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slashthedrabble Dec. 24th, 2004 07:47 pm)
ruric.livejournal.com posting in slashthedrabble Dec. 24th, 2004 07:47 pm)::cough, shuffle::
Um - hi. First post here - helluva prompt. For "The Dark of Night" which conjured very pretty pictures in my head. Written on the fly and rather fast - cut tag for ficlet and, please, consider yourselves warned. Not what I'd consider particularly graphic but I hedge my bets in new communities. *g* And um - the title is a shout out to Leonard Cohen.
If he keeps his eyes closed he could believe it was her.
Hiding in the dark of night, granted by tightly closed eyelids, he can almost fool himself. Will himself to think that the whisper of breath against superheated skin is hers; that it's her lips which seek out every sensitive spot on his body – the hollow between neck and shoulder, the spot just above his right hip, the dip in the small of his back, the inside of his left wrist – tracing the paths she discovered and mapped the first time they were together.
Teeth nip at his earlobe, tongue tracing the curve of his ear before moving down, marking the tendons in his neck with a warm dampness. A pause as lips press close to the sluggish beat of his pulse, and teeth emerge, grazing slightly – and damn if he didn't nearly turn his head and willingly offer the vein.
The hands that tangle in his hair, the weight of the body moving over him give lie to the fragile illusion he's spinning but that particular dream, like so very many others, shattered years ago. Yes he'd loved her after a fashion – for whatever fucked up and twisted reasons; but she'd never been able to give him this – and she'd easily seen through what he'd offered to her to what he really wanted and needed. And she'd told him so.
Whenever they meet they fight or fuck. There's never been room for anything else.
But in the dark of night when they're lying in the wreckage of the bed, amongst the tangle of sweat-soaked and blood-stained sheets; when his skin is beginning to mark with the perfect purple-blue bruises to show where strong fingers have grasped and held him; when the blood has slowed to a sticky ooze where teeth have punctured or grazed him; when the ache of having fought with everything he has and of being well used has settled memory deep into muscle and bone – in these quiet moments when the only thing he can hear is the leaden beating of his heart and his own stuttering breath – then he's closest to peace.
It's not and never will be happiness – they're not entitled to that – the best they can hope for is an understanding of what they both want.
"Lindsey."
This is the only time he ever hears his name spoken with softness and need. The naked vulnerability of it sends an involuntary shudder through him.
His eyes open, meet brown ones shadowed with guilt and a thousand regrets. Angel's lips twist – the need to speak warring with who and what they are. But he doesn't need to hear.
He pulls Angel down, can taste the coppery tang of his own blood and Angel's in their kiss – because he's as capable of inflicting damage as he is of sustaining it.
In the dark of the night what they are to each other and what they need from each other is mercifully hidden from the world.
Um - hi. First post here - helluva prompt. For "The Dark of Night" which conjured very pretty pictures in my head. Written on the fly and rather fast - cut tag for ficlet and, please, consider yourselves warned. Not what I'd consider particularly graphic but I hedge my bets in new communities. *g* And um - the title is a shout out to Leonard Cohen.
If he keeps his eyes closed he could believe it was her.
Hiding in the dark of night, granted by tightly closed eyelids, he can almost fool himself. Will himself to think that the whisper of breath against superheated skin is hers; that it's her lips which seek out every sensitive spot on his body – the hollow between neck and shoulder, the spot just above his right hip, the dip in the small of his back, the inside of his left wrist – tracing the paths she discovered and mapped the first time they were together.
Teeth nip at his earlobe, tongue tracing the curve of his ear before moving down, marking the tendons in his neck with a warm dampness. A pause as lips press close to the sluggish beat of his pulse, and teeth emerge, grazing slightly – and damn if he didn't nearly turn his head and willingly offer the vein.
The hands that tangle in his hair, the weight of the body moving over him give lie to the fragile illusion he's spinning but that particular dream, like so very many others, shattered years ago. Yes he'd loved her after a fashion – for whatever fucked up and twisted reasons; but she'd never been able to give him this – and she'd easily seen through what he'd offered to her to what he really wanted and needed. And she'd told him so.
Whenever they meet they fight or fuck. There's never been room for anything else.
But in the dark of night when they're lying in the wreckage of the bed, amongst the tangle of sweat-soaked and blood-stained sheets; when his skin is beginning to mark with the perfect purple-blue bruises to show where strong fingers have grasped and held him; when the blood has slowed to a sticky ooze where teeth have punctured or grazed him; when the ache of having fought with everything he has and of being well used has settled memory deep into muscle and bone – in these quiet moments when the only thing he can hear is the leaden beating of his heart and his own stuttering breath – then he's closest to peace.
It's not and never will be happiness – they're not entitled to that – the best they can hope for is an understanding of what they both want.
"Lindsey."
This is the only time he ever hears his name spoken with softness and need. The naked vulnerability of it sends an involuntary shudder through him.
His eyes open, meet brown ones shadowed with guilt and a thousand regrets. Angel's lips twist – the need to speak warring with who and what they are. But he doesn't need to hear.
He pulls Angel down, can taste the coppery tang of his own blood and Angel's in their kiss – because he's as capable of inflicting damage as he is of sustaining it.
In the dark of the night what they are to each other and what they need from each other is mercifully hidden from the world.
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Teeth nip at his earlobe, tongue tracing the curve of his ear before moving down, marking the tendons in his neck with a warm dampness.
So well described, that made *MY* earlobe tingle!
Thanks for this!
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*hums along: Hold me now, oh, oh, warm my heart, stay with me...*
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I hope you'll come back and play again. *g*
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Sweet Merciful Zeus!
Re: Sweet Merciful Zeus!
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You write very wonderful stuff.
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