(no subject)

[sweetsalome]

The hotel cleans up when they are out enjoying breakfast and a morning walk in the beach.  It is sort of nice to come back and to have everything all clean and tidy.  As if they were helping make preperations themselves in their little activies for this afternoon.  It's a nice room, it's nice with the balcony doors open letting a breeze blow through.  It smells like cool air and the ocean and it sounds like families playing on vacation sand.

She is drinking a bottle of water, leaning against the railing, watching the brown blue of the waves crash along the sand and sweep it out into infinity.  The only thing that she is anxious about is getting started, and she tends to hurry, hurry.  Things will slow down soon enough.  A look back over her shoulder at the bed and the little hotel room. 

What a birthday.

Comments

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

While Salome stands gazing dreamily across the sea as if looking all the way to Europe, Richard lies draped in the armchair. He sketches her, laying abstract smears of color with cheap watercolors to imply shapes and shadows. The entire page is surreal and sweet as she is, airy and lithe and echoing the colors of the sea and sand.

As far as he's concerned, there's no reason to hurry. There's still the better part of a week lying out ahead of them, and hurrying through their time together, always desperate to cram as many activities as possible into one day--that's how you wish the hours away. Mindfulness; existing in the present. It's those things that are most important, and nothing exemplifies existing only in the present quite as much as the act of artistic creation.

Although hardcore drug use is certainly up there, and so is sex. Anything he can do with Salome, really, seems to make him forget entirely about the non-existent past and future and focus entirely on what is before him.

While Salome glances back over her shoulder, Richard sets the sketch aside to dry and stands. He makes his way to the closet to dig through the suitcase within, digging through the books and coming up with the carefully-hidden, well-loved wooden cigar box. With it in one hand, he makes his way to Salome, standing close behind her and sliding his arm around her waist. He bends to plant a lingering kiss upon the back of her shoulder, his hand stroking up and down the curve of her side.

"You look like a wistful little painting all of your own, darling." While the breeze sends the salty air straight in his nose along with the scent of her skin, he leans his cheek against hers. "Penny for your thoughts?"

[sweetsalome.livejournal.com]

It feels impossible not to rush around, to hurry to do things, there always seems to be something to do in Salome's world and now it feels a little odd not to have to do that. To be able to just stand around and enjoy the view, enjoy the breeze and let her mind wander to whatever apart of the universe she would like it to. Not that she is full of concrete, solid thoughts right at this minute, in fact she feels like she isn't thinking anything at all. Of course humans are always thinking but not always deep, mind consuming thoughts.

She isn't even really thinking about what they plan on doing soon. Sometimes that thought floats into her brain and just as quickly as it appeared, disappears. Her father on the other hand, always appears to be calm and deep in thought, even when he is just fiddling around with paint or a sketch. It always makes her think that she should do something like that in order to achieve the same deep look and so no one will ever be able to tell that sometimes her head is filled with hydrogen thoughts.

A smile for when he comes up behind her and puts his arm around her. Leaning back into him she lets her hand move along the line of his arm and tilts her head slightly for more access to his kisses. This is something she has thought about a lot. Him. Their freedom here to be whatever they want. She held his hand when they had dinner last night, he kissed her out in the open. For as thrilling as it is, Salome will always love the forbidden, hidden part of their relationship, the knowledge that it must be kept secret.

"I don't know what I'm thinking about, I was just sort of letting my head empty and looking out at the beach." Turning slowly in his one armed grasp she puts her hands to his cheeks and kisses him sweetly on the lips. "I like being here with you, being able to do and go where ever we want. I like the secret of it too though, that might be my favorite part."

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

The look Richard gets while painting or reading or not really doing anything at all is the same one all predators share when not on the hunt or otherwise engaged: it's a deep, ancient, empty look, a nobility localized entirely around the eyes that seem at once unfocused but still entirely sharp. Susan gets the same look, although she's seldom relaxed enough for it.

If Richard doesn't kill or, or let Salome kill her, the old bitch is going to give herself a stroke by the time she's seventy.

His head lowers into her hands, into her kiss; he smiles, pecking the corner of her mouth and cheek and nose, his hand tracing up and down her back. "Indeed. Here it's still a secret, simply an open secret. Our relationship is the secret, but our affection is not, rather than at home where the opposite is true. Although," he grins crookedly, "I confess I'm very fond of sneaking around. The secrets make it all the more potent. People will tell you they're bad for people, but personally, I'm something of a fan. Particularly in a case as lovely as this."

With a cheesy wink, he bends his head, and his hand lifts to rest at the nape of her neck, his fingers tangling and curling through her hair and against her flesh like a cat kneading a favorite human; at first all he places upon her lips is a small, if slow, little peck. Then another. The third, though, lingers, and his lips part against hers, move against her mouth with pressure that increases slowly by the second; he sighs against her tongue, his own dancing against her lips and into the cavern of her so-sweet mouth, the warm taste like youth and familiarity and taboo joys. By the time he pulls away he's moved forward, pressed her against the balcony rail, and the force and hunger behind the motions of his mouth against her delicate jaw are like those of a man intent on pulling his lover's soul out through her mouth.

He pulls away an inch and catches his breath, his thumb tracing up and down behind her ear while his grinning eyes seek out hers. "Who's my one and only little girl?"

After an affectionate squeeze on the nape of her neck, Richard steps away and returns to the hotel room, placing the cigar box on the edge of the bed and drumming his fingers upon it. "You know, when you were three and a half or four you caught me putting this away, and you asked me what was in it." He chuckles and shakes his head. "I said, 'Oh, it's just daddy's toy box, princess. Boring grown-up toys.' And you said, 'But it's small!' And I said, 'Exactly, because they're boring.'"

He glances over his shoulder and grins. "So, darling, would you like to finally see what's in daddy's toy box?"

[sweetsalome.livejournal.com]

"The secret is the best part, I love the secret that we have to hide and can't get caught, yes that is very potent." Her hands move over him, stroking him through his shirt as he gives her those little kisses that morphs into that deep, breath stealing kiss. Her arms wrap around his narrow waist and she falls against him deeper into that kiss. Where he takes her taste and gives his own in return. She sighs happily that turns into a groan as he pushes into her and she doesn't attempt to resist, why would she even want that? She wants more of his tongue, more of his pressure and plunder and she gives it in return her hands wrapping against his ass, hips pushing up into his until she is breathless and dizzy with what he took and gave to her.

"I am," she tells him breathlessly, a dopy smile goes with that, her hand finding it's way up and under his shirt so she can caress his back. Yes, she is his one and only little girl, there is no one else in the world out there like her, made from him, for him in every way till it makes her ache and forces her to do wild, vicious things. Anyone attempting to take her place would be in for a whole world of trouble, she can't even imagine.

A few blinks when his weight leaves her and she finally follows him into the bedroom and stands, watching him drum his fingers on the box. She is pretty sure she knows what is in his box, well, at least a little bit, she has ideas and she is sure that whatever it is will be exciting to play with.

"I would like to see, daddy."

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

Without much further ado than a dark smile, he flips open the lid to reveal his works; the little box is full of a few, so deceptively simple and small items. There's a test tube of distilled water, a spoon, a few pieces of cotton, and, of course, a little 1cc syringe sitting next to its little friend, a still-sealed needle. Tucked in the corner is a trio of yellow pills, deceptively small and sweet-looking. Lucky thing Richard isn't an idiot and knows how to hide his stash, because these, along with many of the other drugs he takes, could easily pass for candy to the untrained eye of a child.

"These are my works," he says, waving his hand with a little flourish and showing each piece individually. "This is the needle you'll use to inject it, that cotton there is how you'll filter it. It's an easy process. Safe, too." Relatively speaking, in comparison to something like heroin. Richard carefully, reverently slides the pills out of their place and sets them in the palm of his hand, saying, "This is twelve milligrams of a drug that's more powerful than morphine. And it will absolutely kill a person if they misuse it. All drugs should be treated with the utmost respect, but this one, more than any other pharmaceutical, is due serious deference."

Some people think of church as holy. Richard's sacraments are a little different, but the awe that works its way into his eyes is comparable to any religious experience.

"There was a time when I was young and stupider than I am now, and I didn't respect the drugs. And I faced some consequences for that." Salome wasn't much older than one or two at the time. Susan was absolutely livid and beat him senseless once he'd been released from the emergency room. "But, I have since learned how seriously these matters need to be approached. And dilaudid is a safe drug in the grand scheme of things--nice and regulated. Do you have a little mirror daddy could borrow, princess?"

[sweetsalome.livejournal.com]

Very small, not very big or flashy, she wasn't expecting it to be. Those little pills, they do look small, they look happy like something any grown adult could swallow. The way that he describes them sends a shiver down her spine and that brings out an awkward, uncertain smile. Should she not have shivered at his words? Such powerful little pills and since he respects them and treats them as such she knows that they are serious business. Even something that small could put her father in his place. Big doings, in her universe he is the most powerful being, as her universe expands she is slowly realizing that he is a very localized force, there are things much bigger then the both of them.

Another step closer to him and she touches the edge of the box slightly to take a look at the remaining items. He brought his own spoon. Though it probably wouldn't have been a good idea to use one from this place and leave it laying around, it might bring unwanted attention.

A nod of her head and she goes to her make up bag to get him what he wants. Wiping it off with the corner of her tank top she returns to him and offers over the mirror.

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

Not to mention, he doesn't trust hotel dishwashers. Shit only knows what kinds of germs are on the metal of those things. Much better to bring a spoon from home that he knows to be clean.

The shiver that overcomes her brings a grin out of him, one that's reassuring in the face of her uncertain one. "You're too goddamn cute for me. Don't be worried, baby," he says as she passes the mirror over to him, "it's all perfectly safe. Just follow my instructions and everything will be fine. Now," he places the mirror open on the bedside table and draws his wallet from his back pocket, taking out a seldom-used credit card and placing the rest aside, "this drug is designed to be dissolved in water, so the process is pretty simple."

With a well-practiced hand, Richard places the pills between the mirror and the credit card, applying enough pressure for the dilaudid to break; he rocks the heel of his palm to do a more thorough job and then, brushing off the plastic, turns the card upon its edge to crush up the remaining chunks. While he does this, he watches Salome with a grin. "All right, Nurse Ratched, why don't you be a doll and get the needle set on the syringe. Carefully, though, I don't want you poking yourself. Only peel back the plastic on the hub side, then stick it on the syringe and twist it clockwise until it's tight. Then, if you want to show daddy how useful your science classes in school are, you can go ahead and get point-nine milliliters of water out of that test tube by sucking it up into the syringe."

With a few quick scrapes across the mirror, Richard plucks the spoon from the box and scrapes the powder into it. He rewards it with the kind of leer he usually reserves for a half-dressed Salome and then turns his attention upon his daughter, his expression gentle and encouraging. One hand moves to rest against the small of her back, sliding up beneath her top to brush over her soft skin.

[sweetsalome.livejournal.com]

That's right, this is safe. This is a medical grade, regulated, drug and there isn't going to be draino in it or some other horrific shit. It's safe, the spoon is safe, the needle is sterilized, there really isn't anything to worry about except getting caught and that won't happen. Not unless she lets the cleaning crew in while he is out, and why would she even do that? Whatever, she is worrying herself needlessly and all that worry is pushed aside as he begins the process of crushing up the yellow pill on her make up mirror.

He clearly knows what he is doing, he doesn't hesitate but crushes the pill up into a fine powder and she watches, holding her breath slightly as the yellow pill becomes a finer and finer dust. More foreplay. This slowly emerging picture of her father as a darker grown up then she had seen before. The view of him through his sexual wants is still a bit fuzzy since she partakes in them herself. It's hard to see someone clearly through the haze of your own smoke. But the drugs, this isn't weed or some easy shit like that. This is something serious and solid.

He sends her to work and she does what he asks, peeling back the plastic on the needle and holding it to screw the syringe down on to it. A slight smirk at his comment about her and science class. Old hat, chemistry is fun even if her teacher is kind of a dick. Once the needle is on she sets it aside, still in the plastic and opens the test tube for the water. It's only then does she take the needle from it's casing and carefully starts to fill the syringe with .9 millimeters of the water.

"What do I do now?" She glances up at her father, his fingers feel like fire against her skin, she is pretty sure he can feel the beat of her heart all through her skin.

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

This is another glimpse--a big one--at his real face, the one he's kept so well-hidden from her after all these years. This is a habit he's spent seventeen years hiding from Salome, and now he's not only given her a good look at it, but he's letting her help him with it. It almost feels odd, to bare so much of himself to her, to invite her in to this private side to play with him in such a potentially deadly way. But it's all good fun, and more than that. A lovely little teaching experience, from father to daughter. An educational moment. Just another way to bond, intimate as sex--or more, as far as he's concerned.

The look of focus in her eyes as she works is charming and inspires a grin he can't manage to shake. Still sitting on the bed, he reaches out for her to coax her close, burying his face against her stomach and kissing her through the fabric of her tank top. As he rests his cheek against her hip, he gazes up at her and says, "Next, you're going to push the water out into the spoon, and boil it until everything is dissolved and the water is a little off-color. I'll hold the spoon and tell you when to stop." The hand that isn't wrapped around her slides into his pocket and comes up with his lighter. He coaxes Salome down into his lap, pulling her against his chest while he reaches for the spoon. He lifts it carefully from its place upon the edge of the table and holds it for her, watching her face while she works.

"What do you think of the fact that I do something like this from time to time, Salome? Does it bother you?" It can't bother her that badly, he figures, considering how excited she seemed at the prospect of helping. "Or does it excite you?" His grin widens and he tilts his head. "Because I get the feeling it's the latter, but I'd hate to put words in your mouth."

[sweetsalome.livejournal.com]

Needle in one hand she sets the little test tube aside after she pulls the water from it. Her other hand moves through his dark, soft hair as he leans against her and holds her in a sort of gentle way. She hasn't ever felt him like this before, quiet and very sober, it means something different from the times they've been together, even when he was angry at her the night Delilah came over. He seems almost - soft - in a way. It's hard for her to describe, but for some reason she feels a power shift, as if he is becoming more passive and she is becoming more dominate. Maybe it's all in her head, maybe because she is holding the needle. Or maybe they are just getting closer and closer to the event horizon.

Sitting down on his lap she puts her hand on top of the hand that is holding the spoon and begins to empty the syringe into the spoon, soaking the fine dust and filling the bowl of the spoon. When he asks she doesn't answer until her task is completed and then she blinks at him. "It doesn't bother me, but I am not sure how I feel. Interested, I am very interested," and then finally a slight smile. "Excited too, I am excited."

Carefully she holds the syringe between her lips and takes the lighter from him. A few tries and she has the flame going, holding it steadily under the spoon to wait and watch the mixture in the spoon begin to bubble and turn.

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

Soft, indeed. This is him rolling over and letting her see his underbelly. Putting something in her hands that can give him either Nirvana, or a terrible death, and trusting her to take care of him while he rides out what will hopefully be all of the former and none of the latter. If that is not intimacy, and does not speak of great trust and tenderness as well as love, he doesn't know what does.

Drugs and murder, and sometimes art--those are the ways in which Richard makes love. Only rarely does sex fall into that category, although he finds there's great potential for fucking to bleed into lovemaking when he's with Salome. Not in the way lovers make love, or the way he's heard lovers make love, anyway--but there's a quality of tenderness to even his most viscous moments that makes him feel intimate. But as far as he's concerned, this moment is as meaningful as any of those, or even slightly more.

The sight of her with a syringe in her mouth may be one of the most oddly sexy things he's ever seen, and he leers up at her, his features dark in his admiration. Low-key adrenaline pumps through his blood, all the junk deep in his nerves waking up and screaming for what it knows to be close; he can feel his heart pound in his throat as if to escape his mouth, and that's something that surely makes every second of having Salome help him seem all the more glorious.

"Well, you should know I don't do it this way very often. And I'm very careful when I do. This is a special occasion thing. And I figure, with my birthday around the corner, and yours just passed, and being here in private with you, well..." He grins and reaches up to push the hair back from her forehead, then reaches past her and lifts the spoon away from the lighter. He comes back with a small ball of clean cotton which he drops into the spoon. "And now you just suck it up through the cotton, tap it and make sure there's no air bubbles, and voila. Daddy's shot is complete, and all thanks to the efforts of my lovely little nurse."

He nuzzles against her breast and kisses her flesh through the fabric of her top, watching as she follows his directions. Going from the gentle, almost dreamy smile on his face, just being in the presence of the drug--or maybe in the presence of both the drug and Salome--has a queer psychological effect on him all on its own. "Thank you, darling girl. I'm so glad you're excited, because, you know, I am, too." His grin widens and he nips her through the fabric of her shirt. "What a good, special thing you're doing. My doll."

[sweetsalome.livejournal.com]

These quiet moments. When the flame licks and heats the bottom of the spoon and the mixture starts to boil, the water breaking down the remaining particles into something liquid. Something that can pass into the syringe and then out of the needle into his arm. It's quiet, she is quiet, peering at the spoon and watching with intense fascination and interest. It's all chemistry, it's all science and that is thrilling to her, that someone thought this up and taught it and now it is here, with them. It looks so innocent, those little happy pills and now they are being boiled down and dissolved into something more sinister.

Beautiful.

And now it will be filtered and inhaled by this thin needle and given to her father, who will experience a very real reaction in every part of him. It has to be a truly wonderful thing to get him like this, quiet, waiting, anticipating that wonderful thing that she is making for him. It's not so hard, she will be able to do this again. "Can you do this with any drug? Any chemical compound I mean? I know you wouldn't do this with shrooms or weed." Why would you want to? Something like meth though, or coke, heroin. . .

The cotton absorbs the precious liquid and she sticks the needle into the ball to pull out the wet gradually filling the syringe as she pulls back the plunger. No air bubbles. That would be bad, even she knows that, it would probably be more likely to kill him then a bad batch of dilaudid. It takes a great amount of effort to pull her eyes away from what she is doing. At this moment she is actually more interested then the drugs in her hand then she is in him, which is a huge change. Leaning in she pushes her mouth to his for a hard kiss.

"I love you, dad, and I am going to love giving this to you. I'm happy you let me," another kiss and she turns her attention back to the syringe.

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

The reverence, the focus on Salome's face is something which inspires feelings of only the utmost approval from him. That's exactly how someone should look at a drug like this. That, and it's precious, really, how interested she is in the whole thing. At her question, he nods. "You can, with a great number of them. As a general rule, if it's soluble in water, you can shoot it. Or--you can't, not without strict supervision," although the idea of sticking a needle into that delicate arm, or maybe her thigh, slaps him across the face like an erotic vision, "but you know what I mean. But yeah, people inject more the heroin and related opiates, they'll also inject coke, or that meth shit, or ketamine. Though, if you ask me, why you'd do any of those in the first place is beyond me."

Particularly coke. It's what he pushes for Susan, and has for many years, and it simply holds no appeal to him. He wants things to slow down and relax when he takes drugs, he doesn't want to end up climbing the fucking walls or darting around like a hummingbird. Besides, he'd rather be unable to get it up on heroin or dilaudid than unable to get it up on coke. At least on the opiates one doesn't even care about sex; coke just makes a person horny and frustrated.

Richard hums low into her mouth as she kisses him, his tongue swiping across her lip as she pulls away. The kind of kiss that leaves a man sizzling, that one; he sighs against her and sets the spoon aside when all the junk is in the syringe, innocuous and beautiful medical poison. He sighs to see it like a lovestruck teenager and gently slides Salome from his lap, standing to unbutton his shirt and slide it away. "I'm happy I'm letting you, too," he says, chuckling.

As he bends to kiss the top of her head, Richard slides his belt from around his slim hips and sets it aside. He glances into the box, pushing aside the other prepackaged needles in favor of the little alcohol swabs and bandages resting in the bottom. "Now, it's important to remember to swab before and after and stick a band-aid on when everything's said and done." How many times has Salome seen a bandage on his arm and not thought anything of it?

After taking a seat against the headboard, Richard loops the belt around his bicep and yanks it tight; his left hand slaps a few times against his arm and he examines it in the light, oh, the memories of ritual that go unforgotten no mater how irregular. Like someone who was raised Catholic and later left the church--odds are they'll always remember the words to their prayers.

"Now, when you inject it, you're going to be very careful. We'll go ahead and use this vein," he points to the median cubital that rises against his flesh when he flexes his arm, "and it's going to take a little teamwork. You're going to slide the needle in so that it's almost parallel, and pull back on the plunger just a little bit--when we see blood, I'll loosen the belt and you hit the plunger, nice and easy. And as soon as you pull the needle out, you're going to want to use one of those alcohol pads to apply pressure and staunch the bleeding. Okay, babydoll?" He tilts his head and smiles, examining her face while he reaches out with his free left hand to stroke her hair. "Any questions?"

[sweetsalome.livejournal.com]

That will have to be another vacation, or if she is ever in the hospital under going surgery - like brain surgery for instance - then she would be treated to the magic that is Dilaudid. The magic of course is somewhat lost because then you really are combating the pain, but the relief is heavenly. This is just pure enjoyment and the lift of consciousness and the out of his head experience that he wants.

Uppers are fucked up. Why would anyone want to go faster? Slow everything down, the world is going fast enough as it is, everything needs to slow the fuck down and being acutely aware of all of life and everything in it seems completely unnecessary. This is nice, she isn't going to be running after him while he does stupid fucked up shit, she is going to read a book while he zones out. She will probably kiss and rub on him but he isn't going to be doing much of anything including drawing attention to himself out in public. "I would want you to do this to me, no one else." Because that is an erotic vision, him slipping something like this into her and pushing the sweet poison into her. Holding her as she flies off to never-never land.

He takes off his shirt and she reaches into the box for the swab and the alcohol while he slips off his belt. "Ha, we don't want to get all Requiem for a Dream up in here," when he gets infected and his arm gets the chop. A shudder. And she licks her lips while he finds a spot on the bed. She takes everything over to the bed, syringe between her lips again and the cotton swabs in the cigar box.

She will watch him get ready, see what he does so she can do it to him later. If necessary. She can see the vein she can see what he wants her to do and so, when she sits down next to him she shakes her head slightly and begins to wipe at the crook of his arm with the alcohol to clean off the area. She remembers getting blood drawn and the huge circle of iodine that the nurse would place, so she cleans a wide area as well, there's nothing wrong with being too clean. Flicking the cotton ball in the garbage by the bed she glances up at him and readies the needle.

Syringe between her fingers she carefully angles the needle and carefully presses the tip into his vein, carefully easing it in, she isn't worried about pain, she is worried about missing the vein or going past it. And then she realizes that she probably should have asked him if he was ready for it. What the fuck? Over eager little beaver. "Sorry," she breathes up at him and goes to pull the plunger back. "I should have asked if you were ready," she needs to work on her bedside manner.

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

Aw, his little girl says the sweetest things. "I wouldn't have it any other way, princess. Maybe someday if you're very good I'll whisk you off and hold you while you enjoy it." It would be like having her as a helpless child all over again, dozing carefree in his arms, completely without all the so-called worries faced by teenagers and adults.

Richard laughs darkly and shakes his head. "Yeah, I think I'd much rather keep my arm, thank you very much." Then, grinning, he watches her swab the area. She really would make a cute little nurse. And she might enjoy it, that whole helping-people thing seems more up her alley than he ever would have anticipated from a daughter. Though, with the identity of her mother in mind, it at least makes some sense.

A little grunt works its way from his lips as he watches her slide the needle in, his nod approving. Even the needle is a pleasure, however Pavlovian. "Yeah, baby, you should have, but it's all right. Just remember to do it next time. But you did a good job, look." Blood blooms into the syringe at the pull of the plunger and he smiles, loosening the tourniquet. His daughter, sticking a needle into him, about to inject a drug more powerful than morphine, a drug that's his favorite drug, a drug that Susan has to confiscate and monitor because he can't trust himself to have it in his house unless he's got a specific date or time to use it in mind.

This is special, this is a holy moment between him and his blessed little girl, and as he loosens the tourniquet he takes care to look her dead in the eyes. "I love you, good girl, let me have it, baby, please." There's a real plea in his voice, adrenaline sparking in his mouth like a wave crashing over him.

[sweetsalome.livejournal.com]

She would like to be like that with him again, and figures that after a very long round of sex with him she is very much the same, clinging to him, unable to move her legs, like a little kid. Except with this, well this is a deeper effect, after hours of sex she will still be able to move her legs and walk around if she wanted to. With this, well, he is going to be confined to the room because it would be real fucking hard to do so.

His voice. Oh his voice. He wants it, and the belt is loose around his bicep and there is blood in the syringe. He wants it and she can give it to him. Only her. And for a moment she thinks that for a second she has all the power in the world, yes, in their little universe the power has shifted and she breathes him in, a deep silent sucking breath as if she could swallow and swallow all the need that he is giving off like radiation. Her eyes look into his, those dark, dark depths and finally, finally she slowly pushes the plunger and gives him what he needs.

She is thinking about nursing, or being a doctor. With being a nurse she would probably be a bit more hands on, unless she was an ER doctor. Think of how fun that would be. She gives it all to him, gradually watching the level go down and him go up. When it is all gone, when there is nothing left she puts a cotton ball over the top of the needle, pulling it out and then pressing the cotton ball down on top of it. She will press it till it clots and then she'll clean it with the alcohol.

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

There really is something so sexual about the entire process, it's like he's never noticed it before. But, then again, he's not exactly the most social drug-user, and nobody's shot him up but doctors, and himself. This is something that takes too much trust for him to have ever allowed another human being to do it outside of a professional venue; but Salome is better than a human being. She's a part of him. And that means she can stick all the needles in him she likes.

Once when he was a kid he was knocked over by a huge dog, one of those Saint Bernards; it got him right in the chest, knocked all the air out of him and left him lying stunned. Dilaudid is so much like that dog, the kick coming straight in his heart along with the chemical taste of the drug in the back of his mouth. His jaw falls open because it's impossible to keep it shut in the face of such limitless ecstasy; a rattling moan pushes out of his lungs while the kick dissolves into a rush that sweeps through his limbs, pounding through him like the waves outside pushing up against the beach. White noise fills his ears like the ringing of an atomic bomb while it bursts across the city. His eyes roll up into the back of his head and his pupils constrict while his entire body loosens, his skin feeling as if it could float away from his muscle at any given second.

Holy, holy, holy, this feeling, angels injected into his veins, angels injected by an angel who sits before him like a vision he finds himself barely able to focus on, too perfect for his eyes to take in completely. Richard's head sinks back against the headboard because there's no other place for it to go, back or down, and if he lets it go down then he won't be able to see the beautiful creature who attends to him so sweetly like an ethereal nurse.

While his skin prickles with sweet pleasure and his breathing slows to a laconic crawl, the rush begins to subside to let way to the high, like water settling after running wild once it bursts from a dam. "Fuck," he says, "oh, fuck, Jesus, fuck, baby." Tingling pleasure dances across his fingertips as he reaches for her with his left arm, murmuring, "Come here, princess, give me a kiss, baby. And maybe get my cigarettes, they're in the, ah...the drawer." His head lolls helplessly in the direction of the nightstand, each blink taking an eternity while he struggles to maintain enough of a thought to form words, let alone remember them.

[sweetsalome.livejournal.com]

She wishes that he could get hard because she very much wants to fuck the ever living shit out of him right now. The press of the plunger, his reaction to it, she feels it in her own blood and bones, singing with a contact high and jealousy for not being able to feel exactly what he feels at this very minute. She sets the needle aside on the nightstand and continues to hold the ball of cotton to the crook of his elbow. Pushing his arm up to his bicep to hold the cotton ball in place she watches his head fall back against the board.

Yes, look at him, so, so fucking sexy, so god damn lost. She is so thrilled at watching this transformation in progress, his reaction and how fucking good it must feel.

Lowering his arm she wipes off some surrounding blood before tossing the cotton ball and getting another one, this time with alcohol. Wiping him off and cleaning him up she tosses the alcohol soaked one away and finds a clean one to press to the small hole in his arm. That is held in place with a bandage and she did a pretty fucking good job with it if she does say so herself. For now she'll replace the needle in the cigar box and put the box back on his bag in the closet.

Climbing back on to the bed she straddles him and leans forward to push her mouth to his, seeing how his muscles respond to being put into action. "How does that feel, daddy?" Reaching for the drawer she finds his cigarettes and smirks at him, "do you really think you should be smoking now?" Taking a cigarette from the pack she puts it between her own lips to light it.

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

It's like his tongue is going to just fall out of his mouth. He opens and closes it once or twice but it's hard to keep his lips closed--and really, who would want to at a time like this? It's something that takes so much focus and energy, far better to let his jaw fall the few inches that it will at gravity's behest. While she gets up to put away his works he feels a vague sense of approval, although a childlike whine creeps from him because it means that she isn't within arm's reach anymore, and instead that she's far off over there on the other side of the room, which right now feels as though it's on the other side of the Himalayas.

But then, she returns, and oh, does she return, and now he's got everything he needs, his Salome and his blood filled with heaven and soon his cigarettes. His jaw does manage to close, though, when she straddles and kisses him, and he moans into her mouth, feeling pathetic and helpless and desirous, that kiss like a climax. Those lips of his work on instinct, the pressure gentle, and for once, he lets her lead the kiss completely without argument. His tongue reaches lazily toward her mouth but doesn't quite manage to make it by the time she's pulled away to speak to him. "It feels like an orgasm, baby. Existence just feels like one big orgasm, and a kiss from you is just--fuck, ah, princess."

His hands drift over her thighs and stomach and his whole body falls forward against that of the girl in his lap, her skin impossibly warm, warm as sunshine peeking through the clouds, and his hands move over her as though to drink all that warmth in. His head lifts to kiss along her neck, a soft moan whispered out against it while he savors the soft warmth before him, some measure of control returning to his lips and tongue. "Salome, baby, I could just have you in my lap all day, sitting next to you is the sexiest thing in the world, let alone to have you in my lap." And to have her in his lap while he's flying high on dilaudid? Jesus. He could die with no regrets in a moment like this.

When he hears the click of the lighter, he drops back against the headboard again; his head slams into it probably a little too hard but he doesn't even notice it, everything busy with the radiant vision before him, glowing the same way pleasure glows through his limbs and chest and head and groin. "Yeah, I can smoke now, it's not like smack where the cigarette's just gonna...fall out of my jaw, I can smoke and...talk just fine." Every word is long and smooth and soft. "Babydoll, you look so fucking sexy with a cigarette in your mouth, if I could fuck you right now I would."

[sweetsalome.livejournal.com]

"You're making me jealous, daddy, I want to feel what you feel." She smirks at him and then puts the lighter to the end of the cigarette, inhaling. "You're certainly not the only one who wishes you could fuck at this moment, I've been wet ever since you took out the cigar box. I was just too distracted by my task to do anything about it. We need to find a drug you can shoot up that will allow you to get hard."

The lighter goes on to the nightstand and she takes the cigarette from her lips and puts it between his. Her hips grind down against his as she exhales toward the ceiling. A move of her tongue over her lips and she looks at him, wishing that she could, at this very moment crawl into his skin and feel just how he is feeling, all the pleasure and the relief that comes with something harder then morphine.

Her fingers slip up his bare chest and then back down, blunt nails over his skin as she breathes in in and leans down to kiss his throat.

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

Richard grins lazily while he paws beneath her shirt, lifting his head to kiss her collarbone. To think she would say such a thing, Jesus Christ. If he'd known she was so excited just by the sight of the box he might have had his way with her first. Ah, well. "My mouth still works, baby, as long as you don't mind the occasional...couple of seconds of nodding." He sniggers, then sighs sharply as she grinds her hips into his.

Jesus, Christ there's no stopping her. She's a little nymphomaniac, it's terrible what he's done to her, and he loves every second of it. The sight of the smoke peeling from her lips is deviously beautiful. He lifts his head slightly to accept the cigarette and only now does his hand lift past his shoulders, the very act of inhaling a cigarette the pinnacle of pleasure. Every simple thing, the simple act of existing, is reduced to helpless joy. The ecstasy of breathing.

Every blink is a pleasure in and of itself, like a miniature rush when he opens his eyes. He stretches, then smooths his hand back over her hair, his palm almost heavy with his relaxation. "You are...so beautiful. So beautiful, and for almost seventeen years I just...haven't seen it. I've always loved you, Salome, but the way I feel about you now, I...shit. Oh, Christ." His hand tightens into a loose fist of the fabric of her tank top while she kisses his throat, a low moan wafting from his mouth while her nails scrape against him. His back arches with the sensation, that one he barely feels and yet feels so intensely at the same time. Head lowering, he kisses the ridge of her ear, breathes softly into it and mumbles, "Keep being good, baby, and maybe I'll fix you up sometime."

[sweetsalome.livejournal.com]

"I don't think that would be very nice to you, daddy. This is your trip, you should enjoy it fully, I am just here to sort of help you along." Her hands go flat to his chest and she continues to rub and stroke him, finding her hands gazing over the narrow well muscled torso of him, down to his hips where her hips are and where she grinds down into him because she just can't help herself. She likes pressing down on top of him, getting that little friction of grind because his pants are still on.

It's not about necessarily getting herself off on him, but just riding on his little wave of pleasure and high while enjoying a little burst of joy when she rubs down on top of him. He is just a whole lot of fun when he is this full of euphoria and painlessness. "You are so much when you are high, dad. Seriously I can feel like it is coming off of you or something." More kisses down his chest, the tip of her nose against his skin as she nuzzles and rubs her face against the bare of his chest, his few chest hairs tickling her face.

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

"Baby," he says, laughing as much as he can, although it takes a sort of power from his lungs and vocal cords of which they simply aren't capable right now so it comes out as more of a dry chuckle, "this ain't exactly ayahuasca. I won't complain, though. If I dozed off between your legs I'dve looked like an ass."

Dilaudid is better than sex, anyway. And as much as he loves being between his daughter's legs, that's an activity that takes more focus than he has. The only focus he can manage is this cigarette, and the words she speaks, and how fucking good he feels. While she paws at him, grinds in his lap, he sighs, and his head rolls back against the headboard. His eyes close for a blink and--

His head jerks forward when she speaks, another crash of orgasmic bliss sweeping from his head to his feet when he grabs hold of consciousness, or enough of it to maintain the appearance of being awake. Oh, yeah. Nodding like this between her legs would have been bad. Hilarious. But bad. He takes a drag from the cigarette, the cigarette will keep him from nodding off completely and losing the chance to consciously enjoy his high, and he laughs and tangles his free hand in her hair. "Oh, so I'm not so much fun the rest of the time? Tsk." Though the 'tsk' is brutally slurred and lacking in the normal condescending force behind it, and even he notices that, so he laughs again, then sighs to watch her kiss against his chest.

"You're one of the...only people in the world who mean...anything, Salome." His arms wrap around her and his head drops forward against her neck, his mouth pushing a lazy kiss and then just resting there. "You smell so nice, baby. It's been such a long time since you've hung out with me while I'm like this. Years and years. Jesus. So much better now, isn't it."

[sweetsalome.livejournal.com]

Sitting up slowly she takes the cigarette from his lips and carefully taps off the ash into the ash tray and looks down at him with a slow smile, just letting him enjoy the pulls he had from it and the smoke that he's got. She will make sure to keep it as clean as possible, no ash all over the place and not allowing it to accidentally fall from his lips and burn them all to death. Not that would happen but he looks really fucking good all spread out on the bed riding high. She will be good and maybe he'll give her a little dose some time.

She would be completely out cold if he shot her up, she has no idea how he is even still conscious after this. No idea.

Smirking she offers the business end of the cigarette back to him after a brief hit for herself. Her head turns slightly and she kisses the heel of his hand and then holds his hand as she kisses down the line of his arm to the band-aid down on the crook of his arm. She puts a kiss there, kissing the boo-boo all better like he would when she was tiny and would take a spill. "All better," she hums mostly to herself before sprawling out against him once again.

"You used to cuddle me when you were high and I was little? I think I remember that, maybe I didn't know you were high at the time." She strokes his side tenderly, she loves petting him and cuddling up with him, stoned or not, but when he talks, he just sounds so much more open then he usually does. "I love you, daddy. I love you so much."

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

Look at her, ashing the cigarette for him. What a good daughter he has. Good, and so beautiful. Her little smile. Oh, his little daddy's girl. He's always so glad these days that he stayed to be a part of her life, all those years of hard work and letting his heart be stolen by a little girl now repaid by the simplest gesture, the quiet sweetness of ashing a cigarette.

It's opiate tolerance, and years of experience with everything from Vicodin to smack. Soon enough he'll probably doze off, but for now he's content to float on a cloud, awake enough to savor the sensation of his drug and his daughter.

Richard grins while she kisses his bandage. She's going to give him diabetes; God, she's too much, and his good hand lifts to stroke her hair. "Sometimes I did, yeah." He chuckles, his arm draping down around the small of her back because it takes such energy to keep his hand up in her hair. "You were always good for cuddling with, but especially when I was stoned. Like my little radiator."

The hand at her back creeps beneath her tank top, her flesh so warm and sweet. His head rocks and he murmurs into her ear, his eyes drooping closed. "I know, baby, and I love you, too." Richard breathes deep and nestles his head against the curve of her shoulder, resting there like a pillow. "It's funny, I never really expected to, the whole thing was weird at first. I was just so...young, and your mother was such a cunt about the whole thing. She still is. But...I don't know. After a little while...after I got used to it, it was just kind of like...I really started to enjoy it, being your father. Having a daughter, and having you as that daughter. You've always been such a good kid. Raised by Susan and still such a good girl. How strange." He chuckles and shakes his head. "And angry like your daddy, maybe, but it's a good quality, sometimes."