Fic: Hallowed Be Thy Name (1/1)
Title: Hallowed Be Thy Name
Rating: R
Pairing: Erica/Jack
Word Count: 553
Summary: Her skin is soft against his hands, hands so much more accustomed to other things - things like wafers and wine that were no where near as gentle, as intoxicating. For the cliche_bingo Prompt - Darkfic. General Spoilers for V (2009) through 1.02 - There Is No Normal Anymore.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Just some semi-blasphemous ‘V’ fic. But for serious - who wasn’t thinking this when they were watching? Honestly?
Hallowed Be Thy Name
Her skin is soft where the cut traces across ivory at the give of her temple; a fault line, cherry like her lips, spilled delicate, fragile against the tumbling moonlight - he lets his breath play against the stray pieces of her hair, tousled with lonely starlight and love-making, the static between the sheets and the wandering insistence of hands so much more accustomed to other things - things like wafers and wine that were no where near as gentle, as intoxicating. He inhales against the crook of her neck, the swell of his chest brushing the curve of her breast, and she smells of saltwater and vanilla and heady, impenetrable woman, and it gets caught in his throat, on his tongue as he licks a soft trail along her slender neck, his mouth wet against the metronome beat of her heart. He relishes the touch, the precious massage of her pulse between his lips, and when she sighs, the rush of her breath catches the sweat-slick skin of his forehead; the shiver it sends down his spine echos through her frame and he feels his blood run hot, fast through his veins as the tip of his nose nuzzles the line of her jaw.
The flat of her palm presses firm, sensitive into the dip of his back; his fingers linger on the soft plane of her stomach as he draws himself up closer, knees straddling her hips, his balance precarious - the grace of God - before he bends, buries the side of his cheek in the space just between the hard peaks of her nipples. He can hear the air as it swirls in her lungs, the way it rustles like the wind through the trees, and he holds his breath to better hear, better feel the twinned-throbbing of the heart under his ear, the vibration of the murmur, the contentment that resonates through her chest as her hand slides to the back of his head, cradling him closer to her. His eyes slide closed as her lips drop against the mess of his hair, as he disappears from the world with her touch, because it's so light and so soft and so human that, in that very moment, there is nothing but the two of them; there is no invasion, no resistance, no scaled flesh to rival the silken feel of her, the heat. They are alone in the universe; man and woman against the blanket of creation, and they live. They will live.
"You are the only person that I can trust."
He wakes, heart in his throat, alone and cold; the sheets against the skin of his legs rubbing scabrous, lamellate - and he knows what he should do; knows there are beads meant to be placed beneath the fingertips of a sinner, the harsh give of wood and worn leather beneath penitent knees. Words meant to pass his lips that aren't the subtle pant, the aching cry of her name. These things he knows.
So he dresses, the starch of his shirt unpleasant, rough - so unlike her; and the collar stays behind.
Rating: R
Pairing: Erica/Jack
Word Count: 553
Summary: Her skin is soft against his hands, hands so much more accustomed to other things - things like wafers and wine that were no where near as gentle, as intoxicating. For the cliche_bingo Prompt - Darkfic. General Spoilers for V (2009) through 1.02 - There Is No Normal Anymore.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Just some semi-blasphemous ‘V’ fic. But for serious - who wasn’t thinking this when they were watching? Honestly?
Hallowed Be Thy Name
Her skin is soft where the cut traces across ivory at the give of her temple; a fault line, cherry like her lips, spilled delicate, fragile against the tumbling moonlight - he lets his breath play against the stray pieces of her hair, tousled with lonely starlight and love-making, the static between the sheets and the wandering insistence of hands so much more accustomed to other things - things like wafers and wine that were no where near as gentle, as intoxicating. He inhales against the crook of her neck, the swell of his chest brushing the curve of her breast, and she smells of saltwater and vanilla and heady, impenetrable woman, and it gets caught in his throat, on his tongue as he licks a soft trail along her slender neck, his mouth wet against the metronome beat of her heart. He relishes the touch, the precious massage of her pulse between his lips, and when she sighs, the rush of her breath catches the sweat-slick skin of his forehead; the shiver it sends down his spine echos through her frame and he feels his blood run hot, fast through his veins as the tip of his nose nuzzles the line of her jaw.
The flat of her palm presses firm, sensitive into the dip of his back; his fingers linger on the soft plane of her stomach as he draws himself up closer, knees straddling her hips, his balance precarious - the grace of God - before he bends, buries the side of his cheek in the space just between the hard peaks of her nipples. He can hear the air as it swirls in her lungs, the way it rustles like the wind through the trees, and he holds his breath to better hear, better feel the twinned-throbbing of the heart under his ear, the vibration of the murmur, the contentment that resonates through her chest as her hand slides to the back of his head, cradling him closer to her. His eyes slide closed as her lips drop against the mess of his hair, as he disappears from the world with her touch, because it's so light and so soft and so human that, in that very moment, there is nothing but the two of them; there is no invasion, no resistance, no scaled flesh to rival the silken feel of her, the heat. They are alone in the universe; man and woman against the blanket of creation, and they live. They will live.
"You are the only person that I can trust."
He wakes, heart in his throat, alone and cold; the sheets against the skin of his legs rubbing scabrous, lamellate - and he knows what he should do; knows there are beads meant to be placed beneath the fingertips of a sinner, the harsh give of wood and worn leather beneath penitent knees. Words meant to pass his lips that aren't the subtle pant, the aching cry of her name. These things he knows.
So he dresses, the starch of his shirt unpleasant, rough - so unlike her; and the collar stays behind.