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Witness the rare breaking of my three-viewings/readings-minimum rule.
TITLE: "Sanguine"
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
catslash
RATING: PG-13 for slightly squicky imagery.
FANDOM: RSVP
PAIRING: Nick Collier/Hal Evans
SUMMARY: A fleeting moment.
NOTES: Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
contrelamontre food challenge in thirty-nine minutes. It sort of has food in it, if you maybe squint a little and tilt your head to the left . . .
DISCLAIMER: Mark Anthony Galluzzo wrote and directed it. I was not there.
I would never dream of dedicating this bit of nonsense to Glenn Quinn, but, since RSVP was his last film, I wanted to mention his name anyway. *raises glass in a silent toast*
*****
It was like wine.
Except, you know, wine didn't clot. Or turn buttstain brown when it dried. And it had carbs instead of iron.
So, not really. Which was just as well, because Nick hated those kinds of romanticized Anne Rice Vampire: the Masquerade fucking metaphors anyway.
Not that he couldn't understand them. But didn't need such a big role on the scene. It didn't need to be everywhere, soaked into clothes, splashed on the floor, penned onto the wall. It made for a big and shiny display, but it was for amateurs. Do it right and death is shocking enough all by itself.
But in his most secret thoughts - the kinds he pretended not to think, because it was all too fucking embarrassing - it did play a part.
He and Hal had just pulled off the stunt of the century. The real one, not like the shit that gets blown up by the media and then forgotten next week another crime/stunt/whatever of the century. It was the real thing. Him and Hal. (Which was one of the reason why he hid from it, he could never work with a partner. Not even Hal.)
And Hal was looking at him, with that grin and Irish sparkle, and the air was thick with shining copper and ghostly screams. Eyes on Hal, he found a puddle and dipped his fingers in.
Two quick swipes reddened Hal's mouth and then Nick was on him, licking away fantasy-sweet copper and slipping his tongue between Hal's lips to share.
It was just a stupid moment - one of those things surrounded by vague half-events that come when the brain slips closer to sleep and starts offering up nonsense.
But it was very clear, from the shade of Hal's brown leather jacket to the half-congealed warmth on his fingers. To the way he could taste Hal through the iron tang. It came to him most nights, peurile faux-Goth fantasy though it was.
Still, though . . . if it got you worked up and excited and just a little dizzy, maybe it was like wine.
TITLE: "Sanguine"
AUTHOR:
catslashRATING: PG-13 for slightly squicky imagery.
FANDOM: RSVP
PAIRING: Nick Collier/Hal Evans
SUMMARY: A fleeting moment.
NOTES: Written for the
contrelamontre food challenge in thirty-nine minutes. It sort of has food in it, if you maybe squint a little and tilt your head to the left . . .DISCLAIMER: Mark Anthony Galluzzo wrote and directed it. I was not there.
I would never dream of dedicating this bit of nonsense to Glenn Quinn, but, since RSVP was his last film, I wanted to mention his name anyway. *raises glass in a silent toast*
*****
It was like wine.
Except, you know, wine didn't clot. Or turn buttstain brown when it dried. And it had carbs instead of iron.
So, not really. Which was just as well, because Nick hated those kinds of romanticized Anne Rice Vampire: the Masquerade fucking metaphors anyway.
Not that he couldn't understand them. But didn't need such a big role on the scene. It didn't need to be everywhere, soaked into clothes, splashed on the floor, penned onto the wall. It made for a big and shiny display, but it was for amateurs. Do it right and death is shocking enough all by itself.
But in his most secret thoughts - the kinds he pretended not to think, because it was all too fucking embarrassing - it did play a part.
He and Hal had just pulled off the stunt of the century. The real one, not like the shit that gets blown up by the media and then forgotten next week another crime/stunt/whatever of the century. It was the real thing. Him and Hal. (Which was one of the reason why he hid from it, he could never work with a partner. Not even Hal.)
And Hal was looking at him, with that grin and Irish sparkle, and the air was thick with shining copper and ghostly screams. Eyes on Hal, he found a puddle and dipped his fingers in.
Two quick swipes reddened Hal's mouth and then Nick was on him, licking away fantasy-sweet copper and slipping his tongue between Hal's lips to share.
It was just a stupid moment - one of those things surrounded by vague half-events that come when the brain slips closer to sleep and starts offering up nonsense.
But it was very clear, from the shade of Hal's brown leather jacket to the half-congealed warmth on his fingers. To the way he could taste Hal through the iron tang. It came to him most nights, peurile faux-Goth fantasy though it was.
Still, though . . . if it got you worked up and excited and just a little dizzy, maybe it was like wine.