Brütal • Mötley Crüe •

Twenty-Five • Exoneration

Warnings: Vulgar Language, Smut, Light Abuse, Drug & Alcohol Use

April 7th, 1983
8:52 PM

The water plummeting from the brass shower head was only a few degrees below boiling, Nikki's skin bloodying with every second he stood unprotected in its warpath. He burrowed into the furthest corner in an attempt to escape the brutal falls, forfeiting only the right side of his body to burn.

He'd never understand what kind of pleasure one could get from taking a shower sent straight from the depths of Hell, usually preferring a lukewarm- if not just straight up cold- drizzle, but he didn't dare reach for the nozzle.

If he'd learned anything about the female species in the past twenty-four years he'd been alive, it was that they liked to shower frequently and they liked to shower in fire.

It was a stereotype, an old cliché, but the blisters budding along his right shoulder and the scorch marks seared across his scalp only served to prove it correct.

He was being dramatic, of course- he almost always was- but fuck, it was hot.

And Halston was perched directly underneath it, totally unfazed as she threaded mint-scented shampoo into her hair.

The sacred smell permeated the air, unabashedly wafting from his own head of hair, and he inhaled deeply to refill his Olfactory Cortex. It'd been a whole minute since he didn't have to pull it from his withering memory and it was almost pleasant enough to alleviate the sting of the heat.

Almost.

Her dark locks were long, frayed ends dusting the tip of a pair of dimples on her lower back, and Nikki wondered how she had the patience to wash such an overwhelming amount of fluff.

He'd barely had enough to throw some soap on his roots, yet she gave it her full attention, caressing each strand with such a thorough touch to get them completely clean.

It was overkill, really, but he watched her in awe anyway. She squeezed her eyes shut to ward off any lingering suds, stepping back into the blaze to rinse.

Fiery droplets hit her skin and magnified the hundreds of freckles penciled onto her body, narrow streams falling from the hills of her breasts like dainty rivulets of pure gold.

His eyes fixated on his greatest weakness, the freckle along the curve of her right breast, and he had to fight something fierce in order to subdue the urge to cover it with his mouth.

Seeing her like this, naked and dripping wet, and not being able to touch her felt mildly abusive. His dick had kneeled at attention as soon as she stripped off her clothes and he had to focus on the most unpleasant of aspects- the cloud of rust haloing the drain, the stray hairs sticking to the bottom of the curtain, the corrosion collecting on the spicket- to keep it from standing straight up, a slight throb consistently pulsing from his groin.

Soon enough, he thought.

He knew he didn't have the capability to be gentle after so many months with nothing but his hand and bittersweet thoughts of her, and he would hate himself in the morning if he inadvertently caused her more damage. She was still fragile and she needed to heal a bit before he inflicted his pain.