February 01, 2003.02.01.03. - give and take [rune][newark]
(james)
first come the steps
he ain't bangin' on the skins or buckets or barrels
so there's this cadent beat from the strike of soles against sidewalk
each stride long and loose
from his shoulders, down through lower back, hips, and finally those long legs
that swingin', ground covering gait that seems an effortless pride
maybe that's his breath foggin' up the air infront of him
or maybe it's from that joint clenched between his teeth
lips pulled back to let a little air in around each laced drag
but every few they close again
dark eyes falling victim to closing lids
lungs filling with that green tingling haze
one mo' hit for the roadthe city is dark
the roads are dark
but it doesn't seem like it would matter to him anyway
he'd be smokin' it walking down the middle of the street in broad daylight
but since the moon has dwindled to trickster's darkness above?
seems he's found a little amusement in adding his own version of fog to what creeps down the street
he lit up when the sun came crashing down
some reflection of the oranged pollution haze in the bic's sheen on his face
now night is blanketing the winter-locked land
the cold seeping in with a vengance through patched coat and BDUs
but he doesn't seem to notice it
hands negligently ambling at his sides to match each step
the very ends of dreads tapping against spine in echo(rune)
Something must be guiding his steps, and the rhythm of soles against sidewalk. The long, ground-eating gait takes him through the slouching slumlands, crumbling brick storefronts turned into evangelica churches or boarded over, except on the corner where the bodegas and liquor stores still thrive. The few other stores that eke out an existance in these barren, blasted blocks - pawn shops, check-cashing places - are veritable fortresses, surrounded with black iron and the latest in electronic gadgetry, fortified with armed guards who remain behind bulletproof glass and stare out at the street balefully. Everyone's a target.Among the tenements and abandoned factories, among the turn-of-the-century brick storefronts are neat little homes, or what once were the neat little homes of immigrants with dreams and goals, who sweated out a living in the factories and cultivated tiny gardens in their backyards, full of exotic vegetables from their homelands - Italy, Eastern Europe, Greece - the only memory of their past. Now, not even that. The houses are abandoned, flophouses, crackhouses, falling-down tenements, or just empty lots littered with works, populated by children who are far too old for their size, with hard eyes and sneering mouths.
Another corner, another block, four - past the rowhouses where the immigrants once dreamed, and now the urban poor linger and die slow deaths - into what was the business district of the neighborhood. It is, in fact, still the business district of the neighborhood, but there are no green grocers or dress makers, no chiropractors, no drug stores with soda fountains. Two liquor stores on the corner, three bars somewhere in the middle, and a dirty storefront that claims to be a Malcolm X Memorial Community Center, though the lights are broken and the interior - seen through the shattered window - is empty, another victim of budget cuts.
Outside the best of the three dives - the Empty Glass - lounges Rune. Slim shoulders pressed against the brick, an amused smirk curves across her red mouth as she fends off the advances of one of the dealers from the corner. There's no moon in the sky, and she, too, has that easy sense of calm that comes on the rare days of moondark. She can feel his approach - she knew he'd come - and before he has turned the corner, she's lifted her gaze from the man to whom she had been speaking, slipping across the horizon to wait for the sudden appearance of her pack(lover)mate. The smirk slides into a smile, the easy slouch straightens into a hip-centered lounge. Her companion follows the slant of her gaze, then backs up a step or three, muttering some faint curse under his breath.
Because, really, there's no mistaking the look she gives him.
(james)
something must be guiding him
something must be calling him
he follows it, that whispering urge
the little tug that has barbed hook down between some hidden vertebrae
it's an invisable fishing line that draws him
reeling him in
some big fish in a derelict sea that doesn't struggle the foundering tug deeper and deeper into the murky, filthy, ruined waters colored with the leftover scraps of lives and hopes and memories and moneythe tall raggedy man seems to revel in it
some bedragled royalty that surveys the kingdom slums
there's a smooth line from larynx swell through the rugged jaw
for even though he seems to belong here, where so many would scorn or recoil
it doesn't bother him to be amongst the forgotten and fighting
waging wars against poverty and addiction and racism and a thousand other (worse) things
as much as he would stand out amongst the Wall Street crowds
here he is so comfortably in his element
that confident walk
that swaggering gait
that savage smile raked across his lipshe didn't have to see her before rounding the final corner
he knew, already, what vision would greet him after pivoting step
it straightens his shoulders even more
it sends some volting charge up through lumbar spine
the smile that finds its way towards her companion shows perhaps too many teeth
some darkly playful side of the full moon warrior
the burning ember of the quarter joint caught between gleaming white
downward hook of human canines bared in a rather canid expression
there's a challenging spark in deep amber
(slow exhaling threat all but audible, isn't it)but lips slowly close around the joint
one arm lifting to place palm against the wall above her shoulder
lungs expanding in chest to draw huge hit off the joint
cherry flaring in the burgeoning grasp of surrounding darkness broughy by flickering lamps
the other arm, finally remembered, lifts for fingers to pluck the zig-zagged dream from his mouth
and the Gnawer folds, dreads slipping earthward as head tilts
mouth meeting hers in a kiss. that. is. animal
shotgunning the heavy smoke into his pack(lover)mate through lush contact(james)
How did he -- some high-priced whore.
...and other comments from the audience (for they do attract an audience. The dealers hanging on the corner half-turn, shoot smart little barbs at her erstwhile companion, who thought he had a chance with her because she bought some pills off'a him, because he offered her a joint of chronic like he was in the big-time, expecting some repayment in return.) are all lost. There's a low-fucking-roar in her ears, almost subsonic, that drowns out everything except for him. The smile raking savage, the baring of teeth, the frisson of awareness as her lazy smile turns anticipatory. Predatory.
His palm is flat against the rough brick above her shoulder. His strong body is blocking her in, until she is trapped between the ungiving brick and the familiar, muscled form. Gloved hands slide from her pockets where they sunk seeking warmth. As he folds his body down to her, her arms unfurl, hands slipping beneath the wings of his patchwork trenchcoat to settle on his lean hips. Nails curve, stretched leather and and straining lining muting the bite into his flesh beneath.
He devours her mouth (she swallows his breath, inhaling the scented smoke he shotguns in her lungs) and she drags him forward she's crushed by his weight, well-and-truly trapped against the wall. The animal kiss does not end until she's close to drowning on smoke, her body straining against his as her lungs scream for oxygen. She drags her head away and expels the choking cloud of smoke, then curves her mouth back, snapping teeth across the hard edge of his jaw.
"Well," indulgent, amused, wanton (animal), her red mouth curves in a smile against his skin. "...fuck me. That was quite a hello."
(james)
he can feel where her sharp nails would be through the strained leather
he's felt their bite before, and even through the canvas and thermals beneath
he knows exactly what certain pressure weilds in power
and a warmth spreads from the contact, through his belly and thighs
leaking into the supple sink of muscle
his weight comfortably settling (pinning) hers against the unforgiving wall
any other day he would worry the brick's rusty stains against her coat
today he seems to revel in that, too
because the roll of hips and shift closer makes the mortar scarring all the deepereven as she pulls away for the sanctity of air
he's chasing after her, some demon's relentless pursuit of angelic agony
flat teeth dragging across the red red wicked swell of her lower lip
keeping them in contact just for that pristine moment longer
until she bathes the air around them in the smoke sweetened by its stay in her lungs
then she finds the bone forming his jaw
chin lifting (throat offered) as the smile spreads across him
she can feel it, in their close contact, how it spreads through him"Well." softly laughed low and deep in his chest, some indulged smugness "Quite a hello for quite a woman."
rarely does he get an entire joint to himself
there are maybe one or two drags left in this one
sufficient enough that he is beyond buzzed and sailing amongst the clouds in the night sky above
a tattered kite that's been bruised and battered and torn by the winds
settling to find some santuary on the ground lain before her feet
she can hear the hazed grip by the husky tones finding their way past his lips
murmured in some serene breath leaking out of tingling lungshis hand lifts, roach held beween thumb and forefinger
careful of his dreads and careful of her inky silk
held up in offering to (always) share the last that he has"And I was hoping at some point during the night we'd get around to the other part."
(rune)
Lips part, in response to his offering, but before she accepts the remains of the joint, her head curls until her teeth catch and graze his fingers, lips pressing together to sooth the burn. He is careful of her inky silk, and she is careful of the flame, even as she teases him. The curve of her smile wicks wider - wicked, wild - and then her chin rises, head tiltling to the side (because there is no room behind her. He has her pinned hard against the wall) to allow the movement. Inky strands of hair catch on the teeth of the brick's rough texture, others fall along the length of her elegant neck, thus revealed."We'll get to that." Her smile curves sly, wanton. "...and sooner rather than later, if you're not fucking careful."
The remnant roach finds purchase in her lush and now deliciously bruised mouth. Lungs expand with the long inhale, curving body rising against his muscled form. One of her hands has slipped its perch on his hip, crawling up his flank, interposing itself between them, then rising over the hard rise of his broad shoulders. Across his neck, the gentle pressure of cool leather, with only the suggestion of raking nails behind it, promise rather than fulfillment. The gentle touch is close to tender, light and delicate, as her hand circles his neck to dive into thick dreadlocks.
She finishes the hit, holds it half-a-moment, and then the pressure of her hand on the nape of his neck changes from gentle to firm, from firm to demanding, forcing him by slow degrees down and into another kiss as thorough as it is long, returning the shotgun and filling his lungs with the rich smoke held in her own.
Far be it from her to deny him the last hit on the joint.
(james)
her lungs fill with the thick smoke
his fill with clean air just to lift flank and chest into her crawling, tender touch
the invasion of hand between them a welcome conquest
sending little ripples through the warm liquid of total body high
spreading and running and tickling along the highways of his nerves
amplified by the scrape of cotton over flesh
his head lifts, feline, stretching into the fingers tangling in dreads
dark eyes falling completely closed beneath the caresshe can feel the pressure building, to pull him down
so often he would bolt to her every beck and call
the firm insistance becoming a relentless demand
lashes slit, allowing some little glance to peer down at her
there's a glimmerling of challenge remaining in his eyes
a brow lifting, and for a moment, he resists
muscles through his shoulders tensing to press back against her drawthey both know his resistance to her is nil
and that cooly appraising look becomes a slowly growing smile
muscle loosening to bring them back together
his arms find their way from the wall to somehow place themselves between her and the bricks
gathering her tightly up against his chest
as if he would do more than simply inhale her lifebreath deep inside
there is aggressive abandon within their kiss
he hungers for the taste of her flesh as his lungs starve for her smoke-laced oxygenlungs that will never blacken burn from asphyxiation
there's only the need for a percentage of breath's oxygen
but when that single breath is held for glorious hours
even that percentage is used over and over again
how he loathes to expell the breath she so willingly gives him"Mmmmm..... Is that a threat or a promise?"
sighed across her lips
loath to exhale, then at least he will not move away
gray smoke coiling around them
a curtain between them and the rest of the (forgotten) world
bittersweet herbal remedy to the air's frosting chill(rune)
The night is pressing down on them, thought above - seen only in narrow strips through rows and rows of sagging, decaying development - the sky is clear. Most of the stars are invisible, drowned in the pollution of ever-present light, but some (the strongest. the brightest. the closest) shine on, undisturbed. Somewhere out there is the moon, the rich and heavy disk that rules their blood, raises their ire, and allows them to sink - slowly - into something approaching sanity once more. Even now they can feel it, somewhere circling the earth, some faint silver burn in the backs of their minds, some tidal pull at the center of their bodies' respective gravity.Maybe some of that tidal pull finds its way into the sway of her hips. Perhaps it is merely the spillover from his liquid body high, the faint but certain movements of his muscles beneath the thin veneer of draping clothes, translated by her body's memory of his own: the shape of it, the weight of it upon her, the strength he spends and shares with her, the way he moves when enraptured or enraged.
"Both." Murmured into the cloud of smoke that hangs between them, the word hangs on her lush, pursed lips, blazed into his skin by the hot rush of her breath across his flesh. "Or maybe I should ask, which do you want it to be?"
There's a playful lilt to her tone, undercut by the certain growling challenge that always rises between them. They are not playful lovers, these, for all the games of dominance they play (he pins her. he offers her his throat.) and even now, beneath the darkling moon, there is some predatory current between them, some livewire, some vicious fucking undertow.
Her lips curve into a smile, sketched against his skin. Her lips curve into a smile, flat enamel of her bared teeth cool against his flesh. Both are promises, both are threats, of their own sort.
(james)
(Both)
the word ripples and thrills
it's some reaction rumbling from the depths of his being
way down in his gut, one of those things he simply cannot deny
and she can bring it raging forth with but a single wordit's like a favored promise from some angel
an angel with claws and teeth - but a diety so much greater than himself nonetheless
this shining being (how he adores her) turning but the breifest of smiles on him
that singular word striking that seraphic chorus deep in a humble Gnawer's soul
and then, she offers more
the sole word promise melting and swaying into an option phrase
suddenly, this ephemeral body has given him choice
(..... which do you want it to be?)"Ooooooh baby."
chuckled from somewhere in his chest
(was that just a playful expression, or did he actually dare say it like that?)
it's as much laughter as it is a growl
his jaw tilts upwards to the point that smile - that seditious smile, so far beyond that grin - is offered to the hidden face of Luna in the clear sky above, as if the darkness of the no moon night has inspired some little devilish playfulness in the full-moon man
they are not gentle lovers, no
even in their play, there is rarely a time no visable marks are left upon their skin
and though the bruises and lacerations may fade - because it is the way of their kind to heal the physical hurt so easily
and the nail furrows may eventually disappear amongst the ashed scars on his back
there are other marks they've left - permanent and deep - that will never, ever leave their bodieshe is in the vicious fucking undertow
and when his smile is returned to her
it is dark enough to drag her drowning with him
she's caught in his arms
they wrap python about the long, lean muscles that create her (beautiful) form
constricting to hold her up against his chest
pulling her heart in mirror right up to his
with only the space of their breaths between
she can feel the way it hammers against his ribs to crawl right into her
as if he would give his final breath, the final pump of firey blood in his own veins to simply be with her, for that one moment when they are no longer apart in any way - just so that tandem beat can finally find the perfect synchronicity
his head has fallen to the point where lips tease the silken skin beneath and behind her ear
swallowing the scents of her flesh and shampoo and lotion and something so much more primal with each movement that creates a word
simply because of the air he must gasp to create the verbal communication
she gave him breath, before, and now her taste is his nourishment
words slide sinful in their whisper"I want all of you. I. Want. Both."
(rune)
Laughter - lighter than it should be, darker than it is - begins to swell in her chest, which expands minutely amidst his constricting lift and hold. Her smile crawls wide, lips curving against his cheek, and her shoulders shake with the half-repressed force of it. Maybe it's the half-playful expression, maybe it's that he dared say it like that, maybe it's the sudden surprise as he lifts her until their hearts are level and somewhere beneath their ribs' respective cages, beating in (racing) time.The laughter slides into another sound, low and throaty and edged, mirrored by the long uncoiling of a shiver that begins at the base of her spine and unfurls upward, vertebrae by vertebrae, muscle by muscle, as his breath teases the soft skin beneath her ear.
"...you, fucking, bastard." There's an amused lilt beneath the bladed edge of the words, remnant laughter still bubbling through the sound. Whatever softness is implied by the amusement, though, is erased by the catch and bite of her teeth, snagging the lobe of his ear and pulling back hard as if she meant to draw blood. (No. Blood will come later, incidental byproduct of her nails digging into his flesh, her teeth into the curve of his lower lip as he - and she - and they find some momentary, spiring height before falling back into the darkness below, only to claw their fucking way up again. Blood will come later, but the promise of it, and all it entails, remains.)
Arms worm their way through the tight embrace upwards, until her elbows are settled one his shoulders and her gloved hands are buried in his dreadlocks. The sleek, capable digits tighten, dragging him back from his little feast of scent and taste because she wants to kiss him, goddamnit, because she wants to fuck him, goddamnit, because she wants - somehow - something more than mere skin, because wants is blooming within her like some sunseeking, hothouse flower, too wide and rich and heady for such cold climes, because this is more than mere sex, and he's holding her three inches from the ground and her feet are dangling and she's fucking helplessly walking on air (suddenly, effortlessly higher than he is, the rich poison of a whole joint running like liquid fucking fire through his veins), because however far they need to go to shed the masks and find landscapes of bodies (escarpments and plateaus, valleys and long, fertile planes) mapped and known, and relearned and memorized and read as some scorching sort of braille is way. too. fucking. far.
"Goddamnit." she's laughing and she's kissing him as if she were suffocating, and his lungs the last breath of oxygen in the world) and then she's not laughing anymore. "Put me the fuck down. And I'll fucking give you both."
Her hands tighten, dragging his head back another half inch so that she can focus on him, so that she can stare her challenge into his eyes. "I'll make you fucking take both."
(james)
how her laughter thrills him
there are times, when the masks are thrown away
cast aside and forgotten in the throes of taboo
sounds form a wordless language between them
communicating far more than words could ever personify
breathless half-phrases shared and sacred
coveted like a king's most treasured gold
those are things that speak to the animal behind the man
drawing from some forbidden cache the most intimate of devotions
but her laughter brings something completely different
full-throated sound so rare he could pride himself the greatest of seekers
because he has uncovered something more priceless than any treasure
and he cannot help but respond
a sound bubbling forth in this rapture that she should be so pleased
and that he is the one responsible for it(you set me on fire, you know that?)
her fingers tangle in his dreads
thick vine ropes hauling his skull out of the sea of her scents
dragging the animal away from its gluttonous feast
there's a little sound that replaces his laughter
a moan that catches in his throat
a sound that carries into the devouring kiss
she may be suffocating and he may hold her savior breath
but it is so very clear that she is the energy that sparks his heart to continue beating
a half-wonder if she can feel the strengthening thump against her breast"Choices, choices."
veritably crooned a his neck stretches to her pull and the kiss is broken
within that smile, tongue reaches out to steal her taste from his lips
as if he could not bear one moment without its constant infusion
some IV drip lacing opium dreams and cocaine nightmares
spurring some unfathomable addiction that sears through his veins(i can't live without you, you know that?)
a brow lifts, slightly, seeing the beginnings of her challenge form
then he's drug further back, unable to stop the grin
his arms begin to slowly, barely, so infuriatingly slowly loosening
allowing her back towards the ground millimeter by millimeter"I admit I'm tempted that you'll just fucking give me both."
her challenge met, the stare held
there's a dark burn simply glowing in those dark eyes
some black inferno that only she can inspire, much less survive
his hands slide down, over back, following the curve of her ass
then just as her toes begin to greet the frozen concrete sidewalk
the grip tightens again to lift as he ducks down
moving within the range of her grip
coordinating the length of her muscles to fold at waist by the pressure of his shoulder
abruptly tossing her over his shoulder like some rescue from these ruined, degenerate streets
(oddly, even as fast as he does it, he knows how to position her so she's comfortable, padded by the thickness of his coat)"But I think I'd rather fucking take both."
the cadence of his steps returns to the concrete slabs which form the path to the Beemer
parked just down the street and out of the way - but never out of sight
there's no hurry, even if he wants to run because where "yes" exists is too far and too long away
strong arm locked as steel around her hips
he'll fucking take both - and he'll make her fucking wait(rune)
"What can I say - " interjected between his statements, seasoned with an irrepressible smirk that does nothing to hide the wildfire burn that flares to life behind her eyes as he allows her to slide (to sliii-iiii-iiide, body gone liquid, fucking boneless-melting-easy wanton ooze) back towards the ground. " - I'm just a fucking - " she's leaning up for another kiss, and means for this one to be quick and heated, sealing whatever unspoken promises sizzle and spark across the barriers of skin and clothing, from her jangled, jumped nerve endings to his own. " - temptress." Color her shocked. The ground is beneath her feet, her heels have just clattered against the concrete, and her toes are arching to follow. He allows her no more than a blessed glimpse of land before lifting her into the sky once more and tossing her over her shoulder. Perhaps he's some poorer relative of King Midas; whenever he touches her, she goes fucking giddy, she goes fucking molten. Somehow, she's gasping now - between bouts of surprised, surpressed laughter - trying to find some equilibrium between this strange, light feeling in her chest, that rises like a heilum balloon and lifts her up to the sky and the stars beyond ( - is this what it means, then?) and the delicious bubble of amused outrage that ricochets through her voice.
She's not still beneath the iron grip of his strong arm (not even fucking close). Her hips twist and wiggle, the balance of her weight changes (if he's just going to take it, she's going to make him work for it, after all. That's their deal. It's part of the fucking contract, and one guesses that neither would have it any other way), and her hands begin a slow crawl down his spine because her ass is in the air, and (vengeful or playful or merely lustful) she wants to feel him up.
"I'm going to fucking kill you." Diaphragm rising to power the breath to give wings to her words, moving against the powerful curve of his supporting shoulder. The balloon in her chest rises and rises, expands and expands, until it seems like it's going to fucking burst. Some faint, aware portion of her mind wonders if she's having some sort of heart attack, as it processes the unfamiliar feeling. Still laughing, though the threat comes out in a mocking (taunting, tempting) little growl of sound. "I'm going to fucking kill you, but only because I fucking love you."
(james)
color him shocked
he was drawing breath to find some playful retort
a little quip back to her death threat
but then he hears the growled end
whatever he was going to say just sailed away
he actually.... replays that.... in his mind
luckily they're at the Beemer
because he'd probably stumble and place them both on the sidewalk in a far less romantic position than either intended to get into during the night
either way, his body folds for a graceful recovery, and her heels finally make more than a second's worth of contact with the ground
he's got her backed up to the car, after that liquid slinky sliiiiiide down to the ground
smooth leather taught over hips and thighs pressed against the outward curve of the passenger door
that's when dark eyes find hers, momentum carries him forward just that minute bit more
his thighs are straddling hers, and the warmth of his chest is against hers
drawing some long arch of her back against and across the Z3"And you know what?.... I think I'd let you do it."
soft and low, a thoughful assertation of the situation
his head tips, a bit, when one arm reaches forward
there's a brilliant shine in deep umber
as if those eyes contained the very energy that sparked life out of the earth eons ago
or maybe, he was right all along, that he really does need her to live
and those little words suddenly ignited the lifeforce essential
he's always known - even while he's doubted it, or not thought about it, somewhere inside he's always known
maybe it was just the subconscious subdermal sub-real connection of the same feeling reaching out to it's partner, to the other half that makes the wholebut, to hear it - to have that confirmation however brief or playful or singular it may be
his hand has found her cheek, rough palm sliding against perfectly soft skin
fingers weaving their way into the darkly liquid strands of her hair
as much as he arched her back, he's drawing her forward
continuing their strange little game of dominance
(he pushes her away. he pulls her endlessly back)
there's a smile a mere breath away from hers"Because I fucking love you, too."
there's a smile meeting hers in a long, languid, then bruising kiss
no mistake, the blazing passion that weaves into the moist touch
it warms and lingers and grows into scalding burn
the touch of lips then tongue then teeth then an unbridled possession filling this moment eternal
time stands still, in this second that he's lost himself completely to her
the the beep of the convertible's keyless entry reminds them of the present
she can feel the shift of the gears within the door unlocking it to her access"Now get in the car so I can fucking prove it you."
Posted by james at February 01, 2003 12:00 AM
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