Crossover Ficlet: Chiaroscuro (Death/Gerard Way, R)
After writing Quadratura about Mikey, it only seemed natural to take a stab at the Gerard companion piece.
Title: Chiaroscuro
Fandom: Crossover, Sandman/Bandom-RPF
Pairing: Death/Gerard Way
Rating: mild R
Words: 732
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Summary: A brush with Death on vacation.
Notes: Written for Porn Battle V, prompt "Death/Gerard Way, life." (Original thread here.) Constructive criticism and general feedback is, as always, much appreciated.
He’s standing at the edge of the balcony of some kid’s posh 38th-floor apartment in Tokyo getting a breath of fresh air (avoiding the party he can still hear raging behind the floor-length windowshade) when she comes to him.
One moment he’s alone, elbows on the railing, hazily watching the cigarette that just slipped through his fingers sail into the alienated darkness of the post-modern urban experience and wondering if he should follow it, and the next, she’s sitting on the railing next to him, smiling.
“Hi, Gerard.” She’s head to toe in basic black - racerback tank top, narrow jeans, leather ankle boots, choppy ink-black hair - with a graceful silver ankh glinting on her breastbone and a thin swirl of elaborate eyeliner standing out against the pale, pale skin of her delicate face. The quirk of her mouth seems to hold just the tiniest bit of amusement as she waits for him to catalogue the details of her existence.
“Nice costume,” he tells her. “Overdone, but classic.”
Her smile deepens, open and warm, and she says, “Look again.”
He concentrates on herding all the filmy fucked-up-ness swirling around his cerebral cortex into one little corner, leaving him enough space for a moment or two of true visual focus.
“Holyshit.” He gapes at her. Blinks once. Twice. Regains (minimal) control of his tongue. “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.” Note to self: control of tongue is not so useful without also having control of brain.
But apparently she doesn’t mind being likened to a large orange fruit, because her smile just widens even more into this fucking beautiful joyous grin, and eventually he realizes that maybe they should be doing something other than just standing here grinning at each other? What’s she doing on this balcony, anyway? He bites his lip.
“I thought I decided I didn’t need the cigarette that badly. . .” He trails off as he leans over the railing to see if he can catch glimpses of his own broken body on the pavement.
She tugs him up away from the railing and into the space between her knees. Takes his face in both her hands, her left thumb brushing cool against his cheek, her dark eyes suddenly solemn. “And you were right.”
She smiles again, softly this time, and as she leans slowly forward her eyelashes start to blur together in his vision, and he can’t decide if he should try to stop his own eyes from closing or just go with it.
Her lips are as cool as her hands, gentle and smooth, and somehow he can taste the sunny blacklight glow of her smile as he tentatively lets his mouth fall open on his next inhale. She makes a pleased little sound and presses her tongue into his mouth with a deliberateness that he finds himself admiring, and when he swirls his tongue around hers, he thinks he might be appropriating it for his own movements.
She’s still cradling his head in her hands, and he clutches at her waist, fingers hooked into belt loops, as she marks a line of little biting kisses across his jaw and under his ear and down the side of his throat. She trails back up the other side, pausing long enough at his pulse point that he knows he’ll never forget the feel of the blood throbbing under his skin and against her teeth. She ends up back at his mouth, sucking on his lower lip, and he bites back, nipping at her lips and sliding his tongue against the roof of her mouth eagerly.
Her hands tighten on his jaw, and she sits back. Tips his chin up to look him squarely in the eyes.
“You get a life, just like everybody else,” she tells him. “Remember.”
Then she kisses him one last time, and just when he thinks he’s going to either melt or explode, she pulls back, folds his hands down to his sides, and climbs up onto the railing.
Her smile is like the expanding brightness of the universe right after the Big Bang.
She turns and walks, balanced on the railing, and in between one step and the next, she is gone.
He is standing at the edge of a balcony in Japan, achingly hard and completely sober, and fucking happier to be alive than he has been in a long, long time.
Title: Chiaroscuro
Fandom: Crossover, Sandman/Bandom-RPF
Pairing: Death/Gerard Way
Rating: mild R
Words: 732
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Summary: A brush with Death on vacation.
Notes: Written for Porn Battle V, prompt "Death/Gerard Way, life." (Original thread here.) Constructive criticism and general feedback is, as always, much appreciated.
He’s standing at the edge of the balcony of some kid’s posh 38th-floor apartment in Tokyo getting a breath of fresh air (avoiding the party he can still hear raging behind the floor-length windowshade) when she comes to him.
One moment he’s alone, elbows on the railing, hazily watching the cigarette that just slipped through his fingers sail into the alienated darkness of the post-modern urban experience and wondering if he should follow it, and the next, she’s sitting on the railing next to him, smiling.
“Hi, Gerard.” She’s head to toe in basic black - racerback tank top, narrow jeans, leather ankle boots, choppy ink-black hair - with a graceful silver ankh glinting on her breastbone and a thin swirl of elaborate eyeliner standing out against the pale, pale skin of her delicate face. The quirk of her mouth seems to hold just the tiniest bit of amusement as she waits for him to catalogue the details of her existence.
“Nice costume,” he tells her. “Overdone, but classic.”
Her smile deepens, open and warm, and she says, “Look again.”
He concentrates on herding all the filmy fucked-up-ness swirling around his cerebral cortex into one little corner, leaving him enough space for a moment or two of true visual focus.
“Holyshit.” He gapes at her. Blinks once. Twice. Regains (minimal) control of his tongue. “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.” Note to self: control of tongue is not so useful without also having control of brain.
But apparently she doesn’t mind being likened to a large orange fruit, because her smile just widens even more into this fucking beautiful joyous grin, and eventually he realizes that maybe they should be doing something other than just standing here grinning at each other? What’s she doing on this balcony, anyway? He bites his lip.
“I thought I decided I didn’t need the cigarette that badly. . .” He trails off as he leans over the railing to see if he can catch glimpses of his own broken body on the pavement.
She tugs him up away from the railing and into the space between her knees. Takes his face in both her hands, her left thumb brushing cool against his cheek, her dark eyes suddenly solemn. “And you were right.”
She smiles again, softly this time, and as she leans slowly forward her eyelashes start to blur together in his vision, and he can’t decide if he should try to stop his own eyes from closing or just go with it.
Her lips are as cool as her hands, gentle and smooth, and somehow he can taste the sunny blacklight glow of her smile as he tentatively lets his mouth fall open on his next inhale. She makes a pleased little sound and presses her tongue into his mouth with a deliberateness that he finds himself admiring, and when he swirls his tongue around hers, he thinks he might be appropriating it for his own movements.
She’s still cradling his head in her hands, and he clutches at her waist, fingers hooked into belt loops, as she marks a line of little biting kisses across his jaw and under his ear and down the side of his throat. She trails back up the other side, pausing long enough at his pulse point that he knows he’ll never forget the feel of the blood throbbing under his skin and against her teeth. She ends up back at his mouth, sucking on his lower lip, and he bites back, nipping at her lips and sliding his tongue against the roof of her mouth eagerly.
Her hands tighten on his jaw, and she sits back. Tips his chin up to look him squarely in the eyes.
“You get a life, just like everybody else,” she tells him. “Remember.”
Then she kisses him one last time, and just when he thinks he’s going to either melt or explode, she pulls back, folds his hands down to his sides, and climbs up onto the railing.
Her smile is like the expanding brightness of the universe right after the Big Bang.
She turns and walks, balanced on the railing, and in between one step and the next, she is gone.
He is standing at the edge of a balcony in Japan, achingly hard and completely sober, and fucking happier to be alive than he has been in a long, long time.