And I Play Gently On
My first drabble response for this community, so here goes!
Title: And I Play Gently On
Author: Ebony_Twist
Theme: #41: Fire
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: If I owned them, Iron Man 2, 3, and 4 would be out about now.
Summary:
His mind lies in fog now, welcome and muffling and eager to drown out all other thoughts that might slip through when he is awake and all too aware of the world around him. Beneath him, she giggles, grating on his ears as her nails rake down his back, leaving marks that a part of him thinks might hurt in the morning, when mixed with skin that has become permanently bruised and cuts that never seem to heal. But then he clasps his mouth over hers and she shuts up and he is grateful. So grateful that he shows his thanks by trailing fingers down her body and bringing her to a place that he smugly thinks she will never forget come morning. Her giggles are gone now, replaced by moans and screams and sweat, dripping down his sleek, coiled body and on glassy, unfocused eyes.
For a moment, the fog that has enshrouded his thoughts shifts and blonde becomes fire made soft and pliable, slipping through his fingers and smelling soft and sweet and like something called home. Dull, made-up brown melts into blue, clear and bright with longing and lust and something else he would rather not name, not when she tastes so sweet on his tongue and her tears have mixed with his sweat to create something wonderful, though once the fog leaves he will know that he never ran his fingers through fire that curls over callused knuckles or drowned in an endless ocean of pure blue.
His body shifts through the familiar movements while he looses himself in taunting flashes of creamy, white legs that look so incredibly sexy in heels that are utterly impractical and a wide expanse of freckled skin he wants to trace over with his fingers and his tongue, connecting the dots and memorizing the feel of her skin beneath his fingers and the scent of her when her hair tickles his nose. Oblivion has slipped frighteningly close now and he welcomes it like an old lover, like he welcomed this nameless face into his bed and will tomorrow welcome his pounding head and her destitute stares because even that is better than the dreams and the gunshots and her body cold beneath his fingers or crushed by weapons he has made, gone before he can comprehend his choking sobs and pleading whispers.
She arches, a taunt string to his maddening violin, crescending with the music to create a sweeping, breathtaking harmony that vibrates through his very core. He crashes with the tune’s final arc, and if the melody resonates slightly off within his limbs, then the fog wipes away that fact too and then he knows nothing more except fire that is maybe blonde and oceans that might be brown.
In the morning, the routine will continue, and he will fight to keep from running his fingers through fire and trying to hold the burning flames in the palm of his hand. She might try to talk to him about this problem of his and he will taunt or smirk and she will forget about it because he will do whatever it takes to distract her. And if he lingers a moment too long when they talk or brushes by her body a hair too close, then she will ignore that, like she ignores the women and tries to ignore the scotch and he will use that memory when he has finally drank enough to feel fire threading through his hands and to see azure oceans to drown in.
In the morning, a small part of him hopes he will wake up to creamy, freckled skin and her soft, sweet fragrance wafting at his nose.
But for now, he will loose himself in fog and half-truths, in wants and needs and secret wishes because he can not deal with his dreams yet, and when he finally does, he knows she will be waiting for him with fire he can hold in the palm of his hand.
Title: And I Play Gently On
Author: Ebony_Twist
Theme: #41: Fire
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: If I owned them, Iron Man 2, 3, and 4 would be out about now.
Summary:
His mind lies in fog now, welcome and muffling and eager to drown out all other thoughts that might slip through when he is awake and all too aware of the world around him. Beneath him, she giggles, grating on his ears as her nails rake down his back, leaving marks that a part of him thinks might hurt in the morning, when mixed with skin that has become permanently bruised and cuts that never seem to heal. But then he clasps his mouth over hers and she shuts up and he is grateful. So grateful that he shows his thanks by trailing fingers down her body and bringing her to a place that he smugly thinks she will never forget come morning. Her giggles are gone now, replaced by moans and screams and sweat, dripping down his sleek, coiled body and on glassy, unfocused eyes.
For a moment, the fog that has enshrouded his thoughts shifts and blonde becomes fire made soft and pliable, slipping through his fingers and smelling soft and sweet and like something called home. Dull, made-up brown melts into blue, clear and bright with longing and lust and something else he would rather not name, not when she tastes so sweet on his tongue and her tears have mixed with his sweat to create something wonderful, though once the fog leaves he will know that he never ran his fingers through fire that curls over callused knuckles or drowned in an endless ocean of pure blue.
His body shifts through the familiar movements while he looses himself in taunting flashes of creamy, white legs that look so incredibly sexy in heels that are utterly impractical and a wide expanse of freckled skin he wants to trace over with his fingers and his tongue, connecting the dots and memorizing the feel of her skin beneath his fingers and the scent of her when her hair tickles his nose. Oblivion has slipped frighteningly close now and he welcomes it like an old lover, like he welcomed this nameless face into his bed and will tomorrow welcome his pounding head and her destitute stares because even that is better than the dreams and the gunshots and her body cold beneath his fingers or crushed by weapons he has made, gone before he can comprehend his choking sobs and pleading whispers.
She arches, a taunt string to his maddening violin, crescending with the music to create a sweeping, breathtaking harmony that vibrates through his very core. He crashes with the tune’s final arc, and if the melody resonates slightly off within his limbs, then the fog wipes away that fact too and then he knows nothing more except fire that is maybe blonde and oceans that might be brown.
In the morning, the routine will continue, and he will fight to keep from running his fingers through fire and trying to hold the burning flames in the palm of his hand. She might try to talk to him about this problem of his and he will taunt or smirk and she will forget about it because he will do whatever it takes to distract her. And if he lingers a moment too long when they talk or brushes by her body a hair too close, then she will ignore that, like she ignores the women and tries to ignore the scotch and he will use that memory when he has finally drank enough to feel fire threading through his hands and to see azure oceans to drown in.
In the morning, a small part of him hopes he will wake up to creamy, freckled skin and her soft, sweet fragrance wafting at his nose.
But for now, he will loose himself in fog and half-truths, in wants and needs and secret wishes because he can not deal with his dreams yet, and when he finally does, he knows she will be waiting for him with fire he can hold in the palm of his hand.