murder mysteries : metaphysics : fiction
May. 28th, 2007 12:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
greenappleMetaphysics
Neil Gaiman's Murder Mysteries
Carasel/Saraquael
325 words
May 2007
Adult content: sexuality, theme
Summary: Saraquael makes a sound, and in it he hears all the names for Love, and the dark eye, the red fist that would hide behind the name of Love.
Tracing his hard nails over Saraquael’s form: the hollow bones, the ribbons of his muscle visible beneath. His partner, his angel is stretched out under him, shivering, the second membrane over his eye licking down nervously, fluttering open. Saraquael bends his back, makes his body a bridge, and Carasel hooks one claw into the flat nothing that slopes down from his ribcage; and inside he sees the possibilities for Love, variations multiplying, snowflake and teardrop patterns beneath his skin. Saraquael makes a sound, and in it he hears all the names for Love, and the dark eye, the red fist that would hide behind the name of Love.
Blood trickles down Saraquael’s hip, and Carasel tugs lower, making a crease between his legs; he bends to suck, to devour, the first act of Love. Flesh and light bloom beneath his tongue, and although Sex is not his project, he can see how often the two will go hand in hand. He takes notes. He makes room in his mouth for the new fleshy bud of pleasure, that grows and lengthens as he suckles and nurses it.
Saraquael floods his mouth with light, his lips parted, his legs parted, wings spread wide, light coursing lavatic all through him.
Was that Love? Saraquael asks, with more than a casual interest in the project, now.
Carasel licks the blood from his lips. Almost, he tells him. He is already designing plans for selflessness, for sacrifice, for altruism. For love of self, for jealousy. Saraquael makes that sound again: pain and longing, heavy this time with satisfaction; he flexes his wings and sits up, elbows on his knees. His hair touching his cheek just so. For infatuation, love at first sight, for brothers and friends and comrades in arms. Makes tentative sketches for marriage, for life.
I need to study this, more, he says, and he lays his head on his lover’s shoulder, locks his lover’s powerful body into the cage of his arms.
Neil Gaiman's Murder Mysteries
Carasel/Saraquael
325 words
May 2007
Adult content: sexuality, theme
Summary: Saraquael makes a sound, and in it he hears all the names for Love, and the dark eye, the red fist that would hide behind the name of Love.
Tracing his hard nails over Saraquael’s form: the hollow bones, the ribbons of his muscle visible beneath. His partner, his angel is stretched out under him, shivering, the second membrane over his eye licking down nervously, fluttering open. Saraquael bends his back, makes his body a bridge, and Carasel hooks one claw into the flat nothing that slopes down from his ribcage; and inside he sees the possibilities for Love, variations multiplying, snowflake and teardrop patterns beneath his skin. Saraquael makes a sound, and in it he hears all the names for Love, and the dark eye, the red fist that would hide behind the name of Love.
Blood trickles down Saraquael’s hip, and Carasel tugs lower, making a crease between his legs; he bends to suck, to devour, the first act of Love. Flesh and light bloom beneath his tongue, and although Sex is not his project, he can see how often the two will go hand in hand. He takes notes. He makes room in his mouth for the new fleshy bud of pleasure, that grows and lengthens as he suckles and nurses it.
Saraquael floods his mouth with light, his lips parted, his legs parted, wings spread wide, light coursing lavatic all through him.
Was that Love? Saraquael asks, with more than a casual interest in the project, now.
Carasel licks the blood from his lips. Almost, he tells him. He is already designing plans for selflessness, for sacrifice, for altruism. For love of self, for jealousy. Saraquael makes that sound again: pain and longing, heavy this time with satisfaction; he flexes his wings and sits up, elbows on his knees. His hair touching his cheek just so. For infatuation, love at first sight, for brothers and friends and comrades in arms. Makes tentative sketches for marriage, for life.
I need to study this, more, he says, and he lays his head on his lover’s shoulder, locks his lover’s powerful body into the cage of his arms.