There is a soft space between mere tipsiness and the long slide to oblivion. It is safe
there, in that halfway place, and his fantasies can come out to play.
Small, nail-bitten fingers caress the bottle - now fisting loosely around the barrel, now
skating lightly up and down its curves. They gather the beaded moisture, smearing it
in wet trails across the cold, dark glass. He seems oblivious to the restless movement,
unaware of the betrayal of his thoughts.
The wall is rough against his skin, and the trembling lips under his are hungry but
unsure. There is the soft whisper of cloth and it settles smoothly into his hand, like a
drawbridge coming down. It is warm, alive and weeping softly, and as he weighs it in
his palm, it feels heavier than it has any right to be.
Don't go where I can't follow.
You can, if you really want to.
I want to, but I can't...
I love you.
Oh god... I love you too...
Please...
...make me whole...
Hooded blue eyes stare blankly through the gloom, and the merest hint of a smile
touches his parted lips. All around him are the soft voices of kindred spirits and the
easy laughter of drunken fellowship.
"Look at him, will you? He's gone off again."
"What - like soured milk?"
"Now there's an image I can do without - thank you very much."
"Wonder what he's thinking about?"
"Who - you mean."
"Oh."
"Poor sod."
"Sean and Lijah sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g."
"F-u-c-k-i-n-g, more like."
"Physically impossible, that."
"Wanna bet?"
"Treebeard."
Laughter.
Droplets of water flick toward the voices, and a dark tide stains the creamy skin. He
lifts the bottle to his lips, and the dim light glints on the pale line of a pulsing throat. A
wet tongue licks at a stray drop, and - it begins again.
Up and down, and round and round...
"Jesus. Make him stop."
"Why? It's his bottle."
"Bothering you, innit? Giving you ideas, maybe?"
"It's getting on my bloody nerves, that's what it's doing."
"You make him stop, then."
There is a swishmurmur of movement beside him, and a warm body presses up
against his arm. The breath of a whisper tickles his ear, and his eyes widen
imperceptibly.
"Do you ever think of me?"
The dense lashes sweep down slowly, and the soft lips curve into a sensual smile.
Fingers fist around the bottle and push upward, water pooling before it to flood over in
sparkling drops. And they reach the tapered neck and linger there. Caressingly.
"Sometimes..."
The End
there, in that halfway place, and his fantasies can come out to play.
Small, nail-bitten fingers caress the bottle - now fisting loosely around the barrel, now
skating lightly up and down its curves. They gather the beaded moisture, smearing it
in wet trails across the cold, dark glass. He seems oblivious to the restless movement,
unaware of the betrayal of his thoughts.
The wall is rough against his skin, and the trembling lips under his are hungry but
unsure. There is the soft whisper of cloth and it settles smoothly into his hand, like a
drawbridge coming down. It is warm, alive and weeping softly, and as he weighs it in
his palm, it feels heavier than it has any right to be.
Don't go where I can't follow.
You can, if you really want to.
I want to, but I can't...
I love you.
Oh god... I love you too...
Please...
...make me whole...
Hooded blue eyes stare blankly through the gloom, and the merest hint of a smile
touches his parted lips. All around him are the soft voices of kindred spirits and the
easy laughter of drunken fellowship.
"Look at him, will you? He's gone off again."
"What - like soured milk?"
"Now there's an image I can do without - thank you very much."
"Wonder what he's thinking about?"
"Who - you mean."
"Oh."
"Poor sod."
"Sean and Lijah sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g."
"F-u-c-k-i-n-g, more like."
"Physically impossible, that."
"Wanna bet?"
"Treebeard."
Laughter.
Droplets of water flick toward the voices, and a dark tide stains the creamy skin. He
lifts the bottle to his lips, and the dim light glints on the pale line of a pulsing throat. A
wet tongue licks at a stray drop, and - it begins again.
Up and down, and round and round...
"Jesus. Make him stop."
"Why? It's his bottle."
"Bothering you, innit? Giving you ideas, maybe?"
"It's getting on my bloody nerves, that's what it's doing."
"You make him stop, then."
There is a swishmurmur of movement beside him, and a warm body presses up
against his arm. The breath of a whisper tickles his ear, and his eyes widen
imperceptibly.
"Do you ever think of me?"
The dense lashes sweep down slowly, and the soft lips curve into a sensual smile.
Fingers fist around the bottle and push upward, water pooling before it to flood over in
sparkling drops. And they reach the tapered neck and linger there. Caressingly.
"Sometimes..."
The End
| Taking the Piss |