novelnext Chapter 227 The Beauty of Women
Chapter 227 The Beauty of Women
Chapter 227 The Beauty of Women
Bai Yu awoke amidst a warm and fragrant world.
The process of consciousness emerging from the chaos was slow, as if something was dragging his nerves, preventing him from returning to reality too soon.
But on the boundary between sleep and wakefulness, the first sense to recover is not sight or hearing, but touch.
There was something warm against my chest.
The small, warm mass was curled up, its entire weight resting on the left side of his chest, rising and falling slightly with his breathing.
With each rise and fall, a soft, warm touch traveled from his chest to his heart, as if someone beside him had entrusted their entire weight to him.
Bai Yu did not open his eyes.
He wanted to linger in the darkness a little longer.
In this morning, before it has been tainted by sunlight and reality, a morning that belongs only to him and her, let's linger a few more seconds.
But Chenguang didn't care about any of that.
It squeezed in unceremoniously through the gaps in the awning, landing on his eyelids and turning the entire darkness orange-red.
Then there was the sound, the sound of water, the sound of the hull rubbing against the seawater, splashing, splashing, rhythmic, gentle.
Bai Yu finally opened his eyes.
The first thing that caught my eye wasn't the cabin, but a clump of silvery-white hair.
Mirajane's hair spread out on his chest, as if someone had plucked a whole sliver of moonlight from the sky, crushed it, flattened it, and placed it on his chest.
His hair gleamed with a cold silver light in the morning light, yet it also carried the warmth of his body; a balance was achieved between cold and warmth in his vision.
She was still asleep.
Or rather, she was pretending to be asleep.
The white feathers are indistinguishable.
But he could feel that the hands wrapped around his waist hadn't let go.
Her fingers were clasped together slightly below his lower back, not tightly, but if he tried to turn over, she would instinctively tighten her grip.
Bai Yu did not move.
He glanced down at her; Mirajane's face was buried in his chest, with only a small section of her nose and half an eyelash showing.
The morning light fell on her face, making her skin look translucent and thin, with the capillaries underneath faintly visible.
Her lips were still slightly parted, exactly the same curve she had left in the last moments of the night.
The blush on her face had mostly faded, leaving only a faint pink tinge on her cheeks, as if diluted by the morning dew.
Bai Yu stared at her for a while.
Then he moved his hand.
It wasn't intentional.
It really wasn't intentional.
But his right hand slid from her waist to her exposed back, his palm covering it, feeling the warmth of the area in the morning light.
It was a bit cooler than last night, probably because the night wind blew all night, or maybe because her body temperature naturally dropped while she was sleeping.
His finger drew a circle on that patch of skin.
It's so light that you wouldn't even notice it unless you were consciously trying to feel it.
But Mirajane's eyelashes trembled.
Bai Yu's fingers stopped.
She did not open her eyes.
But her fingers tightened a little around his waist.
Bai Yu understood.
His hand slowly moved up, and then his hand went over there.
He felt a sense of being enveloped.
Mirajane finally moved.
Her face lifted off his chest, but only slightly, just enough for her to rest her chin on Bai Yu's collarbone.
Her eyes were still closed, her eyelashes drooping, so beautiful it took your breath away.
"White Feather."
Mirajane's voice was the kind of hoarseness that comes with waking up, like silk that has been sanded, with roughness and smoothness coexisting in a contradictory way.
T
"morning."
"morning."
Then the two of them stopped talking.
The morning light moved slowly between them, from her hair to his shoulder, from his shoulder to their chests, and from their chests to their clasped hands.
With every inch the light moves, the temperature in the air rises by one degree, gradually squeezing out the last vestiges of the night's coolness.
It's unclear how much time passed; in that state, his perception of time had completely failed him, before Mirajane finally left him.
Her movements were slow.
First, she lifted his chin from his collarbone, then propped up her upper body, and then peeled herself off him.
This peeling process lasted a long time, because for every inch that was peeled away, another inch would be glued back on, as if resisting the separation.
Finally, she sat down beside him, leaning against the wooden planks of the cabin, her knees curled up, her arms wrapped around them, her face turned towards the gap in the awning, letting the morning light fall directly on her profile.
Bai Yu looked at her.
Her profile was exceptionally clear in the morning light; her forehead, nose, lips, and chin were all as clean as if drawn in a single stroke.
Her hair was even more disheveled from the commotion last night, with several strands of silvery-white hair slipping down from behind her ears and hanging on both sides of her cheeks, swaying gently with the rhythm of her breathing.
Her neckline was slightly open.
It wasn't an extreme case; it's just that the top button had come undone at some point, revealing a small section of collarbone and a small triangular patch of skin below the neck.
There was a very faint red mark on that patch of skin. It wasn't a wound or a bruise; it was the kind of mark left by body temperature and pressure after a period of continuous contact.
Bai Yu knew how that red mark came about.
Last night, at some point he didn't know, his lips pressed against her there and didn't move all night, leaving this mark on her skin that belonged only to him.
He reached out and touched the red mark with his fingertips.
Mirajane shrugged, but didn't flinch.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"It's nothing."
Bai Yu withdrew his hand.
"There's a mark."
Mirajane was silent for about two seconds, then reached up and touched his collar.
Her fingers paused on the red mark for a moment, then she casually pulled her collar up a little and buttoned it up.
Her ears turned red.
The red started from the earlobe, went up along the auricle, and finally spread to the tip of the ear, dyeing the entire ear a translucent pink, like cherry blossom petals illuminated by the morning light.
Bai Yu didn't mention the matter again.
Some things don't need to be said, some traces don't need to be explained, and some moments don't need to be named with words.
It's there, like the moonlight last night and the starlight tonight; it exists objectively and won't disappear just because you don't mention it.
Mirajah's ears were still red.
Looking at the pink color that spread from his earlobe to the tip of his ear, Bai Yu suddenly felt that this color would probably become the most stubborn color in his memory.
It's not because it's so vibrant; quite the opposite, it's because it's so pale, so pale that you might miss it if you don't look closely, but once you see it, you'll never forget it. Like an overexposed photograph, all the details are blended into the light, leaving only a blurry, warm imprint of a specific moment.
Then the others woke up, and one by one they changed from lying down to sitting up.
Like dominoes, the women on the deck woke up one by one.
Bai Yu remained silent.
It wasn't because he didn't want to talk, but because his intuition told him so.
Speaking now is not a good idea. It was just a vague, unfounded hunch. He has learned to respect such hunches. Those hunches you don't respect will eventually become lessons you'll regret for not respecting.
Then came rustling sounds—the rustling of fabric, the sound of skin separating from wood, yawns, stretches, someone saying something in a very restrained voice, and then another person replying in the same restrained voice, followed by two people simultaneously letting out a low laugh, as if afraid of waking others.
Then came the sound of footsteps.
Bai Yu sensed the presence of those gazes. Not that he saw them, not that he heard them, but that he felt them.
He glanced at Mirajane, noticing the slight tingling sensation on his skin, similar to static electricity, that occurs when multiple gazes are focused on him simultaneously.
Mirajane's expression remained unchanged.
But she withdrew her hand from his waist.
It's not a hasty withdrawal, nor a deliberate hiding, but a natural, calm, and emotionless retraction, like the receding tide.
Her fingers left his waist, and as they left, her fingertips traced a faint arc on his skin.
It wasn't intentional, but it's also hard to say it was completely unintentional.
Then she stood up.
She stood up very gracefully: first, she tucked her knees together, then placed her hands on the deck on either side of her body, and then used her waist and abdomen to unfold her entire upper body from a curled-up position.
Her body traced a smooth, almost elegant curve in these movements, from curled up to upright, from closed to open.
Mirajane glanced down at him.
He sat up and began to get dressed.
Last night, the deck was chaotic, noisy, and soaked in alcohol and music.
The deck is now quiet, damp, and caressed by morning dew and moonlight. The bottles are still there, the food scraps are still there, the messy traces are still there, but they are all covered by a thin layer of morning dew, as if someone had brushed a layer of transparent watercolor on everything, diluted all the colors by a shade, and turned down all the sounds by a volume.
Everyone on deck was awake.
They sat on the deck covered in morning dew, naked, or rather, almost naked.
The temperature was so high last night that no one could sleep in their clothes.
The clothes were haphazardly draped over the ship's side, hung on the mast, and stacked on empty wine barrels, like colorful flags fluttering gently in the morning breeze.
Everyone was sitting or lying down, in different postures, but they all shared a common trait.
That's the languor and relaxation unique to waking up from a long period of deep sleep and after exercise.
The muscles haven't fully awakened, and consciousness is still hovering on the boundary between dreams and reality; the body's language is honest.
Undefended, almost transparent.
Unohana Yachiru sat on the base of the mast, her back against the thick wooden pillar.
Her posture was the most upright of all, with her legs crossed, her hands clasped on her knees, her spine straight, and her shoulders open.
Her naked body presented a marble-sculpted beauty in the morning light.
It wasn't because her body itself was so perfect—though it was indeed almost perfect—but because her posture and expression elevated her body beyond the realm of the flesh, placing it in a realm closer to art or eternity.
Her chest rose and fell slowly with her breath, each rise and fall causing the skin below her collarbone to tighten and relax slightly.
Her waist and abdomen had no excess fat, but not the kind of athletic, muscular lines; rather, it had a softer, more feminine curve.
Her thighs were pressed together, and the lines from her knees to her hips were so smooth that they looked like they had been drawn in one stroke.
Matsumoto Rangiku was not far from her, her posture forming a stark contrast to that of the egg-shaped flower.
If Unohana's posture is upright, restrained, and controlled, then Rangiku's posture is the complete opposite.
She lay on her side, one hand under her head, the other casually resting on her waist, one leg straight, the other slightly bent, knee pointing towards the sky.
This pose presents her body with a complex, multi-layered curve, from the shoulders to the waist, from the waist to the hips, from the hips to the knees, each line meandering on a different plane, then converging at some unseen node, forming an almost musical harmony that only a woman's body can present.
Her long, golden hair was spread out on the deck, like someone had laid an entire autumn wheat field on brown wooden planks.
The sunlight fell on those strands of hair, turning each one into a translucent golden thread, intertwining and entwining with each other.
Her lips were slightly parted, her breathing was light and slow, and the rise and fall of her chest was particularly noticeable because of this side-lying position. One side of her softness sagged slightly due to gravity, while the other side was deformed by the pressure of her arm, forming a flatter outline that was closer to her ribcage.
Nico Robin was the first to wake up besides Mirajane, which was easy to spot. Her pupils were fully focused, and the light she shone clearly, purposefully, and with a thoughtful quality.
She leaned against the ship's gunwale, her legs stretched out in front of her, her feet crossed, and her hands spread out on the deck on either side of her body, palms facing up.
This is a completely open and unguarded posture.
Her black hair was more disheveled than usual, with several strands slipping down from behind her ears and falling to the side of her face, swaying gently in the sea breeze. Her face was turned to one side, looking towards the sea. The morning light fell on her profile, making her features exceptionally clear: her high nose, deep-set eyes, slightly upturned eyebrows, and the corners of her mouth that always carried a faint smile.
Although the sun was very strong, the skin on her chest remained fair, creating a striking gradient color contrast with the surrounding area.
Her waist was very thin, with an almost steep transition from her ribs to her hips, but then it suddenly widened out after the hips, forming a full, rounded curve.
Artoria sat next to her.
Artoria's posture was just like her personality.
Upright, restrained, and meticulous. She sat cross-legged on the deck, hands on her knees, back straight, chin slightly tucked in, and eyes looking straight ahead.
Her expression was extremely calm, so calm that no emotional fluctuations could be seen, but if you looked closely, you would find that her pupils were slightly contracted, and she was not as calm as she appeared.