June 13, 2003.06.13.03. - long day [rune][noje]
(james)
he can't see her - but he knows she's there
even with the thick cover of thunderheads heavy overhead
transilluminated by the errant strikes of lightning
muted by the steady downpour of rain
above it all - he knows she's there
pregnant and swollen in the sky
pulling at him with the strongest of invisable leashesshe's like the ex that comes back to haunt him
whispering just behind his ear the most seditious tortures
letting absent nails tickle up his spine to whip the Ahroun into blind frenzy
there are some days he simply resents her, for what she can do to him without even trying
and others..... he just craves to see her face
twisted, isn't it, the Garou's relationship with the moontonight, he just feels her, watching him
listening, above the patter of the rain, the rhythm of wooden drumsticks on terracotta tile
he's sitting sheltered on the condo's balcony, tucked back into the far corner - the one opposite the drain, because with the gusts of wind that occassionally blow through do bring the rain to visit with them
lumbar muscles molded to the sculpted stucco of the wall
dark eyes settled on the singular tile that's become his snare
just..... drumming the rhythm of the rain to his heart's content(rune)
He can't see her either. There was a power outtage earlier - the thunder, the rain, something else, something else entirely, it could be any of them, for really it's impossible to tell - and the development in spherical bands of rainbow light that spill into the heavy rain from the few security lights that work on some redundant power system. The closest shopping mall is dark as well - the crimson stain of its gleaming sign is usually visible above the treetops, but now sits brooding and dark above an emptying parking lot. The world hasn't ended, though. There's a glow on the horizon, the roar of traffic close by, the flickers of candles or flashlights in the neighbors' windows and genuine electric lights - like stars cast to land - in the distance, winking at him through the rain.And so he cannot see her in the surprisingly rich darkness beyond the familiar territory of the balcony. Faint light shines off the water still bubbling in the fountain as rainwater spatters to augment the filtered and chlorinated supply, but elsewhere, the shadows are rich and deep. He cannot see her, but he can feel her below him, hear her footsteps on the wet grass, the thud of her weight settling onto the tall masonry fence below, the groan of the wrought-iron balstrude as she straightens and stretches and reaches for a handhold and swings herself up, then scrambles over the railing.
The night is dark, and the shadows are long, and her feet are bare on the slippery tiles. The night is vast and dark, and she is no more than a plane of shadow interrupting his view of the slumming earth-bound stars, the security light that still shines two buildings away. She smells like the rain, like the summer night, some underlying suggestion of sweat and blood and ash beneath the metallic ozone rainscent.
Curving one hand and then its twin around the balustrade, she leans back. It groans again beneath the full burden of her weight as she lounges back against it, eschewing the shelter in favor of the warm summer rain. Her head is tossed back, her half-closed eyes are turned upward to the sky, the blood and bone promise of the full moon somewhere, a great baleful eye, high above the earth.
(james)
he can't see her - but he knows she's therehe could hear the footsteps approaching
he could hear the ballustrade's creak
he could hear the subtle plop of bare, wet feet against dry tilehe could smell the warm summer rain
he could smell sweat and blood and ash
he could smell, beneath it all, herhe could FEEL her above it all
and that's what tears his eyes away
dark glimmers in the powerout shadows, catching the far off light of the distant neighboring grid, deep, liquid pools that slowly, slowly raise and trace every curve - bare ankles, leather covered calves and thighs, the swell of hips towards rain....soaked..... uh.... shirt"Solanum nigrum."
quipped with a gentle smile
the beat against tile stops
sticks swiveled between talented fingers and then set aside
two Camels pulled from a pack appearing from nowhere
zippo CLACKS it's flame to the stars
then the illumination is gone but the errant lightning
and he's holding out a lit cigarette towards her"Long night?"
(rune)
"Is that what you said the first time?" The moon is full, but her voice is surprisingly, deliciously calm - light and cool as the rain that falls and spatters against the tiles, that already stains the paper of the cigarette as moves - a subtle curve of her hips - into arm's reach and takes the cancer stick from his hands. "Long night?"He can hear the contented smile in her voice, and see it in the curve of her cheek, pale against the darkness beyond, framed by her hair, plastered against her skin. Her elbow rises as she lifts the cigarette to her mouth and takes a long, deep drag of the smoke, holding it longer than necessary, savoring the slow burn in her lung. The smoke comes tumbling out in a exhaled rush and her arm falls back, wrist resting against the flaking iron. "Not really.
"Long day and night?" Contentment: a kill, or at least a battle, some vector into which to release the excess burden and blessing of her rage. Contentment: satiation. Blood, or something like it, beneath her blood-red nails. "Yeah."
(james)
"Think I've asked you that a couple times." softly laughed, even teased "Though never called you that before."his head tilts, at the content gleam of her smile
the way it curves her cheek cheshire
the way it adds a vector gleam into her eyes
that's actually what pulls him from his seat
.... comfortable as it wasuntil he's stepping right on up to the satiated Glass Walker
he's tempted to set his hands on either side of the railing
trap her between his arms and steal that lungful of smoke tumbling past wicked lips
with the power out and the pack all gone - well, his imagination is running wild
but somehow he resists, settling for lifting a brow instead
coupling it with a wry little (provocational) smile"If I didn't know you better, I'd be jealous."
(rune)
The familiar dark eyes fall half-closed, and she studies him from behind the veil of lashes, lifting her chin to finish the quiet study. After a moment, she lifts her right hand from the balustrade - elbow curved against her torso, hand reaching for his chin. The cigarette - though guttering from dampening effects of errant raindrops, still smolders between her index and middle fingers, but still she crooks the former into a small fulcrum and lifts his chin a perceptible fraction of an inch."Called me what?"
They are inches away, but never has she seemed so opaque. Or perhaps she is always opaque - hidden somewhere behind the dark stones of her eyes - and in this moment he is reminded of it - the ease of her movement, the fluidity of the gesture, the distancing veil of her lashes, the subtle curve into which her lush mouth twists, neither a smile nor a smirk, quite something else together.
Her breathing falls into rhythm with his. She inhales as he exhales, and their bodies move in strange, tandom shadow-movement with each drawn breath.
"Somehow," he exhales, and she inhales. The smoke twists serpentine between them, and the rain falls. "I cannot imagine you jealous."
(james)
he doesn't pull away from her hand
in fact, it's a strange little dance of movement that gets his own cigarette to his mouth around and above the grip she's got on his chin
and so far, his Camel is faring a bit better than hers
but that's because he's sheltering it as a joint with his palm
he exhales, she inhales
and save the touch of their lips it's a shotgun hit if he's ever see one
still that unrepetant grin remains"Deadly Nighshade."
though the rogue edge softens
this close - he's reminded not of how opaque she is
of course she's opaque, she's a solid being
but in all the shallowness that associates itself with the spoiled Walker
it is this close that he's reminded of her depth
the layers that exist below the princess (queen) exterior
the visions he's the only allowed to witness
(nobody'd ever believe him anyway)
the memories with which he drowns himself in her eyes"I can be jealous." pouted, sulked even, with a lower lip poking out in breif tirade against the fact though the exression threatens to return to the more familiar smile "In fact I can be very envious of what's made you look so insanely satiated." and his voice drops to a (oh yes, playful) murmur "I thought that was my job."
(rune)
"Mmmmph." The sound rumbles somewhere in the hollow cave of her mouth, the cusp of her throat. It could be a sound of negation. It could be a noise of agreement. It could be nothing - clearing her throat of smoke - for all that her expression changes in the three baited breaths after he falls silent.She is moving though, he can sense more than see the subtle shift of her weight against the balustrade as she uncurls her crossed ankles, slides her toes between his braced feet. Also, the slow-growing curve of her mouth, lips pressed together, the bare corners rising enough to curve her cheek.
The subtle pressure of her knuckle beneath his chin changes. Her hand flattens, and she flicks away her cigarette, blindly. It spins to the side and dies an inelegant death on the slick tiles, hissing as the smoldering tobacco hits the wet surface of the terra cotta, as the rain falls to finish the job. Her nails are cool, though her flesh is warm, as she flattens the volar surface of her hand beneath his throat, lifting his head higher, listening to the heavy swing of dreadlocks dislodged with the movement. Her thumb twists and creeps upward, slides heavily over his jaw, his mouth, as her fingers unfurl like an oriental fan beneath, following in the wake of whatever invisible, unnecessary pattern she traces.
Just as languidly, she releases her grip on the iron railing and skims the meager space between them to settle on his lean hip. Her hand widens, and her fingers splay wide, slipping into his belt loops for a firmer grip.
Nothing has changed: not the pattern of their breathing, not the secret half-smile gracing her mouth, not the languid, half-lidded sweep of her eyes across his face. And nothing changes, not even as her grip tightens and she yanks his hips hard against her.
Her mouth finds his. Or rather: her mouth finds the fractional space above his mouth and her breath steams across his lips, ash and rain-swept-scent and blood, somewhere, some niggling suggestion of it. "Don't pout."
She lifts her chin, then, as her teeth just graze his flesh - though not quite against his mouth - and turns her cheek to him, offering him the long curve of her neck, the cotton plastered against her curving torso, the slow circular rhythm of her hips against his.
"Just show me how you do your job."
(james)
how easily he gives into her whims
he stands here, domitor by height and weight
he stands here, with boots braced and back straight
yet he instantly lifts his chin to the smallest of pressures to bare. his. throat.
in fact, he does it with something that definitely seems like a smile
dark eyes falling half mast as her fingers roam his flesh
her breathing may not have changed - but his certaintly has
oh the things she can do to him with but a touch
something in him flutters and catches then oofs as he's pulled closelightning crashes, thunder rolls, the storm rages within them
Don't pout she tells him, just before her lips almost find his
and he falls from catching to simply forgetting how to breath
her cigarette is flicked away - his is simply dropped
then a moment later his hands remember how to move and greedily pull her closethen she bears the side of her neck - he bites it
then she breaths into the cotton plastering her torso - he pulls it closer
then she rolls her hips against his - he. grinds. back."You know." sighed agaisnt the long spance of pale neck "That'll just make a long day and night longer."
but he doesn't seem to care
because he's pulling her from ballustrade recline
outright manhandling this spoiled Walker into the lavish condo
it's someplace he shouldn't belong
not with the plush carpets and leather furniture and satin covered waterbed upstairs
it's someplace he stands out like a sore thumb
yet his journey is deliberate - raggedy king through tiny kingdom
illuminated by the crashing lightning and full-moon sky unseen outsideby the time the bedroom door closes
Posted by james at June 13, 2003 12:00 AM
(.... and locks)
he's forgotten about the pregnant silver light in the sky
(tidal wave fuels his Rage)
fingers splay, grips tighten, her body and breathing fall into rhythm with his: he inhales, she exhales
(he gasps, she screams)
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