LAS: Blue Eyes 1/1 Lenny/Carmine R
SERIES: Blue Eyes
PART: 1 of 1
RATING: PG-13 (m/m sexual situations; language)
PAIRING(s): Lenny/Carmine
DISTRIBUTION: To Myself so far; any other archives are welcome to ask, but disclaimers must be included, my email left intact. send a URL, and provide full disclaimers as well as credit me fully. Please inform me if you are going to submit my work to any sort of search engine. Please do not submit my work to a search engine that picks out random sets of words and uses them as key words, such as "Google"
Please contact me in order for this story to be placed on an archive, or if you want know of a friend who would enjoy my works, please email me their address and I will mail them the stories, expressly for the purpose of link trading. MiSTiers are welcomed! Please do inform me that you'd like to do the MiSTing, however, and send me a copy of the finished product. I'd also love to archive any MiSTings that are made of my work!
CATEGORY: Drama, Angst
FEEDBACK: PLEASE?!
SETTING IN TIMELINE: Post-Lenny's Crush; around season 5 AU
SPOILLER/SUMMARY: “You Understand. You're Catholic” (LennyCarmine Angsty Post-Smut)
NOTES: a 250 word drabble.
Life has a way of tumbling apart when what you really want is order. Beautiful blue-eyed girls don’t give out their love easily; you understand; she’s a Protestant, you’re a Catholic, the lexicon of guilt is the one thing you share. So you make concessions.
You find someone else with blue eyes.
A quart of home-made whisky brewed up by his best friend and you’re laughing at the ridiculous shapes your bodies make together. He gets maudlin after the third drink - one more means violence. You’re drunk, lonely and shockingly enraptured - and you know he won’t tell anyone. You cut him off with your caress.
You’re all practiced suavity. He gives - clever with his tongue. You don’t mind the hardness of wide palms or the roughness of slim fingertips. A mouth feels like a mouth, and this one doesn’t tell you you’ve gone too far.
When he screams Laverne’s name, you’ve been too well-fucked to give a damn.
You lie on the sticky sheets, sweat drying unpleasantly on your back. No touching. The dead iguana sits upon his chest, staring dully, lost in some mystical trance. You won’t meet his eyes as they scale your chest.
You’re still the best actor on Knapp Street, standing on the mark with an amnesia-causing kiss. But with him, the lines dessert you.
God, he’s so much like her.
So you lie together, disordered, ashamed of having used each other, scandalized by the hope of what could be now. Missing out on the magic of your own salvation.
PART: 1 of 1
RATING: PG-13 (m/m sexual situations; language)
PAIRING(s): Lenny/Carmine
DISTRIBUTION: To Myself so far; any other archives are welcome to ask, but disclaimers must be included, my email left intact. send a URL, and provide full disclaimers as well as credit me fully. Please inform me if you are going to submit my work to any sort of search engine. Please do not submit my work to a search engine that picks out random sets of words and uses them as key words, such as "Google"
Please contact me in order for this story to be placed on an archive, or if you want know of a friend who would enjoy my works, please email me their address and I will mail them the stories, expressly for the purpose of link trading. MiSTiers are welcomed! Please do inform me that you'd like to do the MiSTing, however, and send me a copy of the finished product. I'd also love to archive any MiSTings that are made of my work!
CATEGORY: Drama, Angst
FEEDBACK: PLEASE?!
SETTING IN TIMELINE: Post-Lenny's Crush; around season 5 AU
SPOILLER/SUMMARY: “You Understand. You're Catholic” (LennyCarmine Angsty Post-Smut)
NOTES: a 250 word drabble.
Life has a way of tumbling apart when what you really want is order. Beautiful blue-eyed girls don’t give out their love easily; you understand; she’s a Protestant, you’re a Catholic, the lexicon of guilt is the one thing you share. So you make concessions.
You find someone else with blue eyes.
A quart of home-made whisky brewed up by his best friend and you’re laughing at the ridiculous shapes your bodies make together. He gets maudlin after the third drink - one more means violence. You’re drunk, lonely and shockingly enraptured - and you know he won’t tell anyone. You cut him off with your caress.
You’re all practiced suavity. He gives - clever with his tongue. You don’t mind the hardness of wide palms or the roughness of slim fingertips. A mouth feels like a mouth, and this one doesn’t tell you you’ve gone too far.
When he screams Laverne’s name, you’ve been too well-fucked to give a damn.
You lie on the sticky sheets, sweat drying unpleasantly on your back. No touching. The dead iguana sits upon his chest, staring dully, lost in some mystical trance. You won’t meet his eyes as they scale your chest.
You’re still the best actor on Knapp Street, standing on the mark with an amnesia-causing kiss. But with him, the lines dessert you.
God, he’s so much like her.
So you lie together, disordered, ashamed of having used each other, scandalized by the hope of what could be now. Missing out on the magic of your own salvation.