Nameless (original, R)
Uuugh, I think I just ended up hating lower case after this. I just can’t tell my fingers to unlearn the fact that you press shift at the beginning of every sentence. *sigh* but photogene likes this style, so i had to suck it up XD
Title: Nameless
Word Count: 2,375
Warnings:(?) crack, lower case, present tense, second POV. You know, all that good stuff.
Summary: er, mummies? *shifty eyes*
Author Notes: initially written for an icon of photogene, continued afterwards with the icon help of forgotnsuitcase and sazzlette. boy slash. the kind I hadn't written for ages and yet feels like coming home - I hadn't written anything just for the sake of pretty words in a long time.
he makes your heart flutter. something about the way he looks at you with a million dead sunrises in his eyes, something about the tattoo on his left ankle he told you he got in the year 3045 b.c., the one you laughed about but are starting to believe it's genuine because otherwise, how could you explain him? not a word can define him.
he likes to get you to pant for him, to shut your eyes because looking at him is too much when he's talking like that, nose brushing your eyelids. he likes to kiss you by the open window, smirking at random people walking past it. he likes to get you sweaty and dirty and fuck you in silence, kissing you deep and then biting at your ears. he likes to do it at midday, when everything's so lighted every detail's painfully obvious, when the shadows become deeper. he likes to have you.
you love to have him liking you.
you like to think of yourself as an artist, to wear black and white striped shirts and sit in creaky chairs outside cafes and draw his face over and over again until the tip of your fingers are stained with graphite. he laughs at you. calls you poser and dreamer but he still poses for you, he still rubs your calf with his booted foot under the table.
you drink black coffee. he drinks chocolate milk, and blows in the straw like a child, smiling at the way it bubbles at the top. he says they didn't have this stuff back when he was a kid, and you say, what, at the dawn of humanity? doubt it. he doesn't joke back. he's never really joking, you see.
when he gets tired, he starts ripping paper from your sketch books, writes dirty messages with a stolen pen, tosses them at your head just to watch you blush as you read them. they tell a story. then, he starts to drag his foot upwards, pausing for a moment at the back of your knee, only to keep going up and up until it reaches your crotch and your head rolls backwards.
a neighbor passes by and says hi, and you wave back, all smiles, sweat dampening the hair at the base of your neck. you have to cover your mouth with your hand as you come, white behind your eyes. he's still grinning.
(you keep the wrinkled bits of paper, glue them in a blank paper in order, until it looks like a ransom note, strip by strip of quite graphic notes, and you put it in the middle of the most boring book at your place and put it away and never tell him about it.)
It’s a friday and you ditch school, ditch your friends waiting for you at the fountain because it’s the warmest day of the year according to the news, and he’s always eager and cocky and insatiable when it’s two hundred and more degrees outside your window. he ditches work too, tells his boss he’s sick instead of telling him he could really use this opportunity to shag his ridiculously young roommate.
you both lie on the floor, bare flesh against cold tiles, and you watch him bask in the sun like a cat, looking bright and alive in between pools of light, his eyelashes looking golden. his ribs show as he’s lying down, always have, and you trace them with your fingertips with a black crayon between your teeth, as he shivers and laughs, saying, tickles, you bastard, stop it, and you say, not a chance. you draw a heart on his left side, darker in the part where veins drop all of the now useless blood. then you lick the pathways the ribs form, and draw over the still shiny saliva. the ribcage encloses your drawn heart. he looks as if he’s been torn inside out.
you can’t draw for shit, he says, rubbing a finger over one of the crayon lines and taking it to his lips, curious to know what it tastes like. yeah, well, you can’t even use a toaster, you say. he stops talking as your mouth starts moving lower.
he cuts his finger as he chops onions that night, and he doesn’t bleed at all.
you say nothing, but think too much.
you have breakfast everyday at the same dingy diner with stale gum stuck to the back of the tables and large, dusty windows next to the tables, as if it was a moving, ever changing tv screen. you like the home-smell inside, the warmth of having a waitress that knows your name and says here you go, honey as she puts the plate of pancakes in front of you. he thinks its ridiculous, to spend so much time in the same place, surrounded by the same people. he makes up excuses so he doesn’t have to go with you, and you let it be, because yes, the waitresses may know you, but that means they care, even if just a bit, and he looks twenty-five and you look younger than your eighteen years and the entire thing looks just a bit too obscene to the outside world.
this week’s paper napkins are painted in a map motif, and you twirl your fingers around the cities, creating a man out of your hand and making him walk from london to liverpool in one big step. the hand-man tips the maple syrup, and is drowned in brown-golden maple. it’s sticky. you lick it away.
you come back home to pick up your books for your early class, and he’s still dozing on the bed, hair sticking out at odd angles and his ratty, hole-infested t-shirt riding up. you throw yourself to the bed with a smile, watch him start awake and then poke you in revenge. you get close and he sniffs at your fingers, murmurs maple real quiet with his eyes still half closed and starts licking whatever syrup’s left on them, smelling sleep-warm.
you love him at this hour, when he’s not yet awake but no longer asleep and he doesn’t tease you for being such an unbelievable sap, when he hides his face in your neck and tells you about having to wear kohl to guard his eyes from the blinding sun and how he misses the feel of dry, desert sand between his fingertips, warm from a day of sunlight. how he misses the dancing on thin, large boats, feeling the nile move up and down beneath your feet.
he tells you stories at this hour, and then denies he’s ever told them later. he goes back to sleep, quietly, and you kiss his ear and go to class, and hear nothing of the lecture, still thinking of his voice against your skin.
the next day, at the diner, you find a napkin that shows the entire world, and your fingers find egypt with ease.
you find a torn, ancient bandage in one of his drawers. you twirl it between your fingers, feel it give and turn to dust at the lightest of pressures. five thousand years, and it still smells vaguely like him. you sigh, close the drawer and don’t ever open it again.
you go to the park across the street, sit on a wooden bench and watch the world pass you by. your scarf is thin, and it lets the wind through it, going down your body until it turns into a chill, turns into tickling right at the tip of your toes. You feed some pigeons with stale bread you find in one of your jacket pockets, and once the breadcrumbs are gone they turn around and ignore you and you mutter bloody stupid birds.
you watch as your breath turns into fog as soon as it leaves your mouth, bright and cloud-white in the morning light. you exhale over and over again, feeling like a kid that has just discovered the cold.
he finds you staring into nothing, elbows on your knees and head between your hands. he stands in front of you, looking down at you, saying nothing. you grab the soft fabric of his fancy work trousers with a hand, pulling at it absently. you ask him why did he ended up in here, if he hates the cold so much. he shrugs. didn’t have that much of a choice, he says. you nod. you met him a block away from the british museum. you wonder if you could find his sarcophagus, if you tried. probably not.
are you done being an old lady already? he asks, and you punch him in the arm as you walk back home together.
have you seen my trousers?, he asks, and you take a look at him and laugh until you cry. what? he asks, and you point a bit and continue to laugh from the bed, hide yourself further inside the blankets until only your hair and eyes and ears are visible.
he’s standing in front of you, looking ridiculous in underwear and socks and fancy black shoes and rumpled hair and nothing else. there’s something oddly grown-up in it, the way you two act and sound and talk to each other as if you’ve been married for a decade already. it sometimes scares you. well, have you seen them? he asks again as he puts a white shirt on, and you just point towards a chair at a corner of the room. he rummages with the pile of clothes for a while, and then he whoops in success. you watch him dress, your nose red from the cold where it peeks out from the blanket.
he finishes dressing and is just about to leave the room when he stops in the process of setting his blue tie in place, and then he just stares at you, eyes narrowed and a smirk in place. what? you ask after a while, and then he just grins, and moves forward. He grabs the blankets and pulls, smiling when you yelp at the cold, and then he leans down, licks a wet path from your navel to your chin and you can’t breathe and the asshole just puts the blankets back in place and walks away, humming some sort of nameless song.
oh, you wanker, you say softly from the bed, dazed, and he gives you a toothy smile just before he leaves the room, completely unaffected, while you’re still red up to your ears. he goes and you stay and you pine and you think this is frankly kind of ridiculous, but you’re not about to complain.
you find one of his socks inside your backpack that day as you settle for art history class, and you hold it inside one hand and get that hand inside that pocket and don’t take it out for the rest of the class, thumb caressing the toe seam in the dark blue fabric.
you feel a bit lovesick.
on your way back home from the grocery store, you stop in front of a gray wall, flecks of white paint washed away with the rain. someone wrote time doesn’t exist, clocks exist, in black paint, in uneven letters that grow bigger or smaller as if on the artist’s whim. the words are slightly tilted to the right, and a few paint drops have slid down the wall until they reach the ground and form a pattern that could have lived inside pollock’s mind. you smile, holding the grocery bag close to yourself.
when you get home the spaghetti’s already done, and he’s fidgeting across the room, looking for something to do. stand still for a moment already, you say as you start cutting the bread. he rolls his eyes, and suddenly he’s right behind you, breath warm against the nape of your neck and fingers twined around your jeans’ belt hoops.
he turns you around, and then you’re halfway lying on the kitchen counter, the tips of your feet dangling four inches above the ground, his elbows on your shoulders as he holds you down. he kisses you, slow and deep, and you can feel breadcrumbs against your back. you hold onto him. this still enough for you? he asks against your ear, and you laugh. For some reason, you remember the wall you saw earlier.
time doesn’t exist, you mutter against his lips, and he says a quiet what are you talking about, just before you flip him over, and he’s taller than you so he can still touch the ground as his back hits the counter and he says oof, his breath chased out of his lungs. you grind against him, hear him moan. you smile softy at the way he closes his eyes and opens his mouth, as if wanting to scream but not being able to muster the necessary strength. i said, time doesn’t exist, you repeat, talking softly, and he chases after your mouth, lifting his head from the counter, hair cover in crumbs and a bit of tomato sauce.
well good for you, he says just before he finally catches your lips, and then his tongue’s in your mouth and you stop thinking for a second.
i know you’re dead, you say, thumbs hovering over his pulse, and you can hear both of your hearts beating in time with each other. he freezes for a second, lifts his eyes to stare into yours. he touches his nose to yours, lifts his legs so they’re around your waist and grounds himself to you, making you gasp and trash and whisper fuck under your breath.
he kisses you again. it doesn’t matter, he says. you nod. i know. And hey, i’m never going to get to shag a mummy ever again. he laughs, deep, head thrown back, and you twist your hand in his hair.
well you’re insane if you think i’ll let you wrap me in toilet paper. he says as you bite his chin, your hands fumbling with his belt buckle. you chuckle. he bites your earlobe, and has you at his will.
you love to have him.
he loves to have you at his feet.
---
I hadn't meant to, but this kinda turned up as a 'companion' of sorts to Let Me Take A Taste Right Off Your Lips. Humans and their dead lovers. They should create a help group, or something. o_O
Title: Nameless
Word Count: 2,375
Warnings:(?) crack, lower case, present tense, second POV. You know, all that good stuff.
Summary: er, mummies? *shifty eyes*
Author Notes: initially written for an icon of photogene, continued afterwards with the icon help of forgotnsuitcase and sazzlette. boy slash. the kind I hadn't written for ages and yet feels like coming home - I hadn't written anything just for the sake of pretty words in a long time.
he makes your heart flutter. something about the way he looks at you with a million dead sunrises in his eyes, something about the tattoo on his left ankle he told you he got in the year 3045 b.c., the one you laughed about but are starting to believe it's genuine because otherwise, how could you explain him? not a word can define him.
he likes to get you to pant for him, to shut your eyes because looking at him is too much when he's talking like that, nose brushing your eyelids. he likes to kiss you by the open window, smirking at random people walking past it. he likes to get you sweaty and dirty and fuck you in silence, kissing you deep and then biting at your ears. he likes to do it at midday, when everything's so lighted every detail's painfully obvious, when the shadows become deeper. he likes to have you.
you love to have him liking you.
you like to think of yourself as an artist, to wear black and white striped shirts and sit in creaky chairs outside cafes and draw his face over and over again until the tip of your fingers are stained with graphite. he laughs at you. calls you poser and dreamer but he still poses for you, he still rubs your calf with his booted foot under the table.
you drink black coffee. he drinks chocolate milk, and blows in the straw like a child, smiling at the way it bubbles at the top. he says they didn't have this stuff back when he was a kid, and you say, what, at the dawn of humanity? doubt it. he doesn't joke back. he's never really joking, you see.
when he gets tired, he starts ripping paper from your sketch books, writes dirty messages with a stolen pen, tosses them at your head just to watch you blush as you read them. they tell a story. then, he starts to drag his foot upwards, pausing for a moment at the back of your knee, only to keep going up and up until it reaches your crotch and your head rolls backwards.
a neighbor passes by and says hi, and you wave back, all smiles, sweat dampening the hair at the base of your neck. you have to cover your mouth with your hand as you come, white behind your eyes. he's still grinning.
(you keep the wrinkled bits of paper, glue them in a blank paper in order, until it looks like a ransom note, strip by strip of quite graphic notes, and you put it in the middle of the most boring book at your place and put it away and never tell him about it.)
It’s a friday and you ditch school, ditch your friends waiting for you at the fountain because it’s the warmest day of the year according to the news, and he’s always eager and cocky and insatiable when it’s two hundred and more degrees outside your window. he ditches work too, tells his boss he’s sick instead of telling him he could really use this opportunity to shag his ridiculously young roommate.
you both lie on the floor, bare flesh against cold tiles, and you watch him bask in the sun like a cat, looking bright and alive in between pools of light, his eyelashes looking golden. his ribs show as he’s lying down, always have, and you trace them with your fingertips with a black crayon between your teeth, as he shivers and laughs, saying, tickles, you bastard, stop it, and you say, not a chance. you draw a heart on his left side, darker in the part where veins drop all of the now useless blood. then you lick the pathways the ribs form, and draw over the still shiny saliva. the ribcage encloses your drawn heart. he looks as if he’s been torn inside out.
you can’t draw for shit, he says, rubbing a finger over one of the crayon lines and taking it to his lips, curious to know what it tastes like. yeah, well, you can’t even use a toaster, you say. he stops talking as your mouth starts moving lower.
he cuts his finger as he chops onions that night, and he doesn’t bleed at all.
you say nothing, but think too much.
you have breakfast everyday at the same dingy diner with stale gum stuck to the back of the tables and large, dusty windows next to the tables, as if it was a moving, ever changing tv screen. you like the home-smell inside, the warmth of having a waitress that knows your name and says here you go, honey as she puts the plate of pancakes in front of you. he thinks its ridiculous, to spend so much time in the same place, surrounded by the same people. he makes up excuses so he doesn’t have to go with you, and you let it be, because yes, the waitresses may know you, but that means they care, even if just a bit, and he looks twenty-five and you look younger than your eighteen years and the entire thing looks just a bit too obscene to the outside world.
this week’s paper napkins are painted in a map motif, and you twirl your fingers around the cities, creating a man out of your hand and making him walk from london to liverpool in one big step. the hand-man tips the maple syrup, and is drowned in brown-golden maple. it’s sticky. you lick it away.
you come back home to pick up your books for your early class, and he’s still dozing on the bed, hair sticking out at odd angles and his ratty, hole-infested t-shirt riding up. you throw yourself to the bed with a smile, watch him start awake and then poke you in revenge. you get close and he sniffs at your fingers, murmurs maple real quiet with his eyes still half closed and starts licking whatever syrup’s left on them, smelling sleep-warm.
you love him at this hour, when he’s not yet awake but no longer asleep and he doesn’t tease you for being such an unbelievable sap, when he hides his face in your neck and tells you about having to wear kohl to guard his eyes from the blinding sun and how he misses the feel of dry, desert sand between his fingertips, warm from a day of sunlight. how he misses the dancing on thin, large boats, feeling the nile move up and down beneath your feet.
he tells you stories at this hour, and then denies he’s ever told them later. he goes back to sleep, quietly, and you kiss his ear and go to class, and hear nothing of the lecture, still thinking of his voice against your skin.
the next day, at the diner, you find a napkin that shows the entire world, and your fingers find egypt with ease.
you find a torn, ancient bandage in one of his drawers. you twirl it between your fingers, feel it give and turn to dust at the lightest of pressures. five thousand years, and it still smells vaguely like him. you sigh, close the drawer and don’t ever open it again.
you go to the park across the street, sit on a wooden bench and watch the world pass you by. your scarf is thin, and it lets the wind through it, going down your body until it turns into a chill, turns into tickling right at the tip of your toes. You feed some pigeons with stale bread you find in one of your jacket pockets, and once the breadcrumbs are gone they turn around and ignore you and you mutter bloody stupid birds.
you watch as your breath turns into fog as soon as it leaves your mouth, bright and cloud-white in the morning light. you exhale over and over again, feeling like a kid that has just discovered the cold.
he finds you staring into nothing, elbows on your knees and head between your hands. he stands in front of you, looking down at you, saying nothing. you grab the soft fabric of his fancy work trousers with a hand, pulling at it absently. you ask him why did he ended up in here, if he hates the cold so much. he shrugs. didn’t have that much of a choice, he says. you nod. you met him a block away from the british museum. you wonder if you could find his sarcophagus, if you tried. probably not.
are you done being an old lady already? he asks, and you punch him in the arm as you walk back home together.
have you seen my trousers?, he asks, and you take a look at him and laugh until you cry. what? he asks, and you point a bit and continue to laugh from the bed, hide yourself further inside the blankets until only your hair and eyes and ears are visible.
he’s standing in front of you, looking ridiculous in underwear and socks and fancy black shoes and rumpled hair and nothing else. there’s something oddly grown-up in it, the way you two act and sound and talk to each other as if you’ve been married for a decade already. it sometimes scares you. well, have you seen them? he asks again as he puts a white shirt on, and you just point towards a chair at a corner of the room. he rummages with the pile of clothes for a while, and then he whoops in success. you watch him dress, your nose red from the cold where it peeks out from the blanket.
he finishes dressing and is just about to leave the room when he stops in the process of setting his blue tie in place, and then he just stares at you, eyes narrowed and a smirk in place. what? you ask after a while, and then he just grins, and moves forward. He grabs the blankets and pulls, smiling when you yelp at the cold, and then he leans down, licks a wet path from your navel to your chin and you can’t breathe and the asshole just puts the blankets back in place and walks away, humming some sort of nameless song.
oh, you wanker, you say softly from the bed, dazed, and he gives you a toothy smile just before he leaves the room, completely unaffected, while you’re still red up to your ears. he goes and you stay and you pine and you think this is frankly kind of ridiculous, but you’re not about to complain.
you find one of his socks inside your backpack that day as you settle for art history class, and you hold it inside one hand and get that hand inside that pocket and don’t take it out for the rest of the class, thumb caressing the toe seam in the dark blue fabric.
you feel a bit lovesick.
on your way back home from the grocery store, you stop in front of a gray wall, flecks of white paint washed away with the rain. someone wrote time doesn’t exist, clocks exist, in black paint, in uneven letters that grow bigger or smaller as if on the artist’s whim. the words are slightly tilted to the right, and a few paint drops have slid down the wall until they reach the ground and form a pattern that could have lived inside pollock’s mind. you smile, holding the grocery bag close to yourself.
when you get home the spaghetti’s already done, and he’s fidgeting across the room, looking for something to do. stand still for a moment already, you say as you start cutting the bread. he rolls his eyes, and suddenly he’s right behind you, breath warm against the nape of your neck and fingers twined around your jeans’ belt hoops.
he turns you around, and then you’re halfway lying on the kitchen counter, the tips of your feet dangling four inches above the ground, his elbows on your shoulders as he holds you down. he kisses you, slow and deep, and you can feel breadcrumbs against your back. you hold onto him. this still enough for you? he asks against your ear, and you laugh. For some reason, you remember the wall you saw earlier.
time doesn’t exist, you mutter against his lips, and he says a quiet what are you talking about, just before you flip him over, and he’s taller than you so he can still touch the ground as his back hits the counter and he says oof, his breath chased out of his lungs. you grind against him, hear him moan. you smile softy at the way he closes his eyes and opens his mouth, as if wanting to scream but not being able to muster the necessary strength. i said, time doesn’t exist, you repeat, talking softly, and he chases after your mouth, lifting his head from the counter, hair cover in crumbs and a bit of tomato sauce.
well good for you, he says just before he finally catches your lips, and then his tongue’s in your mouth and you stop thinking for a second.
i know you’re dead, you say, thumbs hovering over his pulse, and you can hear both of your hearts beating in time with each other. he freezes for a second, lifts his eyes to stare into yours. he touches his nose to yours, lifts his legs so they’re around your waist and grounds himself to you, making you gasp and trash and whisper fuck under your breath.
he kisses you again. it doesn’t matter, he says. you nod. i know. And hey, i’m never going to get to shag a mummy ever again. he laughs, deep, head thrown back, and you twist your hand in his hair.
well you’re insane if you think i’ll let you wrap me in toilet paper. he says as you bite his chin, your hands fumbling with his belt buckle. you chuckle. he bites your earlobe, and has you at his will.
you love to have him.
he loves to have you at his feet.
---
I hadn't meant to, but this kinda turned up as a 'companion' of sorts to Let Me Take A Taste Right Off Your Lips. Humans and their dead lovers. They should create a help group, or something. o_O