Mrfle?
I need to do this again...
Comment with a character, pairing, and/or prompt, and I will write anything from a few lines to a ficlet in a comment right back at you. Today's round is PGSM only, as that's what's on my brain.
Braaaaaiiiin.
Ahem.
I think for the moment that writerly resolution will simply have to be "write or seriously edit ( Read more... )
Comment with a character, pairing, and/or prompt, and I will write anything from a few lines to a ficlet in a comment right back at you. Today's round is PGSM only, as that's what's on my brain.
Braaaaaiiiin.
Ahem.
I think for the moment that writerly resolution will simply have to be "write or seriously edit ( Read more... )
The summer days ran long. To the window; back. The sea roaring in the back of his mind. His eyes filled with light as he drew a glass of water from the sink, another, made dinner, instant, sat in the living room, long in silence. He knew not who he was; he drifted.
At night he felt himself walking a little differently, and though by day he was afraid of dark rooms, at night he was not, and strode about with no lights on feeling daring. He slept and wake with no pattern, got headaches, got better, bathed at least once a day because he liked the smoothness of his own skin, the softness of his hair. There was no calendar; sometimes he tallied days with a pencil on the wall.
In the darkest times of night, he might hear music, surging soft and echoing off the walls. Hearing it felt peculiar, like a leaf in his heart was unfolding to the scalding sun. It was familiar, but terrified him without reason.
He lay awake one night to the music, curled naked under his sheets with his arms wrapped round his knees, and the music brought, he knew, though he knew not how, a man, made of coiled white light like a ghost. The music ran under his skin; the music moved his arms.
The man wore white, and had white hair thick as tall grass under his hands, and had a beautiful face for him to draw his fingers over in bewilderment, and was as equally familiar and terrifying as the music. He knelt naked on the bed as he stood over him, white-gloved hand on his head, and had odd, stray thoughts--I should have longer hair, he should be where I am--that made no sense to him.
His heart leapt with something like love, maybe, when those gloved hands held his face still and those pale soft lips closed over his.
He had never had sex before, that he'd known of, but it seemed to come to him easily as the man laid him out, and it seemed perfectly natural that he could spin white silk out of the air, bind his arms spread wide to the bedposts. His skin shuddered under his hands, never touched before.
It hurt, though, when he entered him, and the man looked down at him with cool gray eyes and murmured, you never liked this, did you?
Do I know you?
No. Poor little shadow. You're the shadow, he thought, as he flickered with the music, but he was solid, terribly solid, driving into him, holding him down. I think I'll be gentle with you after all. What, he thought, had he planned otherwise? But he could not find voice, and eventually the man clamped one hand, now bare, over his mouth.
At the moment of orgasm, he had the oddly distinct thought that this was somehow for revenge; but he didn't know him.
He shook with emotion, though what he didn't not know, as the man vanished in a flicker, and in the morning, remembered it only as a dream.
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