Writer's Block by EvenStar

There weren't any words. Darren stabbed the pen erratically onto the empty pad, patterning the white with a mess of inky blue dots. Hoping that somehow inspiration was locked inside the nib, he shook the plastic barrel, waiting for it to flow. It didn't. He'd woken hours before it was acceptable to wake, the entire world cold and dead outside, the touch of night when everything seemed quiet.

He couldn't sleep. When he did his dreams were tainted, his mind lost in a grey fog of lust and writhing feelings. He'd close his eyes and see tanned skin, fall into slumber and feel tender kisses so sensual they tore emotion from his very centre. This time, when he'd snapped awake from such a vivid vision, the remnants of the dream lingered like imprints pressed all over his body. The will to translate emotion from his heart onto paper became a desperate need to write, and so he scrambled for the pen and the notepad laying comfortably in his drawer. The desire to release that pent-up frustration was strong, and he poised the pen above the page, expecting words to set the paper on fire.

But nothing. He begged himself silently to write, obsessively watching the stationary position of his hand, clutching the pen as a useless object. Something, anything, must come from this. It had to. The crush, the insane passion was a plague, but if he could turn it into something beautiful then it wouldn't be in vain. Still the page remained empty, and his eyelids drooped with the fatigue he couldn't satiate. The sleep would bring more dreams, and the dreams would bring more torment.

Right now he saw before him Daniel's green eyes and laughing smile; and he felt bad because it hurt. To see him upset was painful, but to witness him happy was worse - the pain of your soulmate being happy without you. His restless fingertips clutched the pen even tighter, and slowly he began to draw across the page, carving in numerous symbols with no meaning, abstract doodles in blue ink. There were swirls, and there were stars, and there were zigzags, and now a heart, a love heart he drew before stabbing it right through with a tiny dagger. He felt the pain of the dagger in his own heart, as it cut inside him flooding him with liquid resentment.

The tears welled, as he felt the strength of hatred begin to grow, the power of anger rushing pure and dark through his system. And the fear - the fear that hatred was too much to control, and in the end all he would do was hate Daniel, hate him for being there and causing him to love, causing him to sit here pining away every night.

He hadn't known him very long. It was just damn typical of Darren to fall so hard, so fast. He only remembered walking into that room and taking that audition, walking in and trembling when he saw Daniel, and only Daniel, the other band members seemed to fade into oblivion once those emerald eyes locked on his. He'd stuttered, he'd fallen apart, he'd sung in the wrong key - he'd felt humiliated in front of this man, the one with the blond hair and green eyes. Instant attraction. But he didn't know. How could he know then that his world would change and he'd fall in love with him? He was forever reminded that life was a dangerous road; you turned a corner and were hit by something deep and uncontrollable, a passion that penetrated your skin and burrowed down into every inch of you.

Darren swallowed as he glanced down at the page, filled with mindless creations. A new fear surged him now - if he couldn't write tonight, maybe he would never write again? Had Daniel stolen this from him as well, not only his aching heart? Perhaps the words would never again spill out from his head and make their way onto the page, perhaps they would never become something more than dreams. They wouldn't be paired with Daniel's music or flow from Darren's lips. He would simply be nothing, a creature filled with love and hate, and with no way to pour it out.

He drummed his fingers against the pad, wishing on something to crawl from his memory and resemble a lyric, a line of self-indulgent poetry. The silence in both his head and in the room pounded on Darren, threatening to push him down. Too quiet, and he couldn't hear anything outside, no traffic, no nothing. The heavy closure of the darkness swirled around him like a thick mist. He drew in a breath and let it out again, choking on the nothing that surrounded him. He sighed. When troubled with severe writer's block, he would often search his existing songs for inspiration, a cheat-like way of taking one phrase and reversing it to express the meaning in a different context. He tapped into his memory, the lyrics to several self-penned songs flooding through his head, that distinct hatred returning - one of those times where he felt so useless that even his achievements seemed like nothing. It was a feeling akin to pity, he knew that, cursing each word he'd written and discarding them as complete rubbish. Even though he knew it wasn't true, it was something his temperamental mind could not avoid.

Now more words pushed at his mind - pictures gleaned directly from the wet dream he'd had before created fictions he wished to come to life. Golden flesh rubbing against his pale, and he longed to place his lips on him, have him hiss in pleasure at that touch and return the sentiment. Darren shook his head, trying to shatter the world that was coursing in his imagination.

Imagination was all he had, he couldn't let it drown in the wishful thinking, in the pretense of a lovely fairytale. Because that's what it was. The mere notion that Daniel might - in even the smallest, miniscule measurement - love him back, was something that Darren regarded as ludicrous. His conscience, his low self-esteem would not allow his brain to entertain that as possible reality, not even for a moment. He would love and he would dream, but he would not be loved and be dreamed of, because what would an angel, a prince such as Daniel see in his soul?

Darren had neglected to turn the lamp on, and so the moonlight was only lightly visible through the filmy, thin curtains. It highlighted his page so it almost glowed with a midnight intensity. Shining there in the eerie silver like marble. Darren closed his eyes. The thoughts had all but gone away now. A resounding peace was beginning to float within him, which usually came when he was too tired to care, too exhausted to register feelings or actions.

The vague on-set of sleep crept over him, and he felt himself shutting his eyes even tighter, still sitting up in bed, the pen still clutched in his hand and the paper still before him on his lap. He slowly succumbed to the quiet tears welling inside him, and to the only four words that remained - "I love you, Daniel."

He let them wash over him, the tears and the words, as the night grew suddenly colder and the feeling haunted him. So much so that he could almost reach out and touch the sensations he felt, give them names and meaning, give them personality and depth. He swallowed, reeling as the words slowly formed pictures in his head. Lyrics seemed a world away - putting his thoughts into melody and rhyme seemed an unecessary, difficult task right now. He squeezed the pen in frustration. It was several minutes then, several minutes before he calmed down and tried to harness his tears, turn them into something creative and tangible. He could feel the blotches appear on his face as he cried, only wishing right now to create these words, make something powerful from the pain. The tears dripped onto the blanket, over the sheets, across the notepad, and he blinked, feeling the salt-tainted liquid sting his eyes. He rubbed at them furiously with his hands, and breathed in slowly, watching the moonlight come in through the curtains. The exhaustion was causing him pain, he could almost feel the shadows building underneath his eyes ready for the next morning. Weakened and driven to almost midnight insanity by his tears, he felt the words bursting, exploding like fireworks in his brain, and he had to get them out, he had to draw on the wish he felt so deeply, and he had to pretend. And before his mind managed to register his actions, the pen was flying across the page like a lively flame, as he began to write.

My cerulean blue eyes slip over the shadow of his figure, encapsulated in candlelight flickering from a single flame. My heart had been aching, tortured by the incessant waiting for sunset, for darkness to cloak everything and further enhance my lust. The passion never died, but within the dark it danced, fired by the ghost of evening, a nocturnal embrace.

My pale, shaking fingertips crawl gingerly over fabric and flesh; my palms glide smoothly over cotton, exploring his barriers. I can see the candle flame reflected in Daniel's eyes, as I mark a soft trail down my lover's torso with my fingernails, my grip reaching the hem of the shirt below. I run them across the delicate stitching, noticing everything, the intricacies of the needlework.

Appreciating every moment, before taking a deep breath and lifting the shirt from the hem upwards. It rolls up revealing the stretch of Daniel's bare chest, slender, sculptured, golden and coloured by the flame. I gently remove the shirt, ruffling Daniel's hair as I do so, dropping it and taking a moment, a moment to drink in such a vision. My work of art, my statue carved in perfection.

The buttons on my own shirt suddenly seem strained against my chest, as though my breathing is fragmented. Not taking my eyes from Daniel's face, I dip a hand into the shirt and unhook each button, one by one, my speed visibly growing with each move I make.

Daniel watches me with a quiet fascination, and I struggle to hold back when all I want to do is kiss him until he can't breathe, have him touch me and feel myself touching him.

The shirt is gone, and I feel exposed before him, as his eyes draw slowly over my flesh. I feel cold, and goosebumps prickle my skin, leaving me sensitive and vulnerable. I long to touch him. His hands slide down to his zipper and I am hypnotized, almost to the point of catatonia. The zipper is down, and I watch as the denim crinkles at his feet. The tight boxers cling to his form, driving me wild.

I can hear strangled breathing, and it's me, struck my the sight of him. I silently pray I won't lose it before he touches me. My erection screams out, it feels painful. If he takes down those boxer shorts now, I think I'm going to come. Instead, his fingertips reach out for me, for my pants, yet I jump back. He looks concerned. If he touches me now I'm going to explode.

Slowly, I slide down my own zipper. I step out of the pants, feeling hard flesh push against the cotton of my boxers. I take great care not to touch myself, however tempting it is while watching his body in the candlelight. Fearing loss of control too early, I suddenly shift down the barrier, completely naked in front of him, and he eyes me gently with lust.

I want to beg for him to do the same as I, and he can see it in my eyes. Obligingly he seizes the boxers in his hands and they're gone. God, he's so fucking perfect.

I feel my mouth drop open, then lick my lips, precome soaking me, and I don't think I can take it. I fall to my knees before him, as though worshipping my god. I feel like a willing slave - I long to be his willing slave. Desperate to satiate my own desire, I force myself to ignore it.

I tremble, steadying myself with my hands on his legs, as I press my lips to the tip, mind buzzing and whirring with his taste. I hear him moan and it's like heaven - he jolts forward and swiftly enters my mouth, heat and hardness attacking the warmth and moistness. He makes another groan, and I feel myself shiver, it's taking all I have to prevent myself from coming.

His gasps reach new heights; I feel a tingle as I drive further, sucking harder, and he's close to the brink. I can hear the release in his voice, as he bucks into me wildly, and then the sweet reward arrives, hot, liquid, satisfying, spilling over my tongue and trickling messily over my lips.

He's shaking, I can see. By now I'm pleading for liberation and he knows, taking only moments to recover and suddenly I am on my back, he's pressing onto me. His skin's so hot, silky and ripe, and he pushes a kiss to my lips. He licks there gently, tasting the droplets that escaped. Then he's moving downwards again, and I nearly pass out as he takes hold of me, fighting with myself, I can't come now, I won't let myself.

I beg for him to continue, the pressure is weighing on me like something heavy and intense. I slide my hands down onto his shoulders, the sweat on his back clinging to my palms. /Now, Daniel. Please./

He seems to read my mind, and his lips are on me, I feel my hips thrust up against him, and he takes me in deep. Already I can feel myself bucking mindlessly into his lips, and I begin to come, weak and shaking from pleasure. I scream his name, and it pushes me over the edge, taking everything out of me, and there it is. I empty myself into Daniel, he has all of me, I'm exhausted and spent.

I can't stand it when his lips move away, I need the warmth of his smile on my flesh. He's above me again, and there are his kisses, he tastes sweet, like strawberries, and like me.

Deep in the throes of frustration, Darren threw the pen aside, reading over what he'd written. Lips quivering, he swallowed hard, his hand taking on a mind of its own and sliding under the sheets, delving into the cotton of his boxers, and he was soaked with precome, just like in the story. His eyes met the page intently, concentrating on the fierce adjectives that sprung out at him in the dark. His grip twisted around himself, and he was so goddamn close and all the fire of hatred and the power of desire rocked like a drug through his veins - his sight darted over the page again, and the story came to life in his head.

I hear him moan and it's like heaven - he jolts forward and swiftly enters my mouth, heat and hardness attacking the warmth and moistness.

Darren's palm shielded his manhood tighter, his fingertips slippery over wetness.

I can hear the release in his voice, as he bucks into me wildly, and then the sweet reward arrives, hot, liquid, satisfying, spilling over my tongue and trickling messily over my lips.

"Oh God..." The words slipped out of his mouth, and he could even hear himself groan, voice hot and heavy with extertion.

He seems to read my mind, and his lips are on me, I feel my hips thrust up against him, and he takes me in deep. Already I can feel myself bucking mindlessly into his lips, and I begin to come, weak and shaking from pleasure.

Juice so hot like acid cascaded over his hand, down onto the sheets below him, sticky, wet and warm. He threw his head back in ecstasy against the pillow, breathing hard and eyes closing in exquisite bliss. His other hand graced the paper; and he stared at his handiwork, crazed by lust. Taking a moment to fold the page, he leaned up and tucked it under his pillow, before collapsing in exhaustion among damp sheets and damper dreams.