LJ Idol Season 6 Week 3 - Glory's Somethin' Not Worth Killin' For
o/` "I'm a man who's goin' to hell with heaven's blessing
The judge said I'm not fit to live with men
They're building me a gallows in the courtyard
To make sure I don't pass this way again" o/`
-- "Hair Trigger Colt .44 performed by Chris Ledoux
He never did smile much; the first time I saw him, he looked like one of those dark and brooding oil paintings you see in the castles in Europe. They have cruelly smiling lips --- a hard edged expression which hints at conquest --- and sexy, 'follow you' bedroom eyes. I didn't like him much, to be honest. He flashed a knowing leer, as much as saying "you'll be back, you bitch", and then said something extremely foul that no one else would have uttered in polite company. It didn't help that the comment carried an added sting because it was essentially true. It really didn't help that he was right and I did come back. He fascinated me.
On the nights when he has a contract, the nights he needs or wants to hunt, I sit up in my kitchen with a double shot of Jack and Coke poured and I wait. We don't ever talk about what he does, but I know. He's out there ending someone's life, leaving his characteristic signature of a second smile from ear to ear on the victim. I understand the necessity but my own smile gets a bit tight when I think about it too closely, so I just don't.
Some time after midnight, he'll come trailing in with a smile of almost manic glee lighting those peculiar green eyes of his. It's frightening in its intensity, bordering on madness, but beyond that there's a touch of worldly weariness and a desire to forget about it all in a pair of warm, living arms. Sometimes he's been careful and his clothing is impeccable; other times, he'll have forgotten to wipe the blood from his hands or he'll have used his cloak to clean the dagger. His kiss, frantic and needing, still tastes of blood.
Other times he drifts by like a ghost, the weight of his deeds heavy on his heart. He'll sit on my couch with his head in his hands, the smile sliding away to reveal the the conflict raging in his soul; he's a predator, kept carefully in check, but it's a fine balance and I can see he's wondering just what might take him over the edge.
Those are the nights when my skills come in handy. I'm not pretty, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm also good at what I do and I know how to please a man. We come together in a blaze of mutual need, clothing falling haphazardly to the floor, and he buries his head in my breasts murmuring my name. We bite, we claw at one another, our smiles composed of nothing more than blatant lust and need. At some point, we end up on the mattress in the bedroom and I lock my legs around him, drawing him in close and draining him to completion. He curses --- my name, the pressures of his profession which drive him to such immoral behavior, his fate. They are blessings to me because it means he'll stay sane and functional.
That's really my job here: I'm his sanity, the rock to which he clings when everything else is falling apart, the smile in the darkness.
What I don't think he knows is that he's also mine.
Afterward, there are often wounds to dress. Some of these are mutually inflicted, other times he's been careless or inattentive. I smile tenderly as I inventory the damage: a bite here, a bruise from last week still showing on his pale freckled skin, a half healed slash from a close call more than a month ago. He never leaves a mark on me, never tears the skin. It's always me. I stitch the worst ones --- the ones which happen when a hunt goes wrong and the victim fights back --- as I would a fine linen cloth. He never asks for anything to numb the pain, embraces it with a feral grin and a wince.
Toward dawn, as the autumn moon sets, he falls asleep in my arms. Only in repose do I ever see a true smile on his face. It's angelic, softening the sharp angles of his face and wearing away the years. He looks almost a decade younger than his given age and thoroughly at peace. Peace, I know, is something he doesn't have much of and I'm glad to give it.
Come sunrise, he'll be gone. It's a necessity, I know, but the last thing he'll see from me is a Madonna's smile.
He'll be back. He needs me.
The judge said I'm not fit to live with men
They're building me a gallows in the courtyard
To make sure I don't pass this way again" o/`
-- "Hair Trigger Colt .44 performed by Chris Ledoux
He never did smile much; the first time I saw him, he looked like one of those dark and brooding oil paintings you see in the castles in Europe. They have cruelly smiling lips --- a hard edged expression which hints at conquest --- and sexy, 'follow you' bedroom eyes. I didn't like him much, to be honest. He flashed a knowing leer, as much as saying "you'll be back, you bitch", and then said something extremely foul that no one else would have uttered in polite company. It didn't help that the comment carried an added sting because it was essentially true. It really didn't help that he was right and I did come back. He fascinated me.
On the nights when he has a contract, the nights he needs or wants to hunt, I sit up in my kitchen with a double shot of Jack and Coke poured and I wait. We don't ever talk about what he does, but I know. He's out there ending someone's life, leaving his characteristic signature of a second smile from ear to ear on the victim. I understand the necessity but my own smile gets a bit tight when I think about it too closely, so I just don't.
Some time after midnight, he'll come trailing in with a smile of almost manic glee lighting those peculiar green eyes of his. It's frightening in its intensity, bordering on madness, but beyond that there's a touch of worldly weariness and a desire to forget about it all in a pair of warm, living arms. Sometimes he's been careful and his clothing is impeccable; other times, he'll have forgotten to wipe the blood from his hands or he'll have used his cloak to clean the dagger. His kiss, frantic and needing, still tastes of blood.
Other times he drifts by like a ghost, the weight of his deeds heavy on his heart. He'll sit on my couch with his head in his hands, the smile sliding away to reveal the the conflict raging in his soul; he's a predator, kept carefully in check, but it's a fine balance and I can see he's wondering just what might take him over the edge.
Those are the nights when my skills come in handy. I'm not pretty, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm also good at what I do and I know how to please a man. We come together in a blaze of mutual need, clothing falling haphazardly to the floor, and he buries his head in my breasts murmuring my name. We bite, we claw at one another, our smiles composed of nothing more than blatant lust and need. At some point, we end up on the mattress in the bedroom and I lock my legs around him, drawing him in close and draining him to completion. He curses --- my name, the pressures of his profession which drive him to such immoral behavior, his fate. They are blessings to me because it means he'll stay sane and functional.
That's really my job here: I'm his sanity, the rock to which he clings when everything else is falling apart, the smile in the darkness.
What I don't think he knows is that he's also mine.
Afterward, there are often wounds to dress. Some of these are mutually inflicted, other times he's been careless or inattentive. I smile tenderly as I inventory the damage: a bite here, a bruise from last week still showing on his pale freckled skin, a half healed slash from a close call more than a month ago. He never leaves a mark on me, never tears the skin. It's always me. I stitch the worst ones --- the ones which happen when a hunt goes wrong and the victim fights back --- as I would a fine linen cloth. He never asks for anything to numb the pain, embraces it with a feral grin and a wince.
Toward dawn, as the autumn moon sets, he falls asleep in my arms. Only in repose do I ever see a true smile on his face. It's angelic, softening the sharp angles of his face and wearing away the years. He looks almost a decade younger than his given age and thoroughly at peace. Peace, I know, is something he doesn't have much of and I'm glad to give it.
Come sunrise, he'll be gone. It's a necessity, I know, but the last thing he'll see from me is a Madonna's smile.
He'll be back. He needs me.