Metalocalypse Drabble Challenge #33
Jun. 13th, 2008 07:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsPrompt: Lips
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Nathan's Mom, Serveta/Nathan's Dad
Warning: Het, a little weird perhaps
For a brief window of time, no more than a year or two, they were exactly the same. Same luxuriously thick blond hair, same vibrant blue eyes, same proud nose and high cheekbones, same plush ass and slender height, same quick fingers and clever tongues, same habits and addictions and needs. He was only fourteen or fifteen – she always had trouble keeping track – and she was old enough to never confess the truth, he in the first blossoming of youth and she in its last splendid flowering before decay set in. They passed each other in chilly hallways or at the front door at odd hours, never without a companion in tow. He was her son, the one she’d never wanted but would not deny now that he was old enough to be useful, and he was as attractive as she’d been, was desperate to remain. He stared at her one frigid February morning when their heat wouldn’t come on and the coffee pot wouldn’t work and sneered. Lips, the same ones on her face, twisted and spat out dreadful words. It was all the truth but she couldn’t bear it and she watched her mug shatter at his feet. When he left later that day, he took the last trace of her beauty.
They’re still the same in many ways, even now two decades later. Her hair is thin and its color comes from a bottle, her faces is careworn and tired and her body sags with the weight of years while he is taller, stronger, even more beloved by the masses although just as insecure in their adoration. Her lips are still as plump as his, mouths just slightly too large and it’s a trait that works for both of them. Collagen have kept hers looking bee-stung and well-kissed but she uses them as deftly as ever. They work the same, a sparkle in blue eyes, low words spoken in husky broken English, compliments paid that are meant but are so superficial as to be meaningless. Resistance crumples eventually, worn away by flattering attention and the promise of a great time. A man rises in the night, in the dark, murmurs something about unpleasant indigestion and trying to find a bathroom in the great hulk of stone to his stirring wife. A woman watches him leave, waits another two minutes before slipping out herself.
At opposite ends of Mordhaus, doors open. Full lips part, whisper temptations, linger on thick necks before trailing down. They are satisfied, man and woman both, almost overwhelmed by mouths that demand pleasure and bring it forth, and they return to their room, one after the other, and spend a sleepless night in guilty silence. Mother and son sleep easily for there has never been personal shame in sex and in the morning, while Nathan broods and his parents fight, they share a single glance. Identical pouts grace their faces afterwards, still the same, still unable to achieve total triumph after all this time.
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Nathan's Mom, Serveta/Nathan's Dad
Warning: Het, a little weird perhaps
For a brief window of time, no more than a year or two, they were exactly the same. Same luxuriously thick blond hair, same vibrant blue eyes, same proud nose and high cheekbones, same plush ass and slender height, same quick fingers and clever tongues, same habits and addictions and needs. He was only fourteen or fifteen – she always had trouble keeping track – and she was old enough to never confess the truth, he in the first blossoming of youth and she in its last splendid flowering before decay set in. They passed each other in chilly hallways or at the front door at odd hours, never without a companion in tow. He was her son, the one she’d never wanted but would not deny now that he was old enough to be useful, and he was as attractive as she’d been, was desperate to remain. He stared at her one frigid February morning when their heat wouldn’t come on and the coffee pot wouldn’t work and sneered. Lips, the same ones on her face, twisted and spat out dreadful words. It was all the truth but she couldn’t bear it and she watched her mug shatter at his feet. When he left later that day, he took the last trace of her beauty.
They’re still the same in many ways, even now two decades later. Her hair is thin and its color comes from a bottle, her faces is careworn and tired and her body sags with the weight of years while he is taller, stronger, even more beloved by the masses although just as insecure in their adoration. Her lips are still as plump as his, mouths just slightly too large and it’s a trait that works for both of them. Collagen have kept hers looking bee-stung and well-kissed but she uses them as deftly as ever. They work the same, a sparkle in blue eyes, low words spoken in husky broken English, compliments paid that are meant but are so superficial as to be meaningless. Resistance crumples eventually, worn away by flattering attention and the promise of a great time. A man rises in the night, in the dark, murmurs something about unpleasant indigestion and trying to find a bathroom in the great hulk of stone to his stirring wife. A woman watches him leave, waits another two minutes before slipping out herself.
At opposite ends of Mordhaus, doors open. Full lips part, whisper temptations, linger on thick necks before trailing down. They are satisfied, man and woman both, almost overwhelmed by mouths that demand pleasure and bring it forth, and they return to their room, one after the other, and spend a sleepless night in guilty silence. Mother and son sleep easily for there has never been personal shame in sex and in the morning, while Nathan broods and his parents fight, they share a single glance. Identical pouts grace their faces afterwards, still the same, still unable to achieve total triumph after all this time.
