keelywolfe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
keelywolfe) wrote2003-09-26 10:03 pm
keelywolfe) wrote2003-09-26 10:03 pm
Entry tags:
Le Ficlet: The Measure of Silence
I feel like I've been very quiet lately. Barely answering mail and comments, and the like. The past few weeks have just been very stressful, and I guess I just wanted a little alone-time. I'm still working a few things out, but I think (knock on wood) I've got the world back at an even tilt. We'll see. :)
Anyway, this is a fifteen minute sort of ficlet that I wrote sometime last week and thought I'd share. Ta!
The Measure of Silence
by Keely
Rated R
MFU
~~*~~
It was a measure of their relationship that they never had to say a word. Which wasn't to say that they didn't. There were always words between them; sarcasm and witticisms that they juggled back and forth like sharp-edged knives, an easy performance for others to see.
It was their silences that spoke the most eloquently; unspoken things that were swallowed away, considered briefly and then cast aside as unnecessary. Or perhaps to say them would invite chaos into their perfectly ordered world, to pull the bottom card from the fragile house and send it tumbling downward.
Words had always been easy for Napoleon, breezy as a summer day, something to hold on the tip of his tongue before offering them to another as a gift. Each one considered, never given as carelessly as it may have seemed. Where other men might offer a flower, he would offer the sweet peach of kindness, blended into soft seduction.
Not so for Illya, though there was strength to him that others might glance over and if Napoleon was the wind then Illya was the earth, sturdy and firm, words carefully measured out as though they were gems and not given lightly.
Never words between them, only a glance, the lightest touch and if Napoleon were face down on the bed, letting Illya's need fill him as surely as his cock did, he would know that a soured mission ached in Illya's heart and if he were to moan his own helpless need, it would be into the cup of Illya's palm.
Or lying on his back, Illya crouched over him, and he would greedily accept any measure of guttural bodily comfort Illya would offer; until the sheets were slippery beneath them, any boundary between them temporarily suspended.
Nothing but half choked moans and sighs, caught softly in each other's mouths as they took what they wanted, what they needed, from each other. And never said a word.
-finis-
Anyway, this is a fifteen minute sort of ficlet that I wrote sometime last week and thought I'd share. Ta!
The Measure of Silence
by Keely
Rated R
MFU
~~*~~
It was a measure of their relationship that they never had to say a word. Which wasn't to say that they didn't. There were always words between them; sarcasm and witticisms that they juggled back and forth like sharp-edged knives, an easy performance for others to see.
It was their silences that spoke the most eloquently; unspoken things that were swallowed away, considered briefly and then cast aside as unnecessary. Or perhaps to say them would invite chaos into their perfectly ordered world, to pull the bottom card from the fragile house and send it tumbling downward.
Words had always been easy for Napoleon, breezy as a summer day, something to hold on the tip of his tongue before offering them to another as a gift. Each one considered, never given as carelessly as it may have seemed. Where other men might offer a flower, he would offer the sweet peach of kindness, blended into soft seduction.
Not so for Illya, though there was strength to him that others might glance over and if Napoleon was the wind then Illya was the earth, sturdy and firm, words carefully measured out as though they were gems and not given lightly.
Never words between them, only a glance, the lightest touch and if Napoleon were face down on the bed, letting Illya's need fill him as surely as his cock did, he would know that a soured mission ached in Illya's heart and if he were to moan his own helpless need, it would be into the cup of Illya's palm.
Or lying on his back, Illya crouched over him, and he would greedily accept any measure of guttural bodily comfort Illya would offer; until the sheets were slippery beneath them, any boundary between them temporarily suspended.
Nothing but half choked moans and sighs, caught softly in each other's mouths as they took what they wanted, what they needed, from each other. And never said a word.
-finis-