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Well, I was reading ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
_beetle_'s journal the other day and she had posted two drabbles based on the movie Ravenous.
I adore this movie - it's funny, slashy, and the leads - Robert Carlyle and Guy Pearce - are so damn...edible. Anyway, I've obsessed about this movie for ages, and almost a year and a half ago I wrote a little ficlet based on it. My own 'preferred' ending to the movie. Now, because she reminded me of it and because she wanted to read it, I'm posting my 'Ravenous' ficlet for the lovely_beetle_. I hope you like it, bay-bee!
*This maybe have been one of the first slash pieces I ever wrote that was based entirely on something not my own. Huh.*
The movie and this ficlet reference cannibalism, so if that is a big squick for you - you have been warned.
The hunger was a grinding pain, all day, all night. Boyd tried to kill it, with bread and snow-melt and great draughts of the ice-water air, but nothing eased it.
As they rode through the stands of spicy pine Boyd brooded on it, curled in on himself and silent. Ives, silently amused, chewed jerked meat and pointed out various animal-sign as they passed: deer, raccoon, the blurred prints of a fast-moving lynx. He rode at Boyd's side, a knee or a foot constantly brushing with the motion of the horses. Boyd tried to ignore him - prodding his horse on faster, refusing to reply. But every touch made him flinch and Ives seemed to get some satisfaction out of it - his constant startlement.
He'd nearly died again - although maybe playing dead that first time didn't count. He had tried to kill Ives, but instead had ended up strapped to a travois, being hauled through the snowy twilight like so much baggage. Much as the dressed bits of the General and his fidgety aide Lindus were being hauled behind Ives' horse. He'd eaten of the flesh, that much he knew. Eaten it immobile in the faded blankets and worn furs Ives had filched from George and Martha's abandoned lodges. When he was strong enough to ride he'd refused any more of it, and now Boyd huddled in his greatcoat, fingers numb on the slick reins. Ives chattered on, at his ease. He knew where they were going - had a place all picked out. A homesteaders cabin, not far from some small trading post. They would winter there, and in spring join the coming rush to Sutter's Mill, west and south near someplace called San Diego. The General had told Ives about the gold, too, and Ives figured they could live off the prospectors easily. There would be so many lone men, all wary and suspicious - nobody talking for fear of giving up a claim. Disappearances would be expected - easy to cover. And if anybody had a stake, they'd quietly take it - horde it - until they were rich enough to go wherever they liked.
"We can go anywhere. New York. Boston...even Europe." Ives said, his eyes far away, and Boyd finally looked over at him, frowning.
"'We'? What do you mean? I - almost killed you."
"A momentary lapse on your part, I'm sure. You just need to get a little stronger, and then - you'll see." Boyd shook his head, wincing a little as his stomach twisted inside him. Wanting. "You'll see, Boyd."
They rode until mid-day and then the cabin they were heading for came into view. It was old but not yet derelict, standing silent under a thick mantle of snow, its crooked chimney poking up like a burnt stick.
Ives had finally fallen silent and they dismounted and worked without a word - unsaddling the horses and rubbing them down, pouring out measures of grain and tossing forkfuls of hay from the cluster of three stacks behind the ramshackle stable.
Boyd staggered through knee-deep snow to the cabin door, weighed down with gear, trying to kick the sill clear. Ives pulled him away and jerked the door open, stronger then before. Stronger then Boyd.
Boyd dumped gear and saddlebags by the door and stood forlornly by the empty fireplace, shivering. Ives jerked him around by his coat.
"There's tinder, man, get it burning. I'll get wood. So we can cook dinner." Boyd grimaced in distaste and Ives grinned at him, a mad grin like a feral dog. "You'll eat, one way or another," Ives promised. He sauntered out to dig out the woodpile and Boyd crouched down to set the tinder and small kindling alight.
He saw his hands were shaking and he struggled to control them. But images crowded his inner eye and he bowed his head and succumbed to them for a long moment - Colonel Hart, Toffler, Reich. The bloody dead, rising up in the shadows and watching him, reaching out for him - begging him. He had tried to kill Ives. Had tried, and failed, and given in. At the last, Ives had simply stood there, so close - reeking of blood and sweat and smoke, looking like a demon from hell - an angel. And his eyes, dark and clever and intent, had simply frozen Boyd in place - pinned him immobile to the floor and sucked the strength from his arms and turned his knees to water. Boyd had swayed; exhausted, heartsick, so cold. All his wounds from their fight - dreadful wounds that would have killed most men - normal men - singing with a stinging, burning ache. The General had burst in then with Lindus and Ives had simply turned, fluid as a cat; slashed across and across, bringing fresh gouts of blood to steam in the twilight.
"Change of plans," Ives said, with that dog-mad grin. He'd come up close to Boyd then, satanic and lethal, the knife dripping. And kissed him hard, tasting of blood and bourbon and cigar. Boyd hadn't even pulled away. He'd felt his knees go, and his vision whiting out, and then nothing. He'd never felt the frozen dirt under his hip and shoulder and head.
They'd left two days later, Ives ignoring Martha's flight and taking what he liked from the fort - an extravagant lot. Extra blankets and furs, gear for horses and for themselves. The tidy shave kit Reich had kept so carefully, Knox's last bottle of bourbon, extra clothes. Satchels of powder and bullets and a bullet mold as well, and extra arms. Boyd - still weak - Ives had snugged down onto a travois and then he'd fired the fort. Boyd remembered that, through a haze of pain and fever. The flames dancing up behind them, sending skeins of sparks high into the pastel pallor of the morning sky. But mostly he remembered the kiss and how Ives' heart had pounded so close to his own.
Something ice-cold and wet touched his neck, and Boyd shot to his feet with a cry, flinging himself around. Ives stood there, frowning, holding an armful of wood, snow dropping off him in clumps.
"Perhaps I should start the fire?" he said, and dropped the wood on the hearth.
Boyd retreated, shaking so hard his teeth chattered. He clumsily gathered up the furs and blankets and draped them over the bed frame in the corner. There were several pieces of furniture, and he put saddles and harness over them, to keep them off the damp dirt floor. Ives worked methodically at the fireplace, building the beginnings of a fire and Boyd searched around desperately for more work. He spied a twig broom in the corner and swept all the tramped-in snow up and out the door. Ives had a blaze going now, and he dug a pot and kettle out of a saddlebag and tossed them both to Boyd.
"Snow if you please, Captain," he said, and his eyes had gone dark and cold.
Boyd shouldered the door open and scraped clean snow into the pot and the kettle, tamping it down tight with his fist. He saw a bucket by the door, already half-filled with snow drift and he topped it off, with an idea of watering the horses.
Back inside he hung pot and kettle over the fire and put the bucket near to warm. He turned, retreating, and Ives was there close as a heartbeat, his thin fingers resting lightly on Boyd's arm.
"You're shivering Boyd. Stay by the fire." Boyd stared at him for a long moment, feeling the hand through greatcoat and jacket and shirt. Exhaustion washed through him, and he sank down, curling himself into the warmth, eyes shut.
Ives busied himself with a knife, hacking hastily smoked flesh into bits, adding the potatoes and onions and carrots he'd brought along. After a bit the kettle began to purr, and a warm, savory smell drifted from the pot - stew, thick with blood and meat. Ives made coffee and Boyd opened his eyes to take a cup. He sipped slowly, the tin mug warm in his hands, the thick, strong coffee like black fire in his stomach.
Ives ladled out stew - held the bowl out - and Boyd simply turned his face away in weary distaste, refusing. Ives flung the ladle into the pot and swore.
"Give in Boyd," he whispered, crouching there, "just...give in. Come with me."
"Can't. I can't. It's...just..." Boyd shook his head, unable to say what was in him. He couldn't - he could not - live with the restless souls of the others in him. Reich stirred uneasily in his heart at odd hours, and his Commander brought with him the heat and dust of Mexico - the distant percussion of artillery. When he ate the flesh - when it became part of him - there was a surge, an electricity. Sudden life and heat and...will...coursing through him. Like he could do - anything. When he had crawled out of that pile of the dead in Mexico, blood running down his throat still, Boyd had felt he could run like a deer - leap like a cat. And it got stronger, and better, every time. He knew that. But the memories - persisted. The glimpses of that other life, like sunlight through the fluttering leaves of trees.
He looked over at Ives from his place on the hearth, Ives dark hair loose around his face, his eyes for once not mocking or cruel but searching - almost lost.
"Boyd - you can't stay with me, if you won't."
"I can't." Boyd straightened, inches from Ives, his cup clattering to the stones, his hands twisting uselessly together. "How do you live with them? How can you live with them, clamoring in your head?"
Ives smirked, shaking his head. "I won. I beat them. It only feeds my hunger. Don't let them frighten you, Boyd. They're dead. It's just...an echo."
Boyd rubbed his eyes, feeling the sting of weariness and hopelessness. "I can't. I hate to hear them...mourning." He shuddered, his breath coming heard, and he leaned his hand on the hearth stones for balance. The hilt of the paring knife pressed into his palm. It was an old knife - wickedly sharp, ground down to a silver sickle of razor steel. He gripped it and held it up, trembling, between them. He was cold again - so very cold. Numb down to his core. He stared at Ives, and Ives looked back, motionless as a snake and twice as deadly. *What I will become... No! No.* An idea welled in him, and he braced himself.
"I want them to be silent. I want - quiet." Boyd drove the knife at his heart, but Ives - snake-fast - locked his hands around Boyd's wrist.
"No - Boyd!" They struggled, but it was useless. Ives was so very much stronger, and Boyd felt his own strength - his determination - fading. Abruptly he gave up, giving way to Ives' insistent pull, letting his hand be wrenched away from his body. Ives flinched, making a small sound of surprise or pain, but Boyd didn't care. He curled over in his misery, eyes shut, shivering and gritting his teeth, hungry, so hungry.
"It hurts. It hurts..." he whispered, and let himself lean into Ives; the warmth of him, the prickly wool of his jacket and the silken cravat. And something....something.... He stiffened suddenly and Ives hands, that were rubbing his back, stopped.
Blood. He smelled blood. The hot metallic scent twisted into his gut, sending a prickling wave of heat over his body. Boyd sat up, looking wildly for the source of it, and saw it - a trickle of scarlet at Ives' throat. The knife had gouged Ives' neck when Boyd had let go, and now the blood gleamed in the firelight. Boyd could only stare at it, wanting it so badly he thought he might scream.
Ives put both hands on either side of Boyd's face and lifted his head, forcing Boyd to look into his eyes. They were bright and fierce as a hawk's.
"Do you want it? I know you need it. It hurts to need it so badly, doesn't it... It hurts every day. You don't have to hurt. Take it. Just take it, Boyd. I'm strong enough for both of us, just take it, take it..." Ives voice fell to a murmur, a whisper, and Boyd swayed forward, mesmerized.
*...never go back from here...* Boyd thought, light-headed, and then he leaned forward and put his mouth on the cut, and the blood sang into him, and he didn't care, he didn't care. He pressed closer, greedy, sucking the cut flesh, the different salts of blood and skin mingling over his tongue; the pulse of Ives' heart under his lips, the musky smell of his hair and the damp wool. He felt Ives hands scrabbling at him under his greatcoat, yanking up his shirt, finding the skin underneath and running his hands up Boyd's ribs and back, up and down, over and over, the calluses and sharp edges of his nails prickling and sensuous. Ives pulled him closer and Boyd half-climbed onto his lap, on leg over Ives' thigh, his own hands burrowing under wool and linen to find hot, bare skin, scars like rope and the smooth sweep of ribcage.
Ives breathed in gasps into Boyd's hair, and his hands clawed at Boyd's shoulders. Boyd pressed closer, and felt the trapped hardness of Ives' groin tight against him. He pulled away a little, the blood cooling rapidly on his lips, and looked up at Ives. Ives slid his hands free of Boyd's clothes and stroked them through Boyd's hair - pulled Boyd close again and kissed him hard enough to draw blood, crushing Boyd's lip against sharp teeth.
"Come on, Boyd."
Ives stripped off Boyd's greatcoat and jacket, spreading them on the floor. His own followed, making a rough pallet. The cabin was warmer, but the bed was too far and dark, and Boyd was glad of the hissing fire and the warm steam of the coffee just behind him. Ives got up and hauled a buffalo skin off the bed-frame, draping over the coats. Then he reached and tugged at Boyd's arm, drawing him away from the hearth - pushing him down onto the make-shift bed. And then Ives lay full length on Boyd, holding himself up on his elbows, dipping his head down for a slow kiss. Prickle of mustache and beard, the teasing lick of his tongue over Boyd's lower lip, swift dart inside and away. Boyd slid his hands up under Ives shirt and braces again, kneading the hard muscles of his back, sliding his hands lower and lower. His fingertips slipped under the waist of Ives breeches and smallclothes, pressing on the swell of muscle where his buttocks began. Ives gasped into his mouth, pulling away, and Boyd snaked his head up and licked at the still-bleeding cut on Ives' neck, shuddering as the hot tang of it filled his mouth. Ives leaned into him, and Boyd felt his hips press closer - felt Ives do a rolling thrust, groin to groin, that sent a sharp spike of fire through Boyd's stomach. He bit down, sucking, and Ives made a low, breathy sound.
"Boyd..." he breathed, trembling above him, and then Ives' hands were moving again, stripping away his cravat with a hissing of silk, working the buttons of his shirt and pushing it and the braces down and away, exposing his pale, muscled body to the golden-white light of the fire. And then - the knife, oh the knife. Boyd watched, wide-eyed, as Ives pressed it into his neck, making the cut deeper, longer - making the blood flow. Ives tossed the knife aside, and looked down at Boyd. They were both panting - both moving unconsciously, hip to hip and groin to groin, aching. The hunger had woken with a vengeance now; teased by the blood and by Ives' body - Ives' mouth and skin. Boyd could resist no longer. He pushed his hands through Ives hair and pulled him close, fastened his mouth to Ives' throat and drank, and drank. It was the same as eating the flesh - the same and somehow not. The same surge - the same breathless vitality. But somehow - more immediate, and more...visceral. Boyd sank his fingers into Ives back - his hip - grinding upwards with a desperation that was almost frightening. Ives was grinding down, his tall, scarred boots creaking and his breath panting and hot in Boyd's hair.
Ives hand worked between them, clawing at buttons - pushing Boyd's shirt up to his collarbones and opening their breeches. Boyd cried out, his head going back with a thump as the hot flesh of their erections pressed together and then Ives' hand was at the back of his head, guiding him back, and the blood filled Boyd's mouth. Boyd felt himself surging -twisting - clawing frantically at Ives' back and arms and Ives simply let him - gasped into Boyd's hair and ground against him, his hand worming underneath and pressing into the small of Boyd's back - holding him close.
*I could do this...do this...* Boyd thought, dazed. *His blood - only his blood... I could live with Ives' in my head. Better than Reich, better than Hart... He wants no vengeance - cries no tears. * Ives undulated over him, heat and sweat-slick flesh, smell of old iron and woodsmoke and horses - smell of death. As Boyd's body shuddered - arched - climbed towards completion - Ives moaned his name and Boyd cried out. Groaned at the sudden pulse of sticky heat between them as they both climaxed.
"Ives..." he murmured, shuddering in spasms as Ives' thrusting body slowed and then finally stilled, laying over him. Their chests heaved one against the other - bellies glued together - and Ives kissed him.
Martha had told him how it must end. Weendigo only took - took until there was nothing left. Perhaps - one day - there would be nothing left of Ives and then... Then Boyd could finally give - the final gift. Himself, and all the mournful dead with him.
_beetle_'s journal the other day and she had posted two drabbles based on the movie Ravenous.I adore this movie - it's funny, slashy, and the leads - Robert Carlyle and Guy Pearce - are so damn...edible. Anyway, I've obsessed about this movie for ages, and almost a year and a half ago I wrote a little ficlet based on it. My own 'preferred' ending to the movie. Now, because she reminded me of it and because she wanted to read it, I'm posting my 'Ravenous' ficlet for the lovely
_beetle_. I hope you like it, bay-bee! *This maybe have been one of the first slash pieces I ever wrote that was based entirely on something not my own. Huh.*
The movie and this ficlet reference cannibalism, so if that is a big squick for you - you have been warned.
The hunger was a grinding pain, all day, all night. Boyd tried to kill it, with bread and snow-melt and great draughts of the ice-water air, but nothing eased it.
As they rode through the stands of spicy pine Boyd brooded on it, curled in on himself and silent. Ives, silently amused, chewed jerked meat and pointed out various animal-sign as they passed: deer, raccoon, the blurred prints of a fast-moving lynx. He rode at Boyd's side, a knee or a foot constantly brushing with the motion of the horses. Boyd tried to ignore him - prodding his horse on faster, refusing to reply. But every touch made him flinch and Ives seemed to get some satisfaction out of it - his constant startlement.
He'd nearly died again - although maybe playing dead that first time didn't count. He had tried to kill Ives, but instead had ended up strapped to a travois, being hauled through the snowy twilight like so much baggage. Much as the dressed bits of the General and his fidgety aide Lindus were being hauled behind Ives' horse. He'd eaten of the flesh, that much he knew. Eaten it immobile in the faded blankets and worn furs Ives had filched from George and Martha's abandoned lodges. When he was strong enough to ride he'd refused any more of it, and now Boyd huddled in his greatcoat, fingers numb on the slick reins. Ives chattered on, at his ease. He knew where they were going - had a place all picked out. A homesteaders cabin, not far from some small trading post. They would winter there, and in spring join the coming rush to Sutter's Mill, west and south near someplace called San Diego. The General had told Ives about the gold, too, and Ives figured they could live off the prospectors easily. There would be so many lone men, all wary and suspicious - nobody talking for fear of giving up a claim. Disappearances would be expected - easy to cover. And if anybody had a stake, they'd quietly take it - horde it - until they were rich enough to go wherever they liked.
"We can go anywhere. New York. Boston...even Europe." Ives said, his eyes far away, and Boyd finally looked over at him, frowning.
"'We'? What do you mean? I - almost killed you."
"A momentary lapse on your part, I'm sure. You just need to get a little stronger, and then - you'll see." Boyd shook his head, wincing a little as his stomach twisted inside him. Wanting. "You'll see, Boyd."
They rode until mid-day and then the cabin they were heading for came into view. It was old but not yet derelict, standing silent under a thick mantle of snow, its crooked chimney poking up like a burnt stick.
Ives had finally fallen silent and they dismounted and worked without a word - unsaddling the horses and rubbing them down, pouring out measures of grain and tossing forkfuls of hay from the cluster of three stacks behind the ramshackle stable.
Boyd staggered through knee-deep snow to the cabin door, weighed down with gear, trying to kick the sill clear. Ives pulled him away and jerked the door open, stronger then before. Stronger then Boyd.
Boyd dumped gear and saddlebags by the door and stood forlornly by the empty fireplace, shivering. Ives jerked him around by his coat.
"There's tinder, man, get it burning. I'll get wood. So we can cook dinner." Boyd grimaced in distaste and Ives grinned at him, a mad grin like a feral dog. "You'll eat, one way or another," Ives promised. He sauntered out to dig out the woodpile and Boyd crouched down to set the tinder and small kindling alight.
He saw his hands were shaking and he struggled to control them. But images crowded his inner eye and he bowed his head and succumbed to them for a long moment - Colonel Hart, Toffler, Reich. The bloody dead, rising up in the shadows and watching him, reaching out for him - begging him. He had tried to kill Ives. Had tried, and failed, and given in. At the last, Ives had simply stood there, so close - reeking of blood and sweat and smoke, looking like a demon from hell - an angel. And his eyes, dark and clever and intent, had simply frozen Boyd in place - pinned him immobile to the floor and sucked the strength from his arms and turned his knees to water. Boyd had swayed; exhausted, heartsick, so cold. All his wounds from their fight - dreadful wounds that would have killed most men - normal men - singing with a stinging, burning ache. The General had burst in then with Lindus and Ives had simply turned, fluid as a cat; slashed across and across, bringing fresh gouts of blood to steam in the twilight.
"Change of plans," Ives said, with that dog-mad grin. He'd come up close to Boyd then, satanic and lethal, the knife dripping. And kissed him hard, tasting of blood and bourbon and cigar. Boyd hadn't even pulled away. He'd felt his knees go, and his vision whiting out, and then nothing. He'd never felt the frozen dirt under his hip and shoulder and head.
They'd left two days later, Ives ignoring Martha's flight and taking what he liked from the fort - an extravagant lot. Extra blankets and furs, gear for horses and for themselves. The tidy shave kit Reich had kept so carefully, Knox's last bottle of bourbon, extra clothes. Satchels of powder and bullets and a bullet mold as well, and extra arms. Boyd - still weak - Ives had snugged down onto a travois and then he'd fired the fort. Boyd remembered that, through a haze of pain and fever. The flames dancing up behind them, sending skeins of sparks high into the pastel pallor of the morning sky. But mostly he remembered the kiss and how Ives' heart had pounded so close to his own.
Something ice-cold and wet touched his neck, and Boyd shot to his feet with a cry, flinging himself around. Ives stood there, frowning, holding an armful of wood, snow dropping off him in clumps.
"Perhaps I should start the fire?" he said, and dropped the wood on the hearth.
Boyd retreated, shaking so hard his teeth chattered. He clumsily gathered up the furs and blankets and draped them over the bed frame in the corner. There were several pieces of furniture, and he put saddles and harness over them, to keep them off the damp dirt floor. Ives worked methodically at the fireplace, building the beginnings of a fire and Boyd searched around desperately for more work. He spied a twig broom in the corner and swept all the tramped-in snow up and out the door. Ives had a blaze going now, and he dug a pot and kettle out of a saddlebag and tossed them both to Boyd.
"Snow if you please, Captain," he said, and his eyes had gone dark and cold.
Boyd shouldered the door open and scraped clean snow into the pot and the kettle, tamping it down tight with his fist. He saw a bucket by the door, already half-filled with snow drift and he topped it off, with an idea of watering the horses.
Back inside he hung pot and kettle over the fire and put the bucket near to warm. He turned, retreating, and Ives was there close as a heartbeat, his thin fingers resting lightly on Boyd's arm.
"You're shivering Boyd. Stay by the fire." Boyd stared at him for a long moment, feeling the hand through greatcoat and jacket and shirt. Exhaustion washed through him, and he sank down, curling himself into the warmth, eyes shut.
Ives busied himself with a knife, hacking hastily smoked flesh into bits, adding the potatoes and onions and carrots he'd brought along. After a bit the kettle began to purr, and a warm, savory smell drifted from the pot - stew, thick with blood and meat. Ives made coffee and Boyd opened his eyes to take a cup. He sipped slowly, the tin mug warm in his hands, the thick, strong coffee like black fire in his stomach.
Ives ladled out stew - held the bowl out - and Boyd simply turned his face away in weary distaste, refusing. Ives flung the ladle into the pot and swore.
"Give in Boyd," he whispered, crouching there, "just...give in. Come with me."
"Can't. I can't. It's...just..." Boyd shook his head, unable to say what was in him. He couldn't - he could not - live with the restless souls of the others in him. Reich stirred uneasily in his heart at odd hours, and his Commander brought with him the heat and dust of Mexico - the distant percussion of artillery. When he ate the flesh - when it became part of him - there was a surge, an electricity. Sudden life and heat and...will...coursing through him. Like he could do - anything. When he had crawled out of that pile of the dead in Mexico, blood running down his throat still, Boyd had felt he could run like a deer - leap like a cat. And it got stronger, and better, every time. He knew that. But the memories - persisted. The glimpses of that other life, like sunlight through the fluttering leaves of trees.
He looked over at Ives from his place on the hearth, Ives dark hair loose around his face, his eyes for once not mocking or cruel but searching - almost lost.
"Boyd - you can't stay with me, if you won't."
"I can't." Boyd straightened, inches from Ives, his cup clattering to the stones, his hands twisting uselessly together. "How do you live with them? How can you live with them, clamoring in your head?"
Ives smirked, shaking his head. "I won. I beat them. It only feeds my hunger. Don't let them frighten you, Boyd. They're dead. It's just...an echo."
Boyd rubbed his eyes, feeling the sting of weariness and hopelessness. "I can't. I hate to hear them...mourning." He shuddered, his breath coming heard, and he leaned his hand on the hearth stones for balance. The hilt of the paring knife pressed into his palm. It was an old knife - wickedly sharp, ground down to a silver sickle of razor steel. He gripped it and held it up, trembling, between them. He was cold again - so very cold. Numb down to his core. He stared at Ives, and Ives looked back, motionless as a snake and twice as deadly. *What I will become... No! No.* An idea welled in him, and he braced himself.
"I want them to be silent. I want - quiet." Boyd drove the knife at his heart, but Ives - snake-fast - locked his hands around Boyd's wrist.
"No - Boyd!" They struggled, but it was useless. Ives was so very much stronger, and Boyd felt his own strength - his determination - fading. Abruptly he gave up, giving way to Ives' insistent pull, letting his hand be wrenched away from his body. Ives flinched, making a small sound of surprise or pain, but Boyd didn't care. He curled over in his misery, eyes shut, shivering and gritting his teeth, hungry, so hungry.
"It hurts. It hurts..." he whispered, and let himself lean into Ives; the warmth of him, the prickly wool of his jacket and the silken cravat. And something....something.... He stiffened suddenly and Ives hands, that were rubbing his back, stopped.
Blood. He smelled blood. The hot metallic scent twisted into his gut, sending a prickling wave of heat over his body. Boyd sat up, looking wildly for the source of it, and saw it - a trickle of scarlet at Ives' throat. The knife had gouged Ives' neck when Boyd had let go, and now the blood gleamed in the firelight. Boyd could only stare at it, wanting it so badly he thought he might scream.
Ives put both hands on either side of Boyd's face and lifted his head, forcing Boyd to look into his eyes. They were bright and fierce as a hawk's.
"Do you want it? I know you need it. It hurts to need it so badly, doesn't it... It hurts every day. You don't have to hurt. Take it. Just take it, Boyd. I'm strong enough for both of us, just take it, take it..." Ives voice fell to a murmur, a whisper, and Boyd swayed forward, mesmerized.
*...never go back from here...* Boyd thought, light-headed, and then he leaned forward and put his mouth on the cut, and the blood sang into him, and he didn't care, he didn't care. He pressed closer, greedy, sucking the cut flesh, the different salts of blood and skin mingling over his tongue; the pulse of Ives' heart under his lips, the musky smell of his hair and the damp wool. He felt Ives hands scrabbling at him under his greatcoat, yanking up his shirt, finding the skin underneath and running his hands up Boyd's ribs and back, up and down, over and over, the calluses and sharp edges of his nails prickling and sensuous. Ives pulled him closer and Boyd half-climbed onto his lap, on leg over Ives' thigh, his own hands burrowing under wool and linen to find hot, bare skin, scars like rope and the smooth sweep of ribcage.
Ives breathed in gasps into Boyd's hair, and his hands clawed at Boyd's shoulders. Boyd pressed closer, and felt the trapped hardness of Ives' groin tight against him. He pulled away a little, the blood cooling rapidly on his lips, and looked up at Ives. Ives slid his hands free of Boyd's clothes and stroked them through Boyd's hair - pulled Boyd close again and kissed him hard enough to draw blood, crushing Boyd's lip against sharp teeth.
"Come on, Boyd."
Ives stripped off Boyd's greatcoat and jacket, spreading them on the floor. His own followed, making a rough pallet. The cabin was warmer, but the bed was too far and dark, and Boyd was glad of the hissing fire and the warm steam of the coffee just behind him. Ives got up and hauled a buffalo skin off the bed-frame, draping over the coats. Then he reached and tugged at Boyd's arm, drawing him away from the hearth - pushing him down onto the make-shift bed. And then Ives lay full length on Boyd, holding himself up on his elbows, dipping his head down for a slow kiss. Prickle of mustache and beard, the teasing lick of his tongue over Boyd's lower lip, swift dart inside and away. Boyd slid his hands up under Ives shirt and braces again, kneading the hard muscles of his back, sliding his hands lower and lower. His fingertips slipped under the waist of Ives breeches and smallclothes, pressing on the swell of muscle where his buttocks began. Ives gasped into his mouth, pulling away, and Boyd snaked his head up and licked at the still-bleeding cut on Ives' neck, shuddering as the hot tang of it filled his mouth. Ives leaned into him, and Boyd felt his hips press closer - felt Ives do a rolling thrust, groin to groin, that sent a sharp spike of fire through Boyd's stomach. He bit down, sucking, and Ives made a low, breathy sound.
"Boyd..." he breathed, trembling above him, and then Ives' hands were moving again, stripping away his cravat with a hissing of silk, working the buttons of his shirt and pushing it and the braces down and away, exposing his pale, muscled body to the golden-white light of the fire. And then - the knife, oh the knife. Boyd watched, wide-eyed, as Ives pressed it into his neck, making the cut deeper, longer - making the blood flow. Ives tossed the knife aside, and looked down at Boyd. They were both panting - both moving unconsciously, hip to hip and groin to groin, aching. The hunger had woken with a vengeance now; teased by the blood and by Ives' body - Ives' mouth and skin. Boyd could resist no longer. He pushed his hands through Ives hair and pulled him close, fastened his mouth to Ives' throat and drank, and drank. It was the same as eating the flesh - the same and somehow not. The same surge - the same breathless vitality. But somehow - more immediate, and more...visceral. Boyd sank his fingers into Ives back - his hip - grinding upwards with a desperation that was almost frightening. Ives was grinding down, his tall, scarred boots creaking and his breath panting and hot in Boyd's hair.
Ives hand worked between them, clawing at buttons - pushing Boyd's shirt up to his collarbones and opening their breeches. Boyd cried out, his head going back with a thump as the hot flesh of their erections pressed together and then Ives' hand was at the back of his head, guiding him back, and the blood filled Boyd's mouth. Boyd felt himself surging -twisting - clawing frantically at Ives' back and arms and Ives simply let him - gasped into Boyd's hair and ground against him, his hand worming underneath and pressing into the small of Boyd's back - holding him close.
*I could do this...do this...* Boyd thought, dazed. *His blood - only his blood... I could live with Ives' in my head. Better than Reich, better than Hart... He wants no vengeance - cries no tears. * Ives undulated over him, heat and sweat-slick flesh, smell of old iron and woodsmoke and horses - smell of death. As Boyd's body shuddered - arched - climbed towards completion - Ives moaned his name and Boyd cried out. Groaned at the sudden pulse of sticky heat between them as they both climaxed.
"Ives..." he murmured, shuddering in spasms as Ives' thrusting body slowed and then finally stilled, laying over him. Their chests heaved one against the other - bellies glued together - and Ives kissed him.
Martha had told him how it must end. Weendigo only took - took until there was nothing left. Perhaps - one day - there would be nothing left of Ives and then... Then Boyd could finally give - the final gift. Himself, and all the mournful dead with him.
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"Change of plans," Ives said, with that dog-mad grin. He'd come up close to Boyd then, satanic and lethal, the knife dripping. And kissed him hard, tasting of blood and bourbon and cigar. Boyd hadn't even pulled away. He'd felt his knees go, and his vision whiting out, and then nothing. He'd never felt the frozen dirt under his hip and shoulder and head.
Exactly! This is what shoulda happened! In a perfect world.
"Give in Boyd," he whispered, crouching there, "just...give in. Come with me."
"Can't. I can't. It's...just..." Boyd shook his head, unable to say what was in him. He couldn't - he could not - live with the restless souls of the others in him. Reich stirred uneasily in his heart at odd hours, and his Commander brought with him the heat and dust of Mexico - the distant percussion of artillery. When he ate the flesh - when it became part of him - there was a surge, an electricity. Sudden life and heat and...will...coursing through him. Like he could do - anything. When he had crawled out of that pile of the dead in Mexico, blood running down his throat still, Boyd had felt he could run like a deer - leap like a cat. And it got stronger, and better, every time. He knew that. But the memories - persisted. The glimpses of that other life, like sunlight through the fluttering leaves of trees.
*shivers*
He looked over at Ives from his place on the hearth, Ives dark hair loose around his face, his eyes for once not mocking or cruel but searching - almost lost.
"Boyd - you can't stay with me, if you won't."
"I can't." Boyd straightened, inches from Ives, his cup clattering to the stones, his hands twisting uselessly together. "How do you live with them? How can you live with them, clamoring in your head?"
Ives smirked, shaking his head. "I won. I beat them. It only feeds my hunger. Don't let them frighten you, Boyd. They're dead. It's just...an echo."
Boyd rubbed his eyes, feeling the sting of weariness and hopelessness. "I can't. I hate to hear them...mourning." He shuddered, his breath coming heard, and he leaned his hand on the hearth stones for balance. . . .
"I want them to be silent. I want - quiet." Boyd drove the knife at his heart, but Ives - snake-fast - locked his hands around Boyd's wrist.
I LOVE that Ives's only weakness is Boyd. This guy is scary and fearless and unrepentant, but he needs Boyd.
*I could do this...do this...* Boyd thought, dazed. *His blood - only his blood... I could live with Ives' in my head. Better than Reich, better than Hart... He wants no vengeance - cries no tears. *
I loved this and at the same time I was going No! No! Rage, against the dying of the light!
Martha had told him how it must end. Weendigo only took - took until there was nothing left. Perhaps - one day - there would be nothing left of Ives and then... Then Boyd could finally give - the final gift. Himself, and all the mournful dead with him.
Jeebus. Just - Jeebus.
*bows down low* I'm not worthy! I'm not worthy! You are the master - no, the MASTER! I can't believe it took you this long to retool and post a piece this good!
For shame *shakes finger at you. . . then snogs you breathless*
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Dude, you give the BEST FB!!
*bounce*
Yes! That's how the last scene should have ended - a freakin' KISS and them running away together!!
Heh. Antonia Bird *director* said she wanted to have the last shot end with a long, slow pull back that went up through the roof of the building and then the mountains and sky, like their spirits were going up together. Apparently budget constraints kept that from happening. I think she was all about the slashy vibe, too.
And yeah - Ives NEEDS Boyd - I don't think he liked being alone, anymore.
Boyd just couldn't fight anymore. Too tired, too cold -too lonely. *pets him*
*bounce*
I'm so glad you liked it, dude!!
All for you!
*snoggity*
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Personally, I don't think the General and Lindus woulda survived their first year as cannibals, but that's just me.
And though Boyd is an honorable man - a bit cowardly, but honorable - I think the ending shoulda been a little more ambiguous, maybe ending right after Ives say "But if I die, what are you going to do?"
Then cut to Martha looking into the barn, onl the shot is of her stony face, no expression, then she runs off into the forest. End of movie. Work in the part where the General eats the stew, but have the last scene be the question, then cut to Martha running off. Bird's mistake was giving us the *ahem* comfort of knowing that these two smart cannibals are dead. I mean, none of us feel threatened by the General or Lindus as cannibals. She shoulda let us wonder who lived, if either of them did - or if both of them did. We shoulda been left wondering and dreading the answer, damnit!
Um. . . but I digress =D
I love that you tossed the need in there, because Ives seems so invulnerable, like the only way to beat him would be with lots of luck and outside-the-box thinking. Certainly not by strength alone. But his weakness is his need for people. And what with having TB, I'm guessing he didn't have a lot of friends.
Who the hell goes to Colorado when they have TB, no matter how good the sanitarium? "Hey, my lungs are bleeding. Let me go someplace that's at a really high altitude AND has miserable-wet winters! Yeah!"
Boyd's such an outside - and for no real reason. Even before the big dust-up and the blood-drinking, you get the feeling he was a real loner. Different. And the cannibalism just put a face on his differentness. He was right to be afraid of it, I suppose, but I hate the idea that he died. I like him, as a character. And Ives, who is pretty fun, now that you mention it. But they were both lonely and the whole eating of their own species thing rought them together, kinda like posting on Match.com.
And I'm totally waxing philosophical, so I'll stop. But - it's all 'cause of you and this fic. You're wonderful and so is this piece. I have to put this in my memories.
*smooches*
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Just my theory. Hehe.
And i like your alternate ending - that's cool. The original director was going to start the movie with some teenagers camping in the mountains, telling a ghost story or whatever, and then at the end have Boyd come out of the dark, all 'hey, i got lost/car broke down, can i share the fire' kind of thing. Like he'd been alive and whatnot all this time. Which might have sucked or been pretty cool, hard to say.
Always thought Boyd was different, yeah - just not a military/killing kind of man. One who would have preferred a quiter life, for sure. I loved how scared he was, when he and Reich were looking for Ives, and how he threw his rifle at Ives on the bluff.
Yeah, Ives liked to talk - liked to be around others. I think he was getting a little nutso by himself. I think he was a little nutso, anyway.
Heh.
I could go on for ages - this movie was just fun, fun, fun - everything about it. I must watch it again, and SOON.
:)
*smooch*
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Now - i must nap!
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Nap away, my talented friend, you've earned it.
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*stretch*
Ahhhhh, naps.
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*bounce*
I'm not gettin' much readership with this - what a surprise!
*blah*
You should see this moive - it's so cool. Really clever and funny and uber-slashy vibe all through it.
Thank you, Ms. Thang!
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That's life.
People are like that.
YOU read it.
:)
*bounce*
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And thank you for being person number, three, i think, on my entire flist who actually dared read a fic outside their fan zone!
*smooch*
I think that, unless you're really squeamish about blood in a movie, you WOULD like this. It's really clever and intense, and Carlyle is SO DAMN GOOD!!
Plus the uber-slashy moments. The characters are so damn fun - give it a try some time, I think you'll like it.
And the soundtrack - utterly wonderful. I have the cd.
Heh - put a wrong line in here - this is the REAL reply!
Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
You just blew my mind.
::blinks again at bits of brain on the floor::
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
*gets out dustpan and broom*
....
*gets out hose*
:)
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
Please don't wash them all away I still have fic to write!
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
*scoops them up and picks out lint*
Here ya go.
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
::stuffs brains in::
::blinks::
::pulls out extra hair::
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
*gives you lint roller*
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
Thank you!
Now for a good wash!
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
::rubs gently::
Mmmm.
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
::primps clean shiny brains::
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
*has image of your brain with little red bows on*
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
Good idea!
::puts bows on brains::
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
*snerk*
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
Clear!
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
Whoooo!!
There was a light!
Like a disco light!
And...
And...
I could have sworn...leather?
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
What have I told you about interfering in other people's near death experiences!
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
At least CHER wasn't there.
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
Cher.
::shudders harder::
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
It's okay now.
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
Make the bad image go away!
::clings::
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
Look - see? Pretty, pretty man.
*pet pet pet*
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
James!
I luvs him.
::purrs:
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
Lookee this icon!!
:)
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Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
Lovely, lovely man.
:)
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
::eyes glaze over at thoughts of Sean Bean, Peter Wingfield and Patrick Stewart::
Oh yes.
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:)
Re: Kerfrazzellllzzzzzzz
::sighs::
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This is exactly what happened! I knew it! I saw them kiss and then run away together... I was intrigued as to which way the decision was going to go. Wow. Gorgeous.
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*smootch*
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Yes, and now he has a comment from me in his email!
Heh.
*smooooch*
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Rabbit! Switching journals confuses me!
:)
*bounce*
But yeah - THIS is how it ended!
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Dude ... that was incredible. So very hot and dirty and real.
Perfect.
Now I want to see that movie again. Right now.
*smooches you all up and down*
:)
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Yes! I do too, now!
And Full Monty!
*bounce*