vampbaby (vampbaby) wrote in tarnishedmetal, @ 2007-11-19 20:04:00 |
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Title: Around The Sun
By: vampbaby
Band/Pairing: R.E.M. – Michael Stipe/Mike Mills
Rating: NC-17, Sex, Language
Disclaimer: For non-profit, entertainment purposes only. The persons and events described herein are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental(ish).
His hair used to fall around him like a golden halo, his face young and sweet and innocent. I was innocent then, too. Skinny like him, but awkward and gangly, none of the cherubic charm and mystery that drew followers to him like flies to honey. I loved him then, too, and he knew it. Michael was the center of the universe and everyone else gravitated to him. I was only one of his many satellites, a minor planet orbiting him, lost in a galaxy of stars.
Now my hair cascades over the pillow in blonde waves, no longer choppy and brown and stick straight. His head is smooth against my cheek now, clean-shaven, which I find eerie. I prefer a little stubble. Sometimes I miss the tickle of his hair on my belly as his lips move over my pelvis.
I’ve filled out some over the years. A man’s body. Not fat like Peter, just solid. A few pounds of muscle and confidence put on by years of living, simply growing up and growing older. Michael’s body has changed, too. It was so young and fresh –soft and supple in all the right places, firm and taut in the others. Now his muscles are hard and sinewy, his skin weathered. And he is beautiful.
He looks up at me with eyes that are tired. So intense, his ice blue gaze has always been able to pierce anyone it fixes on. Even when he was young, those eyes glinted with Southern wisdom. His lips haven’t changed either. They are full and soft and warm as they wrap around my cock.
His sucking is apologetic. It always is. It’s still good, though I can’t say whether it makes up for everything that’s happened. My hands glide over his scalp, and I bury them in the covers, clutching at the sheets. His fingers slip inside me, and I gasp, his tongue, so sorry, swirling over the head of my cock, and I toss my hair in the pillow. I try so hard to maintain a stoic dignity, like he does, but his wet mouth enveloping me, and his rough palm slapping against my ass, force my hips into a wanton rhythm.
It’s been this way for nearly thirty years. I’m the only one, until the next one catches his eye. His soul, his genius, is just too big for any one person to hold. And it’s times like this, when the pleasure overwhelms me, nearly bringing me to tears, that I remember why. The care with which he stretches me, the passion of his tongue wriggling in my ass, his mouth on my cock, sucking my balls, I can hardly breathe. He makes me feel like I am the only one.
Jealousy passed me by long ago. I thought my heart could only break so many times, and yet every time I found him with someone else, it shattered again into a million smaller pieces. Eventually, I had to quit looking for him, and I learned to appreciate these times in between, when the guilt makes him lavish me with attention. It’s how I know he is sorry. His hand gently but eagerly guides the head of his cock into me, and it’s how I know he wants me. He is quiet in bed, his voice smooth and soft and low as he murmurs in my ear, and it’s how I know he loves me.
That voice has been my whole life. I know it better than my own. It’s the voice I hear in my head, the one that calls to me at night, the one that talks to me in my dreams. His cock pushes all the way in me, and his voice whispers how good I feel, how tight, how hot. My breath catches as he thrusts into me the first few times, his skin damp and warm, his breath soft against my neck.
I can’t help but wish my heart were enough for him. I have given him my life, silently. And he has taken everything I have offered. Every song is for me. I’m his muse, he promises, and I can hear it, a part of us both in every song we play. Except the one he wrote for Him. Even now, at the height of pleasure, Michael’s hands on me, our bodies moving together, the thought of it sends a cold chill over me. I don’t want to remember.
Shifting under Michael, I push back hard against him, hoping to push back the memories of Kurt. Michael was obsessed with him. Michael loved him. Michael thought he could save him. And when Kurt died, God help me, I was so relieved. Michael was inconsolable for months, but I thought it would pass, and we would be together again, and things would be the same as they had been before.
But everything was different, and Michael fell deeper and deeper into a black hole of depression. He pushed me away, sulked, shouted at me, stayed out for weeks at a time. Then She entered the picture, all big tits, bright red lips, drug-addled laughter, and drunken babbling. She was flashy and loud and pushy and entitled. I was an annoyance and an inconvenience to them both. She was my punishment, my penance for wishing Kurt dead a hundred times. Michael looked at her that way, too. She was a way for him to be with Kurt, to atone for his failure, his inability to rescue Kurt from himself. She kept Kurt’s ghost alive, and there was no way I could compete.
It would be easier if he weren’t such a generous lover. But his lips are so tender. His cock fills me, pounds into me. His hand slides over my erection. He delays his own orgasm until he brings me to my own. I know he’s close because he buries his face in my neck and pumps his hips faster. He has no idea that my mind is filled with doubts and regrets and recriminations when he rasps in my ear to come with him. His need and urgency melt my resolve. I can’t deny him anything, and I certainly can’t leave him. The memories of Kurt and Courtney recede for a while as he shoots his load deep inside me and I obediently explode into his hand. Truth is, I forget my own name when we come together. I feel so close to him, so in love with him, that nothing else matters. He kisses me and holds me and doesn’t mind the cum smeared on our stomachs or running out of my ass. He has always tolerated my insecurities, my doubts. He puts up with me, takes care of me, and looks out for me. All these years, I don’t know what I would have done without him. We were so young, and he was so strong. I needed him so much then, and I need him even more now.
The words are quick on his tongue. He loves me, me and no one but me, always and forever. I believe him. I always do. My bliss lasts until the afterglow wears off. I look deep into his eyes, searching for any hint of his true feelings, which he keeps to himself. It hurts that he doesn’t trust me, even after so many years together, after we’ve shared so much. In the recesses of his soul, I know he’s thinking of Kurt. The fling with Courtney didn’t last long. She was nothing like Kurt – had none of his passion and sensitivity and genius. She also didn’t have a dick. Michael’s interest in her, even as a substitute, was short-lived, though she had persisted in plaguing us for months after. Michael didn’t notice that he was her link, too, to the afterlife, to Kurt’s memory, to his body. Once Michael was done with her, she became useless to him, and he finally came back to me. Every day has been a reminder that I am not Kurt. I am jealous of a corpse, a ghost, a memory.
“He’s dead! Dead, Mike! Dead! And I’m not! I’m alive, and I’m here, and I love you!” I had screamed at him once, in a moment like this, his semen running out of me while he held me and stared off in the darkness remembering Him. Michael acted surprised, accused me of imagining things, of not trusting him, of not loving him. I was devastated. All my years of loyalty and love called into question when his cum was still warm inside my body. It was worse than if he had just kicked me in the stomach. I never mentioned it to him again, but it still hangs like a black cloud between us. There have been others since – novelists, actors, activists – but none of them mean anything to Michael. He quickly tires of each of them and returns to me. Now that he is through fucking some indie movie director, who is no doubt sitting at home still waiting for the phone to ring, Michael has chosen me again. I lie in his arms, clinging to him, savoring every moment with him.
“I love you, Mike. You are my rock. I’m nothing without you.”
My heart skips, like it always does when he talks to me after sex. His promises, his endearments, his declarations. He believes them completely, and so do I. At least until the next time he breaks my heart. I don’t know how to rationalize my weakness, my constant willingness to take him back. And yet I know I always will.