[Just Prompts] 8mm's "Angel"
Jul. 9th, 2009 04:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elementof_risk[OOC: Vaughn is ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
a_broken_watch and is used with permission, though this is not binding on any particular universe, but just a one-shot piece that came up--god, no puns intended there--when the opening line wouldn't get out of my head while I was driving]
It's not like those tales
Of glass and devotion
They like to sell
Oh you just want to be wanted
It's making you sick
But it's all right
Oh yeah, it's only a prick
And that's how you know
That it's bad
It's the problem with pain
It's just something to have
Oh, babe you're running the clock
Cuz, you can't make it stop
So just sit still
And hope the hammer won't drop
And every time it's ...
Hush little angel, won't you try
The devil hears you when you cry
Hush little angel close your eyes
Think pleasant dreams and truer lies
Angel don't you cry
There were four people in the tangled sheets of the bed, even if two of them were just ghosts of memory trapped between them in the spaces where their flesh met, then parted again. The fancy caught itself inside his head somewhere before their clothes started falling to the floor, but after Vaughn--Michael--pressed him down onto the mattress, fingers at his throat as if he meant to strangle him into silence, then found another way with lips meeting his with a sound that had a note of despair behind it. No proxies or intermediaries of wives or lovers or temporary partners carried the taste of one of them to the other. It was direct. Michael had been drinking, the sweetness of whiskey on his breath mingled with the lingering wine Sark had consumed earlier, standing out on the hotel balcony looking over Los Angeles and wondering what in the hell had compelled him back to the cursed city.
Sark met the kiss with a surge of heated desire he hadn't felt in a long time. Nothing playful, nothing teasing, it was pure and purposeful and sure. Michael's teeth scraped at his lower lip as if compelled to bring a familiar step to this new dance, and the flare of pain and coppery taste on his tongue that overwhelmed the whiskey and wine made Sark laugh. Michael pulled back at the sound, watching him with a look in those dangerous eyes that generally meant more pain was coming. They'd changed, his eyes. At first, they'd always been faintly contemptuous, a little bored, then broken over the loss of the girl they'd both obsessed over for so long. Sark couldn't tell him he knew what it felt like to watch the world go a bit darker, couldn't admit how he coerced every bit of information he could out of Marshall, just in case. And then Michael had been gone.
He came back, of course. No one ever walked away, and then it was a game. How long until he made the upstanding agent snap? Could he do it while keeping his cool? It was a delicious secret, fucking his wife, then sending her home to him, even as he felt his jealousy heighten at the thought of her with him. He took vicious pleasure in pointing out Michael's continued obsession with Sydney, fixated on it in his own way, unable to just walk away, find a new game to play. This one was the most fun he'd had in years, wrapping the four of them up in a net of intrigue that had nothing to do with the country or Rambaldi and everything to do with the secrets of the heart. They all had them. The game shifted to something far more deadly when they came tumbling out, though, and that fascinating look had shifted to hate. The boyscout was a man gone mad, driven over the edge into something unlike anything he'd been before, and watching the cracks widen in that facade had fascinated Sark. He had his precious Sydney back, so why so angry? Why not let Sark have Lauren, go their separate ways, or just try to stop them from achieving their aims? The rest was just business, wasn't it? Everyone got played, at some point, in their jobs. He'd had it done to him. He didn't go off on some rampage. But Michael...he broke, and it was beautiful, quickening something inside him to a point he couldn't deny it anymore.
That look was there, now.
"What are you doing to me?" The words were almost spat at him, as Michael started to pull away.
Sark tightened his grip, halting his movement. "You're the one pinning me to the bed, Michael. I think I should be asking that question..."
"I can't..."
"Why not?"
"Sydney. And...Because you're...you." Michael scowled at him, but he hadn't made another attempt to pull away, and when Sark shifted a little, it was clear the agent was as affected as he.
"I won't tell if you don't," he said with a smirk. "And you like that I'm me."
"I hate you," Michael reminded him, though his eyes fell closed as Sark rolled his hips a little, and he sank back down onto him a bit more.
Pulling his lips back down, Sark nipped at them lightly. "Fine line and all that. You're dying to know...you've always wanted to know...what she saw in me..."
"Shut up, Sark." There was a warning in his voice, a flare in his eyes as they snapped back open that sent a shiver running down Sark's spine he didn't even try to hide.
"Make me."
For a moment, Vaughn's fingers tightened on his throat, and Sark wondered if he'd miscalculated, but then the other man was kissing him again, and after a moment or two the pressure finally eased and he could pull in a breath through the break in their mouths, sighing as their tongues met in a clash of wills, a war that desire was winning. A thrill of triumph and something else spilled along Sark's skin as his fingers worked nimbly to find skin under too much cloth.
Was her ghost laughing, writhing between them, tying them together and tearing them apart, he wondered? She'd always be there, imprinted deeply inside of them, an indelible part of the story. The salthy skin he ran his lips over, she'd traced her mouth along. And that spot Michael found that made him cry out softly--she'd used it mercilessly to reduce him to a puddle under her hands. Where he'd wondered, literally, if Michael would taste him lingering on her skin, he now found himself figuratively feeling the lingering ghost of her touches on them both. And the other, the first obsession, the second wife, the one waiting at home they'd never tell how well their bodies fit together--did she know how tightly Michael's fingers could press into skin, leaving bruises as surely in passion as he did in anger? As he shifted for him, submitting with a smirk, as Michael watched him with that gaze, those eyes, then pressed into him, hard, she was there. How could she not be? Behind their eyes, under their skin...
Then Michael's fingers slid to trace the curve of his crooked lip, to linger on his cheek, and even as his thrusts pressed deep into him, driving him higher toward a shattering moment he craved and feared, Michael's lips brushed over his in something like a gentle kiss. Sark stopped thinking, gave over to roaring sensation and let the ghosts lie quiet and still.
a_broken_watch and is used with permission, though this is not binding on any particular universe, but just a one-shot piece that came up--god, no puns intended there--when the opening line wouldn't get out of my head while I was driving]It's not like those tales
Of glass and devotion
They like to sell
Oh you just want to be wanted
It's making you sick
But it's all right
Oh yeah, it's only a prick
And that's how you know
That it's bad
It's the problem with pain
It's just something to have
Oh, babe you're running the clock
Cuz, you can't make it stop
So just sit still
And hope the hammer won't drop
And every time it's ...
Hush little angel, won't you try
The devil hears you when you cry
Hush little angel close your eyes
Think pleasant dreams and truer lies
Angel don't you cry
There were four people in the tangled sheets of the bed, even if two of them were just ghosts of memory trapped between them in the spaces where their flesh met, then parted again. The fancy caught itself inside his head somewhere before their clothes started falling to the floor, but after Vaughn--Michael--pressed him down onto the mattress, fingers at his throat as if he meant to strangle him into silence, then found another way with lips meeting his with a sound that had a note of despair behind it. No proxies or intermediaries of wives or lovers or temporary partners carried the taste of one of them to the other. It was direct. Michael had been drinking, the sweetness of whiskey on his breath mingled with the lingering wine Sark had consumed earlier, standing out on the hotel balcony looking over Los Angeles and wondering what in the hell had compelled him back to the cursed city.
Sark met the kiss with a surge of heated desire he hadn't felt in a long time. Nothing playful, nothing teasing, it was pure and purposeful and sure. Michael's teeth scraped at his lower lip as if compelled to bring a familiar step to this new dance, and the flare of pain and coppery taste on his tongue that overwhelmed the whiskey and wine made Sark laugh. Michael pulled back at the sound, watching him with a look in those dangerous eyes that generally meant more pain was coming. They'd changed, his eyes. At first, they'd always been faintly contemptuous, a little bored, then broken over the loss of the girl they'd both obsessed over for so long. Sark couldn't tell him he knew what it felt like to watch the world go a bit darker, couldn't admit how he coerced every bit of information he could out of Marshall, just in case. And then Michael had been gone.
He came back, of course. No one ever walked away, and then it was a game. How long until he made the upstanding agent snap? Could he do it while keeping his cool? It was a delicious secret, fucking his wife, then sending her home to him, even as he felt his jealousy heighten at the thought of her with him. He took vicious pleasure in pointing out Michael's continued obsession with Sydney, fixated on it in his own way, unable to just walk away, find a new game to play. This one was the most fun he'd had in years, wrapping the four of them up in a net of intrigue that had nothing to do with the country or Rambaldi and everything to do with the secrets of the heart. They all had them. The game shifted to something far more deadly when they came tumbling out, though, and that fascinating look had shifted to hate. The boyscout was a man gone mad, driven over the edge into something unlike anything he'd been before, and watching the cracks widen in that facade had fascinated Sark. He had his precious Sydney back, so why so angry? Why not let Sark have Lauren, go their separate ways, or just try to stop them from achieving their aims? The rest was just business, wasn't it? Everyone got played, at some point, in their jobs. He'd had it done to him. He didn't go off on some rampage. But Michael...he broke, and it was beautiful, quickening something inside him to a point he couldn't deny it anymore.
That look was there, now.
"What are you doing to me?" The words were almost spat at him, as Michael started to pull away.
Sark tightened his grip, halting his movement. "You're the one pinning me to the bed, Michael. I think I should be asking that question..."
"I can't..."
"Why not?"
"Sydney. And...Because you're...you." Michael scowled at him, but he hadn't made another attempt to pull away, and when Sark shifted a little, it was clear the agent was as affected as he.
"I won't tell if you don't," he said with a smirk. "And you like that I'm me."
"I hate you," Michael reminded him, though his eyes fell closed as Sark rolled his hips a little, and he sank back down onto him a bit more.
Pulling his lips back down, Sark nipped at them lightly. "Fine line and all that. You're dying to know...you've always wanted to know...what she saw in me..."
"Shut up, Sark." There was a warning in his voice, a flare in his eyes as they snapped back open that sent a shiver running down Sark's spine he didn't even try to hide.
"Make me."
For a moment, Vaughn's fingers tightened on his throat, and Sark wondered if he'd miscalculated, but then the other man was kissing him again, and after a moment or two the pressure finally eased and he could pull in a breath through the break in their mouths, sighing as their tongues met in a clash of wills, a war that desire was winning. A thrill of triumph and something else spilled along Sark's skin as his fingers worked nimbly to find skin under too much cloth.
Was her ghost laughing, writhing between them, tying them together and tearing them apart, he wondered? She'd always be there, imprinted deeply inside of them, an indelible part of the story. The salthy skin he ran his lips over, she'd traced her mouth along. And that spot Michael found that made him cry out softly--she'd used it mercilessly to reduce him to a puddle under her hands. Where he'd wondered, literally, if Michael would taste him lingering on her skin, he now found himself figuratively feeling the lingering ghost of her touches on them both. And the other, the first obsession, the second wife, the one waiting at home they'd never tell how well their bodies fit together--did she know how tightly Michael's fingers could press into skin, leaving bruises as surely in passion as he did in anger? As he shifted for him, submitting with a smirk, as Michael watched him with that gaze, those eyes, then pressed into him, hard, she was there. How could she not be? Behind their eyes, under their skin...
Then Michael's fingers slid to trace the curve of his crooked lip, to linger on his cheek, and even as his thrusts pressed deep into him, driving him higher toward a shattering moment he craved and feared, Michael's lips brushed over his in something like a gentle kiss. Sark stopped thinking, gave over to roaring sensation and let the ghosts lie quiet and still.
