November 13, 2002.11.13.02. - schreie in der nacht [rune][north jersey, rune's condo]
(james)
after the battle had raged in the parking lot
after the Gnawer had hobbled his way back into the condo
after the wounds had been cleaned (just in case)
after the bones had been set (just to save time)
after the Ahroun had collapsed, exhausted, onto the couch
after the sun's dawning rays had begun peeking through the drawn curtainshe slept
right there
on the couch
not passing go
not collecting any amount of cash
crashing and burning right then and therejungle vine dreads spread in lazy array across the soft leather
left arm thrown over his eyes to block the brightness of the day
dark bruises along his jaw slowly crossing the barrier from mauled purple to soothed yellow
right arm kept close to his side, unjostled, as the bone there, too set throughout the passing hours
the ruined boot had been pried off, the swelling rising then falling away again as impaled foot ventured to healshadows began to lengthen
strange little armies crawling and snaking their way across plush carpet lands
to the couch, to the far walls, towards the kitchen
the sun's descent plunging the world into slow, comfortable darkness
he doesn't want to wake just yet
not yet
he finally found a position that negates the processional aches and pains
(rune)
The night before, she snuck out to resupply the basics: pot (they were out. the pack smoked weed like fiends.) and benzodiazepines (she was out. she took Xanax like there was no tomorrow.) Three beers and half-a-bottle of whiskey with her friendly neighborhood dealer later, Rune stumbled down the street and checked into the Motel 6 where her car was parked. Somewhere around ten a.m., an inquisitive maid had woken her up. It was the first time she had seen morning on waking in......weeks. One long, steaming shower later, Rune hit the upscale malls scattered around the northern Jersey suburbs with a vengeance, AmEx in hand. The day was one long, delicious headache, bright sunshine gleaming off the rows of parked cars only a bit more dazzling than her self-satisfied smirk.
The low-slung western sun cast long shadows across the parking lot, as Rune climbed out of her Z3 and gathered the innumerable bags stuffed haphazardly into the little Beamer's little trunk. Somehow, she managed to balance all of them on her long arms and still have a free hand for the steaming bag of Indian take-out she'd picked up on the way back home. After some fumbling at the door (the key, the full hands, the nigh awkward juggling of boxes and bags full of tissue in which all little treasures were tucked) she made it half-way through the foyer before dropping the first bag on the blood-spattered carpet, and half-way through the living room before dropping enough of her burdens (they littered the path from the door like breadcrumbs dropped by children lost in a haunted forest) and actually noticing the blood trail.
"...fuck." The rest of the packages (except for the Indian food) fell from opening arms, one great whoomph of sound. She circled the couch and placed the aromatic bag of take-out on the edge of the coffee table, then sidled by to the edge of the couch. Her shadow fell briefly across her sleeping packmate's face, lowering as she sank into a crouch beside him, angling for a better look. He was breathing, the remnants of a healing bruise sallow beneath the tanned skin but she was loathe to wake him from his nap.
Two minutes later she was settled on the floor, back resting against the couch, an open beer in her hand. Another - unopened - rested on the coffee table, waiting for him to awaken.
(james)
the key's fumble tugged at his dreams
dropped bags sudden strange rain pitpattering in subconscious landscape
whoomph
sudden downpour sending flash floods across the valleys between the mountains
darkness shadowed the twisting trees
solar eclipse pulling away to reveal a glittering dew-strewn landscape
breeze washing tidal with the scents of..... Indian food?
it's a slow stretch that lifts his arm
peeking at the shadowy form that's slow to come into focus
lips tugging into a lopsided grin
smooth voice still thick from sleep"Hey...."
talk about a sight for sore eyes
(rune)
"...hey you." The little grin rises unbidden to her mouth, hidden from him by the fall of hair across her cheek until she tucks one long leg beneath her and half-rises enough to turn to the side and glance up. That's a new shade of red on her curving mouth - he must know the usual color so well by now - just a hint darker than her usual blood-red shade, matched perfectly to her freshly painted nails, which gleam as they spread out along the leather couch where her hand curves over the cushion."Feeling better? What happened here?" Her cheek settles beside the curving hand, grazing the edge of the cushion. The fine pale skin reflects dully in the smooth leather, a pool of almost-light in darkness. Afterthough, dark eyes grazing the fading bruise, "...oh, I picked up some take-out, but I can make you some chicken soup if you'd prefer."
(james)
the movement is slow, aching
but the little lopsided grin grows
he knows the usual color
though he certainly likes this one
good arm moving enough to let knuckles softly graze her brow
fingers stretch to comb through primped and perfected hair
a brow lifting at the offeramused at the tease, that she would still pamper him
amused at the simple thought of Rune in the kitchen
not something he ever expected"I should be able to handle it if I don't have to chew too much."
the movement is slow, aching
using muscle through his belly and legs rather than arms to crawl into sitting up
gingerly testing heel against carpet before even considering letting his foot rest
making room on the couch for her
tentatively stretching to test how far healed the bone beneath bicep is from crowbar insult"Dire came by for another visit."
as if that summed everything up
and it does, actually
until he's satisfied with the movement in his arm and tells the rest of the story(rune)
The dark, dark eyes half-close as as rough knuckles graze the smooth skin of her brow, lashes a dark smudge against the arrogant line of her pale cheek. And as his fingers stretch to slip-slide into inky strands of shining hair, her head drifts forward, prolonging the caress, listening ruminatively to his tale.Somewhere in the middle of the story, she opened the second dark glass bottle and hands it to him before rising. She gains her feet easily, lean body arching into a lingering stretch that begins with the toes and curling in high-heeled boots and unfurls through her body, unselfconscious and animal, ending at last in the out-stretched fingers flung high back and above her head.
She scatters the little aluminum bowls of take-out covered in round cardboard lids and plastic domes across the coffee table, leaving the hors d'oeuvres and finger foods in his easy reach, a platter of tandoori chicken so tender it falls off the bone, fry breads, samosas, chutney and raita - enough to feed an army, enough to feed a pack. Then she settles on the couch beside him, curling close enough that he can feel the faint heat of her body staining his skin, close enough that her scent washes over him, alcohol and engine fumes, ash and musk.
(Rune in the kitchen: an amusing thought. This wild creature, this superficially human animal, puttering through the paces of the ideal human female, opening a can of soup and setting it to simmer, not bothering to add a second can of water. The Indian food is probably his best choice, even if he has to chew.)
"I ordered a new monitor and a new laptop, but they'll be delivered tomorrow," she says, continuing the Kafka-esque tale of her day - the labyrinths of shops, the new lipstick - and flashes him an almost abashed little grin. "...no room in the trunk."
(james)
the careless animal stretch
the way a body lengthens to offer itself in simple celebration of being
unfurling a brilliant flag in heavenward wind which snaps vicious with primal energy
the hand that wraps around the bottle stretches further
beer cradled between thumb, ring and pinky
first two fingers extending to trace horizontal the tight tight tight length of muscle offered
just where her shirt pulls above belta simple touch
a simple affection
a simple reaffirmationgaze rising to catch the dark red curve he knows will be there
a healthy (?) swallow taken from the bottle before its set on the table
as she joins him on whispering leather he folds foreward to hook hands beneath the coffeetable lip
dragging it closer so neither have to reach
and the way he dives into the banquet set before him
it's obvious healing is hungry work
no matter how much each chew aches
he's marching through it like a soldiersome cadet in the foreign legion
surrounded by scents seeping heady from the bazaar
stained by scents washing from the exotic animal next to him
black salt alcohol cinnamon engine fumes cloves ash nutmeg muskanother grin after a swallow
infectious her almost abashed expression
he enjoys hearing her prattle on
he enjoys the tones that find their way into her voice
gesturing towards the void of the plasma tv with a naked chicken bone"Have you thought what to do about that yet?"
he knows how expensive those are
no mere monitor or laptop
though the question isn't expectant
he wasn't one to watch it much anyway
it was curiosity(rune)
How her body responds to him, curving slow out of the long, delicious stretch and into the slow trace of his fingers across her form, hand folding over his and .pressing. his fingers like a hot brand sizzling into smooth, burning skin."No fucking clue," she replies, the abashed grin slipping into a slick little smirk as she takes a breather from her own feast. Healing is hungry work; so too, is shopping, and she is no mere human woman, to pick lightly at her food. He knows the energy contained in that lean body, the furnace of spirit and rage within that drives and consumes her, for it drives and consumes him, as well. There's a little hesitation then, an elegant answering gesture emphasized by the ragged length of fry bread tucked between her left index finger and thumb. "I... I could call my parents, I guess."
(She has parents? Strange, she just doesn't seem the type even if he knows it has to be true. She could not have walked out of the pages of Vogue, fully formed, like Athena from the aching head of Zeus, like Aphrodite rising from the lavish sea.)
"But..." another smirk, and this one is self-concious. Perhaps she's aware of the ridiculousness of a twenty-five year old woman, a warrior, a full-moon, an eleven-year veteran of the ward, calling home to beg for money because the television's broken. One year ago, she wouldn't have given it a thought. She continues, her dark voice more quiet now, "....I don't really want to. I might see if my uncle can help - he takes care of the credit cards - but I think it would be too much.
"Maybe I'll just fucking leave it up," she continues at last, wryly, "...call it modern art."
(james)
for some, there are commands in words, phrases spoke or writ, etched permanent into the mortar slabs of time and memory, slavish tones that rattle and roar across the battlefields which brings armies to attention or their knees with the power of sound and rationfor others, there are commands in gestures, a look, a touch, fingertips a simple pluck across taught strings wiring muscle to bone to tendon all beneath the glowing warm cover of flesh, a silence that fulfills presence of mind over matter with the ease of which it reaches skims touches and .presses. skin as the ultimate conductee
it is the latter he knows
he that could, would, never lead the pack
he knows how to lead her body
he knows how to bridge the silent commands between them
to make nerves sing
to make muscles burn
he's learned it
he desires it
for the very same molten sea that thrives deep within her soul, that drives her
most definitely drives and tempts him, toothe heated thoughts soothed in the soft roll of laughter
"Would you mind a smaller, far less glamorous version infront it for awhile, then?"
(rune)
She settles back against the sighing couch, pressing the last shred of crispy-chewy bread into her red mouth and flashes him a close lipped grin. The wave of her hand is a little apologia for the necessary business of eating, chewing, to feed the fire within, and must hold him until she has at last swallowed down the bite of bread."Mmmm..." she murmurs as she struggles to down the last bite, one long finger pressed against closed lips, dark nail gleaming like fresh blood. She comes up laughing at her own raw greed, the inelegance of the moment, caught in the quotidian, and yet, when restless dark eyes settle upon him again, the laughter bleeds away, leaving only dark flame. "...wouldn't mind at all.
"...least I could play the fucking playstation, and the crap space invaders on my phone." The pause, the sly curve of her grin, the movement of her body ever-so-minutely closer, until thigh rests against thigh, daring so much in the eyes of the world, with the windows open for all to see and the lights projecting their figures against the shifting pale curtains like shadows on the wall of Plato's allegorical cave. Her head is listing to the side, the smooth ends of dark hair brushing against his shoulder, and she continues, mock-mournfully. "...I've already beaten the big boss alien twice."
(james)
of all things
they understand feeding inner fires
they understand refueling after exhaustive days (and nights)
they understand the full-bodied greed which can suddenly squeeze an undeniable grip
they understand.... in a strange way.... each otheras she shifts closer
riding above the waves of the exotic spices
he can so easily find that scent, that musk, that oil clinging to her skin that essentially defines her
no matter how much she washes
no matter how much she perfumes
no matter how much she lotions
he will always be able to find the one intangible , maddeningly abstract clue that will always reveal her to him even after all the masks, scents, clothing, rank and Tribe have been stripped away
he knows the ease with which it will cling to his skin
the light touch of silken inky strands a hundred tiny paintbrushes that smear it to his shirt
the sheer closeness allowing him to fill his lungs with it
with her"Well.... there's a pawn shop down on Chester that's got a 36"..... couple years old, not quite a Plasma but it will accept the PlayStation and the cable and whatever else you had hooked up... good shape..... and the last fifty bucks needed to pay for it is in my coat."
that's when he finally looks over
not at the shadows playing on the curtains
not at the way they sway in evening's breeze
just at hershe knows damn well he doesn't have any use for a tv
but he knows she and the pack do(rune)
Think of how much (phantom) money she just spent. Packages litter the condo from the door to the living room, little shining stones by which one can trace her path, which lead to the treasure trove where the rest just .fell. from her arms when she noticed the telltale spatterstains of bloodpath on the carpet. Boots and coats and blouses and shoes, lotions and lipsticks and pots and jars and unnecessary little alchemical bottles promising to turn aging, sagging, flaking, discolored skin into the modern gold; silky underthings and smooth outterthings and new burgundy sheets for the bed; and a completely unnecessary set of martini glasses, complete with stainless steel shaker with a clever dial that turns to reveal the recipe of any of 30 drinks, some of which no one has drunk for thirty years.Think of this, because Rune does not.
"Thank you," she replies simply, some small half-grin settling easily on her full mouth. It's still an odd expression to see there. She was made to smirk, and no matter how many times he sees it, the grin must always be a little... unexpected. "...you must've noticed how useless I am without the fucking stimulation."
Oh, there's the smirk, spreading knowingly across her mouth and crinkling the corners of dark eyes shadowed with smoke. It just crawls across her mouth as she lifts her lowering head to catch his gaze, as her lean body stills.
(james)
unexpected.... or craved?
more important than the sun's warming rays to a dying plant
more important than the life-giving air to a baby's first breath
more important than the cooling water across a bedouin's tongue
more important than the warming food to a beggar
is that smile
that genuine happiness
that upward curve not colored by smug or spite
how easy it is for him to look past the mask"I rather liked how narrow the fucking stimulation options were."
umber deep and raw as the tilled earth
mahogany slick and polished as the wind burmed tree
how one so importantly depends on the other
without the supportive soil the tree will topple
without the deep wrought roots the earth will crumble landslide's wayshe stills
time stills
he drowns in dark-filled pools
(he's already realized how comfortable he is here, even if he won't admit it)(rune)
Thus captured, her eyes remain on his another minute... or five. Absent the blaring music, absent the inane chatter of the television or the frenetic pace of the video games, absent, even, the ticking of a clock (shattered. all. shattered.), there is no way to measure the passage of time. The sun disappeared beneath the horizon while they devoured their feast and the world outside the windows is silverdark. Perhaps some sixth sense, some awareness of the rhythms of body, blood, breath relays the measure of the moment to the some primitive part of the civilized mind.She breaks the glance, at last, leaning forward to find the complicated remote buried underneath the remnants of their meal scattered across the gleaming lacquered coffee table like jetsom on a nightblack sea. Deft fingers fly over the touchpad, and (discretion being the better part of valor) the wired room goes dark.
"I think the television can wait another day."
Her voice is throaty again and not from too many cigarettes (though he can smell the ashen scent, coiled around her swinging hair, twining through the weave of her clothes, settled against her skin) and she is leaning forward, rising to shift her body to one knee, briefly balanced in the awkward pose by her other foot, cast carelessly to the floor. She is rising and she is twisting - the direction is telegraphed by the liquid lines of the mock turtleneck that curl and sheer against the motion of her body, beneath. Facing him, she curves forward and rests her hand on the lip of leather behind his back. The cushion sighs and creaks in response to the sudden burden of her weight on one knee, until she brings the other up and settles astride his lap, both knees sinking into the cushions now, on either side of this thighs.
Her eyes find his again, catching and holding (that look, he will remember. he will always remember) them as her hands find their way into his hair, crawling through the rough tangles of dreads like pale spiders. And as her mouth finds his, her voice slipslides into his mind, sly and knowing and sure.
You're injured. Just this once, I'll go easy on you.
(james)
to the animal
to the beast
time doesn't matter
there's little thought of tomorrow
there's little thought of yesterday
it's all about living the now
it's all about surviving the now
it's all about fulfilling the .now.and now
in the darkness
in the silence
in the absence of everything else that burdens them
in the thick blanket of heady spicey scents that is the barest memory of dinner
there is only .her.and how that hunger changes
as if spawned by the sudden sounds of leather murmuring the shift of weight
as if inspired by the sultry tones that twine incense through her voice
the sudden clutch of hands to hips to capture this animal and draw it closer
some coveted endangered specie that is suddenly and simply .his.that look
he could never forget
just like the errant smile that finds wonton presence in flickering seconds gracing red red (dark red) lips
he craves it
even in the darkness he knows it's thereit is strange the myriad concoction of appetites that they must feed
the way skin touches
Posted by james at November 13, 2002 12:00 AM
sighed breath shaking into moan
the way the silence speaks
sly and knowing and sure
the way his hands crawl beneath clothing to find warm, burning skin
hunger growing - growling - to blistering crave
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