fic: metalocalypse: divinorum
Title: Divinorum
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Nathan/Ofdensen.
Rating: R.
Warning(s): Handjobs, unsatisfying sex (I think this is a recurring theme).
Word Count: 1250
Author Notes: This is a follow up to Reification, a story I posted a few weeks ago. Maybe you would like to read that first? Hell, I don't know. The stuff Ofdensen is smoking here is salvia divinorum plus a little creative license. A little bit cross-posted.
Summary: Apropos of nothing.
Gravity is pulling him down, pulling him in. Too much, too much ... what? Too much movement, motionless on the floor, and there is a voice but he can't fixate on the words it's saying, only hears an anchor.
"Oh, this is ... I'm, ah, moving. Does that make sense? That doesn't make any sense." More words. The rain tapping on the windows is in here too, running over his skin, gentle and cool, like. Like a caress. Leaving nothing behind but a memory in the smoke hanging in the air above him.
His elbow is still healing, still wrapped, and the stitches have become scars, pink-white lines and points forming supplementary angles. The pain is distant now, filtered through a haze of smoke and rain. Still there, coloring the edges of his perception.
It doesn’t last, not long. Not nearly long enough. Fades like the tide rolling out.
The oxycontin got tiresome after a few days, because he can’t stand the pain but he doesn’t want to sleep anymore, he spent weeks sleeping and it was too long, it was terrifying. He’d rather have the real world, where he at least knows who the monster is. Even if the monster can change his shape, he’s still the same.
He is lying on the floor, pillows under his head; Nathan is looking down at him, his elbows braced on his knees. “You, uh, you okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” Charles replies, sitting up, slowly. “Still a little dizzy.” Concern flickers in Nathan’s eyes, and Charles adds, “It’s nothing to worry about.” He rests against the couch, slumping a little, still on the floor, his legs stretched out in front of him.
“How was it?” Nathan asks after a moment.
Charles pauses. “It was, ah. Interesting.”
“Good?”
“Well. It’s better than the pain, at least. So that’s something.”
“Better than sleeping?”
“It was this time. Next time things might be a little more complicated. You can never tell.”
“Yeah.” After a moment, he asks, “How do you feel now?”
“I feel … fine. There’s still pain, but it’s, ah, bearable. I don’t feel much like moving.” He closes his eyes, breathes in and out.
“You look relaxed. You never look like this.”
“Well,” he says again, but doesn’t add anything to it. Nathan’s hand rests on his shoulder, and Charles breathes again. In. Out.
He flinches away at first when he feels Nathan’s hand on his face, under his chin, inclining his head back. He opens his eyes, not surprised that Nathan is staring at him. The patch is still covering Charles’ eye, and though he’s mostly gotten used to it, it’s annoying to have to crane his head back that much farther to look up at Nathan. He gives up after a moment, contenting himself with closing his eyes again while Nathan moves his fingers across his skin.
He has to look up when Nathan starts moving, shifting around on the couch. As Nathan helps him up onto the couch, Charles realizes just how awkward the singer’s movements are in the absence of the normal pushing and shoving and pulling that happens when they’re alone together. That grace is gone when he has to use some degree of gentleness.
Charles minds his elbow, still tightly wrapped, as Nathan unbuttons his shirt, for once bothering to undo all the buttons instead of getting halfway through and then just ripping his shirt open the rest of the way. He’s sitting between Nathan’s knees, hands all over, short fingernails dragged lightly across his stomach, then harder, leaving little white trails behind that turn quickly to red. Charles hisses a little through his teeth, inhaling sharply, mostly for show, letting Nathan know yes that’s right without having to say it and risk sounding like a terrible porn video.
Nathan has gotten good at teasing, and sometimes Charles regrets it. For months, it was quick; he’d find himself shoved forward, stomach flat on the nearest surface, bent over desks and beds and couches, no other word for it but brutal. Also satisfying. Charles hardly knew what to do with those first attempts at foreplay that came out of nowhere, apropos of nothing, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. Not then. But it’s driving him insane at the moment, in a way that he’s sure Nathan is not aiming for. Not that he’s doing anything wrong.
Not at all. Tongue lapping at his neck, teeth sharp and biting into his skin. Fingers on his cock, hardly any pressure. Slow.
Nothing wrong. But Charles wants it over. The thought doesn’t leave his mind even as Nathan adds more pressure, as his strokes get longer, smoother, as Charles feels the tension building, a knot forming in his groin. He wants it over.
He comes, small noises in the back of his throat, and he is relieved. Tension released. Moving along.
“Look,” Nathan says. Time has passed-if he had his watch on, he’d check it-and he’s close to falling asleep, weighing whether tonight was worthwhile in his mind. Nathan pauses, and continues, “Aren’t you afraid?”
He’s talking about the fact that the assassin got away, but the way he says it, it seems like there’s something else there. “Yes,” he says after a moment, “he’s. Slippery.” That’s a good word for him. “Are you afraid?”
“I never used to be.”
“Hm.” The statement is laced with anxiety, and Charles feels he can pinpoint the exact moment when Nathan became afraid.
“Do you remember anything?” Nathan asks.
“Not from before I-” He stops, abrupt. He doesn’t want to call it a coma, even though it was all over the medical charts. “Not really. I remember things from when I was, ah. Under. But it’s like remembering a dream. It’s all bits and pieces.”
“What do you remember? From then?”
The “bits and pieces” bit was actually a lie. There is a lot Charles remembers with a great deal of clarity that he really would rather not talk to Nathan about. There are the gray monsters, hiding on the edges of his vision, monsters that turned out not to be nearly as frightening as they seemed. There are the bones, ribcages with messages where the heart would have been in a living thing. The fog and the mirrors, and a stillness like the kind that comes in sleep, sleep so deep people used to mistake it for death. There is music, soft and calm, a kind of blandness that would normally have made him turn it off.
He found the CD of classical guitar music. It exists. It was in the bottom drawer of his desk, buried under papers. He hadn’t seen it since he’d put it in a box in the closet of his bedroom, something he hadn’t wanted to throw away but that he thought about so infrequently that he hadn’t really missed it.
He had wanted badly not to find it. The thought of things filtering in disturbs him because there’s no way for him to know what filtered in and what was a product of his own mind, spinning a world in the absence of any to process.
And to be frank, the thought of Nathan fucking his unconscious body is enough to turn his stomach.
“Nothing,” he replies. “Nothing significant. It’s all shadows and symbolism.”
He minds his elbow as he stands up and straightens his clothing. As he walks through the hallways he has to remind himself that there is nothing there with him.
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Nathan/Ofdensen.
Rating: R.
Warning(s): Handjobs, unsatisfying sex (I think this is a recurring theme).
Word Count: 1250
Author Notes: This is a follow up to Reification, a story I posted a few weeks ago. Maybe you would like to read that first? Hell, I don't know. The stuff Ofdensen is smoking here is salvia divinorum plus a little creative license. A little bit cross-posted.
Summary: Apropos of nothing.
Gravity is pulling him down, pulling him in. Too much, too much ... what? Too much movement, motionless on the floor, and there is a voice but he can't fixate on the words it's saying, only hears an anchor.
"Oh, this is ... I'm, ah, moving. Does that make sense? That doesn't make any sense." More words. The rain tapping on the windows is in here too, running over his skin, gentle and cool, like. Like a caress. Leaving nothing behind but a memory in the smoke hanging in the air above him.
His elbow is still healing, still wrapped, and the stitches have become scars, pink-white lines and points forming supplementary angles. The pain is distant now, filtered through a haze of smoke and rain. Still there, coloring the edges of his perception.
It doesn’t last, not long. Not nearly long enough. Fades like the tide rolling out.
The oxycontin got tiresome after a few days, because he can’t stand the pain but he doesn’t want to sleep anymore, he spent weeks sleeping and it was too long, it was terrifying. He’d rather have the real world, where he at least knows who the monster is. Even if the monster can change his shape, he’s still the same.
He is lying on the floor, pillows under his head; Nathan is looking down at him, his elbows braced on his knees. “You, uh, you okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” Charles replies, sitting up, slowly. “Still a little dizzy.” Concern flickers in Nathan’s eyes, and Charles adds, “It’s nothing to worry about.” He rests against the couch, slumping a little, still on the floor, his legs stretched out in front of him.
“How was it?” Nathan asks after a moment.
Charles pauses. “It was, ah. Interesting.”
“Good?”
“Well. It’s better than the pain, at least. So that’s something.”
“Better than sleeping?”
“It was this time. Next time things might be a little more complicated. You can never tell.”
“Yeah.” After a moment, he asks, “How do you feel now?”
“I feel … fine. There’s still pain, but it’s, ah, bearable. I don’t feel much like moving.” He closes his eyes, breathes in and out.
“You look relaxed. You never look like this.”
“Well,” he says again, but doesn’t add anything to it. Nathan’s hand rests on his shoulder, and Charles breathes again. In. Out.
He flinches away at first when he feels Nathan’s hand on his face, under his chin, inclining his head back. He opens his eyes, not surprised that Nathan is staring at him. The patch is still covering Charles’ eye, and though he’s mostly gotten used to it, it’s annoying to have to crane his head back that much farther to look up at Nathan. He gives up after a moment, contenting himself with closing his eyes again while Nathan moves his fingers across his skin.
He has to look up when Nathan starts moving, shifting around on the couch. As Nathan helps him up onto the couch, Charles realizes just how awkward the singer’s movements are in the absence of the normal pushing and shoving and pulling that happens when they’re alone together. That grace is gone when he has to use some degree of gentleness.
Charles minds his elbow, still tightly wrapped, as Nathan unbuttons his shirt, for once bothering to undo all the buttons instead of getting halfway through and then just ripping his shirt open the rest of the way. He’s sitting between Nathan’s knees, hands all over, short fingernails dragged lightly across his stomach, then harder, leaving little white trails behind that turn quickly to red. Charles hisses a little through his teeth, inhaling sharply, mostly for show, letting Nathan know yes that’s right without having to say it and risk sounding like a terrible porn video.
Nathan has gotten good at teasing, and sometimes Charles regrets it. For months, it was quick; he’d find himself shoved forward, stomach flat on the nearest surface, bent over desks and beds and couches, no other word for it but brutal. Also satisfying. Charles hardly knew what to do with those first attempts at foreplay that came out of nowhere, apropos of nothing, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. Not then. But it’s driving him insane at the moment, in a way that he’s sure Nathan is not aiming for. Not that he’s doing anything wrong.
Not at all. Tongue lapping at his neck, teeth sharp and biting into his skin. Fingers on his cock, hardly any pressure. Slow.
Nothing wrong. But Charles wants it over. The thought doesn’t leave his mind even as Nathan adds more pressure, as his strokes get longer, smoother, as Charles feels the tension building, a knot forming in his groin. He wants it over.
He comes, small noises in the back of his throat, and he is relieved. Tension released. Moving along.
“Look,” Nathan says. Time has passed-if he had his watch on, he’d check it-and he’s close to falling asleep, weighing whether tonight was worthwhile in his mind. Nathan pauses, and continues, “Aren’t you afraid?”
He’s talking about the fact that the assassin got away, but the way he says it, it seems like there’s something else there. “Yes,” he says after a moment, “he’s. Slippery.” That’s a good word for him. “Are you afraid?”
“I never used to be.”
“Hm.” The statement is laced with anxiety, and Charles feels he can pinpoint the exact moment when Nathan became afraid.
“Do you remember anything?” Nathan asks.
“Not from before I-” He stops, abrupt. He doesn’t want to call it a coma, even though it was all over the medical charts. “Not really. I remember things from when I was, ah. Under. But it’s like remembering a dream. It’s all bits and pieces.”
“What do you remember? From then?”
The “bits and pieces” bit was actually a lie. There is a lot Charles remembers with a great deal of clarity that he really would rather not talk to Nathan about. There are the gray monsters, hiding on the edges of his vision, monsters that turned out not to be nearly as frightening as they seemed. There are the bones, ribcages with messages where the heart would have been in a living thing. The fog and the mirrors, and a stillness like the kind that comes in sleep, sleep so deep people used to mistake it for death. There is music, soft and calm, a kind of blandness that would normally have made him turn it off.
He found the CD of classical guitar music. It exists. It was in the bottom drawer of his desk, buried under papers. He hadn’t seen it since he’d put it in a box in the closet of his bedroom, something he hadn’t wanted to throw away but that he thought about so infrequently that he hadn’t really missed it.
He had wanted badly not to find it. The thought of things filtering in disturbs him because there’s no way for him to know what filtered in and what was a product of his own mind, spinning a world in the absence of any to process.
And to be frank, the thought of Nathan fucking his unconscious body is enough to turn his stomach.
“Nothing,” he replies. “Nothing significant. It’s all shadows and symbolism.”
He minds his elbow as he stands up and straightens his clothing. As he walks through the hallways he has to remind himself that there is nothing there with him.