Fic: The Reflecting God (1/1)
Title: The Reflecting God
Rating: R
Pairing: Richard/Jacob
Word Count: 939
Summary: Richard Alpert was made this way for a reason. For the prompt “Jacob/Richard, you made me this way,” at lostsquee's Lost Fic Battle 2010. General Spoilers Through S5.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title belongs to Marilyn Manson.
Author’s Notes: Umm... I really love writing these two in new (for me) and strange scenarios of entanglement? And I really love taking new (again, for me) approaches to the dynamic of their relationship? (I also really like Richard-oriented sexytimes. I admit it.) These are the only justifications I can offer for this.
The Reflecting God
The tides lap at his bare feet, only he doesn’t notice; the rain spills, chokes him as he pants, but it’s no tragic thing. He’d die for this, kill for this, create anew until he himself was spent into nothing, until all that he is was gifted unto dust -- salt in his wounds, writhing beneath that heavy weight, that heavy heart: this is the reason he keeps fighting. This is what proves all other truths as lies.
This is why his brother is wrong. This is why he will always, always be wrong. He will never understand what makes them beautiful, what makes them unique. He will never see that the destruction they breed yields only greater life; that their corruption may flow far, but that it never seeps too deep, never blackens their souls as dark as it could -- as dark as it has every right to, and yet doesn’t.
Because Esau, he watches from the outside, judges with his eyes. Jacob, though; he’s learned to see best with his eyes closed, to feel with from the inside, what echoes solid in his pulse. He’s learned to savor what he knows better in his heart than anywhere else -- such a little thing, such a human thing, but it’s served him well thus far.
And sometimes it does hurt. In fact, oftentimes it does. It stings, burns, but it’s that same searing ache that keeps him in this body in first place, attached to the mortal flame in his chest; and it’s only Richard who can stoke that fire, send it racing through him until he’s sure he’ll fracture, tear in two. Only Richard can leave his chest heaving with air he doesn’t need; can tremble in a pulse that’s mere pretense until, through him, it becomes necessary, becomes vital. Until the beat -- more a hum -- is all there is.
Only Richard.
Because Jacob made the man not in his own image, but in his image of perfection.
And stars above them, chasms below: it was good.
He never has to ask for more, doesn’t need to urge faster, harder - Richard will take him to the end of the world, to the breaking of will and pride and heart, until everything dies, awaits rebirth in a touch. Jacob’s fingertips, the nails -- they trace the story of them across his shoulder blades, down against the dip of his spine that curls around toward his hips, a tapestry he weaves so much more swiftly, so much more real - deeper than he even he can fully comprehend, the barbs of it sharp, hooked inside his chest as he gasps the evening air -- crawling hard, breaking skin.
And Richard; he sinks deeper, breath like life against the thin stretch of flesh at the corner of his jaw, and Jacob -- Jacob knows no purpose more blessed, more true than this, the feel of missing halves and broken wholes melting into new parts, new pairs to match.
What once was fractured, he was sent to make new. This is his purpose. This is the purpose he embraces, forgets, as he feels the fire curl around his ribs and surge forth, obliterating him in a single rush and reducing him to ash; this is the purpose that holds him steady as he shatters, as the mighty falls from grace -- the hands that grip him tightly, firm and sure with a certain devotion, a certain promise to remain. The hands that stay, when all else fades.
To make new is all he knows, in his soul; all he once knew. That he was sent to make the one who’d make him new in return, though; that is merely the irony of this world, so subtle and tight between his lungs.
There are other things, now, that he thinks he might know.
The desperate heat between them eventually recedes back into their separate selves -- what little between them remains unshared, unsacrificed -- and as the chill of night begins to settle, they press closer against the taunt of things beyond them, the parts of their world that, in theses stolen moments of still, they choose blissfully -- selfishly -- to forget. Blood and sweat and salt slides, sticks between them with such tactile, wanton desperation, a plea to the stars -- don’t let go. Please.
This is merely progress; to this, there is no end.
Because the heart he loves best was born to beat a rhythm that was doomed to live and die. And somehow, some way, his own heart had become tangled up inside. And that heart of his, once so cold, so stoic -- untouched and untouchable -- fell lax and free at the touch of this single human soul, that pair of eyes like windows into an infinity that was Jacob’s birthright, but that he’d never truly known until he’d met that boundless gaze.
And those eyes had opened a world of possibility for a heart that hadn’t never known to want, to need. And it does have needs, damnit. By the lasting life within him -- fuck, but it has needs.
He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t need to; but against that chest, with the song of those lungs drawing endless, rushing breath unto the end of all things, sometimes -- sometimes -- he dreams.
Richard Alpert was made this way for a reason.
Rating: R
Pairing: Richard/Jacob
Word Count: 939
Summary: Richard Alpert was made this way for a reason. For the prompt “Jacob/Richard, you made me this way,” at lostsquee's Lost Fic Battle 2010. General Spoilers Through S5.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title belongs to Marilyn Manson.
Author’s Notes: Umm... I really love writing these two in new (for me) and strange scenarios of entanglement? And I really love taking new (again, for me) approaches to the dynamic of their relationship? (I also really like Richard-oriented sexytimes. I admit it.) These are the only justifications I can offer for this.
The Reflecting God
The tides lap at his bare feet, only he doesn’t notice; the rain spills, chokes him as he pants, but it’s no tragic thing. He’d die for this, kill for this, create anew until he himself was spent into nothing, until all that he is was gifted unto dust -- salt in his wounds, writhing beneath that heavy weight, that heavy heart: this is the reason he keeps fighting. This is what proves all other truths as lies.
This is why his brother is wrong. This is why he will always, always be wrong. He will never understand what makes them beautiful, what makes them unique. He will never see that the destruction they breed yields only greater life; that their corruption may flow far, but that it never seeps too deep, never blackens their souls as dark as it could -- as dark as it has every right to, and yet doesn’t.
Because Esau, he watches from the outside, judges with his eyes. Jacob, though; he’s learned to see best with his eyes closed, to feel with from the inside, what echoes solid in his pulse. He’s learned to savor what he knows better in his heart than anywhere else -- such a little thing, such a human thing, but it’s served him well thus far.
And sometimes it does hurt. In fact, oftentimes it does. It stings, burns, but it’s that same searing ache that keeps him in this body in first place, attached to the mortal flame in his chest; and it’s only Richard who can stoke that fire, send it racing through him until he’s sure he’ll fracture, tear in two. Only Richard can leave his chest heaving with air he doesn’t need; can tremble in a pulse that’s mere pretense until, through him, it becomes necessary, becomes vital. Until the beat -- more a hum -- is all there is.
Only Richard.
Because Jacob made the man not in his own image, but in his image of perfection.
And stars above them, chasms below: it was good.
He never has to ask for more, doesn’t need to urge faster, harder - Richard will take him to the end of the world, to the breaking of will and pride and heart, until everything dies, awaits rebirth in a touch. Jacob’s fingertips, the nails -- they trace the story of them across his shoulder blades, down against the dip of his spine that curls around toward his hips, a tapestry he weaves so much more swiftly, so much more real - deeper than he even he can fully comprehend, the barbs of it sharp, hooked inside his chest as he gasps the evening air -- crawling hard, breaking skin.
And Richard; he sinks deeper, breath like life against the thin stretch of flesh at the corner of his jaw, and Jacob -- Jacob knows no purpose more blessed, more true than this, the feel of missing halves and broken wholes melting into new parts, new pairs to match.
What once was fractured, he was sent to make new. This is his purpose. This is the purpose he embraces, forgets, as he feels the fire curl around his ribs and surge forth, obliterating him in a single rush and reducing him to ash; this is the purpose that holds him steady as he shatters, as the mighty falls from grace -- the hands that grip him tightly, firm and sure with a certain devotion, a certain promise to remain. The hands that stay, when all else fades.
To make new is all he knows, in his soul; all he once knew. That he was sent to make the one who’d make him new in return, though; that is merely the irony of this world, so subtle and tight between his lungs.
There are other things, now, that he thinks he might know.
The desperate heat between them eventually recedes back into their separate selves -- what little between them remains unshared, unsacrificed -- and as the chill of night begins to settle, they press closer against the taunt of things beyond them, the parts of their world that, in theses stolen moments of still, they choose blissfully -- selfishly -- to forget. Blood and sweat and salt slides, sticks between them with such tactile, wanton desperation, a plea to the stars -- don’t let go. Please.
This is merely progress; to this, there is no end.
Because the heart he loves best was born to beat a rhythm that was doomed to live and die. And somehow, some way, his own heart had become tangled up inside. And that heart of his, once so cold, so stoic -- untouched and untouchable -- fell lax and free at the touch of this single human soul, that pair of eyes like windows into an infinity that was Jacob’s birthright, but that he’d never truly known until he’d met that boundless gaze.
And those eyes had opened a world of possibility for a heart that hadn’t never known to want, to need. And it does have needs, damnit. By the lasting life within him -- fuck, but it has needs.
He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t need to; but against that chest, with the song of those lungs drawing endless, rushing breath unto the end of all things, sometimes -- sometimes -- he dreams.
Richard Alpert was made this way for a reason.