Drabble Request ~ Booth
Craving for Salt
for tabaqui
Seeley Booth and a Latino-heavy neighborhood *because the boys are so, so pretty* and a wall with a virgin Mary painted on it and maybe flowers or offerings left underneath...
400 words
Not Mine
R
Lust is the craving for salt of a person who is dying of thirst ~ Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking, 1973
Off duty, driving through neighborhoods that were not his. Slow crawl in the SUV with the windows open. Air scented with garlic and beef and chicken and spices that made his mouth water. People speaking on sidewalks and porches and in front of small stores and not one word was English.
Seeley parked next to the Church, but he didn't go in.
Sunglasses shaded his eyes, summer heat licked at the exposed skin. He walked down the clean alley between the asylum of the sacred and gifts left for the dead.
Lurid, beautiful spray-painted walls surrounded him. The Virgin, Jesus, the cross and the tomb with a huge rock rolled away from the dark entrance. Bouquets of flowers scattered the concrete, stuffed animals and prayer cards. Pictures and personal notes and toy cars. The murdered son of an imprisoned informant. The grandson of a woman that had become a friend. Blood stain under the paint.
Booth knelt in the alley, rosary slipping through his fingers. He hung it on a cross statuette, circling the beads around Jesus and bowing his head before he stood.
The sun fell, night rose around him and the sounds of the streets became less soothing and more harsh. The Spanish more guttural and violent, the music changed from lyrical to physical. The smell of pot overcame the scent of food and home. The Church was locked and closed and barred.
Two streets down, another alley. This one decorated with as many gang tags as religious drawings. Young men leaned in the shadows, smoke rising from cigarettes and wet lips. Dark skin under white tanks and silver necklaces of saints. Seeley walked through them until he found the one who didn't look away.
“¿Qué quiere usted?”
What do you want?
As tall as he was. Shoulders almost as wide. Smile flickering behind nerves battling desire. Eyes hiding nothing at all.
Booth leaned in. Something he did ten times a day, taking away another's personal space. Women. Men. Friends. Lovers. Enemies. Strangers. But now, he didn't stop. His mouth brushed the other man's. His arms reached down, his fingers slid over worn denim covering a hard cock. Tongues touched and tasted. They didn't close their eyes.
Seeley clamped down on the shiver that coiled under his skin when he felt warm hands on his hips.
“Esto.” Seeley answered.
This.
*smooch*
for tabaqui
Seeley Booth and a Latino-heavy neighborhood *because the boys are so, so pretty* and a wall with a virgin Mary painted on it and maybe flowers or offerings left underneath...
400 words
Not Mine
R
Lust is the craving for salt of a person who is dying of thirst ~ Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking, 1973
Off duty, driving through neighborhoods that were not his. Slow crawl in the SUV with the windows open. Air scented with garlic and beef and chicken and spices that made his mouth water. People speaking on sidewalks and porches and in front of small stores and not one word was English.
Seeley parked next to the Church, but he didn't go in.
Sunglasses shaded his eyes, summer heat licked at the exposed skin. He walked down the clean alley between the asylum of the sacred and gifts left for the dead.
Lurid, beautiful spray-painted walls surrounded him. The Virgin, Jesus, the cross and the tomb with a huge rock rolled away from the dark entrance. Bouquets of flowers scattered the concrete, stuffed animals and prayer cards. Pictures and personal notes and toy cars. The murdered son of an imprisoned informant. The grandson of a woman that had become a friend. Blood stain under the paint.
Booth knelt in the alley, rosary slipping through his fingers. He hung it on a cross statuette, circling the beads around Jesus and bowing his head before he stood.
The sun fell, night rose around him and the sounds of the streets became less soothing and more harsh. The Spanish more guttural and violent, the music changed from lyrical to physical. The smell of pot overcame the scent of food and home. The Church was locked and closed and barred.
Two streets down, another alley. This one decorated with as many gang tags as religious drawings. Young men leaned in the shadows, smoke rising from cigarettes and wet lips. Dark skin under white tanks and silver necklaces of saints. Seeley walked through them until he found the one who didn't look away.
“¿Qué quiere usted?”
What do you want?
As tall as he was. Shoulders almost as wide. Smile flickering behind nerves battling desire. Eyes hiding nothing at all.
Booth leaned in. Something he did ten times a day, taking away another's personal space. Women. Men. Friends. Lovers. Enemies. Strangers. But now, he didn't stop. His mouth brushed the other man's. His arms reached down, his fingers slid over worn denim covering a hard cock. Tongues touched and tasted. They didn't close their eyes.
Seeley clamped down on the shiver that coiled under his skin when he felt warm hands on his hips.
“Esto.” Seeley answered.
This.
*smooch*