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fellowshippers2005-04-08 09:21 pm
crimsonsenya.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2005-04-08 09:21 pm
FIC: Not Quite a Masterpiece (1/1) V/O
Title: Not Quite a Masterpiece
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
crimsonsenya
Beta:uppacrick (Sunshine and champagne for you!)
Genre: RPS
Pairing: V/O & O/V
Rating: R/NC17
Warnings: m/m sex, weirdness
Summary: Slashy emotional imagery and abstraction in the lives of my favourite lovers.
A/N: The parts in italics are quotes from Oscar Wilde’s The Portrait of Dorian Gray.
This one is dedicated to my darlingblueluthien, my dear elfinobsession and my love romika.
Disclaimer: Lies, lies. No harm inteded, no profit gained.
*********************************
The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul.
When Dorian Gray saw his portrait, he wished he himself would always remain unmarred from pleasures and passions, that the picture would degrade and taint instead. In the end, he offered his soul to acquire an unblemished, angelic visage to cover his heart, which liked to worship itself more than anything else. The Picture of Dorian Gray is one of the few novels you have ever read entirely. You did it as an unnecessary preparation for Wilde. The story intrigues you to no end.
“If Dorian had been smarter, he could have toyed with the world as he pleased,” you once told me, petulant as a child. “He was too weak. The portrait wasn’t his enemy. It should have been his best friend, and he would have truly gained everything he desired…”
I have learned to associate you with shadows and streetlights, stars, incense and scented candles. Nowadays, we only see each other in the night when the last afterparties have ended and even the most persistent paparazzi have gone home to sleep. I never stay up waiting for you; you come in with your own key. Sometimes, I’m still awake, painting in the studio; sometimes, I’m sleeping in the couch, because I have been too lazy to stride in the bedroom. I don’t wear any underwear with my jeans anymore. That way it is faster and easier for me to undress after your tentative hands disturb my slumber, turning my dreams into white-hot reality.
I have framed a publicity shot of you on the studio wall, right above the old oak table where I keep my tubes, paints, and palette knives. It is the one with the glimmering ring dangling between your lips. There is another picture hanging above the metal sink in the back of the room where I wash my brushes, glancing every once in while at your laidback figure on a scarlet and golden brocade background. In the photograph, I can see a glimpse of what you struggle to hide, what you never admit, the unnamed yearning. It reminds me of an old art trick of painting the model’s face in two different halves that reflect the ancient duality of good and evil.
When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature.
Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had a strange feeling that Fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows.
No one could have foreseen that I would fall in love with you. You were equally flamboyant to everyone with your attention and affection. You made us all laugh and love, an elf of tickles and sunbeams, too much a boy with a soul too old, too confused to choose between cheese and peanut butter. But no matter what, I wanted to believe you kept a special corner for me in the maze of your heart. All the hours that you spent peering at me, enthralled, when I wrote down in my notebook poems that –I didn’t realize at the time– were meant for you. I had promised myself not to write about love, but little did I know. And me, taping Polaroids of you in the mirror of the trailer with the lame excuse that you made an excellent model, without noticing that I was carving you permanently in my mind. Then our ways parted, but each time when I met you again, something changed, as trees grow more leaves every spring.
We desired each other.
You had been with many others, but I didn’t care. There was a smile reserved only for me, and your arm lingered under my jacket or over my shoulder unlike with anyone else. The others, they were always taking from you, peeling away your layers to fill themselves. Underneath your radiant beauty there was a dark emptiness where the leeches had sucked out your soul.
You asked me to go out with you.
“Let’s have a wild night to remember –like back then”
Too much booze, half-naked women, fiercely pounding music, smoke and neon lights. Right before the dawn, we crawled back to the hotel and you slumped on the steps and cried. I pulled you on my lap and cradled you like a baby, and like a baby I put you to sleep. Fifteen minutes later you knocked on my door, and I let you in. I had you already on your back on the bed, ready to spread you wide, but you slipped up against the headboard. Your narrowed, almost black eyes bore down on me.
“Do you want to be special?” Husky and seducing, but still it was a whisper in the dark, and there was only one possible answer for me to give.
****************************************
Pulsing, throbbing and thrusting, but suddenly you stop, steel hard and vicious. I ache for you to go on, bucking my hips to urge you to move, but your surprisingly strong fingers hold me down.
“I saw the photographs where you were with him. You thought I wouldn’t notice. You want him, don’t you? Maybe, I should just leave you here and never come back.” He smiles, as cruelly as a child can, but no less beguilingly. His words are madness. He knows as well as I do that there won’t be any others, that there never was before him. But this is a game he plays, a game that ends up with him claiming me, and I will plead and yearn, and he will hold back until the pleasure of fulfilment becomes excruciating.
We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then, but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful.
I change fresh sheets every week. No ordinary cotton, but the sheets are cool satin, too chilly to sleep in alone. No hideous prints either: only sinfully delicious colours, burgundy, copper, dark plum, and carmine. The whole spectrum of red as rich and caressing as the ruby wine I pour in our glasses. My shaking hands miss your glass and drops of liquor run down on the back of your hand leaving red traces on their way. Before I can think, I kneel by the armchair. My lips touch your skin; my tongue laves away the stains and swirls around your long fingers. When I suck the underside of your wrist too eagerly, you yank me back by my hair. The column of my throat is exposed to your gaze, and I shiver. You pop out the upper button of my shirt and rip the fabric aside to plunge down on the soft flesh at the juncture of my neck. You bite me hard, your demanding knee urging my thighs apart, as my shoulder blades hit the oriental carpet. The next time I miss your glass on purpose.
As confidently as you filled my veins and invaded my dreams, you also invaded my art. I saw you in every curve, line and swirl of my paintings, in every letter and metaphor of my poems. You were the sizzling energy and turbulent creativity that made people gasp for air in the galleries. After our first night together even more so, until the point, where it was not possible to separate inspiration and you. The day I lose you, I will cease to be an artist.
You say to me that I am your soul, and I know that is the reason I exist.
And I will create and I will let all the beauty of the universe and nature stream through me to the canvas and paper, knowing that this is how you will see the world. Every morning when I wake up, I either continue what I was working on in the studio when I was still expecting you, or I wander out on the streets, looking for the best spot to write down words your body has conjured in the night.
You twisted and knotted my soul into yours, until I found it impossible to breath, lest your scent surrounded me.
There you are again on the red carpet, you little sun god, blinding everyone. They swirl around you like water to a drain, and your eyes glisten and flicker, your finely curved lips part and you show them, how fast you have learned to speak their language. You little sphinx, you whisper your riddles in your desert where I roam, leaving my footprints over the dunes to be swept away by the winds that defile you. Or maybe, you are not sand, but virgin white snow that hides the dark soil and the brown leaves fallen on the ground. My feet dig holes in the surface that will never be quite covered and hidden by the snow again.
You wear your new muscles like armour, yet, you are leaner than me and you will always be. My body will fit around yours, and my limbs will embrace you like wings when you lay spent upon me, after spilling yourself inside me. Sometimes, you cry, but you latch your mouth against my nipple to muffle the sounds, as I sometimes bite your wrist to keep screaming with lust when you take me. The purple marks will stay hidden under your wristwatch. I’m sure the bruises hurt, but you never complain. You need the pain as you need me, intrinsically.
When your body stops shaking, you always let me close. We entwine our legs, the sheets snake around us, and we crawl under each other’s skin, yet we can’t quite get close enough. My fingers tangle in the silky curls on the back of your neck and my other hand frantically explores your body –your back, your waist and hip, the curve of your bottom. My fingers glide in your cleft, touching tender flesh, slipping under your thigh, to bend and lift it over my hip. Our aligned cocks are twitching again. Our mouths are together, hot and demanding. Your tongue is inside of me, and we love.
We love each other. You say it to me at the exact time when I would have chosen to declare my love for you.
“I never want this to end.” And if you say so, it won’t. Reality is what you believe, isn’t that what you always keep telling me?
And it is my turn to take over, and your kingdom is reduced to ashes, because I make you burn by entering you without asking permission. What is mine is mine. There will be nothing in between. Your body seems so fragile when it lies underneath me. Your limbs are enticingly apart on the crimson sheets. You are dark and beautiful, a wild creature of fevered jungles. The rush I feel every time you open up for me is intoxicating. I look at the joining of our bodies, knowing my place is within you, as the only home you will ever have is inside of me. If I rest my palms on the bed beside your shoulders, I become your whole world. All you will ever want to see is me and my pupils, the mirrors of your need, desire and liberation.
Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray what, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful portrait. He would seek to dominate him –had already, indeed, half done so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There was something fascinating in this son of Love and Death.
Breathing in, breathing out, in unison.
I’m waiting for you to move in me, anticipation crashing into my nerves, swirling on my skin. The water sprays over me, the drops slide down your smooth chest and sun-kissed back. It is a shower of innocence, washing away fear and time. Your fingers twine in the hair on my chest, your lips touch the nape of my neck. Skin slippery against skin, you hum quietly, and I feel like laughing with joy. In these moments, we understand happiness. But nothing is more fleeting than felicity. Therefore, we always taste the bitterness of grief too, for the gods envy those who love forever.
We paint your portrait every night we lay together. It is the picture of Dorian Gray, the true Orlando they never see, the one who suffers from the decay, the cold hearts, the jealous eyes, the sharp, poison laden tongues, the mouths that smile only to twist into hard greedy lines. The canvas is on my skin; a fistful of my hair is your brush. You draw the strokes with a firm hand, filling the blank space with the colour of dreams and ambition, fate and necessity, dread and adoration. I am your painting. I exist so you can live. You live as long as I let you, and we balance on the trapeze eternally, as two acrobats involved in their dangerous play with destruction and bliss. Finally, you start moving, and soon, there will be nothing but the two of us.
The End
Author:
crimsonsenyaBeta:
uppacrick (Sunshine and champagne for you!)Genre: RPS
Pairing: V/O & O/V
Rating: R/NC17
Warnings: m/m sex, weirdness
Summary: Slashy emotional imagery and abstraction in the lives of my favourite lovers.
A/N: The parts in italics are quotes from Oscar Wilde’s The Portrait of Dorian Gray.
This one is dedicated to my darling
blueluthien, my dear elfinobsession and my love romika. Disclaimer: Lies, lies. No harm inteded, no profit gained.
*********************************
The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul.
When Dorian Gray saw his portrait, he wished he himself would always remain unmarred from pleasures and passions, that the picture would degrade and taint instead. In the end, he offered his soul to acquire an unblemished, angelic visage to cover his heart, which liked to worship itself more than anything else. The Picture of Dorian Gray is one of the few novels you have ever read entirely. You did it as an unnecessary preparation for Wilde. The story intrigues you to no end.
“If Dorian had been smarter, he could have toyed with the world as he pleased,” you once told me, petulant as a child. “He was too weak. The portrait wasn’t his enemy. It should have been his best friend, and he would have truly gained everything he desired…”
I have learned to associate you with shadows and streetlights, stars, incense and scented candles. Nowadays, we only see each other in the night when the last afterparties have ended and even the most persistent paparazzi have gone home to sleep. I never stay up waiting for you; you come in with your own key. Sometimes, I’m still awake, painting in the studio; sometimes, I’m sleeping in the couch, because I have been too lazy to stride in the bedroom. I don’t wear any underwear with my jeans anymore. That way it is faster and easier for me to undress after your tentative hands disturb my slumber, turning my dreams into white-hot reality.
I have framed a publicity shot of you on the studio wall, right above the old oak table where I keep my tubes, paints, and palette knives. It is the one with the glimmering ring dangling between your lips. There is another picture hanging above the metal sink in the back of the room where I wash my brushes, glancing every once in while at your laidback figure on a scarlet and golden brocade background. In the photograph, I can see a glimpse of what you struggle to hide, what you never admit, the unnamed yearning. It reminds me of an old art trick of painting the model’s face in two different halves that reflect the ancient duality of good and evil.
When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature.
Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had a strange feeling that Fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows.
No one could have foreseen that I would fall in love with you. You were equally flamboyant to everyone with your attention and affection. You made us all laugh and love, an elf of tickles and sunbeams, too much a boy with a soul too old, too confused to choose between cheese and peanut butter. But no matter what, I wanted to believe you kept a special corner for me in the maze of your heart. All the hours that you spent peering at me, enthralled, when I wrote down in my notebook poems that –I didn’t realize at the time– were meant for you. I had promised myself not to write about love, but little did I know. And me, taping Polaroids of you in the mirror of the trailer with the lame excuse that you made an excellent model, without noticing that I was carving you permanently in my mind. Then our ways parted, but each time when I met you again, something changed, as trees grow more leaves every spring.
We desired each other.
You had been with many others, but I didn’t care. There was a smile reserved only for me, and your arm lingered under my jacket or over my shoulder unlike with anyone else. The others, they were always taking from you, peeling away your layers to fill themselves. Underneath your radiant beauty there was a dark emptiness where the leeches had sucked out your soul.
You asked me to go out with you.
“Let’s have a wild night to remember –like back then”
Too much booze, half-naked women, fiercely pounding music, smoke and neon lights. Right before the dawn, we crawled back to the hotel and you slumped on the steps and cried. I pulled you on my lap and cradled you like a baby, and like a baby I put you to sleep. Fifteen minutes later you knocked on my door, and I let you in. I had you already on your back on the bed, ready to spread you wide, but you slipped up against the headboard. Your narrowed, almost black eyes bore down on me.
“Do you want to be special?” Husky and seducing, but still it was a whisper in the dark, and there was only one possible answer for me to give.
****************************************
Pulsing, throbbing and thrusting, but suddenly you stop, steel hard and vicious. I ache for you to go on, bucking my hips to urge you to move, but your surprisingly strong fingers hold me down.
“I saw the photographs where you were with him. You thought I wouldn’t notice. You want him, don’t you? Maybe, I should just leave you here and never come back.” He smiles, as cruelly as a child can, but no less beguilingly. His words are madness. He knows as well as I do that there won’t be any others, that there never was before him. But this is a game he plays, a game that ends up with him claiming me, and I will plead and yearn, and he will hold back until the pleasure of fulfilment becomes excruciating.
We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then, but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful.
I change fresh sheets every week. No ordinary cotton, but the sheets are cool satin, too chilly to sleep in alone. No hideous prints either: only sinfully delicious colours, burgundy, copper, dark plum, and carmine. The whole spectrum of red as rich and caressing as the ruby wine I pour in our glasses. My shaking hands miss your glass and drops of liquor run down on the back of your hand leaving red traces on their way. Before I can think, I kneel by the armchair. My lips touch your skin; my tongue laves away the stains and swirls around your long fingers. When I suck the underside of your wrist too eagerly, you yank me back by my hair. The column of my throat is exposed to your gaze, and I shiver. You pop out the upper button of my shirt and rip the fabric aside to plunge down on the soft flesh at the juncture of my neck. You bite me hard, your demanding knee urging my thighs apart, as my shoulder blades hit the oriental carpet. The next time I miss your glass on purpose.
As confidently as you filled my veins and invaded my dreams, you also invaded my art. I saw you in every curve, line and swirl of my paintings, in every letter and metaphor of my poems. You were the sizzling energy and turbulent creativity that made people gasp for air in the galleries. After our first night together even more so, until the point, where it was not possible to separate inspiration and you. The day I lose you, I will cease to be an artist.
You say to me that I am your soul, and I know that is the reason I exist.
And I will create and I will let all the beauty of the universe and nature stream through me to the canvas and paper, knowing that this is how you will see the world. Every morning when I wake up, I either continue what I was working on in the studio when I was still expecting you, or I wander out on the streets, looking for the best spot to write down words your body has conjured in the night.
You twisted and knotted my soul into yours, until I found it impossible to breath, lest your scent surrounded me.
There you are again on the red carpet, you little sun god, blinding everyone. They swirl around you like water to a drain, and your eyes glisten and flicker, your finely curved lips part and you show them, how fast you have learned to speak their language. You little sphinx, you whisper your riddles in your desert where I roam, leaving my footprints over the dunes to be swept away by the winds that defile you. Or maybe, you are not sand, but virgin white snow that hides the dark soil and the brown leaves fallen on the ground. My feet dig holes in the surface that will never be quite covered and hidden by the snow again.
You wear your new muscles like armour, yet, you are leaner than me and you will always be. My body will fit around yours, and my limbs will embrace you like wings when you lay spent upon me, after spilling yourself inside me. Sometimes, you cry, but you latch your mouth against my nipple to muffle the sounds, as I sometimes bite your wrist to keep screaming with lust when you take me. The purple marks will stay hidden under your wristwatch. I’m sure the bruises hurt, but you never complain. You need the pain as you need me, intrinsically.
When your body stops shaking, you always let me close. We entwine our legs, the sheets snake around us, and we crawl under each other’s skin, yet we can’t quite get close enough. My fingers tangle in the silky curls on the back of your neck and my other hand frantically explores your body –your back, your waist and hip, the curve of your bottom. My fingers glide in your cleft, touching tender flesh, slipping under your thigh, to bend and lift it over my hip. Our aligned cocks are twitching again. Our mouths are together, hot and demanding. Your tongue is inside of me, and we love.
We love each other. You say it to me at the exact time when I would have chosen to declare my love for you.
“I never want this to end.” And if you say so, it won’t. Reality is what you believe, isn’t that what you always keep telling me?
And it is my turn to take over, and your kingdom is reduced to ashes, because I make you burn by entering you without asking permission. What is mine is mine. There will be nothing in between. Your body seems so fragile when it lies underneath me. Your limbs are enticingly apart on the crimson sheets. You are dark and beautiful, a wild creature of fevered jungles. The rush I feel every time you open up for me is intoxicating. I look at the joining of our bodies, knowing my place is within you, as the only home you will ever have is inside of me. If I rest my palms on the bed beside your shoulders, I become your whole world. All you will ever want to see is me and my pupils, the mirrors of your need, desire and liberation.
Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray what, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful portrait. He would seek to dominate him –had already, indeed, half done so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There was something fascinating in this son of Love and Death.
Breathing in, breathing out, in unison.
I’m waiting for you to move in me, anticipation crashing into my nerves, swirling on my skin. The water sprays over me, the drops slide down your smooth chest and sun-kissed back. It is a shower of innocence, washing away fear and time. Your fingers twine in the hair on my chest, your lips touch the nape of my neck. Skin slippery against skin, you hum quietly, and I feel like laughing with joy. In these moments, we understand happiness. But nothing is more fleeting than felicity. Therefore, we always taste the bitterness of grief too, for the gods envy those who love forever.
We paint your portrait every night we lay together. It is the picture of Dorian Gray, the true Orlando they never see, the one who suffers from the decay, the cold hearts, the jealous eyes, the sharp, poison laden tongues, the mouths that smile only to twist into hard greedy lines. The canvas is on my skin; a fistful of my hair is your brush. You draw the strokes with a firm hand, filling the blank space with the colour of dreams and ambition, fate and necessity, dread and adoration. I am your painting. I exist so you can live. You live as long as I let you, and we balance on the trapeze eternally, as two acrobats involved in their dangerous play with destruction and bliss. Finally, you start moving, and soon, there will be nothing but the two of us.
The End
no subject
Like being given a glimpse into the center of their souls.
Thank you for sharing this!
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no subject
Very nice!
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wow.
so intense and beautiful.
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no subject
I love Oscar Wilde and this was great take on some of his musings!
I loved it, loved it, loved it!!
<3333