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sparkindarknessActually, it seemed to get m,assively long, and there seemed to be an obvious break point. Also, I wanted to switch POVs (the main reason) and for the sake of confusion I think it's best to use seperate posts for seperate POVs.
I still hate the 1st person present tense. BUT:
1) I can't use the 3rd person for a same sex sex scene as I've complained about before. With heterosexuals you can get away with 'he' or 'she' but homosexuals need another pronoun, or you have to use full names and it just gets consfusing or long.
2) The past tense for a sex scene is not immediate enough. A memory doesn't have the same impact as an event unfolding.
I don’t know why I agreed. My mind is crying out that I shouldn’t do this - not for a shop, not for sex, not for anything. I shouldn’t do this.
Yet it cries so quietly, yet my body, my heart, my very soul cries out for this. My soul wants this... am I so far gone that my soul can be wrong? Every nerve screams it is right, that it should be... just one little voice. Surely my whole being should shout out in protest? One little voice. One near silent voice.
I tentatively reach up and pull the shining silver ward out of my hair. I stare at it for a short eternity. Rick waits, silent, nearly breathless. It is not him I listen for. I listen for the voice, still protesting with quiet desperation. I drop the ward. The sound of it’s impact with the ground echoes like the fall of an anvil. The voice gets no louder - if anything, it looses volume. But gains fervour? Maybe...
I pull off a glove to the tone of the voice frantically murmuring objections. The ward chained to my wrist swings free, hanging loosely down, seeming to catch the light in unnatural ways. It falls next to the other, glinting in the shadows like freshly shed tears. The voice dies a little more. My objections fall back a little further.
The second glove comes off far faster, far easier. The sound of the ward hitting is almost dull after the piercing fall of the others. The voice suffers another mortal wound.
I reach my hands to my neck. The voice is almost too quiet to understand now, just a thin trembling sound of loss and fear. Insignificant. Unimportant. I open the clasp. I feel rather than hear Ahrimadan stalk into the room. I don’t look at him, but I know his eyes are flowing, two golden circles, doorways into realms beyond any sane imaginings. Doorways into hell? Or into the soul? Or both. The ward falls, chain slithering like a snake in its death-throws. The voice is dead, silent and lost. I am right. It would have gotten louder, more strident if this was a mistake. Ahrimadan smiles.
The power comes, gently, like an old lover. It wraps around me and through me, fills the void that aches within me, rises out from the recesses of my soul where it lurks, torturously trapped. Where I lie imprisoned. It feels so good I can feel it curve my lips into a smile. I let it run, wild, free and uncontrolled around me.
I look down. The knife is there. Moonlight silver chased with runes of the ebon night. It’s beautiful. It’s terrible. It’s mine. I don't’ remember picking it up, but it rests in my hand so comfortably that it’s like it has always been there. I was born with this blade in my hand. Or should have been... it becomes hard to remember.
I unbutton my shirt, letting it fall negligently onto my wards, hiding me from their gaze. My tattoos shine, the last frail barrier against the dark. The dark is too strong, the knife flickers. They die. It darts out, caressing my skin with its sweetly sharp edge. It pushes through that barrier with sensual insistence, freeing the thick, rich blood to well gently to the surface to be eaten by the blade’s dark hungers. One by one, the bright colours at my neck, wrists and ankles flare and die, driven back so easily and so beautifully on the edge of darkness’ blade.
The power roars forth. The wild, free waves of power roll outwards, a hundredfold and twice as joyous! I ride it, accept it and love it. Memories fly away on the rush - my sister, rotting, dying, crying, stings my heart before falling before that wave of power - a memory that has tortured me for near a year now finds itself powerless to touch me. The power frees my heart from it’s poisoned lashes. I feel a brief thrill of fear, before it too is chased to the shadows. Fear of the power that nearly took me when I first bound Ahrimadan, fear of being lost and only saved by Rick’s touch. It shatters, magic rolling over it. Again I am free. And so is my power.
My Necromancy whispers through the land of the dead. In graveyards, long dead bodies twitch fitfully. Where blood has fallen, the ground shifts and passers by stand as brief, uncomprehending witnesses to the tragedies played out there. Ghosts and spirits shiver, some flee, others flock towards me, being careful to keep to a respectful distance.
My Sorcery rages forth, and all that lives feels a shadow pass over their souls, feels their years fall just a little shorter. Darkness presses into their minds and despair follows on its heels. I roll the taste on my tongue and like it.
My Infernalism, my daemonology, that I hold, and guide with my will. I reach out feeling for the raw sex and wild lust of the incubus. It comes.
You called?
“I summoned.”
Very well, summoned. And what do you ask?
“I don’t ask. I demand. Your power, your skills, your service in my body under my control.”
And what do you offer for your ‘demands?
“Nothing. I demand, I do not ask. I order, I do not deal.”
Oh, how amusing. I do not accept your terms. I refuse.
I smile, my eyes, already swirling pits of darkness, open themselves to the very depths. I see the incubus, have a brief moment to feel its shock before my eyes pierce to the very core of its being.
“I do not give you the option of refusal.”
YOU CANNOT COMMAND US!
“Yes, I can.” My will focuses, my Necromancy and Sorcery drop away, all my power into a scourge of Infernal power that I wrap with luscious cruelty around the daemon. “I command. You...”
Obey...
“Good.”
I open myself and feel the daemon enter me, it’s presence surging through me, merging with my magic, dominated by my will. I feel my body shift, my form changing to better serve the daemon’s needs... my needs.
Then, and only then do I look at Rick.
I still hate the 1st person present tense. BUT:
1) I can't use the 3rd person for a same sex sex scene as I've complained about before. With heterosexuals you can get away with 'he' or 'she' but homosexuals need another pronoun, or you have to use full names and it just gets consfusing or long.
2) The past tense for a sex scene is not immediate enough. A memory doesn't have the same impact as an event unfolding.
I don’t know why I agreed. My mind is crying out that I shouldn’t do this - not for a shop, not for sex, not for anything. I shouldn’t do this.
Yet it cries so quietly, yet my body, my heart, my very soul cries out for this. My soul wants this... am I so far gone that my soul can be wrong? Every nerve screams it is right, that it should be... just one little voice. Surely my whole being should shout out in protest? One little voice. One near silent voice.
I tentatively reach up and pull the shining silver ward out of my hair. I stare at it for a short eternity. Rick waits, silent, nearly breathless. It is not him I listen for. I listen for the voice, still protesting with quiet desperation. I drop the ward. The sound of it’s impact with the ground echoes like the fall of an anvil. The voice gets no louder - if anything, it looses volume. But gains fervour? Maybe...
I pull off a glove to the tone of the voice frantically murmuring objections. The ward chained to my wrist swings free, hanging loosely down, seeming to catch the light in unnatural ways. It falls next to the other, glinting in the shadows like freshly shed tears. The voice dies a little more. My objections fall back a little further.
The second glove comes off far faster, far easier. The sound of the ward hitting is almost dull after the piercing fall of the others. The voice suffers another mortal wound.
I reach my hands to my neck. The voice is almost too quiet to understand now, just a thin trembling sound of loss and fear. Insignificant. Unimportant. I open the clasp. I feel rather than hear Ahrimadan stalk into the room. I don’t look at him, but I know his eyes are flowing, two golden circles, doorways into realms beyond any sane imaginings. Doorways into hell? Or into the soul? Or both. The ward falls, chain slithering like a snake in its death-throws. The voice is dead, silent and lost. I am right. It would have gotten louder, more strident if this was a mistake. Ahrimadan smiles.
The power comes, gently, like an old lover. It wraps around me and through me, fills the void that aches within me, rises out from the recesses of my soul where it lurks, torturously trapped. Where I lie imprisoned. It feels so good I can feel it curve my lips into a smile. I let it run, wild, free and uncontrolled around me.
I look down. The knife is there. Moonlight silver chased with runes of the ebon night. It’s beautiful. It’s terrible. It’s mine. I don't’ remember picking it up, but it rests in my hand so comfortably that it’s like it has always been there. I was born with this blade in my hand. Or should have been... it becomes hard to remember.
I unbutton my shirt, letting it fall negligently onto my wards, hiding me from their gaze. My tattoos shine, the last frail barrier against the dark. The dark is too strong, the knife flickers. They die. It darts out, caressing my skin with its sweetly sharp edge. It pushes through that barrier with sensual insistence, freeing the thick, rich blood to well gently to the surface to be eaten by the blade’s dark hungers. One by one, the bright colours at my neck, wrists and ankles flare and die, driven back so easily and so beautifully on the edge of darkness’ blade.
The power roars forth. The wild, free waves of power roll outwards, a hundredfold and twice as joyous! I ride it, accept it and love it. Memories fly away on the rush - my sister, rotting, dying, crying, stings my heart before falling before that wave of power - a memory that has tortured me for near a year now finds itself powerless to touch me. The power frees my heart from it’s poisoned lashes. I feel a brief thrill of fear, before it too is chased to the shadows. Fear of the power that nearly took me when I first bound Ahrimadan, fear of being lost and only saved by Rick’s touch. It shatters, magic rolling over it. Again I am free. And so is my power.
My Necromancy whispers through the land of the dead. In graveyards, long dead bodies twitch fitfully. Where blood has fallen, the ground shifts and passers by stand as brief, uncomprehending witnesses to the tragedies played out there. Ghosts and spirits shiver, some flee, others flock towards me, being careful to keep to a respectful distance.
My Sorcery rages forth, and all that lives feels a shadow pass over their souls, feels their years fall just a little shorter. Darkness presses into their minds and despair follows on its heels. I roll the taste on my tongue and like it.
My Infernalism, my daemonology, that I hold, and guide with my will. I reach out feeling for the raw sex and wild lust of the incubus. It comes.
You called?
“I summoned.”
Very well, summoned. And what do you ask?
“I don’t ask. I demand. Your power, your skills, your service in my body under my control.”
And what do you offer for your ‘demands?
“Nothing. I demand, I do not ask. I order, I do not deal.”
Oh, how amusing. I do not accept your terms. I refuse.
I smile, my eyes, already swirling pits of darkness, open themselves to the very depths. I see the incubus, have a brief moment to feel its shock before my eyes pierce to the very core of its being.
“I do not give you the option of refusal.”
YOU CANNOT COMMAND US!
“Yes, I can.” My will focuses, my Necromancy and Sorcery drop away, all my power into a scourge of Infernal power that I wrap with luscious cruelty around the daemon. “I command. You...”
Obey...
“Good.”
I open myself and feel the daemon enter me, it’s presence surging through me, merging with my magic, dominated by my will. I feel my body shift, my form changing to better serve the daemon’s needs... my needs.
Then, and only then do I look at Rick.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-16 12:41 pm (UTC)*runs off to read the rest*
(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-18 04:02 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-20 04:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-21 08:48 am (UTC)You? Wake up first? Yes, and Darren's going to become the next pope.