Perfection (Rin x Nomiya, Adult Rated)

[themocaw]

"It's time for art," Nomiya says.

Tezuka Rin nods silently as she steps into the middle of the abandoned classroom. If her addled mind knows anything, it's that what is about to happen is wrong. Were her will stronger, or her personality more defiant, she might put up some objection.

She has no wish to do so. She feels no need to defy this man who has done so much for her. She sees in him the remnants of a broken dream. If doing this for him makes him feel better, then perhaps it is a small good that she can do in this life.

Nomiya removes her tie and her shirt with gentle hands. There is little lust or desire in his actions. When he strips Rin naked and lays her on her back atop the dais, it is with the gentle hands of a father putting a beloved daughter to bed. Is there a hint of desire in the way he looks over Rin's naked body? Perhaps, but it is the momentary desire felt by a married man, faithful to his wife, who glances over at a pretty girl for the briefest of moments.

Rin looks up at the ceiling of the classroom as Nomiya bathes her pale, taut skin with the sponge. She knows that somewhere beyond that acoustic tile, beyond the steel and plaster of the buildings structure, there is the gravel-covered roof. She closes her eyes and imagines herself there on the roof, under the night sky, watching the stars spin overhead. The sky, she knows, is perfect. It feels nothing. It encompasses everything. Like a blank canvas it has no shape of its own. It is only possibility.

Rin wants very much to be the sky.

Nomiya finishes bathing her naked body and wipes her down with a pristine chamois cloth. The velvety softness of the leather makes her shiver, and makes goosebumps rise on her skin. She knows that Nomiya doesn't like it when this happens, but she also knows that there's nothing she can do. Her body is not under her control, after all.

He begins by dipping his brush in the pot of blue paint, then begins to trace the kolinsky sable fibers over her skin, leaving behind a dark blue streak on her pale flesh. Starting from her throat, then going all the way down the front of her body, he uses the slightest of pressures to change the shape of the line, drawing it in and out like a dancer until it forms the unmistakeable shape of a river tracing down the front of Rin's torso. It starts at her throat and runs down her body to between her legs.

She has Emi help her shave on a regular basis. Emi doesn't ask why. Rin is glad. She wonders what Emi would say if she knew that she did so to keep her body pristine, to serve as Nomiya's canvas.

Nomiya washes off his brush and takes up a second, thinner one. His breathing is shallow and ragged, the thrill of creation, of bringing beauty out of nothing, causing him to grow aroused and excited. This is the only way he can find any kind of satisfaction these days. Only the act of creating, only the creation of beautiful things, can make him happy.

It is why he has never violated his student, despite the number of times that he has had ample opportunity to do so. Nomiya only loves the moment of creation. He only becomes aroused when things are made. To have sex with this girl, to penetrate and violate her inner sanctums, to break through her maidenhood and spill her blood between her legs. . . that would be an act of destruction akin to taking a razor to the Mona Lisa.

This girl is a work of art. She is his La Gioconda, and he is Da Vinci, struggling with his poor skills to express the essence of this creature in mere paint.

He dips his brush into the white paint next, and traces thin lines down the inside of her thighs, meeting just under her pale pink nether lips.

It is like a dance. An old man, broken and weary. A young girl without arms, like a living Venus de Milo. The two lives trace around each other in a double helix, intertwining, weaving in and out like courting birds.

Nomiya's brush moves ever faster against Rin's skin. She is standing now, allowing him to paint all over her body. Nomiya's heart races as he feels that moment that all artists come for overtake him. The moment in the midst of perfect creation when a mind achieves "flow," achieves "now." That state of perfect Zenlike concentration in which minutes stretch to hours, and a single moment in time seems to last for eternity. That moment of perfect comprehension in which nothing exists but the artist, the medium, and the art itself.

It is like he is a child reaching for the moon. He is striving ever closer to a perfect ideal he can never reach. It always lies outside his grasp. He will never find it, but in moments like these, when he draws ever closer, ever nearer, he feels more alive than he has in years, since the moment when his closest, dearest friend took his own life in that cold atelier.

All things come to an end. All perfect moments must cease. Sweat pours from his brow as he steps back from his masterpiece. Rin stands before him, her body covered in slashing bright colors. Some lines accentuate the curves of her body. Others blend into her flesh and her features, seeming to vanish in the valleys of her pale, slender form. His breath catches. She is the closest to perfect he has ever seen her.

"Leave," he says, hoarsely.

Rin nods and walks out of the classroom. She will go to the showers and wash herself off as best she can. In the morning, Emi will fret and wonder how she's managed to get paint in so many strange places, and Emi will help to clean off the parts that she can't reach. Her purpose is done. She has served her part in bringing him closer to his ideal.

Nomiya waits for her to leave before he continues. He doesn't like her to see his part of him. He doesn't want his goddess, his muse, profaned by his base lusts.

He unzips his pants, and his horny, paint-stained hands take hold of his erection. He strokes rapidly, grunting with exertion as his mind's eye imagines the brilliant goddess in all her shattered glory. He wants to make love to that ideal, to caress perfection and become one with that muse.

There is a moment, in the midst of his frantic masturbation, when he realizes what he is. He sees himself as he truly exists: a sad, old man without the moral fiber to resist his base lusts, but without the amoral courage to break that last barrier, to break the taboo he aches to cast aside. Cold reality washes over him like ice water just as his desperate strokes bring forth white cum, splattering over the dais where, moments before, his canvas had stood.

The warmth of her body still lingers there, mingling with the fresh warmth of his thick fluids splattering over the aged wood.

[Mealforthree]

Oh lol, Nomiya, you poor old sod, you. This somehow reminds me of a song by Jethro Tull called "Locomotive Breath".

I can't help but wonder - were you inspired by the Rin x Nomiya KSG?

Very nice read.

There's a typo: "he is Da Vinci, strugggling"

[griffon8]

"Oh man, can I really read a Rin/Nomiya story, especially one adult rated? No, that's too horrible… but it's written by themocaw! I must read it!"

Well, my faith in your writing is intact.

[Mahorfeus]

I can't say that I'm a fan of the premise, but the writing quality is certainly superb as usual.

[nemz]

Well, that was at least a step above what I was expecting. Still disturbing of course, but in a way that makes you feel a bit 'cultured' for having read it rather than needing a wire brush scrubbing.

[gecko]

"Oh man, can I really read a Rin/Nomiya story, especially one adult rated? No, that's too horrible… but it's written by themocaw! I must read it!"

Well, my faith in your writing is intact.

Thanks for describing my experience so well.

[Bagheera]

Gods damn it. The premise is abhorrent, but the writing is exquisite. I hate you. I hate you so much.

Missing accomplished, yes?