![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xlovelytragedyTitle: You were about to burn, you’re still on fire.
Author: xlovelytragedy
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ian/Mickey
Warnings: sexual content
Categories: romance
Disclaimer: I own nothing. This story is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
Word Count: 1385
Summary: And so I let your flames consume me. I burn with you, going up in a blaze. But not down. Never down. Because we weren’t written as a tragedy.
Author's Note: Title comes from the poem “Straw House, Straw Dog” by Richard Siken
It’s the middle of July and the hottest night of the year so far.
The van doesn’t have air conditioning and we’re sweating through our t-shirts, the fabric soaked and clinging to our forms. It’s probably a hell of a lot cooler inside your house right now, the fans turned up high and oscillating air around the rooms, but your family is home and the lack of privacy isn’t worth the abundance of comfort being seated in front of a fan could provide us both with. So we’re laid out on our backs here instead, staring at the ceiling as you ramble on and on, talking a mile a minute and covering a wide range of topics at a rapid pace.
Even on a consistent regimen of medications, manic episodes still creep up―less extreme but impossible to outrun. There’s nothing we can do to prevent them completely so I just remain vigilant, watching to make sure you don’t fall down too hard while you’re spinning, and wait patiently for you to ride this wave out all the way.
"You know, pain is an innoxious concept, perfectly capable of being controlled. It’s all in your head, in your mind, traveling through synapses in the brain. If you know it’s coming, you can starve it off. Stop it in it’s tracks, you know?"
You never make much sense, your racing thoughts perfectly comprehensible to you but confusing as hell to everyone else.
"I don’t know what the fuck you’re saying," I groan, wiping beads of sweat from my upper lip. You might as well be speaking fucking Russian like Svetlana.
"I can show you."
And then you’re sitting up so quickly that the van rocks with your movements. You dig into your pockets until your hand emerges with a matchbook grasped between your fingers. Next you reach over me for the pack of cigarettes on the floor at my side, plucking one from the container and placing it between your lips.
I watch you strike the match, the flame flickering, dancing wildly on the end of the wooden stick you’re holding. The orange glow illuminates your face in the dark, the fire setting your skin alight. It’s sort of frightening in it’s intensity, kind of like you; the only light I ever saw, the only warmth I ever felt. You’re the heat in my veins. Everything else feels cold in comparison.
Smoke billows out from your mouth, the scent heavy in the confines of this small space as the vapor steadily makes it’s way to the open windows. You flick bright cinders from the end of the cigarette, the embers falling onto the carpet and singeing the material, before you bring the lit roll of tobacco down onto your skin, driving it hard into the flesh on the back of your hand.
"Ian, what the fuck?!" I sit up immediately, my hand reaching for yours.
You just laugh, like it doesn’t matter. Like nothing at all matters. So brave, so fearless. And with you by my side, I had learned to be that way too. Nothing scares me anymore. Nothing but you.
"It’s a superficial injury, Mick. And it doesn’t hurt. I didn’t feel a thing."
The area is puckered. The skin surrounding it is a pinkish color, the center white. Studying it closely, I see that the shape of the burn resembles a heart.
"Yeah, okay, tough guy." I scoff. "You probably torched some nerve endings. It’s numb right now but it’ll be hurtin’ like a bitch later. You can’t control what you do and don’t feel."
"No?" A smile tugs at your lips, obvious amusement playing across your features.
"No, Cinderella. That little theory of yours is bullshit."
A soft growl emits from the back of your throat, one of your hands flying over to grasp the back of my head. You pull my face into yours hard, one of my teeth colliding with your lip. It splits open, but you don’t seem to care, not allowing it to deter you in the slightest from capturing my mouth in a desperate kiss. I moan, parting my lips to allow your tongue to collide with mine, the metallic taste of your blood overwhelming my senses.
I waste no time in reaching down to tug at the hem of your shirt, trying to pull it upwards. You reciprocate the action, your hands pulling at my clothing. We finally break apart reluctantly, sucking in gulps of air as I pull the fabric over your head while you do the same with my shirt.
Once we’ve stripped each other, our clothes discarded somewhere on the floor, you’re pushing me backwards and covering my body with your own. You take your fingers into your mouth, sucking them and wetting them with your spit. With digits slick and warm, you trail them down between my legs until they reach their destination.
I hold my breath as you slowly push a finger inside me, hissing sharply as it slides in to the knuckle. You gingerly move it in and out before eventually adding another, and then another, carefully stretching me, preparing me. We’re breathing hard, panting against each other’s lips as you land a series of sloppy wet kisses to the corner of my mouth.
After a few minutes, the fingers disappear, and you position yourself before pressing into me slowly. Your palms rest on my parted thighs while you burrow yourself further into me. My legs are shaking, my body quivering around you as he pull out a bit only to push back in as far as you can.
A harsh discordance of sound echoes throughout the empty spaces of the van; an inharmonious song of flesh on flesh, a cacophony of grunts, moans, and heavy panting as we move together.
You’re whispering, half to yourself I think, a soft chant through gritted teeth. “Mickey, Mickey, Mickey.”
It never ceases to amaze me that you insist on repeating my name in moments like this, the mantra tumbling from your lips like a prayer. A constant reminder to yourself that you are here with me. I had always assumed that anyone who had the misfortune to be with me would pretend that they were with someone else, someone better, but you shatter my own previously held belief that I’m not good enough every time you want me.
Lowering your forehead against mine, staring into my eyes, you groan out an “I love you,” before your hand snakes between us to wrap around me.
Choking out a dry sob, I clutch at any part of you I can reach, my legs tightening around your waist as your wrist twists with every pull. The muscles of your back are tensing beneath my hands, signaling how close you are, and I’m right there on the edge with you. Then we’re both going over, and I’m snapping and unraveling, spilling over your fingers with a moan while you bite into my shoulder to stifle your loud cries of release.
After it’s done, you collapse bonelessly on top of me, breathing hard against me, your hot breath pebbling the perspiration on my neck.
We’re drenched in sweat and come, sticky and warm, a thin sheen of wetness covering our skin and adhering our bodies together. You rest your head on my chest and pull my hand into your own, threading your larger fingers through my smaller ones, lacing and weaving them together.
My thumb absentmindedly traces over the heart-shaped burn on the back of your hand, the flesh wrinkled and peeling beneath my fingertip.
It’s still hot, the warmth seemingly radiating out from the wound and seeping into my skin, pumping through my veins.
"I love you," you say once more.
And I smile because I believe you. I grin like a fool, unabashed and proud to be a reciepent of such a declaration because I know without a doubt that it’s true.
I feel it. I can’t not feel it.
And so I let your flames consume me. I burn with you, going up in a blaze. But not down. Never down. Because we weren’t written as a tragedy. We’re not meant to become ashes to ashes, or dust to dust. The fire never extinguishes, the temperature never decreases. Our heat only rises.
Author: xlovelytragedy
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ian/Mickey
Warnings: sexual content
Categories: romance
Disclaimer: I own nothing. This story is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
Word Count: 1385
Summary: And so I let your flames consume me. I burn with you, going up in a blaze. But not down. Never down. Because we weren’t written as a tragedy.
Author's Note: Title comes from the poem “Straw House, Straw Dog” by Richard Siken
It’s the middle of July and the hottest night of the year so far.
The van doesn’t have air conditioning and we’re sweating through our t-shirts, the fabric soaked and clinging to our forms. It’s probably a hell of a lot cooler inside your house right now, the fans turned up high and oscillating air around the rooms, but your family is home and the lack of privacy isn’t worth the abundance of comfort being seated in front of a fan could provide us both with. So we’re laid out on our backs here instead, staring at the ceiling as you ramble on and on, talking a mile a minute and covering a wide range of topics at a rapid pace.
Even on a consistent regimen of medications, manic episodes still creep up―less extreme but impossible to outrun. There’s nothing we can do to prevent them completely so I just remain vigilant, watching to make sure you don’t fall down too hard while you’re spinning, and wait patiently for you to ride this wave out all the way.
"You know, pain is an innoxious concept, perfectly capable of being controlled. It’s all in your head, in your mind, traveling through synapses in the brain. If you know it’s coming, you can starve it off. Stop it in it’s tracks, you know?"
You never make much sense, your racing thoughts perfectly comprehensible to you but confusing as hell to everyone else.
"I don’t know what the fuck you’re saying," I groan, wiping beads of sweat from my upper lip. You might as well be speaking fucking Russian like Svetlana.
"I can show you."
And then you’re sitting up so quickly that the van rocks with your movements. You dig into your pockets until your hand emerges with a matchbook grasped between your fingers. Next you reach over me for the pack of cigarettes on the floor at my side, plucking one from the container and placing it between your lips.
I watch you strike the match, the flame flickering, dancing wildly on the end of the wooden stick you’re holding. The orange glow illuminates your face in the dark, the fire setting your skin alight. It’s sort of frightening in it’s intensity, kind of like you; the only light I ever saw, the only warmth I ever felt. You’re the heat in my veins. Everything else feels cold in comparison.
Smoke billows out from your mouth, the scent heavy in the confines of this small space as the vapor steadily makes it’s way to the open windows. You flick bright cinders from the end of the cigarette, the embers falling onto the carpet and singeing the material, before you bring the lit roll of tobacco down onto your skin, driving it hard into the flesh on the back of your hand.
"Ian, what the fuck?!" I sit up immediately, my hand reaching for yours.
You just laugh, like it doesn’t matter. Like nothing at all matters. So brave, so fearless. And with you by my side, I had learned to be that way too. Nothing scares me anymore. Nothing but you.
"It’s a superficial injury, Mick. And it doesn’t hurt. I didn’t feel a thing."
The area is puckered. The skin surrounding it is a pinkish color, the center white. Studying it closely, I see that the shape of the burn resembles a heart.
"Yeah, okay, tough guy." I scoff. "You probably torched some nerve endings. It’s numb right now but it’ll be hurtin’ like a bitch later. You can’t control what you do and don’t feel."
"No?" A smile tugs at your lips, obvious amusement playing across your features.
"No, Cinderella. That little theory of yours is bullshit."
A soft growl emits from the back of your throat, one of your hands flying over to grasp the back of my head. You pull my face into yours hard, one of my teeth colliding with your lip. It splits open, but you don’t seem to care, not allowing it to deter you in the slightest from capturing my mouth in a desperate kiss. I moan, parting my lips to allow your tongue to collide with mine, the metallic taste of your blood overwhelming my senses.
I waste no time in reaching down to tug at the hem of your shirt, trying to pull it upwards. You reciprocate the action, your hands pulling at my clothing. We finally break apart reluctantly, sucking in gulps of air as I pull the fabric over your head while you do the same with my shirt.
Once we’ve stripped each other, our clothes discarded somewhere on the floor, you’re pushing me backwards and covering my body with your own. You take your fingers into your mouth, sucking them and wetting them with your spit. With digits slick and warm, you trail them down between my legs until they reach their destination.
I hold my breath as you slowly push a finger inside me, hissing sharply as it slides in to the knuckle. You gingerly move it in and out before eventually adding another, and then another, carefully stretching me, preparing me. We’re breathing hard, panting against each other’s lips as you land a series of sloppy wet kisses to the corner of my mouth.
After a few minutes, the fingers disappear, and you position yourself before pressing into me slowly. Your palms rest on my parted thighs while you burrow yourself further into me. My legs are shaking, my body quivering around you as he pull out a bit only to push back in as far as you can.
A harsh discordance of sound echoes throughout the empty spaces of the van; an inharmonious song of flesh on flesh, a cacophony of grunts, moans, and heavy panting as we move together.
You’re whispering, half to yourself I think, a soft chant through gritted teeth. “Mickey, Mickey, Mickey.”
It never ceases to amaze me that you insist on repeating my name in moments like this, the mantra tumbling from your lips like a prayer. A constant reminder to yourself that you are here with me. I had always assumed that anyone who had the misfortune to be with me would pretend that they were with someone else, someone better, but you shatter my own previously held belief that I’m not good enough every time you want me.
Lowering your forehead against mine, staring into my eyes, you groan out an “I love you,” before your hand snakes between us to wrap around me.
Choking out a dry sob, I clutch at any part of you I can reach, my legs tightening around your waist as your wrist twists with every pull. The muscles of your back are tensing beneath my hands, signaling how close you are, and I’m right there on the edge with you. Then we’re both going over, and I’m snapping and unraveling, spilling over your fingers with a moan while you bite into my shoulder to stifle your loud cries of release.
After it’s done, you collapse bonelessly on top of me, breathing hard against me, your hot breath pebbling the perspiration on my neck.
We’re drenched in sweat and come, sticky and warm, a thin sheen of wetness covering our skin and adhering our bodies together. You rest your head on my chest and pull my hand into your own, threading your larger fingers through my smaller ones, lacing and weaving them together.
My thumb absentmindedly traces over the heart-shaped burn on the back of your hand, the flesh wrinkled and peeling beneath my fingertip.
It’s still hot, the warmth seemingly radiating out from the wound and seeping into my skin, pumping through my veins.
"I love you," you say once more.
And I smile because I believe you. I grin like a fool, unabashed and proud to be a reciepent of such a declaration because I know without a doubt that it’s true.
I feel it. I can’t not feel it.
And so I let your flames consume me. I burn with you, going up in a blaze. But not down. Never down. Because we weren’t written as a tragedy. We’re not meant to become ashes to ashes, or dust to dust. The fire never extinguishes, the temperature never decreases. Our heat only rises.
