Author's Note: Femmeslash! I do write it, occasionally. I'm not always all about the peen, haha. Anyway, this one's for the Spring Kinkfest; it's a quick and dirty little piece about the girls of Shimotsuma Monogatari/Kamikaze Girls.

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Another Day in Shimotsuma

Sometimes, in Shimotsuma, it's like the rain is coming straight out of the rice paddies and returning to the gods. Since Shimotsuma is surrounded by nothing but rice paddies, rice paddies, rice paddies, rice paddies, and ex-yanki in Jusco track suits--and more rice paddies, of course--this is a lot of water for the gods to collect. When their buckets overflow, of course, they dump it back into Momoko's yard. Already, the water's over the top of her rocking horse shoes, though of course they are authentic Vivienne Westwoods and it would be ridiculous to even think about getting them anywhere near the rain. Huffing in irritation, Momoko throws the door shut and stomps back into the room.

"Your bike floated away," she informs Ichigo simply, curling up with her embroidery. Ichigo politely waits until she looks at her over the wooden hoop to head butt her.

"We've got to go get it!" Ichigo yelps, already lacing her zori by the door.

"No. I don't feel like it," Momoko replies, shaking her head.

Somehow, she's already rolling down her white lacy socks--Alice and the Pirates brand, with a tiny logo embroidered at the top beneath the frothy lace. She'd been thrilled when the new line had been launched; the lace and designs were so elaborate and detailed, even if they weren't always as elegant as the original line's products. Ichigo kicks a pair of zori at her and she wrinkles her nose. At the very least, she wouldn't be caught dead in a pair of household sandals! She allows herself a moment to daydream of elegant geta with only one ha, imagining herself wobbling gracefully through the rice paddies.

Ichigo kicks her in the kneecap and she jolts back to herself, frowning at the squishing sound the sandals make in the mud. They'll be ruined, but like hell she's wearing her own shoes in this mess! Ichigo grabs her hand and their skin slips in the rain that's plastered her hair to her forehead--all those hours with the curling iron, wasted!. Her petticoats go limp and heavy beneath the wet cotton of the old jumper skirt as the starch is washed away, running in rivulets down her legs, but all of her complaints fall silent from her lips at the expression on Ichigo's face when she sees her scooter. There's no mistaking it from the huge pink and red sticker Momoko had affixed to the front--the resulting punch to the arm had raised a purple fist-shaped bruise, but it had almost been worth it. As if Momoko would even think of riding that little putt-putting scooter without it! BABY makes everything more elegant, even Ichigo's bike.

Ichigo is on her knees, arms around her bike and bawling like it's the end of the world narrowly avoided. For her, it probably is. There's even snot running down her face, Momoko wonders in awed disgust. She turns on her heel to leave and is dragged back by her hair. Ichigo's eyes are wide, rimmed heavy black in that way the yanki do to try to make their eyes look bigger. To Momoko, she looks like a scared panda, maybe one that has just eaten a person who's fallen into its pen, judging by the splash of dark red lipstick that's smeared across Ichigo's lips.

"You gotta help me make sure it's safe!" Ichigo cries, squeezing Momoko's arm tightly. Momoko raises an eyebrow. Ichigo bats her lashes. Momoko thinks.

"No," she decides, flicking water off the front of her skirt. Ichigo head butts her again, knocking her to the ground with a splash. "My dress!" Momoko stares down at the jumperskirt in horror. Dark mud is streaked up over the ladder lace, thick in the creased gathers at the waist. Turning to look at the back of the skirt, she is agonized to discover that the bustle skirt is wadded and clumpy with mud. She freezes in place, the portrait of deep mourning.

Ichigo blinks at the ruined dress. She takes in the zori, which don't match the coordination at all, the flat, lifeless hair that looks like a wet mop, and the streaky lines of white starch and pale mud trailing down Momoko's legs. A light dawns, and she takes a nervous step back. Momoko stands there like an onryo, hair dripping over her eyes. Ichigo laughs awkwardly, jumping when Momoko's head rockets up, hair falling back to reveal one wild eye.

"I'll kill you!" Momoko shrieks, diving for her with hands outstretched like claws. Ichigo dodges and Momoko ignores her, besieging the poor little half-drowned scooter. She takes off her shoe and stands in the mud beating ineffectually at it with the straw sandal. It's when she looks around wildly for something else that Ichigo gets worried. Momoko's eyes light up as she spies a large rock, and when she returns, staggering under its weight as she raises it over the bike, Ichigo pales, tackling her to the ground.

"Oof," Momoko declares to the world. She imagines a voice telling her that she is being punished for allowing the yanki to corrupt her world of elegance and sighs, sinking back into the mud.

Isobe-san would be so disappointed to see her now. "Where is my seamstress, whose needle evokes the glory of the first garden itself? Whose roses are more elegant than those pinned to the breast of Marie Antoinette? Where is my Momoko?" he will ask, she muses, eyes open to the rain above her. "Surely she is not this girl. Little waif, rolling around in mud like a pig, tell me: have you seen the great artist Momoko?"

Ichigo's head pops into her line of vision upside down, and Momoko reaches instinctively to strangle her. Sitting back on her haunches, Ichigo offers her a hand, which Momoko refuses, shoving it aside to climb to her feet. She sticks her nose in the air and stalks homeward, Ichigo trailing behind her like a puppy.

"I'm real sorry, Momoko," Ichigo says earnestly. Momoko ignores her as she climbs the stairs, dropping the destroyed sandals next to the door. When Ichigo moves to follow her in, she glares pointedly at the yanki until, flushing, she stoops to untie her own shoes. When Ichigo catches up to her, she's already in her room, jumperskirt puddled around her ankles. "I am! I'm real sorry about your dress!" Ichigo insists.

Momoko rolls her eyes and shucks off her blouse, nearly transparent with water. Ichigo blushes, looking away from the thin silk camisole underneath. Its fabric is so thin that she can see Momoko's shaking underneath it. She's distracted by the twin peaks of her nipples, highlighted by the clinging wet fabric. Momoko shucks her pannier, layers of chiffon hitting the floor with a whump.

Ichigo swallows hard. Momoko…. What Momoko's wearing is a pair of--god, she doesn't even know. They're like panties, sort of, but longer, like the panties little girls or old prudes wear. Creamy white against Momoko's skin, they're only opaque where the ruffles overlap. She can see a dark shadow in the apex of the girl's thighs, and a shiver trembles up her arms.

Because she can say she loved Ryuji but remember the way Akemi's fingers felt on her face. Because she can say that she's never had a boyfriend but admit she's only wanted what belonged to women she admired. Because she can still smell Momoko's perfume at night in her room alone.

She bites her lip, and then she bites Momoko's. There's a hand working its way under her kamikaze coat before she realizes that she's not being pushed away. When she stops, drawing back to look at her friend, she's surprised by Momoko's shrewd look.

"What's the matter?" Momoko asks, as if there's nothing unusual about standing in the middle of her room wet to the skin with another girl's hand under her camisole.

"I-I just," Ichigo sputters, trying to start her mind. Its engine sputters when Momoko shifts, reaching down to pull off clinging silk between them. Her nipples are pebbled in the cold air, and she shakes wet hair from her eyes.

"Well?" she demands imperiously, and Ichigo abandons thought.

The water in the crook of Momoko's neck tastes like Ibaraki well water, like swimming in the mountain lakes in summer, like splashing through the rice paddies during hot summer rains. Her skin is sweet and smooth, slipping under her hands as she tries to hold her down, tries to grind against her leg and ends up on her back, the smaller girl rocking enthusiastically against her. Ichigo has a fistful of ruffles and a head full of water and she's fumbling beneath Momoko, listening to her selfish whines as she slides her fingers under the elastic to rub at hot, slick skin. Momoko shakes when she comes, still elegant, still separate from the world. She slumps over as if fainting, collapsing to the mats, drained.

Ichigo stares at her a while, waiting patiently for Momoko to look at her before thrusting her still-clothed groin in the girl's direction. Momoko rolls her eyes, then flips onto her side petulantly. "No," she says, and Ichigo politely waits until she's sure Momoko is dozing off before pinching a nipple hard. "Ow!" Momoko shrieks, turning to glare at her like a demon.

"What about me?" Ichigo demands, and Momoko huffs. She helps Ichigo out of her wet clothes, and as Momoko's deft fingers slide under the yanki's clothes, Ichigo begins to catch on that Momoko's not protesting so much as she's incredibly selfish. That's okay, though--just another day in Shimotsuma.