HP/Alias - Such a Gracious Host
Sep. 12th, 2004 12:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hackthis_archiveBruce Wayne has the most gorgeous ass in all of creation if ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
goss' drawing is to believed, which I think I will, because damn. *tries to un-cross eyes* It's the kind of image that makes you desperate for quality Supes/Batman. Anybody? Buller?
I was, uh, going to write something else, but I feel I need to celebrate the male form right now.
Forlalejandra and serialkarma: Neville/Sark in the Also Known As universe.
HP/Alias
Such a Gracious Host
They met randomly at a bar, because Sark knew he was never going to meet anyone trustworthy in his line of business. Not that he was looking for anyone to trust because he knew better, but he felt he had a better chance of not having his lover kill him in his sleep if he went the one-night route. At the very least, he felt less likely that his partner would turn out to be a covenant mole if he made a point of never visiting the same pub in the same section of London twice. That was one of the glorious things about London life, if Sark wanted a bit of rough, he could go south of the river to Brixton or Clapham or east to Stepney Green, and if he wanted someone a bit more posh he could go to Hampstead or Belgravia. If he wanted blonde and swish, Kensington was fine and if he wanted someone a bit more, well, not blonde and swish, Kings Cross suited him.
And then there were the times when Sark didn't know what he wanted.
Aptly enough he found something good at a pub called the End of the World.
Of course it was in Camden.
*
Sark had actually been looking at the bloke at the end of the bar: red hair, bright green eyes, clear lush skin that in a strange way reminded him of Lauren; he hadn't paid much attention to the person with him. That wasn't strictly true of course, Sark had spent enough time in jail cells and interrogation rooms and on the run to pay attention to everything in a certain perimeter. There was the blonde girl with the fake laugh by the door and a black guy and his loud Irish mate sitting in a corner arguing about West Ham and something that sounded like 'Puddlemore united', which must've been one of those division three clubs. There was a Scottish guy and another red head sitting too close together in a booth across the way, but Sark had set his sights on the bloke at the end of the bar, and he'd made up his mind to take him home regardless of who he'd come with.
And then the person next to the bloke at the end of the bar turned in Sark's direction to get the bartender's attention, and Sark changed his mind.
One warm body was as good as another, and he liked the red scars spidering along his new mark's forearms.
*
They made introductions in the lavatory.
Correction: Sark cornered his mark in a stall, and his mark poked him in the side with something that seemed a bit sharp to be a gun, but too dull to be a knife. When Sark smirked instead of running off in fear, his mark narrowed his eyes and Sark moved in for the kill.
Correction again: the kiss.
The mark made strangled noises in the back of his throat as Sark's tongue plunged between his lips, and the gun in Sark's ribs was replaced with an extremely hard grip on his rear. The mark aligned their hips as Sark's fingers slid through spiky brown hair, and Sark might've groaned as his mark kneaded his arse ruthlessly.
When Sark pulled away, he noticed the hazel tone to his mark's eyes and the entirely too long eyelashes. There were freckles dotting his nose and his smile was crooked. He reminded Sark of Sydney Bristow and her mother. And Lauren. And Alison.
It was disconcerting.
Almost as disconcerting as the way Sark kept pushing back into the hands squeezing and stroking his buttocks through his trousers.
"Neville," said the mark. "My name's Neville."
"Julian," spilled from between Sark's lips thoughtlessly, sending his brain into a whirling dervish.
He never gave anyone his proper name.
*
They said little in the car; Julian not feeling the desire to make small talk and Neville only speaking up on occasion to give directions to his home in Maida Vale. Every now and then Julian caught Neville looking around his car in something akin to wonderment, and the third time Julian caught Neville staring at the manual in confusion, he spoke up.
"Do you not drive?" Julian asked.
Even with the blue light from the dash and the passing street lamps, Neville's blush was apparent. "No," he said simply. "Someone was going to teach me once, but we never got round to it."
Julian nodded.
Wisdom told him that if there was someone else in the picture it would make the night that much easier to forget in the morning, unfortunately his ego had never been terribly wise, and it had been ages since he'd had a proper challenge.
He wondered briefly what it would take to make Neville forget that there was ever anyone else.
*
The scars the spidered along Neville's forearms stopped just past his elbows, and there were more freckles along his shoulders that Julian licked and nipped as he put Neville through his paces. Julian's hands struggled to maintain their slippery hold on Neville's hips between long strokes and short strokes in and out. Underneath him Neville clawed at the duvet and made keening noises that made Julian feel like Rambaldi himself.
Neville shouted down the entire flat, and at a time when Julian thought he was worn out, apparently, he was only resting. When Julian let out a jaw-cracking yawn, Neville pounced with hands and teeth and soft kisses. He stroked Julian's thighs and licked his stomach, turning Julian's insides to liquid.
Neville fucked like it was sport, leaving Julian writhing in the bedclothes and wondering just who the hell he had come home with.
*
The orange and pink light of sunrise was beginning to illuminate the bedroom when Neville finally relinquished his hold on Julian and slipped off to sleep.
Lying in a cooling wet spot on the bed, Julian stared intently at the man next to him and wondered how such a juxtaposition existed in the same person. One moment Neville was quiet and shy, the next he was leaving teeth marks on Julian's arse. Shaking his head, Julian untangled himself from the bedclothes and commenced with gathering his clothing to leave.
He left the room briefly to use the toilet, and when he returned, he grabbed his shirt, preparing to leave. He paused to take in Neville sprawled across the bed and the way his fingers twitched as though he were reaching out for something he couldn‘t quite grab.
After a moment of hesitation, Julian climbed back in the bed and nudged Neville awake.
“I am not sleeping in the wet spot,” he announced defiantly.
Neville blinked at him sleepily and nodded. “’Course not,” he said, shifting over and extending an arm in invitation. “That‘s no way to treat a guest.”
-end-
goss' drawing is to believed, which I think I will, because damn. *tries to un-cross eyes* It's the kind of image that makes you desperate for quality Supes/Batman. Anybody? Buller? I was, uh, going to write something else, but I feel I need to celebrate the male form right now.
For
lalejandra and serialkarma: Neville/Sark in the Also Known As universe.HP/Alias
They met randomly at a bar, because Sark knew he was never going to meet anyone trustworthy in his line of business. Not that he was looking for anyone to trust because he knew better, but he felt he had a better chance of not having his lover kill him in his sleep if he went the one-night route. At the very least, he felt less likely that his partner would turn out to be a covenant mole if he made a point of never visiting the same pub in the same section of London twice. That was one of the glorious things about London life, if Sark wanted a bit of rough, he could go south of the river to Brixton or Clapham or east to Stepney Green, and if he wanted someone a bit more posh he could go to Hampstead or Belgravia. If he wanted blonde and swish, Kensington was fine and if he wanted someone a bit more, well, not blonde and swish, Kings Cross suited him.
And then there were the times when Sark didn't know what he wanted.
Aptly enough he found something good at a pub called the End of the World.
Of course it was in Camden.
Sark had actually been looking at the bloke at the end of the bar: red hair, bright green eyes, clear lush skin that in a strange way reminded him of Lauren; he hadn't paid much attention to the person with him. That wasn't strictly true of course, Sark had spent enough time in jail cells and interrogation rooms and on the run to pay attention to everything in a certain perimeter. There was the blonde girl with the fake laugh by the door and a black guy and his loud Irish mate sitting in a corner arguing about West Ham and something that sounded like 'Puddlemore united', which must've been one of those division three clubs. There was a Scottish guy and another red head sitting too close together in a booth across the way, but Sark had set his sights on the bloke at the end of the bar, and he'd made up his mind to take him home regardless of who he'd come with.
And then the person next to the bloke at the end of the bar turned in Sark's direction to get the bartender's attention, and Sark changed his mind.
One warm body was as good as another, and he liked the red scars spidering along his new mark's forearms.
They made introductions in the lavatory.
Correction: Sark cornered his mark in a stall, and his mark poked him in the side with something that seemed a bit sharp to be a gun, but too dull to be a knife. When Sark smirked instead of running off in fear, his mark narrowed his eyes and Sark moved in for the kill.
Correction again: the kiss.
The mark made strangled noises in the back of his throat as Sark's tongue plunged between his lips, and the gun in Sark's ribs was replaced with an extremely hard grip on his rear. The mark aligned their hips as Sark's fingers slid through spiky brown hair, and Sark might've groaned as his mark kneaded his arse ruthlessly.
When Sark pulled away, he noticed the hazel tone to his mark's eyes and the entirely too long eyelashes. There were freckles dotting his nose and his smile was crooked. He reminded Sark of Sydney Bristow and her mother. And Lauren. And Alison.
It was disconcerting.
Almost as disconcerting as the way Sark kept pushing back into the hands squeezing and stroking his buttocks through his trousers.
"Neville," said the mark. "My name's Neville."
"Julian," spilled from between Sark's lips thoughtlessly, sending his brain into a whirling dervish.
He never gave anyone his proper name.
They said little in the car; Julian not feeling the desire to make small talk and Neville only speaking up on occasion to give directions to his home in Maida Vale. Every now and then Julian caught Neville looking around his car in something akin to wonderment, and the third time Julian caught Neville staring at the manual in confusion, he spoke up.
"Do you not drive?" Julian asked.
Even with the blue light from the dash and the passing street lamps, Neville's blush was apparent. "No," he said simply. "Someone was going to teach me once, but we never got round to it."
Julian nodded.
Wisdom told him that if there was someone else in the picture it would make the night that much easier to forget in the morning, unfortunately his ego had never been terribly wise, and it had been ages since he'd had a proper challenge.
He wondered briefly what it would take to make Neville forget that there was ever anyone else.
The scars the spidered along Neville's forearms stopped just past his elbows, and there were more freckles along his shoulders that Julian licked and nipped as he put Neville through his paces. Julian's hands struggled to maintain their slippery hold on Neville's hips between long strokes and short strokes in and out. Underneath him Neville clawed at the duvet and made keening noises that made Julian feel like Rambaldi himself.
Neville shouted down the entire flat, and at a time when Julian thought he was worn out, apparently, he was only resting. When Julian let out a jaw-cracking yawn, Neville pounced with hands and teeth and soft kisses. He stroked Julian's thighs and licked his stomach, turning Julian's insides to liquid.
Neville fucked like it was sport, leaving Julian writhing in the bedclothes and wondering just who the hell he had come home with.
The orange and pink light of sunrise was beginning to illuminate the bedroom when Neville finally relinquished his hold on Julian and slipped off to sleep.
Lying in a cooling wet spot on the bed, Julian stared intently at the man next to him and wondered how such a juxtaposition existed in the same person. One moment Neville was quiet and shy, the next he was leaving teeth marks on Julian's arse. Shaking his head, Julian untangled himself from the bedclothes and commenced with gathering his clothing to leave.
He left the room briefly to use the toilet, and when he returned, he grabbed his shirt, preparing to leave. He paused to take in Neville sprawled across the bed and the way his fingers twitched as though he were reaching out for something he couldn‘t quite grab.
After a moment of hesitation, Julian climbed back in the bed and nudged Neville awake.
“I am not sleeping in the wet spot,” he announced defiantly.
Neville blinked at him sleepily and nodded. “’Course not,” he said, shifting over and extending an arm in invitation. “That‘s no way to treat a guest.”
-end-
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-09-12 12:53 pm (UTC)(psst... I was just in Berkeley and made a point of visiting Long Life Vegi - yum! - and a few other places mentioned in a certain fic. 'Twas fun.)
no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 12:49 pm (UTC)*laughs*
I'm glad!
no subject
Date: 2004-09-12 01:00 pm (UTC)And bless, Sark just makes anything better. *fans self*
here was a Scottish guy and another red head sitting too close together in a booth across the way
Gosh, now there's a pretty picture... *dies laughing*
no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 12:52 pm (UTC)That's just cold... Neville is not Ralph!
no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 01:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-12 01:08 pm (UTC)GUH.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 12:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-12 02:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 12:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-12 04:36 pm (UTC)noises that made Julian feel like Rambaldi himself.
Except then I read this:
Neville fucked like it was sport
“That‘s no way to treat a guest.”
Neville's gran raised him up right and proper. :)
xo.
♥
no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 12:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-12 05:08 pm (UTC)Neville fucked like it was sport, leaving Julian writhing in the bedclothes and wondering just who the hell he had come home with.
*guh* what a fabulous line, sweetie.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 12:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-13 07:48 am (UTC)(As in, I've found a....)
no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 12:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 01:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-16 04:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-10 09:57 pm (UTC)Just awesome.
More, please? Pretty please?
no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 10:33 pm (UTC)