June 16, 2003.06.16.03. - father's day/shut up and let me prove it [rune][noje]
(rune)
Twilight: nothing seems real. The security lights shine bright and white and arrogant over the black parking light. In the glare, shadows lose their dimension. The sky is merely gray, the light on the horizon failing without distinction or definition. The edges of things are lost in the grayed mists and the heavy humid air, except where cast in sharp relief by the too-bright security lights.The front back balcony is fortunately cast in crazy bands of indistinct shadow, the whole spectrum of grays, though the farthest edge is bathed in the too bright light. Moths flutter and fling themselves against the bulb, invisible in the glare, their paper-thin bodies, their gray wings fluttering furiously.
Rune watches them, some vague and sullen attention, distracted. It's not that she cares, particularly, for whatever she sees. The night might not even register beyond the weight of the humid air on her skin, the futile game in front of her is merely a distraction, someplace to rest her eyes as she soaks up the surprisingly pleasant heat while smoking. Her feet rest on the wrought-iron balustrade, long bare legs crossed at the ankles. Resting on her thighs, the ashtray. She has a beer in one hand, and a cigarette in the other, and the pleasant distance from Xanax to dull the rest. Her hair - fine as it is - falls limp in the humidity, sticks damply to her skin. It isn't hot yet, not particularly, but the summer is already oppressive.
(james)
well fancy that, the Cochran's got a shine
leather slick and black as oil with the waxy waterproofing
boots are weaving their way around the puddles laying in wait for the next rainfall that would turn the parking lot into a shallow, dirty, little lake
the ties on the cuffs of camoflaged pants reach for the moisture with lanky step
as if parched from the long journeydark eyes are down, contemplating the worn asphalt
hands have slipped into the pockets of his pants
wifebeater's getting a little sticky from the already oppressive summer
of course, the close quarters on the bus didn't particularly help either
public transporation may be good, and all
but sometimes they need to improve the air circulation a bit
from said bus stop, he approaches the condo from the side
having cut through the back way and angled off across the tertiary lots towards the main that held the Beemer, Benz, and Tacoma like prized steedsfrom the ground, deep umber sweeps up towards the moon filling the sky
even half-hazed by the murky twilight, he can feel that silvered shine
not exactly the phase he wanted for this weekend
but at least it improved the air circulation on the bus by emptying several seats around him(rune)
He's soundless, enough. Or rather, his footfalls are swallowed by the ambient noise, high as ever. Perhaps higher, with the puddles adding another noisy obstacle through with traffic must speed. In the middle of a downpour, the rest of the city's sounds recede and the storm creates its own world of sound. In the aftermath, the city reasserts itself: white noise. Televisions, radios, cell phones, engines of cars and trucks and SUVs and eighteen-wheelers and public buses and garbage trucks and delivery vans, the relentless hum of air conditioners, the constant background buzz of electricity: marching monsters and single poles all joined by a vast web of wires that become all but invisible, so ubiquitous are they.She does not need to hear him walking up the asphalt, cutting through the back lots or green spaces, the narrow strips of controlled plantings meant to soothe the eye and make the residents feel like they have more room out here than they'd have elsewhere, justifying the expense and aggravation of their daily commute. She doesn't need to see him, either. She can feel him, some vaguely presence in the back of her mind.
Dark eyes flicker away from the lambent flame of the security light, with its rainbow halo and thousand winged admirerrs, lifting to through the gloom to seek out his profile among the vague shadows. The beer bottle falls from her mouth, the base clanks dully against the arm of her plastic chair. As she swallows the mouthful of beer, she considers whistling for him. The corners of her mouth slide upward in a vague smirk as she discards the idea, and reaches for him with her mind, instead.
Up here. The vague sensation of her mind against his, familiar and alien at once. Round back.
(james)
(Up here)
darkest brown snaps away from shining silver
(Round back)
and a smile creeps across lips that.... haven't for awhile
it's a soft smile, easy and warmly curling the skin that's more flush than tanhe's missed her, very much
it wouldn't be the first time they've spent days apart
forced by presence or circumstance or a thousand other things in the name of duty
he's even slept on the couch while she's been on the waterbed upstairs
(though... it's been awhile)
this time - the distance is what got to him
what may only have been a few hours by bus seems endless when it stretches the feeling of pack thin
to where it's just the faintest echo that affirms and asserts nothing more than it still exists
and so when he feels her, hears her, and a few steps more breaths her - that smile remains
he may only be a vague shadow among those growing long across the lawn
but she? she's statuesque on the balcony abovelike some bloody pilgrim finally reaching the epitome of his journey he's stopping just below the tier, he should probably prostrate himself and kiss the ground before venturing further into this temple, yet flagrant as it may seem, the long body stretches to slowly ascend her throne, muscle through his arms cording steel in pull-up from the lower railing until he's high enough to swing a leg over and balance for a precarious moment as weight shifts past apex to allow the other leg to join it's twin
his boldness continues
for as the Jansport is peeeeeeled from it's cling to scarred shoulders and dropped onto the tiles
the movement stretches to pluck the cigarette from her fingers
(rune)
The two front legs of the plastic patio chair come down, ragged feet scritching against the smooth tiles. Her thighs fall an inch or two, the angled stretch of her legs increases by a few degrees, but otherwise her posture and position hasn't changed. If this is a throne, it's a strange one indeed - molded plastic battered by hard use of creatures who sometimes do not know their own strength, who sometimes know their own strength but need to express it, physically, in some way that will not break anyone else. Tensile and flexible as the resin chair is, it bears its share of scars: scratches from collusions with the rough brick façade, or melted little circles from a poorly aimed cigarette.Her cotton tee and old silk boxers are no more likely robes of state, and the slow crawl of her familiar smirk is hardly worthy of a queen. There's something faintly - teasingly - imperious, though, in the snap of her wrist, back from him and over her shoulder, shielding her cigarette as he reaches to steal it. Her gaze travels lazily up his body as he swings over the balcony railing until she meets his eyes, familiar humor, sardonic, in the curve of his mouth.
"Want this, do you?" Her wrist flexes, rising above the curve of her shoulder, twisting in a demonstrative circle before she concedes and holds out the cigarette as if it were more treasure than it is. "Welcome home."
(james)
the smile pulls into a payful yet ferocious (!) growl
outstretched hand swiping after the pulled back smoke
he uses it as an excuse to get closer
in fact, one boot hikes up and he's suddenly straddling her thighs
one strong hand clamping down on the arm of the chair
further abusing the resin with the addition of his weight
now the chase after the smoke is absent
he's distracted by that sardonic curve of her lipsdreads swing as his forhead comes down to greet hers - gently
just resting against her skull for a moment or three
drowning in the scent that washes from her flesh on tiny thermals
his head turns a little bit, exhale washing across her cheek in a rather canid greeting"Thanks" soooo very softly - and even softer, as dark eyes find hers in the deepend shadows "Missed you."
by then his hand has crept fingers to her wrist
slowly following the structure of fine (so strong) bone and muscle to the smoke clutched between thumb and index
gently plucking it away, rather than outwardly kiping it
weight pulls away to claim the chair next to hers(rune)
"Hey, fuck off - " Playful is too tame a word to describe the rough amusement in her voice as he straddles her thighs. There's thinly veiled aggression, some instinctive drive for dominance, shaping her voice, threaded though it is by rough affection. Her toes curl over the edge of the railing, the muscles of her calves and thighs contract, and she pushes back, lifting the two front legs of the chair a half-inch off the tiles, before his hand clamps down on the arm of the chair and his weight falls forward of the pivot point. "Fucking bastard."And again, as he bends in close and her eyes fall half-closed, long lashes sweeping lower to shade her already shadowed gaze. Quieter, though, now. "Fucking missed you too." He grasps her wrist, and her eyes flicker down from his, watching his fingers against his flesh, her cigarette in his hand. He plucks it away, and her own hand rises as if to follow his movement, then falls back to the arm of the sorely abused chair as he shifts away.
As he settles into the second chair, she pulls another smoke from the plastic table beside her, flipping the lighter into her hand a moment later. Though she slides the cigarette between her red lips, she doesn't light it, yet. It rides the movement of her mouth like a wave over hidden shoals - constant movement - as she speaks. "The hell you been, anyway?"
(james)
there's a bit of a frown
(.... shit)
and he concentrates on that expensive cigarette for a moment longer than he has to, probably"Won't get any better over the next week."
a little enigmatic, mumbled aside, from the straightforward Gnawer
(at least he came home, before going where he's planning)
though he quickle moves along to her smokeless question"Albany, had some things to take care of because of yesterday."
he's not watching her
his eyes have cast themselves out over the front lawn
blame his hesitation and tension on the moon, right?(rune)
Flint scrapes against steel. There's a faint rush of noise, the snap and crackle of expensive tobacco, as lights her cigarette and inhales deeply. By now, her eyes have narrowed, and not merely because of the cloud of smoke from the smoldering cigarette.She casts him a glance over her shoulder, then follows the path of his eyes out over the lawn. Mist is beginning to coalesce in the smooth hollows of the manicured grass, squeezed from the sopping air as it cools. There are fireflies, here and there, darting about in their mating dance, though one has to squint to see them, with the haloed glare from the security lights flooding pools of the lawn and the parking lots with artificial brightness. It's June in Jersey, even if it feels like monsoon season in Rangoon.
"What happened yesterday?"
(james)
her eyes have narrowed, and he knows it isn't from the smoke
he could tell by tone and vernacular that, well....
he just keeps watching the lawn
the almost invisable fireflies that snake erratic trails in the effervescent light
the strange, and probably imagined, glow that bounces off the exhaled smoke and growing mist
once more, he's quiet a few seconds longer than he really needs to be"Father's day."
she, of all people, could feel the flare-up that joined the answer
the way his own Rage crackled against hers as it expanded
the way a lover recognizes her partner's stress and sorrow
his jaw clenches and his head shakes
instantly regretting the tone of that answer
sharp and caustic and entirely indecent
something of an apology works into the way his voice is forced to soften"Dropped by my daughter's grave, then went up to visit my dad."
(rune)
"Oh, I - " the tobacco pops and crackles. Whatever she was going to say must not have felt right on her tongue, somehow, for she interrupts it for another drag from her cigarette. The holiday had not registered on her. Probably, it never registered on her. At least people dress things up for the traditional ones, subtle clues to the rest of the world that something's going to happen. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, pricked out of her irritation by his reply.It's harder to swallow the flare of ill-temper, though swallow it she does. It sours in her stomach, heightens her senses, and escapes in her voice for all that she would prefer it not to do so. "I hadn't realized, James." Her eyes lift from the yard and flicker over his profile again, the edges softened in the gloom of gathering night. "I'm sorry."
Whatever she says feels useless, in the way, like some poor sod's withered limb, there only to remind him of what he's lost. That, too, prickles uncomfortably beneath her skin, and the restless is expressed again in her minute shift in place, the lift of her hand to her limp hair, fingers dragging through the fine damp strands.
(james)
there's a bit of a..... nasty.... chuckle that escapes him"Could've fallen on a better weekend." not easy to deal with such things when the moon is full and raging in all her glory in the sky, there's something sharp in his smile before it pauses for another drag, and the near embered smoke is flicked - hard - out into the night hounding on the other side of the railing, just off the halo of iridescent light "Though I know that's no excuse to take off again and not tell you why."
he still owes her explanation for the last time he did so
his voice softens, and those eyes finally draw across to look for hers
her hand reaches to drag fingers through fine, limp hair
his hand reaches to run knuckles gently across her flexing bicep"I'm sorry too. I should have called, at least. Or something. Just got too wrapped up in my own shit and didn't realize how much I closed everything off until I got to my dad's." his head shakes, realizing he's rambling, it's this next part that's got him strung tight as a wire, don't let his slouch in the chair fool you "Sort've the reason I came back tonight. Need to go to the Green for a little while."
and the way his head tilts as he looks to her
a part of him telling her is the sharing of information between partners
a part of him telling her is asking permission to go
(rune)
"You don't owe me explanations, you know." Her hand stills above her head, and then beneath his hand, her bicep flexes and then extends as she swings her arm back in a stretch meant as much to work out her moon-mood-restlessness as to work out any kinks her her muscles. The rest of her lean body follows naturally, a subtle undulation of movement that lifts her torso and hips, ripples through her legs down to her toes, which curl over the railing until all the muscles in her legs are taut, and then relax by slow degree. "Not unless you want to tell me."Her dark head swings sidelong, then, forehead brushing against her forearm, chin grazing his rough knuckles. One corner of her mouth hooks upward in a familiar little half-smirk. "You should know that by now."
Then her chin rises in a subtle notch of a gesture. "So," it's hard to read her tone, though some shreds of self-mocking humor are there beneath the sardonic intonation. Her brows rise in query, "You gonna tell me why you're running off to the Green?"
(james)
dark eyes wander across the landscape of her stretch
no matter how tense or worried or stressed (or scared) he may be
that will always get the appreciative look
especially when there's only a thin t-shirt and silky boxers obstructing his view of what's beneath
his imagination and memory happily fills in the rest
fingertips trace the relaxing muscles through her arms
before quietly dropping away
they are spotlighted on the balcony, after all"I know.... and I've told you before I'll tell you everything."
there's a bit of a smile there
but that vanishes as easily as his hand dropped away
he's..... nervous.... about this
tongue darts out to run over his lips
the lower lip pulled beneath flat line of white teeth
brows lift a little in a sigh
though he nods"Long talk with pops last night, realized it's time to take a step towards moving on.... or.... moving up, anyway."
(rune)
"I know," some suggestion of a curving smile flickers in her voice, though the emotion finds no expression on her mouth beyond the half-smirk into which her crimson lips have settled. "And - oh, fucking hell." Her arm folds, fingertips lightly tracing his hand before it falls away. "I don't want everything. I just want - " lean shoulders twitch in a curving little shrug, surrender to the impossible vagaries of language.His hand falls away, and it's her turn to touch him. She stretches her arm again, and her hand settles lightly on his shoulder, long fingers tightening over the corded muscle so prominent beneath his clothing. "'Bout time. Chin up - " nails, the pressure of them, through fabric and skin. " - you'll do just fine."
(james)
"Could've done this several years ago." wryly laughed even if his shoulder lifts into those nails in partial shrug, partial handless caress "Just didn't want to."the way he says that - not sure he wants to now
but she's right, it's about time
he waited long enough
he mourned long enough
he felt he wasn't worth it for long enoughand he takes the breath to give sound to his thoughts
though instead he sighs into another silence
and a hand reaches up to close over the slender fingers across his shoulders
it wraps neatly, and squeezes gently
all in that moment of silence
then the clasped hand turns into tugging notion
weight shifts in stretch to gather the Jansport
then he's standing and begging with his eyes that she follow
once her bare feet are on the day-warmed tiles
the sliding door opens and he leads her into the hallway
the short distance after to her (their) roomit's only after the door firmly shuts that he looks to her again
for some reason he didn't want to say (admit) this outside
and now, facing her, it seems he will
his boots looking at her toes across the plush carpeting
his hands reaching and gently tracing up the muscle of her arms to elbow and back to wrist again
his dark eyes finally lifting to meet hers"Now I'm not even sure I know what to do."
he doesn't dare voice what he would do if he failed
he couldn't bring that shame back to the pack
but most of all he couldn't bring it back on her
which may be a reason he's not exactly speaking to the others he's going
but he couldn't go on a quest like this and not tell her(rune)
Rune leaves the cigarette smoldering in the ashtray, but brings her half-empty beer bottle inside, neck negligently suspended between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. The cool amber class brushes against her hip as her arms swings with each step in his wake.Inside, she leans back against the door, pressing until the latch snicks home, and draws him back toward her. Her skin smells of the humid night, strange and green and damp, and cigarettes and alcohol, exhaust fumes, smog. Beneath the nose-clogging, allergy inducing effluvia of civilization, whatever is distinctly her, close to the skin, human, humid, animalsweat, sharp and quotidian and utterly physical as she is.
"You know what to do," roughly spoken, her voice thick from the humidity and the chainsmoking the full moon seems to naturally induce, odd as it is that her body, already in overdrive, would crave more stimulants. Her right arm snakes out, catching his hand and then sliding to grasp him roughly beneath the elbow, pulling him closer into her slouching orbit. "You know what to do, even if you have doubts. There's no shame in failing a challenge, even if I'm confident you won't. It happens, it's not shameful. The real shame would be failing your duty after the challenge. You know that, James.
"You know that."
(james)
her hand slithers across the muscle flexing in his forarm
taller, stronger - he doesn't resist the pull
she's leaning against the door, and his calves straddle hers
baggy camoflage canvas tickling her shaved smooth and silky legs
allowing his head to tilt down within her slouching orbit
listening, bathing in her scentbeyond the fumes and oils of the city
the strange ozone smell that falls from the overhead lights
so easily he picks out what's undeniably Rune
half pampered and spoiled bitch(rhya)
half savage and untamed animalslowly, his hands find a way to lace fingers behind her lower back
slowly, his head has fallen until it rests upon her shoulder"I know" sighed against her flesh as it curves up and out from beneath the cotton t's collar, there's the slow movement of his head and slipeslide of heavy dreads as the bridge of his nose traces the soft, soft skin along the side of her throat "I'm not worried about what failing would do to me. Rank has nothing to do with my duty or how I'd fulfill it - you know I don't care if I'm eternal Omega to the pack, I'll still fight just as hard. I'm afraid of what failing would reflect on you."
that's when his head lifts
dark eyes wandering towards her again
there's even the glimmer of a smile"Which I know is why you're about to tell me that's the reason I won't fail." one hand reaches, finding something to do in the tuck of hair behind her ear while the other spreads strong and warm across her lower back "I've gotten past the things that held me back, before.... but I'm still scared, Rune."
(rune)
"I'm a big girl, James." Her body is still beneath his touch, except for the expansion and contraction of her lungs with every breath, except for the relentless beat of her pulse through her veins. With his head on her shoulder, he can hear her heart beating, faster with him so near, and faster again as he traces the sensitive skin of her throat. There's a hitch in her breath, and her voice darkens and deepens, rising from somewhere rich in her throat and chest. "I can take care of myself. Whatever happens, it doesn't matter to me, either. You know that. I'm not - "When he lifts his head from her shoulders, she circles her arms around his neck. Her fingers slide sleekly through the chaotic mass of his dreadlocks, contracting into a firm grip as they burrow deep. "I don't fucking need you to protect me. I don't even want you to protect me, from whatever you think might happen, somehow."
The undeniable frustration in her voice is subverted and subdued, transformed into something similar, but infinitely different. She shakes her hands free from his dreadlocks. One slides down over the curve of his shoulder and the muscled planes of his chest, crimson nails scraping lightly over the cotton of his t-shirt, catching on whatever imperfections remain in the weave. The other captures his chin in a firm grip, fingers splayed along his jawline.
"I just - " her fingers slide lightly beneath the hem of his t-shirt and curve into the waistband of his BDUs, thumb twisting to undo the top button, sliding toward the next. "fucking" The buttons fall in quick succession. She doesn't even bother to look down, though. She has captured his gaze and is staring baldly back, in what would be a plain challenge were her hands - busy elsewhere - not just as clear as to her intent. She is not a gentle creature, and as the last of the fastenings give way, she wraps her hand around the hem of his t-shirt and pulls, hard. The fabric strains, the collar bites into his muscular, and then the seams begin to give way. " - want fucking you, goddamnit."
Releasing his chin, she slides her hand back across his cheek and buries her fingers in his hair again, pulling the heavy dreadlocks with more strength than perhaps she imagines. One leg hooks around his hip and pulls him closer. When there's leverage enough between his body and the door behind her, the other follows suit. She brushes her forehead against his, bares her teeth against his mouth, but doesn't quite kiss him, not yet. No, she breaths over his skin - deeper breaths, heavier now, weighted and spoiled and savage. Her nostrils flare with breath, and her mouth parts without capturing his. There's something to be said, after all, for delayed gratification.
"Isn't that remotely fucking clear yet?"
(james)
(I'm a big girl, James)
she can say that again
the way her chest heaves with breath to speak
the way every single movement of building frustration just draws. him. closer.
the way her fingers lock in dreads makes him almost completely forget about tomorrow's plansthere's a part of him which would protest
proclaiming his love and other valiant male things
explaining his rhyme and reason
but that's a very small part
(I just)
the majority of him is focused with raptor precision on the drag of nails over cotton
a sudden breath heaving in ancipation for when crimson will be drawn beneath increasing pressure
(fucking)
uncertain smile suddenly sharpens to something far beyond vicious
abs tremble and tighten as a growl rumbles and shakes against southward trail
something glitters dangerous in earthen umber eyes that hold her bald stare
(want fucking you, goddamnit)
hands settle on her hips and lift as legs wrap around his waist
her weight pulled forward then thumped back against the door"No, Rhya."
challenged - it may be the last time he ever calls her that
at least in official deference as a Cliath
(she will always be better than him)
teeth close just shy of her parted lips with the precision force of a beartrap
(wait for it, my love)
yet each breath she casts across his skin drunk as if savior wine"I don't think it's clear enough."
liar - he has no question
he can feel the seams of his shirt giving way
fists wrap in silk and boxers are soon nothing but scraps of fabric falling to the floor
she is not a gentle creature: he loves it, craves it, and returns it just as boldly
rough palms smooth along the taught lines of thigh and wander ever upwards over the swell of hip, trough of waist and slip beneath the thin cover of her tee
soon enough that gives way to this relentless journey that discovers her pale skin hidden beneath, doggedly and efficiently exposing it to the room's shadows
fingers comb through still damp inky hair, as if to hold their faces so affectionately close, then twist to draw her velvet soft and sneering mouth further from his
the thick wood of the door moans beneath the sudden jolt in shift of weight away reversing itself to allow heated skin slip and slide and lock
it causes his voice to drop into the most delightful of groaning whispers bathing her exposed throat"But why don't you shut up and let me prove it."
Posted by james at June 16, 2003 12:00 AM
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