Так, вдруг зазвучало...

перевод с немецкого

Вот стою я с твоим сердцем
И смотрю на тебя с твоей болью
Избавить тебя, избавить тебя от неё?
Но я знаю: ты будешь очень об этом жалеть
Старая любовь
Старая любовь не ржавеет.

Не плачь
Время прогонит тучи
Не плачь обо мне
Не жди
Солнце высушит слёзы
Не жди меня.

Поверь, мне очень стыдно
За всю боль что я тебе причинил
Возвращаю тебе твоё сердце обратно
Освобождаю тебя для нового счастья
Старая любовь
Старая любовь не ржавеет.

Не плачь
Время прогонит тучи
Не плачь обо мне
Не жди
Солнце высушит слёзы
Не жди меня.

Эта весна была короткой
Мной управлял простой инстинкт
Но на поле битвы с чувством
Знал ли я что влюблюсь?

Не плачь
Время прогонит тучи
Не плачь обо мне
Не жди
Солнце высушит слёзы

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Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра

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Зайдёшь на ДА и пропадёшь...

Lava Lamp by =Liol on deviantART


60 Thoughts by =Liol on deviantART


Cheshire Cat by ~Yaone-chan on deviantART

запись создана: 28.01.2011 в 21:42

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Киоко

Рю Мураками.
Биография, как всегда, прикладывается: тут.
Художественное выражение своего "Я" у него связано с символами наркотиков, садомазохизма, секса.
Однако не в Киоко.
Это, по сути, идеи и размышления автора о пути.
И о тех людях, которые мчатся по этому пути на красном микроавтобусе, с кем они встречаются и что на самом деле важно.
Где проходит граница между теми, кто стоит на обочине, и теми, кто не боится идти вперёд.
Путешествие всегда связано с потерями, с тем, что остаётся позади.
Ниже несколько цитат.

цы

— Ты очень страдаешь?
— Бывает хуже. Мы с Серхио назвали разные по силе приступы боли именами боксеров, самый сильный — это Майк Тайсон.
— А самый слабый?
— Микки Рурк.

Она не плакала. Именно в этот момент я понял секрет Киоко, то, что скрывалось, как тень, за очарованием ее улыбки. Даже не будучи сиротой, каждый испытывает порой печаль и одиночество. Есть люди, которые, когда у них слезы подступают к глазам, дают им вылиться, не задавая себе лишних вопросов, а есть другие, которые себе этого не позволяют. Киоко однажды поняла, что слезы ничего не меняют.

Если демон, который меня так мучает, находится внутри, его можно принять за ребенка, из-за его по-детски неловких движений.

Девушка счастливо улыбнулась. Однако она еще не знала, что идет к будущему.
Она не знала, что будущее означает потерю того, что имеешь, рождение того, чего у тебя еще нет.

До сих пор я врал бесчисленное количество раз в своей жизни. Даже в детстве свои первые слова я, должно быть, произнес, чтобы обмануть маму. Когда врешь, главное — это не актерское мастерство. Главное — концентрация.

Чтобы выжить, иллюзии и ложь необходимы, это понятно. Но вот нужны ли они, чтобы умереть?
Никто не знает ответа на этот вопрос. Те, кто знал, уже умерли.

Для кубинца танец — это не изысканное развлечение для воскресного вечера. Для раба или изгнанника танец — это способ выжить. Кубинский танец начинается тогда, когда кубинец возвращается в свой скромный дом после изнурительного труда, изматывающего его, как тряпку. Он танцует, чтобы забыть свою честную усталость и чтобы возродить свои гордость и надежду.


Долгое время моего любимого персонажа в World of Warcraft звали Киоко.

@темы: Киоко, мозг требует!

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Экстаз. Меланхолия. Танатос.

Рю Мураками.
На сей раз таким, каков он есть.
Я лично считаю, что половина эффекта от его произведений происходит из бесконечных предложений.
Истории вьются и вьются, бесконечно, будто засасывая в само действо.

цы

Танатос
ты думаешь, что ты мазохистка? ах, не думаешь? ну, тогда ты совершенно не знаешь самое себя, ты самая что ни на есть настоящая мазо, ибо в тебе соединяются два типа: кокотка и самобичевание; в действительности эти типы присутствуют у большинства мазохисток; кокотка обычно говорит: «Ах, мне стыдно, посмотрите, как мне стыдно, то, что я делаю, так грязно, поэтому, пожалуйста, полюбите меня». Самобичующийся тип — это жаждущие истязаний вплоть до потери сознания, до того, что уже не понимают, кто они есть на самом деле, ибо после бичевания наступает утешение, словно кошку почесывают за ушами; в действительности это та же самая кокотка; когда самобичевание ограничивается татуировками и пирсингом, еще остается надежда на спасение, можно сказать, что самобичующийся тип — это кокотка, которая отказывается быть ею, кокотка замещает свое желание самобичевания жертвенностью; на самом деле кокотки более склонны к контактам с другими людьми, чем самобичующиеся, так как кокотка — это форма выражения эгоизма, а у тебя, Рейко, эти два типа наслаиваются друг на друга, словно в молекуле ДНК, они отзеркаливают друг друга, а поскольку они еще и взаимно дополняются, то, увидев тебя первый раз, можно подумать, что ты достаточно сильная, ты придаешь интеллектуальную окраску своему желанию кричать от боли, придавая ему тем самым конкретную форму самобичевания; в любом случае эти два типа имеют одинаковое происхождение: недостаток уважения к себе; девушки, страдающие этим недостатком, никогда не ощущают удовольствия при общении с мужчиной, они, бедняжки, не в состоянии испытать оргазм, они кончают, только занимаясь мастурбацией

@темы: детям до 18 ни-ни!!, Экстаз. Меланхолия. Танатос.

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Ну конечно там рай, а здесь ад...

Вехи...

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Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра

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Миодные чаянья и творческие терзания

Благодарности

Ох, хмельной мёд, хмельной мёд!
Питерский хмельной мёд!
Я, опять и снова, выражаю свои восторги и безграничную благодарность Фай.
За мнооого присланного почтой миода.
It makes me believe someone thinks of me.
Sometimes.

Нытьё

Мой мозг выдал странный, доселе невиданный фортель.
Он усмехнулся совсем слащаво, зубы заболели аж, и сообщил: "Я знаю, что будет дальше и чем мы это закончим, значит, и ты знаешь. Так зачем это писать?"
Довод застал внезапно.
Я в шоке.
Мозг гадливо хихикает.

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Спасите мой мозг!

Это пипец просто! ))))))

27.07.2009 в 09:59

Пишет  Тинкатина:

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99F (99 франков)

Фредерик Бегбедер.
Он - тот, кем хочет быть Минаев со своими низкого пошиба "The тёлки" и прочей претенциозной писаниной.
Он пишет злободневную сатиру и самые прозаичные истории любви. Самые болезненные.
Он певец экстази.
Он оживил то, что давно заклеймили "старьём": sex, drugs, death advertising rock'n'roll.
Краткая биография - тут
Увы, цитировать его бесполезно - это надо читать.
Ниже - маленький отрывок из начала книги, просто чтобы понимать, каков он.

(цы)

Именуюсь я Октавом, одеваюсь в АРС. Я рекламист: да-да, это именно я загаживаю окружающую среду. Я - тот самый тип, что продает вам разное дерьмо. Тот, что заставляет вас мечтать о вещах, которых у вас никогда не будет. О вечно лазурных небесах, о неизменно соблазнительных красотках, об идеальном счастье, подкрашенном в PhotoShop'e. Зализанные картинки, модные мотивчики. Но когда вы, затянув пояса, соберете денежки и купите наконец машину - предел ваших мечтаний, она моими стараниями давным-давно выйдет из моды. Я ведь иду на три круга впереди вас и, уж будьте уверены, позабочусь о том, чтобы вы чувствовали себя облапошенными. Гламур - это праздник, который всегда с другими - не с тобой. Я приобщаю вас к наркотику под названием "новинка", а вся прелесть новинок состоит в том, что они очень недолго остаются таковыми. Ибо тут же возникает следующая новинка, которая обратит предыдущую в бросовое старье. Сделать так, чтобы у вас постоянно слюнки текли, - вот она, моя наивысшая цель. В моей профессии никто не желает вам счастья. Ведь счастливые люди - не потребляют.
Ваши страдания подстегивают сбыт. На жаргоне рекламщиков это называется "печаль пост-шоп". Вы нуждаетесь в некоем товаре, но стоит вам завладеть им, как вы уже хотите чего-то нового. Гедонизм - это не гуманизм, это cash-flow. Знаете, каков его девиз? "Я трачу, следовательно, я существую". Но для того, чтобы зародить в человеке жажду приобретательства, нужно возбудить в его душе зависть, горечь, алчность - таково мое оружие. А моя мишень - вы сами.
Я расходую свою жизнь на то, чтобы лгать вам, и за это мне щедро платят. Я зарабатываю 13 тысяч евро плюс представительские, служебная тачка, биржевые акции и golden parachute. Евро был изобретен специально для того, чтобы непристойно высокие заработки богачей выглядели в шесть раз скромнее. Много ли вы знаете парней, которые загребали бы 13 тысяч евро - в мои-то годы? Я пудрю вам мозги, а мне выдают за это новенький "мерседес SLK" (с крышей, автоматически убирающейся в багажник), или "BMW 23", или "Porsche Boxter", или "Mazda MX5". (Лично я питаю слабость к "BMW Z3"; в нем идеально сочетаются аэродинамическая эстетика кузова и мощь шестицилиндрового мотора в 321 л.с., что позволяет за 5,4 секунды развить скорость до 100 км в час. К тому же эта машина похожа на гигантский суппозиторий, что весьма практично, если хочешь воткнуть его Земле в зад).
Я прерываю ваши телефильмы, чтобы навязать свои логотипы, а мне за это оплачивают отпуск на Сен-Барте, или в Ламу, или на Пхукете, или в Лакабане. Я заполоняю рекламными слоганами ваши излюбленные журналы и получаю в награду сельский дом в Провансе, или замок в Периге, или виллу на Корсике, или ферму в Ардеше, или дворец в Марокко, или катамаран на Карибах, или яхту в Сен-Тропе. Я везде. Вам от меня не скрыться. Куда ни плюнь, всюду царит моя реклама. Я запрещаю вам скучать. Я мешаю вам думать. Терроризм, именуемый "новинкой", помогает мне впаривать вам пустоту. Спросите у любого серфингиста, и он подтвердит: если хочешь удержаться на поверхности воды, необходимо, чтобы под ногами был провал. Серфинговать означает скользить по отвесной стенке гигантской пропасти (фанаты Интернета знают это так же хорошо, как чемпионы Лакано). Это я решаю, что есть Истина, что есть Красота, что есть Добро. Это я отбираю манекенщиц, на которых вы западете через полгода. Да-да, западете как миленькие и окрестите их топ-моделями; мои девки закомплексуют любую бабу старше четырнадцати. Вы боготворите моих избранниц. Этой зимой в моду войдут сиськи выше плеч и плоская задница. Чем смелей я играю с вашим подсознанием, тем безропотнее вы мне покоряетесь. Если я нахваливаю йогурт, залепив плакатами все стены вашего города, то, даю голову на отсечение, вы его купите. Вам-то кажется, будто вы свободны в своем выборе, но не тут-то было: в один прекрасный день вы углядите мой товар на полке супермаркета и возьмете его - просто так, попробовать; вы уж поверьте мне, я свое дело знаю туго.
М-м-м, до чего ж это приятно - влезать к вам в мозги! До чего сладко владеть вашим правым полушарием! Ваши желания больше вам не принадлежат - я навязываю вам свои собственные. Я запрещаю вам желать как бог на душу положит. Ваше желание должно быть результатом многомиллиардных инвестиций в евровалюте. Это я решаю сегодня, чего вы захотите завтра.

Есть ещё фильм с таким же названием, вполне стоит просмотра.

запись создана: 17.01.2011 в 11:47

@темы: мозг требует!, 99F

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"Засада" - есть такое слово!

Проведя день на работе в трудах праведных в обществе кулька с безумно вкусными мармеладками и воззвав к здравому смыслу для остановки процесса их поедания после половины этого самого кулька, приехавшую домой меня ждала засада: три любимых слойки с яблоками и корицей...
Я безнадёжна.

@темы: о-сознание

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Пять эссе на темы этики

Умберто Эко.
Кому интересна биография автора: тут или тут
Кто решит это прочитать, сделает свои, одному ему понятные выводы.
Книга небольшая, поскольку жанр эссе подразумевает довольно короткие очерки.
Ниже - некоторые цитаты, лично мне пришедшиеся по душе.
Мне повезло, мне попался прекрасный перевод.

(цы)

Когда на сцену приходит другой.
Тот, кто начинает [беседу], неизбежно задаёт вопросы и ждёт, пока собеседник ответит.
Не беспокойтесь из-за того, что говорят, будто выражаемся мы сложно; вероятно, те, кто говорит это, приучены думать чересчур просто по вине средств массовой информации с их "откровениями", по определению предсказуемыми. Пусть же привыкают мыслить более сложно, ибо не просты ни тайное, ни явное.
Этический подход начинается, когда на сцену приходит Другой. Любой закон, как моральный, так и юридический, всегда регулирует межличностные отношения, включая отношения с тем Другим, кто насаждает этот Закон.
[...] Другой, взгляд Другого определяет и формирует нас. Мы (как не в состоянии существовать без питания и без сна) неспособны осознать, кто мы такие, без взгляда и ответа Других.
[...] зло соблазнительно и для тех, кто обладает обоснованным и откровенным представлением о добре.
Самое главное, чтобы в религиозных разногласиях одерживали верх любовь и благоразумие.

Осмысляя войну
[...] когда все решат, что война [...] дала удовлетворительный результат, удовлетворительный в том смысле, что соответствующий целям, ради которых война затевалась. В подобном контексте речь о невозможности и бесполезности войны рискует показаться нелогичной, так как никто не согласится считать бесполезным или невозможным действие, позволившее достичь намеченных целей.
Парадоксы бесоизгонятельного танца: те, кто был за конфликт, начинали разговор с расписывания жестокости войны, а те, кто высказывался против, для начала живописали зверства Саддама.
[...] история знает немало примеров, когда люди шли на смерть, искали смерти (за дело, в которое не верили) исключительно потому, что полагали, что нельзя на место верности подставлять истину.
"Обходитесь как знаете, - должен бы отвечать Папа, - дело ваше", - и казуистика относительно обоснованной самозащиты пришла бы на помощь нашей слабой нервной системе, поскольку никто не обязан доводить добродетельность до геройства.
Но факт остаётся фактом: нынешний мир видит войну другими глазами, не как она виделась в начале столетия, и, если сегодня кто-то заговорит о прелестях войны как единственно возможной гигиены мирового масштаба, он попадёт не в историю литературы (как Д'Аннунцио), а в историю психиатрии.
Да, человечество десятки тысяч лет прибегало к войне для устранения неуравновешенности - что этим доказывается? Те же сотни столетий оно прибегало для устранения психологических перекосов к алкоголю и иным отравляющим веществам.
В крайнем случае всегда под рукой замечательная альтернатива войне, изобретённая в нашем веке, а именно "холодная война". Скопище непотребств, несправедливостей, нетерпимостей, конкретных преступлений, рассеянного террора - эта альтернатива (признаем вместе с историей) была весьма гуманным и в процентном отношении мягким по сравнению с войной вариантом, и в конце концов в ней определились даже победители и проигравшие.
Однако даже при выборе ухода в тактическое молчание ситуация войны требует, чтобы об уходе в молчание было выкрикнуто во всю глотку.

Вечный фашизм
В 1942 году, в возрасте 10 лет, я завоевал первое место на олимпиаде Ludi Juveniles, проводившейся для итальянских школьников-фашистов (то есть для всех итальянских школьников). Я изощрился с риторической виртуозностью развить тему "Должно ли нам умереть за славу Муссолини и за бессмертную славу Италии?" Я доказал, что должно умереть. Я был умный мальчик.
В моём отрочестве было два таких года, когда вокруг были эсэсовцы, фашисты и партизаны, все палили друг в друга, я учился уворачиваться от выстрелов. Полезный навык.
В первые его [Муссолини], ещё антиклерикальные времена, если верить легенде, он предлагал Господу разразить его на месте, дабы проверить истинность Господня бытия. По всей видимости, тот чем-то отвлёкся и просьбу не удовлетворил.
Игры - это серия различных видов деятельности, семейное сходство между которыми очень относительно.
Вот сам по себе принцип валить в кучу [Св.] Августина и Стоунхендж - это и есть симптом ур-фашизма [Вечного Фашизма].
Лучший способ сосредоточить аудиторию на заговоре - использовать пружины ксенофобии.
Вождь, который знает, что получил власть не через делегирование, а захватил силой, понимает также, что сила его основывается на слабости массы, и эта масса слаба настолько, чтобы нуждаться в Погонщике и заслуживать его.

О прессе
Отрицательные примеры других национальных культур я постараюсь приводить лишь в крайних случаях, поскольку от чужой глупости своя не уменьшается.
[...] нынешняя пресса склоняется к языку того бесформенного единства, которое принято называть "народ", причём предполагается, что народ мыслит и выражается одними пословицами.
[Итальянские] Газеты пишут не о том, что происходило накануне в государстве, а о том, как о происходившем кто-то высказался или мог бы высказаться по "ящику".
Говорят, что когда собака кусает человека - это не газетный факт, газетный факт - когда человек кусает собаку.
Печать, когда она не пишет о телевидении, пишет о самой себе: научилась от телевидения, которое говорит большей частью о телевидении.
Вот к чему я призываю и нашу печать, и наших политических деятелей, пусть побольше вглядываются в мир и поменьше в зеркало.

Миграции, терпимость и нестерпимое
В области символов и математика, и хронология - это не более чем мнения.
С миграциями всё обстоит иначе. Бурные или мирные, они всегда как стихийные бедствия: случаются, и ничего не поделаешь.
Третий мир стучится в двери Европы и входит в них, даже когда Европа не согласна пускать.
Эта смычка (или стычка) культур может привести к кровавым последствиям, и я уверен, что в определённой степени эти последствия проявятся, и будут неизбежны, и будут тянуться долго.
Нетерпимость к иному или к неизвестному естественна у ребёнка, в той же мере, в какой и инстинкт завладеть всем, что ему нравится.
Дикарская нетерпимость основывается на замкнутом круге категорий, который впоследствии перенимает любая расистская доктрина.
[...] перед лицом чистой животности без мыслей мысль оказывается безоружной.
[...] вы проиграли, а мы выиграли, и поэтому мы вешаем вас, а не наоборот.
Терпеть нестерпимое означает ущемлять собственную личность. Если нечто нестерпимо, то надо принять на себя ответственность и определить, в чём же состоит нестерпимость. А затем действовать и быть готовым дать ответ в случае ошибки.
Тяжко чувствовать, среди всех прочих, и самого себя в ответе за этот приговор. Тогда нечего спрашивать, по ком это там звонит колокол.

запись создана: 13.01.2011 в 10:05

@темы: мозг требует!, Умберто Эко

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Список над кроватью

Перечитать прекрасное, ага

1. Экстаз - Меланхолия - Танатос
2. Киоко
3. Токийский декаданс
4. Меч без имени
5. Властелин колец
6. 99F
7. Цветаева
8. Три мушкетёра
9. Последняя любовь в Константинополе
10. Пять эссе на тему этики
Пока хватит и этого...

@темы: мозг требует!

---

Take control...

Как я могла...
Хотя нет, не так.
КАК Я УМУДРИЛАСЬ ЭТО ПРОПУСТИТЬ?!
А ведь я весь ФФ прошерстила...
КАК?!

Control by BatPhace

1. Jarlaxle knew that he would have to be careful. Too aggressive and Artemis would become angry and fight the perceived threat; likewise, too cautious and the assassin would likely also become angry, seeing Jarlaxle's actions as patronizing in his current state of discombobulation. It would be a fine line the drow would have to tread carefully and with all the considerable cunning and cleverness at his disposal. This challenge though was one Jarlaxle could not refuse.
He kept telling himself that it was for Entreri's own good, that he had some vague obligation to help the assassin with the revelations that had come to light for the man at the behest of Idalia's flute. Jarlaxle could only watch helplessly as Artemis' rock solid control slipped further and further away from him. The magic of the flute was peeling the assassin's heart like a piece of fruit, bringing forth angers and passions that Artemis had not considered in decades. However, when Jarlaxle looked more closely to his own inner motives, he knew this was something he could not deny that he wanted, and had wanted for some time. In fact, the flute-inspired turmoil within Entreri of late provided the perfect opportunity for Jarlaxle to fulfill a desire he'd felt since salvaging the broken assassin from the trees outside Mithral Hall. His actions this night, as then, as always, were based in mutual benefit; Jarlaxle's favorite sort, he mused with a grin.
The thought of the flute gave the dark elf pause though, and the tiniest twinge of guilt poked at him from somewhere inexplicable. All this upheaval Artemis was experiencing was due to Idalia's flute, and the man would not have the flute were it not for Jarlaxle. Perhaps this storm was something Artemis Entreri needed to face; something the assassin would come to realize was a good thing in time, though clearly that time would be long in coming. Or perhaps he would simply try to kill Jarlaxle one day for his meddling. The drow shrugged to himself as though it did not matter, and indeed now it surely didn't. What was done was done.
With what appeared to be nothing but a circle of black fabric, Jarlaxle stood quietly outside Artemis' room, listening with ears trained in the silence of the Underdark to the assassin moving about within, muttering to himself too quietly for even those drow ears to catch. Purposely no doubt, Jarlaxle thought dryly. Entreri had been sequestered in his room for days, and for days before his internment he had been perfectly miserable and unwilling to enlighten Jarlaxle as to the cause of his dour mood -though Jarlaxle had his suspicions. So the ever clever mercenary had improvised, enlisting the skills of his racist but talented pscionicist lieutenant to delve lightly into the man's mind and discern the gist of his disposition. Kimmuriel grudgingly complied, and found something of interest - making the venture worthwhile to his inquisitive mind- that he had never expected of the tightly honed assassin; utter emotional pandemonium.
Of course, chaotic thoughts notwithstanding, the human was still mentally formidable, noteworthy by drow standards even Kimmuriel had to admit. Artemis noticed the gentle prodding of Kimmuriel's intrusion almost immediately, leading to his self-imposed lock in. Not that walls or doors could stop the psionicist, but Jarlaxle had gotten the point and called him off. Still, Jarlaxle had been greatly amused at Kimmuriel's rant on how Entreri was conducting himself like a spoiled child in need of discipline or death, but the mercenary understood that the behavior ran deeper than the pscionicist would ever believe. After three days however, Jarlaxle had humored the man enough he felt, and now it was time for action.
Being drow, and male drow especially, having been immersed in that wicked, sadistic culture for the better part of his centuries, Jarlaxle had a unique understanding of the power that lay in control; both in having it completely and in completely, freely, giving it away. Jarlaxle would not force his way into Entreri's bed, never that. His goal this night would be to aid Artemis in the latter, the giving over of control -his grip on it was presently tentative at best anyway-, so that the former, the reclaiming control fully, would come easier when it was time. And he would eventually take it back, Jarlaxle knew.
This would be perhaps the trickiest thing the drow had ever attempted, even given his years of serving fickle and volatile Matron Mothers. And it would be delicious.
And so he stood outside the room, listening patiently and silently at the wall for Entreri to quiet for the night so that the drow could steal into the assassin's room. Finally, when he had been quiet for a time, Jarlaxle took portable hole, swung it around a bit to stretch and elongate it, and slapped it on the wall outside Entreri's room, thus circumventing the door and the traps he knew the human would have in place there. Poking his head in, Jarlaxle looked around carefully to ensure the assassin truly slept, then stepped into his room as silently as only a drow could.
Artemis lay supine in his bed atop his covers with Idalia's flute held loosely in one relaxed hand and his jeweled dagger grasped more tightly in the other. Jarlaxle decided that he was not a moment too soon; the disheveled assassin had not even bothered to undress for bed, he wore the shadow of a few days growth at his chin as well, and the room itself was in disarray. That more than anything was telling to Jarlaxle of Artemis Entreri's state of mind.
Jarlaxle could not help but smirk, but it turned into a much more wolfish grin as his eyes strayed over the human's fine body around the teasing openings of his unbuttoned shirt; sun-darkened skin covering taut muscle, even with -maybe especially with- the grayish undertone it was beautiful to the drow, and wisps of dark hair at his chest and in a thin line descending from his navel, disappearing beneath the buttons of his breeches. Rather than being repulsed by the hair, as were most of his kin, Jarlaxle found himself fascinated by it. It gave humans -at least this human- an exotic quality. That last thought made Jarlaxle's mouth go dry suddenly as he was truly hit with the weight of his undertaking.
Jarlaxle was impressed then. The drow moved to step -had not even set his whole foot down on the floor- and the assassin shot up out of bed and into a defensive crouch, landing perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet and the pall of sleep immediately replaced by confusion and then a sheer, intense anger as he recognized the intruder.
Jarlaxle was unarmed, and had none of his usual adornments, not even the eye patch. Indeed, he wore nothing but his silken sleep pants and a smile it seemed, but not his usual disarming grin, Artemis noted. This smile was different, and the gleam in the mercenary's jewel-red eyes was different. It was... unsettling, and in a strange way. Lost as Artemis was at the moment, he knew he should be angry at the dark elf for a host of things, not the least of which being the interruption of his sleep. But that look... Entreri shook his head and stood straight, posturing as though he would confront the drow, throwing only the flute aside and starting forward with the dagger still in hand. Jarlaxle was already holding placating hands up before him.
"I know, I know. What in the Nine Hells do I think I am doing in here at this hour?" Jarlaxle's smile deepened, drawing the assassin's infamous scowl as he considered the drow, "I'm intervening, that's what. This moping confusion you have sported for days is not healthy, nor is it amusing in the slightest."
"Not amusing." Artemis repeated gravely, voice rough from sleep. He cleared his throat and continued, glaring harder, "Get out."
Jarlaxle's features went from smiling to deadly calm impressively fast. That must be what his own cold stare looked like to others, Entreri thought with an inward roll of his eyes.
"You are disoriented within the swirl of long forgotten things," Jarlaxle's voice was the most somber the assassin had ever heard and it caught and held him rapt, "and you feel your precisely sharpened control slipping little by little like the sands of Calimport through your fingers. And there seems not a thing you can do about it." The drow stepped forward slowly, not even a foot separating him from Artemis. Entreri knew he should draw his dagger, or at the very least step away but he felt rooted to the floor, unable to make his body respond. Knowing and doing seemed to be two different things for Artemis Entreri this night.
Jarlaxle's next words caused both anger and a strange -but not unpleasant- tremor within the assassin, "I would help you, Artemis."
"With help like yours, Jarlaxle, I need not make enemies," the assassin quipped coldly, but Jarlaxle's expression did not falter, "You want to help me... what? Regain myself? Sort through my troubles? You'll forgive me if I reserve my doubts," Entreri scoffed. If his words had hit a nerve the drow did not let on an inkling.
Jarlaxle's cool smile, his step closer -close enough that he could feel the others body heat, his very presence even, conveyed calm, easy dominion; something Entreri found himself keenly and intensely drawn to. The sneer on Entreri's face washed away in a flood of something that resembled a mix of hope and desire and scorn but Jarlaxle could not be sure since he had never before seen the former two emotions cross the assassin's features.
Jarlaxle answered, keeping his voice smooth and even, "Your control is leaving you whether you like it or not, and that is a feeling you are... unaccustomed to. You're off balance. And I am the one best suited to guide you through this. I know you better than you'd like to admit. And I know this predicament you face. And I know what you need." Entreri's heartbeat quickened as Jarlaxle leaned in, moving his face beside the assassin's, still not touching his body. He was so very, very close though, and Entreri was so very, very conscious of him. The dagger!, something in the back of Entreri's mind screamed, Bring the damned dagger to bear! He did not move an inch except to dart his tongue out to wet his suddenly dry lips.
"Instead of clutching at fleeting control with a tightened fist, it is best to let it go altogether. Put it aside for a time to balance yourself. " Jarlaxle's voice was naught but the breath of a whisper, and not even attempting to disguise the want it contained, "Give over that control. Entrust it to me."
Artemis Entreri froze, stock still and bolt upright, like a frightened rothé too terrified to even run from its impending doom. Jarlaxle thought if he were to push the man over just then he would have fallen straight backward, so rigid was his posture.
How could he know? Entreri wondered. Even more puzzling; How could he understand? The assassin decided Kimmuriel Oblodra would be the next feast for his vampiric dagger. But it was more than that, he knew. Artemis had not spent much time among the drow, but the time he had spent there in Menzoberranzan had given him, among other things, a new and profound regard for Jarlaxle of Bregan D'aerthe. He was not just a fool in a silly hat after all, and his time in Jarlaxle's captive care had been unpleasant, but it could have been much, much worse. The assassin recognized Jarlaxle's direct influence in that fact.
The drow took a chance, lifting one hand slowly and stroking his fingertips gently across the assassin's shoulder under his shirt, ghosting his fingers between fabric and flesh. Entreri's skin shivered beneath the touch, then the rest of his body followed suit and he grabbed the slender wrist, pushing Jarlaxle back enough to face him with murderous intent burning in his slate gray eyes. Jarlaxle was not to be so easily deterred in this, having expected some severe reaction or other -so far he felt he was doing rather well considering he did not have a dagger at his throat- and he stared the assassin down; he saw beyond the loathing in those eyes a silent plea. The drow took another chance.
"I know that you desire me," Artemis swallowed hard; Jarlaxle hid a smile and continued, "I have known it since you yourself discovered it, when you found yourself terribly outmatched and vulnerable at the mercy of Menzoberranzan," Jarlaxle's whispered words widened the assassin's eyes almost imperceptibly and the dark elf knew he had hit the mark with the statement, "And there are reasons, other than your pleasant company of course, that I've remained at your side all this time." Jarlaxle smirked, but his eyes darkened to smoldering coals at the admission, and he comprehended just then the depth and very real truth of that statement.
Artemis thought surely he was having a panic attack. His heart pounded furiously, and his thoughts refused to coalesce into anything decipherable with those striking blood-red eyes boring into his own -with the exception of thoughts surrounding the mercenary himself. And when Entreri rolled Jarlaxle's words around in his mind, when he studied them and all the wonderful and terrifying implications they contained, he was shocked that he only wanted more. Jarlaxle's clean scent, his compelling eyes, the command in his demeanor, and the hypnotic cadence of his voice –a voice that reminded him of Idalia's flute just then-, he craved it all. Then, unexpectedly and startling in their pull, there were the thoughts of succumbing; of actually heeding the drow's words and letting go of his control. Completely. Absolutely. Jarlaxle was right of course; Artemis knew he was slipping closer and closer to catastrophe. He had barely even registered the pscionicist's intrusion at first. It was so tiring holding onto it all after so long. That stupid flute had shown him just how tired he truly was. Could he? Just... let it go? Relinquishment? Submission?
"Let go of that burden. Just for a time," Jarlaxle stepped back into the assassin as Artemis' grip on his wrist relaxed. The drow saw the thoughts playing out on the human's face, the conflict roiling behind those storm cloud eyes. Jarlaxle knew he was winning. "Let it go, Artemis."
Jarlaxle could feel more than see it begin; he could sense the roots of the man's surrender take hold viscerally as surely as he would have felt an earthquake at that moment. Artemis' body relaxed slightly, his eyes lost their anger, his grip lost its menace and then his hand dropped to his side altogether.
A thrill filled the drow then that he had not felt in many, many years -pure, saturating lust- as he fell into his dominant role. He pushed closer to Entreri, aligning their bodies and pushing his growing erection into the man's hip, delighting in the sharp intake of breath. Jarlaxle wanted -terribly!- to hear the words though; there was no room for misunderstanding here.
"Say it, Artemis. Do you consent?" Jarlaxle could not keep the fervor from his voice.
"No," was the knee-jerk growl from the assassin. Jarlaxle still did not falter, patient. And then, after a moment and a deep breath, "Yes," came the whispered assent.
There was that plea again, Jarlaxle thought. It was all Jarlaxle could do not to smile, but he knew the spell would break if he did and so he turned it inward and stroked his hands down Entreri's arms, taking the dagger from the human's loose grip and putting it aside. Jarlaxle took hold of the assassin's wrists gently, but in no uncertain terms illustrating his own dominance.
The point of no return; Artemis Entreri nodded, yielding. Almost without hesitation. Jarlaxle drew back, and Artemis closed his eyes, awaiting whatever would come.
"Do not close your eyes to me, Artemis." The drow kept his tone stern but non-threatening; the desire there only thinly veiled by the control conveyed. Entreri's slate eyes opened, narrowed to a glare for just a moment, but he obeyed and did not close them again. "Good," Jarlaxle did smile then. A rare, genuine smile, Artemis noted.
In that acquiescence, a coil of his own control slipped, and Artemis felt his body and mind relaxing into the unfamiliar simplicity that came with being commanded. His sensibilities could not handle being a slave; this was somehow different. And Entreri found his attention drawn to the fact that his breeches were entirely too tight.
Jarlaxle's nimble fingers stroked over his skin just beneath the edges of his open shirt, dancing down his chest, over the ripples of his abdominal muscles. Artemis' muscles and skin quivered beneath the feathery touch and he sucked in another sharp breath, but did not protest. The drow stripped him slowly, deliberately, whispering touches and words, mostly Common, mingled with some Drow that could have been anything but sounded to Entreri like sin dripping from his onyx lips. Stitch after stitch fell away and Artemis Entreri was bared in all his shivering, aroused glory.
"I will take you slowly, push your limits gently. And I will not degrade you. Never, never that. You've trusted me with your life in the past. Trust me with this now."
Artemis took a deep, settling breath that didn't help his nerves at all as Jarlaxle's nimble fingers traced down his own stomach to the belt of his own dark blue, silken sleep pants and let them float down to the floor. Artemis' eyes started to wander once, twice, taking in Jarlaxle's form, but kept snapping back up to the elf's face, inadvertently seeking permission; another bit of control slipping away. Jarlaxle smiled knowingly.
"You may look. Indeed, let your eyes roam, my friend," Jarlaxle grinned and watched the wary uncertainty in the assassin's eyes replaced by torrid desire as they traveled down the drow's strong and sinuous body. Jarlaxle let him look for a moment before ebony fingertips began a delicate trail along the assassin's bared skin, down his chest to his sides and back along his hips, walking ever so slowly around Entreri until the drow was at his back.
Artemis stiffened again, and he seemed on the verge of fight or flight, which was fine, Jarlaxle thought. On edge was alright, falling over the precipice into panic was not.
Entreri's mind raced; He felt vulnerable suddenly. Had he been set up? Was Kimmuriel even now working some psionic trick on him? Was it all one giant betrayal for Jarlaxle's amusement? The heat of the drow leaning into his back both unnerved and excited him; was Jarlaxle reaching around with a blade?
"Trust me," Jarlaxle whispered and Artemis felt the drow press harder against him, felt the power of him as his body and erection seared into the flesh of his back. Jarlaxle's breath was warm as his lips came close to the assassin's ear with the slowly whispered words, "I will not fail you."
Entreri could have fought, objected, said any word at all, and Jarlaxle would have stopped. Artemis would not stop him. Jarlaxle knew it.
Entreri knew it just as well. The assassin relaxed again and felt another manacle of his control fall away. Entreri needed this, needed it more than he had ever hoped to realize. He felt himself fall into Jarlaxle's will, and he felt as though he were watching it all from a scrying pool behind his own eyes. Jarlaxle was kissing him as his hands roamed over the assassin's body, heated lips and tongue tasting his neck and shoulder, scraping his teeth across the tender flesh there hard enough to break a gasp from Entreri's throat.
"Jar-" the assassin started but the mercenary in question cut him off abruptly.
"Quiet," the word was roughened by the need building in the dark elf's sonorous voice, "Just feel."
Artemis felt the elf's smile on his skin, and visualizing that smile made his stomach lurch as Jarlaxle's warm hands roamed over the cool, naked expanse of his back, kneading gently at the taut muscles there. He traced his fingers across the silken skin of the assassin's many scars and couldn't help but notice how delightfully his thumbs fit into the dimples just above Entreri's perfect ass. The assassin shivered, letting out a harsh little breath as Jarlaxle clutched at his hips with a possessive vehemence, digging his fingertips into the skin there and pulling Entreri fully back against him again, grinding his erection into the man's buttock. The drow's fingertips relaxed after a moment, ghosting across the assassin's hips and up his sides to lay his palms flat on the human's chest as the drow scraped his teeth along his ear.
"Relax, Artemis." The command was just that, a command. Not harsh, not loud; it needn't be. Entreri obeyed, letting out the breath he had apparently been holding. He was not used to being touched, not like this, and he was out of his comfort zone so completely that he was not even sure he could find his way back without a map. But, oh, the things this drow was doing to him. He moaned softly in spite of himself and leaned back into the dark elf's body as the deceptively delicate fingers hovered teasingly down around his hips. Again Artemis could feel the mercenary smile against his neck.
"Where is your oil, Artemis?" Entreri could hear the raw timbre that had invaded the Jarlaxle's voice behind him, but the ragged breathing and the throbbing pulse of the inky member against his ass were no less telling of the drow's desire. The question almost didn't make sense to Entreri's hazed mind, and the assassin stammered for a moment. "Oh don't be coy. I've heard you," ebony fingers roamed dangerously close to his erection and the delicious friction contrasted the dulcet voice in his ear, "I've heard you pleasure yourself, alone, when you think no one is paying attention. Now tell me where you keep your oil."
Artemis swallowed. "Nightstand, second drawer." Entreri hated the quaver in his voice.
"Good. Don't. Move," Jarlaxle commanded, placing another tiny bite to the assassin's shoulder before dancing to the nightstand. Funny, Entreri thought, he hadn't really considered moving even before the mercenary had commanded him. The drow found the phial in no time, standing before the assassin once again as he pulled the cork with a soft 'pop'. Jarlaxle smiled wickedly at the burn of desire in the assassin's dark eyes, and Entreri swallowed hard again as the mercenary made a show of pouring the oil into his palm.
As Jarlaxle's oil-slickened hand wrapped around Entreri's pulsing member, the assassin let out a strangled sound between a gasp and a groan at the contact as the drow began to stroke him with slender, nimble fingers. The pleasure that rent through his blood nearly knocked him from his feet, so sweet was it. As the thrill enfolded him he fell to his knees on the bed -or had Jarlaxle guided him? He couldn't be sure- and the drow let him down, settling close against his back once more. Artemis felt a gentle hand at his lower back, pushing gently so that he would lean forward and he did mindlessly. Truth be told, Artemis could have fallen out a window at that moment and not cared so long as Jarlaxle's hands did not come away from his flesh. He distantly felt the drow's mouth on the skin at the back of his neck, but it was a vague impression compared to the touch of Jarlaxle's hands. Each caress of ebony fingers, from the very tip of him, slowly, all the way back along his thick shaft, sent a new burst of ecstasy through Entreri. Distracted so, the assassin barely realized that Jarlaxle was pressing an oiled finger into his body, then another, stretching him.
Somewhere, a tiny voice within Entreri's hazy mind was screaming at him that this was too much, that it was going too far, that he would not be able to come back from this. But as Jarlaxle's fingers slid around him and into him, and found that sweet spot inside him, all thought was obliterated by pounding, screaming need. His hips bucked forcefully, wanting more, needing more.
Jarlaxle growled deeply against Artemis' neck and suddenly bit his shoulder hard, startling a gasp from the assassin as the pain from the bite rushed along his spine to mingle with the pleasure of the drow's still stroking hand and delving fingers.
"Do not move, I said," Jarlaxle ground out. Artemis obeyed, stilling his hips and he melted back against the drow's body bonelessly, though Jarlaxle could feel the restraint quivering in the assassin's muscles. Jarlaxle had not anticipated such a tremendous reaction from the man, and the overwhelming effects had gone to his head somewhat like strong elven wine. Artemis was just so beautiful like this; so yielding and pliant and aroused. It was intoxicating to see, to smell the lust oozing off of him. It was delicious, more so than Jarlaxle had even supposed. The dark elf traced his tongue along the side of Artemis' neck, from the welts of the bite mark all the way behind his ear, causing a shudder to course along the assassin's body and almost making him buck again. Almost.
Jarlaxle moved back for a moment, urging Artemis forward just a little more, his thighs apart just a little wider, to press his oiled, coal black member against Entreri's opening.
"Brace, Artemis," was all the warning the assassin received before Jarlaxle buried within him in one powerful thrust, forcing a cry from Entreri's lips as he resisted for a moment against the pain and pressure.
Something sinister rose from somewhere deep, deep within Jarlaxle Baenre then. Something calling for violence and pain and humiliation as the sensation of Entreri's struggling, halfhearted though it was, engulfed him along with the heat and tightness of the other man. The drow recoiled against that intrinsic darkness, subduing it with effort. That was not him, he reminded himself, it was simply the fabric of his race rearing its ugly head; the lingering heritage of centuries among evils that had tainted him. Losing control of that would only break them both. Coming back to himself, he instead whispered soft words into the assassin's ear and caressed his hips and back gently to soothe him until Entreri's agitation turned to pleasured writhing once more.
Artemis was prepared for cruelty, for hips slamming violently against him with no regard to his comfort, let alone pleasure; though he had to admit Jarlaxle had shown care in his domination thus far. Artemis braced again as he felt Jarlaxle move behind and within him, preparing for the pain and ready to accept it as his penance. As it had always been. Jarlaxle adjusted the angle of his hips as he withdrew slowly, and instead of slamming back home, he pushed almost leisurely, his gentle thrust causing ripples of pleasure to shudder through the assassin, and consequently through the drow. Artemis kept waiting for brutality that never came, and before he realized what was happening, Jarlaxle had worked him into a mindlessly erotic pyre of pleasure with his slow, easy strokes.
"Ah... Artemis..." Jarlaxle's voice was strained and sultry as he reverted to his native language a bit in his own euphoria, "Dos satiir... sss... ssin'urn."
The languorous rocking of the mercenary's hips, the melodic litany of drow words that fell to Entreri's ears with each thrust, words like 'llieh' and 'zuul'raght' and 'nindel's ol' -Entreri did not need a translator to understand the connotation behind them-, the sweep of carnal rapture that pervaded his body and mind; Artemis had not been prepared for this.
Jarlaxle shifted again, pulling the assassin closer, and Artemis melted back against him, relishing the grounding sensation of Jarlaxle moving beneath and behind him. Some irrational fear of falling from the face or Toril had lodged itself within his mind. One dark hand braced Artemis' hip, the other moved around the front of him to once again encircle his member and begin caressing him with the same rhythm of the hips, adding yet another layer of ecstasy. Jarlaxle kept him balanced on the perfect edge of oblivion until Entreri could take no more.
"Gods... too... too much!" he didn't even care that his voice was stained with wanton need, that his words came much too close to supplication for his rational liking, but he was far from rational at the moment.
Entreri heard the drow behind him grunt, and his strokes became more urgent, his breathing more ragged. His voice was nothing but a jagged, guttural snarl, "Artemis, xun naut tlu k'jakr. Move. Now!"
The assassin's body snapped into motion at the command as he felt Jarlaxle's body fall into the frenzied throes of his climax, hips thrusting hard and fast and hysterical. Grinding between Jarlaxle's hand and hips, he felt the surging heat of the drow's eruption within him. Entreri came in a broken cry as he spilled over the ebony hand, finally able to release the incredible tension the drow had been building within him from the beginning. Artemis Entreri had never been able to describe anything he'd ever felt as beautiful. This, however, was beyond it. Somewhere in his subconscious mind, and just for a heartbeat, Entreri was aware of hot streams pouring from his eyes as he collapsed into the bed with the drow atop him, both heaving for breath and trembling violently as the aftershocks rolled through them.
Artemis could not be sure how long they lay like that. At some point Jarlaxle had moved to the side, but had left his arm draped around the assassin's torso, and so they lay in a comfortably surreal silence.
Entreri felt sated, deeply and thoroughly, and beneath that there was an emptiness. No, not empty. Free? No that wasn't it either, because the he could still feel the burden of his decades like a stone in his thoughts. He felt strangely detached from it all now though, and the things illuminated by Idalia's flute floated unhindered through his mind like so many plumes of thistledown on the wind. The assassin shook his head internally, unsure where his mind was and what would become of him now, but feeling the arm around him and the warmth of the mercenary's body touching him were a comfort and that was something, though he would never openly admit it. He almost smiled at the irony of that after what he'd just experienced with the drow that still lay beside him. Speaking of...
"Jarlaxle."
"Hmm?" game the muffled, groggy reply.
"I will have it back eventually."
The drow took a moment and a sigh before answering.
"I know, my friend. I know."

2. The mercenary and the assassin circled slowly, gracefully, warily searching for any opening, any weakness that could be exploited. There were none, of course, but that fact seemed only a minor setback to both participants. Jarlaxle blew a trickling bead of sweat from the tip of his nose as he considered his opponent and the ardor that seemed to be budding in Artemis Entreri as they sparred. This match was different than yesterday's. Yesterday's had been different from the one before it. And they were all different from the matches that had come before they had been... intimate. Jarlaxle smiled at the thought and almost became distracted enough to leave himself open to the assassin's blade as it came on in a short rush and then darted away.
They had gone about their business in Heliogabalus, and on the surface, to one looking in the window, everything would seem normal. At least as normal as possible for a drow mercenary partnered with a human assassin. Things were far from normal, even for these two. It was a subtle thing, none but those most familiar with the two would have noticed. Jarlaxle could count those familiars on one hand.
Artemis had run the gamut of emotions long denied and unwelcome in these days since his... experience... with the drow. Damn Jarlaxle to each and every one of the nine hells. The assassin had woken almost every night since sweating and desperate from nightmares -or dreams, depending on one's viewpoint- of heated pleasure and dulcet Drow words. The key to it all was in the words somewhere; he knew it, though he knew not why. He knew, too, that there was only one way to end it, to bring himself back under his own will and free him from this turmoil for good. It was was an inevitable thing, like eating or breathing. He would stand in Jarlaxle's doorway for hours in the night sometimes. He could not step inside to take back what was rightfully his. He was not ready.
And yet he was angry also, on some level anyway. Angry that Jarlaxle had been able to get this close. Entreri smirked as he lunged in and was parried aside again, entertaining the thought of slitting the dark elf's throat from ear to ear -should he ever get close enough, for it was that very thing that he was having a problem doing now- and cramming the flute down that open throat just for ever giving him the stupid thing in the first place. Other notions crept into his mind that were entertaining in a much more unsettling way, and that alone was plenty of reason to murder the meddling drow. As Artemis circled there, the longer they fought, the more his thoughts of Jarlaxle centered not on blood and torture, but on intoxicating ecstasy. The words, the heat. The almost faded bite to the back of his shoulder twinged and an involuntary shiver rode along Entreri's spine; oh, and the pain. That exquisite, silken pain.
Entreri came on then, the ferocity in his eyes taking on a new passion. And so it begins, Jarlaxle thought with a grin.
He let the assassin push him back, staying defensive, until he had nowhere else to go. Shoved against the wall, Jarlaxle dropped his defensive posture infinitesimally, wavering his strength just enough to allow Entreri's dagger through and toward his throat, much to the assassin's shock; Jarlaxle had no doubt that Artemis would pull his thrust.
He did, just in time, and as the blade barely touched the obsidian flesh of the drow's throat Jarlaxle dropped his daggers to the ground.
Artemis froze, locking stares with the drow, frenetic fury crashing within his eyes. He knew Jarlaxle had just thrown the match. As he bore his body against Jarlaxle's, both bare, heated and damp, with his blade against the drow's throat, that fact held less weight with Entreri than the implication of Jarlaxle's surrender. Pressed so close there was no hiding their excitement. The fire in those dark eyes seemed to falter just for a moment. Jarlaxle smiled, but before he could speak Entreri uttered a desperate question.
"The words, Jarlaxle," he whispered, "What did the words mean?"
The dark elf considered taking a coy approach and asking 'What words would those be?' but something in the edge of Artemis' voice told him that would be a bad idea. This was important to him, for some reason Jarlaxle could not fathom. Besides, it took no effort to recall those words. They were there in his mind as though he had just spoken them, vivid and terrific, and being drow, he had a long time to remember them. They were honest words, the drow had mused in these days since he had gone to Artemis. Perhaps the most honest he had ever spoken, in his life of half-truths and twisted rationale. Artemis watched him with raptor intensity, and Jarlaxle almost felt uncomfortable under the weight of the gaze even as he inhaled the soap and sweat scent of the man.
"'Zuul'raght'," Jarlaxle breathed, and Artemis shivered a little as the memory attached to that word and that velvet voice hit him like a kick in the stomach and shot straight to anatomy much lower, "It translates to 'amazing'."
Artemis mouthed the word, not daring to try to emulate the Drow inflections with his human tongue, but soaking up the true significance behind it as easily as his body soaked up the heat the dark elf was pouring off. Jarlaxle continued when Artemis' slate eyes met his own once more.
"'Llieh', is 'perfect'," Jarlaxle kept his voice low, the melody of it bringing another shudder at another memory. Something was shifting in Artemis with each word, each syllable even, as they played within his mind once more. Jarlaxle could all but see the power building within he man. The heat of his body. The contrasting cold steel of the blade still at his throat; it all came together for Jarlaxle in a rush of elated exhilaration.
Artemis' eyes flashed then, "Dos ... satrire..."
"'Dos satiir ssin'urn'?" Jarlaxle offered. Artemis' eyes widened slightly at the recognition, and Jarlaxle smiled. "It means 'you feel beautiful'." Jarlaxle watched as Entreri comprehended and he saw something in the assassin's eyes change. Nothing obvious, but dramatic to the drow nonetheless. It made Jarlaxle swallow a bit harder than required, which of course moved the blade at his throat uncomfortably.
"Tell me more, Jarlaxle," Artemis murmured, grinding his body against the trapped drow. He just feels soo good, Entreri thought. Sensual, lithe and sinuous, like a hot drink on a cold desert winter night. Entreri almost caressed the dark elf's cheek with his lips; as it was only his breath ghosted across Jarlaxle's skin, making it rise in bumps all the way down his right arm. "How do you say... 'pleasure me...'?" Entreri all but purred.
Jarlaxle was transfixed by the voice, nothing else existed but those eyes, "'Ss... Ssrigg'tul uns'a..."
Again Artemis mouthed the words, then aloud in no more than a roughened whisper and with a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth and in his voice, "...with your mouth."
Jarlaxle licked his lips in anticipation, "...xuil dosst norrs'." His knees went a little weak as the words escaped his lips, he noticed, and he seemed just the tiniest bit short of breath. Strange.
Entreri waited a moment, a moment where his features darkened though the light in the room had not changed, and then he mouthed the entire sentence, still not daring to attempt the Drow words aloud. He may as well have spoken them right beside Jarlaxle's ear; the effect would have been no different as he felt the assassin's lips move, imagined those words in that voice within his mind. The drow shuddered visibly, eyelids fluttered over crimson eyes, and his mouth opened in an almost imperceptible gasp.
"Asanque," Jarlaxle breathed, feeling the mirroring shudder that rolled through the assassin's body. 'As you wish'; Artemis knew that phrase all too well. It had been one of the few Jarlaxle had insisted he learn for his own good while 'residing' in Menzoberranzan.
Slowly, gently, Jarlaxle touched him, stroking his sides and stomach with light fingertips, and Artemis leaned back just enough to allow the drow room to move. Is this real or another nightmare, the assassin found himself wondering. It felt real. Heated lips traced over his sweat cooled skin, down his neck and bare chest, across his stomach as Jarlaxle found himself at eye level with the already rigid bulge in Entreri's soft leather pants.
Entreri stared down, watching Jarlaxle's hands play over his body and working to loosen his belt, and felt intoxicating satisfaction at having the drow on his knees and looking so eager before him. At the same time, holding Jarlaxle's glowing garnet orbs as they peered up at him, unblinking and undoubting, had the assassin feeling... warm? No, that wasn't it, and he lost the train of thought completely as Jarlaxle's warm fingers on his already warm skin conflicted with the cool of the air as his arousal was exposed. Entreri's eyes shut and he had to brace his arm, still holding the dagger tightly in hand, against the wall before him as Jarlaxle's tongue traced up the sensitive underside of this rigid manhood, all the way to the tip, before swallowing the whole length down the back of his tight throat in one shocking motion. Entreri moaned aloud, all of his pleasure echoed there as it poured from him at the persuasion of the drow's hot mouth.
The assassin's other hand roamed down and he found himself wishing for the first time that Jarlaxle had hair so his fingers could tangle in the down-white locks. He settled instead for tracing his fingertips along the sensitive shell of the elf's pointed ear, eliciting a shuddering moan from the male as his mouth slowly worked over Entreri's shaft. Artemis groaned as the vibration pealed up into his abdomen and he moved his hand around to the back of Jarlaxle's neck, urging the pace of his mouth with a twitch of calloused fingers.
The dark elf complied, smiling inwardly at his own arousal at his position. It had been a long, long time since he had pleasured another male like this, and he had forgotten how sensual it could be. His teeth and lips and tongue drew ragged groans and growls from the man that made Jarlaxle's own erection ache and he reached down to ease it through his breeches, accidentally scraping his teeth along the assassin's length and bringing forth a pleasured hiss from the man.
Artemis' hand on the back of the drow's neck tensed, and Jarlaxle could feel the assassin's body tightening with his impending climax. With a hiss through clenched teeth and a thrust down the mercenary's throat, Entreri came, hard, and Jarlaxle swallowed greedily, milking the last of the assassin's essence between thrusts and short bursts of breath. Jarlaxle thought it done then, thought his plan complete with that release, and he rose to admire the man in his afterglow.
Artemis lazily drug his other arm up to block the elf in place and keep him from turning away as he recovered. Something was burning through him with each passing moment like a flame engulfing a piece of parchment. Something hot and sovereign, pulling him. What he had thought unattainable and beyond him was now tantalizingly within his grasp. Artemis raised his head and at first Jarlaxle did not understand what he saw in those molten eyes when he met them. They should have been sated, maybe even -dare Jarlaxle think it- grateful, but something stirred there, something not unlike anger. No, this was not anger, it was power. Dominance. Then, with a jolt of sudden insight, Jarlaxle realized...
That had been only the beginning.
He almost did not like the smile that made it's way over Entreri's lips now, or the wicked gleam in his granite eyes. They were feral in their intensity, and Jarlaxle's excitement, as evidenced by his own throbbing erection straining against his breeches, did not escape the assassin's notice as he looked the drow over hungrily
"Take it, Artemis," Jarlaxle whispered fervently before his brain could stop him, "Take me." Jarlaxle swallowed hard at the assassin's ensuing growl, but his time for concern was short as Artemis turned him about and pushed him back into his own room, pressing him, prone, to his own bed. There was a loud 'thump' that Jarlaxle recognized as Entreri's dagger finding a place -probably buried an inch deep- in his wooden night table.
It was happening so fast, Jarlaxle thought. He felt helpless -somewhat willingly so, he had to admit- in the assassin's hands, and that made him more than a little nervous. Jarlaxle Baenre was always in control. Oh, not now. What had he gotten himself into? The tremor that coursed it's way into his stomach was not all that disagreeable though, all misgivings aside.
The thought was lost as he realized that Artemis was pulling at his breeches, stripping him bare -a seemingly small thing that affected the drow far more than he would ever admit. A long buried shame momentarily pulsed to life in Jarlaxle's dark cheeks at memories of situations similar to this during his short time at Tier Breche. Jarlaxle thought again of pushing himself up and over, but then Entreri's bare thighs were straddling his, hot body slithering up him to settle his delicious weight over the dark elf's back and along his body, breathing in roughly beside Jarlaxle's ear, inhaling his scent, and erection grinding into Jarlaxle's sacrum; it was the most erotic thing the drow had ever felt.
Likewise, Entreri almost could not restrain himself as the control surged within him; the flash floods that occasionally afflicted the deserts of his homeland came to mind. When had he ever felt this, even in all his years as a perfect assassin? It seemed rooted in the very core of his being, swelling within him like a crashing wave as it carried him along. And he knew, deep down, that he could do whatever he wanted to Jarlaxle right then and the drow would never utter a word of protest. Another shiver rolled across the assassin's skin.
"I enjoy the sound of my name spilling from your lips," Entreri whispered harshly along a pointed ear before nipping the tip with his teeth. Jarlaxle thought he might die as the man moved to the other ear and drug his tongue along the edge of it. Artemis' next words, though, were a compelling demand, "Say it, Jarlaxle."
Jarlaxle let the syllables roll off his tongue, "Artemis," caressing each in turn, his melodic voice dripping with desire. The shudder that he felt play through Entreri's body against his back made the mercenary smile. No, he thought, this was no power-mad Master at the Academy. Jarlaxle's muscles quivered in anticipation.
"Again," Entreri growled, and Jarlaxle sensed the raw command in the man's voice somewhere in his gut, like the pulling of a cord.
"Artemis," the drow hissed and pushed against the mattress with every muscle, creating a grinding friction against the assassin's body, especially against the hardened length pressed into the small of his back. Entreri sucked in a surprised breath and pushed Jarlaxle back down flat with all his weight briefly, pulling an echoing gasp from the drow elf as his erection was pinned into the mattress beneath him, and then a surprised yelp when the assassin bit him over his right shoulder blade; the exact place Entreri had been marked. Jarlaxle did not try to move again.
"I am going to enjoy this," Artemis chuckled darkly. Oh, and would he ever. Artemis had every intention of savoring this time, for no matter what the drow dragged or manipulated him into from now until his death he would always have this moment of Jarlaxle's capitulation. He would not be cruel, at least not overly so, but this had been the mercenary's plan after all, and Artemis would not lose the opportunity. Jarlaxle should be proud.
The drow felt the weight against his back lift and tilt to the side, reaching for something. Jarlaxle's eyes flew open wide when the weight righted and he felt the unmistakable cold steel of a blade pressed to the back of his neck. Jarlaxle tensed beneath Entreri, carefully pulling his head around as far as he could to eye the man over his shoulder.
"You will trust me, Jarlaxle." It wasn't a question, or a request. Jarlaxle swallowed hard, disconcerted and enthralled at once.
"Yes, Artemis." The drow felt the tip of the blade press harder into his skin, bringing a tiny shock of pain and making Jarlaxle tingle into his very marrow. "Explicitly."
Artemis felt saturated in the heady feel of the domination rushing through him. It was a most potent liquor coursing its way through his veins, rushing along his every nerve and carrying him away. The assassin tried to remind himself who he was, where he was, and most importantly who he was with. Ah, he would have to be careful, said a little voice in the back of his mind. A very, very little voice.
"I will try not to draw blood," Artemis whispered more to himself than to Jarlaxle, smiling again at the sharp intake of breath from the normally steady mercenary. Entreri wondered absently if it were possible for a drow's knuckles to turn white; Jarlaxle was gripping his blankets hard enough to have managed it if it were.
The man's heated lips tracing up and down the skin over Jarlaxle's spine collided with the steel tracing fiery cold lines across the rest of his back. Jarlaxle arched into the blazing pleasure and the flawless pain; groaning again as he inadvertently ground his erection into the mattress.
"You enjoy it so, don't you Jarlaxle?" Entreri murmured against the obsidian flesh, eliciting a hiss that sounded like a 'yes' from the mercenary. "Of course you do. You would find the pleasure in pain."
Artemis had been shot by wizard's lightning before; that was close to what he felt now. Every stroke with the dagger, every taste of salt and spice that laced Jarlaxle's skin, every tiny twitch and gasp from the mercenary beneath him brought a new shimmering thread of pleasure through the man.
The power resounding in Artemis' voice was thrilling and Jarlaxle found himself shivering at the force of it. He could feel the heat of rushing blood welling beneath his skin, but not breaking it. The mercenary was not being carved at, filleted. His blood was not running over his skin in rivulets from a score of garish slices and stabs, healed only to be reopened again and again. There was pain, but it was not painful. Jarlaxle had been the natural dominant in most of his willing partnerships -Priestesses and Matron Mothers hardly counted as willing partnerships after all. He had underestimated the human completely. To have someone who could make the drow want to submit instead of simply forcing it from him was an insidious premise that Jarlaxle had not planned for or insured against.
"You've imagined this before, haven't you? You have thought of us, like this," Entreri's whispered words were rough and dark and almost mischievous, "You are not the only one who hears things Jarlaxle." Artemis' hands traced coarse lines over the drow's body, forcing a shudder from him as he was compelled to answer.
"Yes," the drow admitted and implored, "Xsa, yesssss," hissing a bit as the dagger nicked at his skin just over his right hip. The pain not only made him gasp but shot a thunderclap through his spine to pool in his abdomen and right behind his erection, forcing it even tighter, almost painfully so, as it was pressed against the mattress.
The way Jarlaxle was reacting to him fascinated Artemis to no end, and excited him, and he almost considered pressing harder with the blade, maybe even drawing blood. Pushing farther, taking more. Oh, would Jarlaxle Baenre lay so complacent then, the assassin wondered. The sad thing that Entreri knew was that he probably would, for the simple fact that the drow was used to so much worse than Artemis would ever have the stomach to deal him.
Suddenly and inexplicably disgusted, Artemis threw the dagger into the wall across the room; he did not want to cause any more pain. He refused to be compared to one of those bitch priestesses in this drow's mind, no matter what else the mercenary secretly compared him to. Entreri pressed up against Jarlaxle's back fully, all heat and hard muscle and arousal, crushing against the dark elf with a primal ferocity that all but pulsed out from him and into Jarlaxle, dragging the drow to the point of pure, shameless desperation.
"Please," Jarlaxle half moaned, half implored -a strange but not unpleasant sound from that melodious elven voice; Artemis decided he liked it-, "Please, Artemis."
Entreri froze, holding stone still against the drow's back for a moment and causing Jarlaxle's body to balk and twitch from the withdrawal of sensation. Artemis smiled against the onyx skin of the mercenary's shoulder.
"Where is your oil, Jarlaxle?" This time it was Jarlaxle's turn to pause, and Artemis caught on before the drow even uttered a word.
"I- I don't use it." There was that twinge of shame again, for he had found that his time at Tier Breche all those centuries ago, unpleasant though it had been, had given him an appreciation of the... rougher ways of things.
That would never do, Artemis thought. No more pain.
Entreri moved to the side after a moment, pulling Jarlaxle over with him so that they were still pressed together. Now, laying sidelong with Artemis' free arm draped about his middle, with the assassin's fingers tracing those same delicious lines across the now exposed front of the drow, with his rough tongue and smoldering lips ghosting along his shoulders, neck and ear, Jarlaxle forgot his shame; his moan breaking from him, sultry and resonant. It made even Jarlaxle shudder to hear it, for he was not sure he could say he ever had before. Not like that.
The dark elf writhed against him, and Entreri took a new and greater pleasure in this approach of control. That he, Artemis Entreri, heartless killer by trade and choice, could affect this wanton sensuality from the ever steady leader of Bregan D'aerthe, that he could reduce the always controlled drow elf to this writhing mass of unadulterated need, caused a wicked shiver through Entreri's whole body. This was something new he could strive to master, in his life of being the best of the best at everything that mattered. And yet there, too, was a strange responsibility within the assassin's thoughts along with the dominance. It was a new, but not uncomfortable, weight on the assassin's shoulders.
When Jarlaxle felt Entreri's fingertips move to his lips, coaxing them open, he obeyed. When Entreri commanded him gently to relax, he obeyed. When Entreri demanded he open himself, demanded entrance to his body, he obeyed. Jarlaxle's breath stuttered as one saliva slicked finger entered him, then eventually another, slowly, deliberately. The dark elf found that his apprehension was betrayed by his lust as he felt himself melt and coil around the pleasure Entreri was stoking in him.
"Stroke yourself for me, Jarlaxle," the assassin murmured beside a pointed ear, low voice vibrating across the shell and making Jarlaxle shiver. Again the dark elf obeyed, almost mindlessly, wrapping one hand around his own throbbing member, letting out a groan as Entreri simultaneously brushed something hot and sweet within him.
Artemis almost lost himself within the melody of the dark elf's moaning. The flow and the near hypnotic cadence were intoxicating. He withdrew his fingers, replacing them with the tip of his erection against Jarlaxle's entrance, moving teasingly, spreading the generous wetness that had accumulated there across the drow's flesh. There was an expectant pause when neither man nor elf took a breath.
Calmly, relentlessly, inexorably, the assassin breached him. The further he thrust the harder Jarlaxle arched against him until he was fully seated and Jarlaxle was rigid around him. The friction was delicious. The heat, the tightness, the very notion of the act itself, Artemis found, were beyond incredible.
It took Artemis a moment to realize that Jarlaxle was not so well off. On the contrary he was tense as a bow string and trembling violently, which would have been pleasurable had it not alarmed the assassin so. He mentally kicked himself, uncoiling against the dark elf, loosening his fingertips from Jarlaxle's hip to stroke gently along the drow's side, whispering soft words; he returned the show of kindness he was shown.
"Trust me, Jarlaxle. Relax. That's it." It was a gentle command, whispered softly against the mercenary's ear and Jarlaxle found himself complying, even before he realized, letting each muscle go in turn.
There was no more pain when Artemis moved again. The assassin's initial lazy, fluid strokes sent a smoldering pleasure spreading out through the drow's limbs, and Jarlaxle melted back against Entreri. Jarlaxle's world narrowed, containing only Artemis Entreri; only the sensations he created and the sounds he brought forth. He could feel every muscle of the assassin's body moving against him as the man continued his languid thrusts. Jarlaxle began to stroke himself harder, more insistently, craving that completion he felt looming over him. Entreri's hand came around to his wrist, holding him back, controlling even that motion, keeping it tortuously slow to match closely the rhythm of his hips. Jarlaxle whimpered his capitulation, and he heard the assassin's dark growl beside his ear.
"You will find your pleasure at my behest, and mine alone," and Artemis accentuated his point by thrusting just a bit harder, and squeezing the rigid member, pulling yet another shuddering groan from the drow.
It was a euphoria the assassin had never experienced, this hot pleasure coursing its way through him. He felt as though he were feeding off it like some sort of incubus or vampire. He could see why the lifestyle would be appealing, if this was anything close to what they felt. He did not want it to end. He had toyed with the drow, and thus himself, keeping Jarlaxle at the edge of rapture, that very precipice of ultimate release, always commanding him back if he thought the elf would slip over. And always, without fail, Jarlaxle had obeyed, though it must have been torture for the mercenary not to give in. The assassin wondered absently if perhaps Jarlaxle himself would take a lesson from this experience of his own making. Entreri would have smirked at the thought, were his teeth not ground together in growling pleasure as he felt the foreshadowing heat that preceded his release washing over him like the flames of a wizard's fireball.
Suddenly, Entreri's body began to rock more frantically as his own climax began, and Jarlaxle's world expanded once again at the feeling of the man growing and erupting within him, at the sound of Entreri's roar muffled into his own skin. The drow could hear the air moving within the room again, and feel the whisper of it across every inch of his skin, could sense the very beat of Artemis' erratic heart, and every surge of the assassin within him. Jarlaxle whimpered, aching more desperately, more exquisitely, than he'd ever experienced. Every fiber of his being crying out for his own release. But he couldn't. Not yet. Entreri had not commanded him...
And then...
"Now, Jarlaxle. Come for me! NOW!" cried the assassin in the throes of his orgasm. Jarlaxle eagerly complied, lithe body arching, every cell bursting at once as he spilled into the blankets of his own bed. Somehow, though his mind felt numbed beyond any intoxication, he registered the gasping of the assassin and the clenching of the man's fingertips at his hips as Jarlaxle's inner muscles throbbed around him. He heard ragged keening cries and knew they must be his own. That was all Jarlaxle registered as each nerve was set ablaze and doused all at once.
Their breathing ragged, both the assassin and the mercenary fought their way back to lucidity; it was a hard won fight. Neither wanted to leave this place each had found with and within the other. It was a place of peace, and pleasure, though neither knew the words to call it. Even their instincts screaming out that they were ultimately vulnerable could not sway them to movement, could not bring their minds to clarity.
As he slowly, slowly found his thoughts again, Artemis realized the conflict in his mind was not so conflicted anymore. Each thought had a place, and he could examine them one at a time as though picking out a piece of fruit to eat or a shirt to wear. He saw now what lay before him, and what had transpired behind him to bring it on, and what needed to be done now.
As always, Jarlaxle's plan had worked.
Entreri began laughing, a slow chuckle at first, escalating to a full on, earnest belly laugh at the realization that Jarlaxle had been right all along, and worse, he would never be rid of the drow now.
Jarlaxle turned a puzzled eye on the man who had just torn him asunder and restored him within the same experience and merely smiled. Oh, yes, what had he gotten himself into.

@темы: Entreri, Jarlaxle, детям до 18 ни-ни!!

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"Волшебное слово"

- уйди..
- а волшебное слово?..
- уйди нахуй

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Один идиот придумал, сотни повторили (цы)

И я в их числе.
Но как же охрененно они смотрятся на полке в холодильнике, это вечный позитив!

@темы: Новый 2011 год!

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Вытащила в отдельную...

Соционика от делать нечего преподнесла внезапный сюрприз.

Ваш соционический тип. Тест В. Гуленко

Набрано баллов: 14

Интуитивно-этический экстраверт (ИЭЭ) — Советчик (Гексли)

Описание И. Вайсбанда

1. Горячий энтузиаст. Высокодуховная, артистичная личность, быстро разрешает личные затруднения. Всегда полагается на свою способность мгновенно импровизировать, вместо того чтобы заранее подготовить работу. Обожает ситуации нового, интересного начинания, когда можно проявить свои и чужие способности; когда можно ещё предполагать самое невероятное развитие событий.

2. «Дон Жуан». Видит в людях множество разнообразных достоинств и не может удержаться, чтобы не сообщить им этого в самой эмоциональной форме. Часто его яркие эмоции принимаются за чувства, чему и обязан репутацией Дон Жуана. На самом же деле в чувствах он достаточно консервативен, привязывается к узкому кругу своих людей, чьё мнение для него крайне значимо и полностью определяет его настроение, поведение, знание. Если же он и в самом деле повеса, этого не скрывает.

3. «Недотрога». Его речи о любви и тоске пламенны, улыбки обольстительны, но дальше этого дело идёт далеко не всегда. Его девиз — эмоциональная власть над всеми и сексуальная свобода ото всех.

4. Не честолюбив, так как может быть доволен обществом друзей и предвкушением чего-то интересного. В отличие от Наполеона, который откровенно любит руководить ситуацией, он стремится к тайному руководству. При этом его влияние направлено в основном на то, чтобы заставить окружающих проявить свои способности, таланты.

5. «Учёный муж». Чувствителен к оценке своих умственных способностей. Часто стремится защитить диссертацию, добивается учёных степеней и званий. Это даёт ему возможность спокойно работать. Крайне чувствителен, когда задевают дорогие ему идеи, отрицают возможности его и близких людей. Поэтому стремится контактировать с людьми, близкими ему по идейному кредо.

6. Человек настроения. От настроения зависит всё: планы на будущее, отношение к себе, представление о мире. Радужные, планы могут смениться тягостными переживаниями, но интересная новость, похвала, внезапно представившаяся интересная возможность мгновенно изменяют настрой. От скуки просто заболевает.

7. «Для других». Готов помочь людям в решении их проблем. Самое большое удовольствие — найти выход из положения, которое другим кажется безвыходным. Приветливость и доброжелательность может демонстрировать любому. Делает что-то только для тех, к кому относится серьёзно. И делает тогда гораздо больше, чем от него ждут и чем он сам обещает.

Наилучший партнёр в браке, дружбе, работе — Габен.

Ваша квадра (четвёрка типов, в обществе представителей которых отношения налаживаются лучше всего): Штирлиц, Достоевский, Гексли, Габен.

Ваша сильная черта — умение понять суть вещей, выдвинуть или поддержать талантливого человека. Не суетитесь, это вам не идёт. Не пытайтесь всё планировать, это у вас не получится. Мыслите и действуйте неторопливо, уверенно.

Развивайте волю, целеустремленность, собранность. Ставьте перед собой трудные цели и добивайтесь их достижения.

Описание Е. Филатовой

1. Самое интересное и захватывающее — это увидеть потенциальные возможности и перспективные направления развития как в человеческом обществе, так и в сфере производства, и, чтобы потенциальное сделать явным — необходимо организовать людей на реализацию увиденных возможностей.

2. Нельзя давать себя в обиду. Если кто-то пытается на меня давить — немедленно дам отпор, может быть, даже и разыграю ответную агрессию, хотя и в драку сам стараюсь не лезть.

3. По-моему, такие понятия, как «план», «регламент», «режим», «норматив», «подчиненность сверху донизу», ограничивают свободу и творчество, поэтому я стараюсь всеми силами избегать того, что с этим связано.

Очередной когнитивный диссонанс.
Хорошо хоть не Наполеон, в самом деле...

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Тесты меня шокируют временами...

Ты тип странный

Милый бунтарь с элементами скандалиста. Не откажешься лишний раз поспорить и потерроризировать некоторых наивных персонажей, до дрожи в коленках поверивших твоим мастерски брошенным словам. Ценишь адекватную критику и сам стараешься по-доброму сообщить дорогим тебе людям, где пустоту эффектно замаскировали пафосными вывесками неоправданных метафор. Внутри милый и добрый, любишь помедитировать, завязывать шнурки и залазить на акации.

Фай, я жажду твоего результата на сий тест.

Вау!!! Да вы, никак, — Чеширский кошак!

— Вы изменчивы, друг мой, и противоречивы. За это вас и любят: ведь сегодня в вас можно найти одно, а завтра — другое! эй, стойте, не исчезайте... Вот черт, опять одна челюсть осталась...

Пройти тест

запись создана: 27.11.2010 в 22:44

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If I want to live I live, if I want to take I take!

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Просто кусок