January 10, 2003.01.10.03. - hooligan's [rune][newark]
(james)
Meet me at Hooligan's she told him
at some time, earlier in the day
when they were both going about their own businesses
taking care of the necessaries for the trip down south
a message came through
half on Eagle's wings
half on something that's grown a level deeper
Meet me at Hooligan's she told him
so that's exactly what he's doingthe night was cold
the bar was warm
and he lingered in the door between
the chilly night wind at his back
rolling in off the derelict street
the warm controlled climate at his chest
filled with alcohol and smoke and the logrhythmic heat of bodies
they don't hush and take notice of this dramatic pause
this dreadlocked raggedy man in a pathwork quilt of a coat
they don't hush and take notice of his path to the bar
weaving in and out of the late-night drunkards and barhounds"Two beers and that bottle."
supported by two fingers held up to make sure he's clear
then pointing towards a brand new bottle on the back shelf
the bottles are taken in exchange for a handful of bucks
and two shotglasses stolen from the carefully balanced stack
and his path begins again
long strides towards the back of the dive
there's a look that makes room in one of the booths
Meet me at Hooligan's she told him
cracking open his beer, he'll wait the night if he has to(rune)
Sometime later - ten minutes, fifteen, an hour. Perhaps he has finished the beer, perhaps he has only taken the first long drag, swallowing the faintly sweet, faintly bitter, yeasty stuff - all hops and froth - from the amber bottle. Perhaps he has waited an hour, or perhaps two.Perhaps he has waited no time at all. Maybe she always knows where he is.
The crowd - drunken, derelict, warm from more than the dry heat pouring from the cranky furnace - that did not part for him, that did not hush and take notice of the raggedy man as he entered and order more than he could (ever) drink, well, now? They hush. And they still.
Women like her do not come in here. Not unless they're professionals. And even the professionals look nothing like her. Their leather is fake. Their fur, similarly synthetic. Their breasts? Likewise. Silicone or saline, sagging without the support of the wonderbra.
She's the real. fucking. thing.
And so the patrons (it's like a wave in a stadium full of drunken football fans. first one, and then another, and then another and another) stop and take .notice. Tall as a skyscraper, with legs just as looooong as they should be and the slow prowl of a predator ( - hungry - ), with inky hair sheened red once more that falls across skin as pale and luminous as the moon, with lips red as sin and a body promising the same, the patrons take notice.
And she notices not a one of them.
The door sweeps open. Some blast of frigid air follows blasting through, a fanfare to announce her arrival. The door sweeps open, and there is not even a flicker of her head. She follows an inevitable, purposeful path right to the back of the bar, right to the shadowed booth he had claimed with little more than a look, right to him. The dirty light gleams off the surface of her sunglasses ( at this time of night?) as she slips in beside him.
He would have waited the night. It wasn't necessary, after all.
(james)
others back away
others stop and .look.
others make sure the sublimely regal woman has right to pass
and he?
he sets down that beer - half finished
and does two, slow, relaxed, deliberate things
it seems he knew when she'd be there
even if a time was never told
he can feel her approach
down the block
to the doors
through the front door
packone.
reach to the unopened beer bottle
fingers smoothing a trail through the sweat clinging to glass
from the tightly glued label to the pressed on cap that should need an opener
but he just pries it off
listening to the short burst hiss of carbonation that escapes
that is set right infront of the empty space on the bench beside him
dark eyes flick upwards, peering through the thickening smoke
watching her for a stride or threetwo.
it's Jose's turn
Cuervo Gold finding it's way into the two shotglasses
liquid shimmering and catching the smokey light
one for him, and one set in place beside the waiting bottle
then those eyes look up again
seeing that final stride towards the edge of the bench
(what's a girl like her doing with a guy like him?)he doesn't move over to make room
no, he just holds up her shot to her
a grin (that grin) playing over his lips
shining deep within his eyes(rune)
Well. Is that a challenge?He doesn't move over to make room for her. Not now. Not yet. He just holds up the gleaming liquid to the smokey light. She does not touch him. Not now, not yet. She does not invade his spaces and shove him to the side. She does not claim her place beside (above, beneath) him (it's a little public here, for that, isn't it?).
The shot glass, plucked from his hand, fingertips (finger .nails.) grazing his flesh, but only just - some half-suggestion of a caress (i can tear you apart) in the quicksilver movement.
Her wrist flexes, lifting the shot glass to the light, to the ceiling, and the night sky and the moon - crescent cool - beyond, a toast to she-who-made them, a toast to she-who-imbues them with that which drives them, and down the hatch it goes.
It's then that she invades his space. It's then that she bends her leg (leather pulling tight with the flexion of muscle beneath skin beneath the second skin) and settles her knee on the bench seat, sliding until she makes contact with his thigh. That's a smile spreading across her fuck-me-red mouth, by turns suggestive, by turns sly.
"Move over." The sunglasses reflect his gleaming dark eyes, and reveal nothing. Oh, but he knows what lies beneath. "Or I'm going to sit on your fucking lap, and who the hell knows what will happen then?"
(james)
he watches her take the glass
(oh, the promise of nails)
he watches her toast the shot
(oh, the reverence they hold deep within)
he watches her slam it down her throat
(oh, the things that hide within that smile)
he watches her come into slow contact with his thigh
(ooh... my....)there's a grin that spreads
it's for the acceptance of that offered challenge
it's hungry and thirsty and all those things inbetween
it speaks what he will never say to her aloud
No.
one hand moving to push the table towards the opposite bench
the other reaching to wrap in the fine (genuine) leather of her coat
outright pulling her across and onto his lapand that hand stays wrapped in her clothing
the other snagging his shot on its return path
it's held in the space between them
as he watches his reflection in her sunglasses
he doesn't take the shot as smoothly as she
it burns its way down his throat
and it shows in the furrow of his brow
the slight squint that begets a smile
shy at first, but soon enough, the half-sneer returns"I've a pretty good idea."
(rune)
"Liar." she says, and she's laughing. She's laughing and she's grinning, and she's leaning closer and her face - with all its contrasts, moon pale and inky black and red red red, like the frames of a black and white movies splashed with crimson, highlighted in blood. "I think you're a fucking liar."Her knees have settled tight around his hips (he pulled her. she did not resist) and her long, muscular thighs hug and then cross his own, and the black leather pants are stretched so damn tight now that they gleam and strain against the curving flesh beneath.
"And you didn't finish your fucking drink."
She's hungry. He doesn't have to see her eyes to see the darkness contained within, the want, the need for release in his arms (and though she will not - and though she will never - think it, no other will do). He does not need to see it, because he can feel it, the tension that sizzles through her body like St. Elmo's fire, the heat that burns through her flesh. The shot glass reflects her features, distorted and oblong, the last drop of tequila is red-gold, some technicolor sunset, where it catches and refracts the light.
"I guess I'll have to do that for you."
Her fingers find his hair. Her thumb stretches to smooth the furrow from his brow. And she dips her head (black hair spilling fine across her cheek, like individual strands of silk, gleaming a dull black-red in the smokey light), capturing the rim of the shot glass between dull white incisors, tongue snaking out from between parted lips to steal the very last drop of tequila from the cool concave surface below.
Greedy.
(rune)
"I." snarled
"Never." smiled
"Lie." sneered across those red, red, wicked red lipsher fingers find his hair
her thumb smooths the furrow from his brow
and he's settled comfortably with boots on the other bench
angle of his thighs keeping her snugly against him
as if he could make her back off anywayhe.... can't help the slight stare at her finishing his drink
(oh. my. god.)
nor the smile that spreads as her tongue slips back between her lips
the animalistic craving that feeds off the energy vibrant about her form
(that's so. damned. close.)the salt was already on the table
it was waiting for him as he sat
and now, he takes one hand and plucks the shaker on up
not yet daring to pull against the hold in his dreads
the other hand wraps firm around her wrist
about the thick leather sleeve and the silk beneath
squeezing and pushing at the same time to expose her flesh belowthat's when he pulls against her hand
turning his head to lick the inside of her wrist
then sprinkling the salt across cooling saliva
and pouring another two shotsthe grin turns into a wicked little sneer
and the sneer turns into a slow little lick
and the lick turns into a quick drink
and the drink... well... he neglected the limes
so instead of green, he captures red instead
claiming a tequila flavored (greedy) kiss(rune)
He - muscular thighs angled just so - holds her snug. She - knees tightening, hips twisting - slides closer still, until she can feel his heart beat in the cage of his chest, a rising, rapid rhythm that mirrors the thrumming pace of her own pulse. The shiver - some frission of awareness, elemental, atomic, nuclear - that rises like jagged lightning up her spine is translated through silk and leather and cotton and skin, her reaction (his mouth, her wrist, the vulnerable pulse beneath, the forward thrust of goddamned life, heady, certain, wanton in the vein) translated and transmitted by every minute movement of her body against his.
"Liar." So very .contrary. she.So very contrary, she asserts and resists, resists and asserts in a breathless half-growl, in a moment stolen from the midst of his kiss. The sound vibrates in her chest, spills into his mouth, burning like the tequila he so recently devoured.
There's enough salt left on his lips. There's enough salt left on his tongue. There's enough salt on his skin. She doesn't bother with the shaker.
Hell, she doesn't bother with the shot. That's the bottle of Cuervo in her hand, the label obscured by the long lean fingers wrapping around the cold hard glass. And that's the bottle between them, interposing just enough that he cannot quite feel the rise and fall of curving flesh against his chest, that he is left to sense the movement by tiny shifting thermals that ricochet between them.
How much does she drink (the kiss, broken, her head tossed back, blunt ends of dark hair spilling back to dance across her shoulder blades) when the bottle is tossed back and the fiery liquid allowed to flow, unchecked? One shot, or two. Two shots, or three, all at a go. Enough so that her eyes (in the middle of all this, her glasses tumble off, crash unheeded aside) water from the burn, or shine with something else entirely, when at last they meet his own.
"If you're not careful," the slurred words spill across his cheek as her mouth finds its way back to his skin. Subdural, subdermal, just beneath the skin, the animal that she is snaps, and her teeth graze the flesh of his jaw. "I might have to fuck you right here."
(james)
there's a sound, low in his chest
even though they don't quite touch
she can feel it as much as hear it
some growl that throbs deeper than even the bass coming out of the old speakers
it's animal
it's greedy
it's showing how his threads of control are unravelingdoes he even want to be in control anymore?
the way his boots slam back onto the ground - yes
the way he turns into the graze of teeth against his jaw - yes
the way his hands grasp her waist and pull - yes
the way her weight settles now firm against him - oh, yes"Oh?"
it's a question and a challenge wrapped up into one neat package
hands climbing up the back of her coat
both finding way to tangle fingers in the silken inky strands of her hair
his grip tightens, so bold and demanding
tilting her skull, slowly lifting her jaw
forcing the exposure of her throat to his whims
but instead of touch - there's the sudden flood of scalding breath
chilled mercilessly as he inhales, sucking in the taste of scents rolling off her flesh
then once again, the cruel reversal of heat spilling on exhaled sigh"I wouldn't complain."
the entire bar probably wouldn't object to the show
he knows how it affects her
the atomic shiver coiling
the elemental tremble quaking
the nuclear explosion imminent
and right at the breaking point
he releases her
the door to the animal's cage is lifted
leaving only the single body in rampaging path
knowing very well the danger that may be unleashed(rune)
He won't complain. The rest of the patrons would not object. Even now, they're watching, stealing furtive glances over their own sullen reflections in the rippling surface of whatever rotgut liquid they're consuming. They would not object, no, but they cannot quite look, either, can they?Not the way she - released - devours him. Tornados have less elemental force, and tigers have been known to attack their prey with less fury. It was, perhaps, the moment that she was coiled there - head canted back by the force of his grip, hair twisted 'round strong fingers, the long white length of her throat exposed not to some delicious devouring ravage of tooth and lip and tongue, but merely to the cruel tidal tease of his fucking breath - desire coiled within her like a compressed spring. How long has it been? How long ( - duty calls - ) be before they can be along again.
And so she doesn't answer his challenge, not in so many words, at least. Words are futile things, fripperies, useless little trappings of civilization ( - she's speaking, somehow, but those words? are hardly civilized, and only for his ears. fuck you uttered in the middle of a bout of throaty, growling laughter is only the beginning of it - ) that mean precisely nothing now.
How did she divest herself of her goddamned clothing - (It's a tricky business, that, and the details are sketchy, some impressionistic collision of muscled bodies and grasping hands - her on his - and all the trouble with buttons and zippers and fastenings and hips twisting to peel leather - and then cotton - from skin.) - and does it matter so much once it's gone?
(Challenge. Answered.)
Even now they cannot look, the bums and the drunks and the bleary-eyed businessmen who stumbled into the bar for a drink and maybe a blowjob from the old hooker who hangs out at the end of the bar. Even now they cannot quite look, full-on, for the animalsoulstuff is shining (fucking shining) through their skin. Even now (her hands twisted in his hair, her devouring mouth, the white curve of her thighs settled around his hips and the bare pale expanse of her own - perfect, perfect - in such exquisite rhythm with his) they cannot quite stare at the animals uncaged, unleashed before their eyes.
They cannot look the way they want to look, they cannot stare boldly, they cannot devour the view, not the way she devours him.
(james)
they can't look
they shouldn't lookto look wouldn't be safe
there is nothing safe between them
there is nothing untouchable
there is nothing holy
except, maybe, the power that suddenly ignites between
it's the righteous thunder of lust (and love) unleashed beneath the challenge
it's something they dare not admit
because the simple act of words confines and destroys
perhaps, unspoken, what it weilds is far greaterhow does she peel the leather - and cotton - from her skin?
he doesn't think about it, he doesn't care
it's the furoius flurry of fingers and buttons and zippers
and the sudden volcanic explosion of skin touching skinshe may do what she can to get closer and lower against him
his hands have fallen, to find her hips
and her weight, once pulled, is now pushed and lifted
the table rattling beneath the force of their collision against it
one shotglass tilts to the side and rolls until tumbling to bounce on the filthy ground
Gold liquor falls to splatter and spread across the table
again, it's nothing that he noticeshe's focused completely on her
and the way he spreads her across the tablehis body surges up to cover hers
Posted by james at January 10, 2003 12:00 AM
flat planes of chest against heaving curves
pinning her across the scarred and abused wood
long trenchcoat tails falling to the call of gravity
covering what some call divine (and others call sin)
her legs wrapping up around his waist
his mouth once more finding and outright violating red, red, wicked lips
there's no more challenging words between them
only heavy breath and grunted growling moan
and the rhytmic slam of table against the wall
and the utter tandem consumption of two Warrior's souls
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