drums-on-skulls: .05.29.03.

May 29, 2003

.05.29.03. - clever [rune]

[north jersey]

(james)
somewhere outside evening drug the sun below the horizon
bare fingers cast themselves as lifelines towards the sky reaching with diligent cling to the dark clouds above that so far had spared the day their rain, blushing the burgeoning gray with shades of orange and yellow and, even, strippa pink as if some reminding blooming quality were found therein that spring was indeed here, and the weather was not casting them back into the eternal, drab, lifeless gray of winter
it's beautiful, really
thinking about how the horizon flames above the cityscape which surrounds them
the power and glory of nature overcoming and overpowering the expanding concrete scab
the relenteless victory of that which they give their lives for
Scab Warriors, that's what they were called
Urrah which sweat and bled to protect Gaia even in the Weaver's cities

but he's not thinking about that now

propped on one elbow on the waterbed
his head canted to the side to send long dreads tumbling down over shoulder and bicep
he's not thinking about the bigger and greater things that have recruited them outside this room
he's only thinking about the curve of black satin sheets that parabolize her lower back in the absent cast across the swell of hips
forming some midnight frame around the long length of pale skin reaching towards her shoulders
allowing his fingers slow trace up the muscles that line her spine
it's just idle, this affection hidden from prying eyes
something to occupy his hands while she sleeps on
(because they were up until dawn)
dark eyes following fingers that memorize the very construction of her skeleton beneath (such perfect) skin

(rune)
Sleeping, one might find her a vulnerable creature, all pale, pampered skin and serpentsleek muscle, framed by gleaming black, a chiarascuro picture worthy of some Italian fashion slag-mag, all shadows and light. Her mouth is half-open, trace remnants of lipstick from the night before living against the paler pink beneath. Each slow breath lifts her shoulders, and each quiet touch stirs her otherwise, some blind, heat-seeking sensibility.

As the sun bleeds to death across the western horizon, she stirs from sleep. Whatever shreds of tainted innocence dreaming imparts to her (to anyone, in the end, curled on sheets that still smell of sweat and sex, the morning after, dreaming) coil and drift to nothing, mist parted by the dawning sun, as her lashes flutter and one dark eye opens. There's too much knowledge, there, in the slow curve of a half-visible smirk.

Her singular gaze crawls across the familiar landscape: the plains of black satin, the slow working of muscle in his arms as his fingers idle across her back, the tangle of his dreadlocks, rough on the slippery sheets.

"Morning glory." The sheets whisper beneath her as she moves, twisting her head to rest her cheek on the pillow and watch him with both eyes, grant him a view of both halves of her mouth, curled into an expression that lives in some indefineable no-man's-land halfway between a smirk and a smile. "Penny for your thoughts?"

(james)
whatever little pictures fingertips drew across her skin disappear as the muscle beneath it ripples and coils with movement like some living etch-a-sketch suddenly refreshed and wiped clean
but isn't that what happens in sleep?
(in the morning, they still smell like sweat and blood and sex)
and even though her expression is ambiguously between a smile and a smirk
that familiarly trademark easy grin (that grin, just for her) seems to find its way onto his lips

rough hand spreads
callouses against pampered skin
drummer's hands hard and worn and warm
even past the thickened skin from a lifetime of streetstyle abuse

"I wasn't thinking."

fingers press into muscle
a slow, diligent, and very precise exercise in minimal massage
he knows exactly what muscles he made hurt
there are others, of course, unintentionally wounded
but he'll concentrate on her lumbar spine
and the words are laughed so softly
husky from sleep and... well... she got her hits in, too
dark gaze finally lifts from his hands to flick across those smirkingly smiling lips
lingering a moment before drawing to her eyes

"Just watching you sleep."

(rune)
Shadows drift through the bedroom, long and languid. Slatted bands of red-gold sunset are already fading to silvered twilight, and cast him in distinct patterns of light and shadow. Her chin rises, it's a small gesture, following the subtle movement of his arm as his touch changes from idle play to slow precision.

She laughs, or something like it. The sound catches rough in her raw throat, emerges through closed lips, half-pleasured sigh, half-grunt of effort as she arches upward into his touch and pulls her arm from beneath her torso, to prop up her head.

Another moment, then, watching him. Another moment, feeling the sure pressure of his rough fingers on the stiffened muscles of her lumbar spine before she moves. He will feel movement before he sees it, telegraphed through the flexion of the paraspinals beneath his hand.

Free hand planted between them for balance (the rolling mattress sinking beneath the shifting pressure of her weight), she leans up and forward, then plants an oddly soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. Her head is mostly bowed, and her hair falls like a liquid curtain between them, obscuring the sharp line of her cheek, the slant of lashes across her eyes, though not the subtle flare of nostrils as she catches his scent, distinctly, drifting from his bare skin.

Fully balanced on her side, she lifts her hand and pulls three dreadlocks from his face, smoothing them back and away. It's a quiet gesture, odd tenderness from such capable, killing hands. She's close enough, now, that he can feel the warm, humid spill of her breath upon the curve of his cheek, though her eyes, the arrogant angles of her features remain hidden by the obscuring curtain of her hair. "You do that often?"

(james)
"Absolutely."

smiled, now
it's instinctive response to that.... oddly soft kiss
it's instinctive rise towards that..... oddly tender rearranging of his hair
she told him, once, to always look at her
and there's nothing that could tear his eyes away now

the inky curtain of oil-black waves that falls dangling short between their faces
beneath it, the smokey smudges of shadow mussed by sweat and eye-closing moans
even the smear of wicked, wicked red lipstick marred by the most aggressive of kisses
he doesn't shy from her touch even though he's seen how capably those hands kill
he seems to do quite the opposite
she's balancing perfectly upon her side
weight sinking into the giving mattress padded by water
and he's using that flexibility to his advantage
the arm that supported his weight snaking it's way beneath her flank
strength found in the slow curl that physically removes her

rolling onto his back, he's dragging the Glasswalker over his chest

his physical prowess pulling her into dominance
dreads fall back and away into the pillow beneath his head
the sheets of her dark hair sudden blinders
creating this little world all his own in which her pale face suddenly becomes Luna floating in obsidian sky
... even if she's close enough his eyes almost cross

"Whenever I can."

(rune)
"Mmmmm?" Half-question, the low murmur falls to silence before its much past her lips. Somewhere in the middle of the low phrase, though, sleepy acknowledgment becomes something else, entirely, electric and aware. Sizzle and spark, the first seeds of lightning sown in the depths of her eyes as he pulls her atop him. The pale full moon of her face swims closer and closer, fills the frame of his vision until his eyes are crossing, or closing. She's diving through the humid, livid shadows with the delicate precision of a kestrel, lipstick smeared-lips parting to reveal a flash of perfect(ly vicious) white teeth. "I do that too, sometimes."

Each breath she draws is a slow, heavy thing lung expand, diaphragm contracts minutely and deliberately, as she drowns herself in his scent, gathering heavily on the back of her tongue. "But right now," her teeth snap together, a cruel millimeter above his mouth, and her smile crawls fractionally wider, "I don't think I'm going to let you sleep."

Her hands have settled on his shoulders, deliberate in their pressure, the slow bite of her nails into his flesh as she pushes herself upright, knees on either side of his hips, body coiled and sure. The sheets still twisted about her body and his strain against the movement, outlining the curve of her hips and breasts, casting the rest of her body into obscure shadows. The pressure of her nails deepens, and then it's a slow, deliberate drag down his arms. In their wake: five angry red trails of furrowed, though still unbroken flesh from his shoulder, over the curve of his biceps, down the long, muscled and veined length of his forearms to his hands. His hands: she twists her fingers among his own but briefly, then lifts them to settle them on her hips as she catches him beneath either elbow and drags him upward in her wake.

She was going to say something, then, something deliberate and provocative, something infinitely clever, but all that emerges is the vague, raw suggestion of profanity as his torso rises to meet hers and one hand alights from his elbow to burrow through the spilling weight of his dreadlocks until she finds the nape of his neck and splays her fingers way, a rough and demanding grip, and steers his mouth to meet hers.

There's nothing soft about the kiss, now, and nothing remotely tender. It's hard and slow and dominant and sure and as bloody fucking deliberate as the slow, serpintine twist of her hips, and that's how she's going to fuck him, in the long shadows of falling twilight, in the humid warmth of that darkened room.

Little wonder she had nothing clever to say.

(james)
her teeth snap cruelly together and his lips part in a smile

"That so?"

one brow maliciously lifts
(is that a challenge?)
and that's when she suddenly unfurls above him some lanquid queen
eyes wander, redefining her within the shadows
he's memorized her body countless times
drawing and sculpting this Pygmaleon dream
having her come to life beneath his (welted) arms succubal fantasy
no matter how the glistening satin blackens and obscures her form
it does nothing but glow beneath his adoring gaze

hands gripping hips

it's a lecherous smile that finds its way to her lips
this deliberate and slow and raw and profane kiss
there's nothing soft about it anymore
(he knows better, he knows so much better)
the tenderness cast away to invite something far more obscene
it's in the way that his weight draws past balance and throws itself forward
powerplay brought from her demanding grip to overcompensate and suddenly

lean. her. back.

leverage is on his side
even with her capably killing hands - he is stronger
and a master of suddenly twisting submission to his advantage
serpentine hips are locked against his own, and that satin sheathed torso bends to his will
the perfect symmetry with the way she arches and he curves and stretches to follow
(she is Walker, he is Gnawer, she is Beta, he is Omega - always, he supplicates before her)
softness of lips met with the harsh brutality of a kiss seething with the animal beneath their skins
it may be a dark moon in the sky above - but never will it save them completely from themselves
there's something within him that boils to the surface volcanic

slow and steady and sure
(and just a little bit deadly)
because that's how her body says she's going to fuck him
because that's how his body says she's going to live up to that promising threat

it's little wonder he doesn't give her time to say anything clever

Posted by james at May 29, 2003 12:00 AM

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