#hot wet jujutsu summer? clicks pen

[houndsclaw]

shoko’s air conditioner breaks in the middle of the worst heat wave in high summer. you had no choice but to shamble to your apartment: a tertiary set of rooms on campus too old for luxuries like central air. you and shoko spend most of the afternoon stripped down and linked by the smallest amount of skin you can bear. her ankle touched to the sole of your foot, your pinky fingers brushing. the heat hasn’t broken in weeks and the humid weight of summer crushes like an iron to velvet pile. there’s a moratorium on cigarettes in your apartment until the weather breaks, so shoko’s mouth is stained pink and blue from ice pops and frozen fruit. the radio hums from above you, your old fan rattling in a futile attempt to keep the air moving.

shoko sits up with a grunt, shaking out her long hair over her shoulders. the slip she’s wearing has gone translucent with sweat, sticking to her curves. you would look with more interest if it wasn’t so much energy to lift your sweaty, heavy head— another reason to curse the weather.

"i'm going to get another ice pop."

you mumble an affirmative, part of you already missing her sticky touch.

“you know, the morgue has climate control,” shoko reasons aloud. at your look: “kidding.”

you glare at her and then relent, letting your eyes close again. you don’t think she’s kidding, but there’s something to be said about a woman willing to suffer the indignities of summer to spend time with you. you draw your knees up to grasp for any relief of the fan’s breeze and listen for shoko shuffling to the kitchenette. you hear the rattle of ice in the freezer. roll your head back against the floor to find a cool spot where your head hasn’t warmed. shoko sighs. “we’re out of pops,” she calls out to you.

you jerk in surprise when a cold glass lands on your bare skin. shoko’s quick enough to take it back before you knock it off, but there’s a smirk on her face. you watch her throat work as she gulps down half of the glass, graceless in a way she rarely allows herself. her cold hand lands on your propped up knee, her fingers pressing bracing lines into your too-hot skin. the glass is set to the side on a magazine, where it will sweat a ring over the face of last week’s white-haired celebrity.

shoko plucks a cube of ice from the glass. it starts to melt as soon as she rolls it over her palm, leaving cold water dripping down her wrist. her touch is blessed as she strokes her cold hand over your belly, leaving a track of moisture and goosebumps in her wake. when she sets the chip of ice proper against your skin, your breath hitches. shoko notices, drawing a slow, numbing line underneath your breast, winding over your waist until her wet fingertips push the melt over your hipbone. you want her icy fingers in your mouth.

shoko slips this cube of ice up your shin. holds it for a second and then another when she reaches your thigh, the bite of the ice enough to stop your breath for a second before she relents and removes it. cold water trickles down your thigh, the lingering edge of ice-pain an restless itch in the skin. her lips are blazing when she kisses your skin, her hot breath nearly unbearable replacing the chill. she smirks at you when you release the breath stuck in your lungs, that certain gleam in her eyes. she lifts a brow at you: well?

"it's too hot, baby," you complain, but you're easing yourself back down, letting your arms splay out on the floor. shoko crowds between your legs, dangerously pleased with herself.

“you know i’ll make it better,” she murmurs, and puts the ice cube in her mouth.