killingsoftly: (adore)
You are my home
You make me strong
And in this world of strangers
I belong to someone
You are all I know
You're all I have
I need you so
I won't let go
You are my home

He hasn't had a home in more years than he cares to count. Possibly never if you consider that his grandmother's house wasn't ever really a home. But he likes to cling to the illusion that it was.

If you asked him where home is, he would have told you Ireland. He hasn't been there in a few year, but there's something about the land that sings in his blood. Ultimately, always, it will be home, and when he decides that it's time to go, he'll go home to the land of his father, where his mother's people dance under the stars.

But it's not his first answer now. Home's shifted. It's not a where anymore. It's a who. Ask him where home is now, and he'll tell you it's wherever Warren is. Wherever Warren goes. There's a simple peace to it and a burning need underneath it. He wonders sometimes, if Warren understands, really understands what life was like before him.

The world will always be divided now into before-Warren and after-Warren. He doesn't think further than that, that Warren may be a capsule in a life that stretches on after he's gone. He can't think that way, because when he does, he thinks that when that happens is when home will become a where again. When it does is when he'll go home one last time.

OOC/Author's Note: Lyrics are from "You are My Home" in The Scarlet Pimpernel.
killingsoftly: (Tangled)
It galled him to be treated so, twisting his stomach into knots of bitterness. It was all well and good to joke about them all being five. It was all well and good to ruffle his hair and joke about him being a child compared to the others. But the truth of the matter was that he wasn't a child. Perhaps he wasn't thousands of years old, but he had nearly 150 years under his belt and despite hardships that had sometimes seemed overwhelming, he hadn't been overwhelmed. He was still here, and that said something in and of itself. He'd survived more than the Watcher. Far more than the actress or the mechanic. Perhaps not as much as the prince and princess, but really, what had Fergus gone through trial and tribulation wise besides having to take care of his Prince? The assassin...he could relate to, well, even if she had a century or two on him. They didn't treat her like a child, even when she sobbed about her baby being evil because of her father's blood or whatever.

With him, they fretted about balconies and they fretted about drugs and they acted like there was no way he was going to make it without careful watching. But where were they when he stood sobbing on the edge of a cliff screaming into the wind about what he'd done to Eileen? Where were they when Wilde had given him opium for the first time and he'd thought he saw her ghost mocking him for what he'd become? Where were they when he'd tried to cut the demon out and nearly found out whether he could heal before he bled to death? Well, all right, he'd been there then to sigh and patch him up and utter some seemingly profound nonsense about living and growing stronger and fighting another day. But they had not been. Not been born, not been twinkles in their grandparent's eyes, their great-grandparent's eyes even.

Just because they had categorized him as one of "them" and fine, they were probably right about that, did not mean that they got to treat him like an incompetent baby. Yell at him. Tell him he was being an idiot. Call him out on things. Be afraid for him. Of him. Any of those things, he could accept. But they'd reduced him to less than, or he'd allowed himself to be reduced to it, he wasn't sure which, but they both made him furious.

He didn't know when it had happened beyond the fact that it had always felt a bit like she was indulging him. A curiosity, and then perhaps a new pet. A new shiny. He'd let himself be that, because it was a convenient way to get what he needed, but it had gone beyond that now. He was not a glass doll destined to shatter without their tender mercies. He'd been doing quite fine, in point of fact, before they came along. He'd been happy, and if that happiness was a pale shadow of emotion compared to what he felt around Warren, no matter. He wasn't thinking of regret, or of wanting things back as they were. He wouldn't give up Warren even if it meant being free of their condescension. But, by the goddess, they needed to learn or remember what he was.

Devin sighed, kicking the chair hard enough to send it flying across the room. He was confused. He didn't understand how a real relationship would work. He was terrified Warren would leave, especially as he kept insisting he was straight. He was disappointed his fantasy, the one bloody thing he'd plotted and planned for and turned down a god for got cut short because of someone had to be sensible, and then they tried to orchestrate something else to ease him out of a sulk as if it were the act itself that mattered. All right. Perhaps disappointed was an understatement for pissed off. But it wasn't...gods. Running off and fucking in some other dressing room would not make the disappointment of Warren choosing to cut the first time short go away. He knew that, why didn't they? You lived with it, you accepted that things rarely turn out the way you think they will in fantasies, which is the danger of acting them out, and you can never get the first time back. If you were disappointed for a little while about that fact, sad even, perhaps, it was not the end of the world. You did not just try and re-do it, you didn't force it. You let it ease and you moved on. But sometimes it took time and that you needed that time did not make you a child. It made you, and he shuddered mentally at the thought, at least partly human.

He hated that his issue, and he knew it was his issue and it was his to get over, was transmitting to Warren, because it wasn't Warren's fault that he couldn't come out and say what was bothering him. And it wasn't Warren treating him like a child, not really. It wasn't even Warren's fault that he was disappointed. He hadn't told him how much it meant, to have something be a first time for both of them when so few things were for him after so long. He hadn't told him that he'd wanted it to be something Something more than Devin getting Warren off. It wasn't about the reciprocity, as Warren had reciprocated within, hell, a half hour. It had been about that...there...the two of them flushed and clinging in the space where they shouldn't have been, glowing when they came out, and...he didn't even know exactly. Just that yes. He'd never blown anyone in a dressing room before, and Warren had never been blown in one, so there. Fine. They'd had a first together. It just wasn't what he'd...had in mind, he supposed. But it was HIS to work out because he hadn't bothered to tell Warren what he'd had in mind. If he'd told him, he had no doubt Warren would have found a way to make it so, because Warren was not selfish and Warren wanted to make him as happy as he wanted to make Warren. So it was all his fault that he felt this way and HE had to get over it, not them, not Warren. And he didn't need to be babied about it. He needed to learn the lesson to speak up about what he wanted instead of just focusing on his partner. He needed to learn the lesson to ask if something was important to him instead of just assuming that Warren would pick up on the non-verbals.

And besides, Warren had his own issues to deal with about responsibility and being the good boy versus bad boy and not seeing that the world didn't really work that way outside of his upbringing in a world divided into hero, villain or sidekick. There was no middle ground in hero-land. Warren had been regarded as a freak because Alma fell in love with Baron Battle and had a son with him. How could a hero love a villain? Because outside the realm of the black and white thinking of the denizens of Sky High, the world didn't work that way. Baron Battle likely had good qualities in there. He loved his wife, his son. And Stronghold was a fucking idiot, so, there's your proof "good" isn't all good. But that was something he hoped to show Warren. That there were shades out there. That he could cut loose, be a little wicked without worrying that he was suddenly going to want to take over the world. That an admonishment from a store clerk or a police officer for public indecency was something to giggle over later and not the end of the world. That it didn't mean you were wicked and irredeemable. But how do you convey all that with a pout and a desperate kiss? That he wasn't used to asking for things wasn't Warren's fault. That it went against his very nature to ask for something when his partner seemed reluctant about wasn't Warren's fault. He...that reluctance would shut him up every time because it went against all he was to try and do something when someone was uncomfortable with it. Their discomfort translated to him, and made him uncomfortable and it was all a wash anyway.

But the being treated like a child after... The being forced...he hated that just as much. It was his fault that it wasn't spontaneous, and now he'd upset Warren by being reluctant. And maybe it was childish to not want to just find the nearest dressing room and try again when the disappointment was so sharp, but the memory of the ache of the disappointment could taint this one, too. Already had, and if he did explain it to Warren, Warren would blame himself, and it wasn't his fault, so that meant Devin needed to stay quiet about it. Because really, what could he say? "I don't want to have sex in the next dressing room we see because in my head it was all built up with the leather one and the smell of leather surrounding us and in the room and pressing into our skin and we had to buy a pair because we might have stained them, but they'd always be there as the memory of the pants we'd just pulled down recklessly because we couldn't wait to have each other until we were somewhere private, and I need some time to come down from that disappointment or the next dressing room with bathrobes in a department store with the smell of perfumes and makeup and the discussion of a father and his two year old in the next room is just going to seem off after the fantasy I'd built up for this morning." How could he say that to Warren? Make him think he'd done something wrong and that Devin hadn't enjoyed what they had done? Make him feel like he'd been selfish? No. He wouldn't. But he didn't know how to get around the second disappointment that such an encounter would bring, forever sealing and ruining the damn fantasy in his head. But simple reluctance had caused a near fight and now no one knew what was going on and Warren thought he'd done something wrong and he hadn't.

He'd slipped off tangent of the rant in his head. Children. Treating him like a child. That he felt all of this didn't make him a child to be coddled and fixed. There was nothing broken to be fixed, not here, not in this. And what was broken in him, what they could fix...didn't make him a child. It made him broken because of things done and said when he was a child. Because of things he'd gone through that left him battered and bruised. Because of walls he'd built that Warren was tearing down and leaving shattered around him and he wasn't sure how to be without the walls. That meant he was learning, that he was doing something new, that he wasn't as confident as he was in other areas, but it didn't mean he was a child. It didn't mean he couldn't take care of himself or that he couldn't take care of Warren.

He didn't know what, yet, or how, but something had to change. His eyes were far icier than they normally were when he glided out of the room.
killingsoftly: (Sinful)
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.*

There was fire in his eyes, a banked fury wanting a target to lash out at and only finding pool balls. It had intrigued him enough to invite the boy home, and though he'd hoped for something blazingly hot, he hadn't been expecting it to be the fireball through his hotel room wall.

Flame tattoos and flames that danced up and down his wrists and Devin couldn't take his eyes off of them. Warren would light up when brooding, and all Devin wanted to do was touch. He kept dancing closer and closer to the fire. Just passion. Just want. Only when it started to feel like need did he realize the danger of getting burned.

Fury and tears and quiet confessions of fears in the night. Too much whiskey, too much emotional release and too many misunderstandings. It scared him, how intense it was burning, like nothing he'd ever felt. His own fire, flowing around him, bright and beautiful and meant to seduce, and when Warren didn't react it lacerated something deep inside. When the fireball singed his side it seemed prophetic.

The world was on fire and he knew he was burning, but all he wanted was to curl up in the warmth and float away before the flames caught hold of his clothes. But then Warren was there, and for once put the fire out after the heat of anger cooled into something more tender, something safe.

The flames seemed to simmer when lips brushed lips for the first time. Forbidden in some ways, and yet Devin felt the rightness of it flowing through him. Heat and touch and lips and fingers and all he wanted was to lose himself in it forever and not let go. But he pulled back before the embers caught fully, something he'd never done when the heat raged so high and out of control. He wanted it to be perfect.

When it happened it stunned him more than anything else. So unsure, and tentative in many ways, both of them. The fire was allowed to flare, but it slid into a controlled burn with regular release. Contained into something softer it seemed. Gentler. The flicker in a fireplace or the light of candles scattered around a room. It gave everything a warm glow that he'd never experienced before. He wanted to hold on to it, cherish it, nurture it and keep it safe from anything that might douse it.

But there was also a part of him that wanted to feed it until it burned out of control again, and that part didn't care if it consumed them both.

It's coming closer
The flames are now licking my body
Please won't you help me
I feel like I'm slipping away
It's hard to breathe
And my chest is a-heaving

Lord almighty,
I'm burning a hole where I lay
Cause your kisses lift me higher
Like the sweet song of a choir
You light my morning sky
With burning love**

*"Fire and Ice" by Robert Frost
**"Burning Love" by Elvis
killingsoftly: (Lover)
The first couple of days had been like in a dream of pure joy. He still had to pinch himself to make sure he wasn't actually dreaming, that it all was real. That more than just the fact that Warren was with him, that Warren loved him. That he ... even in his head he stumbled over the word, but he managed it...loved Warren.

There was fear there, too. Always fear, of what he could do. Of what he'd done before. That Warren would wake up one day and realize just who and what he was in bed with. That Warren didn't know the worst of it. The lives he'd taken knowingly. Purposefully.

That the full knowledge of him would burst the bubble of happiness they were floating in.

He pulled on his leather pants and shrugged into his silk shirt. Earring in, just one, shirt half unbuttoned. He added a touch of eyeliner, something to draw eyes to his. Nothing too elaborate. Nothing like what he'd paraded around in the years of Glam. But a touch. He was tousling his hair, adding in gel when his cell rang.

He glanced at the number and sighed. He almost didn't answer, but he finally did. He wondered how she'd known he was in town.


"Devin, darling," her voice was always so chipper and yet refined. "You naughty boy, you didn't call and tell me you were in town."

Read more... )
killingsoftly: (Against all odds -- Warren)
Devin was nervous, unaccountably so, given everything. But a whole week in New York and the promise of what was to come made him shiver. He'd booked three gigs, calling on contacts and cajoling them into letting him play. Devin had done well enough for them in the past that they were happy to take the DJs off a night or two and slide him in, plastering up fliers and sending out emails.

He got the van loaded with the equipment and his bags, checked out of the hotel, then headed to Warren's to pick him up. He was bouncing a little as he got to the apartment, looking over the neighborhood and thinking that it would be home for a while when they got back. Home with Warren.

Devin felt as giddy as a schoolboy at the thought and couldn't help it if he was a little flushed when he knocked on the door.
killingsoftly: (Intense)
He wasn't accustomed to having coffee later with people he'd so thoroughly seduced, but then, she'd been nice to him before that and after that and didn't seem to be running away, ans she'd offered to let him talk and he'd already apparently told her about Warren, so that made her slightly safer to talk to than the redhead who he barely knew.

He called her and invited her for coffee. He arrived at Starbucks a little early, parking the bike, then fidgeting outside on the step while he waited for her. He lit up one of his clove cigarettes, moving away from the door to the ashtray a bit further down. People might have given him disapproving looks on his own account, but at least no one coughed pointedly at him.

He was still fidgety, but at least the nicotine helped a bit. And there would be coffee. Which might make him fidget more. But it would be good and she was a calming sort and he might not end up talking about Warren at all, really, even as VERY confusing as things were now.

He leaned against the wall and tried to make himself stop fidgeting, which got him looks from the Barbie clones who walked by, flashing him an inviting smile. Bike. Leather jacket. Sunglasses. Cigarette. Too pretty for words. It was what he used to get such creatures in his bed to give him what he needed, but he was too fixated on Warren to do more than just smile back at them with a nod.

Some things were instinctual.
killingsoftly: (I will only complicate you)
He was worried. He was also rather convinced that he wasn't wanted and probably should fuck off and let the boy come to him when and if he was ready. But the worry outweighed the guilt that he'd done something...that what they'd...the worry outweighed the guilt that this was his fault and made him grab the bike and head out on the hunt for Warren.

He wasn't at home, and his mom looked equally worried.

He wasn't at the Paper Lantern, which worried him more. It wasn't late enough for the clubs to be open, yet and he had no idea where else he might be.

He really needed to get a cell phone.

Not that Devin had the slightest idea what he'd say if he called him. He didn't have the slightest idea what he'd say when he found him.

He went to the park to look, figuring not many people knew about it and it might be somewhere Warren would go to be alone. If he wasn't there, it would at least give Devin time to regroup, to figure out what to say, and then he'd start hitting the clubs.
killingsoftly: (hopeful)
They'd given them a park facing room, which was more than Devin had hoped for. He brushed his fingers over the cool glass of the doors, then stepped outside on the balcony, letting the sounds of the city wash over him. He took a sip of whiskey, smiling to himself as he watched the warm early evening light warm the buildings and the tops of the trees. It was warm and the air conditioner in the room kicked on in protest of the open door, but he just let it run, listening to the sounds of Warren in the room behind him.

Even now, the heat from their little game still lingered, flushing his cheeks. The whiskey in the glass was cool, but not cool enough. He was cursing himself that they only had one bed, but when he'd booked the gig, and the room, he hadn't expected Warren to be coming. He figured he'd be pursuing his other gig while here, but then the invitation spilled out and here they were. He wasn't coming down off a high. He'd slept a lot the last few days. He'd been eating. He wasn't fragile and out of it, and sharing that bed was likely to test his resolve to the limit, especially after the teasing.

He wasn't likely to sleep much.

But he didn't want to push Warren. The flirtation was delightful. The game moreso, but he was the one who wanted it to be more than just a game, not Warren. He had to remember that part and not push, no matter if that "later" teased at his memory. He slid fingers over glass and imagined briefly it was skin, then pushed those thoughts away. He could behave.

"Our reservation's at six." He called back over his shoulder, straightening even as he kept his gaze fixed on the people scurrying below, drinking in the life of the City. "We should probably leave by 530. It's just around the corner, less than half a mile. Walk or cab?"
killingsoftly: (Wilde Child)
From AIM Chat:

Waren: *curious* Why would you go down on a guy?

Devin: *puzzled* Why would you go down on a girl?

Warren: *sputtery, blushy, and speechless*

Devin: I don't see the difference?

Warren: Taste?

Devin: *still confused* Yes, they taste different, so?

Warren: *also confused* So... It doesn't... *trying to find words* What turns you on about guys?

Journal continuation

Devin frowned thoughtfully, trying to think that through, to understand the thrust, no pun intended, of the question. "I'm attracted to beauty. To passion. To fire..." That got a slightly amused, if somewhat wry, smile. "I'm drawn to a person. Or at least that was how it started. I wanted to be around him, to bask in his creativity, his glow. And then when he touched me..." He shrugged a bit. "I felt. Things I didn't know it was possible to feel with a man."

He glanced at Warren, studying him. "I had always found men beautiful. The human body, both male and female, is an amazing thing. The inherent grace. The things it can do. But I didn't know what it would be like, and I was scared." He smiled, remembering. "But I liked it. A lot. I still do. I like the differences. Women are softness and curves, even in this day of sculpted muscles. Men all planes and angles. The things you can do with them are different. And I like the things I can do with men. I like the pleasure I can give and I like the pleasure I receive. To your original question...blow jobs are amazing to receive, and to give someone that sort of pleasure gives me pleasure. That pleasure is associated with the act now, and makes it something I want to do."
killingsoftly: (Too Much Love will Kill You)
He was sick after, shaking. There hadn't been much in his stomach and in the end it was just dry heaving, retching again and again. Sickened that the Sorcerer had done such a thing. More sickened that he'd let him, that he'd fallen into it, knowing it for the lie it was but so desperate for anything that he'd taken it. Cried when words he wanted to hear from Warren's lips fell from those lovely lying ones.

Not him, and yet every curve of muscle, every inflection of voice was him and he'd wanted...wanted so badly.

He shivered on the bathroom floor, curled up. Not numb anymore, but overheated, seeking the cool tile. He didn't know how long it was before he could drag himself to the shower, but when he could, he stood under the hot water trying to scrub every touch of him off of his skin, but he was too deep for that, imprinted with the sure knowledge that Devin was somewhere in him there and he could never fully escape what it was that he was. His hands beat the walls until they were bruised, the knuckles bleeding, and he fell to the floor of the shower, sobbing. Dry, wracking sobs that threatened to tear him apart and he would have screamed if he thought he'd ever stop. He bit his knuckles instead, stuffing his fist in his mouth to muffle the sobs.

He stayed there until the water turned to ice and then he stayed there longer until he felt numbed again. He dried off almost methodically. He found sweatpants, tugging them on, but didn't even look for a shirt. His hands fumbled with the pill bottle, then tossed it aside. Alert wasn't what he wanted and he needed it faster than whiskey. He went for the box, searching through, hands shaking until he found the powder in the bottom of the box. He almost couldn't heat the water, he was shaking so bad, but he got it dissolved, and pulled into the needle. He found a vein easily, biting his lip at the pinch and then it was in.

It was warmer again, then, a rush washing over him. He made it back to the living room, eyeing the balcony, but collapsed on the couch, welcoming the distance, the clouding, sinking into it, not noticing that he was still crying a little.
killingsoftly: (doubtful and untrusting)
He wouldn't cry. It was a useless endeavor. Nothing had changed, not really. Warren loved the girl whether he was with her or not. He'd done his best to convince the boy he wasn't a danger to everyone who loved him, and if the parallels cut a little too tightly he wouldn't let it show. Couldn't. Wouldn't. Something.

He wouldn't cry. He'd shed tears over her. Shed tears over her as well. And over him, they'd already fallen, more than he would let anyone know, though Fergus had held him through some of them. He could say they were for something else. Say they were from frustration. Exhaustion. Wanting to go. Needing to go. Needing to stay.

He wouldn't cry. He didn't have it in him. This cold emptiness didn't lend itself to tears. He wanted to be warm again, but he couldn't reach into the warmth, fall into it. Into him. The whiskey just made it worse. Sent him spiraling down until he was as afraid as they had been that the balcony would be too tempting. He didn't need that. He couldn't do that to him.

He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't spend his time drunk. He had other options. Make the pain go away. Make him warm. There were pretty girls. Pretty boys. Two at a time. Three. Brief respite from the cold. And when that wore off, and the loneliness crashed over him again, there was his box.

He wouldn't cry. He needed him to be strong. To be there for him, and he'd never done that for anyone. He felt himself crumbling, unsure what was needed. The white powder hit his system hard and fast. Things weren't so cold and he could focus and he felt the troubles ease off just enough to let him be what he needed to be.

He wouldn't cry. He'd fly instead and try and hold off the crash for as long as possible.


Jun. 5th, 2006 11:01 pm
killingsoftly: (Goodbye)
I heard there was a secret chord
That David played to please the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do ya?
It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing - Hallelujah

Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne - she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah


You say I took the name in vain
Well, I don't even know the name
But if I did, well really, what's it to ya?
There's a blaze of light in every word
It doesn't matter what you heard
The holy or the broken - Hallelujah

I did my best - that wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I learned to touch
I told the truth - I didn't come to fool ya
And even though it all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of song
With nothing on my lips but Hallelujah



Well, maybe there's a God above
But all I ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew ya
And it's no complaint you hear tonight
It's not some pilgrim who's seen the light
It's a cold and broken Hallelujah



ooc note: Bono version (slightly dif. lyrics)
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