[5/29/03 2:47 AM] Another short little thing written for LJ's Contre La Montre slash fic-exercise community. This week's challenge, to focus on the color white. I'm glad everyone seems to have enjoyed what I've posted so far, thanks for all the great reviews!!! They make my heart happy. More Logan/Kurt, more focus on dreams. Bring the pain!
Disclaimer: They belong to Marvel and Fox, though can anyone truly say they own Wolverine?
Slash disclaimer: LOGAN/KURT lovin' here, people. Dun' like, dun read. Simple, ne?
-Dreams in White-
by CrimsonObsession AKA Tif
He dreams in white.
He dreams flawless white ceiling, wall, floor covered in tile. Discolorations drip and flow, disappearing down silver drains and leaving only a slight red residue, easily cleaned. White tile shimmering in glaring flourescence, the reek of bleach, astringent and alcohol burning the flesh off his hypersensitive nostrils. Highlights tinting the thick liquid metal until it's tubes of sharp, glaring white leading to sparkling needles. An implosion of light behind his eyes as he tries to scream.
He dreams snowfall, blizzard, flurries turning the windshield into a canvas, not glass; blank linen waiting to be painted alizarin crimson. Out of the truck, and flakes fill him, clogging nostrils until breathing all but stops and his mouth gapes open with a harsh choking sound. He tastes hunger, the metallic tang of blood and the musky stench of predatory arousal. He peers into the sheets of white, and sees nothing. Back into the truck.
He dreams of the Lady's torch, broken and replaced with a disgusting mockery, a machine that stands for everything she doesn't, a machine that blazes white. Lightning streams from it, washes over him, envelopes him in bursting electricity that screams, only to be pierced by a scream far more important. Through the light he catches a glimpse of red whipping about a frightened young face. His claws flash. The girl will have that white streak for the rest of her life.
He lives in dark.
In the woods, where the curling smoke of his cigar and a stench of sulfur and brimstone are the only intrusions on the purity of wind, and trees, and wildlife.
In darkened halls, where restlessness meets restlessness, brown eyes meet gold.
In bed, hands on indigo skin that melts into shadow, calloused fingertips grazing silk and scar. Night, and yellow-gold pinpricks burn the white from behind his eyes.
He dreams in white.
He lives in dark.
Disclaimer: They belong to Marvel and Fox, though can anyone truly say they own Wolverine?
Slash disclaimer: LOGAN/KURT lovin' here, people. Dun' like, dun read. Simple, ne?
-Dreams in White-
by CrimsonObsession AKA Tif
He dreams in white.
He dreams flawless white ceiling, wall, floor covered in tile. Discolorations drip and flow, disappearing down silver drains and leaving only a slight red residue, easily cleaned. White tile shimmering in glaring flourescence, the reek of bleach, astringent and alcohol burning the flesh off his hypersensitive nostrils. Highlights tinting the thick liquid metal until it's tubes of sharp, glaring white leading to sparkling needles. An implosion of light behind his eyes as he tries to scream.
He dreams snowfall, blizzard, flurries turning the windshield into a canvas, not glass; blank linen waiting to be painted alizarin crimson. Out of the truck, and flakes fill him, clogging nostrils until breathing all but stops and his mouth gapes open with a harsh choking sound. He tastes hunger, the metallic tang of blood and the musky stench of predatory arousal. He peers into the sheets of white, and sees nothing. Back into the truck.
He dreams of the Lady's torch, broken and replaced with a disgusting mockery, a machine that stands for everything she doesn't, a machine that blazes white. Lightning streams from it, washes over him, envelopes him in bursting electricity that screams, only to be pierced by a scream far more important. Through the light he catches a glimpse of red whipping about a frightened young face. His claws flash. The girl will have that white streak for the rest of her life.
He lives in dark.
In the woods, where the curling smoke of his cigar and a stench of sulfur and brimstone are the only intrusions on the purity of wind, and trees, and wildlife.
In darkened halls, where restlessness meets restlessness, brown eyes meet gold.
In bed, hands on indigo skin that melts into shadow, calloused fingertips grazing silk and scar. Night, and yellow-gold pinpricks burn the white from behind his eyes.
He dreams in white.
He lives in dark.