Hmm...
It's finally happened! Something productive has come from my reading Housefics. Well, something more productive than a few pleasant moments and frenetic breathing, anyway.
I've long awaited the moment that I'd be prompted by those fics to write something of my own, and so I have. In no time flat. There is no pairing, it's just the great man himself...But it's how I've always seen him. More damaged than he'd ever let on, but still persistent and incredibly human. That is why we love him.
Who says creativity can't come at work??
I've long awaited the moment that I'd be prompted by those fics to write something of my own, and so I have. In no time flat. There is no pairing, it's just the great man himself...But it's how I've always seen him. More damaged than he'd ever let on, but still persistent and incredibly human. That is why we love him.
The older man rests on his leather couch, his hot skin bathed in a light sheen of contrastingly cold sweat. His long limbs are uncomfortably splayed and his greying hair is tousled.
The man rubs a long-fingered hand over his usual coarse facial growth and knows for certain that tonight he will get no sleep. Tonight will be one of those nights...Just his mind's way of reminding him exactly how damaged he really is.
Parts of his body ache and he knows it's not real. Just a body memory. But that doesn't make it easier. His throat burns and begins to feel bruised. The man's breath comes out strangled.
He can see and feel it all happening again in a familiar flash of flurried memories...The gruff male's voice in his ears and the big hand around his neck. The pain in the side of his head from the beatings. Abdominal pain from being forced to hold his bladder for hours. Aching in his extremities from being left out in the cold night air.
The whole time the prone man can hear his own childlike voice in the back of his mind, "please stop, dad". "Sir, it hurts". Never crying, though. Crying always made it worse.
The series of memories almost never changes and it always finishes the same way. The feeling of suffocation as his face is pressed into pillows, heavy weight on his back and the terrifyingly pungent and familiar smell of masculinity.
As usual the man sits bolt upright, causing pain in the abrupt movement. He pressed his creased palms to his startling blue eyes to stem the salty flow.
He roughly pushes his fingers through his hair and reaches to the dark wood coffee table. He picks up the orange plastic vial and dry swallows a tablet.
The man sighs and forces himself to his feet with difficulty and limps, cane in hand, to his bedroom to not sleep somewhere more comfortable and safe.
The man rubs a long-fingered hand over his usual coarse facial growth and knows for certain that tonight he will get no sleep. Tonight will be one of those nights...Just his mind's way of reminding him exactly how damaged he really is.
Parts of his body ache and he knows it's not real. Just a body memory. But that doesn't make it easier. His throat burns and begins to feel bruised. The man's breath comes out strangled.
He can see and feel it all happening again in a familiar flash of flurried memories...The gruff male's voice in his ears and the big hand around his neck. The pain in the side of his head from the beatings. Abdominal pain from being forced to hold his bladder for hours. Aching in his extremities from being left out in the cold night air.
The whole time the prone man can hear his own childlike voice in the back of his mind, "please stop, dad". "Sir, it hurts". Never crying, though. Crying always made it worse.
The series of memories almost never changes and it always finishes the same way. The feeling of suffocation as his face is pressed into pillows, heavy weight on his back and the terrifyingly pungent and familiar smell of masculinity.
As usual the man sits bolt upright, causing pain in the abrupt movement. He pressed his creased palms to his startling blue eyes to stem the salty flow.
He roughly pushes his fingers through his hair and reaches to the dark wood coffee table. He picks up the orange plastic vial and dry swallows a tablet.
The man sighs and forces himself to his feet with difficulty and limps, cane in hand, to his bedroom to not sleep somewhere more comfortable and safe.
Who says creativity can't come at work??