by
Fandom: Ravinous
Rating: R
Pairing: Boyd/Ives (Colqhoun)
Author's Note: This is a "what if" take on one of the slashiest scenes from the movie Ravenous. (A movie described by one of the actors as "a love story.") The movie so clearly equated cannibalism with sex...as if Anne Rice had written wendigos. I tried to suggest layers of thought in writing this story, but I'm not quite sure if the technique works, or if it interrupts the flow. Caveat lector.
The title is a reference to a very short (and very dark) Keats poem about obsession.
This living hand, now warm and capable
of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
and in the icy silence of the tomb,
so haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
that thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
so in my veins red life might stream again,
and thou be conscience calmed — see here it is —
I hold it towards you.
Copyright and Disclaimer: Ravinous and the characters of Boyd and Ives are copyright 20th Century Fox. I make no claims to ownership or creation. This bit of not for profit modern folklore (thank you Prof. Jenkins) is mine.
The hand filled the whole of his vision.
Boyd had come out of the main hall with the intention of killing Ives, had screwed his courage to the sticking point, and had even drawn his knife and slashed, cutting the other wendigo across the palm.
Then, with a mocking, knowing smirk, Ives proffered his bloody hand.
Boyd's breath boiled out in a long, frosty plume. Time flowed like molasses. The (delicious beyond words) smell of blood filled his nostrils. The hand filled the whole of his vision. Boyd knew he should say no. Boyd knew he should leap like a mountain lion or like Private Reich (tough and stringy, but savory) and kill Ives. Boyd knew he should at the very least step aside and walk away.
He could feel his resolve melting like snow before a Chinook and hated himself for it.
The hand filled the whole of his vision.
The (delicious beyond words) smell of blood filled his nostrils.
Boyd knew he should say no.
The hand filled the whole of his vision.
Hot and salty, the blood filled his mouth. In a small portion of his mind Boyd screamed and wept at his weakness. But those protests were far away, muted by the ecstasy and need that coursed in riverbeds of pleasure (rivers roaring during spring flood) through every nerve of his body.
Boyd heard a strange, strangled cry, and turned, started and shocked, wondering who had caught him, who had snuck up on him as he licked and slurped at the blood running from Major Ives's hand. An explanation died on his lips. Nobody was there. He blushed when he realized that he had given the cry.
Soft mocking laughter drew him back. Ives'wanton eyes bored into Boyd, and he thrust his hand back to Boyd, who took it and began where he left off. Boyd could only imagine the ghoulish figure he cut. Hair matted and stringy, cheeks gaunt from long illness, mouth and chin streaked with crimson smears of blood. But worst of all, he pictured the naked pleasure and aching hunger writ large on his face — his eyes burning — as he shamelessly, desperately, sought Ives's blood. He shivered from the sheer pleasure of (Ives's virility and power) the taste. He didn't care. Satisfaction was the only thing that mattered now.
Somehow Boyd found himself on the ground, on top of Ives — who was emitting the occasional sardonic chuckle — with Ives’s fingers crammed into his mouth, slurping and rocking and moaning. Somewhere along the line he had gotten hard, and he was humping his throbbing erection hard into Ives's thigh. He felt a hand fumbling with the buttons on his fly, ripping, sending the buttons flying, a withering blast of cold air and then the hand, the warm, callused hand. Stroking, pulling, showing no mercy.
“Yes, yes, oh God, more, that’s it, yes” Boyd babbled as he thrust and ground and sucked with near mindless abandon. Never had he known such pleasure. Ives’s blood (potent stuff) flooding in to him, filling him, he could, well, he could feel the virility flooding into him, and that hand, that perfect hand on his cock. He rode it hard. Pleasure from both ends, he would take and take and take.
(And maybe it would be enough to fill the gnawing emptyness...if only for a little while.)
Boyd came hot and hard, shaking like a leaf in a storm, his orgasm so sudden and violent that the world grayed around the edges. Panting, he rolled off of Ives, and stared up at the stars, perfect and icy white in the crisp blackness of the night sky.
"It’s not just the blood, m’boy," smirked Ives as he sat up and loudly slurped Boyd’s semen from his hand. "Actually, I find that a man’s most vital fluid packs a hearty punch." He stood and sauntered off, licking sticky fingers. A soft laugh floated behind him on the breeze.
At that moment both the bitter cold and shame crashed in on Boyd. He struggled with the realization of what he’d just done — fucked another man and drank his blood on the parade ground of the fort, where anybody could've come along and caught them. He cringed in self loathing at what he had just done — and from the awful knowledge that he’d do it again.
Adjusting himself as best as possible in his ruined, muddy pants, he stumbled to his bunk, and eventually slipped into uneasy dreams as the first rosy fingers of dawn pinked the eastern sky.
Last Updated: 3/9/2004