Post by max on Mar 30, 2011 20:17:16 GMT 10
Title: The dialectics of you and me
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 422
Pairing: Neal/Owen
Round: 1/E
Summary: In which irrationality reigns supreme, and everyone wins. Slight allusions to closets. AU
Notes: Improbable passions, no discernible canon and out of character experiences. Only in Smackdown. It has a much fancier title than it deserves, but I've just finished 4 hours of philosophy.
____________________________
This isn’t supposed to be happening. That much is clear, from the way his heart is banging painfully against his ribs, and the blood is burning through his skin, and the fear – the impossible fear of it – is making his head feel all swimmy and irrational – though that might technically be the result of several of the other components which have brought him here (a mutually terrible missing of wives, a case or two of stout, the guileless grey eyes he can feel, imprinting his skin with their focus – especially the grey eyes) – and, Mithros, he’s known this boy since he was a chubby little squidge of ten, now King’s Champion to Kel’s Knight Commander, older and apparently wiser, though just as idiotically brave – or perhaps just idiotic – in the way his hands have begun to ghost and drift over Neal’s skin, as if they don’t have so much to lose, aren’t public figures in the Eastern lands, where such things aren’t so readily tolerated, haven’t got wives and dutiesforgods’sakehecan’tthinkwhenOwendoesthatso –
‘So quit thinking,’ Owen interrupts, and he’s smiling as he says it, which is a sneak’s trick, because when Owen smiles like that nobody can argue with him, and he’s being so understanding of the war playing out in his brain, conflict between how desperately he wants to say yes, open himself up to the delight hovering in the air, ready to consume him, and how much he needs to say no, as a Queenscove – the last Queenscove; how necessary it is for him to have babies and preserve one of the last of Tortall’s old bloodlines, and what it would mean, after his lifetime of fighting not just to be the weakest, most bookish of the Queenscove-Masbolle-Haryse men and –
‘I’m bookish. Kels bookish. Obviously, your logic doesn’t quite fit, Sir Logician.’
Owen unbuttons his shirt, revealing the perfect musculature of his combat-hardened body. ‘This is your last chance, you know,’ and he says it conversationally, as if this is already all worked out. ‘Either you stop thinking now, or I make you.’
‘Are you threatening me? Make me – ’ but taking this as an invitation, Owen has pressed his stout-sweetened mouth to Neal’s, in a kiss which makes everything else swirl around him (bloodlines, countries, galaxies), so that, at the centre of it all there is only Owen (the scars Neal already knows intimately through seventeen years of shared life, the alien topography of his full-lipped mouth, this bravery he has coveted now for eight years).
And he makes everything still.
QC by: journeycat
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 422
Pairing: Neal/Owen
Round: 1/E
Summary: In which irrationality reigns supreme, and everyone wins. Slight allusions to closets. AU
Notes: Improbable passions, no discernible canon and out of character experiences. Only in Smackdown. It has a much fancier title than it deserves, but I've just finished 4 hours of philosophy.
____________________________
This isn’t supposed to be happening. That much is clear, from the way his heart is banging painfully against his ribs, and the blood is burning through his skin, and the fear – the impossible fear of it – is making his head feel all swimmy and irrational – though that might technically be the result of several of the other components which have brought him here (a mutually terrible missing of wives, a case or two of stout, the guileless grey eyes he can feel, imprinting his skin with their focus – especially the grey eyes) – and, Mithros, he’s known this boy since he was a chubby little squidge of ten, now King’s Champion to Kel’s Knight Commander, older and apparently wiser, though just as idiotically brave – or perhaps just idiotic – in the way his hands have begun to ghost and drift over Neal’s skin, as if they don’t have so much to lose, aren’t public figures in the Eastern lands, where such things aren’t so readily tolerated, haven’t got wives and dutiesforgods’sakehecan’tthinkwhenOwendoesthatso –
‘So quit thinking,’ Owen interrupts, and he’s smiling as he says it, which is a sneak’s trick, because when Owen smiles like that nobody can argue with him, and he’s being so understanding of the war playing out in his brain, conflict between how desperately he wants to say yes, open himself up to the delight hovering in the air, ready to consume him, and how much he needs to say no, as a Queenscove – the last Queenscove; how necessary it is for him to have babies and preserve one of the last of Tortall’s old bloodlines, and what it would mean, after his lifetime of fighting not just to be the weakest, most bookish of the Queenscove-Masbolle-Haryse men and –
‘I’m bookish. Kels bookish. Obviously, your logic doesn’t quite fit, Sir Logician.’
Owen unbuttons his shirt, revealing the perfect musculature of his combat-hardened body. ‘This is your last chance, you know,’ and he says it conversationally, as if this is already all worked out. ‘Either you stop thinking now, or I make you.’
‘Are you threatening me? Make me – ’ but taking this as an invitation, Owen has pressed his stout-sweetened mouth to Neal’s, in a kiss which makes everything else swirl around him (bloodlines, countries, galaxies), so that, at the centre of it all there is only Owen (the scars Neal already knows intimately through seventeen years of shared life, the alien topography of his full-lipped mouth, this bravery he has coveted now for eight years).
And he makes everything still.
QC by: journeycat