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Teneo
Moon
- Joined
- Sep 1, 2011
I was looking for a place to stick my sample posts that wouldn't clutter up my request thread. My request thread is pretty bare but nevertheless.
These were produced for role plays, which I took up again this summer. I haven't done this kind of thing in a good long time and I'm a science student, so forgive me if my writing is bad and pretentious.
(Warning, almost none of these are sexual. Unless you find really odd things sexy, like soy beans and baseball and inanimate carbon rods. Prepare to be bored.)
Fan Based Material
This first was an audition for a Final Fantasy role play. It wasn't much more than a shot at dialogue and trying to develop an image as a metaphor. I didn't remember much about Final Fantasy 7 but I recalled a similar scene already being in it.
And that lead to an intro for a re-write of Final Fantasy 9. My writing partner never responded and that suited me fine. The idea of a full rewrite would have been good exercise but at some point it would have just been an exercise. Here the cast has been replaced, starting with Zidane, replaced by someone called Tisze.
I don't remember if the ending line of both of them having the same shape was deliberate or not.
Original Prompts
This first one related to writing a story about a semi-divine entity chained to a mortal, which sounds dumb and probably is but I just took a shot at it. The setting was never flushed out as again, (the partner lost interest immediately) but I liked some of the phrases I had like the Red Nevers.
I think I tried to be too funny here. Humor, effective humor is hard and I think I was trying to compensate for silly scale of the character.
Another partner had an idea about a male on male story. I wrote it around the same time I did the Fan prompts but was disappointing when my partner was clearly geared to a mundanely silly approach to things. Expecting me to read their mind about these things was what really put me off writing it.
Fair warning, this one does include a bit of sex. Mainly it's about a selfish and self-absorbed teenager masturbating in the woods.
Setting Prompts
So the girlfriend was the one that got me into this. She was running an Exalted game... Tabletop RPG, you're not missing anything... and wanted help putting a setting together. I offered her a character from a game I'd played with my campus group and she promptly wrote an introduction to her game where he was tentacle raped.
This is why I can't have nice things. That's okay, she's hot and bloodthirsty and majors in hard science and I forgive her these things.
She had an idea for the location, a backdrop where the protagonists could meet but asked me to flush it out since I knew Exalted fairly well. The heroes are demi-gods involved in world spanning adventures and are big in every way, so I thought to get a ground eye view of their world might help the other players appreciate the little lives they often destroyed as they sought power in the world.
There was more information about the local economy and geography (economics my focus in University) but that isn't important.
These were produced for role plays, which I took up again this summer. I haven't done this kind of thing in a good long time and I'm a science student, so forgive me if my writing is bad and pretentious.
(Warning, almost none of these are sexual. Unless you find really odd things sexy, like soy beans and baseball and inanimate carbon rods. Prepare to be bored.)
Fan Based Material
This first was an audition for a Final Fantasy role play. It wasn't much more than a shot at dialogue and trying to develop an image as a metaphor. I didn't remember much about Final Fantasy 7 but I recalled a similar scene already being in it.
The town of Nibelheim slept, but the night dreamed. Above the rooftops turned a sea of light that no torch or streetlamp had the power to mute. The shape of a small girl crept along to the tall wooden structure that played sentry to the town square. It would creak and moan in a bad storm but did so only because the great steel cylinder bucket had twisted it over the course of decades and would continue to do so. Her house-shoes whispered on paving stones and she laid a hand against the grains and wondered at the strength of stolid trees that had made the water tower stand so tall. She was, early after all and it was a night for wondering.
Those trees had stood a hundred years through storms and droughts and dreaming nights. Those trees had risen because generations of trees and the forests they made up had stood the same way. The wood that had daunted hurricanes was dead, yet potent still. And at the impossible height of thirty feel could carry carry her high enough to sprawl on her back and see nothing but the dreaming sea and feel nothing but fickle breezes and warm planks. Magic, at least for those few that can see it clearly, was everywhere. As a child, she could feel it in the grains and it made her smile.
She climbed.
As she climbed she looked up into the starlight and the play of cold blues and eerie greens in the spaces above. Trails might have been wisps of clouds or distant, heavenly storms with their own strange songs and thunder. There was magic there too and she saw that. She reached out for the top planks to pull herself up and off the ladder over the gap which any grown-up could have just stepped over.
She slipped. Teetering out into space, one foot still hooked into the rungs, her head was swinging down and she would crash to a very mundane earth. She saw it and almost screamed before her arm was caught and her descent halted. Another hand clamped around her wrist and hauled her up to the planks with a grunt. Friends showing up at the right moment has a bit of magic too.
Her rescuer smiled with most of his teeth. She smiled back disarmingly, then punched him in the gut. He coughed and folded onto the planks. It felt so good she kept doing it. She punched him until she was breathless and he was curled into a ball...and laughing. He was a boy, and reasonably strong for his age. Had she wished to hurt him she could, she knew where but it she was only making a point.
He was damned nearly breathless himself."Ow." he offered.
She fixed him with a stern look that did no better than her fits. "Yes. You earned it. Idiot."
"Girls." He rolled his eyes. "You're all crazy. And mean. And-"
"You were going to scare me. That's why you're here already."
He blinked...then grinned. He'd forgotten that part already. "Ah...yeah...I guess I did earn that."
She smiled and nodded her head deliberately. So There.
Somewhere behind the boy's face wheels turned. It was comic on him, his face was as round as hers and equally unsuited to scowls or the frowns that accompanied concentration. "Wait, that's why you're here."
She grinned this time, and he lunged for her ankle. She spun away, back to the metal cylinder and hesitated. He was still on the ground on his belly and was quite slow to make his next move. It was another lunge and for ankles, again. She stepped over it and turned, flopping down on him hard and soon had a skinny arm locked around his neck, a bony finger twisting into the top of his head.
He did not give in immediately, but he gave in.
They sat on the edge of the planks, legs kicking out over empty space. She glowed. He rubbed at his head, trying to wipe out the knot that wanted to form there.
She leaned back on the planks and closed her eyes. "I think I'll be famous."
"Oh? For what?"
"I dunno. Do you have to be famous for something?"
"Sure. That's what being famous means. Everyone remembers your name because you did something. Something big or new or whatever. You could go slay a few dragons..."
"...or play the piano?..."
"Or conquor the world or something. You'd be famous then."
She snorted. "You can't conquer the world. It's too big."
"Okay, but a lot of people play the piano. You'd have to be pretty good." He was getting serious.
"I think it would be easier to just kill all the competition." She offered. "I just have to hide the bodies under your bed. It's been working so far."
He snorted this time. "And my mom thinks the smell its just my socks."
"She's in on it. She figures a few years in prison might toughen you up and you wouldn't get beat up so much."
"Hey!" He stopped kicking his legs. "...I'll be strong one day."
It might even be true, she thought. He was already strong for a boy, but his hands were still soft and didn't have that dry, steely feel she associated with her father and the other men of her hometown. Perhaps he'd even be tall, but probably not. "Good," she said, "boys are supposed to be strong. And if you're not you'll have to move away and work in an office or something. You'll never be famous then."
He was quiet for a moment. "That's what I want to be when I grow-up. Strong."
"Strong enough to conquor the world and slay dragons and rescue pretty, pretty princesses?" She stared up at the stars. If you did that carefully enough you could see them move. It was spooky. It made her feel like she was adrift...or maybe like she could fly.
"Nope. What are you going to do with the world once you have it? Also I think you've got to marry the princesses after you rescue them."
She turned towards him and tried another stern look but he wasn't paying attention. "What's wrong with marrying a princess?"
"It's no fun. Happily ever after is just...you know, talk." He stretched. "Things never end neatly like in the stories. The world keeps turning and people keep doing things and the only thing that stays put is you." He lapsed into silence.
"And you'll be strong, alone?"
"No. I'll have friends I can be strong for, help, protect."
"But no princesses?" She smiled now.
"One princess, two at most." He said, seriously. "But they can marry princes or something. I'm only in it for the dragons."
"Only very young boys want to slay dragons." She prodded.
"Okay, I'll slay something else. Something big and scary."
"Like a water tower?"
He snorted and started laughing. She felt no pity for the boy, fatherless and often lonely but still whole and good. She pitied the man the boy might become though. When he said he would be strong, he meant it like the wooden planks. He thought he could be a tree, wandering free of its roots and roaming. He did not see himself as part of a forest, or part of a generation of forests. The planks were held up not by stern wood but vital generations of trees and forests.
Their wholeness and beauty in this place was not mere youth or innocence, but a welling spring made of a thousand drops of water, the love and courage and faith of parents and villages and neighbors and lovers and siblings. If you dried out a piece of wood it would be lighter, but very brittle. One did not build with such lumber, one merely burned it to keep warm when the nights were cold. When he was a man and felt himself strong, would he be a tree or just kindling?
Her heart whispered these things and she could not lay hands on them, only see her friend with the stars in his eyes and dreams in his head. She doubted and pitied, and doubted, but knew not why. She spoke again.
"When you're strong, I want you to do me a favor...even if you're far away and...we're not friends anymore."
"Sure." He did not blink or even look at her.
"Come save me if I'm trouble. Promise me you'll do that, just once?"
He smiled and nodded up at the stars. "I promise, when I'm big and strong, I'll come save you when you're in trouble. I won't forget."
"Good." She felt better. Even if he forgot, she could remind him. Maybe that would make the difference and keep him from becoming brittle.
Maybe, her heart wondered, promises can be magic too.
Those trees had stood a hundred years through storms and droughts and dreaming nights. Those trees had risen because generations of trees and the forests they made up had stood the same way. The wood that had daunted hurricanes was dead, yet potent still. And at the impossible height of thirty feel could carry carry her high enough to sprawl on her back and see nothing but the dreaming sea and feel nothing but fickle breezes and warm planks. Magic, at least for those few that can see it clearly, was everywhere. As a child, she could feel it in the grains and it made her smile.
She climbed.
As she climbed she looked up into the starlight and the play of cold blues and eerie greens in the spaces above. Trails might have been wisps of clouds or distant, heavenly storms with their own strange songs and thunder. There was magic there too and she saw that. She reached out for the top planks to pull herself up and off the ladder over the gap which any grown-up could have just stepped over.
She slipped. Teetering out into space, one foot still hooked into the rungs, her head was swinging down and she would crash to a very mundane earth. She saw it and almost screamed before her arm was caught and her descent halted. Another hand clamped around her wrist and hauled her up to the planks with a grunt. Friends showing up at the right moment has a bit of magic too.
Her rescuer smiled with most of his teeth. She smiled back disarmingly, then punched him in the gut. He coughed and folded onto the planks. It felt so good she kept doing it. She punched him until she was breathless and he was curled into a ball...and laughing. He was a boy, and reasonably strong for his age. Had she wished to hurt him she could, she knew where but it she was only making a point.
He was damned nearly breathless himself."Ow." he offered.
She fixed him with a stern look that did no better than her fits. "Yes. You earned it. Idiot."
"Girls." He rolled his eyes. "You're all crazy. And mean. And-"
"You were going to scare me. That's why you're here already."
He blinked...then grinned. He'd forgotten that part already. "Ah...yeah...I guess I did earn that."
She smiled and nodded her head deliberately. So There.
Somewhere behind the boy's face wheels turned. It was comic on him, his face was as round as hers and equally unsuited to scowls or the frowns that accompanied concentration. "Wait, that's why you're here."
She grinned this time, and he lunged for her ankle. She spun away, back to the metal cylinder and hesitated. He was still on the ground on his belly and was quite slow to make his next move. It was another lunge and for ankles, again. She stepped over it and turned, flopping down on him hard and soon had a skinny arm locked around his neck, a bony finger twisting into the top of his head.
He did not give in immediately, but he gave in.
They sat on the edge of the planks, legs kicking out over empty space. She glowed. He rubbed at his head, trying to wipe out the knot that wanted to form there.
She leaned back on the planks and closed her eyes. "I think I'll be famous."
"Oh? For what?"
"I dunno. Do you have to be famous for something?"
"Sure. That's what being famous means. Everyone remembers your name because you did something. Something big or new or whatever. You could go slay a few dragons..."
"...or play the piano?..."
"Or conquor the world or something. You'd be famous then."
She snorted. "You can't conquer the world. It's too big."
"Okay, but a lot of people play the piano. You'd have to be pretty good." He was getting serious.
"I think it would be easier to just kill all the competition." She offered. "I just have to hide the bodies under your bed. It's been working so far."
He snorted this time. "And my mom thinks the smell its just my socks."
"She's in on it. She figures a few years in prison might toughen you up and you wouldn't get beat up so much."
"Hey!" He stopped kicking his legs. "...I'll be strong one day."
It might even be true, she thought. He was already strong for a boy, but his hands were still soft and didn't have that dry, steely feel she associated with her father and the other men of her hometown. Perhaps he'd even be tall, but probably not. "Good," she said, "boys are supposed to be strong. And if you're not you'll have to move away and work in an office or something. You'll never be famous then."
He was quiet for a moment. "That's what I want to be when I grow-up. Strong."
"Strong enough to conquor the world and slay dragons and rescue pretty, pretty princesses?" She stared up at the stars. If you did that carefully enough you could see them move. It was spooky. It made her feel like she was adrift...or maybe like she could fly.
"Nope. What are you going to do with the world once you have it? Also I think you've got to marry the princesses after you rescue them."
She turned towards him and tried another stern look but he wasn't paying attention. "What's wrong with marrying a princess?"
"It's no fun. Happily ever after is just...you know, talk." He stretched. "Things never end neatly like in the stories. The world keeps turning and people keep doing things and the only thing that stays put is you." He lapsed into silence.
"And you'll be strong, alone?"
"No. I'll have friends I can be strong for, help, protect."
"But no princesses?" She smiled now.
"One princess, two at most." He said, seriously. "But they can marry princes or something. I'm only in it for the dragons."
"Only very young boys want to slay dragons." She prodded.
"Okay, I'll slay something else. Something big and scary."
"Like a water tower?"
He snorted and started laughing. She felt no pity for the boy, fatherless and often lonely but still whole and good. She pitied the man the boy might become though. When he said he would be strong, he meant it like the wooden planks. He thought he could be a tree, wandering free of its roots and roaming. He did not see himself as part of a forest, or part of a generation of forests. The planks were held up not by stern wood but vital generations of trees and forests.
Their wholeness and beauty in this place was not mere youth or innocence, but a welling spring made of a thousand drops of water, the love and courage and faith of parents and villages and neighbors and lovers and siblings. If you dried out a piece of wood it would be lighter, but very brittle. One did not build with such lumber, one merely burned it to keep warm when the nights were cold. When he was a man and felt himself strong, would he be a tree or just kindling?
Her heart whispered these things and she could not lay hands on them, only see her friend with the stars in his eyes and dreams in his head. She doubted and pitied, and doubted, but knew not why. She spoke again.
"When you're strong, I want you to do me a favor...even if you're far away and...we're not friends anymore."
"Sure." He did not blink or even look at her.
"Come save me if I'm trouble. Promise me you'll do that, just once?"
He smiled and nodded up at the stars. "I promise, when I'm big and strong, I'll come save you when you're in trouble. I won't forget."
"Good." She felt better. Even if he forgot, she could remind him. Maybe that would make the difference and keep him from becoming brittle.
Maybe, her heart wondered, promises can be magic too.
And that lead to an intro for a re-write of Final Fantasy 9. My writing partner never responded and that suited me fine. The idea of a full rewrite would have been good exercise but at some point it would have just been an exercise. Here the cast has been replaced, starting with Zidane, replaced by someone called Tisze.
The Theater ship was dark and still. It had been dark and still for hours. They had done the difficult job of navigating the the walls of the castle from the town-side approach to reach the audience seating. They had come early because they needed time. Time to see the town, time to drink and eat and play at the Card Game. Time to trade their lies for stories and stories for lies.
Mostly though, they needed time to plot.
Tisza crept down the ladder in the full dark. He did not mind it and knew each bit of debris in the hall like his own hands. In the dark he moved with smooth, rolling motions. He imagined himself to be not a boy but a man, a great man. Tall and lean, made to sit atop a horse and direct troops to victory after victory, only to retire and mend every widows heart he had broken with his charms. His jacket would be red with tails and his pants black as his eyes. His hat would be a great red hump adorned with feathers and tassels would drape his shoulders. In his mind's eye that man was in this hallway, slipping his immaculate boots over ropes and cups and mechanical protrusions that-
Tisza fell over a box and knocked two more over. The noise was thunderous.
When he had extracted himself he put a hand to his ear. He could have sworn he had heard a stifled sound, perhaps only in his head but perhaps...
Laughter?
Of course. He could not have tripped unless someone had placed a booby trap for him. Someone that believed themselves clever...Or at least this is what he told himself. Like most things people said, he only half believed it. He went back and felt for something he thought...Yes, it was here. He lit the candle in its holder and stood up to finish navigating the hall with its feeble light. Humility was something all great men needed, he reasoned, and he was now humbled.
Tisza was not humble though. He was a boy and believed he knew everything about the world he really needed to. There were details he was missing and a lot of places he meant to go but ultimately he did not expect to change except to become that man in the dark.
All young men are fools, but who else is there to become the men if not them? Which was not quite true. Here in Alexandria it was the custom for woman to serve as the generals and guardians of order. Even the Queen, fearsomely repugnant creature that she was, would be replaced by her Daughter. The celebration had much to do with the Princess Garnet but all he could learn of her was that she was a beauty, kind and wise beyond her years, which is what anyone would say of a Princess, particularly their own.
He pushed open a door and turned the elegant brass handle to slip it closed as near to silent as he could manage. He crossed the carpet, careful not to tip his candle in its holder lest it spill. It would have been sloppy. More to point, he would be told to clean it up. He approached the shelf he was looking for.
Tisza raised a small bottle from a rack and caught his reflection. He tried to narrow his eyes and stick out his jaw but it did not work. He was not tall and his features were not fine. They were bright and honest, not the narrow sterling lines of a gentlemen commander. He had tried to tie his hair back into a gentlemanly braid but he did not know how to braid anything except a frayed rope. His hair was really held back by a bit of rope and a great deal of tangles. It was the wrong color anyhow, not a dignified black or brown, or even auburn. His hair was jaunty red, something he considered more suited to a woman...or maybe a strawberry dessert.
Yet a rich man could have his hair dyed just as he could have his fingernails cleaned and trimmed. A rich man would have whatever he liked.
His fingers flicked and spun the bottle into the air. They caught it neatly and slipped it into his pocket. They did not resemble the clever fingers of some men and they might never lose that roughened quality brought on by his chores...but they were quick and obeyed him. He was oddly proud of his hands and body. It was not made of the lean angles of the gentlemen or the great bulges of a proper hero but it moved as quick as he liked it to. Quickness was a friend to him, as it would be any thief.
Luck and daring too, but mostly quickness. Just in case you needed to out-run those that begrudged you your prizes.
One day, when he made his fortune, he could abandon such things and retire to that gentlemanly state. There would be no cleaning or mending or washing or trivialities of work. There might even be Princesses for him there and his adventures would be undertaken for amusement and distraction rather than necessity.
He buffed his shirt and said "But dear boy, amusements and distractions are necessities." The accent was feigned but the words struck him. Maybe they even meant something. Perhaps he would find a use for them. Maybe a motto. Did this ship have one? He couldn't remember.
The placard for the ship was on the wall and he moved to read it but it was too hard. The bronze plate the words were too fine and surface too polished. All he could see was the large letters at the top, 'Prima Vista' and a mirror sharp reflection of the candle.
"Very useful, that." He said to himself, annoyed.
Tisza turned and raised the candle out of line of sight. He spotted a table, tall narrow thing, with a proper oil lamp on it. He turned up a bit of wick and lit it. Light filled the room and the door up the stairs was thrown open.
Lovely. Tisze thought to himself. An ambush.
Mostly though, they needed time to plot.
Tisza crept down the ladder in the full dark. He did not mind it and knew each bit of debris in the hall like his own hands. In the dark he moved with smooth, rolling motions. He imagined himself to be not a boy but a man, a great man. Tall and lean, made to sit atop a horse and direct troops to victory after victory, only to retire and mend every widows heart he had broken with his charms. His jacket would be red with tails and his pants black as his eyes. His hat would be a great red hump adorned with feathers and tassels would drape his shoulders. In his mind's eye that man was in this hallway, slipping his immaculate boots over ropes and cups and mechanical protrusions that-
Tisza fell over a box and knocked two more over. The noise was thunderous.
When he had extracted himself he put a hand to his ear. He could have sworn he had heard a stifled sound, perhaps only in his head but perhaps...
Laughter?
Of course. He could not have tripped unless someone had placed a booby trap for him. Someone that believed themselves clever...Or at least this is what he told himself. Like most things people said, he only half believed it. He went back and felt for something he thought...Yes, it was here. He lit the candle in its holder and stood up to finish navigating the hall with its feeble light. Humility was something all great men needed, he reasoned, and he was now humbled.
Tisza was not humble though. He was a boy and believed he knew everything about the world he really needed to. There were details he was missing and a lot of places he meant to go but ultimately he did not expect to change except to become that man in the dark.
All young men are fools, but who else is there to become the men if not them? Which was not quite true. Here in Alexandria it was the custom for woman to serve as the generals and guardians of order. Even the Queen, fearsomely repugnant creature that she was, would be replaced by her Daughter. The celebration had much to do with the Princess Garnet but all he could learn of her was that she was a beauty, kind and wise beyond her years, which is what anyone would say of a Princess, particularly their own.
He pushed open a door and turned the elegant brass handle to slip it closed as near to silent as he could manage. He crossed the carpet, careful not to tip his candle in its holder lest it spill. It would have been sloppy. More to point, he would be told to clean it up. He approached the shelf he was looking for.
Tisza raised a small bottle from a rack and caught his reflection. He tried to narrow his eyes and stick out his jaw but it did not work. He was not tall and his features were not fine. They were bright and honest, not the narrow sterling lines of a gentlemen commander. He had tried to tie his hair back into a gentlemanly braid but he did not know how to braid anything except a frayed rope. His hair was really held back by a bit of rope and a great deal of tangles. It was the wrong color anyhow, not a dignified black or brown, or even auburn. His hair was jaunty red, something he considered more suited to a woman...or maybe a strawberry dessert.
Yet a rich man could have his hair dyed just as he could have his fingernails cleaned and trimmed. A rich man would have whatever he liked.
His fingers flicked and spun the bottle into the air. They caught it neatly and slipped it into his pocket. They did not resemble the clever fingers of some men and they might never lose that roughened quality brought on by his chores...but they were quick and obeyed him. He was oddly proud of his hands and body. It was not made of the lean angles of the gentlemen or the great bulges of a proper hero but it moved as quick as he liked it to. Quickness was a friend to him, as it would be any thief.
Luck and daring too, but mostly quickness. Just in case you needed to out-run those that begrudged you your prizes.
One day, when he made his fortune, he could abandon such things and retire to that gentlemanly state. There would be no cleaning or mending or washing or trivialities of work. There might even be Princesses for him there and his adventures would be undertaken for amusement and distraction rather than necessity.
He buffed his shirt and said "But dear boy, amusements and distractions are necessities." The accent was feigned but the words struck him. Maybe they even meant something. Perhaps he would find a use for them. Maybe a motto. Did this ship have one? He couldn't remember.
The placard for the ship was on the wall and he moved to read it but it was too hard. The bronze plate the words were too fine and surface too polished. All he could see was the large letters at the top, 'Prima Vista' and a mirror sharp reflection of the candle.
"Very useful, that." He said to himself, annoyed.
Tisza turned and raised the candle out of line of sight. He spotted a table, tall narrow thing, with a proper oil lamp on it. He turned up a bit of wick and lit it. Light filled the room and the door up the stairs was thrown open.
Lovely. Tisze thought to himself. An ambush.
I don't remember if the ending line of both of them having the same shape was deliberate or not.
Original Prompts
This first one related to writing a story about a semi-divine entity chained to a mortal, which sounds dumb and probably is but I just took a shot at it. The setting was never flushed out as again, (the partner lost interest immediately) but I liked some of the phrases I had like the Red Nevers.
I think I tried to be too funny here. Humor, effective humor is hard and I think I was trying to compensate for silly scale of the character.
He was Awake and knew this because he was cold.
His mind had melted into the seas and rains and rivers but was now coming back to him. The time between, as much as there could be time behind the veil of the world, had been spent in the ready darkness. He called that place the Scarlet Nevers but could never remember it. Yet he was not Alive, not yet. Merely Awake. Merely Dim.
This was a dangerous time.
Once he and others like him, other beings that were not men but could possess a Will, had been free in the world. Men had no words to trap and cage them and no names to make them more man-like than they wished to be. That was a good time but it was long over. They had learned to name themselves and shape themselves. They had learned limitation and continued as best they could.They had learned to exchange tokens and words with mortals.
He would need to do so again.
No being could choose to be or not be part of The Universe. Behind the veil, intention meant nothing and no memory could be found. All memories joined The Universe and would be returned at its whim. The Universe would form a place for him and he would return, not the other way around. He would be returned as he had left, through the water. He would return to begin a new story as he had left when his last one had been finished.
Unlike Words and Names, gods had not mastered Stories. Mortals wove stories, gods did not. Gods fell into the Scarlet Nevers and returned, mortals did not. Or did they?
He drank water with his mouth and tasted things. Not Birth and Death, but Death and...Undeath? Mortals attempting to pervert and twist their own nature, that was certain. Mortal Inventions, Mortal Aspirations, Mortal Stories...they ran him ragged. Yet even with the taste of these things in it, the water was sweet.
If he waited too long he might be caught as he was, Dim and vulnerable. He needed make a choice to be Alive and not just Awake. He had to name himself. Yet he could not do so from nothing. He drank and tasted for memory.
House of Aragos...The Seven...Yes, he was one of them. The stories had woven him into such a shape before. He had been cast back into the water and not fire for they had made stories that said it was so. He tasted and spat, tasted and spat. Name after name he misliked or mistrusted. He settled on irony an swallowed.
"I am Petros." Spoke the god and he was no longer Dim.
He was still stuck though.
"Damn the luck. I name myself humble and The Universe humiliates me."
There was an opening above him that let in light and water. Water slid down the wall and over the ice that had formed in winter. The ice remained because there was not enough sunlight here to melt it. He was mostly stuck in that ice, though he was facing out of it rather than in. He could see the water flowing into a pool on the floor and where the light played off the skin of the water and onto the smooth walls around him.
It was a place of natural beauty fitting a being like himself. He looked himself over as best he could and found he in turn was fit to be displayed in the cavern. From what he could see in the water he was very large and broad and fierce. He was proud of his size and enjoyed his pride. He tried being smug. Then he tried being arrogant and that he enjoyed that even better. Gods had once embodied those states of mind as personalities and grand feelings still suited him.
Even his pose was dramatic. His arms were spread wide as if he might be flying. His chest was mostly exposed, allowing rippling color from the pool to play across his rippling muscles. This part was simply excellent. One of his legs was bent upwards at the knee in a dramatic way and also pleased him.
He could not see his masculinity and that was for the best. It was mighty. Why wouldn't it be? It might even be intimidating. Most cultures, or at least the ones that understood the really enjoyable things like wine and silk and flaky, buttery baked goods considered displaying ones masculinity rude. Gods did not need to worry about rudeness any more than they had to worry about punctuality or dentistry but it would still be undignified to be displaying himself.
Petros looked around the cave once more to be sure he was alone and found he was.
He then struggled with the parts of him he could move, mainly his head, in an attempt to get free. He knew this too would be undignified but must be tried. It was not working. He stopped.
He was stuck, at least until he made a Pact or the ice melted on its own. He could take no action so dramatic as tear himself free from the ice or bend light to melt it with his divine intent without some involvement with a mortal. Being part of a mortal, being part of their story, making a Pact with them was simple necessary. He had not made the rules. The Universe and the mortals with their Stories had made those.
Memory called to Petros. He tried to drown that with more arrogance and admiration for the cold water trailing over his body in sheets but time was against him.
"Augustine." He muttered.
That name was nothing but trouble.
He had been cast back into the Ready Dark, into his Scarlet Nevers over that story. In agreement the Pact could be broken and he would be left to wander...or if it lapsed somehow, the mortal dying or ignoring him he could make a new pact. Yet if the mortal wanted him well and truly gone they could seek the Altar of Aragos. Why? Because they said it was so.
The Altar could break the pact and cast him back into the waters. The sacrifice they made allowed them that choice.
Petros had mocked the name Augustine and questioned his story and that had been the last straw. Unable to properly obstruct the mortal of his Pact he was helpless. It was stories all over again. Mortals could not stand seeing their stories mocked or questioned. He would have to remember that this time.
For now, Petros tasted memories in the water and waited for a story.
His mind had melted into the seas and rains and rivers but was now coming back to him. The time between, as much as there could be time behind the veil of the world, had been spent in the ready darkness. He called that place the Scarlet Nevers but could never remember it. Yet he was not Alive, not yet. Merely Awake. Merely Dim.
This was a dangerous time.
Once he and others like him, other beings that were not men but could possess a Will, had been free in the world. Men had no words to trap and cage them and no names to make them more man-like than they wished to be. That was a good time but it was long over. They had learned to name themselves and shape themselves. They had learned limitation and continued as best they could.They had learned to exchange tokens and words with mortals.
He would need to do so again.
No being could choose to be or not be part of The Universe. Behind the veil, intention meant nothing and no memory could be found. All memories joined The Universe and would be returned at its whim. The Universe would form a place for him and he would return, not the other way around. He would be returned as he had left, through the water. He would return to begin a new story as he had left when his last one had been finished.
Unlike Words and Names, gods had not mastered Stories. Mortals wove stories, gods did not. Gods fell into the Scarlet Nevers and returned, mortals did not. Or did they?
He drank water with his mouth and tasted things. Not Birth and Death, but Death and...Undeath? Mortals attempting to pervert and twist their own nature, that was certain. Mortal Inventions, Mortal Aspirations, Mortal Stories...they ran him ragged. Yet even with the taste of these things in it, the water was sweet.
If he waited too long he might be caught as he was, Dim and vulnerable. He needed make a choice to be Alive and not just Awake. He had to name himself. Yet he could not do so from nothing. He drank and tasted for memory.
House of Aragos...The Seven...Yes, he was one of them. The stories had woven him into such a shape before. He had been cast back into the water and not fire for they had made stories that said it was so. He tasted and spat, tasted and spat. Name after name he misliked or mistrusted. He settled on irony an swallowed.
"I am Petros." Spoke the god and he was no longer Dim.
He was still stuck though.
"Damn the luck. I name myself humble and The Universe humiliates me."
There was an opening above him that let in light and water. Water slid down the wall and over the ice that had formed in winter. The ice remained because there was not enough sunlight here to melt it. He was mostly stuck in that ice, though he was facing out of it rather than in. He could see the water flowing into a pool on the floor and where the light played off the skin of the water and onto the smooth walls around him.
It was a place of natural beauty fitting a being like himself. He looked himself over as best he could and found he in turn was fit to be displayed in the cavern. From what he could see in the water he was very large and broad and fierce. He was proud of his size and enjoyed his pride. He tried being smug. Then he tried being arrogant and that he enjoyed that even better. Gods had once embodied those states of mind as personalities and grand feelings still suited him.
Even his pose was dramatic. His arms were spread wide as if he might be flying. His chest was mostly exposed, allowing rippling color from the pool to play across his rippling muscles. This part was simply excellent. One of his legs was bent upwards at the knee in a dramatic way and also pleased him.
He could not see his masculinity and that was for the best. It was mighty. Why wouldn't it be? It might even be intimidating. Most cultures, or at least the ones that understood the really enjoyable things like wine and silk and flaky, buttery baked goods considered displaying ones masculinity rude. Gods did not need to worry about rudeness any more than they had to worry about punctuality or dentistry but it would still be undignified to be displaying himself.
Petros looked around the cave once more to be sure he was alone and found he was.
He then struggled with the parts of him he could move, mainly his head, in an attempt to get free. He knew this too would be undignified but must be tried. It was not working. He stopped.
He was stuck, at least until he made a Pact or the ice melted on its own. He could take no action so dramatic as tear himself free from the ice or bend light to melt it with his divine intent without some involvement with a mortal. Being part of a mortal, being part of their story, making a Pact with them was simple necessary. He had not made the rules. The Universe and the mortals with their Stories had made those.
Memory called to Petros. He tried to drown that with more arrogance and admiration for the cold water trailing over his body in sheets but time was against him.
"Augustine." He muttered.
That name was nothing but trouble.
He had been cast back into the Ready Dark, into his Scarlet Nevers over that story. In agreement the Pact could be broken and he would be left to wander...or if it lapsed somehow, the mortal dying or ignoring him he could make a new pact. Yet if the mortal wanted him well and truly gone they could seek the Altar of Aragos. Why? Because they said it was so.
The Altar could break the pact and cast him back into the waters. The sacrifice they made allowed them that choice.
Petros had mocked the name Augustine and questioned his story and that had been the last straw. Unable to properly obstruct the mortal of his Pact he was helpless. It was stories all over again. Mortals could not stand seeing their stories mocked or questioned. He would have to remember that this time.
For now, Petros tasted memories in the water and waited for a story.
Another partner had an idea about a male on male story. I wrote it around the same time I did the Fan prompts but was disappointing when my partner was clearly geared to a mundanely silly approach to things. Expecting me to read their mind about these things was what really put me off writing it.
Fair warning, this one does include a bit of sex. Mainly it's about a selfish and self-absorbed teenager masturbating in the woods.
The sky was bright with starlight, and the skin of the water reflected it perfectly. Milo had seen that as he reached the lake and began his run. He was breathing harder than usual, but not from the heat. He was excited. The moon had been so bright as to cast shadows and when it did that he needed to be a part of it. He needed to be out in it because it was alive.
And now, so was he.
As he reached the dock on the far side, he slowed. He had begun running as soon as he had slipped out of the house and beyond the hedges and it had been taxing. His run not been mindful or relaxed, he had been drunk on pale light and thick summer air and it drove him. When he reached the end of the dock he was walking and his shirt clung to his skin with his sweat. He stopped only long enough to undress and then lowered himself into the water. It was cold and he shook, but slid himself out into it anyway. His arms swept him along, turning the mirror into a churning black glass. Only when his body would stop trying to shake did he let himself drift.
Milo had lost count of the times he had done this. He had never seen another person out here or been caught stealing out of the house, or at least no one had mentioned it. No one consisted of his mother and younger sister, neither of which concerned themselves too much with him. They barely mentioned the mornings he slept through or the mud on his clothes. His mother particularly did not mention it, which probably meant she assumed he was sneaking off to see someone, as boys were want to do...at least in her day. That bothered him, but only because he liked to think these nights were secrets, something really and truly personal, not to be shared or spoke of.
When he was cool and still, he stared up into the sky and tried to count the days before school resumed. The count was not great. It never was. School was dull and had no distractions he enjoyed. He did well, but only because it all felt so distant. Others might dwell on rivalries or slights, worry over a looming test or paper they were avoiding, but not him. It left him neither hot nor cold. Then again, it was not a profound experience for his classmates either, yet they provided their own narrative.
Those too, inspired nothing in him.
When classes had started last year, Milo had, briefly, become an object of fascination. A girl, Michelle...something, was dubbed popular and had taken an interest in him. It was not difficult to understand. He was not too tall, not lean or fat or especially athletic, but that had not been the issue. The cinnamon color his eyes and hair shared that balanced so nicely with his smooth skin, the kind shape of his face and fine nose were all appealing. He retained the boyish charm that so many seemed to lose before their teens were half done, but that was not the reason for her advances. It was his silences that she liked. The girl had enjoyed being able to talk with no interruptions and usually about nothing, (because nothing was always their favorite topic at his school.)
He accepted her, vaguely and felt she would change her mind on her own. It had taken two months and had begun to wear on him when Michelle Something had take him to the party. They had played at sex, (she had insisted on it) and that Halloween they were supposed to 'Do It.' The rituals meant to inflame him only left him more and more tired with her. When she had told him it would happen at the party he felt the same way: tepid, neutral, distant..even over sex. He had explored that with his first girlfriend and approved, though he felt something for that one before she left. What did that matter though? He had not pointed this out to Michelle Something to spare her closing her mouth. Even her comments on that would have been as meaningless.
But the party had been worse than dull, worse than school. He could have sustained himself on chips or the beer, but why bother? He had not told Michelle Something and the next day she had given him...'The Silent Treatment.' It was then that he could have kissed her and meant it. Fascination had turned into disdain for about a month, then was done. By the end of Christmas, everyone had forgotten, and mostly he did that too. They amused themselves and so would he.
Milo turned over and made for the dock.
He pulled himself up easily and breathed. The running and the lake, it was part of his ritual, part of being Alive, part of being Awake. He was again awake to the night in the same way he not been awake to Michelle Something. The air was still and water beaded on his skin. He knelt. Drops fell from his hair, bled together with others and crawled down his skin. It tickled. It was good. He slide his hands down his chest and smoothed them away though. He did not want the distraction.
His body was never a stranger to him and never his enemy. It was young and strong and suited him but it was also, somehow, like these nights. It was a thing known truly only to him and no one took much interest in it. He ran the tips of his fingers down his chest and stomach. A weight was gathering in his loins. It was like the moon, something with its own power to move him. He did not argue with it when it came, or even wonder at it. It was not something he knew like a fact, it simply was. He coiled into the muscles of his belly and lower, between his legs it was reaching its full.
He turned himself so the moon was not at his back. He enjoyed this side like he did the lake. His penis was a pale and curved up to a broad head, sheathed in tight foreskin. His heart was beating faster and he could feel the rhythm echoed in between his legs. It made tiny bobbing motions with his heartbeat and the two lines of veins stood out clearly. He had never measured his penis, it was not something that occurred to him. It fit his hand, which was strong and filled it in a way that he also approved of.
He took it in his hand and felt it stiffen even more. He pulled at it and a sharper feeling drew itself through the shaft, up into the weight in his belly. He did it three more times and then then let go. He leaned forward onto his hands and widened his legs.
Milo reached his fingers below, finding the weight. It was a broad, hard muscle between his legs and created a wonderful pressure. his fingers slid up it to his balls. They were still damp, nestled in his downy pubic hair. He teased and tickled at them, hair drawing between his fingers. He was throbbing again, it was hot with blood. His heart thumped and he made himself breathe slower. He drew his fingers up his shaft and gripped the head lightly, provoking another sharp twinge of pleasure and a throb. He squeezed with the muscle between his legs and the bead that had formed at his tip became a dribble of fluid.
He slid his fingers off his cock and placed them in his mouth. It was a good taste, like the girls but different and mixed with the mineral sweetness of the lake. He let his breath become rough. Milo was quiet by nature, but the moon and the weight could change that. Even when his home was empty he did not let himself make noise. He did not breathe like a bellows or make any other noises. He contained himself there. But here he made no effort to do so.
"Mmm." He leaned forward and tensed himself, rolling his hips forward. He pressed at his cock with one hand and his breathing became louder. He gripped himself with thumb and forefinger and fluttered his hand. It was too sensitive still, he had to slow. He continued rolling his hips. He tried the fluttering again and moaned with pleasure. He began to stroke himself.
Milo did not dwell on images. He did not think of the girls he had known or what it would have been like to be in them, holding them or having them hold him. He did not think of possessing them or taking them or even of watching them. He owned a computer, knew what pornography was and could enjoy it. It was, however, not this. He closed his eyes and felt the ache in his back and the sweat on his forehead. He leaned back and took a nipple in his free hand. His shoulders rolled and when he opened his eyes he saw the moonlight outlining his skin and his cock in his hand, bulging slightly as he stroked.
"Mmm." He was louder this time and his voice was higher.
He was nipple had gone from pink to red and he let it go. He leaned back, shoulders against the planks. He pressed his head against them and turned it, the friction was marvelous. He cupped himself and crawled on three limps to one of the wooden pylons that marked the end of the dock. He leaned against it and turned over. He was on his knees again, but now his body bowed up, curving from his back on the pylon to his long thighs. He resumed stroking, pulling motions and his left had roamed over his chest and stomach. He moaned again, then began to make a small sound on each breathe.
The stars were in his eyes and his thighs had begun to burn, as well as the muscles in his ass. There was pleasure in his cock and in the weight that had settled into his belly. But the burning of his muscles was what made his other parts sing. No matter how much he breathed the arch and the burning kept on and now it spread to his right arm.
"hah..." He breathed. "hah-hah-hah-hah" It was building now, he felt that.
Milo relaxed his body and took a moment to catch his breath. He needed to. He cupped himself again. The hair was almost dry now and springy. He scrubbed at his pubic hair and that gave him a hot shiver. He bowed his back up again and this time his was pulling himself upward in small jerks, thrusting his hips up and the burning would be in his abdomen too. His hand fell into time with his thrusting and his breathy cries became a series of protracted moans.
Suddenly it the weight was moving. It slid in silver waved through his body, not just his cock but in his belly and legs and skin. His moans took on the quality of grunting, of desperation. He would not stop. Not as the weight rebuilt into the final throbbing streaming ejaculation, not until the pain began.
He thought an orgasm was fairly unique experience, though they might be described as the opposite of an ice-cream headache. He learned the sensation by humping his pillow and eventually found how he could use his hand, which was much more precise. Yes each time he pursued it he had been disappointing. Whether into a toilet or into his first girlfriend, he had not had the shattering experience he had been told of. They were about as pleasurable as a candy-bar and served only to refocus his attention on another task.
It was not until he had gone out on a night like this the first time had he really found what he was looking for. It had come to him then like instinct.
"Ung...Nnn..NNng..." His voice was high and sweet in this moment. His cries trailed off as the silver line leapt up his body into his head. Even as his hips thrust wildly on their own into the air his vision was narrowing to a dim point. He had a hand against his head and where it touched the skin it was amazing, sweet. The silver cord tightened and his body locked. His cock began to spit forth the contents of his balls, mostly upwards.
Milo did not notice this. He was holding on to the silver pleasure wire that had settled just above his right eyes. He rolled with it and was writhing against the planks beneath him. Even when the pressure began to relent he was gasping for air. He could remember his singing, moaning noises or the exact moment when climax had taken him. He felt almost no desire to move except to reach for his crotch, (his penis was already softening) and cup himself. His hand was warm and he sighed. He was a pale shape on the dock, partly curled on his side and smiling. His mind was clear again, if only for a little while.
In a day or two his mother and sister would leave to visit his father, a project he wanted no part of, and not return until the middle of October. He would have another year of school and then the option of finding a proper job or sitting around at some college for a few years first. His life was, effectively, empty. It lacked some essential joy or sense that he thought it should have.
Milo turned onto his back again and felt he was ready to begin again. He did so.
He would bring himself to orgasm again, usually twice or three time but sometimes four. Each time he would be louder and more desperate as his muscles tired. Each time the silver pressure, the real orgasm that pressed itself into his head would be a little stronger and last a bit longer, even as his cock spat less and grew more sore.
When he went home and to his bed he would enter a perfect, dreamless sleep. In the morning, (or at least the afternoon) his doubts about his life would be lessened as he resumed his routine. There would be dinners and conversations and long hours to spend reading or watching television or lying about outside if the weather permitted.
For now, his skin was smooth and clean, washed by the lake and warmed by the heat the day had left when the sun had gone. He had his cock in his hand and no one to bore him with chatter. He was free to want, free to desire, to sense every inch of himself.
Milo took himself again and again on the dock, his own lover. He stirred needs he had forgotten and sensations no one else in the world had given him, then satisfied them. Wasn't that what love is? To need, be needed and let yourself run freely with another person, to run together?
He could not say, only feel that desire blossom in his heart and loins and wish for that to somehow come into his life. Without that desire to fill his life, he knew he could only remain passive and bored with it.
And for now the night was his companion. He would cry and moan into it and tell it his many needs. He loved it and it gave him what he asked of it. But it did not love him or need him. But he had his hands for that.
And Milo's hands knew their work.
And now, so was he.
As he reached the dock on the far side, he slowed. He had begun running as soon as he had slipped out of the house and beyond the hedges and it had been taxing. His run not been mindful or relaxed, he had been drunk on pale light and thick summer air and it drove him. When he reached the end of the dock he was walking and his shirt clung to his skin with his sweat. He stopped only long enough to undress and then lowered himself into the water. It was cold and he shook, but slid himself out into it anyway. His arms swept him along, turning the mirror into a churning black glass. Only when his body would stop trying to shake did he let himself drift.
Milo had lost count of the times he had done this. He had never seen another person out here or been caught stealing out of the house, or at least no one had mentioned it. No one consisted of his mother and younger sister, neither of which concerned themselves too much with him. They barely mentioned the mornings he slept through or the mud on his clothes. His mother particularly did not mention it, which probably meant she assumed he was sneaking off to see someone, as boys were want to do...at least in her day. That bothered him, but only because he liked to think these nights were secrets, something really and truly personal, not to be shared or spoke of.
When he was cool and still, he stared up into the sky and tried to count the days before school resumed. The count was not great. It never was. School was dull and had no distractions he enjoyed. He did well, but only because it all felt so distant. Others might dwell on rivalries or slights, worry over a looming test or paper they were avoiding, but not him. It left him neither hot nor cold. Then again, it was not a profound experience for his classmates either, yet they provided their own narrative.
Those too, inspired nothing in him.
When classes had started last year, Milo had, briefly, become an object of fascination. A girl, Michelle...something, was dubbed popular and had taken an interest in him. It was not difficult to understand. He was not too tall, not lean or fat or especially athletic, but that had not been the issue. The cinnamon color his eyes and hair shared that balanced so nicely with his smooth skin, the kind shape of his face and fine nose were all appealing. He retained the boyish charm that so many seemed to lose before their teens were half done, but that was not the reason for her advances. It was his silences that she liked. The girl had enjoyed being able to talk with no interruptions and usually about nothing, (because nothing was always their favorite topic at his school.)
He accepted her, vaguely and felt she would change her mind on her own. It had taken two months and had begun to wear on him when Michelle Something had take him to the party. They had played at sex, (she had insisted on it) and that Halloween they were supposed to 'Do It.' The rituals meant to inflame him only left him more and more tired with her. When she had told him it would happen at the party he felt the same way: tepid, neutral, distant..even over sex. He had explored that with his first girlfriend and approved, though he felt something for that one before she left. What did that matter though? He had not pointed this out to Michelle Something to spare her closing her mouth. Even her comments on that would have been as meaningless.
But the party had been worse than dull, worse than school. He could have sustained himself on chips or the beer, but why bother? He had not told Michelle Something and the next day she had given him...'The Silent Treatment.' It was then that he could have kissed her and meant it. Fascination had turned into disdain for about a month, then was done. By the end of Christmas, everyone had forgotten, and mostly he did that too. They amused themselves and so would he.
Milo turned over and made for the dock.
He pulled himself up easily and breathed. The running and the lake, it was part of his ritual, part of being Alive, part of being Awake. He was again awake to the night in the same way he not been awake to Michelle Something. The air was still and water beaded on his skin. He knelt. Drops fell from his hair, bled together with others and crawled down his skin. It tickled. It was good. He slide his hands down his chest and smoothed them away though. He did not want the distraction.
His body was never a stranger to him and never his enemy. It was young and strong and suited him but it was also, somehow, like these nights. It was a thing known truly only to him and no one took much interest in it. He ran the tips of his fingers down his chest and stomach. A weight was gathering in his loins. It was like the moon, something with its own power to move him. He did not argue with it when it came, or even wonder at it. It was not something he knew like a fact, it simply was. He coiled into the muscles of his belly and lower, between his legs it was reaching its full.
He turned himself so the moon was not at his back. He enjoyed this side like he did the lake. His penis was a pale and curved up to a broad head, sheathed in tight foreskin. His heart was beating faster and he could feel the rhythm echoed in between his legs. It made tiny bobbing motions with his heartbeat and the two lines of veins stood out clearly. He had never measured his penis, it was not something that occurred to him. It fit his hand, which was strong and filled it in a way that he also approved of.
He took it in his hand and felt it stiffen even more. He pulled at it and a sharper feeling drew itself through the shaft, up into the weight in his belly. He did it three more times and then then let go. He leaned forward onto his hands and widened his legs.
Milo reached his fingers below, finding the weight. It was a broad, hard muscle between his legs and created a wonderful pressure. his fingers slid up it to his balls. They were still damp, nestled in his downy pubic hair. He teased and tickled at them, hair drawing between his fingers. He was throbbing again, it was hot with blood. His heart thumped and he made himself breathe slower. He drew his fingers up his shaft and gripped the head lightly, provoking another sharp twinge of pleasure and a throb. He squeezed with the muscle between his legs and the bead that had formed at his tip became a dribble of fluid.
He slid his fingers off his cock and placed them in his mouth. It was a good taste, like the girls but different and mixed with the mineral sweetness of the lake. He let his breath become rough. Milo was quiet by nature, but the moon and the weight could change that. Even when his home was empty he did not let himself make noise. He did not breathe like a bellows or make any other noises. He contained himself there. But here he made no effort to do so.
"Mmm." He leaned forward and tensed himself, rolling his hips forward. He pressed at his cock with one hand and his breathing became louder. He gripped himself with thumb and forefinger and fluttered his hand. It was too sensitive still, he had to slow. He continued rolling his hips. He tried the fluttering again and moaned with pleasure. He began to stroke himself.
Milo did not dwell on images. He did not think of the girls he had known or what it would have been like to be in them, holding them or having them hold him. He did not think of possessing them or taking them or even of watching them. He owned a computer, knew what pornography was and could enjoy it. It was, however, not this. He closed his eyes and felt the ache in his back and the sweat on his forehead. He leaned back and took a nipple in his free hand. His shoulders rolled and when he opened his eyes he saw the moonlight outlining his skin and his cock in his hand, bulging slightly as he stroked.
"Mmm." He was louder this time and his voice was higher.
He was nipple had gone from pink to red and he let it go. He leaned back, shoulders against the planks. He pressed his head against them and turned it, the friction was marvelous. He cupped himself and crawled on three limps to one of the wooden pylons that marked the end of the dock. He leaned against it and turned over. He was on his knees again, but now his body bowed up, curving from his back on the pylon to his long thighs. He resumed stroking, pulling motions and his left had roamed over his chest and stomach. He moaned again, then began to make a small sound on each breathe.
The stars were in his eyes and his thighs had begun to burn, as well as the muscles in his ass. There was pleasure in his cock and in the weight that had settled into his belly. But the burning of his muscles was what made his other parts sing. No matter how much he breathed the arch and the burning kept on and now it spread to his right arm.
"hah..." He breathed. "hah-hah-hah-hah" It was building now, he felt that.
Milo relaxed his body and took a moment to catch his breath. He needed to. He cupped himself again. The hair was almost dry now and springy. He scrubbed at his pubic hair and that gave him a hot shiver. He bowed his back up again and this time his was pulling himself upward in small jerks, thrusting his hips up and the burning would be in his abdomen too. His hand fell into time with his thrusting and his breathy cries became a series of protracted moans.
Suddenly it the weight was moving. It slid in silver waved through his body, not just his cock but in his belly and legs and skin. His moans took on the quality of grunting, of desperation. He would not stop. Not as the weight rebuilt into the final throbbing streaming ejaculation, not until the pain began.
He thought an orgasm was fairly unique experience, though they might be described as the opposite of an ice-cream headache. He learned the sensation by humping his pillow and eventually found how he could use his hand, which was much more precise. Yes each time he pursued it he had been disappointing. Whether into a toilet or into his first girlfriend, he had not had the shattering experience he had been told of. They were about as pleasurable as a candy-bar and served only to refocus his attention on another task.
It was not until he had gone out on a night like this the first time had he really found what he was looking for. It had come to him then like instinct.
"Ung...Nnn..NNng..." His voice was high and sweet in this moment. His cries trailed off as the silver line leapt up his body into his head. Even as his hips thrust wildly on their own into the air his vision was narrowing to a dim point. He had a hand against his head and where it touched the skin it was amazing, sweet. The silver cord tightened and his body locked. His cock began to spit forth the contents of his balls, mostly upwards.
Milo did not notice this. He was holding on to the silver pleasure wire that had settled just above his right eyes. He rolled with it and was writhing against the planks beneath him. Even when the pressure began to relent he was gasping for air. He could remember his singing, moaning noises or the exact moment when climax had taken him. He felt almost no desire to move except to reach for his crotch, (his penis was already softening) and cup himself. His hand was warm and he sighed. He was a pale shape on the dock, partly curled on his side and smiling. His mind was clear again, if only for a little while.
In a day or two his mother and sister would leave to visit his father, a project he wanted no part of, and not return until the middle of October. He would have another year of school and then the option of finding a proper job or sitting around at some college for a few years first. His life was, effectively, empty. It lacked some essential joy or sense that he thought it should have.
Milo turned onto his back again and felt he was ready to begin again. He did so.
He would bring himself to orgasm again, usually twice or three time but sometimes four. Each time he would be louder and more desperate as his muscles tired. Each time the silver pressure, the real orgasm that pressed itself into his head would be a little stronger and last a bit longer, even as his cock spat less and grew more sore.
When he went home and to his bed he would enter a perfect, dreamless sleep. In the morning, (or at least the afternoon) his doubts about his life would be lessened as he resumed his routine. There would be dinners and conversations and long hours to spend reading or watching television or lying about outside if the weather permitted.
For now, his skin was smooth and clean, washed by the lake and warmed by the heat the day had left when the sun had gone. He had his cock in his hand and no one to bore him with chatter. He was free to want, free to desire, to sense every inch of himself.
Milo took himself again and again on the dock, his own lover. He stirred needs he had forgotten and sensations no one else in the world had given him, then satisfied them. Wasn't that what love is? To need, be needed and let yourself run freely with another person, to run together?
He could not say, only feel that desire blossom in his heart and loins and wish for that to somehow come into his life. Without that desire to fill his life, he knew he could only remain passive and bored with it.
And for now the night was his companion. He would cry and moan into it and tell it his many needs. He loved it and it gave him what he asked of it. But it did not love him or need him. But he had his hands for that.
And Milo's hands knew their work.
Setting Prompts
So the girlfriend was the one that got me into this. She was running an Exalted game... Tabletop RPG, you're not missing anything... and wanted help putting a setting together. I offered her a character from a game I'd played with my campus group and she promptly wrote an introduction to her game where he was tentacle raped.
This is why I can't have nice things. That's okay, she's hot and bloodthirsty and majors in hard science and I forgive her these things.
She had an idea for the location, a backdrop where the protagonists could meet but asked me to flush it out since I knew Exalted fairly well. The heroes are demi-gods involved in world spanning adventures and are big in every way, so I thought to get a ground eye view of their world might help the other players appreciate the little lives they often destroyed as they sought power in the world.
There was more information about the local economy and geography (economics my focus in University) but that isn't important.
In RY 615, the Seventh Legion fortress known as The Gunzota Redoubt was destroyed by a first age weapon. Lookshy lost a crucial stronghold on the Rock River and the area was shunned. While the weapon that turned all those stationed at Gunzota into Amethyst is now inactive, few dare enter it or pass nearby. In RY 768, Gunzota had not been reoccupied and those that live near it live in relative peace. Of these places, the Hanging Town was nearest and most peaceful of all.
Hagentown lunged along the river like a dancer caught between the cliffs. One leg scraped into the rock until its toes touched the river. The other one followed the opposite cliff down, then up again to a pointed toe that was a lookout and first of three night beacons for boats on the river. Its arms pointed down river and while one held the edge of the cliff the other plunged up and out over the water.
This shape was made of walkways and bridges and huts and had been formed partly by the rhythm of the cliff and partly by the melody of life over the river. Uneven breasts were made by the largest buildings, shaped from airy sod and fluffy thatched roofs. Its head was the receiving hall for the village elder, but mostly it was just a simple well lit hall with a long, low table to sit down at and enjoy food. That hall was part of the Village Bridge, wide and cluttered with materials and usually people. The Travelers bridge was not so wide but always clear for those needing to cross the river and resume their road journey. When the weather was good they asked mild taxes from travelers and when was bad they made sure they could find shelter and comfort.
Travelers were always welcome, for a home to all was a place no one would burn or raid or ruin, yet not all travelers came as friends. Wassago, he of the black coat and firewands and Immaculate scripture had come some six years ago. The rule of these lands was every man's prayers as his own but Wassago had smelled cults and conspiracies wherever he went. The elder Lazlow had put a stop to it by confessing his own guilt and offered a tithe to pay for his crime.
Wassago took double the tithe and hung the elder. Lazlo smiled as he strangled for that was his way. Marlo had replaced him and life had resumed. In the winter the great thatch walls went up to cut down on the cold wind and roofs went up over the bridges. In summer children dived into the water and climbed back up the massive net to do it again. By day the lady was dressed in red and green and brown and sang the songs of work and play. By night the candles and torches dotted her, the wood and ropes were all too old and well oiled to burn.
The cliffs were as much clay and old tree roots as they were stone. The river was clear and deep and swift most of the year because the cliffs squeezed it together and in return the river ate at the rock of the cliff and mud of its bed, expanding and deepening the cliffs. The people there had cut into the cliffs to make safe storage places and when they found tiny underground streams they made small bathing rooms that would be warm in the winter and cool in the summer. Great trees lodged in cuts in the stone and old ropes held it up, layer on layer and beyond the bridges small villages minded animals and farmed and came only to the town once or a week but they also played their part supporting the town.
The mud up river was red and could be strained for dye and fish could be caught. In the noon sun some picked out smooth stones of blue or green and sometimes even pearly quarts. Small boats could be hoisted from the river by the two winches that operated from the town hips and transferred to carts on the travelers bridge. Few wanted to pass beneath the town and beyond the nets but some did and few reported trouble, yet the habit of avoiding Gunzota was strong. The only ones that passed in the river with regularity were the ore boats heading south, mostly because they had no other option.
Marlo had succeeded Lazlo as elder and his chief job was to be cheerful, to look after people and speak with travelers. Nominally he was even in charge of expanding the town. Below the extended hand another mighty tree had been positioned as a beam, lodged in the rock. Next year when there were enough supplies, or maybe even if the half harvest in descending fire went well the first planks would sprout from that. Ropes would be woven in the cold months of Air and woven up into the roots of the cliff in Resplendent Water. In the rains it would be easier to expose roots and stone and find the places to dig into the cliff-side and make the deep dwellings.
Families added portions to the town regularly and needed no help but sometimes a new beam was required for expansion. This was the ninth beam, an auspicious number. Two two great rope nets that stretched down into the water were in front and behind that beam and the open space made it look lonely. It might disrupt the shape of the town when it was built around or it might be the start of a new dancer entirely. The extended fingertips cold join with a new set and a bridge could run beneath laced fingers of planks. Marlo would have called it the lovers bridge, which was why he was the least important person in Hagentown.
That was the irony of his position as Elder, was he was expected to be the face of the town but only to facilitate what everyone else did and wanted. His Wife, the woman he was not married to, had no title at all. She was too important for titles. The most commanding and vital of Hagentown's women was not voted on, she merely took charge enough of the time that everyone deferred to her. That woman was currently Neva and she knew of and managed anything of true importance of the town or around it. Neva would not have named that bridge until it was finished.
Elder Marlo, a man not yet twenty-five, watched the the children scream and leap into the water, sweep downstream to the net and climb back up again. They became strong, playing such games, and unafraid of heights and were away from strangers. The children paid too much attention to Neva in the sight of strangers and did not understand the game of her telling people 'Elder says this' or 'Elder wants that.' They would giggle and laugh at the idea of Marlo giving anyone orders, so they were here. Marlo sighed.
Six years was enough for him and he longed to watch his own children play in the water. He could endure a little longer to have Neva though. Without ever speaking of it, their love for one another had become as solid as the wood under his feet. He smiled and she mocked him, he grinned and she would hit him theatrically. The first two were tradition of the Elder and his wife, humility and comedy. The second were tradition of young lovers... Or at least of Marlo and Neva.
When he was a proud teenager she was a slip of a girl, four or five years his junior and fearless. She had pushed him in the water and generally tortured him until he learned his place. When he accepted the responsibility of elder she became determined to become Elder's Wife and had been just that for four years. They remained celibate. They remained comedic. They remained in love.
Neva had taken the most important position in the village before she was even sixteen. Her children, their children, might be strong enough to carve stone with their hands. Marlo imagined those children might erect another nine beams and two more bridges before he died and would do it even if they had to carve stone with their bare hands. His knuckles went white on the rail and a tear ran down his cheek.
Lazlo had gone grey and died as Elder and was happy to have lived that life. Marlo had feared his brother or father might replace the man and be sacrificed so he had insisted on it and with his ability to laugh at himself and defer as no other young man in the village could, (thanks to Neva) and he had been accepted. He was not Lazlo though and while there was no rule about the Elder or Wife being without family, let alone celibate, it was a distraction and a liability.
What man could smile when his family was in the hands of an enemy? What women could mind a village if her own child needed her attentions?
Hagentown was indefensible and unassailable. What protection it required came from Marlo's capacity to laugh and smile and nod in the right places and Neva's ruthless management of work. Next year there might be a third bridge and she might be willing to set aside her position to become his wife in truth. Others would take up leadership and life would go on. His life would resume. His nails were cutting into his palms now. His need for that life was so fierce.
"Hey Elder!" A woman called behind him. He turned in time to receive a rotten piece of fruit in the face. Juice stung his eyes. Neva never missed with fruit, it would have been a waste. Mud and fruit pelted him. He cringed and hopped and opened his eyes. Neva, was there with a gaggle of women and older children. They were here to make sure the younger ones found their lunch he guessed. They were laughing, especially the women. Neva spun a brown apple in her hand, but only smiled.
"Okay, I surrender." Marlo put up his hands, shaking them as if scared. "You win, okay?"
"Nope." Neva chucked the apple low and it bounced against the crotch of his pants, which were taught because Marlo's knees were bent, sparing him but he proceeded with the act all the same. He made a face and straightened, grabbing at himself and stiffening like a board, eyes rolling up to their whites. Marlo tipped over the rail and tumbled down into the water.
They roared laughed and Marlo felt better. He helped some of the smaller children up the rope net to get their food and when they were all eating Neva took him aside.
"We have a problem." She said, their hands clasping each others' forearms.
Marlo nodded and did not smile. "Then we'll solve it."
She squeezed him. He squeezed back. And this was life in the Hanging Town.
Hagentown lunged along the river like a dancer caught between the cliffs. One leg scraped into the rock until its toes touched the river. The other one followed the opposite cliff down, then up again to a pointed toe that was a lookout and first of three night beacons for boats on the river. Its arms pointed down river and while one held the edge of the cliff the other plunged up and out over the water.
This shape was made of walkways and bridges and huts and had been formed partly by the rhythm of the cliff and partly by the melody of life over the river. Uneven breasts were made by the largest buildings, shaped from airy sod and fluffy thatched roofs. Its head was the receiving hall for the village elder, but mostly it was just a simple well lit hall with a long, low table to sit down at and enjoy food. That hall was part of the Village Bridge, wide and cluttered with materials and usually people. The Travelers bridge was not so wide but always clear for those needing to cross the river and resume their road journey. When the weather was good they asked mild taxes from travelers and when was bad they made sure they could find shelter and comfort.
Travelers were always welcome, for a home to all was a place no one would burn or raid or ruin, yet not all travelers came as friends. Wassago, he of the black coat and firewands and Immaculate scripture had come some six years ago. The rule of these lands was every man's prayers as his own but Wassago had smelled cults and conspiracies wherever he went. The elder Lazlow had put a stop to it by confessing his own guilt and offered a tithe to pay for his crime.
Wassago took double the tithe and hung the elder. Lazlo smiled as he strangled for that was his way. Marlo had replaced him and life had resumed. In the winter the great thatch walls went up to cut down on the cold wind and roofs went up over the bridges. In summer children dived into the water and climbed back up the massive net to do it again. By day the lady was dressed in red and green and brown and sang the songs of work and play. By night the candles and torches dotted her, the wood and ropes were all too old and well oiled to burn.
The cliffs were as much clay and old tree roots as they were stone. The river was clear and deep and swift most of the year because the cliffs squeezed it together and in return the river ate at the rock of the cliff and mud of its bed, expanding and deepening the cliffs. The people there had cut into the cliffs to make safe storage places and when they found tiny underground streams they made small bathing rooms that would be warm in the winter and cool in the summer. Great trees lodged in cuts in the stone and old ropes held it up, layer on layer and beyond the bridges small villages minded animals and farmed and came only to the town once or a week but they also played their part supporting the town.
The mud up river was red and could be strained for dye and fish could be caught. In the noon sun some picked out smooth stones of blue or green and sometimes even pearly quarts. Small boats could be hoisted from the river by the two winches that operated from the town hips and transferred to carts on the travelers bridge. Few wanted to pass beneath the town and beyond the nets but some did and few reported trouble, yet the habit of avoiding Gunzota was strong. The only ones that passed in the river with regularity were the ore boats heading south, mostly because they had no other option.
Marlo had succeeded Lazlo as elder and his chief job was to be cheerful, to look after people and speak with travelers. Nominally he was even in charge of expanding the town. Below the extended hand another mighty tree had been positioned as a beam, lodged in the rock. Next year when there were enough supplies, or maybe even if the half harvest in descending fire went well the first planks would sprout from that. Ropes would be woven in the cold months of Air and woven up into the roots of the cliff in Resplendent Water. In the rains it would be easier to expose roots and stone and find the places to dig into the cliff-side and make the deep dwellings.
Families added portions to the town regularly and needed no help but sometimes a new beam was required for expansion. This was the ninth beam, an auspicious number. Two two great rope nets that stretched down into the water were in front and behind that beam and the open space made it look lonely. It might disrupt the shape of the town when it was built around or it might be the start of a new dancer entirely. The extended fingertips cold join with a new set and a bridge could run beneath laced fingers of planks. Marlo would have called it the lovers bridge, which was why he was the least important person in Hagentown.
That was the irony of his position as Elder, was he was expected to be the face of the town but only to facilitate what everyone else did and wanted. His Wife, the woman he was not married to, had no title at all. She was too important for titles. The most commanding and vital of Hagentown's women was not voted on, she merely took charge enough of the time that everyone deferred to her. That woman was currently Neva and she knew of and managed anything of true importance of the town or around it. Neva would not have named that bridge until it was finished.
Elder Marlo, a man not yet twenty-five, watched the the children scream and leap into the water, sweep downstream to the net and climb back up again. They became strong, playing such games, and unafraid of heights and were away from strangers. The children paid too much attention to Neva in the sight of strangers and did not understand the game of her telling people 'Elder says this' or 'Elder wants that.' They would giggle and laugh at the idea of Marlo giving anyone orders, so they were here. Marlo sighed.
Six years was enough for him and he longed to watch his own children play in the water. He could endure a little longer to have Neva though. Without ever speaking of it, their love for one another had become as solid as the wood under his feet. He smiled and she mocked him, he grinned and she would hit him theatrically. The first two were tradition of the Elder and his wife, humility and comedy. The second were tradition of young lovers... Or at least of Marlo and Neva.
When he was a proud teenager she was a slip of a girl, four or five years his junior and fearless. She had pushed him in the water and generally tortured him until he learned his place. When he accepted the responsibility of elder she became determined to become Elder's Wife and had been just that for four years. They remained celibate. They remained comedic. They remained in love.
Neva had taken the most important position in the village before she was even sixteen. Her children, their children, might be strong enough to carve stone with their hands. Marlo imagined those children might erect another nine beams and two more bridges before he died and would do it even if they had to carve stone with their bare hands. His knuckles went white on the rail and a tear ran down his cheek.
Lazlo had gone grey and died as Elder and was happy to have lived that life. Marlo had feared his brother or father might replace the man and be sacrificed so he had insisted on it and with his ability to laugh at himself and defer as no other young man in the village could, (thanks to Neva) and he had been accepted. He was not Lazlo though and while there was no rule about the Elder or Wife being without family, let alone celibate, it was a distraction and a liability.
What man could smile when his family was in the hands of an enemy? What women could mind a village if her own child needed her attentions?
Hagentown was indefensible and unassailable. What protection it required came from Marlo's capacity to laugh and smile and nod in the right places and Neva's ruthless management of work. Next year there might be a third bridge and she might be willing to set aside her position to become his wife in truth. Others would take up leadership and life would go on. His life would resume. His nails were cutting into his palms now. His need for that life was so fierce.
"Hey Elder!" A woman called behind him. He turned in time to receive a rotten piece of fruit in the face. Juice stung his eyes. Neva never missed with fruit, it would have been a waste. Mud and fruit pelted him. He cringed and hopped and opened his eyes. Neva, was there with a gaggle of women and older children. They were here to make sure the younger ones found their lunch he guessed. They were laughing, especially the women. Neva spun a brown apple in her hand, but only smiled.
"Okay, I surrender." Marlo put up his hands, shaking them as if scared. "You win, okay?"
"Nope." Neva chucked the apple low and it bounced against the crotch of his pants, which were taught because Marlo's knees were bent, sparing him but he proceeded with the act all the same. He made a face and straightened, grabbing at himself and stiffening like a board, eyes rolling up to their whites. Marlo tipped over the rail and tumbled down into the water.
They roared laughed and Marlo felt better. He helped some of the smaller children up the rope net to get their food and when they were all eating Neva took him aside.
"We have a problem." She said, their hands clasping each others' forearms.
Marlo nodded and did not smile. "Then we'll solve it."
She squeezed him. He squeezed back. And this was life in the Hanging Town.