(no subject)
Sep. 8th, 2012 02:09 pmHe let the man forget for a while, after setting him free, after lifting the paralysis from his spine and giving him back something resembling the wholeness of his body: all injury healed, all left perfect and unmarred but for the tapestry across his back, the unfurled flower of scars. He took from his mind the hours and hours in a room which existed nowhere, the agony of that sweet silver knife, the hands that held him down, the cock that moved through him. It didn't matter what lingered in his mind; the taint would remain in him, a splintering madness that had no explanation, no words for the scars, for anything that had come before. It wasn't permanent. It would come back to him when Lucifer did.
The bar belowground didn't cater to anyone who wasn't looking for ruin, dark, desperate and smelling of liquor, buried underneath a city without sanctuary, and he found the man there again, came to him dark and beautiful, with hidden wings. He drew him into a black corner, pulled him into his lap and silenced his mouth, his hands touching anything they wanted to, his tongue taking the sharpness of the liquor he'd drunk from his lips, and Lucifer didn't give him his name or give back the memory of his hands on him, not yet. Matt was his, he always would be, and there was time to show him. The man's body was smaller and weaker and easily manipulated, his hands holding his wrists to the wall when at last he lifted his mouth from his to brush it across his ear instead.
“Show me where you live.” The grip loosened, his hands lowered. He cupped the man's cock in long fingers, the heel of his hand grinding slowly against him, over the front of his pants.
The bar belowground didn't cater to anyone who wasn't looking for ruin, dark, desperate and smelling of liquor, buried underneath a city without sanctuary, and he found the man there again, came to him dark and beautiful, with hidden wings. He drew him into a black corner, pulled him into his lap and silenced his mouth, his hands touching anything they wanted to, his tongue taking the sharpness of the liquor he'd drunk from his lips, and Lucifer didn't give him his name or give back the memory of his hands on him, not yet. Matt was his, he always would be, and there was time to show him. The man's body was smaller and weaker and easily manipulated, his hands holding his wrists to the wall when at last he lifted his mouth from his to brush it across his ear instead.
“Show me where you live.” The grip loosened, his hands lowered. He cupped the man's cock in long fingers, the heel of his hand grinding slowly against him, over the front of his pants.
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grimholdkeeper
Mar. 14th, 2012 10:34 pmThe sea sighs and rushes against the austere coast, the barren space between cliffs and water; at high tide nearly all this stony shore would be underwater, but there are places where dry ground lingers, hollows set higher against the cliffs, yet still tucked against and sheltered by their towering reach. Lucifer walks beside the water, seeking, following no pathway or direction: only the sense of a mortal life held in his keeping some time ago. It is still his, of course; he has never unchained it, never let it go free, only let it be at the edge of his senses for a while, still shackled to his strange, lonely, twisted heart.
The water rushes cold and frothing over his bare feet. He is robed only from the waist down, broad wings trailing behind him in the surf like the train of a gown. All the world smells of salt and solitude, a sky gray and roiling with clouds now swiftly turning black with the approach of night. In the twilight he sees a set of stairs carved roughly into the rock a little way up the shore, leading to a hollow in the cliffside where a small hut perches, standing bravely, precariously against the roar of the ocean. Built of driftwood, perhaps, to judge by the not-quite-straight lines of the walls, their dark shining smoothness. Light glows from the windows, sparse but easily seen through the gloaming.
His feet mount the steps at no particularly hurried pace. At the door, he feels the barrier of a closed bolt, but at his hand on the frame and a murmured word it unlocks soundlessly, and he pushes open the door, stepping within. His wings fill the diminutive space. He looks first at the lamp on a table, and then the man sitting beside it. "Is that the only light you have, Balthazar?"
The water rushes cold and frothing over his bare feet. He is robed only from the waist down, broad wings trailing behind him in the surf like the train of a gown. All the world smells of salt and solitude, a sky gray and roiling with clouds now swiftly turning black with the approach of night. In the twilight he sees a set of stairs carved roughly into the rock a little way up the shore, leading to a hollow in the cliffside where a small hut perches, standing bravely, precariously against the roar of the ocean. Built of driftwood, perhaps, to judge by the not-quite-straight lines of the walls, their dark shining smoothness. Light glows from the windows, sparse but easily seen through the gloaming.
His feet mount the steps at no particularly hurried pace. At the door, he feels the barrier of a closed bolt, but at his hand on the frame and a murmured word it unlocks soundlessly, and he pushes open the door, stepping within. His wings fill the diminutive space. He looks first at the lamp on a table, and then the man sitting beside it. "Is that the only light you have, Balthazar?"
