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Entry tags:
All Graces [D.Gray-Man, Kanda/Alma]
Title: All Graces
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nekokoban
Rating: R
Prompt: D.gray-man, Kanda/Alma Karma, memories: "I'll remember you, even when the whole world ends."
Word count: 724
Summary: A wake for the departed.
Warnings: Spoilers for Alma Karma's backstory/mostly mentions of the past life/self.
+++++
He remembers:
Returning late one night after a mission, aching and sore but in one piece still, which was more than could be said for some of his companions. Mostly he is tired; he thinks if he stops moving he'll simply pass out, and he isn't sure that he'd wake when he hit the ground. He is guiltily grateful that one of his teammates requires overnight monitoring in the hospital--it gives him that much more time before the mission debriefing. It's only his pride that him keep putting one foot down after the other until he reaches his own room, pride and--
"You're home!"
--the thought of the look on _her_ face when she saw him. She does not disappoint him: she lights up and nearly flings herself across the room at him, and the impact staggers him back into the wall. He hardly even notices, wrapping his arms around her in turn and pressing his face into hair, breathing deep until the scent of her, warm and sweet, fills his entire world. Her arms are gentle around him, but her fingers are clenched tight in his uniform, her face against his shoulder.
"I'm back," he agrees softly to her, more a rumble of sound than words. That makes her pull back and look up at him with that same brilliant smile, and he sees that her own head is wrapped and a bandage is taped to her cheek. He reaches to touch it and she covers his hand with hers, pressing his palm fully to her skin.
"It's all right," she says quietly in response to his unasked question. "I'm home too."
He remembers:
Her nails in his shoulder and the graceful line of her bared throat, which is so beautiful that he has to kiss it, tracing her rapid pulse with his lips. They move together easily with the grace of old lovers and the eagerness of new ones; God knew it felt like new and brilliant each time, though he was long-acquainted with her body, and she had long since learned all the secrets of his. All of their scars are stories, but as long as those lead back to a moment like this, in his bed or hers, they are all happy endings.
"Please," she gasps, and he rolls her hips deliberately slowly until she growls at him. Her ankles press harder to his back. Part of him wants to slow down, to savor this rare snatched moment, but then she opens her eyes and looks up at him with wondering eyes and _please_ she says again, and he is lost. He clutches her close even after, though, spreading his hands wide against her back and pressing their bodies as closely together as possible. She makes no protest, her head on his shoulder and her legs tangled with his. There is no happier moment for him, he knows, than the ones like this.
"I have a new mission," she whispers to him, her lips against his cooling skin. "We leave tomorrow."
"Already?" he asks and knows he cannot hide his disappointment.
"Already," she says and pulls back to look up at him. "Will you wait?"
He reaches up and slides his fingers through her hair; he brings a lock to his mouth and kisses it. "Always."
He remembers:
Lying on a cold and muddy field, unable to feel his legs, unable to hear anything but the awful silence of a lost battle. Overhead the sky was nearly as blue as her eyes. He thinks perhaps he will write her a poem later to make the comparison. Maybe she'll be embarrassed, he thinks; maybe she'll blush in that pretty way she has and call him a horrible romantic, but if he writes it down he knows he'll find that paper later, tucked into a safe place on her desk, where the handful of photos shared between the two of them are also kept. He will write about her grace and her beauty; he will make her name into a prayer and a talisman both, and years later, when they are old and frail, he will whisper the words again and mean them, because he can't imagine her ever being anything but beautiful--
"I love you."
He remembers, in this long-dead city of ghosts and dolls, and is glad.
Author/Artist:
nekokobanRating: R
Prompt: D.gray-man, Kanda/Alma Karma, memories: "I'll remember you, even when the whole world ends."
Word count: 724
Summary: A wake for the departed.
Warnings: Spoilers for Alma Karma's backstory/mostly mentions of the past life/self.
+++++
He remembers:
Returning late one night after a mission, aching and sore but in one piece still, which was more than could be said for some of his companions. Mostly he is tired; he thinks if he stops moving he'll simply pass out, and he isn't sure that he'd wake when he hit the ground. He is guiltily grateful that one of his teammates requires overnight monitoring in the hospital--it gives him that much more time before the mission debriefing. It's only his pride that him keep putting one foot down after the other until he reaches his own room, pride and--
"You're home!"
--the thought of the look on _her_ face when she saw him. She does not disappoint him: she lights up and nearly flings herself across the room at him, and the impact staggers him back into the wall. He hardly even notices, wrapping his arms around her in turn and pressing his face into hair, breathing deep until the scent of her, warm and sweet, fills his entire world. Her arms are gentle around him, but her fingers are clenched tight in his uniform, her face against his shoulder.
"I'm back," he agrees softly to her, more a rumble of sound than words. That makes her pull back and look up at him with that same brilliant smile, and he sees that her own head is wrapped and a bandage is taped to her cheek. He reaches to touch it and she covers his hand with hers, pressing his palm fully to her skin.
"It's all right," she says quietly in response to his unasked question. "I'm home too."
He remembers:
Her nails in his shoulder and the graceful line of her bared throat, which is so beautiful that he has to kiss it, tracing her rapid pulse with his lips. They move together easily with the grace of old lovers and the eagerness of new ones; God knew it felt like new and brilliant each time, though he was long-acquainted with her body, and she had long since learned all the secrets of his. All of their scars are stories, but as long as those lead back to a moment like this, in his bed or hers, they are all happy endings.
"Please," she gasps, and he rolls her hips deliberately slowly until she growls at him. Her ankles press harder to his back. Part of him wants to slow down, to savor this rare snatched moment, but then she opens her eyes and looks up at him with wondering eyes and _please_ she says again, and he is lost. He clutches her close even after, though, spreading his hands wide against her back and pressing their bodies as closely together as possible. She makes no protest, her head on his shoulder and her legs tangled with his. There is no happier moment for him, he knows, than the ones like this.
"I have a new mission," she whispers to him, her lips against his cooling skin. "We leave tomorrow."
"Already?" he asks and knows he cannot hide his disappointment.
"Already," she says and pulls back to look up at him. "Will you wait?"
He reaches up and slides his fingers through her hair; he brings a lock to his mouth and kisses it. "Always."
He remembers:
Lying on a cold and muddy field, unable to feel his legs, unable to hear anything but the awful silence of a lost battle. Overhead the sky was nearly as blue as her eyes. He thinks perhaps he will write her a poem later to make the comparison. Maybe she'll be embarrassed, he thinks; maybe she'll blush in that pretty way she has and call him a horrible romantic, but if he writes it down he knows he'll find that paper later, tucked into a safe place on her desk, where the handful of photos shared between the two of them are also kept. He will write about her grace and her beauty; he will make her name into a prayer and a talisman both, and years later, when they are old and frail, he will whisper the words again and mean them, because he can't imagine her ever being anything but beautiful--
"I love you."
He remembers, in this long-dead city of ghosts and dolls, and is glad.
no subject
This fic brought tears to my eyes. Beautiful and tragic and poignant.
Thank you.
no subject
Thanks for writing this still.
no subject