Title: "the blood of the lamb"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "One Life to Live"
Rating/Classification: PG-13, John/Natalie, mild sexual implications and blasphemy, ficlet.
Disclaimer: Nope. I don't own them!
Summary: So, last week I asked myself, "Oh my god, HOW does John keep from just jumping her??" Catholic. Guilt.
There are scars on his palms. Deep red crescents, miniature stigmata, as he martyrs himself to keep from touching her. His knuckles go white, the sharp pain reminds him of Caitlin slumped in bed, of the nightmares where it's Natalie in her place.
She is so damned beautiful. All he wants is to feel her hair, the softness of her cheek, and remember what it's like to be innocent. No...no, he wants more than that. Way more than that.
He watches her kiss Paul Cramer and draws blood. He remembers Sunday school with Father O'Leary, being the perfect altar boy, and thinks somebody might be driving a lance into his side to make sure he's dying.
It would be so easy to cross the room, yank her out of that little bastard's arms. Thigh to thigh, her mouth heavy and hot and whiskey sweet. He wonders if she tastes the same all over. Like 80 proof, like miracles, like resurrection. No...no, he knows she does. Amber-red, a crown of thorns.
They need to nail each other on the cross. She'll whisper that he's hung and he'll whisper, "I love you" and it'll crucify him.
So, he turns away, listening to the whimpering noises coming from her throat, pretending her hands aren't traveling up another man's shirt. He clenches his fists and his jaw and he pretends he doesn't care, doesn't see, never wanted, never tasted.
He hears her laugh and it's forced, way too high, like someone keening over a corpse. He thinks it might be him. Might be them.
He's a martyr.
There is a scar on his chest.
From where he's trying to cut his heart out.
And failing.
--end--
May 3, 2004.
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "One Life to Live"
Rating/Classification: PG-13, John/Natalie, mild sexual implications and blasphemy, ficlet.
Disclaimer: Nope. I don't own them!
Summary: So, last week I asked myself, "Oh my god, HOW does John keep from just jumping her??" Catholic. Guilt.
There are scars on his palms. Deep red crescents, miniature stigmata, as he martyrs himself to keep from touching her. His knuckles go white, the sharp pain reminds him of Caitlin slumped in bed, of the nightmares where it's Natalie in her place.
She is so damned beautiful. All he wants is to feel her hair, the softness of her cheek, and remember what it's like to be innocent. No...no, he wants more than that. Way more than that.
He watches her kiss Paul Cramer and draws blood. He remembers Sunday school with Father O'Leary, being the perfect altar boy, and thinks somebody might be driving a lance into his side to make sure he's dying.
It would be so easy to cross the room, yank her out of that little bastard's arms. Thigh to thigh, her mouth heavy and hot and whiskey sweet. He wonders if she tastes the same all over. Like 80 proof, like miracles, like resurrection. No...no, he knows she does. Amber-red, a crown of thorns.
They need to nail each other on the cross. She'll whisper that he's hung and he'll whisper, "I love you" and it'll crucify him.
So, he turns away, listening to the whimpering noises coming from her throat, pretending her hands aren't traveling up another man's shirt. He clenches his fists and his jaw and he pretends he doesn't care, doesn't see, never wanted, never tasted.
He hears her laugh and it's forced, way too high, like someone keening over a corpse. He thinks it might be him. Might be them.
He's a martyr.
There is a scar on his chest.
From where he's trying to cut his heart out.
And failing.
--end--
May 3, 2004.