Post by Javert on Jun 11, 2011 18:12:42 GMT -5
NOTE: THIS IS SOME RANDOM SOPAL FANFICTION I WROTE FOR RAINA. DISREGARD.
The first punch missed. The second connected with his jaw, the force of the impact snapping his head back, thrumming like the distant pound of blood in his ears.
“Turn around, you bastard,” she hissed.
Saul instead took inventory. For a moment, as the pain flared and migrated to his teeth, his tongue, he considered the possibility that she had dislocated something--had finally--and permanently--marred the beauty of his face. All of his teeth vibrated but remained in place. Nothing was bleeding, though the vestiges of salt and metal were beginning to sit on his tongue. He rolled his shoulders, once, jarring the tensed muscles there into lucidity, flexed his fingers.
When he did turn around, it was with a hand at his strong jaw, massaging away the promise of a bruise. “Catching a man unawares. If you fought that dirty in bed,” he mused, “perhaps we wouldn’t be having this problem.”
When she lunged at him again, he was ready. He caught her raised hand in the palm of his own, his hand moving in an instant to seize her wrist. The arm jerked immediately away, but his hold was stronger; when she whirled around, it was into his grasp, her right arm pinned painfully behind her back. Before he could secure the left, he felt her muscle ripple, evaded a clumsy attempt to get him into a headlock. He anticipated too late the kick to his shins. Her eyes, her teeth flashed in triumph as she faced him, and, snarling, went for his throat.
For Saul, this was routine, muscle memory instructing him where to aim his punches and where to catch hers. Inevitably, they would continue until their knuckles were bloodied, their lips split, a priceless family heirloom shattered in their wake, their prides wounded almost as badly as the bodies that housed them. He, of course, would emerge victorious--even if his nose had broken, his eyes both black and blue, she would always be the one to reach for him in the middle of the night, craving the warmth of his coldest embraces. She would always forgive him for whatever nameless grief he caused her, and he would tread water until the storms began again and he sliced through the waves. She was almost always the perpetrator, but he was a perpetual victor.
Something, though--something was different. As she stepped back, fingers to her mouth, the tips coming back scarlet and viscous, he studied her. He knew every contour of her face--he had memorized it so many days ago, her chin in his hand, the sun-spangled lake lending spider webs of light to her features. He was not in awe of her beauty: he possessed it. He took credit for every smile that found her lips, every tear her eyes lost, as if he had molded her himself--and, in some ways, he had. The thunder that raged in her storm cloud eyes had now quieted. She regarded him in silence.
There was a button missing, torn from the cuff of his sleeve. Saul eyed it in distaste. “Done already, Opium?” he drawled. “You’ve barely drawn blood.” Silence. The lack of a response set his teeth on edge. He took his eyes from his cuffs and met her vacant gaze. “Opium,” he said again, to jar her from her reverie. Something glistened on the crest of her cheekbone.
When he stepped forward and raised his hand, his touch was but a whisper on her cheek, his thumb capturing the tear before her swollen lip could. This look, however, he recognized--just as she began to thrash, she was already in his arms. “Don’t touch me!” she screamed, her nails scratching for purchase on his arm, on his face, in his hair. That hurt. Setting his jaw, holding her tighter, Saul aimed his knee at the bundle of nerves in her thigh, and struck, hard. She cried out in pain and dropped, a controlled descent in the cage of his arms.
There was only the sound of her breath now, hard and fast, choked with the effort of biting back sobs or screams. He used one hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture too methodical to be affectionate, and placed his mouth to it. “Now say you’re sorry.”
“I’m not.”
“That much is blatantly obvious.” Her elbow jabbed into his solar plexus; he forced her to shift to accommodate him. “You can say it anyway.”
“Let me go,” she demanded.
“Not until you prove you can play nicely,” he murmured, unimpressed, into the curve of her neck. But the pulse beneath his lips was slow and even, and the hand she placed on his arm did not tremble. When Opal was free of his grasp, she stood. “Saul,” she said, “let me go.”
A picture frame that hung precariously behind her finally shifted, considered, and fell to the floor, neatly breaking in a twinkle of glass. He did not realize he was on his feet until he had crossed to her, until she was so close that he could feel the hammer of her heart. For a moment, she hesitated, swayed, but ultimately she did not move. He was close enough to see the beginnings of a bruise around her eye, rising like a setting sun.
He took her chin in his hand, then, as he had so many days ago, regarded her with such coolness that she was finally forced to look away. “What are you waiting for?” he murmured, noting with a twisted sense of pleasure that her lips parted to allow a startled breath. “You know where the door is.”
He would not fight for her. He would not say her name, the weight of it thick like a sob in his throat. He would not gather her back in his arms, or fall to his knees, and beg for her to stay. He knew she wanted--no, expected--all of these things, and more, as she stood and stared at him--so he remained silent, his expression unreadable even as she desperately searched for something in it.
After a moment, he released her. He had located the elusive button on the leg of an overturned chair. He picked it up, then arced a brow when she had not moved. “Did you need me to escort you?” he asked. “Certainly you do enough of that yourself.”
When he turned his back to her, he was half expecting the swing of a punch, the shatter of a thrown glass, the barrage of poisonous words meant to pierce his impenetrable ego. Instead, he felt the floorboards shift beneath his feet. She was walking away.
He touched, musingly, the site of her first punch to his jaw. His beauty would survive another day. She was walking away.
He righted the overturned chair and sat, slowly, muscles protesting. The door was silent as it opened, but he heard it when it closed.
The first punch missed. The second connected with his jaw, the force of the impact snapping his head back, thrumming like the distant pound of blood in his ears.
“Turn around, you bastard,” she hissed.
Saul instead took inventory. For a moment, as the pain flared and migrated to his teeth, his tongue, he considered the possibility that she had dislocated something--had finally--and permanently--marred the beauty of his face. All of his teeth vibrated but remained in place. Nothing was bleeding, though the vestiges of salt and metal were beginning to sit on his tongue. He rolled his shoulders, once, jarring the tensed muscles there into lucidity, flexed his fingers.
When he did turn around, it was with a hand at his strong jaw, massaging away the promise of a bruise. “Catching a man unawares. If you fought that dirty in bed,” he mused, “perhaps we wouldn’t be having this problem.”
When she lunged at him again, he was ready. He caught her raised hand in the palm of his own, his hand moving in an instant to seize her wrist. The arm jerked immediately away, but his hold was stronger; when she whirled around, it was into his grasp, her right arm pinned painfully behind her back. Before he could secure the left, he felt her muscle ripple, evaded a clumsy attempt to get him into a headlock. He anticipated too late the kick to his shins. Her eyes, her teeth flashed in triumph as she faced him, and, snarling, went for his throat.
For Saul, this was routine, muscle memory instructing him where to aim his punches and where to catch hers. Inevitably, they would continue until their knuckles were bloodied, their lips split, a priceless family heirloom shattered in their wake, their prides wounded almost as badly as the bodies that housed them. He, of course, would emerge victorious--even if his nose had broken, his eyes both black and blue, she would always be the one to reach for him in the middle of the night, craving the warmth of his coldest embraces. She would always forgive him for whatever nameless grief he caused her, and he would tread water until the storms began again and he sliced through the waves. She was almost always the perpetrator, but he was a perpetual victor.
Something, though--something was different. As she stepped back, fingers to her mouth, the tips coming back scarlet and viscous, he studied her. He knew every contour of her face--he had memorized it so many days ago, her chin in his hand, the sun-spangled lake lending spider webs of light to her features. He was not in awe of her beauty: he possessed it. He took credit for every smile that found her lips, every tear her eyes lost, as if he had molded her himself--and, in some ways, he had. The thunder that raged in her storm cloud eyes had now quieted. She regarded him in silence.
There was a button missing, torn from the cuff of his sleeve. Saul eyed it in distaste. “Done already, Opium?” he drawled. “You’ve barely drawn blood.” Silence. The lack of a response set his teeth on edge. He took his eyes from his cuffs and met her vacant gaze. “Opium,” he said again, to jar her from her reverie. Something glistened on the crest of her cheekbone.
When he stepped forward and raised his hand, his touch was but a whisper on her cheek, his thumb capturing the tear before her swollen lip could. This look, however, he recognized--just as she began to thrash, she was already in his arms. “Don’t touch me!” she screamed, her nails scratching for purchase on his arm, on his face, in his hair. That hurt. Setting his jaw, holding her tighter, Saul aimed his knee at the bundle of nerves in her thigh, and struck, hard. She cried out in pain and dropped, a controlled descent in the cage of his arms.
There was only the sound of her breath now, hard and fast, choked with the effort of biting back sobs or screams. He used one hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture too methodical to be affectionate, and placed his mouth to it. “Now say you’re sorry.”
“I’m not.”
“That much is blatantly obvious.” Her elbow jabbed into his solar plexus; he forced her to shift to accommodate him. “You can say it anyway.”
“Let me go,” she demanded.
“Not until you prove you can play nicely,” he murmured, unimpressed, into the curve of her neck. But the pulse beneath his lips was slow and even, and the hand she placed on his arm did not tremble. When Opal was free of his grasp, she stood. “Saul,” she said, “let me go.”
A picture frame that hung precariously behind her finally shifted, considered, and fell to the floor, neatly breaking in a twinkle of glass. He did not realize he was on his feet until he had crossed to her, until she was so close that he could feel the hammer of her heart. For a moment, she hesitated, swayed, but ultimately she did not move. He was close enough to see the beginnings of a bruise around her eye, rising like a setting sun.
He took her chin in his hand, then, as he had so many days ago, regarded her with such coolness that she was finally forced to look away. “What are you waiting for?” he murmured, noting with a twisted sense of pleasure that her lips parted to allow a startled breath. “You know where the door is.”
He would not fight for her. He would not say her name, the weight of it thick like a sob in his throat. He would not gather her back in his arms, or fall to his knees, and beg for her to stay. He knew she wanted--no, expected--all of these things, and more, as she stood and stared at him--so he remained silent, his expression unreadable even as she desperately searched for something in it.
After a moment, he released her. He had located the elusive button on the leg of an overturned chair. He picked it up, then arced a brow when she had not moved. “Did you need me to escort you?” he asked. “Certainly you do enough of that yourself.”
When he turned his back to her, he was half expecting the swing of a punch, the shatter of a thrown glass, the barrage of poisonous words meant to pierce his impenetrable ego. Instead, he felt the floorboards shift beneath his feet. She was walking away.
He touched, musingly, the site of her first punch to his jaw. His beauty would survive another day. She was walking away.
He righted the overturned chair and sat, slowly, muscles protesting. The door was silent as it opened, but he heard it when it closed.