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Skin Angela Griffen. January 2002. Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No money is being made, nor any slander or libel intended from this writing, which is written by a fan for entertainment purposes.
* i. i want to wrap it up and swim in it until i drown You notice when JC stretches back that the skin of his stomach seems almost paper-thin. The skin is pulled taut from hipbone to hipbone, and you almost want to fall to your knees and worship, letting your tongue trace the soft, dry, milky skin. Or maybe, instead, you would just slide your fingers there, feeling the sharp flutter of muscle-movement beneath your fingers. You'd like to press down a little, maybe enough to leave faint bruises. If you let your mouth press into his stomach, though, you know you'd start wanting to scrape with your teeth and bite. If it were your fingers, you'd let your sharp little fingernails dig into his skin, leaving angry red crescents after. You're afraid you might not stop there. The skin of JC's stomach seems so thin, you're sure you could tear through it until your fingers hit red warmth and slid inside him. You want to rip him apart.
ii. softly into your broken veins You all have signatures to do for the fanclub and other such special fans, so you're curled up around a table, passing 8x10 glossies around and signing them. While you think that maybe it would be much more efficient to just have the damn pictures printed with your names already on them, you don't really mind the tedious job or the ache in your right arm for the next few hours. Instead of paying attention to the task at hand, you stare at JC's arms. The same paper-thin flesh on his stomach covers his arms, and his veins stand out in stark relief against the smooth skin. You think maybe if you focused for a very long time, you could see the blood gushing through them, all sticky-slick hot red. You have an odd fascination with his inner elbow particularly, the fantasy of nuzzling and nipping there. Each muscle in his arm stands out from his thin skin and bones. You've felt them flex and stress beneath your fingertips before, but the sight is what fascinates you, the topography of his arm. You want to trace each muscle and vein with your tongue. "Chris!" Lance says, exasperated, in a tone that lets you know he's probably already called your name at least twice. You look up, and he shoves another glossy photograph under your fingers.
iii. the voyeur of utter destruction as beauty JC plays piano very well. That's not why you're listening to him. You're not really listening; you're staring at the quick movement of his wrists. The bones there slide so easily past one another, making grand gestures, and you're fascinated, want to grip his wrists so tightly you can feel the dull grind of bone on bone. You realize he's stopped playing and is looking at you expectantly. "I liked it," you lie. You can't remember what it was.
iv. in you i feel so hungry You're probably a sick fuck, even though you don't remember ever being like this before. When you were with Dani, you never wanted to tear her to shreds just because she was so beautiful. She was so gorgeous alive that the idea of hurting her was incomprehensible. It's not that you want to hurt JC, not at all. It's just that he's so fascinating he feels like a puzzle you have to solve, like taking apart a piece of machinery to see what makes it work. JC, you think hysterically, has inner beauty. His blood is probably a very pretty shade of blackish-red. You wonder, if you told him you wanted to rip his stomach apart, if he would let you. Yes, you're definitely a sick fuck. v. so hot, so cold, so far so out of control You're not sure how it happens, this actually doing it thing, but you think it might be his fault because he slides up against you in the club in his second-skin leather pants and tight fishnet shirt. It's like a tease, stomach and throat and arms all showing, but only in the tiny spaces of the shirt's fabric. He's sliding up against you, dancing with you, and you wonder if maybe people will notice, except no one seems to. On the way back to the hotel, you're not in a limo but a chartered van from a limo service because management said they didn't want the teenage girls seeing you coming back drunk any more. The van stops at a back entrance to the hotel, and you're for once grateful for PR's insistence on the group maintaining a clean-cut appearance. JC's still slipping all over you, and his skin is heated and slick with sweat as you pull him into your room. Restraint is key here, you know. No tearing into his stomach, management wouldn't like that. You almost laugh aloud, and wonder for a moment if you're going crazy, but then JC's kissing you, gasping into your mouth. "You watch me, you watch me," and you didn't think he noticed. You have him backed up to the bed, on it, and then you're letting go, fingers everywhere, pressing against his soft skin, rucking up the hem of the shirt and touching his stomach-skin; your fingers slide through the sweat there and you press down a little. The skin is a little thicker than you imagined, not as crisp and papery. He's pulling off his shirt and your mouth fixes at his throat, tongue dipping into the hollow there over and over. Your teeth nearly come out to bite and scrape at the skin, and you shouldn't, except JC says, "please," so you do. He's gasping, fingers fluttering, so you grab his wrists and hold them tight, feeling the movement of the trapped bones, and it's so so hot that you're biting down harder at his throat, and his legs are spreading beneath you like he likes this, likes the feeling of being broken. You let go of his wrists for a moment, and he whimpers like you're stopping (like you should), but really you're just pulling down the zip of his pants, and trying to peel them off, but they're sweat-stuck to his skin, and this is going to hurt, but you yank them down anyway, sharp pink on the skin of his thighs, and even that's kind of hot, the idea of blood welling there. You push your jeans and boxers down, watching as he shimmies out of that tiny underwear of his, and then you've got him trapped beneath you again, cocks grinding together, your teeth pressing harder and harder into his flesh, and you grab his wrists again because the feel of the fragile ivory bones beneath your fingertips is so wonderful. It feels so good, the feeling of his skin under yours, and you know you're holding his wrists too tight now because you can feel the bones grinding together, but he doesn't say stop, only gasps roughly, almost arrhythmically, when he comes. And you need and need and need, pressing against him so hard you're pushing him into the bed, wanting to be inside, but you can't, and then you're coming hard.
vi. stigmata bleed continuously You wake up before him the next morning, and he looks more than well-fucked. There's a near black bruise on his collarbone, decorated with a splash of rust. You don't remember drawing blood, only that it felt good. Both his wrists have blue marks the shape of your forefinger and thumb on them. They make his wrists more attractive. You want to bite down on the sensitive skin there, see how it feels different from the other skin surrounding it. He has beautiful eyelids, crinkly little eyecovers. You wonder if he trusts you enough to let you press your tongue to them. Probably not. vii. and soon there's notions of blood on his hands You think he might want more because you notice him touching his fingertips to the bruise on his neck when he thinks you're not looking. He winces because the skin there is still tender, but then he smiles softly to himself, and maybe he wants it again. The problem is that you're not sure how far you can go before you actually tear him to shreds, slicking your arms, your whole body, in his blood.
viii. i want to drink the honey blood He's writhing beneath you again, and your tongue slides along the ridge of his hipbone. You're supposed to be giving him a blowjob, except you got distracted on the way, and now the skin of his stomach is beneath your lips. You're tonguing and biting at the flesh there, trying not to go too far, and his fingernails scrape at the plaster of the wall. You suck the skin low on his hip, near the juncture to thigh, suck the flesh into your mouth; you let your teeth press down, and his fingers slide to your head to try to push you lower. You read somewhere once that semen and blood have almost the same chemical makeup. That's not quite what excites you about this. It's that when you pause for a moment, you can feel the pulse and thump of blood beneath the skin against your tongue, and you want it, something of him inside you. The rush of bitter fluid down your throat makes your stomach tremble and flutter because that's him inside you, and it's almost enough.
ix. the aching kiss before i feed When you kiss him, you press your tongue in deep, tasting saliva and slicking along the wet red sides of his mouth. His tongue in your mouth is odd, and you're afraid you're going to bite at the muscle. As you're nipping at his lower lip, you wonder if he'd let you press your teeth in harder, past the translucent skin there. The taste of blood mixes with spit on your tongue, hot and spiced, and he's gasping against you again. You don't understand why he wants this, why he seems to want to be devoured.
x. my skin is begging you please Once, he asks you to fuck him, and you say that you won't. You're not sure how to tell him that you're scared to fuck him because you might keep pushing in until it seems like a good idea to rip flesh from his shoulder with your teeth, or to tear the skin of his belly with your fingernails. How do you tell someone you can't fuck him because you're afraid you might accidentally kill him? Except he's gasping in your ear how much he wants you inside him, and you don't know when he turned into such a slut, but it's hard to say no because you want to be inside him too. He slides into your lap and licks into your mouth, and you're biting on instinct, pulling on his lower lip, feeling him arching above you and, yeah, you want it. You pull your mouth from his, and sputter something about bedposts and tying, and he's off your lap in a second, searching for something in his bag. He pulls out two scarves, and you don't know why he has them, but you're grateful just the same. You gasp, "me," a moment before you've got a lapful of shaking JC, and you can't believe you're letting him tie you to a bed except this will keep you from doing anything stupid. Later, when he's sliding down, taking you inside, you're glad you thought of this because you're already biting so hard at his neck you're tasting blood, and your wrists are yanking at your bonds because you want to touch him, press fingertips to his skin. As soft as the scarves are, you're pulling hard enough that the fabric is biting into your wrists. Your shoulders ache from the strain, but you want so much, too much, and it doesn't really hurt because you're pushing up into tight heat and it's so fucking good. He's so fucking good. What you really want right now is to break from the bonds, and pull him beneath you, and feel the sharp grind of the bones of his wrists. You want to scrape fingernails over his ribs and feel the flutter of his heart, dig them into his flesh, and press them in so far that you're pulling off chunks of skin. You want the stickiness of blood, but this is almost enough because you're inside and he's tight and you've got the taste of his blood on your tongue, and you're losing control and thrusting as deep as you can, crying his name too loudly when orgasm hits.
xi. there's a crack in the mirror and a bloodstain on the bed You like waking up before JC because he's beautiful when he sleeps; long, lean, pale body pressed to yours, sleeping hard. It occurs to you that he looks like a victim of domestic violence, body spattered with bruises, mostly on his arms and torso. Some of them are actually hickeys, and the others mere bruises from general rough handling. His left shoulder up to his throat is almost entirely bruise and scab now. You smile because his face is untouched, and press your fingers to his forehead before carding them through soft hair. You run a thumb gently across his eyelashes, and he scrunches his nose a little before settling back into sleep. Then, you lean in, and press your lips soft as you can to one of his eyelids, backing away immediately, shocked that you even did it. He's really beautiful.
xii. will you let me tear your heart apart? You're halfway drunk when you tell him how beautiful he is, how much you love his skin, and the taste of his blood, the feel of his bones. He barely flinches when you tell him how scared you are that you'll rip him open, crack his bones, press lips to his still beating heart, and dip your tongue in his brain. You think he's not scared, just confused. "But why?" You're not sure you have an answer for him. "Because I love you," you answer, because it's true, even though you never expected it to come out like this. "Is that love?" *
i. Nine Inch Nails - The Only Time
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