Bishoujo Senshi Sailormoon is the property of Takeuchi Naoko, Toei Animation, and Kodansha Comics.
by Gita Toronjil-Lee
His eyes glitter silver, blue, sparking as he watches me.
I feign nonchalance as I walk by, ignoring his look.
I'm shivering inside, though, and alert to his every move;
even when I can't see him, I sense what he's doing.
I pull my knickknack out and pretend my attention's lost,
lost deep in its black depths. They call it the kurozuishou, you know,
but it is far less crystalline than the eyes striking my back
right between the shoulderblades -- I can feel them.
He speaks, and his voice is deceptive, flat.
"How did things go today?"
"Fine," I answer, just as softly, "things went very well."
"Did they, now."
I am confused at his words, but far more I see, I feel
the imagined sensation of his hands on my body, his lips on my skin
and I shiver again. I'm sure he can see it.
But he falls silent, and his breathing is slow.
Finally I put my toy away, and turn to him.
He is sitting, elbows on knees, head between palms,
and he's staring at me, intently but subtly.
Expressionless, his face. Heat in his gaze.
I put a question in my eyes as I look at him,
and his answer back an invitation. I smile.
He's still expressionless, and I try desperately to mimic that.
I know his wants, as he knows mine.
We both know this façade will not last.
"So," I say, when I can stand it no longer,
"are you doing anything tonight?"
He shuts his eyes a moment, pondering deeply.
Though I knew his plans the moment I saw his glittering look.
Silence descends upon our room as he thinks,
but it is not a quiet that is mine to break.
Instead it is my turn to watch him in his thought.
I admire him, so big, so handsome, so powerful, so deep.
And in this time I know that he'd like to say nothing,
to do nothing more than to take me unreservedly and love me.
But I also know he cannot so easily admit his desires;
he's worked all his life to be cold and strong --
it is his refusal to succumb to his humanity that keeps him sane.
So we go through these motions most every night,
or our subtle variations thereof. Sometimes it takes until
we've tucked ourselves to slumber that he'll come to me,
and sometimes it will be sudden, without prologue,
an abrupt shove to the floor. What remains the same
is that there is little talk that extends beyond the superficial,
little romance that extends beyond the physical,
and that I can do little to deter his choices.
And though I am sad, for him it is worth it.
This I know when he raises his head and stands up.
His hands go to his shoulders, purple-white cape rustles to the floor.
He does not reply till he is in front of me, so close;
my breath is quickened with his nearness.
And when he strokes a gloved hand down the length of my jacketed arm,
touching his fingers lightly to mine, I moan softly and tremble.
Ever-strong, he ignores my loss of composure as he draws me near.
I feel his heavy arm about my waist, his bulk against my body.
My eyes slide shut on their own against his chest. I don't fight them.
"Tonight?" he murmurs gently in my ear, his low voice turning my nerves to fire.
I'm tingling, I'm shivering, I'm feverish; he's cool as always.
But I feel his need in his voice, in the soft hot breaths in my hair,
in the way he presses me so tight, so close. And then, and then,
right before his ravenous mouth takes captive mine, he whispers:
"I thought I'd spend a little time with you tonight."
Such are the games we play here.
influenced by a song title… brought on by too much contemplation on what their intimate moments must be like, based on their personalities… and that's all I'm gonna say.