these are her fears...
5/17/05 11:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alasanonthese are her fears, as his hands lay her down on the nearly-bare mattress, as he strips her, layer after layer -- jacket, shoes, socks -- gently, slowly, (as tentative as a hunter with his first kill) but never so gentle as his breath on her neck, whispering -- slim straps of her tank top sliding down her shoulders -- strange words, empty, sometimes, of all meaning (she can't understand the murmurs, not even the ones that echo her own nightmares) -- his fingers at the buttons of her jeans, strangely fumbling, too hurried -- (he tells himself to slow down, to wait, but he can't he can't he must have this NOW) -- his mouth hovering over hers, not touching, still dripping unintelligible noises like birdcalls, like the rush of wings -- he lifts her shirt and she lifts her arms, obediently, like a child will allow a parent, but afraid, as no child should ever be -- the chill of the studio sinks into her skin suddenly, striking, shocking with the momentary absence of his body against hers -- too soon he returns to her, his shirt gone, his pants unbelted (she thinks, in an absurd moment, "He is making it so we match, so we are as alike as twins.") -- then his fingers, flickering down the pale blue traceries of the veins of her throat, reaching to unfasten her bra, flinging aside the scrap of lace and elastic; his fingers on the scar, his palms strangely warm between her breasts -- she is losing her sense of self, of knowing where she stops and he begins, of what the next pattern will weave -- suddenly vicious, he shoves her down and peels away her jeans (she is afraid again, shocked back into her body by the rasping of denim on her hips) -- he moans, an alien sound:
"You know, you know what I need--"
(she does, and she knows she is damned for it.)
"My own angel, my own muse, unfold your wings for me--"
(there are tears caught in her throat, threatening to choke her.)
fabric tears as he takes her last shred of modesty and throws it aside -- (lost in another moment of curious absurdity, she thinks, "But I liked those...") his hands between her legs, unkind and wanting -- she tries to know that it is not the way sex should feel, tries to know that it isn't love that moves him, but cannot help herself -- she is, after all, a doll, made (unborn) for his desires -- he has forgotten to be gentle, it is the last thing on his mind; if there will be bruises that her friends will stare at, if her skin will bear the marks of his teeth and fingernails, he scarcely knows and certainly doesn't care -- her eyelids slip closed as the beginnings of the too-familiar pain laced with perverse pleasure start to roil beneath the skin of her chest. his eyes widen and one thumb traces the scar, fitfully, over and over, while the rest of his fingers toy with her nipples -- she sinks deep within the shell of her body to find what he wants, the glow....
her fingers drift up to cup his face, lightly stroking the soft places behind his ears. he bats them away, impatient, urging her to hurry -- he slides up over her, wanting her to feel his skin, knowing that she will understand his unspoken demands (does, she wonders, familiarity really breed contempt, or is it just understanding veiling itself?) he jerks at her wrists, sensing the wandering of her mind.
"No." (his voice, little more than a hiss)
she cannot help but obey -- the thin line engraved on her chest like a strange glyph swells, as though it will split her open, releasing the contents of her chest into the aether...as always, even as the sensation begins to take her, she fears that this time there will be nothing left.
(if there was anything there to begin with)
the air around them seems superheated, and their breath comes synchronized, as though they are melting into one fluid being made of light and pain. he sinks down onto her, pressing into her, a slow exhalation of relief that turns into an expression of possession. This, this is the proof that he wanted -- her silent acquiescence, her eyelids fluttering like butterflies caught in a storm (he could crush her in a second) -- the warmth of her body below his, the pliancy he has grown to know (and love?) -- as the feeling builds, as the glow manifests itself and the tears of pain and bliss begin to flow from her eyes, he loses his control -- somewhere she knows that he is hurting her body, knows that when this is over she will be bruised and bleeding, but his gaze searing down on her tells her that it doesn't matter, that she was made for this.
this is fate, her sentence, her lot in life as what she is.
a moment of stillness, hovering on the edge of a precipice and then it is over. the glow fades quickly, and he collapses on her, shuddering. she can do nothing, nothing, only flex her fingers, trying to reclaim some sense of reality, of being real--
(there is no such thing. nothing is...real.)
he raises his head, and his eyes are filled with the glow. too quickly, he lifts his body away from hers, out of hers, leaving her lying on the mattress in pain, leaving her to grow cold without his heat -- he spares her a momentary gesture of kindness and affection, just a quick brush of fingers across her lips, cheeks, forehead, a soft whisper:
"my muse...my angel...you are beautiful."
then he is gone, absentmindedly pulling on a robe and rummaging for a sketchbook, a pencil, murmuring something about colors and shapes. her thoughts drift through her mind like vapors, unformed and hazy.
she wishes for a moment that he would stay, but she knows better. he has found his inspiration, and she is not the source, merely the carrier.
these are her fears, eating at her as she draws the blanket to her chin, stifling tears as the night wears on and he is consumed by his art.
"You know, you know what I need--"
(she does, and she knows she is damned for it.)
"My own angel, my own muse, unfold your wings for me--"
(there are tears caught in her throat, threatening to choke her.)
fabric tears as he takes her last shred of modesty and throws it aside -- (lost in another moment of curious absurdity, she thinks, "But I liked those...") his hands between her legs, unkind and wanting -- she tries to know that it is not the way sex should feel, tries to know that it isn't love that moves him, but cannot help herself -- she is, after all, a doll, made (unborn) for his desires -- he has forgotten to be gentle, it is the last thing on his mind; if there will be bruises that her friends will stare at, if her skin will bear the marks of his teeth and fingernails, he scarcely knows and certainly doesn't care -- her eyelids slip closed as the beginnings of the too-familiar pain laced with perverse pleasure start to roil beneath the skin of her chest. his eyes widen and one thumb traces the scar, fitfully, over and over, while the rest of his fingers toy with her nipples -- she sinks deep within the shell of her body to find what he wants, the glow....
her fingers drift up to cup his face, lightly stroking the soft places behind his ears. he bats them away, impatient, urging her to hurry -- he slides up over her, wanting her to feel his skin, knowing that she will understand his unspoken demands (does, she wonders, familiarity really breed contempt, or is it just understanding veiling itself?) he jerks at her wrists, sensing the wandering of her mind.
"No." (his voice, little more than a hiss)
she cannot help but obey -- the thin line engraved on her chest like a strange glyph swells, as though it will split her open, releasing the contents of her chest into the aether...as always, even as the sensation begins to take her, she fears that this time there will be nothing left.
(if there was anything there to begin with)
the air around them seems superheated, and their breath comes synchronized, as though they are melting into one fluid being made of light and pain. he sinks down onto her, pressing into her, a slow exhalation of relief that turns into an expression of possession. This, this is the proof that he wanted -- her silent acquiescence, her eyelids fluttering like butterflies caught in a storm (he could crush her in a second) -- the warmth of her body below his, the pliancy he has grown to know (and love?) -- as the feeling builds, as the glow manifests itself and the tears of pain and bliss begin to flow from her eyes, he loses his control -- somewhere she knows that he is hurting her body, knows that when this is over she will be bruised and bleeding, but his gaze searing down on her tells her that it doesn't matter, that she was made for this.
this is fate, her sentence, her lot in life as what she is.
a moment of stillness, hovering on the edge of a precipice and then it is over. the glow fades quickly, and he collapses on her, shuddering. she can do nothing, nothing, only flex her fingers, trying to reclaim some sense of reality, of being real--
(there is no such thing. nothing is...real.)
he raises his head, and his eyes are filled with the glow. too quickly, he lifts his body away from hers, out of hers, leaving her lying on the mattress in pain, leaving her to grow cold without his heat -- he spares her a momentary gesture of kindness and affection, just a quick brush of fingers across her lips, cheeks, forehead, a soft whisper:
"my muse...my angel...you are beautiful."
then he is gone, absentmindedly pulling on a robe and rummaging for a sketchbook, a pencil, murmuring something about colors and shapes. her thoughts drift through her mind like vapors, unformed and hazy.
she wishes for a moment that he would stay, but she knows better. he has found his inspiration, and she is not the source, merely the carrier.
these are her fears, eating at her as she draws the blanket to her chin, stifling tears as the night wears on and he is consumed by his art.
