FIC: sometimes i still feel the bruise, by cerberusa
By cerberusa for craz4life
Title: sometimes i still feel the bruise
Rating: PG13/R
Summary: (RamLex) 'Ram tastes like static' - a brief glimpse of a longstanding arrangement.
Ram tastes like static; all hissing-crackle blandness, the hum of machines on his breath. Lex wants to bite down on his tongue, just to check that he's real.
The room is dark, dank and messy. The bed in small, and the sheets could do with a wash. Lex doesn't know who used to sleep here, and he doesn't care. He's wanted this too long; desire has ground his teeth and clenched his fists, always wanted but never taking.
He needs this. They both need this. He digs his nails into Ram's upper arms; there is no escape, not now.
Ram is younger than Lex, and it feels strange to think that; the Techno overlord, powerful and so remote in his hi-tech fortress, and yet still a child in a way (because they all are, really, no matter what they makes themselves in this new society; children, scared to leae behind the guiding hand of authority figures past).
It's a power game, and they both know it; the sex is the method, the means. Whether they fight or fuck, the meaning is the same and so are the bruises. Lex leans over Ram's wheelchair, bracing himself on the arms to kiss him. He has to pull away to remove Ram's shirt. Ram doesn't help him, just sits there like he expects Lex to undress him, like a fucking servant or something. It makes Lex want to hit him, break his nose, break his ribs, break his calm. He doesn't care that the guy's in a wheelchair; Lex has never been much concerned with honour.
He doesn't, though; they've both agreed not to leave marks that can't easily be explained away.
So he just drags the shirt roughly over Ram's head, after ripping open the zippers, perversely hoping to mess up Ram's ridiculous hairstyle. Naturally, it doesn't work.
Ram's chest is smooth and pale. He's stronger than Lex would have expected, with more muscle definition in his arms and torso. He wonders about it for weeks, until one day Ram casually informs him that it's such a pain, having to use his arms so much, and Lex feels like an idiot.
He presses his hand to the broad ribcage, feels the steady heartbeat, unrushed when his own is pounding. He doesn't want to close his eyes.
Abruptly, Ram's fingers seize his upper arms in a bruising grip, and he struggles not to flinch. Don't give ground. He bares his teeth in something that is not a smile, and lets himself sink down onto Ram's lap, settling with his legs bent into a kneeling position astride Ram's thighs. It's not particularly comfortable, but it's the best they can do.
Ram doesn't let go and Lex doesn't fight him, just kisses him again to taste the sparks; a faint crackle on his tongue, the tang of ozone sharp enough to hurt.
In a minute, Lex will move to lift Ram from his wheelchair and set him down on the bed. They will give themselves to each other in parts, never all at once. They will not offer themselves to one another; they will shove themselves at each other, into each other with force, and claw back equal measure of the other. It will be violent and messy, but Ram will not flinch at the bodily fluids because at these times he never does, and Lex doesn't understand it but he keeps his mouth shut.
When it is over - except it's not over, it's never over - they lie on top of the sheets, facing away from each other, bodies touching as little as possible; they share a disinclination to cuddle after sex, when they have touched so as to become one - they need to find themselves, redefine themselves in the aftermath. Eventually, Lex helps Ram redress and lifts him into the wheelchair. They leave seperately under the cover of darkness.
The next day, the day after, in a week's time they may do this again; they make no arrangements, no promises. They know how to get word to each other, just a date and time, and then all they can do is wait.
Neither's missed an appointment yet. Already, Lex is making plans for the next time.
Title: sometimes i still feel the bruise
Rating: PG13/R
Summary: (RamLex) 'Ram tastes like static' - a brief glimpse of a longstanding arrangement.
Ram tastes like static; all hissing-crackle blandness, the hum of machines on his breath. Lex wants to bite down on his tongue, just to check that he's real.
The room is dark, dank and messy. The bed in small, and the sheets could do with a wash. Lex doesn't know who used to sleep here, and he doesn't care. He's wanted this too long; desire has ground his teeth and clenched his fists, always wanted but never taking.
He needs this. They both need this. He digs his nails into Ram's upper arms; there is no escape, not now.
Ram is younger than Lex, and it feels strange to think that; the Techno overlord, powerful and so remote in his hi-tech fortress, and yet still a child in a way (because they all are, really, no matter what they makes themselves in this new society; children, scared to leae behind the guiding hand of authority figures past).
It's a power game, and they both know it; the sex is the method, the means. Whether they fight or fuck, the meaning is the same and so are the bruises. Lex leans over Ram's wheelchair, bracing himself on the arms to kiss him. He has to pull away to remove Ram's shirt. Ram doesn't help him, just sits there like he expects Lex to undress him, like a fucking servant or something. It makes Lex want to hit him, break his nose, break his ribs, break his calm. He doesn't care that the guy's in a wheelchair; Lex has never been much concerned with honour.
He doesn't, though; they've both agreed not to leave marks that can't easily be explained away.
So he just drags the shirt roughly over Ram's head, after ripping open the zippers, perversely hoping to mess up Ram's ridiculous hairstyle. Naturally, it doesn't work.
Ram's chest is smooth and pale. He's stronger than Lex would have expected, with more muscle definition in his arms and torso. He wonders about it for weeks, until one day Ram casually informs him that it's such a pain, having to use his arms so much, and Lex feels like an idiot.
He presses his hand to the broad ribcage, feels the steady heartbeat, unrushed when his own is pounding. He doesn't want to close his eyes.
Abruptly, Ram's fingers seize his upper arms in a bruising grip, and he struggles not to flinch. Don't give ground. He bares his teeth in something that is not a smile, and lets himself sink down onto Ram's lap, settling with his legs bent into a kneeling position astride Ram's thighs. It's not particularly comfortable, but it's the best they can do.
Ram doesn't let go and Lex doesn't fight him, just kisses him again to taste the sparks; a faint crackle on his tongue, the tang of ozone sharp enough to hurt.
In a minute, Lex will move to lift Ram from his wheelchair and set him down on the bed. They will give themselves to each other in parts, never all at once. They will not offer themselves to one another; they will shove themselves at each other, into each other with force, and claw back equal measure of the other. It will be violent and messy, but Ram will not flinch at the bodily fluids because at these times he never does, and Lex doesn't understand it but he keeps his mouth shut.
When it is over - except it's not over, it's never over - they lie on top of the sheets, facing away from each other, bodies touching as little as possible; they share a disinclination to cuddle after sex, when they have touched so as to become one - they need to find themselves, redefine themselves in the aftermath. Eventually, Lex helps Ram redress and lifts him into the wheelchair. They leave seperately under the cover of darkness.
The next day, the day after, in a week's time they may do this again; they make no arrangements, no promises. They know how to get word to each other, just a date and time, and then all they can do is wait.
Neither's missed an appointment yet. Already, Lex is making plans for the next time.