Genre:Sex and Angst
Fandom: Jesse Lacey/Adam Lazzara
Summary:"You are free to eat from any tree in the garden; but you must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for when you eat of it you will surely die. (Genesis 2:5)"
Dedication: to the amazing Bamboozle crew and especially notthegnomes, because she kindly requested it and she is rather awesome.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, not written for profit. I claim no connection with any member of BN, TBS, their families or friends. The events hereby narrated are absolutely false and are not meant to reflect the person's private life. No harm, misrepresentation, libel, malice or copyright infringement is intended. At no time is this meant to be construed as reality.
Tell me what you think.
The silence it's all I hear, not even my words make any noise, not even my blood or the slapping of my hands on the white washed walls of his bedroom
Always his bedroom.
Never is bed.
“Please, please… just fucking stop it.”
I can feel his body behind me. This solid surface of perfect skin and killer bones. The expensive rustling of his clothes and that clogging aftershave that lingers on everything like a poisonous miasma, which translates in a famished hunger of desire.
“Don’t… Just for once. Just for once… Just don’t…”
My upper arms are bent over the wall, keeping the lower part of my body closer to him, as close as he’d allow me, as close as I allow myself.
I could easily get away.
Only I can’t, of course.
The hold this man has on me goes beyond the laws of physics and the fact that our strengths, probably, do match.
He is not holding on my wrists, he has not pushed me against the wall, he has not slapped me, or punched me, or incapacitated me. Oh no, not him. The only thing he had to do was to speak to me with that voice that was made for my surrender and my defeat.
And I didn’t even think, I didn’t even fucking flinch. I run out of my apartment with my wet hair and yesterday hung over and I couldn’t get here fast enough.
I think I’ll never be able to stop myself.
His hands are firm and rough to the touch, his skin has the quality of fine sandpaper and every time he touches me I feel as if I am being polished off, scrubbed raw, sanded off of all my defences.
His hands have strong fingers, short, blunt fingernails, filed and neat; the white, half crescent moons are stark bright over my tanned skin. I look at them, at his fingers. I study the grooves around the first knuckle, the way his graceful bones and tendons and veins beckon at his command to undo all of my resolve, with just one touch.
His mouth is on my neck, lips poised on the first vertebrae and for a second I contemplate how would it be to have him sucking the marrow off my bones, feeling his mouth eating me from the inside, having his teeth and his fingers digging deep into the soft medullae, slick with blood and gore.
Would it hurt more than these kisses?
I have no time to let these thoughts linger, I know that because I can feel the slight tremor in his chest, the raggedy velvety quality of his voice urging me to take off my t-shirt and unbutton my jeans.
I do as he asks, because I’ll never be able to refuse him a single thing, no matter what. No matter the fact that all I want is to turn around and quench that butterfly of fear that hammers in his chest. No matter the fact that all I want is to turn around and ask him if please, please he can give me a chance to love him.
I never turn around though.
All I have is the memory of his eyes.
I let him splay his large hands on my waist and my head is bent, my back arched, my hips pushed back.
I am resignation.
I am submission.
He is despair.
There is never a warning and it hurts every time.
It’s a burning of flesh that tears at my insides with the same malicious strength of his nails raking a pattern of burns on my flank.
It travels along my spine, with spikes of blistered desire and long shockwaves of pain.
Does it feel it too?
His only reply is a long, pained moan and I make the mistake to call out his name, my voice shakes over a short exhalation of breath and he tenses immediately.
I brace myself for more pain, for his hand on my mouth, for his silence to suffocate my latest, pathetic attempt to touch him, to feel him, to make this something more that a mutual exercise in sufferance.
I brace myself, but nothing happens, nothing but the unerring precision of his thrusts and it’s as if I have not spoken a single word. And maybe I haven’t, maybe I dreamed it, or, more likely, he just ignored it, the same way he ignores that it’s me in front of him, it’s me he is fucking, it's me that he is breaking down with a clinical, surgical cruelty.
And I let him.
This thing between us, it’s never about pleasure, it’s all about control.
How much he can take away from me and how much I’ll allow him to take.
My surrender is unconditional, but his anger never subsides and neither does my hunger.
We feed off each other, a sad fest of insecurities and need and addictions.
I close my eyes at one point, my brain shuts down, a short circuits that break he sickening pain and leaves my skin exposed to that spark of pleasure that lit up the fire in the pit of my stomach and I let him take away another layer of skin, another short lived façade of pride, another day I had started hoping to be able to forget him. I let him do what he wants, because, in all honesty, it's what I want too.
If this is the only way I can have him, I’ll take it.
My heart is an opportunistic whore.
With my eyes closed I can hear his breath fanning a spot on my shoulder and it’s hot and damp and sour. And it smells of fear and I want to taste it so badly, I can feel my mouth drying up with violent desire.
I want it so badly that I am about to risk everything; I am about to throw away this amputated feeling of love for just one kiss.
I don’t make demands, I don’t bargain, or plea or beg. That’s the rule. Unwritten and invisible, but deemed unbreakable at the same time.
He stops and I feel the flush of my need throbbing on my lower back and I need it, need it, need it…
Junkie, addict, possessed.
I need it.
The degrees of separation multiply with every word I utter and I can feel the distance seeping cold inside my body, an icy cascade of fear and resentment, an intravenous of hate.
He pulls out of my body and the pain is a pulsing scar running inside my guts, branching out throughout my hollowed body, until it seizes my heart and I flat-line.
He doesn’t look at me and I know that his eyes are my forbidden fruit, an apple on a fucking high tree, the fruit of the knowledge that maybe, maybe there is something behind them that speaks of something less cold than sheer hatred. The testimony that maybe… maybe I can dream and I can hope.
“Get dressed, Lazzara.”
I am not going to leave, I don’t want to leave. I am possessed, obsessed, desperate enough to break the rules, to risk being expelled from my personal hell.
And I know that, no matter how much it hurts right now, it’s nothing compared to a forever of his absence from my life, but I have to risk it.
I have to.
If it’s true that my strength matches his, this is the time to prove it.
He is buttoning up his trousers, as I get totally naked, kicking at my shoes and letting my jeans pooling at my feet.
His back is broad and sturdy under the pale blue shirt and I seize him by the shoulders, crossing an arm over his chest and pulling him flush against me. He is tense like a coil ready to snap and I can feel the quivering of his muscles under my hands. It’s like a caged animal. We both are.
We are each other cage.
Let me break it down.
Let me taste freedom.
Just let me.
I whisper in his ears and his breathing it's murder wrapped up in fear.
“Kiss me, Jesse.”
There is a tiny shift in his body and I move my arm off his chest, I skim my hand down the sinewy strength of his bicep and I wait, my naked heart beating wildly behind a fragile layer of naked skin.
I wait as he turns and looks at me and I have his eyes.
I have his eyes on my skin and his gaze is a permanent tattoo of revulsion.
His eyes are the purest azure and I am a mess of misplaced hope and lost dreams.
His eyes are the epitaph to something that never was and as I leave, as I leave I look at him one last time and the shaking of my hands travel along my body with the same awareness of the loss that it’s dissecting the corpse of our loneliness.
The door closes.