oh hello f-list, newbies and old faithfuls, one and all

[dire_redux]

So I am stealing this from my darling featherfish because it is a very, very rad idea and also some of you are shy and I wish you wouldn't be because I really don't bite unless you're into that.

So without further ado, I give you:

In past Christmases, I have left an open invitation to write little fanfic drabbles for LJ holiday presents. I'd like to do that

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Fill: Commedia dell'Arte all'Improviso (2/3)

[dire_redux]

“Clinerei was telling me there was nothing at this party worth chasing. I said What about the White Rabbit over there? and he told me you know more about numbers than you do about people.”

“Clinerei is an ass. If you know one you know the other.”

“Is that so?”

He was winding my pocketwatch with long, thin fingers, while he looked up at me through jetty lashes, oddly coquettish, considering what his other hand was doing beneath the table.

“Well, yes, of course. Everything is made of numbers.”

Everything. And I could break it all down, shatter it so that it’s small enough to handle. Calculate every angle. Strip it to its simplest form and then build it back up so that my hands would know worlds. There’s something there, stitched through everything like a gold thread. Higgs boson, God particle, call it what you want, it’s all the same. My harlequin boy doesn’t see the world like I do, no he doesn’t. He doesn’t see the order in it all, only the potential.

That suits him just fine because all he wants is to shred it all apart in thin, fragile pieces, like pulling the wings from flies. He wants to take a look inside just for the sake of seeing something novel. I know just then that I’d let him, too. O, how I would. It’s worth the risk. Go ahead, I thought, go ahead, pull it all apart, rearrange it, use my blood as fingerpaint.

Clinerei thinks that all I know are numbers, but he’s never made me burn like this.

No one has, if I’m being honest, and I should probably be afraid.

But I’m not.

“I’m numbers?” he asked, smoke curling from his nostrils as he shifted my legs further apart to cup me through my pants and do something with his fingertips that made me shiver.

“Yeah,” I breathed out and for a moment I wondered why I was so willing to let this man I don’t know put his hand on my cock. I hadn’t even kissed him, I didn’t even know his name, but then I realized that’s all changeable, so I took the cigarette from between his lips, closed the space between us. I had my hands closed tight around his forearms, strong and shuddering with movement beneath the fabric of his oxford and my lips closed tight over his, my cigarette butt drowning in a half-full champagne flute. He kissed like he was trying to figure me out, like he was trying to find a way inside and I thought all you have to do is ask. I drew his bottom lip tight between my teeth, turned this into a war, wanted to show him how to get inside. Turned out he doesn’t bleed gold.

He pulled back, looked at me with a smirk that told me he wasn’t expecting that. He asked me, “All numbers. Does that mean you’ve got me all figured out then?”

“I don’t even know your name,” I said, wondering at his blood on my lips and I knew that wasn’t an answer, not really, but it was the closest I could come.

He laughed at me, twisted his palm against my hard cock and rose from his seat, looking down at me with the curls of his hair hanging low enough to brush across my forehead.

“Does it matter?”

I hesitated, half because of what his hands were doing and half because I wasn’t sure.

“Names are just another way of trying to own something,” he said, “Do you want to own me, is that what you’re telling me?”

I do, but just as much, I want to be owned. Funny how that works., I think and the sound that comes out of my lips isn’t a word at all but it hardly matters because it’s swallowed up, strangled by his mouth over mine, hard and fast and possessive and intent.