Fic: Slow Cheetah (1/1)
Title: Slow Cheetah
Rating: R
Pairing: Edward/Sally (The Comedian/Silk Spectre I)
Word Count: 575
Summary: Being a hero’s for shit if she can’t even save herself. For the cliche_bingo Prompt - Woke Up In Bed Together. Spoilers for Watchmen.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title belongs to Red Hot Chili Peppers.
Author’s Notes: Don’t even ask. I don’t know.
Slow Cheetah
In an abysmally fucked up way, it’s really just the basic principle of catch and release.
The sheets feel like sand, like gravel, shards of glass against the creases of her knees, the swell of her ass, but they stop there, gathered in starchy folds below her navel, the goosebumps on her abdomen laid bare, raised high just like her nipples, heaving with her breath; because the flesh of her skin is the blood on her hands, the smear of her guilt still clinging to the insides of her thighs, and no cover, no shroud will veil her shame - she cannot hide from this, and the sweet ache between her legs makes her think that maybe she doesn’t really want to.
His eyes in the black are crescents, slits, glinting in the dark like a holocaust, like the charred fields of Vietnam set aflame anew, and her heart beats faster because she’s his victim this time, she’s his prey, and there’s no where to run, nothing to do, because the chase is over, the hunt is done - and she didn’t even put up a goddamn fight.
Being a hero is all well and good, she thinks, but it’s for shit if she can’t even save herself.
He balances a cigar on the top of his thumb, and the scratch of the lighter echoes like a scream, the dim glow from the tip sinking between the lines of his face as he drags, breathes, his lips bowed and the scar across his cheek jagged, the same worn color of the smoke that trails around, spirals like Charybdis and pulls her in just as quick. They kiss in between the tar and the nicotine, and she can’t tell if there’s ash on his chin or if it’s just the first buds of age that shade and highlight his beard. She drops her head, leaving her nose to trace the line of his jaw like a lover might as she draws away, defeated, grateful for the dark - she doesn’t want to see, doesn’t want to catch herself in the mirror. She knows, somehow, deep down, that she won’t be able to recognize herself.
Or worse, that her reflection will have never looked more decidedly right, more definitively like her.
His hand on the back of her neck is big, warm, and almost unexpected as he reaches out to stop her, to hold her still, the callouses of his fingers pressed into the soft pulse behind her ear as she inhales; when she breathes, her breasts brush the hair of his chest, and they’re so close, so fucking close. And his eyes hold the secrets of the world when she finally grows the balls to drown in them, breath catching sharp against her lungs and slicing them open, and she remembers why, all of a sudden. She shivers from head to foot before sliding a palm across his side, pulling him into her and holding him close without a word, letting him settle between the curves of her chest, her heart beating frantically against the fire in his gaze, slowly wearing it away. And all she knows how to do anymore is breathe - catch; and release.
She never had the chance to come back to him, because he’d never let her go to begin with.
Rating: R
Pairing: Edward/Sally (The Comedian/Silk Spectre I)
Word Count: 575
Summary: Being a hero’s for shit if she can’t even save herself. For the cliche_bingo Prompt - Woke Up In Bed Together. Spoilers for Watchmen.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title belongs to Red Hot Chili Peppers.
Author’s Notes: Don’t even ask. I don’t know.
Slow Cheetah
In an abysmally fucked up way, it’s really just the basic principle of catch and release.
The sheets feel like sand, like gravel, shards of glass against the creases of her knees, the swell of her ass, but they stop there, gathered in starchy folds below her navel, the goosebumps on her abdomen laid bare, raised high just like her nipples, heaving with her breath; because the flesh of her skin is the blood on her hands, the smear of her guilt still clinging to the insides of her thighs, and no cover, no shroud will veil her shame - she cannot hide from this, and the sweet ache between her legs makes her think that maybe she doesn’t really want to.
His eyes in the black are crescents, slits, glinting in the dark like a holocaust, like the charred fields of Vietnam set aflame anew, and her heart beats faster because she’s his victim this time, she’s his prey, and there’s no where to run, nothing to do, because the chase is over, the hunt is done - and she didn’t even put up a goddamn fight.
Being a hero is all well and good, she thinks, but it’s for shit if she can’t even save herself.
He balances a cigar on the top of his thumb, and the scratch of the lighter echoes like a scream, the dim glow from the tip sinking between the lines of his face as he drags, breathes, his lips bowed and the scar across his cheek jagged, the same worn color of the smoke that trails around, spirals like Charybdis and pulls her in just as quick. They kiss in between the tar and the nicotine, and she can’t tell if there’s ash on his chin or if it’s just the first buds of age that shade and highlight his beard. She drops her head, leaving her nose to trace the line of his jaw like a lover might as she draws away, defeated, grateful for the dark - she doesn’t want to see, doesn’t want to catch herself in the mirror. She knows, somehow, deep down, that she won’t be able to recognize herself.
Or worse, that her reflection will have never looked more decidedly right, more definitively like her.
His hand on the back of her neck is big, warm, and almost unexpected as he reaches out to stop her, to hold her still, the callouses of his fingers pressed into the soft pulse behind her ear as she inhales; when she breathes, her breasts brush the hair of his chest, and they’re so close, so fucking close. And his eyes hold the secrets of the world when she finally grows the balls to drown in them, breath catching sharp against her lungs and slicing them open, and she remembers why, all of a sudden. She shivers from head to foot before sliding a palm across his side, pulling him into her and holding him close without a word, letting him settle between the curves of her chest, her heart beating frantically against the fire in his gaze, slowly wearing it away. And all she knows how to do anymore is breathe - catch; and release.
She never had the chance to come back to him, because he’d never let her go to begin with.