Memories of Spring
. . . fanfiction inspired by X. Standard disclaimers apply.
Her hands are a frightening shade of pale, porcelain in both feel and colour, an almost inhumanly white. At first glance, they seem as small as a child's, but he sees that they are long-fingered and graceful as they move, tracing fleeting symbols in the air.Their touch sends ghost-shivers dancing across his bare skin, as they lovingly brush back an errant lock of hair, moving down to trace the curve of one cheek and stopping at his chin. With a deft finger, she tilts his head upwards to meet her eyes.
Melting honey irises, glinting golden in the afternoon light, set in a delicate, heart-shaped face. A fall of dark hair, straight and lustrous, gathered high and spilling down, past her shoulders and swishing softly against the silk of her ceremonial robes as she moves, a dreamy, sensual sway. Leaning in, he can scent the faint perfume of cherry blossoms, a sweet, spring memory. Painted lips move, forming the syllables of his name that spill forth dripping nectar, a secret lover's confidence, a voice musical and clear.
"Seishirou..."
And the feel of hands sliding onto his shoulders, hanging sleeves pooling in his lap, her breath stirring near his ear. "My son, I have waited so long to meet you."
His hands reach out of their own accord to rest on her waist, the texture of her brocade sash exotic to the touch, as he replies, "It is good to see you too."
A high, breathy laugh, a coy, girlish giggle. Nails scrape gently against his shirt, as she pulls back slowly, smooth ebon hair flowing over his arms and falling away. A hand comes up again to his face, this time staying as it cups it firmly, a thumb stroking one side in an intoxicating rhythm. "You are a beautiful child."
"A child of yours would not be otherwise."
A smile, seductive and affectionate, and already he knows what is to come. Half-lidded eyes draw closer, noses almost touching, she whispers, "All these years that I have been waiting, I have missed you."
Her lips press against his, buttery and petal-soft, her free hand fisting the fabric of his shirt. Her mouth tastes faintly of blood, a sweet, coppery tang, a taste he finds undisturbing.
Dust motes and sunbeams, wind and stray blossoms; drift through the open window and land on the woven rugs.
"I missed you, too, Mother."
He threads his fingers through her hair, a tug at the ribbon and it comes undone, a cascade of black envelops them and blocks out the sunlight.
And the afternoon dissolves around them.