forthedog | But I could see for miles, miles, miles

Entry tags:

darrow,
neil

But I could see for miles, miles, miles

In the end the anger is directed--finally and completely and as it always should have been—inward.

He knows what he’s hearing before he’s even really conscious of it. He lies in his bed in the dark, that fucking wall so near his head, and it’s very faint but he can hear it and he knows its source. He knows those sounds.

It’s a distant memory now, but he knows what Neil sounds like when he comes.

He lies there in the dark and he feels fury roiling through him and transmuting into misery so deep it literally shakes him, wrenches at his muscles, and through it all he’s achingly, shamefully hard. He fists his hands in the sheets. Doesn’t drop them below his waist, where he wants them, because it would mean a few seconds of relief and he can’t allow himself that. This is torture, and it’s his torture, and he thinks that it’s exactly what he fucking deserves.

But all at once he thinks of Sam, all that weight on his shoulders, the way he doesn’t seem to want to let it go, and Neil’s hollow eyes. I don’t even know where to fuckin’ start.

And somewhere in that darkness something breaks open.

The next couple of days are a blur.

He isn’t drinking—at least, not much. But he also isn’t really home. Somewhere in there, he remembers staggering back and sleeping for a few fractured hours before he leaves again. He doesn’t want to see Neil. He’s not ready. Later he remembers the park at sunset, approaching the burn scar of the World Tree at last, making a long, slow circuit around still-charred ground. The ashes have been blown and washed away. He can still see that spike of green in the midst of all the death, small and defiant. He goes no closer. It’s enough to know that it’s still there, but it’s not his. It doesn’t need him.

This is about need. This is about needing.

It feels like time is twisting in on itself. It feels like some giant hand has hit rewind and he’s being swept along with the blur as everything loops backward. And at the same time he knows he has a choice. That he chose this. That there was never an excuse, that all of this has been his choice: Death and pain and evil, and once he chose something else, and now he can make that choice again.

So he stands at Neil’s door and knocks, and it’s firm but it’s not pounding. The terror feels burned out of him. So does the rage. What’s left is desire so intense it makes his hands shake. The desire is what’s done the burning.

When fighting and running are off the table, you give up. You surrender. You lay down your arms.

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"I want this," I whisper again, pulling him as close as I can, my teeth scraping the curve of his throat.

"I love you. Mike, God. I fucking need you, you dumb fuck."

It's the feeling of teeth on his throat that does it--and maybe that's just a little bit sick, but he'll worry about that later, if he cares to at all. He arches into it, baring his teeth in a harsh whine, and then he's coming hard, so hard the world flickers like chain lightning behind his eyes. He thinks he might cry out, he's not sure, but his throat feels raw--everything feels fucking raw, and he's still rolling his hips slowly and mindlessly when the world slides back into focus.

"Sticks and stones," he breathes, and laughs shakily. "Fuck."

"Jesus, Mike," I breathe, blinking up at the ceiling and holding him tight while he rides his way through it. I haven't come yet. This isn't some poetic fucking moment where we both come simultaneously or some shit. But it doesn't matter, one way or another.

Stupid as it sounds, I can't remember the last time I felt this whole.

"Yeah." He laughs again, pulls back slightly as he reaches down between them and takes Neil's dick in his hand. He's still moving, though more lazily now, jerking Neil off with firm, even strokes. Grinning down at him.

"Almost forgot how fucking good we are at this."

Snorting out a laugh, I say, "Fuck you, man. I never forgot."

That was part of the problem of moving on, not being able to forget what it was like with him, with Tom, when everything just fit.

Moving against him, my hips starting to stutter, I pull him down for another kiss, muffling a moan against his lips.

There's a lot that I forgot, he thinks, but he doesn't say it even after his mouth is free again. It feels too dark, too out of place with the smile still tugging at his mouth and the rhythm of their bodies. He strokes Neil a little faster, bent close over him and staring down at Neil's face, his straining body.

There's so much he wants to see.

"Already forgot how fucking beautiful you are when you're coming," he murmurs. "Why don't you remind me."

"You're full of shit," I murmur, my mouth dropping open, and I almost want to hold back, just to spite him, but I can't. There's no stopping it, not with his hand on me, not with him looking at me like that, his dick still moving in me, half-hard but still so fucking good.

I don't really know what I look like, when I come, but I do know I keep my eyes open the whole time, whining low in my throat and splattering his hand and our stomachs.

"Oh my God," he breathes, heavy and entirely unaware, lost in watching. It is beautiful, and this time he can see it in away he couldn't before. He's staring into Neil's eyes, the gaze piercing him all over again, and somehow he's remembering every other time, so many fucking times, and for a moment or two he can't fill his lungs at all.

Then he's letting out a heavy breath, pulling out with a shudder and sliding down Neil's body. His hand is sticky, Neil's belly is sticky, and for the second time tonight he's licking Neil's come off his skin in long, broad strokes of his tongue.

It feels like a little taste of that first submission all over again. And the truth is that he doesn't want to waste any of it.

"Fuck," I gasp, hips twitching at the brush of his tongue over skin that's just way too fucking stimulated.

"Mike, Jesus," I laugh helplessly, slipping a hand into his hair and dragging him up for a messy kiss.

"Fucking drink you if I could," he breathes into the kiss, rolling sideways and pulling Neil with him. They're tangled, wrapped up in each other, and if somewhere he's dead and here he's half crazy--

Fuck it, it all feels worth it.

He nuzzles at Neil's jaw, still tasting come and sweat. "You're fucking amazing."

"You always get fuckin' sentimental after you come," I tease, lips grazing his cheek, teeth catching his earlobe, our legs tangled impossibly.

"I missed you," I murmur, and I don't even really mean the person he was, on the island. It goes deeper than that, and I'm pretty sure I won't need to explain.

He doesn't immediately respond. I missed you too is true, but it feels inadequate. It doesn't feel like it comes close to all of it--the roiling storm of it, love and rage in equal amounts and both just as dangerous when they combine the right way.

He rolls a little more, half back on top of Neil's body and staring down at him, one hand reaching up to comb his fingers back through Neil's slightly damp hair.

"I can't share you with anyone," he says softly, but there's steel under it. It's not a demand, just a fact.

It's not so much butterflies as insides all seizing up at once, and that's before he even opens his mouth. I let out a shuddering breath, feeling maybe a little oxygen-deprived and more than a little drained.

"Am I supposed to be sharin' you?" I ask, arching a brow, my fingertips drifting over the healing puncture wounds on his throat.

His eyes flutter closed--it's pleasure more than anything else, a soft shiver of it, and a deeper hunger for something he isn't entirely sure how to name. Isn't entirely sure he wants to name.

"You think that's what that is?"

But it's a fair question.

"In a way, maybe. Whatever the fuck it's doin' for you, it's something I can't give you," I say, my nail scratching against the wound, pressing against it, but not quite hard enough to reopen the scab.

This time his breath catches, and... Look at that. He can already feel his body going instinctively lax, pliable. "He's not a threat to you," he murmurs, head lolling slightly to one side.

And he smiles. "Why're you so sure about that?"

"He's dangerous. He could kill you. That's part of the rush, right? You know I'm not gonna kill you, no matter what we might play at," I point out, pressing down a little harder when I feel him start to go limp.

"He's not a threat, but you're threatened by who, exactly?"

"It was at the beginning. Not so much now." He's practically slipping down against the side of Neil's body, loose and relaxed, eyes half closed. "It's crazy. You won't believe me."

He manages a faint smile. "I'm threatened by fucking everyone, Neil. I'm a fucking headcase."

"Don't keep shit from me just 'cause you think it's crazy," I murmur, leaning in and replacing my thumb with my mouth, sucking gently at the old wound.

My lips still against his skin, I murmur, "You don't wanna share me? What does that mean? Tell me."

The sound he makes is something like a moan and a laugh bleeding into each other, arching slightly and curling a hand around the back of Neil's neck. It's not like Spike. It's soft, gentle, no real bloodflow--and yet it's deeper. "I miss my garden," he breathes, fingers working through the hair at Neil's nape.

"And it means what it fucking means. I want you. All of you. What I did to you tonight, I wanna be the only lucky motherfucker who gets to do that."

He raises his head slightly, eyes dark. "The one guy I woulda made an exception for... he's not here."

"You miss your garden?" I say, smiling wider, and yeah, maybe a little bit confused.

"Mike, I would've stayed fuckin' celibate after you were gone, waiting for both of you, goin' outta my fuckin' mind. But... you know me."

I got turned into a girl and got drunk and stupid, is pretty much what happened. And it was all kind of downhill from there.

"You heard me." He lays his head down again, neck still slightly arched and skin humming, and closes his eyes. His fingers are still working through Neil's hair, slow and almost meditative. "It's... you give a little piece of yourself. And what you get back is all this life, all this fucking color." He half smiles. "Technically he's dead, but yeah."

He turns a little more, lips against Neil's temple. "Anyway, you know I never woulda wanted that. For you. That's not what it's about."

Huffing out a laugh, I trace the line of his jaw with the tips of my fingers, following the slope of his neck, fingertips drifting over the flushed bite mark. "All that bleach and black, you're not gettin' back a whole lotta color," I tease, but to be honest, I get it, as much as I can. Eostre influenced him more than he probably realizes now that he's all split in two.

In her absence, he still wants to make stuff grow.

"I know, that's not what I meant. I'm just sayin', I'm yours. I've always been."

"Not always," he murmurs. He doesn't know why it sends something like pain stabbing through him, hearing that. I'm yours. When a significant part of him is still crying No, you shouldn't be.

Only let me follow you wherever you go and I'll ask for nothing else.

But he's too greedy for that. Even for Tom, he was too greedy.

He lets out a slow breath, listening to his own heartbeat in his ears. "I mean it. I'll stop going to him if you want me to."

"Shut up," I mutter, my thumbnail scratching idly across the bitemark, trailing along the pulse in his neck.

"No, I just... I need to tell you somethin', though," I say, shifting back a little so I can get a better look at his face. "I don't really remember how much I told you, 'bout Eames, but he's not really in the energy business like her first told me."

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