December 09, 2002
.12.09.02. - you've had enough [rune]

[newark, new jersey]

(rune)
This place doesn't have a name. If it did, it lost it long ago. The only thing that distinguishes it from any of half-a-dozen other similar establishments within a one-block radius is that even the neon Budweiser logo in the window no longer works. It doesn't matter, all that much. Budweiser is, after all, a little up-market for this clientele. They stick to Natural Light and Popov vodka, Old Grandad's Whiskey, or E&J brandy on special occasions. There's a dingy pool table - the green felt worn to dingy graygreen, stained with god-knows-what - beneath a low-swinging lamp stark in the light, and the rest of the place is chased by dark shadows. There's barely enough light around the bar for the 'tender to slap off a shot (or four), let alone mix drinks, but considering the film on the cheap plywood surface of the bar and the mismatched tables, that's probably all for the good.

The woman at the bar? She doesn't belong here. She's sleek and pale and arrogant as anything, drinking the best that this place has to offer - Budweiser, from a bottle, because she does not trust the glasses, which have been given only a spit-shine, if you're lucky. She's not quite a regular, but she's been here before - a little business with the Creep, as the in-house dealer is known to his friends - but tonight she stayed for a beer, challenged the local hustler to a game of pool, lost graciously enough, tossing him twenty bucks and spotting him a drink for luck. Now she's leaning against the bar, dark eyes obscured in the shadows, half-narrowed against the smoke. The patrons not too far gone to notice are checking her out, but no one's dared to approach her, not yet, not now, maybe not ever. There's something - instinctive, unmentionable, dangerous - about her that belies the story (spoiled little rich bitch) told by the fine clothes, the fine figure encased in those clothes, the fine, strong features of her face.

(james)
whatever had brought him to Newark
did not bring him to this side of town
rather, it was a strange feeling
one of those feelings that you just don't ignore
and it tugged him through the maze streets of the fairly unfamiliar town
(even if he looks like he belongs)
and it tugged him to the nameless, faceless, lightless bar
(..... and still, he belongs)

the door swings open
sputtering streetlamp outside silhouetting the figure in the tattered coat
shoulders set broad and square
dreads tied back by the faded bandana
that dramatic pause just before entering
(gotta have style man)
dark eyes filtering the shadows and the men lurking within

there's something savage in the upward tilt of his chin
some strange pride that lifts, further, when his eyes finally find her
a smirk twists over young features
and while the men who've drunk away their inhibitions sit and watch
the boy leaves door's sanctity and strides towards the bar
only stopping to claim the barstool next to her
(drop down before the altar, chile...)
and for all the brute strength that seems to accompany him, tonight
there's a little quirked grin in the shadows of his face
(the shadows of his past)
he doesn't say anything
he hasn't said much since the last time they talked

just that little flash of a grin

(rune)
That dramatic little pause (gotta have style man) would draw her smoldering eyes even if the pull of pack did not. As it is, both draw her attention, and her attention remains - unwavering - upon him as he shoulders his way through the smokey confines of the bar. He claims the barstool beside her; she favors him with a long slow smirk before summoning another beer with a casual tap of blood red nails on the bar, barely audible above the low drone of some bass-heavy beat, but present nonetheless.

There's a cigarette smoldering in her left hand, tucked casually between the index and middle fingers. There's a beer bottle - half-empty - in her right hand, dangling in the general vicinity of leatherclad hip. There are two more bottles - dead soldiers, empty, and certainly not enough for her to start feeling it - behind her on the bar. And there's something behind and beyond the smoldering darkness of her eyes - the pupils dilated and half-focused, the slow slide of lashes down and up again - and coiled within her body - the deliberation of her smooth movements - that suggests she's had more than just a few beers in the last half-hour.

"Fancy meeting you here." She's talked plenty since their last talk, but she hasn't said much. That's her way, after all: she can always find something to say. "I should steal a line from fucking Casablanca, but I've got more fucking self-respect than that."

(james)
deep down
beneath the clothes of the warrior
lays the playful street performer
and rebar clinks in time with the bass-heavy beat when sling drops to the ground
though it would only seem to others that he brought his own cue

a brow wiggling
a temptation in deep umber that finds and settles on smouldering mahogany
reaching for the beer with a nod of thanks
brazenly reaching to steal the cigarette from her left hand
a drag pulled into lungs that will never blacken, bottles clinked
before the smoking stick is deftly returned to it's proper place between her fingers
and the open mouth of the bottle finds its way to his
pouring the amber liquid across his tongue in some salutory gift

and that's when the little grin spreads
(.....after. the swallow)
some challenging amusement riding in eyes above that near smirking curve

"I've never seen it, so I wouldn't have gotten the reference anyway."

the bottle raised in silent toast
and a boot hooks beneath the battered footrest which wobbles from lack of nails
weight shifting backwards as the bottle lifts higher
throat moving in steady series of swallows
she's got two bottles on the bar already
.... he needs to catch up

(rune)
"That's something we'll have to rectify," her voice is thick with cigarettes, a shade darker than its usual timbre, a shade slower than its usual speed. "Sometime when there's nothing else to do."

Which means - her eyes tell him, raking down and down and down and then right back up his body, settling on the exposed line of his throat, the bottle tipped, his hand curved around cool amber, his mouth, his half-closed eyes - likely never: she can always think of something better to do.

Leather creaks, hips shift subtly outward elongating her torso into a damnably insousciant slouch, as she extends a leg and hooks her own foot against his footrest, invading his space, asserting her claim. The footrest woobles further, then settles to more even keel in the high arch between the boot's flat toe and the dangerously high heels.

"Don't tell me you're trying to catch up," she smirks, red mouth curving, a mirroring arc appearing in the rise of one sardonic brow. Two nails tap against the bar, summoning another round as she continues, "You can't hold your liquor like I can. Remember?"

That's challenge, there, ripe in her dark eyes.

(james)
the entire. bottle. chugged.
a brow lifts - slow and questioning
the translation he got left the only possibility during some intermission between rounds of another kind, while they both caught their breath, and let body temperatures drop to a level which then demanded they rise once again.... meaning he'd only catch the movie in fifteen minute spreads, sort've like regular cable, except the commercial breaks are much more enjoyable
and her invasion becomes his assertion
she props a negligent boot on the wobbling rest
he hooks his other foot around her barstool and drags it to then draw her closer
some strange cage made of his bent legs surrounding hers

and he waits
empty bottle idly spinning between able fingers
watching the rake of her eyes
conducting his own compositional study of her expression
dropping down in rogue skim across her clothes and what he intimately knows beneath
the hand moves from one bottle to the offered next
some conveyor belt of lush convenience
the empty bottle ringing hollow until standing still in that final half-spin

even through two long droughts, he's silent
and as the bottle goes back down to the bar
his other hand raises
fingers twining in the fine lapel of her thick winter's coat
curling into a slow fist that somehow doesn't crush the leather
tendons tightening and bicep curling to steadily and physically move. her. closer.
half-growling across her lips
so close that beneath the street grime and beer, his scent is unmistakable

"But I thought you liked taking advantage of me when I'm drunk."

challenge accepted - invited
(he. won't. back. down.)
to any other the move would have been rough and coarse, even uncouth
had any other here tried it, surely bones would now be breaking
but she? can see the clear affection in his eyes
she can hear it lacing the rumbling tones

(rune)
"Oh, you - " somehow her cigarette is gone now, negligantly stubbed out upon the already scarred bartop, another ashen burn, darker at the corona than the center, somehow. Still, the first breath she breathes out - the first words she exhales - are twined with a thin stream of smoke that coils insolently between them before merging with the general haze in the air. She breathes in again, a long breath drawn through nostrils flaring to catch - beneath the smoke, beneath the grime, beneath the alcohol on his breath and hers, beneath the scent of old alcohol settled into the very fabric of the place - his scent, familiar as the back of her own manicured hand, infinitely more welcome. " - are trying to rewrite history."

She's practically smiling now, some razor-edged grin, without timorousness or sentimentality. Animal. The snap of bared teeth, the slow crawl of red lips wicking wider, wicking wild. Fucking. animal. she.

His legs - bent at the knees, hooked around her own barstool (the grind of metal against worn linoleum as he drags her, the groaning of worn joints, the protesting sigh of the vinyl cushion as sinks back further into the stool making him work that much harder for her presence) - trap hers between them. Negligent hers rest, and negligent they remain, as her knee brushes his inner thigh. His hand closes upon the lapel of her rich winter coat and he .drags. her forward. Her hand falls on his knee - fuck-me-red nails digging into cotton to sting the skin beneath - then begins a slow coiling crawl up the curve of muscle bunched and flexed and coiled beneath the confines of cloth and skin. (He? does not back down. She? does. not. stop. not when propriety - or some semblance thereof - demands she should.) Slender shoulders straighten - drag back against the forward momentum.

(You gotta want it, James.)

"Here I thought it was you who took advantage of me."

(james)
he - the boy that dared approach this divine creature at the bar
when all the men sheid into their shadowy corners
he - the Cliath that dares manhandle the Fostern
when all others would gasp at such audacity
he - that abandons his beer on the bartop for a far greater reward
her other lapel slowly falling victim to his hand as the pressure steadily increases
drawing her towards his space
pulling himself into the bite of her nails

(want it? I demand it)

that smile rakes savage
lips drawn back beneath eyes that simply gleam
baiting out this hungry animal that writhes and burns beneath her skin

"Oh? Then I guess we'll have to do it again and find out who's right..... unless...."

impossibly, that smile grows
his neck stretching foreward - he's drawn her close enough to kiss
but it is not their lips that meet
his head tilts, teeth grazing wickedly red lower lip
grasping lush curve beneath flat enamel
grip held for several, startling, seconds

".... you suddenly have this problem with dominance and aren't up to it. We could always just go home and watch the movie"

even in his assertion, there is submission
this delicate balance between them in this intimate war
she stands over him - yet he controls her movements
she outranks him - yet he (lovingly) challenges her decision
she won't stop - yet he will never back down
her clothing is released
one leg drops boot to the ground and unlocks this personal cage
attention never once wavering in reach for the forgotten beer

(rune)
He reaches for the half-forgotten beer, and finds it already gone. His attention never wavers from her - lush mouth swollen from his assault still a bladed curve, thick lashes lowering over dark eyes, gaze gleaming wet, catching and refracting all the ambient light back through the screening lashes - and thus he sees the slow crawl of his grin - wicked - wider.

"You've had enough."

Is that enough dominance for you, James? He has freed her, and she's already rising, lean and sure and utterly confident in her command of her athletic body despite the substances she has ingested tonight. There's a frisson of awareness that shivers between them - electricity, ball lightning, St. Elmo's fire, whatever. Something fables and hot and just a little bit dangerous - her hand on his thigh, her body brushing close against his own before pushing away toward the door.

"And now?" Her voice drifts over her shoulder, but she does not quite look back at him. There is only a suggestion of a glance - a glimpse of her profile, the swing of inky hair over leatherclad shoulder, the sway of leatherclad hips, the whisper of leatherclad thighs, the promise of smooth white skin beneath all that black leather. "I'm going to take advantage of you."

There's nothing else. Nothing else. Just the certain retort of her bootheels on the filthy floor, the certain tread of his booted feet in her wake. The door opens and a blast of winter air swirls in (it does nothing to diminish the heat) and just like that, the unlikely pair are gone.

Posted by james at December 09, 2002 12:00 AM