Icon of Coil: in the abyss [sian]

July 15, 2002

in the abyss [sian]

[club abyss]

it throbs

(pulsing)

mismatched eyes sink to half mast, and while his breath slows for smoke to coil lazily within lungs, the pulse of the club dances through his veins (....come play with me....) the bodies that dance and writhe - slow motion - on the floor (soldiers dying) separated by this barrier of table and bench, he's tucked (warmly) against the velvet back of a booth (its arms wrap around him, breathing, slowly)

watching
waiting

You expect something --(..CRASH...) other than the heavy sound of her footfall the thick absorbancy of her gaze. She's searching [..like a sledge hammer through a glass wall.] for something, for someone. She is -somewhat- attractive in that way that horror movies can make you love [Beg for it.] the villians and fear them all at once. Her head turn and people move out of her way, [UN]conscious of the weight of her gaze. It isn't long before she spots him--

A
hand
reaching
over
the
top
of
the
booth..

--fingers sink into greasy blond hair, the roots dug under nails and iron grip as she lifts, a short breath [phoenix fire.] exhaled from her nostrils. He can't hear he words over the darly pulsing beats, he feels them instead.

['YOU.']

a smile flits over soft lips, touch tickling over his scalp, fingers tangling, tightening, soon dragging the Dancer from his train of thought, the cars screaming down the tracks away from him, body dangled over a nameless void by some hand reaching from above

(.... it smells the Wyrm...... is it time to go back so soon..........)

knees crumple beneath, throb of the floor jangling through his tendons, twisting in warm gut, gazing (not quite focused) up the arm that holds tight

(I've been waiting for you.)

She doesn't grunt exactly [I reflect upon] her lips only make the motion as fingers release sliding strands of hair--greased silk and fingertips fluid like-- he sinks back into the booth by gravity [...yet another force of nature.] 's violent grip. Her head canting to the side as she watches him curiously.

['What are you doing?']

the body collapses like the whirlwind suddenly died and the dust dissipates, slithering back against velvet seat (its teeth catching on his clothes) and the low chuckle is thick, only the movement of his throat, heady sound lost in the waterfall of sounds from above

(What do you think?)

legs spread, one boot on the floor, other knee against the padding, invitation of made room on the benchseat

Their presence sends ripples through the small edifice, [A mass of hands press on the market window] its churns fiery hot and soon sparks to a life of its own. The air heats, and tempers begin to fly, is there a fight breaking out on the dance floor?[Ghosts of progress] Surely the sleek curve of feral form climbing over the back of the booth is missed. Wait, who punched the bouncer? One boot following the other [Dressed in slow death] as she crouches in the booth upperbody stretched against the rounded muscles of coiled theighs her shoulders roll back for a moment moment...

Exhale.
(...so calm.)
THUMP-CRACK!

...and the tables goes flying into the other end of the booth [Feeding on hunger] to make room for extending legs that now sink to the floor nigh peacefully despite (or because of..?) the chaods that allowed such languid pposture. From the neighboring booth eyes flicker [And glaring through the promise] towards the pair.

there is little movement, as the table rips away from beneath settled arm, energizing it to reach towards her, fingertips grazing (melting into) sleek thigh as it unfolds to disappear in the darkness beneath the booth..... the audience ignored as body follows

swimming the channel between them

mismatched eyes closing when cheek makes contact with muscular bicep, skin scraping (away) as neck tenses to rub against the steel beneath ever-tanned flesh, the sounds he makes can only be heard in the vibration of skull against her (are you mad at me?)

Click.
Click.

Her eyes narrow as his body slides over hers [Upon the food that rots slowly in the aisle] but she does not move, neither muscles twitch nor limbs slide--his skull vibrates against the curve of her bicep [A mass of nameless at the oasis] and she is halted for a moment teeth gritting against the moment of uncertainty. Finally that bicep tightens [That hides the graves beneath the masters hill] arm pulling him closer to her face by its own volition as windblows word pantomime void against the HEAVY throb of music.

[Show me.]

those eyes peer (hesitant) in her silence.... fingertips are drawn against skin again, tracing the epicanthic fold beneath thoughtful brow, flat bridge of noble nose, thumb and pinky spreading over the sand dune curves of her cheeks (you want?) jaw trembling in another sound mute to all but her

the tremor weaving down through his frame
(must get more)
begging she forgive him for not having it now.....

Burn.

Always, and she would draw it out him so beautifully. [Buried for drinking] His fingers slide over her features, his touch allowed moments of surcease to rolling amythyst violent. [The rivers water] Small residue of (his) sweat and toxin sparkled against cheekbones where others feared the dream of action. Moving over the sloping curves of her cheeks even as his answer earns certain reply [While shackled to the line] Of full lips pulled back from teeth and the shudder-tread of rising malice that drips from eyes before arm is out as pinning him against backwards motion. The pressure of her movement seeming to push through space and time until his is, a butterly pinned to a wall, flat against the booths vinyl.

Hurt me, Said the masochist.

She does absolutly nothing to the addict who stretches out beneath her desire. [At the empty well] Cold eyes burning in to his own for long moment. Before she simply lets go, her form turning from him without parting glance as she disappears into the throng of swaying bodies she emerges from.

'No.' Replied the smiling Sadist.

beneath the gale winds of her touch screaming across him, he bends (breaks, so willingly) sliding backwards on the vinyl (dead man's epithet to her reborn strength) into this ice cave held so far from the warmth (seething) beneath her skin

rainbow scales on veined wings flaking to break against vinyl, awaiting the judgement to speak volumes in depthless eyes - malice - breath catching to wither in his throat (a death rattle), deflating as if she yanked the very tubes which fed this bodyballoon air when she turned (disappeared - abandoned) back to the club

and.
not.
him.

(....... you are mad at me.)
Posted by asher at July 15, 2002 12:00 AM

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