so let your bullets fly like rain (keep knocking me down).
Watchmen.
Three lovers Sally Jupiter never forgot.
In addition to depressing the hell out of me, the 'Under the Hood' featurette is what actually inspired me to finish this.
Ughhh. I'm going back to bed.
i. taking all i can get (while i can get it)
He's rough because she wants him to be.
When his touch is too light (too damned gentle), she lashes out with everything she's got (nails and teeth and vicious words) until he breaks, smile splintering, and (finally) shoves her, hands bruising the way she likes, wasted apologies on the edge of his tongue.
(She doesn't know how she feels that a man so good and noble is willing to warp - to break - himself for her. If only temporarily.)
It would be easy - too easy - to make him hers; to take advantage of that lost, adoring (God, isn't that a laugh, he adores her) grin. That grin that both makes her heart ache and makes her want to smash something, anything, fists heavy with misplaced rage.
It would be too easy to love him back.
(But she doesn't deserve it; not someone like him. She knows that more than anyone.)
"Come on," she whispers, teeth grazing his throat, "come on," nails dragging on his chest, leaving faint scars, and it isn't long before slow caresses turn hard and angry and just shy of cruel.
He wants to hate her for it, she knows. Some nights, he tries his hardest to; looks at her with eyes slitted, desperate and hurt, almost violent without her encouragement.
But the truth is, save for one man - Hollis Mason never has had much luck hating anybody.
The brutality isn't what makes it stop. She can take it; she can take plenty.
(It's the fact that he can't, anymore.)
---
ii. born out of frustration
The Silhouette watches her too closely, sometimes.
It's unnerving, to say the least (and the annoyed looks she shoots back do little to dissuade the other woman), but nothing comes of it. Not until tonight.
An impressive row of empty shot glasses line the space in front of her, and she chuckles mirthlessly, adding another to the collection. The bar is thick with smoke and jazz and talk, and she doesn't notice she has company until long fingers drum a fragment of a march on the counter next to her.
Sleek black hair catches the light, gleaming in an alluring manner that Sally knows her own is too brassy to accomplish. She's too far gone to feel any real jealousy.
The other woman tilts her chin in one hand, expression one of mild curiosity.
"You're drunk," she notes. The words are haughty in her clipped accent. Sally manages a strained, bitter laugh.
"Not enough."
Smooth nails slide against her neck, almost consideringly.
"Hmm."
-
She's far more brutal than Hollis ever could try to be - more than willing to strike, her riding crop a familiar tool.
(Sometimes her girlfriend joins in, girlish laughter spilling from a too-red mouth, but her lashes are never as forceful - never as precise - as her lover's.)
Each strike of rasping leather between her legs is more merciless than the last, but the crude, whispered insults cut even more with their truth and shame.
Heart in her throat, Sally leans back and takes it all; relishes the heat that burns more furiously with each blow.
-
She doesn't feel guilt, not for some time, when they vote her out. After all, she's no hypocrite.
(She's all too experienced in needing someone without liking them.)
---
iii. he hit me (and it felt like a kiss)
(She's a careless woman. That's the only explanation for this.)
But, oh, God. Eddie - stubbled cheeks rough against her back, large hands tenderly sliding along her ribs (she remembers the bandages wound tight around them, years ago; the pale excuses Laurence weaved as the doctor studied both of their faces with something like disdain), disturbingly gentle--
Not laughing, for once.
(She knew he was capable of many things. But never this.)
It's just as bad as before. Maybe worse.
He's as handsome as he used to be (she should know; those dark eyes, that strong curve of a jaw, are things she's unsuccessfully tried to forget for years), but his youth has somehow disappeared, replaced by harder angles, laugh lines that were absent before.
(Funny, how before the night that picture was taken, she'd thought the biggest obstacle between them had been their ages.)
"Sal," he mutters, threading his fingers through her hair, and no one else says her name like he does, so rough with emotion, like he wants to kiss her and have his way with her and can't decide which thought will win over, and it's enough to make her thrust back against him, harshly, grab his hands and shove them down to her hips.
Her muscles ache all over, and she's glad he's standing behind her because she can't stand that hungry, heated gaze of his, like he wants to devour every inch of her, only--
--only, this time, it's different.
His hands have stopped their exploration of her skin, and when she twists her neck to glance at him, the look on his face - close to ashamed, as close to it as he can get (like he's almost waiting for goddamned permission) - makes her gut churn violently.
That's what gets her furious (wondering why now, why the hell now), and when it's all over, it's she who fucks him, not the other way around.
-
He thinks she hates him. She doesn't bother to correct him; it's a close enough guess.
She hates that she can't.
Three lovers Sally Jupiter never forgot.
In addition to depressing the hell out of me, the 'Under the Hood' featurette is what actually inspired me to finish this.
Ughhh. I'm going back to bed.
i. taking all i can get (while i can get it)
He's rough because she wants him to be.
When his touch is too light (too damned gentle), she lashes out with everything she's got (nails and teeth and vicious words) until he breaks, smile splintering, and (finally) shoves her, hands bruising the way she likes, wasted apologies on the edge of his tongue.
(She doesn't know how she feels that a man so good and noble is willing to warp - to break - himself for her. If only temporarily.)
It would be easy - too easy - to make him hers; to take advantage of that lost, adoring (God, isn't that a laugh, he adores her) grin. That grin that both makes her heart ache and makes her want to smash something, anything, fists heavy with misplaced rage.
It would be too easy to love him back.
(But she doesn't deserve it; not someone like him. She knows that more than anyone.)
"Come on," she whispers, teeth grazing his throat, "come on," nails dragging on his chest, leaving faint scars, and it isn't long before slow caresses turn hard and angry and just shy of cruel.
He wants to hate her for it, she knows. Some nights, he tries his hardest to; looks at her with eyes slitted, desperate and hurt, almost violent without her encouragement.
But the truth is, save for one man - Hollis Mason never has had much luck hating anybody.
The brutality isn't what makes it stop. She can take it; she can take plenty.
(It's the fact that he can't, anymore.)
---
ii. born out of frustration
The Silhouette watches her too closely, sometimes.
It's unnerving, to say the least (and the annoyed looks she shoots back do little to dissuade the other woman), but nothing comes of it. Not until tonight.
An impressive row of empty shot glasses line the space in front of her, and she chuckles mirthlessly, adding another to the collection. The bar is thick with smoke and jazz and talk, and she doesn't notice she has company until long fingers drum a fragment of a march on the counter next to her.
Sleek black hair catches the light, gleaming in an alluring manner that Sally knows her own is too brassy to accomplish. She's too far gone to feel any real jealousy.
The other woman tilts her chin in one hand, expression one of mild curiosity.
"You're drunk," she notes. The words are haughty in her clipped accent. Sally manages a strained, bitter laugh.
"Not enough."
Smooth nails slide against her neck, almost consideringly.
"Hmm."
-
She's far more brutal than Hollis ever could try to be - more than willing to strike, her riding crop a familiar tool.
(Sometimes her girlfriend joins in, girlish laughter spilling from a too-red mouth, but her lashes are never as forceful - never as precise - as her lover's.)
Each strike of rasping leather between her legs is more merciless than the last, but the crude, whispered insults cut even more with their truth and shame.
Heart in her throat, Sally leans back and takes it all; relishes the heat that burns more furiously with each blow.
-
She doesn't feel guilt, not for some time, when they vote her out. After all, she's no hypocrite.
(She's all too experienced in needing someone without liking them.)
---
iii. he hit me (and it felt like a kiss)
(She's a careless woman. That's the only explanation for this.)
But, oh, God. Eddie - stubbled cheeks rough against her back, large hands tenderly sliding along her ribs (she remembers the bandages wound tight around them, years ago; the pale excuses Laurence weaved as the doctor studied both of their faces with something like disdain), disturbingly gentle--
Not laughing, for once.
(She knew he was capable of many things. But never this.)
It's just as bad as before. Maybe worse.
He's as handsome as he used to be (she should know; those dark eyes, that strong curve of a jaw, are things she's unsuccessfully tried to forget for years), but his youth has somehow disappeared, replaced by harder angles, laugh lines that were absent before.
(Funny, how before the night that picture was taken, she'd thought the biggest obstacle between them had been their ages.)
"Sal," he mutters, threading his fingers through her hair, and no one else says her name like he does, so rough with emotion, like he wants to kiss her and have his way with her and can't decide which thought will win over, and it's enough to make her thrust back against him, harshly, grab his hands and shove them down to her hips.
Her muscles ache all over, and she's glad he's standing behind her because she can't stand that hungry, heated gaze of his, like he wants to devour every inch of her, only--
--only, this time, it's different.
His hands have stopped their exploration of her skin, and when she twists her neck to glance at him, the look on his face - close to ashamed, as close to it as he can get (like he's almost waiting for goddamned permission) - makes her gut churn violently.
That's what gets her furious (wondering why now, why the hell now), and when it's all over, it's she who fucks him, not the other way around.
-
He thinks she hates him. She doesn't bother to correct him; it's a close enough guess.
She hates that she can't.