Sparkindarkness No.27
Jul. 24th, 2003 08:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sparkindarknessMake the muses stop! I want one night, ONE, where I can sleep without the images of beautiful men in my sleep... alright I don't want rid of them that badly, but the need to write about them I could do without. I end up with notebooks full of incomprehensible scribble.
And Darren and Rick are both getting shirty with me for giving the interlopers more time. I thought I could hold them off until I get more finished... But they have a trump card...
Ahrimadan.
The others are hiding quietly in corners now. But I do have another 3 fics in near-completed stage but may not post them all/only post excerpts (for now anyway). At least not until Darren and Rick get more time. I've been neglecting them shamefully.
This is continued from the battle - the end of which is here:
http://www.livejournal.com/users/sparkindarkness/11316.html#cutid1
And the epilogue, which is here:
http://www.livejournal.com/users/sparkindarkness/12239.html#cutid1
He’s hurting again, and I don’t know how to fix it. Shit, I don’t know if I want to fix it. The spirit world is a war zone, constant battle rages as me and my friends push out the vile things he called. Alright, he didn’t actually call them - but that’s even worse. These things just came to him! How bad do you have to be to attract things that even the most psychotic shaman has to bust a gut to even make listen to him? And so many are lost or banished, it was a fucking massacre!
And he caused it... and I didn’t stop it. Alright, I had no chance of stopping him, but it’s my job, y’know? A shaman’s supposed to protect the astral world, not fuck its greatest enemy!
I want to tell him. I want to ask, did he know what he was doing? Did he mean to do it? Did he care? Does he cry for the spirits I lost? I can’t though... I mean the last thing he needs is something else to kill himself over. I can’t do that to him, can’t give him another list of victims to give him nightmares. Not now, not when his pain hurts so much.
And that gets me. It hurts. The spirit world is ruined, spirits I loved like brothers have died, and spiritual daemons lurk instead; but none of it hurts as much as seeing Darren’s grief. I know I’ve said it before, but he’s seriously hurting. I’ve been moving sharp things out of sight, I’m fucking serious here, every morning I expect to find him dead. No matter what he’s done, I’m not going to let it happen. Fuck the future, his darkness and his family, it ain’t happening!
He’s gone near catatonic again. The only noise I’ve heard from him in weeks are sobs. Fuck, the only noise he’s heard from me in weeks is my chanting, mantras and rituals. We’re just fucking wallowing in pain and grief. At least that’s good news, the flat survived. Raging flames consuming half of it without notice? Wow, could that have anything to do with the fucking illusionist across the street? How much else could we have stopped if we hadn't been so fucking stupid? Might as well bury us in this fucking mausoleum before we break more stuff - or more people.
Shit, we got to either snap out of this, or get some Gothic poets and start smoking opium. Time to start the healing, last I checked that was in the top ten shaman’s jobs as well. I’m betting it’s way down on a sorcerer’s so I guess it’s up to me again.
He’s staring out the window, more tears slowly working their way through the grime on his face. he doesn’t brush them away, letting the drip down to his rumpled black collar, through the tangled hair that is piled chaotically around him. His skin has bleached even paler than usual, and I didn’t think that possible. He’s so pale you can just see a thin pattern of tiny blue veins under his skin, beneath the grime. He hasn’t been sleeping, his eyes are sunk in deep dark caves surrounded by dark circles like bruises on his pale skin. His eyes glisten with tears, making the deep dark blue reflect too much light, like sun on deep water. He looks like a fallen angel consumed in suffering. He looks awful. He looks so terribly beautiful.
I walk over and kneel next to him, gently touching his shoulder. He tries to pull away, struggling slightly when I hold him tighter. At the best of times he’s delicate; now he’s so weak it brings tears to my eyes. He stops struggling almost instantly, exhausted with so little movement. He stares dully at the floor. A tear drips from his chin and lands on my hand.
I pull him to his feet. He doesn’t resist, he doesn’t help. If I move my hands I’m sure he’d just collapse to the floor. His lifeless eyes don’t move from the floor. Another tear rolls gently onto the woodwork. A small sound escapes him, a tiny whimpering sigh. He hangs like a puppet from my hands. My own eyes are starting to fill up now.
I undress him, gently. Carefully undoing every tiny button and lace. He barely moves, and I have to support him every second. He doesn’t protest. he doesn’t help. Just stands their while I strip him naked. I can fix this. Oh shit, I have to be able to fix this.
I lift him into my arms, something he hates normally, clad only in his hair that trails around him and pools to the floor, he looks even more fragile. So pale and tiny, like an expensive porcelain doll. I was terrified I’d drop him and he’d shatter into tiny ice white shards.
I carry him through to the bathroom. He doesn’t look up, one half of his face shrouded in his hair, eyes fixed downwards, to his stomach. I can feel the tiny shuddering that shakes him with every silent sob and every silver tear.
A wave of heavy steam overwhelms me as I open the door. My clothes hang thick and damp as it billows around me. I pause to silently thank Ghost; even after everything that’s happened, he’s still hanging around, and even helping we with Darren. He’s a spirit in a million that one, even if he did write the book on sarcasm.
I put Darren down on the tiled shelf next to the huge Jacuzzi, propping him against the wall. If the tiles are cold on his bare skin he doesn’t even blink. I pull off my clothes, shit, they’re nearly stiff with grime and sweat, I don’t think I’ve changed them since the attack. So much to do, and so little time. I throw them in the laundry basket, though I think they’re behind dry cleaning, really. At least they’re not the clothes Darren got me. Darren doesn’t look up, he even turns his head a little to avoid seeing me. At least it’s movement, but he usually can’t stop looking at me when I’m naked, and now he looks away? I pull him to me, He keeps his eyes away from me, but the rest of his body is still passive. I look down the length of him, gah, he’s not even excited! I’m slowly growing hard though, just from holding him, seeing him.
I step into the tub, pulling him in with me, I lay him down, and stretch out next to him. Hot water splashes to the edge of the bath, held in place by some invisible force, for the thousandth time I give thanks that my flat was warded enough to protect the spirits inside. Oils glisten on the surface of the water, tiny glittering flecks float in the ripples, gleaming to my spirit sight with the awakened spirits of the herbs
I kiss him, gently. He lies unresponsive in the hot, rich water. I kiss each eyelid, the tip of his nose, then his lips again. Gently but firmly, tasting the smooth warm feeling of him under the bitter tears. He sighs softly.
I pick up a flannel and lather it with soap that glimmers to my eyes. I wash Darren’s chest, pulling him above the water and softly caressing the smooth planes of his muscles. The flannel glides gently over that pearly skin, marred only slightly by long faded scars. I put the flannel down and pour some lightly scented oil onto his soapy skin. I massage it into his flesh with strong, tender touches. I rub it across every inch of his chest, gently running up to his shoulders and the side of his neck, my long fingers loosening knotted muscles, gently tickling the sensitive skin at the hollow of his neck. I trace back into his chest, drawing slow circles around his nipples with the tips of my nails. I push harder, just hard enough to dimple the skin. He shudders.
I push him down into the water, rinsing his soapy skin. His legs break the surface, and I spend several long minutes working soap along their length. I play gently with the thin, wet hairs that dust them, sop lightly. I rub the taught, pained muscles, stroking from thigh to ankle until every inch is clean, smooth and relaxed; until my fingers have explored every perfectly defined muscle.
I leaned over him, until my head was level with his. I reached for the flannel again, and spread soap across his face. I massaged his temples, down his cheeks, tracing his jaw. I ran one delicate finger across his lips. I examined that beautiful face minutely, marvelling at just how perfect he was. I rinsed the soap away and looked into two perfect pools of midnight ocean.
I lower myself to him. Our lips touch, and he kisses me. He shakes violently against me. A hand bursts from the water and grabs the back of my head, balling into a fist around my hair, pulling me closer. His kiss is strong and hot, so hard it hurts, so desperate, it’s almost violent. I hear him sob, a loud, choking sound he drowns against my lips. His body is wracked by heaving sobs and muffled cries, yet still he kisses me, like a drowning man looking for air.
I lean backwards, pulling away from him and leaning back into the water. His grip never loosens, his other hand flashes from the water to wrap round me and dig his nails into my back. As I move backwards, he moves with me, lips loved with mine, until I lay on my back with him spread on top of me; still kissing me, probing me with his tongue.
I run one hand through his thick, heavy hair that cascades around us. With my other I run down his back until I reach his tight arse. I grip it tightly, squeezing one firm cheek then the other. He writhes above me, rubbing against me, and we both groan involuntarily.
I move my second hand down to his arse, each hand cupping a cheek, I explore him with one finger, pushing myself inside him. He writhes, eyes wide and lost, still shining with tears as he pushes himself down, forcing my finger further into him. I work in a second finger, not slowly, nor gently, I’m lost in the heat of his kiss, the ferocity of his touch and the depth of his pain. He moans again, though it ends in a half choked sob. I feel his teeth press hard against my lip, nearly to the point of drawing blood as he kisses me still harder.
I push him up with a hand on each buttock. He whimpers slightly as our lips part, and fights to come back to me, to close that tiny gap.
I push him down gently, spreading his cheeks and align my cock against his arse. He pulls himself lower, mouth hungrily seeking mine. He lowers himself onto my cock, sliding himself down me slowly, inch by inch. He writhes deliciously, I feel his face contort with pleasure. I feel the soft touch of his tears on my face.
He rocks back and forth on top of me, his face buries and nuzzles into my neck, small helpless sounds escape him in ragged gasps. He pushes down on me, taking all of me into him, squeezing and shivering. He feels wonderful, hot and string and tight. My hands grip his body bruising his pale skin as I force him up and down, faster, faster, harder! He thrashes around on top of me, always faster, always harder until the pounding slap of flesh on flesh echoes through the tiled room, accompanied by the splashing of the water that rises up around us. It’s incredible. I feel something inside him break and he just looses it, throws every part of his body into every massive thrust downwards. He throws his head back and howls, screams in lust and pain, grief and pleasure. His whole body rocks with it, crushing me. I bow my back and force him up out of the water; my own head thrown back so far I nearly drown. And I’m screaming, crying, yelling as wave after wave of the must fucking intense orgasm you can ever imagine rolls over me. The world fades and I think I near pass out for a second. For one beautiful second there’s is only vast orgasm, the sound of the water and the feel of his body over mine. He spills in a burning hot wave onto my chest, spasming with the force of it, as I release inside him, gasping for air. He collapses on top of me.
He cries, loud and long, broken sobs chasing each other through the perfect acoustics of the bathroom. He hugs me and buries his head in my chest. I pull him close and bury my head into his hair, harsh painful sobs ripped from my throat. I don’t think I’ve properly cried since the attack, it breaks in me, overwhelms me in agonising waves of pain. We cling together, wallowing in hot water, the afterglow of sex and the heavy blanket of burning grief. Our cries are so loud I’m amazed the neighbours don’t run to complain, or see what’s wrong, the tears so hot, the water should flash to steam. Incomprehensible words and fragments mumble past our lips. It doesn’t matter, there’s just the pain, the grief and the hot intense love.
“....sorry...” his voice is too choked to hear more, but that one word makes me tighten my grip. I can't say what I’m thinking, my mouth won’t work, I can’t get my head round the words needed.
No, there’s only one thing that needs to be said.
“...Love you, Darren...” he chokes a sobbing laugh, a tiny broken smile on his lips. With painful slowness he looks up at me.
“Love you too...” He lies on my chest and I feel his breathing slow as he sleeps for the first time in weeks. I rock him gently, stroking that wealth of hair, looking at that amazing face. My sobs finally stop, there’s just sadness now. A kind of gentle sadness, y’know? I close my eyes and drift with Darren laid in my arms.
We can heal this. I know it.
And Darren and Rick are both getting shirty with me for giving the interlopers more time. I thought I could hold them off until I get more finished... But they have a trump card...
Ahrimadan.
The others are hiding quietly in corners now. But I do have another 3 fics in near-completed stage but may not post them all/only post excerpts (for now anyway). At least not until Darren and Rick get more time. I've been neglecting them shamefully.
This is continued from the battle - the end of which is here:
http://www.livejournal.com/users/sparkindarkness/11316.html#cutid1
And the epilogue, which is here:
http://www.livejournal.com/users/sparkindarkness/12239.html#cutid1
He’s hurting again, and I don’t know how to fix it. Shit, I don’t know if I want to fix it. The spirit world is a war zone, constant battle rages as me and my friends push out the vile things he called. Alright, he didn’t actually call them - but that’s even worse. These things just came to him! How bad do you have to be to attract things that even the most psychotic shaman has to bust a gut to even make listen to him? And so many are lost or banished, it was a fucking massacre!
And he caused it... and I didn’t stop it. Alright, I had no chance of stopping him, but it’s my job, y’know? A shaman’s supposed to protect the astral world, not fuck its greatest enemy!
I want to tell him. I want to ask, did he know what he was doing? Did he mean to do it? Did he care? Does he cry for the spirits I lost? I can’t though... I mean the last thing he needs is something else to kill himself over. I can’t do that to him, can’t give him another list of victims to give him nightmares. Not now, not when his pain hurts so much.
And that gets me. It hurts. The spirit world is ruined, spirits I loved like brothers have died, and spiritual daemons lurk instead; but none of it hurts as much as seeing Darren’s grief. I know I’ve said it before, but he’s seriously hurting. I’ve been moving sharp things out of sight, I’m fucking serious here, every morning I expect to find him dead. No matter what he’s done, I’m not going to let it happen. Fuck the future, his darkness and his family, it ain’t happening!
He’s gone near catatonic again. The only noise I’ve heard from him in weeks are sobs. Fuck, the only noise he’s heard from me in weeks is my chanting, mantras and rituals. We’re just fucking wallowing in pain and grief. At least that’s good news, the flat survived. Raging flames consuming half of it without notice? Wow, could that have anything to do with the fucking illusionist across the street? How much else could we have stopped if we hadn't been so fucking stupid? Might as well bury us in this fucking mausoleum before we break more stuff - or more people.
Shit, we got to either snap out of this, or get some Gothic poets and start smoking opium. Time to start the healing, last I checked that was in the top ten shaman’s jobs as well. I’m betting it’s way down on a sorcerer’s so I guess it’s up to me again.
He’s staring out the window, more tears slowly working their way through the grime on his face. he doesn’t brush them away, letting the drip down to his rumpled black collar, through the tangled hair that is piled chaotically around him. His skin has bleached even paler than usual, and I didn’t think that possible. He’s so pale you can just see a thin pattern of tiny blue veins under his skin, beneath the grime. He hasn’t been sleeping, his eyes are sunk in deep dark caves surrounded by dark circles like bruises on his pale skin. His eyes glisten with tears, making the deep dark blue reflect too much light, like sun on deep water. He looks like a fallen angel consumed in suffering. He looks awful. He looks so terribly beautiful.
I walk over and kneel next to him, gently touching his shoulder. He tries to pull away, struggling slightly when I hold him tighter. At the best of times he’s delicate; now he’s so weak it brings tears to my eyes. He stops struggling almost instantly, exhausted with so little movement. He stares dully at the floor. A tear drips from his chin and lands on my hand.
I pull him to his feet. He doesn’t resist, he doesn’t help. If I move my hands I’m sure he’d just collapse to the floor. His lifeless eyes don’t move from the floor. Another tear rolls gently onto the woodwork. A small sound escapes him, a tiny whimpering sigh. He hangs like a puppet from my hands. My own eyes are starting to fill up now.
I undress him, gently. Carefully undoing every tiny button and lace. He barely moves, and I have to support him every second. He doesn’t protest. he doesn’t help. Just stands their while I strip him naked. I can fix this. Oh shit, I have to be able to fix this.
I lift him into my arms, something he hates normally, clad only in his hair that trails around him and pools to the floor, he looks even more fragile. So pale and tiny, like an expensive porcelain doll. I was terrified I’d drop him and he’d shatter into tiny ice white shards.
I carry him through to the bathroom. He doesn’t look up, one half of his face shrouded in his hair, eyes fixed downwards, to his stomach. I can feel the tiny shuddering that shakes him with every silent sob and every silver tear.
A wave of heavy steam overwhelms me as I open the door. My clothes hang thick and damp as it billows around me. I pause to silently thank Ghost; even after everything that’s happened, he’s still hanging around, and even helping we with Darren. He’s a spirit in a million that one, even if he did write the book on sarcasm.
I put Darren down on the tiled shelf next to the huge Jacuzzi, propping him against the wall. If the tiles are cold on his bare skin he doesn’t even blink. I pull off my clothes, shit, they’re nearly stiff with grime and sweat, I don’t think I’ve changed them since the attack. So much to do, and so little time. I throw them in the laundry basket, though I think they’re behind dry cleaning, really. At least they’re not the clothes Darren got me. Darren doesn’t look up, he even turns his head a little to avoid seeing me. At least it’s movement, but he usually can’t stop looking at me when I’m naked, and now he looks away? I pull him to me, He keeps his eyes away from me, but the rest of his body is still passive. I look down the length of him, gah, he’s not even excited! I’m slowly growing hard though, just from holding him, seeing him.
I step into the tub, pulling him in with me, I lay him down, and stretch out next to him. Hot water splashes to the edge of the bath, held in place by some invisible force, for the thousandth time I give thanks that my flat was warded enough to protect the spirits inside. Oils glisten on the surface of the water, tiny glittering flecks float in the ripples, gleaming to my spirit sight with the awakened spirits of the herbs
I kiss him, gently. He lies unresponsive in the hot, rich water. I kiss each eyelid, the tip of his nose, then his lips again. Gently but firmly, tasting the smooth warm feeling of him under the bitter tears. He sighs softly.
I pick up a flannel and lather it with soap that glimmers to my eyes. I wash Darren’s chest, pulling him above the water and softly caressing the smooth planes of his muscles. The flannel glides gently over that pearly skin, marred only slightly by long faded scars. I put the flannel down and pour some lightly scented oil onto his soapy skin. I massage it into his flesh with strong, tender touches. I rub it across every inch of his chest, gently running up to his shoulders and the side of his neck, my long fingers loosening knotted muscles, gently tickling the sensitive skin at the hollow of his neck. I trace back into his chest, drawing slow circles around his nipples with the tips of my nails. I push harder, just hard enough to dimple the skin. He shudders.
I push him down into the water, rinsing his soapy skin. His legs break the surface, and I spend several long minutes working soap along their length. I play gently with the thin, wet hairs that dust them, sop lightly. I rub the taught, pained muscles, stroking from thigh to ankle until every inch is clean, smooth and relaxed; until my fingers have explored every perfectly defined muscle.
I leaned over him, until my head was level with his. I reached for the flannel again, and spread soap across his face. I massaged his temples, down his cheeks, tracing his jaw. I ran one delicate finger across his lips. I examined that beautiful face minutely, marvelling at just how perfect he was. I rinsed the soap away and looked into two perfect pools of midnight ocean.
I lower myself to him. Our lips touch, and he kisses me. He shakes violently against me. A hand bursts from the water and grabs the back of my head, balling into a fist around my hair, pulling me closer. His kiss is strong and hot, so hard it hurts, so desperate, it’s almost violent. I hear him sob, a loud, choking sound he drowns against my lips. His body is wracked by heaving sobs and muffled cries, yet still he kisses me, like a drowning man looking for air.
I lean backwards, pulling away from him and leaning back into the water. His grip never loosens, his other hand flashes from the water to wrap round me and dig his nails into my back. As I move backwards, he moves with me, lips loved with mine, until I lay on my back with him spread on top of me; still kissing me, probing me with his tongue.
I run one hand through his thick, heavy hair that cascades around us. With my other I run down his back until I reach his tight arse. I grip it tightly, squeezing one firm cheek then the other. He writhes above me, rubbing against me, and we both groan involuntarily.
I move my second hand down to his arse, each hand cupping a cheek, I explore him with one finger, pushing myself inside him. He writhes, eyes wide and lost, still shining with tears as he pushes himself down, forcing my finger further into him. I work in a second finger, not slowly, nor gently, I’m lost in the heat of his kiss, the ferocity of his touch and the depth of his pain. He moans again, though it ends in a half choked sob. I feel his teeth press hard against my lip, nearly to the point of drawing blood as he kisses me still harder.
I push him up with a hand on each buttock. He whimpers slightly as our lips part, and fights to come back to me, to close that tiny gap.
I push him down gently, spreading his cheeks and align my cock against his arse. He pulls himself lower, mouth hungrily seeking mine. He lowers himself onto my cock, sliding himself down me slowly, inch by inch. He writhes deliciously, I feel his face contort with pleasure. I feel the soft touch of his tears on my face.
He rocks back and forth on top of me, his face buries and nuzzles into my neck, small helpless sounds escape him in ragged gasps. He pushes down on me, taking all of me into him, squeezing and shivering. He feels wonderful, hot and string and tight. My hands grip his body bruising his pale skin as I force him up and down, faster, faster, harder! He thrashes around on top of me, always faster, always harder until the pounding slap of flesh on flesh echoes through the tiled room, accompanied by the splashing of the water that rises up around us. It’s incredible. I feel something inside him break and he just looses it, throws every part of his body into every massive thrust downwards. He throws his head back and howls, screams in lust and pain, grief and pleasure. His whole body rocks with it, crushing me. I bow my back and force him up out of the water; my own head thrown back so far I nearly drown. And I’m screaming, crying, yelling as wave after wave of the must fucking intense orgasm you can ever imagine rolls over me. The world fades and I think I near pass out for a second. For one beautiful second there’s is only vast orgasm, the sound of the water and the feel of his body over mine. He spills in a burning hot wave onto my chest, spasming with the force of it, as I release inside him, gasping for air. He collapses on top of me.
He cries, loud and long, broken sobs chasing each other through the perfect acoustics of the bathroom. He hugs me and buries his head in my chest. I pull him close and bury my head into his hair, harsh painful sobs ripped from my throat. I don’t think I’ve properly cried since the attack, it breaks in me, overwhelms me in agonising waves of pain. We cling together, wallowing in hot water, the afterglow of sex and the heavy blanket of burning grief. Our cries are so loud I’m amazed the neighbours don’t run to complain, or see what’s wrong, the tears so hot, the water should flash to steam. Incomprehensible words and fragments mumble past our lips. It doesn’t matter, there’s just the pain, the grief and the hot intense love.
“....sorry...” his voice is too choked to hear more, but that one word makes me tighten my grip. I can't say what I’m thinking, my mouth won’t work, I can’t get my head round the words needed.
No, there’s only one thing that needs to be said.
“...Love you, Darren...” he chokes a sobbing laugh, a tiny broken smile on his lips. With painful slowness he looks up at me.
“Love you too...” He lies on my chest and I feel his breathing slow as he sleeps for the first time in weeks. I rock him gently, stroking that wealth of hair, looking at that amazing face. My sobs finally stop, there’s just sadness now. A kind of gentle sadness, y’know? I close my eyes and drift with Darren laid in my arms.
We can heal this. I know it.
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Date: 2003-07-26 12:46 pm (UTC)