(Not so) Secret Santa #1literarylemmingNovember 27 2005, 18:18:50 UTC
Hee! You know who I am, but darn it, the Teffster deserves presents, too! :) So I'm going to post this, then I'm going to read this Rayney goodness you've given us, then I'm going to squee. Because I love you to pieces! *hugs!*
Her skin is slick and moist against your own as you move over her, inside her, and she's like a drug you can't let go. A drug, a drug, another drug, as if they haven't caused you enough grief. And now you're turning this person, this woman, this beautiful girl into another disease. How dare you. How dare you, you bastard. How dare you.
"Charlie...?" she moans, her voice a question, and you kiss her before she can ask it, pretending to interpret the moan as a plea. You already know what she's going to ask, and it's a question you won't answer. It's in her eyes when she gazes up at you, heavy-lidded and plump-lipped. She's wondering how a good Christian boy who covets a statuette of the Virgin Mary can possibly do these things with her. How a good Christian boy can strip her naked and slide into her with such practiced efficiency. Oh, she knows you're a rock star; she knows you've had a history. But she doesn't know how much. Christ, she can't know how much.
Please don't let her know how much, Hail Mary, full of grace...
You try to take it easy, try to make this slow and perfect, but it's been so long since you've done this sober and you can't get enough of her. You rock her back into the hard, black earth, feel her nails score down your back, and she comes hard and sharp. Not enough; you still need more; you're still solid as pig iron inside her. Faster now, more desperate, soaking up her sweat and scent and desperate moans, and when she climaxes again, it's like you've won a victory. See, you can give. You don't only take. You're not just an awkward, grasping, soulless sinner. There's something in you that's pure. There has to be. Demons can't make angels come.
Can they?
She's limp and moaning under you, her fingers stroking, no longer clawing. "Charlie...," she breathes, body arching up, exposing that white, swanlike neck, and Jesus, you just want to drink her. Now you understand the vampire appeal. Vampires and helpless damsels, white and slim and pulsing...
That shouldn't get you off. But it does.
You come like sunrise to Nosferatu, the world turning to ash. Claire calls out your name in exultation as you collapse on top of her, shaking. Her delicate china white arms wrap around you as she whispers soft endearments in your ear, quiet blessings of the angel to the fallen.
God, you already want her again. She's telling you she loves you, and all you can think of is her slick heat.
The first drug was the Apple, and it carried with it knowledge of evil. Over time the Apple faded, making way for slick designer drugs with fancy names, but in the end, they all go back to fruit in the garden and a naked woman.
Re: (Not so) Secret Santa #1literarylemmingNovember 27 2005, 20:26:54 UTC
I know! Dagummit, I need Charlie! I need Claire! I need Charlie/Claire, and heroin angst, and I need Claire to get her memory back and remember Charlie DANGLING FROM A TREE, and aaaaahhhhh...!
Her skin is slick and moist against your own as you move over her, inside her, and she's like a drug you can't let go. A drug, a drug, another drug, as if they haven't caused you enough grief. And now you're turning this person, this woman, this beautiful girl into another disease. How dare you. How dare you, you bastard. How dare you.
"Charlie...?" she moans, her voice a question, and you kiss her before she can ask it, pretending to interpret the moan as a plea. You already know what she's going to ask, and it's a question you won't answer. It's in her eyes when she gazes up at you, heavy-lidded and plump-lipped. She's wondering how a good Christian boy who covets a statuette of the Virgin Mary can possibly do these things with her. How a good Christian boy can strip her naked and slide into her with such practiced efficiency. Oh, she knows you're a rock star; she knows you've had a history. But she doesn't know how much. Christ, she can't know how much.
Please don't let her know how much, Hail Mary, full of grace...
You try to take it easy, try to make this slow and perfect, but it's been so long since you've done this sober and you can't get enough of her. You rock her back into the hard, black earth, feel her nails score down your back, and she comes hard and sharp. Not enough; you still need more; you're still solid as pig iron inside her. Faster now, more desperate, soaking up her sweat and scent and desperate moans, and when she climaxes again, it's like you've won a victory. See, you can give. You don't only take. You're not just an awkward, grasping, soulless sinner. There's something in you that's pure. There has to be. Demons can't make angels come.
Can they?
She's limp and moaning under you, her fingers stroking, no longer clawing. "Charlie...," she breathes, body arching up, exposing that white, swanlike neck, and Jesus, you just want to drink her. Now you understand the vampire appeal. Vampires and helpless damsels, white and slim and pulsing...
That shouldn't get you off. But it does.
You come like sunrise to Nosferatu, the world turning to ash. Claire calls out your name in exultation as you collapse on top of her, shaking. Her delicate china white arms wrap around you as she whispers soft endearments in your ear, quiet blessings of the angel to the fallen.
God, you already want her again. She's telling you she loves you, and all you can think of is her slick heat.
The first drug was the Apple, and it carried with it knowledge of evil. Over time the Apple faded, making way for slick designer drugs with fancy names, but in the end, they all go back to fruit in the garden and a naked woman.
You really are going to Hell this time.
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I LOVE YOU!
This is so angsty and gritty and just...gyah!
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*hugs!* I'm so glad you liked it!
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*dies*
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