[ A flicker. The way an image will skip during inclement weather and darker skies. The timbre of her voice, the one that's pretty and fawning — sweet with no bite, the promise of blood with no actual wound — and the muscle in his jaw jumps, like that churns at him more than anything she could throw his way. Unreachable, center-light. Jake, front-row again, watching her rehearse old material. Following his lead, like he doesn't fucking loathe it.
There's a sharpness in the way he throws the book off of him. It lands, closed, page lost, with a short bounce over the mattress. Jake sits up and rests his wrists on raised knees. A curl of hair falls in front of his face, the bend of his spine pushing forward, as if to inhale all her exhaled smoke better. As if to get a better glimpse at the passing marks of her thighs.
His lungs expand. In the next breath, Jake smiles back. As spearmint-vibrant and neutral as ever. His Russian smooth, practiced, accent refined under hours and hours of tutelage to a man he once thought of as a father: ]
They didn't exactly have the greatest collection in prison.
[ Rehab glow. Prison chic. One traded for the other, as if Jake doesn't know. As if he doesn't keep precise fucking detail of everybody he needs to know. The wound never shuts, that way — it always has salt in it. It always stays hot and open, exactly the same way he remembers her cunt. Can count on one hand the number of times he's been inside of someone else's, since.
Smoothly, he gets off her bed, closing the distance. Each step even and steady, like he's counting the measure between blindspots.
Eventually, he stands right next to her, there on the chaise. Bent elbow, his hand outstretched in front of her. The thick turn of his wrist, showing the bump of his veins, the delicate skin there. Jury's out, if he wants her hand or the smoke that's in it.
no subject
There's a sharpness in the way he throws the book off of him. It lands, closed, page lost, with a short bounce over the mattress. Jake sits up and rests his wrists on raised knees. A curl of hair falls in front of his face, the bend of his spine pushing forward, as if to inhale all her exhaled smoke better. As if to get a better glimpse at the passing marks of her thighs.
His lungs expand. In the next breath, Jake smiles back. As spearmint-vibrant and neutral as ever. His Russian smooth, practiced, accent refined under hours and hours of tutelage to a man he once thought of as a father: ]
They didn't exactly have the greatest collection in prison.
[ Rehab glow. Prison chic. One traded for the other, as if Jake doesn't know. As if he doesn't keep precise fucking detail of everybody he needs to know. The wound never shuts, that way — it always has salt in it. It always stays hot and open, exactly the same way he remembers her cunt. Can count on one hand the number of times he's been inside of someone else's, since.
Smoothly, he gets off her bed, closing the distance. Each step even and steady, like he's counting the measure between blindspots.
Eventually, he stands right next to her, there on the chaise. Bent elbow, his hand outstretched in front of her. The thick turn of his wrist, showing the bump of his veins, the delicate skin there. Jury's out, if he wants her hand or the smoke that's in it.
In English: ]
Think I should catch up on the classics?