The BLTS Archive - Blood Red Rose
by Midnight Topaz (ravaged_rhapsody@yahoo.com)

---

Warnings: semi-explicit m/m

Comments: Feedback is love... especially as this is my first attempt
at anything remotely explicit. (So how'd I do?)

Archive: Cross-posted over to my DA account. (If you want to archive,
please ask.)

Disclaimer: Paramount/Viacom owns all this, obviously. No copyright
infringements are intended and I am making absolutely no money off of
this.

---
*Passion*.
---

Slick, sweat-soaked skin, flushed from exertion, slides against his
own in a sweet friction that forces a low moan through his lips. A
swollen arousal, thick and rosy and throbbing with a delicious heat,
repeatedly thrusts into his narrow opening with a sensuous, atavistic
rhythm. He writhes under the golden body, savoring the exquisite,
deep-seated ache that can never be completely sated. Pressing his
fingers to the smooth temple, he joins his mind to the radiant spirit
in cherished communion as the world shatters into a veil of
innumerable crystalline stars.

---
*Desire*.
---

He cannot help but notice the self-deprecating way the hazel eyes
scrutinize the reflection in the mirror, judge too harshly the
inevitable process of aging. Tense hands attempt to straighten the
tight crimson jacket with terse, angry movements.

It hurts to view this nightly ritual, to know that despite his
assurances, despite the truth that reverberates through every fiber of
his being, he will never be fully believed. *You are still beautiful
to me, t'hy'la. My blood burns only for you*.

---
*Love*.
---

Rendered speechless, he cups the intricate medallion in his hand. With
a trembling finger, he traces the vivid ruby inset in shining silver,
a unique interpretation of one of Vulcan's most revered symbols. There
are no words in any known language that can describe the value of this
gift. . .  so he does not speak.

*Forty years, Spock. Forty years since we first met*.

It is a peculiar sort of joy that constricts his throat, a joy cast in
profound humility. Slipping the chain around his neck, he gently
caresses the tan skin with his fingertips. *T'hy'la, I cherish thee*.
. .

The answering echo is so intense he nearly gasps aloud. As the soft
moonlight streams through the open window and glints off the gem, he
loses himself in the bright gaze and marvels at the glorious touch of
Fate that presented him with the love of such a brilliant soul.

---
*Loss*.
---

With a minute shake of his head, he reluctantly banishes the images to
the farthest corner of his mind. The yearning to immerse himself in
these memories, to lose himself inexorably, is overwhelmingly
seductive. . .  yet he knows that his path has not yet ended. But the
truth
of this acknowledgement is an acrid poison that pulses pure agony
through his veins. His numb legs buckle beneath his weight and he
collapses beside the rocky grave.

*I should have been there. I should not have left you alone*. The
recriminating words are his constant companions. . .  and he cannot
escape
them.

He does not *deserve* escape.

His hand tightens around the stem of the rose and he does not flinch
as the thorns pierce his skin. Though the thought is admittedly
nonsensical- and a possible sign of the insanity that threatens to
consume him- the parallels, he believes, are fitting.

Opening his clenched fist, the rumpled flower falls to the dusty
surface. And, somehow, his sorrow lessens as the emerald drizzle drips
onto the fragile scarlet petals, turning black under the stark light
of the blood red sunset.

---

The End