulls are never tense and pervasive quiet is never pregnant with anxiousness or agitation.
--her mind is flying through centuries, millennia, eons, attempting –and failing- to locate a comparable sensation, but there is nothing, nothing, nothing to equal the gentled fire of his caress, the ineffable quality of the friction between them, the candid, horrible-perfect rawness of the name she wears ripped from his throat, the exquisite pain of his visage, borne of agonizing, excruciating pleasure—
They do not speak of it with others at great length and painstaking detail or by allusion and artifice; the revelation is shared with neither immortal companions nor spirit acquaintance, and certainly not with estranged family or collaborative magical creations.
--it is in the way she feels human, impossibly small and singularly indispensable, an essential, insignificant cog in a chaotic, uncontrollable, perversely finite and utterly incomprehensible design, in the way that she becomes for an instant the focal point of the entire, vast, endless universe—
They do not speak of it under the influence, while she is languidly supine, half-naked because of the nefarious collusion of the summer heat and the warmth of the alcohol, while he carefully eyes the turvy-vagrant smoke that hangs between them like whorled gauze, like a sheer-thin curtain made of mist that burns his nose and holds the future at bay (any possibility of theirs just as well as the renderings of others').
--it is in the way he is able to exist entirely within the moment, no shades from past or present or future endeavors invading and inevitably distorting (if not altogether disfiguring) his sense of self, in the way he loses control utterly and makes no attempt to retrieve it (enjoys it, even), in the way ecstatic peace generates the humbling, resplendent epiphany that here, now, Yuuko is just a woman and Clow is just a man—
Ultimately, it is simply not a subject either of them wishes to broach, so they do not speak of it then, or now, because they do not speak of it ever, at all.
I figure I should probably mention now that all my Clow/Yuuko ficcing are part of the same universe. I'm fairly comfortable saying at this point that cumulatively they're a series now, though in no particular order just yet. I'll set up a sequence one of these days, I promise, but don't expect that there'll be anything resembling a connecting plot.
I laugh in the face of Plot.
Bring me my PICKLEWHISTLE.
And watch Soul Eater if you haven't.
Fantastic stuff, that.