A bit of a drabble for you guys.
Here's the best (pretty crappy) attempt at a slashy speed write I can come up with in my current museless state. The characters are no one in particular at the moment, but I might expand it, assign the characters, and make it a fic if when I get my muse back and myself pulled together. Thanks for sticking around! I heart my slashers. <333
These shoes weren't meant to be walked in.
He could barely totter into the room, twig-thin heels sunk at least an inch deep into the grotesque shag carpet but still towering impossibly over the lint and dust to torment his ankles into a porcupined mess of pinprick pains. All evening he had found himself forced to take silly little mincing steps, eyes on the pink marble tiles of the Opera House floor, counting how many clicks it took to cross one square. Four, most of the time. More than double the amount of soft thuds his usual shoes would take, with his usual easy stride, to travel the same distance. Each click had echoed deceptively loud in his ears, seeming to drown out the babble of the crowd, the smoothly authoritative voice of his companion, the measured clack-clack-clack of confident women in slightly more tolerable shoes flowing past him without a second glance. Maybe the dainty gait to which the stilettos relegated him was a good thing, he had thought. Otherwise he might rip the skirt of his slinky evening dress and give those women something to stare at. Not that he'd minded having the eyes of the men for a change; all their muscled necks twisting above black ties to aim approving glances at his legs had been nearly worth the masquerade. And the measured restraint of his tuxedoed companion in playing the gentleman, making just the right subtle gestures of protectiveness and ownership without conveying the slightest hint of what would happen when they got home to anyone but him, had been.
Of course, they hadn't gotten home at all.
The prospect of two hours in the car had obviously been too much for his companion. It had been too much for him too-- not that what was too much for him mattered at all. But he had been too relieved for words when they pulled into the parking lot of this run-down motel. Oh, he had learned to love these places. They meant that he had done well, that his companion couldn't fucking wait, that just for a night he would forgo props and toys in favor of outright weapons. Hands. Teeth. Words, whispered to keep the rooms next door from hearing more than a titillating hint. Less sting, more pain. The ragged immediacy his companion usually took pleasure in denying him.
Deceptively gentle fingers under his chin raised his gaze from the tips of his impossible shoes. Spellbound, he awaited the first slap, the first shove, the first rasped order.
"Stand in that corner. Do not move. Do not take off your clothes. Or your shoes."
A cruelly protracted pause.
"Wake me tomorrow morning at exactly seven."
These shoes weren't meant to be walked in.
He could barely totter into the room, twig-thin heels sunk at least an inch deep into the grotesque shag carpet but still towering impossibly over the lint and dust to torment his ankles into a porcupined mess of pinprick pains. All evening he had found himself forced to take silly little mincing steps, eyes on the pink marble tiles of the Opera House floor, counting how many clicks it took to cross one square. Four, most of the time. More than double the amount of soft thuds his usual shoes would take, with his usual easy stride, to travel the same distance. Each click had echoed deceptively loud in his ears, seeming to drown out the babble of the crowd, the smoothly authoritative voice of his companion, the measured clack-clack-clack of confident women in slightly more tolerable shoes flowing past him without a second glance. Maybe the dainty gait to which the stilettos relegated him was a good thing, he had thought. Otherwise he might rip the skirt of his slinky evening dress and give those women something to stare at. Not that he'd minded having the eyes of the men for a change; all their muscled necks twisting above black ties to aim approving glances at his legs had been nearly worth the masquerade. And the measured restraint of his tuxedoed companion in playing the gentleman, making just the right subtle gestures of protectiveness and ownership without conveying the slightest hint of what would happen when they got home to anyone but him, had been.
Of course, they hadn't gotten home at all.
The prospect of two hours in the car had obviously been too much for his companion. It had been too much for him too-- not that what was too much for him mattered at all. But he had been too relieved for words when they pulled into the parking lot of this run-down motel. Oh, he had learned to love these places. They meant that he had done well, that his companion couldn't fucking wait, that just for a night he would forgo props and toys in favor of outright weapons. Hands. Teeth. Words, whispered to keep the rooms next door from hearing more than a titillating hint. Less sting, more pain. The ragged immediacy his companion usually took pleasure in denying him.
Deceptively gentle fingers under his chin raised his gaze from the tips of his impossible shoes. Spellbound, he awaited the first slap, the first shove, the first rasped order.
"Stand in that corner. Do not move. Do not take off your clothes. Or your shoes."
A cruelly protracted pause.
"Wake me tomorrow morning at exactly seven."