and when you come, your majesty
Title: A Catalogue Of Sins, In Morning Light
Fandom: Wire in the Blood
Character/s: Tony Hill, Alex Fielding
Word Count: 1370
Spoilers: For the end of Season 6
Warning: ADULT THEMES. IE: SEX.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them, but I own the porny bits high-class erotica.
Summary: Tony has dirty flashbacks. Umm…
Author’s Note: Okay mammothluv, it’s not porn, exactly. Not as such. But there are porny bits, I swear! (If the level of porn is deemed entirely insufficient, I will gladly attempt something more porny if you so wish. I’m kind of feeling the groove, now.)
A Catalogue of Sins
The brutality of the environmentally-friendly fluorescent light that rends sharply into his eyes is bad enough. The sight, once his vision clears, of his own reflection staring wanly back at him only adds insult to injury.
It's his one acquiescence to vanity; this daily, ritualised dissection of his appearance, and not a wrinkle, not a rumple of tired, pale skin misses his scrutiny. The stubble across his cheeks and sloping along his jaw is coarse and dark as volcanic beach sand, and scrapes and rasps unforgivingly beneath his palm.
It's reminder enough, the touch of a hand to his face, and the flood of images, of sense memories, rips the breath right out of his chest. His fingers find the rim of the basin, the ill-used muscles in his arms trembling with remembered effort. His reflection fades, the desaturated dark of the night before coming over him in a wash of remembrance.
He's never been clutched at before, never been wrenched and clawed and savaged with such forceful passion in his life. He's exhausted; worn out and down and rent apart physically, psychologically, emotionally. He is utterly, utterly drained.
He's never felt better in his life.
A sound reaches his ears, drifting from the hallway leading to his bedroom. The rustle of sheets, the soft shift of what is unmistakeably skin on cotton. A murmur. He can picture it, and whether it is fantasy or remembered reality he can no longer tell, but somehow his mind conjures the languid, graceful stretch of her arm, her skin dark against the white of his bedsheets.
It's the same bright contrast that slants sharp as a knife into his memory; the white of his shirt, still clinging to crispness at the end of the longest day, crumpling like paper in the surprising strength of her curling fists. The ferocity of her fingers, hands he’s watched absently day following day, tearing the seams of his clothing and ripping him fearlessly limb from limb. The drag of her teeth, chased by wicked tongue and a smile so darkly teasing her eyes looked almost black against the night.
He’s always understood Alex to be, well, impassioned. It’s a trait he’s admired in her, envied even, at times.
Now, after the activity of the last twelve hours, passion seems far too pale a word.
‘Dinner and conversation’, she’d said, just like she’d said numerous months ago, only it had taken this long for the both of them to be in the same place at the same time long enough to claim an evening as their own. He’d felt a jigsaw of emotions; anticipation, fear, expectation, excitement, desire. Desire had been there, swirling almost sickly below the other thoughts, other feelings churning in his gut during the day. It’s nothing, he told himself, just dinner with Alex, a friend, nothing to get excited or worried about.
There was dinner. And conversation. A twisting, running stream of conversation, flowing from point to point and moment to moment with such a complex lack of structure that at the time he didn’t even notice what they were eating. Not sushi, at any rate.
They talked, on and on until the restaurant staff were shooting covert glares in their direction and resetting tables for the next day. They talked during the brief walk down the high street, talked in the back of the black taxi, talked until they reached the front door of his flat, when, curiously, they happened to fall silent in perfect unison.
He grins into the mirror, giddy with exhaustion, and just giddy in general.
He’d made a joke, said something characteristically daft and nonsensical, and then it hit him. Or, more accurately, she hit him, with no less force than a runaway hurricane.
One minute they’d been standing, side by side in front of his door, keys dangling from his hand and the most inexplicable expression on her face as she stared at him, hard. He’d been smiling quietly at his own witticism, minding his own business entirely, and then in a savage instant she’d lunged, so quick that his vision blurred and his legs very nearly buckled beneath him.
Her hands were still cold from the weather outside when they wound around his neck.
Her mouth tasted inexplicably sweet, some mysterious trace of vanilla that one sadly detached corner of his mind put down to lipgloss, perhaps.
He stifles a laugh, eyes fixed on his own in the mirror, joyful hysteria brimming within him. He stretches his back, wincing as the grazed, bruised skin across his shoulders twinges.
He’d hit the doorframe at speed, barely registering the pain then as it bloomed red and purple behind his eyes. She’d smiled then, grinned against his mouth and in that instant he’d opened his eyes.
He’d never seen her up so close.
There were freckles across her nose, and he’d never noticed before.
Her eyes were the strangest shade of green, warm brown at the edges and then almost amber, right in the middle.
She was pretty when she smiled, but prettier when her smile began to falter. She’d begun to look scared, those eyes growing wide and her fingers where they’d seized his collar stilling.
Then he’d had that familiar feeling, that sudden expanse of opportunity opening before him. A moment, a pinpoint in time when he could act, or fail to act.
She’d begun to pull away, but he’d only let her gain an inch or two of distance before he’d caught her. She’d looked shocked, when his hands had gripped her waist with decidedly uncharacteristic decisiveness.
He lets the smile leave his face, the memory overwhelming.
From down the hall he hears another rustle of sheets, another murmur.
A surge of courage had propelled him, along with the panic he’d seen in her eyes, and a pressing need to dispel it. He’d raised his hand, let his fingers move by instinct to wind in her hair.
A decidedly louder rustle, followed by a creak, and he rubs his hands over his face, barely trusting his own memory now not to deceive him, to trick him with blissful falsities.
There against the doorframe he’d brushed the corner of her mouth with his thumb, amazed when she’d voiced the quietest sigh, enthralled when she’d sunk bonelessly against him.
His peripheral vision catches the movement, the flash of white behind him reflected in the mirror.
The most significant moment of his life thus far unfolded languidly, dream-like, perfect.
He’d kissed her, so slowly he’d ached with the restraint.
She’d kissed him back, so gently he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined it.
He turns, leans back against the basin, folds his arms across his chest, and narrows his eyes.
He’d learned long ago never to underestimate her. He’d barely heard the click of the key in the lock, turning in her fingers, but he’d certainly felt the rush of cold air and the loss of balance, as the door behind his back had flown open.
She’d grinned again, wicked and utterly pleased with herself, as they’d crashed as one into the hall table. After that, all that he could remember was a blur, a haze of skin and kisses and undoing warmth. She’d smiled up at him, in the dark, and he’d stayed pressed against her until dawn had coloured the window bruise blue.
She’s grinning, doing that thing with the corner of her tongue that distracts him more than anything else in the world, the sheet from his bed draped artfully around her.
He feigns at being suave, lets his gaze roam where it wishes, and despite the wickedness still in her eyes, she blushes.
He’s still feeling brave, braver than perhaps he ever has, and this leads him to cross the small tiled space between them.
He tucks a thick, tangled lock of hair behind her ear, and her mouth falls open, just enough to make him think of kissing her, again.
The stubble on his cheek rasps beneath her palm.
He can see her freckles again, under the fluorescent light.
When he kisses her, she grins.
*
Fandom: Wire in the Blood
Character/s: Tony Hill, Alex Fielding
Word Count: 1370
Spoilers: For the end of Season 6
Warning: ADULT THEMES. IE: SEX.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them, but I own the porny bits high-class erotica.
Summary: Tony has dirty flashbacks. Umm…
Author’s Note: Okay mammothluv, it’s not porn, exactly. Not as such. But there are porny bits, I swear! (If the level of porn is deemed entirely insufficient, I will gladly attempt something more porny if you so wish. I’m kind of feeling the groove, now.)
A Catalogue of Sins
The brutality of the environmentally-friendly fluorescent light that rends sharply into his eyes is bad enough. The sight, once his vision clears, of his own reflection staring wanly back at him only adds insult to injury.
It's his one acquiescence to vanity; this daily, ritualised dissection of his appearance, and not a wrinkle, not a rumple of tired, pale skin misses his scrutiny. The stubble across his cheeks and sloping along his jaw is coarse and dark as volcanic beach sand, and scrapes and rasps unforgivingly beneath his palm.
It's reminder enough, the touch of a hand to his face, and the flood of images, of sense memories, rips the breath right out of his chest. His fingers find the rim of the basin, the ill-used muscles in his arms trembling with remembered effort. His reflection fades, the desaturated dark of the night before coming over him in a wash of remembrance.
He's never been clutched at before, never been wrenched and clawed and savaged with such forceful passion in his life. He's exhausted; worn out and down and rent apart physically, psychologically, emotionally. He is utterly, utterly drained.
He's never felt better in his life.
A sound reaches his ears, drifting from the hallway leading to his bedroom. The rustle of sheets, the soft shift of what is unmistakeably skin on cotton. A murmur. He can picture it, and whether it is fantasy or remembered reality he can no longer tell, but somehow his mind conjures the languid, graceful stretch of her arm, her skin dark against the white of his bedsheets.
It's the same bright contrast that slants sharp as a knife into his memory; the white of his shirt, still clinging to crispness at the end of the longest day, crumpling like paper in the surprising strength of her curling fists. The ferocity of her fingers, hands he’s watched absently day following day, tearing the seams of his clothing and ripping him fearlessly limb from limb. The drag of her teeth, chased by wicked tongue and a smile so darkly teasing her eyes looked almost black against the night.
He’s always understood Alex to be, well, impassioned. It’s a trait he’s admired in her, envied even, at times.
Now, after the activity of the last twelve hours, passion seems far too pale a word.
‘Dinner and conversation’, she’d said, just like she’d said numerous months ago, only it had taken this long for the both of them to be in the same place at the same time long enough to claim an evening as their own. He’d felt a jigsaw of emotions; anticipation, fear, expectation, excitement, desire. Desire had been there, swirling almost sickly below the other thoughts, other feelings churning in his gut during the day. It’s nothing, he told himself, just dinner with Alex, a friend, nothing to get excited or worried about.
There was dinner. And conversation. A twisting, running stream of conversation, flowing from point to point and moment to moment with such a complex lack of structure that at the time he didn’t even notice what they were eating. Not sushi, at any rate.
They talked, on and on until the restaurant staff were shooting covert glares in their direction and resetting tables for the next day. They talked during the brief walk down the high street, talked in the back of the black taxi, talked until they reached the front door of his flat, when, curiously, they happened to fall silent in perfect unison.
He grins into the mirror, giddy with exhaustion, and just giddy in general.
He’d made a joke, said something characteristically daft and nonsensical, and then it hit him. Or, more accurately, she hit him, with no less force than a runaway hurricane.
One minute they’d been standing, side by side in front of his door, keys dangling from his hand and the most inexplicable expression on her face as she stared at him, hard. He’d been smiling quietly at his own witticism, minding his own business entirely, and then in a savage instant she’d lunged, so quick that his vision blurred and his legs very nearly buckled beneath him.
Her hands were still cold from the weather outside when they wound around his neck.
Her mouth tasted inexplicably sweet, some mysterious trace of vanilla that one sadly detached corner of his mind put down to lipgloss, perhaps.
He stifles a laugh, eyes fixed on his own in the mirror, joyful hysteria brimming within him. He stretches his back, wincing as the grazed, bruised skin across his shoulders twinges.
He’d hit the doorframe at speed, barely registering the pain then as it bloomed red and purple behind his eyes. She’d smiled then, grinned against his mouth and in that instant he’d opened his eyes.
He’d never seen her up so close.
There were freckles across her nose, and he’d never noticed before.
Her eyes were the strangest shade of green, warm brown at the edges and then almost amber, right in the middle.
She was pretty when she smiled, but prettier when her smile began to falter. She’d begun to look scared, those eyes growing wide and her fingers where they’d seized his collar stilling.
Then he’d had that familiar feeling, that sudden expanse of opportunity opening before him. A moment, a pinpoint in time when he could act, or fail to act.
She’d begun to pull away, but he’d only let her gain an inch or two of distance before he’d caught her. She’d looked shocked, when his hands had gripped her waist with decidedly uncharacteristic decisiveness.
He lets the smile leave his face, the memory overwhelming.
From down the hall he hears another rustle of sheets, another murmur.
A surge of courage had propelled him, along with the panic he’d seen in her eyes, and a pressing need to dispel it. He’d raised his hand, let his fingers move by instinct to wind in her hair.
A decidedly louder rustle, followed by a creak, and he rubs his hands over his face, barely trusting his own memory now not to deceive him, to trick him with blissful falsities.
There against the doorframe he’d brushed the corner of her mouth with his thumb, amazed when she’d voiced the quietest sigh, enthralled when she’d sunk bonelessly against him.
His peripheral vision catches the movement, the flash of white behind him reflected in the mirror.
The most significant moment of his life thus far unfolded languidly, dream-like, perfect.
He’d kissed her, so slowly he’d ached with the restraint.
She’d kissed him back, so gently he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined it.
He turns, leans back against the basin, folds his arms across his chest, and narrows his eyes.
He’d learned long ago never to underestimate her. He’d barely heard the click of the key in the lock, turning in her fingers, but he’d certainly felt the rush of cold air and the loss of balance, as the door behind his back had flown open.
She’d grinned again, wicked and utterly pleased with herself, as they’d crashed as one into the hall table. After that, all that he could remember was a blur, a haze of skin and kisses and undoing warmth. She’d smiled up at him, in the dark, and he’d stayed pressed against her until dawn had coloured the window bruise blue.
She’s grinning, doing that thing with the corner of her tongue that distracts him more than anything else in the world, the sheet from his bed draped artfully around her.
He feigns at being suave, lets his gaze roam where it wishes, and despite the wickedness still in her eyes, she blushes.
He’s still feeling brave, braver than perhaps he ever has, and this leads him to cross the small tiled space between them.
He tucks a thick, tangled lock of hair behind her ear, and her mouth falls open, just enough to make him think of kissing her, again.
The stubble on his cheek rasps beneath her palm.
He can see her freckles again, under the fluorescent light.
When he kisses her, she grins.
*