February 23, 2003.02.23.03. - IthiCA is GOrges [rune][noje]
(james)
one could only stay in the condo for so long
right mind would dictacte that he remain indoors out of the worsening weather
(supposed to be more snow heading in)
obviously, he has entered his left mind and gotten lost somewhere therein
because he's heading out of the Quicki-Mart
right back into the windleft arm has been occupied by the box recieved from Nina
right arm now slings half back over his shoulder
the little netting bags that Rune uses filled with various items
when one is bored and searching for a reason to take a walk
a.... lucrative... reason, other than sheer insanity
random groceries is the key!
there will always be something that the pack needs
or at least something he can conjure up to pick up
.... just because.(seems you're doing that an awful lot lately, Jamey-boy)
the walk home is far less eventful than the walk to the Mart
no half-frenzied lines of mask-wanters
no random clutzy kin
nothing really, but one Bone Gnawer, the wind and the rain
the occasional flickering sodium streetlight
the laden, weeping clouds above that block out the stars
and let's not forget about that rain. lots. and lots. of rain.
so by the time he's taken the shortcut through a yard or three and crossed the complex parking lot
he's now one drenched Gnawer
(guttermutt turned drowned sewer rat)
dreads weighted down by the soak so that even the wind can't play through them anymore
trench clinging slick and dark to the long lines of his lanky frame
boots sloshing through puddles as socks are probably the only dry thing on him
but he doesn't seem to mind it, reallythere's something about being outside when it rains
lungs filling with the scents of the land washed clean
just for a few hours, the comfortable and familiar scent of pollution drug away
filled with that crisply wet ozone smell from the dropping barometric pressure
you can never really take the smell of the city away, never completely
but there seems to have been some sort of balance between scab and wyld created during the storm
something he has, quite literally, soaked up in the stroll through winter's waterpark once known as Hibernia
that's about when the key hits the door of the condo
a pause to wring out as much clothing as he can
creating his own little Ahroun pond on the front porch
then the door clumphs softly closed behind him
and he's paused again - this time to actually remove a majority of the soaked clothing(rune)
It's warm inside. It always is. Rune keeps it seventy-two-fucking-degrees, and not a whit lower. There's a bit of chill in the foyer from his entrance, mingling with the bit of chill that lingers from her return, a half-hour ago. The foyer wasn't ever anyone's priority when it came to heating.Loud music ricochets through the first floor, spilling out of the half-hidden speakers of the surround-sound Bose system. It's all... noise and feedback, mostly, with the melodic line carried through the center of the storm of sound alternately by bass or electric guitar, and a pair of voices - male (droning) and female (close to ethereal) singing every line: yeah, we'll find you and take you home, tonight. The sound itself is reminiscent of the Jesus and Mary Chain - if, of course, they'd added a female singer to the mix.
The music's so loud that he probably can't hear the comparatively subdued sound of the PS:2, as bad guy after bad guy is obliterated by a judiciously aimed grenade launcher. Sure, the rocket launcher may be the more powerful of the weapons, but there's something about the grenade launcher that appeals to her. It's immediacy, perhaps, or the lack of recoil, or...
...what's that? The couch sighs its release from her weight as she rises, bare legs sliding over smooth leather in a fine display. Too bad there are no witnesses. As usual, she's dressed down at home. Either she's not planning to go out again, or she went out in such weather in silk boxers and a t-shirt ("Ithaca is Gorges." Who the hell knows where she got it.) and since she's not one to expose herself to the elements, it must be the former.
Her steps are soft on the plush carpet, a muffled hum of movement overwhelmed by the avalanche of sound even when the volume is suddenly halved. Hand splayed across the doorjam for support, she swings around through the open arch and peers into the foyer - quietly, as if she could actually surprise him - and lifts a sardonic brow at the state of his clothes.
"Raining, hmmm? I know what you need," she murmurs, when he looks up and finds her eyes, reaching out her hand, palm up, for the net shopping bag.
(james)
"Bit, yeh."one hand is pressed against the wall
the other is reaching down towards one boot for unlacing ceremonies
his body is something of a Z curve balancing inbetween
a strange little glyph created by muscle and skeleton and..... water
and now he's looking up, one brow lifted a little
a little grin finding its way across his mouth
a little shine glimmering in deep umber eyes
seems like it's all about the little things, with themboot returns to the floor, and he's hooking up the net shopping bag
bottles clanking against each other, a plastic crinkle here and there
balance precariously held in the long stretch that hands it over
and once that's relinquished, he's back to removing boot"And what's that?"
then the other boot
and the three shirts that are dripping onto the foyer floor
those are balled up for his passage through the living room
straight into the washer for those
weight of them hitting the side with a wet splatter
luckily the camo's don't hold enough water to actually drip
so he can probably deal with staying in those a little while longer
elbows leaning on the breakfast counter while he's watching her"Hm?"
slow appreciation in those eyes
silk boxers? t-shirt? he really can't ask for more
the gooseflesh chill slowly leaves his skin beneath the heater's warmth
capillary flush finally returning to contrast the dark scars running across his back(rune)
She remains there, one hand curled around the door jam, one hip propped casually against the frame, the other dropped casually along the length of flank, hip and thigh, shopping bag swirling curlicues from its suspended weight, orbit interrupted every tenth of a second by the muscled curve of her bare thigh. She remains there, watching him - wet hair falling forward across her cheek, curling up at the ends as it begins to dry, some responsive half-smile tucked cheshire-like across her red, red mouth - as he divests himself of his boots and bends to sweep the soaked shirts from the floor.And she stays there as he sweeps past and through the living room, flattening herself against the doorframe to allow him entry, but not quite enough that he can pass without touching. In this case, the graze of her crooked knee across the damp camos and a faint bump from the shopping bag dangling from her hand against his thigh.
Her turn to follow him through the living room, rounding to the kitchen (beneath her breath, a low wolf-whistle, so quiet it can barely be discerned above even the half-powered stereo.) Should he turn around, he'll find no betraying knowledge of it on her face, though the brief beam of a pseudo-innocent smile coupled with a pair of rising what? who? ...me? brows are enough to establish her guilt.
the cops are on our tail but that's alright
the cops are on our tail but that's alright
we won't pull over and that's it
...fuck you. fuck you.When he returns from his brief trip to the laundry room, she is putting away his bounty and singing along to the music under her breath. Since most of the melodic line is a sort of semi-spoken drone, she can manage it. Otherwise, the whole exercise would be laughable.
"Hmmm?" Slamming the fridge door closed on the bottles, shifting the shopping bag up higher to riffle through the rustling snacks and toss them up, each by each, into the huge wok stored about the fridge, which has never held anything but doritos and cheese-its and other such things.
"Oh, yeah" - understanding, the slow, organic growth of a well-tended smirk - "well. All that rain, and everything, you're bound to catch a cold." He'll never catch a cold. She'll never catch a cold. Their bodies destroy such invaders without so much as a sniffle, let alone a sneeze. "...so, you know. You need a hot toddy, and a warm bath." Amused, she tosses the empty shopping bag on the counter and leans back against the fridge, arms crossing in challenge. "oh, and after that, probably... should wrap you up in a blanket, put your feet in a tub of hot water, and feed you chicken noodle soup by the teaspoonful. You know: pampering."
(james)
she's stretching to toss the bags onto the wok atop the fridge
he's picking his jaw up off the breakfast counter
the rise and pull of thin tee across her waist and lower back
the way silk slithers across the swell of hips
the muscle that plays through her calves at the apex of each... toss...by now she's turned and is leaning back against the fridge
arms crossing her chest in challenge
snap out of it, James"A.... what? Toddy?"
blinking through breif confusion
he's still caught on the stretch and 'fuck you's
obviously having to rewind memory and bit and playback her words
that's when palms flatten on the gridlock tiles
muscles through forarms tensing as weight shifts up
there's a rotation around his shoulders, moving up to crawl and scoot until he's sitting on the opposite ledge
then forward momentum continues
one heel braced against the cabinets below
one hand clinging to the little ledge beneath his thighs
and one finger venturing across the great divide between them
hooking in the elastic waist of those boxers, and pulling, sloooooowly
(and you know the t-shirt hem was covering it, so he had to lift that first)
either she's going to come forward off that cool surface behind her shoulderblades
or he's going to get a helluva view to divulge whether or not she's wearing underwear(rune)
"A ... " the first word is playful, and little more than that - though it's hard to discern from just one syllable. Teasing, with her usual sardonic edge you mean you didn't know this already? sort of thing that has driven lesser men crazy (rich bitch. fucking snob. any of a number of similar epithets, though those are the usual roster) with that strange combination of resentment and envy that can so easily poison the heart. "...toddy."The teasing edge is gone, though, by the time she echoes the second word. Her voice has fallen a precipitous fifth, into the low register that reverberates more in the throat than the mouth or nose. The fall in pitch is mirrored by the downward sweep of her dark challenging dark eyes from his face to his... hand, two fingers tucked into her waistband, the thumb heavy against the lifted hem of her cotton tee. As her gaze fell - before, perhaps it fell (if he were not looking for the answer to one of life's persistent questions: what's she wearing, under that? do boxers count as underwear for girls?) he saw, too, the change - the slightest dilation of pupils as her eyes changed focus, darkening already dark eyes before lowering lashes swept her gaze down and away.
"You know - " inhale, brief and sharp and let him touch her and let him fucking look hmmm? exhale, slow and controlled and vibrant with the sudden change of tension in the room, " - a, uhm," inhale, sharp this time, sharper, as she follows his tugging urge (inhales his scent, inhales her own, sucks in the air as if it were laced with electricity, ozone, dangerous, crackling) and takes a precise half-step forward. "toddy. Hot lemon water and whiskey and - "
The explanation does not so much trail off as much as it is bitten off, sharply, so that she can take another breath of the crackling air. Though she doesn't look up, one dark brow rises as the elastic stretches further and further (arms still crossed, the challenge changed now, charged. The answer: no.) and a slow smirk crawls across her painted mouth.
Another half-step, then, no more. He'll have to drag her the rest of the way.
(james)
oh no, he didn't know
and for some reason right now it seems like he doesn't particularly care
he has quiet successfully distracted himself with the view provided down her... box....ers...
(.... oh my)
the little quirking grin seems to divulge he's quite happy with this discovery
even if he already knew the answer
even if there are a thousand things he knows about her
(and there are)
he still joys in finding the answers as if he had asked for the very first timethat's when his gaze crawls upwards
his body suspended bridge between the breakfast bar and the beautiful island which is the GlassWalker
deep inhalation categorizes and smears the crackling ozone that's dangerously ignited the air
not at all surprised it would seem he brought the impending storm indoors with him
there's lightning held in deep umber
an outright seditious glimmer crawling into his smile
two fingers becomes four
fist wrapping in the thick elastic band
oh so very clear he can challenge just as overtly as she
there are times, even to her, he won't. back. down.he didn't know what a toddy was
he knows precisely what he's doing to herthose tones
those insulting, snobbish, scathing tones
they would drive others to frenzy
they would poison, atrophy, and crush another's heart
and as they slide down that precious fifth
the symphony of chord and tone suddenly re-coloring their world
some vibrant flame within the wash of white tiles and brushed steel
they do nothing but invite the Gnawerhis fist pulls decisively down
dragging the waistband of her boxers with it
just an inch, or... three
then bicep bulges in contraction
and he drags. her. closer.there seems to be some opposing magnetic force between them
as she's drug irrepressably closer
he's straightening to lean back and sit comfortably on the counter
pulling her all the way up between his thighs
the chill of soaked BDUs pressed against her legs as his own wrap round in flesh and muscle cage
(he knows he'll pay for that one)
chin lifting - throat offered even after dominating drag - as sneering smile lifts to mirror challenging smirk"You pampered me last week.... what's with the sudden urge to do so again?"
playful and dark
a bare murmur across wicked red lips
he knows why she does it
she explained it in a hotel room long ago
but that doesn't stop his relentless discovery
some greedy archaeologist with his living, priceless treasure(rune)
"Hmmm - " how she manages to keep her tone half-musing, for all that her voice is still vibrating low in her throat rather than in the ampitheater of mouth and nose is anyone's guess. Still, musing - as if she were considering a new shade of nail polish, as if he had not dragged her - bodily dragged her - the last two steps toward him, as if she were not lifting her arms and settling them around his neck, unmindful of the chill still radiating from rainsoaked dreadlocks, as if her boxers were not hanging precariously low on her hips, elastic distended from the force he employed to get her there, as if those hips weren't moving, sliding and insidious, in some slow circle to test the limits of his (cold! " - hey! - ") caging legs - that veneer of careless disregard tossed over the lower thrum of awareness. "I'll have to think about that."He drags her, and then offers her his throat. He cages her, and she takes what he offers, and devours it. The spill of hot breath over the flesh of his throat, warmer now, but still redolent of the clean cold rain that washed away the exhaust fumes and the smogged miasma of the city night, replacing it with some memory of clean, clear summer (memory only, sense-memory, or perhaps genetic memory, some remnant that lingers in their savage souls, some echo across the centuries, for summer in the city is always worse than winter, except after a cleansing storm). She washes away that remnant summer and replaces it with another of her own: breath, heavy and humid, scorching hot. The slow scrap of teeth across his flesh, never quite snapping closed, for all the promise of such dominant play is vibrant in the flat crawl of dull, hard enamel up the long line of his throat until she finds his mouth, or he finds hers.
"I've thought about it." she maintains enough focus to respond, but only just, holds enough of herself back - in opposition, their usual game. She holds herself rigidly, muscles still tensed to ward off the shivers that want to run rampant through her body. "..and these" one hand untangling itself from the dreadlocks, crawling back across the muscled curve of his shoulder - nails scraping against his flesh - down across his chest and then around his flank, over the webbed network of scars (even now, lingering briefly on these furrowed imperfections in his flesh, the faintest touch, awareness, her hand warm except for the cool circle of gold around her thumb) and lower until she finds the waistband of his wet camos. " - must come off."
Her second hand soon follows the first, and the slide of fingers along the seam of flesh and fabric becomes something else entirely: a grip, tightening and lifting him from his perch, a trick he's used on her often enough. Her breath is exhaled in a soft grunt at the effort. He's heavier, and she lacks his strength. With effort, she can hold him like this, but she's not able to walk while supporting his weight, let alone make it up the stairs.
"I pamper you -- because -- I -- " her voice is strained from the effort, and already she's easing him to the ground. Considering how misshapen the elastic of her boxers has become - considering how precariously low they are on her hips - it's little wonder that they've started the long slip-slide over hips to muscled thigh. " - can."
She's breathing harder now, and faster, full-on breaths that lift and strain against the fabric of her cotten tee (IthiCA is GOrges) and her arms have wound their way around his neck once more. "As for the toddies and the chicken soup, I'm skipping those. Don't have any whiskey." Breath, closer now, spills across his mouth. "And I don't know what the fuck lemon water is, anyway."
She kisses him, then. Once. Suddenly savage. Fucking animal.
"...but the bath - " disengaging, breathless, the words recovered from the haze of want. As she regains her breath, her voice grows arch and wanton, a low growl of sound, sandpaper rough as she shakes herself free and turns to saunter away - toward the stairs and whatever lies beyond. "...that I can do."
It's a tossup as to whether they'll make it past the first landing.
Posted by james at February 23, 2003 12:00 AM
CommentsPost a comment