April 12, 2003
.04.12.03. - i'd be more worried about the counter... [rune]

[noje]

(james)
the sun's falling
closer and closer to that inevitable death on the horizon
only to be reborn once more come the blessed kiss of dawn
but that's hours from now
he doesn't even think about what's going to happen between now and then
for now? he's enjoying watching the blazing orb drug by invisable hands to the darkness below
the way the orange blaze streaks through the budding trees across the manicured lawns of the compex
the reddened gleam that bounces reflexive off the terracotta balcony tiles
the yellow glow that's filtered on the gauzy drawn curtains - you know, the ones that block the heat but let in the light? he's got them parted like a whimsied frame about the big glass doors, the heavier insulating curtains set aside because the days have finally fallen into the consistant pattern that herald's summer's claim on the lands, but right now, there's just spring in the air, the easy awakening of Gaia after the long winter slumber

whether he's watching the sunset itself or the play of light on the half-full beer bottle is yet to be discerned
half-curled half-draped on the couch sideways
upper body weight resting across one arm across one plush leather almost overstuffed arm
that bottle dangling precariously between lazy finger's grip above the thick carpet
the rest of him just spills down into the cushions
one leg tucked beneath, the other trailing down onto the floor
toes dragging in the pile as if they were errant waves
the couch becoming a raft for some sailor's dream voyage off towards the horizon in the mysterious seventh sea

wifebeater clings to curved torso - spring outside, it's still Southern California summer inside
finally down to one layer of pants, just the old BDUs, blessedly airy without the layers of thermals beneath
dreads layered tangled jungle vines down his back
Tom Petty's quietly crooning from the expensive stereo

yeh... s'agood evening, isn't it, Jamey-boy....

(rune)
Spring is something of a surprise to the Glass Walker. Just when she got used to winter, the world decides to change things around again, and now it means that instead of snow and ice, one has mud and puddles to deal with, and every curb is treacherous with swift little rivulets of runoff, refuse bobbing like flotsam atop the current. And then there's the changeable weather: sun and storm, and now and then, the threat of snow of an evening, the temperature that changes on a dime, blissfully warm beneath the sun drops to fucking nothing in the shade, or even worse, then the sun goes down, which makes it hard to decide what to wear.

Maybe that's why - even though she wears, usually, variations on the same damn thing every night - she spent an hour in front of the closet before her shower, studying it as if the decision were a matter of state, something important in the balance of the war.

Only the third stair from the bottom creaks beneath her weight as she descends, though the Gnawer does not need that aural announcement to be aware of her presence. He can feel her here, just as he could likely feel her moving around upstairs, a faint pressure in the back of his mind, a subdural awareness of her restless presence. Her hair is still wet from the shower, pushed back away from her face, though a few strands fall forward across the sharp line of her pale cheek and cling jealously to the smooth skin. The black silk camisole she chose - edged with a scallop of lace at the hem - shifts liquid with each movement, skimming rather than define the lean line of her torso beneath, and the subtle rasp of denim rather than leather accompanies each step.

The Glass Walker pauses at the bottom of the steps, framed in the doorway to the living room, one hip resting easily against the frame. "'Morning, glory," she says, her voice quiet but sardonic, the usual caustic edge, mildly self-mocking, as she breaks her rules and lights a cigarette inside

(james)
he doesn't need the step to alert him
he could feel her prowling around upstairs just as if she were in the kitchen behind him
and maybe that's what's kept the ghost of a smile on his lips even as mind drifted
just to have that presence near of the pacing beast so frightening to others yet so dear to himself

there's a deft shift of beer bottle in fingers
allowing for his other hand to reach down and grab the new bottle resting beside his trailing foot
it's carbonation escapes with complaining hiss when the cap's twisted free
already held out to her even before he tears his eyes away from the personal movie he seems so enrapt with

"Mornin', beautiful..."

there's a blink over umber eyes, and finally his gaze shifts away
the condo is empty but for them (which would be why he has control over the stereo) and perhaps that's why he lets the wall slip, a little, indulging in the verbal affection so rare between them - because the others watch, because she's no need for such compliments, because of a thousand reasons that keep what would be so normal between couples at bay between them, two warriors caught in a war that makes romance a thing of dreams and wishes

sometimes you just have to dream a little

affectionate grin rakes lopsided over features
brow lifting a little at the silky camisole paired with rugged denim
he never says everything he notices about her
every. little. thing.
but in the way he looks at her, and the way he just smiles
he doesn't miss a thing
(just her, always her, whenever they're forced away by duty)

(rune)
It's a raw, half-grin she offers him as she pushes away from the door frame, movement centered low in her torso - the center of balance somewhere hip level, just lower - without the need for a stray hand to balance. Sauntering across the plush carpet (swish-swish, swish-swish, the quiet, sighing song of her footsteps, weight depressing the thick pile) she takes a long, slow drag on her cigarette, then allows her hand to fall to her side.

The Glass Walker holds the smoke inside her lungs as if she were smoking a joint, the sky-blue paper stuffed with fragrant marijuana. Her first poisoned breath of the day is a blessed one, and her eyes lose focus for a half-second as the woozy jolt of nicotine hits her system. Only the first breath of the day is like this. It's like the first time she smoked, the strange, displacing headrush, though compacted and deadened by long addiction. Only the first breath, and no other.

"Flatterer." Dismissive, the word, caustic, even, though accompanied by the other half of that earlier, fading grin and a brief snort, smoke spilling twin streams from her nostrils. She accepts the beer with sure avidity (breakfast of champion), hand curving around the cool glass, fingers tracing an absent line along the edge of the label as she tips it back and drinks. "...and that'll get you nowhere."

(james)
"I didn't expect it to."

no
to get somewhere with her? he could throw down a challenge
to get somewhere with her? he could say something that would raise her ire, something that would leave him aching and bruised and begging. for. more.
to get somewhere with her? he could damn well just explode off the couch and take it and leave her be..... panting.... for more
but he doesn't go anywhere
he just looks at her with that lopsided grin
some deep amusement glittering in the darkest parts of umber eyes
his own bottle tipped as if to make a point

"I was, however, aiming for that smile that you almost gave me."

he knows it was there in completion
seems while some dream they also play
she exhales the twin streams of snorted smoke
he stretches to let the plumes perfume his dreads
outright stealing the sky-blue smoke from her fingers
(when in Rome...)
claiming a drag for himself with a grin that may well be rogue

"You want some breakfast with your beer?"

(rune)
Some other woman might shriek out a playfully wounded hey! as he sucks down a stolen drag from ehr cigarette, and plant her hands upon her hips in mock anger, attempting to compose her features (sliding into a grin like a glacier into the sea) into a suitably serious expression. The Ahroun merely utters a faint, warning hiss that he may well take for invitation, and reclaims her cigarette a moment later by plucking it from his thieving hands.

"Careful, young grasshopper," Rune smirks (it was the Kung Fu marathon, late last night), "you're just asking for a lesson in respecting your elders, aren't you?"

Denim drags against the smooth Italian leather of the couch as she shifts position, just enough to keep the cigarette out of his easy reach. He going to have to get up, at the very least, if he wants to steal another drag. "I don't usually like to dilute the effects of my alcohol with food," she continues, her red mouth still curled into a certain smirk. "...but if the offer means you're cooking, I'll take you up on it."

(james)
she offers a faint warning hiss in retaliation
he? well. by that grin?
invitation duly accepted
some grins slide glacier into the sea
the slow slide then crash into blossoming explosion of expression
some grins creep and crawl and stalk
smoothing out from pleasure into sheer. deviant. bliss.
and the urban primitive rises like smokey spirit into the realm of her presence
muscle coiling and contracting to lengthen from lazy slouch this cobra flared defensive before sculpted goddess
there's no condo surrounding them anymore
suddenly it's disappeared as time reverts and draws them into the black hole of the past
support beams and drywall becoming the crafted stone columns of some ancient temple
there's nothing but the blazing preistess and this dreadlocked monster conjured from the deep realm of mystical ancestry

or...
one taunting Ahroun
faced with one playful Ahroun
stretching as if to chase after that that out-of-reach cigarette
though fingers seem distracted their journey and hook into the silken scoop of camisole front and center
(the creature reaching in yearn for the etherial goddess)
slowly pulling fabric towards him until she's no choice but to follow or silk rips
(the rabid animal stealing lecherous glance over exposed sacrificial skin)
rather than stealing the smoke, he steals, raids, and outright claims good morning kiss
(wicked wicked red red red lipstick smeared as bloody spoils of war)

"Well..... I could think of something that doesn't even involve cooking."

whispered treasonously across those smirking lips
lush swell of skin suddenly caught between the hard enamel of challenging teeth

"But you'd probably smack me for such a thought."

is it.... really.... a punishment?
his smile doesn't think so
though body removes itself from smack range nonetheless
already the pillows regain their shape from the insult of his weight
bare feet crossing carpet then linoleum tile stopping only before the great aluminum altar of FrigidAire

"Though I should probably feed you something sustaining before I ask such strenuous activities" as if that has ever stopped him before "Whatcha feel like?"

if that isn't an open ended question....

(rune)
"I'd do more than smack you - " no longer breathless, not after a long, stilling drag on her cigarette, smeared lipstick now staining the filter unevenly. One arm falls, and one arm rises: the cigarette smolders at her hip, while the beer bottle obscures half her face, as her thumb traces the line of her bruised mouth with some heavy pressure, restoring the defined edge of her red lipstick to some semblance of order as the corner of her mouth quirks upward in a familiar, hungry little smirk. "...and I think you know that."

All this, as he makes his way across the expanse to the fridge. When she's satisfied that something of her favorite mask has been restored, the Glass Walker pushes away from the edge of the couch, and saunters in his wake toward the kitchen. She settles against the breakfast bar, this time, stubbing out the cigarette in an ashtray on the breakfast bar as her dark gaze crawls up and over him, eyes half-narrowed in thought.

"Is there some reason you think I need sustenance?" she askes, eschewing the question (and all its many undertones). There's amusement on the pale swath of her face, and something darker beneath the surface of her voice, not quite suggestion, not quite challenge, not quite riposte, but some graveled combination of the three, undercut by something else, more difficult to name. "I'm perfectly capable of holding my own."

Her elbow is flung casually onto the tiled surface that supports the weight of her torso, and the beer bottle rests against her hip. Dark lashes fall to half-mast as she lips the bottle and takes another long drink, alcohol hitting her empty stomach, but not quite going to her head. Not yet. "Can you?"

(james)
so far it's the contents of the fridge that get the wicked little grin
oh. he. knows
(oh. he. craves.)
though surely the lowly purred chuckle makes its way back towards her
(the sound of predator's breath reverberating near silent in barrel chest before pouncing upon prey)
he can feel her sauntering approach
now that her perfect, favorite mask has somewhat been restored
now that she closes in behind him
and just like the prey, he can feel it at the small of his back
lumbar muscles twitching to life beneath the thin wifebeater
pulling his body from studious curve to that alert stand
(the deer stretched tall and wary with senses radaring to pinpoint the lion)
her weight casually drapes across the tiled counter
his weight pivots on axis to turn towards her
(face the attack, defend. your. self.)

she's taking another long from the bottle
he's casting that (suggestive?) little grin over muscular shoulder
dark eyes just watching her from the imagined shadows cast by the remnant cigarette's stubbed out smoke
and a brow.... lifts.... at that question

then things begin to happen in slow succession

the soft sigh of forsaken fridge swaying closed
the hollow clunk of his own near empty bottle settling on the counter
the near-silent press of sole against linoleum in crossing the divide between fridge and counter
the absolutely silent stretch of honed body in reaching across the counter
the scrape of blunt nails over rough denim as fingers wrap in waistband of jeans
the plaintive sigh of weave agaisnt tile's curve as her weight is lifted and drug across that bar that dares be between them

and suddenly, when they were so far apart, they're now back within close quarters
where the sun set in blazing glory just minutes ago
now there's that final flare of brilliance before the darkness solidifies its claim in dusk
the light the silhouettes her for his own, private mental photograph
the final, fatal embers that dance and weave in the liquid pools of earthen brown reflecting such things back to her
(everything I am, it is nothing compared to what I give to you)
his senses filling with her scent, his mind filling with her presence
(I would empty everything to make space for but a single blessing bestowed by your hand)
the wandering prose of his thoughts writ in the quirking smile

"I'd..... be more worried about the counter holding up......"

fuck breakfast... Luna swells in the sky....and it's been a week.

Posted by james at April 12, 2003 12:00 AM
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