welcome to dead winter
Title: Russian Flame
Author: DeadWinter (me)
Rating: PG
Summary: Just a short drabble about a girl at a concert/gig thing. She falls for the lead singer.
Word Count: 255
A/N: This is my first post writing here. I figured I'd have better luck posting my writing in a seperate journal, so voila!
He screams some girl's name orgasmically into the mic.
Every fiber of Donna's body feels alive - like tiny electrodes
are everywhere and in her most private place.
And even though the words belong to no one but him,
she feels like they were tailored out of little, delicate butterflies'
wings and made into a dress just her size. She's wearing those words
and swaying to the music. The guitar wails in ecstasy while being fingered
methodically and the drums roll along like lovers under the stars.
Donna can't quite point it out, but she knows that he is
doing something to her. Something. She can feel his hands over every
inch of her being. She doesn't know how he's doing it, but it seems like
he's lighting a fire inside of her. Just for her. She isn't embarrassed because
in her heart only they exist. For the first time in months Donna feels
loved like a person - loved like everyone else.
Cette Rose sanglante sera lavée sous la pluie,
mais pour révéler seulement le rouge encore.
He sings revelations in french, but the band calls
themselves Russian Rose for no apparent reason.
Il blesse pour respirer quand vos ailes sont attachées
ensemble et vos yeux sont aveugles.
Her mind doesn't know what it all means, but her heart
can feel every word. All too well, because when his voice
fades something within her begins to wither.
He is silent now, the stage lights are out and her Russian
Rose
Flame
is dead.
Author: DeadWinter (me)
Rating: PG
Summary: Just a short drabble about a girl at a concert/gig thing. She falls for the lead singer.
Word Count: 255
A/N: This is my first post writing here. I figured I'd have better luck posting my writing in a seperate journal, so voila!
He screams some girl's name orgasmically into the mic.
Every fiber of Donna's body feels alive - like tiny electrodes
are everywhere and in her most private place.
And even though the words belong to no one but him,
she feels like they were tailored out of little, delicate butterflies'
wings and made into a dress just her size. She's wearing those words
and swaying to the music. The guitar wails in ecstasy while being fingered
methodically and the drums roll along like lovers under the stars.
Donna can't quite point it out, but she knows that he is
doing something to her. Something. She can feel his hands over every
inch of her being. She doesn't know how he's doing it, but it seems like
he's lighting a fire inside of her. Just for her. She isn't embarrassed because
in her heart only they exist. For the first time in months Donna feels
loved like a person - loved like everyone else.
Cette Rose sanglante sera lavée sous la pluie,
mais pour révéler seulement le rouge encore.
He sings revelations in french, but the band calls
themselves Russian Rose for no apparent reason.
Il blesse pour respirer quand vos ailes sont attachées
ensemble et vos yeux sont aveugles.
Her mind doesn't know what it all means, but her heart
can feel every word. All too well, because when his voice
fades something within her begins to wither.
He is silent now, the stage lights are out and her Russian
Rose
Flame
is dead.