Author: Lipstickcat
E-mail: [email protected]
Fandom: FF8
Pairing: Quistis/Fujin
Rating: Pg-13
Web page: http://www.geocities.com/lipstickcat
Disclaimer: The girls belong to me just as much as the boys�
Notes: My first yuri fic!
***
You wouldn�t guess it just from looking at her, from knowing her even, but Fujin knows how to pamper herself. She may not do it often, she�s not that indulgent, but when she does, she really goes to town.
We�re both early risers. It's hard to lie in bed, knowing that there�s a day out there with so much to fill it; it makes her feel guilty for wasting it. And I, I always have work to do as the new Headmistress of Balamb Garden. But once in a while, perhaps after a strenuous week or as a reward for simply not wasting time, she lets some escape her.
She slides out of our bed silently, as if she�s afraid to disturb me, even though she knows full well that I�m already awake, and pads her way across the room to the bathroom. I wait. If I hear the shower, I get up and get ready for the day ahead. But if she starts to fill the bath, I stay in bed. My own little indulgence; waiting for her to return.
I listen and I know by every little sound she makes what she�s doing. She follows a routine. We are soldiers after all, beyond the titles and the fancy uniforms and the accolades, we are military and routine is our life. The water roars in a muted thud as she fills the tub, adding the baby blue bubble bath to the stream of scalding hot water. As the tub fills, she brushes her teeth and splashes cool water on her face from the sink. Then there is a brief respite in sound between the hot water tape being turned off and the cold tap being turned on. The dull thumping of water hitting water is only short this time; she likes it hot enough to stir the blood in her veins.
There is the soft crumpling of her pyjamas being discarded and hitting the tiled floor carelessly, and the softer, tinkling, splashes as she steps into the water. She pauses, the water up to her calves, and adjusts to the scalding water before easing her way down. Silence. At this point she�s leaning back, just letting the steam brush over her face, breathing in the thick vapour, playing with the bubbles that quietly fizz as they pop.
I normally start to doze at this point with no sounds to concentrate on, surrounded by our warmth, so welcoming and soothing. I fight the urge to close my eyes though; I�ve only fallen asleep once and, bless her, she left me to sleep while she dressed and sought out Raijin to have breakfast with instead. I�m not missing out again.
Eventually, its only minutes but to a drowsy brain it could have been hours, I hear the slosh of her sitting up and my fluttering eyelids open again in instant wakefulness. If I listen hard, I can sometimes hear her tearing open the sachet of face pack. Strawberry. She smears the pink stuff over her face in uneven lumps, I know this because I watched her once. I laughed at the sight of solemn Fujin with pink blobs spread over her petite face. She doesn�t let me watch any more.
As the pack does whatever it does simply by being applied to a person's face, as it soaks into her pores and smoothes her already flawless skin and leaves her cheeks and kisses tinted with strawberries and spring picnics, she shaves her legs. I haven�t seen this, after laughing at the face pack I don�t imagine I will for a long time yet, but I can envision it. First one unbelievably long leg rises out of the water, droplets rolling off the pale skin, leaving it shiny in the artificial spotlight of the bathroom. She props her heel on the rim of the bathtub. She takes her razor from the edge of the tub, along with the shaving gel, and squirts a good amount of the purple gel along the length of her leg. I know she uses excessive amounts; I can hear the �squoosh� sound as it leaves the can. My guess, going on what I�ve learnt about her over the last 5 months we�ve been together, is that she likes to feel it squish between her fingers as she spreads it over her leg and builds up its lather. She�s all about texture.
There�s the efficient splatter as she dips her hand sharply over the surface of the water to wash off the extra foam, and then another lull as she shaves her leg. The silence is only broken up by the gentle stir of water as she shifts position to reach one way or another and the occasion splash as she cleans off the blade.
Then she changes legs, letting the first one drop in an uncharacteristic lack of grace that I can hear in the crash of water. And then a dull roar of droplets as she props the other slender leg up on the side. Squoooosh. The gel is �Wild Berry�. She has to go to Dollet to find somewhere that sells it; you�d think she�d use it more sparingly. It smells of raspberries and blackcurrants and other juicy fruits that burst in your mouth when you take a bite. It makes her legs so smooth I have to taste her with my tongue, so silky, from toe to inner thigh.
Quickly, her armpits, just waiting for me to tickle her. Then a clatter as she puts the razor back down on the porcelain bath. She splashes her face with water to wash off the face pack and retrieves the shampoo. She uses separate shampoo and conditioner. I don�t think its because she thinks it's better for her hair, I doubt she cares that much about micro-oils and pro-vitamins and follicles, it's so she can use two lots of thick viscous goo. All about the texture.
I�m not sure which is which, but I swear either the shampoo or the conditioner smells of peaches, the other of cream. It�s so good to bury my nose in her sleek hair. It�s soft and tickles, the smell filling my head.
When she turns on the shower attachment to wash her hair out, I know she�s almost ready. I fumble under the bedclothes to slip out of my nightie and push it out from beneath the blankets so that it pools on the floor. She washes herself down with her shower gel: either lemon or lime or orange, then stands, the water rushing down her body and thundering against the bathmat as she steps out. I�m patient as she towels down, listening to the slurp and gurgle of the water draining out of the tub.
The door opens in a rush of hot steam that swirls around the doorway before whisping away in the larger, cooler bedroom. I sit up, making sure she knows that I�m awake and waiting. She exits with a large towel, more often than not, blue, wrapped around her. It�s only held onto her slight frame by her wonderfully pert breasts. She always holds a smaller towel to her head with one hand, while she neatly places her pyjamas on the chair by the bathroom door. Then she uses both hands to rub her hair dry as she blindly approaches me. Before she bumps into the bed, she stops. Every time. She knows the steps by heart. Then she pulls the towel away and smiles at me, her steel coloured hair looks ragged, but in a striking way. She lets the towel slip and I get to briefly glimpse her bare flesh before she climbs into bed, seeking out the warmth of my body. Tease.
And as I kiss her, I can smell her. The strawberry kisses and peaches and cream hair. The citrus stomach and wild berry thighs. She comes to me like a platter of fruit, a sweet desert only for me. She smells so good, I could just eat her.