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- 01/12/2011
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Remember Me - 1. Chapter 1
The silence of the graveyard was both oppressive and soothing. How could it be both things at the same time? He really didn’t know. But part of him just wanted to shout, to break the silence—and part of him just wanted to close his eyes and embrace it, to let it surround him and hold him close and safe.
He laughed. He really shouldn’t drink this much. Fucked with his head, made his thoughts go all over the place. And the silence was no longer a problem anyway. He rolled his eyes as he heard what could only be described as a “squeal.” Tom and Angela had wandered off behind the crypt. He grimaced. No doubt about what they were doing. He kicked at the base of the old headstone and reached down and grabbed another beer from the case. At least they had left the beer with him. It was stupid. He should have just stayed home. But Tom was always dragging him around like he was some fucking puppy on a leash. And he was always trying to get him to join in “the fun.” This time it was “Angela won’t go unless her friend Jess goes. Come on, it’s not like you have to marry her or something. And maybe you’ll get laid.” Could he vomit now?
But Jess had backed out at the last minute. Tom had looked at him over Angela’s shoulder and had given him a look that said “Sorry, man.” Sorry? Like he thought he would in ANY way be disappointed? He was so relieved he could sing! He laughed shortly. THAT would have the dead rising from their graves! Hell, maybe he should try it. Would be some company at least.
He sighed and leaned against the headstone and popped the beer. Hit you quicker that way and he really needed it to do that. He needed his senses dulled—either that or he needed a pair of earplugs. Angela sounded like a bitch in heat. And Tom…he didn’t want to think about what Tom sounded like. Really didn’t help much to think about that. He dropped the bottle behind the headstone and grabbed another beer. Yeah, maybe he should sing. Nice and loud. Maybe it would drown out the sounds that were starting to make him horny. Maybe he could sing loud enough to wake the dead.
He looked around him. There were certainly a lot of dead here to wake. Long dead, by the looks of things. Even the trees looked ancient, their branches balding with age, looking like skeletal fingers silhouetted against the moon. He shivered slightly. It was right out of a horror movie, this place, with its iron fence and the deep shadows that made it seem like there were open graves everywhere. But there weren’t. These graves had been long closed, long grown over with grass and weeds, long abandoned by mourners--the mourners themselves most likely long dead and buried.
He pushed off the headstone he had been leaning against. It moved slightly from the push and he jumped a little and very nearly crossed himself. He caught himself and rolled his eyes. Too many horror movies. He put his hand on the headstone and pushed a little. It was a little loose, but it wasn’t about to uproot itself and unearth whoever lay beneath it. He downed the rest of his beer and grabbed another. His hand shook a little as he opened it. He laughed at himself. He was spooked, that’s all. And acting like a little kid. It was just old. The ground settled over time. That was all.
He knelt down and took a closer look at the stone. It was definitely old, very old, like everything else around him. The writing was nearly worn away, the edges of letters that must have once been deeply etched were rounded and soft to the touch. He ran his fingers over those soft edges and could imagine them being rubbed away by years of gently massaging fingers. He traced each worn surface carefully, trying to feel the letters he couldn’t quite see. But they were too far gone. And that made him feel strangely sad. That there could come a time when nothing would remain behind, not even your name on a headstone... Who had this person been? Who had loved him? Who had he loved? Who had lain in his arms and shed tears of forever upon his skin. He laughed. Was it even a him? He felt chilled and instinctively wrapped his arms around himself. He could picture that happening to him someday. Lying cold, alone, unmarked, unremembered, long forgotten by those he loved, those he loved, long forgotten themselves.
He sat down and leaned against the stone, which didn’t move this time. He was starting to feel a little wasted. A lot wasted, actually. Wasted in a cemetery. Sitting on a grave, leaning against a headstone, alone. He reached around and pulled the rest of the beer closer. He heard Angela, and Tom. He groaned. He was definitely horny now. He patted the ground beside him. “I don’t suppose you want to have a drink with me,” he invited in what he imagined to be his most seductive voice. “Or we can skip the drink and go right to the sex.” He laughed, a little bitterly. “I’m alone, you’re alone. I’m horny as hell and God knows you probably haven’t gotten any in at least a couple of years.” Centuries, more likely.
He ran his hand over the bulge in his jeans and groaned. “God! Where are the damned living dead when you need them?” He’d do a nice zombie about now. Or let him do him. Either way.
He beat his hand against the ground in frustration and popped the rest of his beer. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself dead. Anything so he wouldn’t hear the sounds. Anything so he wouldn’t feel like all his nerves were twitching at once.
Except instead of imagining himself dead, he imagined him.
***
“To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream…” But no dreams disturb the endless expanse of black that is the eternal sleep. No images flash before eyes closed too soon, too long. Only memories, sweet and agonizing, tug at the edges of the darkness, leaving him aching, longing for the sound of a beating heart to relieve the silence, the feel of soft, warm skin against his lips to ease the cold, the scent of sweet, sweat-dampened hair to fill his breath.
Leaving him restless in his sleep, longing for the one he cannot forget…
***
“Liam…”
“What the fuck?” He jumped to his feet as he heard his name spoken so close to his ear. It hadn’t been Tom and it sure as hell hadn’t been Angela. He turned quickly and stepped on a beer bottle, losing his balance. He fell forward, but his hands found the old headstone. He raised his head and looked around. He didn’t see anyone. He laughed a little uneasily and shook his head—which was a mistake since it made his head swim. He steadied himself for a moment. He should go back to the car before he passed out. Passing out on a grave. He shivered a little. It was just not something he wanted to do.
He stood upright and took a small step backwards…and felt breath on the back of his neck. He froze. The breath on his neck was followed by hands on his shoulders.
“Tom, what the fuck are you…” But even as he began to speak the words, he realized it wasn’t Tom. The breath on the back of his neck was cold, like the air that rushed out when you opened the freezer door. Cold, as were the lips that touched his skin. He shivered again. Unless Tom had just come out of that freezer, it wasn’t Tom.
The hands on his shoulders began rubbing them, slowly, and he turned his head just enough to see that the fingers that kneaded gently were gloved. He had seen a lot of horror movies. But he’d also seen the news. And he felt himself start to shake. He was going to die. Some maniac in gloves was going to do God knows what to him and then kill him in a graveyard. His breath quickened and his pulse started to race as the hands moved slowly down his arms to his hips and he felt a body pressing against him. Except he had a pretty clear idea of what the “God knows what” was going to be.
The cold lips brushed lightly over his skin as they moved from the back of his neck to his ear.
“Liam…”
The voice was more breath than voice, like someone blowing in his ear. And he felt his body respond of its own accord. The hands that rested upon his hips slid around front and slipped under his shirt, and all he could think was how very soft the gloves were against his skin as they rubbed over his stomach, along the top of his jeans.
He knew he should move. He knew he should open his mouth and scream for Tom and push whoever it was away and run like hell. He knew these things. He knew these things as the gloved fingers carefully undid the button of his jeans and slipped inside the waistband of his boxers. He knew these things as those same fingers, with a touch so slow and gentle, pushed both jeans and boxers down over his hips. He knew these things as he closed his eyes and moaned softly as those fingers, gloved in a leather that was softer than skin, slowly stroked his already hardening cock.
He removed one hand from the headstone, intending to reach behind him, to offer his own fingers to the hardness he could feel pressing against him. But fingers, softer than skin and stronger than a vice, grabbed his wrist. He took a sharp breath as he realized, without doubt, that he would not, could not move unless the man who held his wrist allowed it. But of all the things he knew, he knew one thing more than anything else—he knew that he had never felt more aroused in his entire life.
He slowly let out his breath and relaxed his arm, and the fingers that held his wrist released it. The man moved his hand slowly up Liam’s arm and over his shoulder, every touch from those softly gloved fingers a caress. They tangled in his hair and Liam felt him press his face against the back of his hair, heard him inhale deeply, holding his breath much longer than seemed possible, as if he wanted to keep the smell of his hair forever, to never let it go. The fingers that stroked his fully swollen cock released it and reached up to brush against his cheek, tracing the curve down to his chin, his thumb brushing over Liam’s lips as he finally released the breath he had kept.
“So long…”
Liam removed his hand from the headstone and wrapped it around his cock, which ached from the loss of those gloved fingers. No vice-like fingers stopped him this time. Instead, they ran down his chest, rubbing firmly, insistently over his nipples, which hardened from their touch. Liam moaned and leaned back against him, turning his face slightly, wanting to find those cold lips, wanting to run his tongue over them until they were as warm as his. But the man pulled back, and Liam could feel, rather than see, him shake his head slightly. A soft sound, filled with disappointment, slipped through Liam’s lips and immediately the man pressed his lips to Liam’s neck, a low, answering groan vibrating against his skin.
Liam pushed back against him, rubbing his ass against the hardness he could feel, and the man slid his hands down to Liam’s hips. He felt the man’s fingers brush against his ass as he released his cock. Liam moaned deeply as he felt that hard cock reach for him, leaning forward, instinct abandoning reason, as the man slowly rubbed his cock between his legs.
Liam tensed as he felt the man’s cock pushing against his entrance. He caught his breath as the man pushed himself slowly inside him, stretching him, filling him completely, pain yielding to pleasure as Liam relaxed around him. It felt right, natural, familiar—as if this man was not just meant to be inside of him, but to be part of him.
And they moaned as one.
Liam had never felt anything quite like this. All of his sexual encounters had been quick, hard fucks against the wall; or, the one time he and Tom had had sex, an equally quick, equally hard fuck on the floor of someone’s bedroom at a party they had both been to. But this… The man moved inside him as if time stretched out endlessly before both of them, each thrust deep—very deep, but almost painfully slow, as if he wanted to savor even the smallest sensation. Liam rocked against him, urging him deeper inside him, urging him to take him harder, faster. “Please…” he half whined, half whimpered.
The man’s response was immediate. He groaned so deeply it sounded like a growl as one hand gripped Liam’s hip as hard as he had gripped his wrist and the other braced against the headstone, the gloved fingers brushing against Liam’s as he drove his cock deeper and harder into him. Liam gasped from the sudden force of the thrust. And as the hard cock pounded his ass, deeper, harder, faster, Liam moans turned to quick, panting breaths as he stroked his own cock with the same quick, hard rhythm.
Liam closed his eyes and surrendered himself completely to what he was certain would surely be his death. He felt like his body was being consumed by fire. Pain blurred by pleasure, pleasure surrounded by pain—he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. And he didn’t care. He just wanted it to never stop. He wanted it to go on forever--and only death was forever.
But even as he wished for his own death, Liam felt the body that pressed against his tense, felt the shudder that rippled through him as he found his release deep inside of Liam. The hand that had gripped Liam’s hip slid up his side and over his shoulder, steadying him as his other hand covered Liam’s as Liam brought his own body to climax.
Liam leaned back, his breath hot between parted lips. The breath that ghosted over the back of his neck felt less cold, almost warm—as did the lips that touched his skin. He turned his head, wanting to look into the eyes of this man, this man who-
“Liam?” It was Tom’s voice. “What the fuck are you doing over there, man?”
He groaned and reached for his jeans, his hands shaking as he tried to pull them up. “Fuck, man, your timing is shit!” he muttered, and moved to turn around, but hands gripped his shoulders tightly, stopping him.
“Please, I-“ He tried to turn just his head, but a gloved hand stopped him, the softer-than-skin leather brushing gently over his cheek before slipping back to his shoulder.
“Please, who are you?” he wanted to know, he needed to know.
“My name is Noel Keane.”
The hands that held him released him.
“Remember me, Liam.”
The words were little more than a whispered breath against his ear, a warm breath, as warm as his own.
“Who were you talking to?” Tom was looking around, and obviously not seeing anyone.
Liam turned around quickly, “I was—“
Tom grinned and shook his head. “Never mind, I can see what you were doing.” He gestured to the front of Liam’s jeans. “At least zip up, will you? Fuck, man, jacking off on a headstone… And I thought I was the perv.”
Liam stood still for a moment, staring off into the darkness. He could still feel him, could still feel him inside him, could still feel his lips on the back of his neck, could still feel his fingers on his cheek…could still hear his voice in his ear.
“Remember me, Liam.”
And he wondered… how had he known his name?
Tom slapped Liam on the back. “You know, you could’ve just joined us. You wouldn’t have minded a threesome, would you, Angela?” he called over his shoulder. Liam heard Angela giggle.
“Fuck off,” Liam muttered as he zipped his jeans and pushed past Tom.
***
The silence of the graveyard was both oppressive and soothing—just as it had been the last time he had walked through the old iron gates. But this time it was daylight. And this time he was alone. And this time he wasn’t wasted. He had been the last time. Really wasted. No question about that. And that made him wonder if anything had been real. It shouldn’t have been. It couldn’t have been, could it? He’d been thinking about him, about the guy whose grave he had been sitting on, and he’d been thinking how horny he was. He must have fallen asleep. And it wasn’t like he’d never had a wet dream before… Couldn’t have been anything else…could it?
Except that when Tom showed up he had been standing, leaning against a headstone…
Except that when he looked up the name--
“My name is Noel Keane.”
—on the net he had found something. Something in an article called “A Most Scandalous Profession – Theater in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries“ that made him wonder:
Keane, Noel - b. December 26, 1806 d. August 15, 1837
Like most actors, Noel Keane’s goal was to give a performance that would be remembered for all time. He ended up being better known for his exploits off stage than on, however. He was found shot to death in his bed. His wife, Abigail Ramsey Keane, later confessed to the crime, and a subsequent rather scandalous trial revealed that Keane had been having an affair---with her brother. Liam Ramsey was found dead a year later, lying on the grave of his lover, a victim of his own hand. The words on the note found with him, “I will remember you, in this life and the next,” were widely believed to be in response to the words engraved upon Keane’s headstone, “Remember me.”
“Remember me, Liam.”
He found the headstone and knelt down before it. His hands shook slightly as they reached out. It was old, very old, like everything else around him, its age now even more evident in the light. The writing was nearly worn away, the edges that must have once been deeply etched, were rounded and soft to the touch. He ran his fingers over those soft edges and could imagine them being rubbed away by years, lifetimes, of gently massaging fingers. He traced each worn surface carefully, trying to feel the letters he couldn’t quite see. Except now, now that he knew what they must say, he could feel them:
Noel Keane
born 26 December, 1806
died 15 August, 1837
Remember me
“Remember me, Liam.”
He closed his eyes and caressed the worn letters. “I will remember you, in this life and the next.”
Copyright © 2011 Luc; All Rights Reserved.
He laughed. He really shouldn’t drink this much. Fucked with his head, made his thoughts go all over the place. And the silence was no longer a problem anyway. He rolled his eyes as he heard what could only be described as a “squeal.” Tom and Angela had wandered off behind the crypt. He grimaced. No doubt about what they were doing. He kicked at the base of the old headstone and reached down and grabbed another beer from the case. At least they had left the beer with him. It was stupid. He should have just stayed home. But Tom was always dragging him around like he was some fucking puppy on a leash. And he was always trying to get him to join in “the fun.” This time it was “Angela won’t go unless her friend Jess goes. Come on, it’s not like you have to marry her or something. And maybe you’ll get laid.” Could he vomit now?
But Jess had backed out at the last minute. Tom had looked at him over Angela’s shoulder and had given him a look that said “Sorry, man.” Sorry? Like he thought he would in ANY way be disappointed? He was so relieved he could sing! He laughed shortly. THAT would have the dead rising from their graves! Hell, maybe he should try it. Would be some company at least.
He sighed and leaned against the headstone and popped the beer. Hit you quicker that way and he really needed it to do that. He needed his senses dulled—either that or he needed a pair of earplugs. Angela sounded like a bitch in heat. And Tom…he didn’t want to think about what Tom sounded like. Really didn’t help much to think about that. He dropped the bottle behind the headstone and grabbed another beer. Yeah, maybe he should sing. Nice and loud. Maybe it would drown out the sounds that were starting to make him horny. Maybe he could sing loud enough to wake the dead.
He looked around him. There were certainly a lot of dead here to wake. Long dead, by the looks of things. Even the trees looked ancient, their branches balding with age, looking like skeletal fingers silhouetted against the moon. He shivered slightly. It was right out of a horror movie, this place, with its iron fence and the deep shadows that made it seem like there were open graves everywhere. But there weren’t. These graves had been long closed, long grown over with grass and weeds, long abandoned by mourners--the mourners themselves most likely long dead and buried.
He pushed off the headstone he had been leaning against. It moved slightly from the push and he jumped a little and very nearly crossed himself. He caught himself and rolled his eyes. Too many horror movies. He put his hand on the headstone and pushed a little. It was a little loose, but it wasn’t about to uproot itself and unearth whoever lay beneath it. He downed the rest of his beer and grabbed another. His hand shook a little as he opened it. He laughed at himself. He was spooked, that’s all. And acting like a little kid. It was just old. The ground settled over time. That was all.
He knelt down and took a closer look at the stone. It was definitely old, very old, like everything else around him. The writing was nearly worn away, the edges of letters that must have once been deeply etched were rounded and soft to the touch. He ran his fingers over those soft edges and could imagine them being rubbed away by years of gently massaging fingers. He traced each worn surface carefully, trying to feel the letters he couldn’t quite see. But they were too far gone. And that made him feel strangely sad. That there could come a time when nothing would remain behind, not even your name on a headstone... Who had this person been? Who had loved him? Who had he loved? Who had lain in his arms and shed tears of forever upon his skin. He laughed. Was it even a him? He felt chilled and instinctively wrapped his arms around himself. He could picture that happening to him someday. Lying cold, alone, unmarked, unremembered, long forgotten by those he loved, those he loved, long forgotten themselves.
He sat down and leaned against the stone, which didn’t move this time. He was starting to feel a little wasted. A lot wasted, actually. Wasted in a cemetery. Sitting on a grave, leaning against a headstone, alone. He reached around and pulled the rest of the beer closer. He heard Angela, and Tom. He groaned. He was definitely horny now. He patted the ground beside him. “I don’t suppose you want to have a drink with me,” he invited in what he imagined to be his most seductive voice. “Or we can skip the drink and go right to the sex.” He laughed, a little bitterly. “I’m alone, you’re alone. I’m horny as hell and God knows you probably haven’t gotten any in at least a couple of years.” Centuries, more likely.
He ran his hand over the bulge in his jeans and groaned. “God! Where are the damned living dead when you need them?” He’d do a nice zombie about now. Or let him do him. Either way.
He beat his hand against the ground in frustration and popped the rest of his beer. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself dead. Anything so he wouldn’t hear the sounds. Anything so he wouldn’t feel like all his nerves were twitching at once.
Except instead of imagining himself dead, he imagined him.
***
“To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream…” But no dreams disturb the endless expanse of black that is the eternal sleep. No images flash before eyes closed too soon, too long. Only memories, sweet and agonizing, tug at the edges of the darkness, leaving him aching, longing for the sound of a beating heart to relieve the silence, the feel of soft, warm skin against his lips to ease the cold, the scent of sweet, sweat-dampened hair to fill his breath.
Leaving him restless in his sleep, longing for the one he cannot forget…
***
“Liam…”
“What the fuck?” He jumped to his feet as he heard his name spoken so close to his ear. It hadn’t been Tom and it sure as hell hadn’t been Angela. He turned quickly and stepped on a beer bottle, losing his balance. He fell forward, but his hands found the old headstone. He raised his head and looked around. He didn’t see anyone. He laughed a little uneasily and shook his head—which was a mistake since it made his head swim. He steadied himself for a moment. He should go back to the car before he passed out. Passing out on a grave. He shivered a little. It was just not something he wanted to do.
He stood upright and took a small step backwards…and felt breath on the back of his neck. He froze. The breath on his neck was followed by hands on his shoulders.
“Tom, what the fuck are you…” But even as he began to speak the words, he realized it wasn’t Tom. The breath on the back of his neck was cold, like the air that rushed out when you opened the freezer door. Cold, as were the lips that touched his skin. He shivered again. Unless Tom had just come out of that freezer, it wasn’t Tom.
The hands on his shoulders began rubbing them, slowly, and he turned his head just enough to see that the fingers that kneaded gently were gloved. He had seen a lot of horror movies. But he’d also seen the news. And he felt himself start to shake. He was going to die. Some maniac in gloves was going to do God knows what to him and then kill him in a graveyard. His breath quickened and his pulse started to race as the hands moved slowly down his arms to his hips and he felt a body pressing against him. Except he had a pretty clear idea of what the “God knows what” was going to be.
The cold lips brushed lightly over his skin as they moved from the back of his neck to his ear.
“Liam…”
The voice was more breath than voice, like someone blowing in his ear. And he felt his body respond of its own accord. The hands that rested upon his hips slid around front and slipped under his shirt, and all he could think was how very soft the gloves were against his skin as they rubbed over his stomach, along the top of his jeans.
He knew he should move. He knew he should open his mouth and scream for Tom and push whoever it was away and run like hell. He knew these things. He knew these things as the gloved fingers carefully undid the button of his jeans and slipped inside the waistband of his boxers. He knew these things as those same fingers, with a touch so slow and gentle, pushed both jeans and boxers down over his hips. He knew these things as he closed his eyes and moaned softly as those fingers, gloved in a leather that was softer than skin, slowly stroked his already hardening cock.
He removed one hand from the headstone, intending to reach behind him, to offer his own fingers to the hardness he could feel pressing against him. But fingers, softer than skin and stronger than a vice, grabbed his wrist. He took a sharp breath as he realized, without doubt, that he would not, could not move unless the man who held his wrist allowed it. But of all the things he knew, he knew one thing more than anything else—he knew that he had never felt more aroused in his entire life.
He slowly let out his breath and relaxed his arm, and the fingers that held his wrist released it. The man moved his hand slowly up Liam’s arm and over his shoulder, every touch from those softly gloved fingers a caress. They tangled in his hair and Liam felt him press his face against the back of his hair, heard him inhale deeply, holding his breath much longer than seemed possible, as if he wanted to keep the smell of his hair forever, to never let it go. The fingers that stroked his fully swollen cock released it and reached up to brush against his cheek, tracing the curve down to his chin, his thumb brushing over Liam’s lips as he finally released the breath he had kept.
“So long…”
Liam removed his hand from the headstone and wrapped it around his cock, which ached from the loss of those gloved fingers. No vice-like fingers stopped him this time. Instead, they ran down his chest, rubbing firmly, insistently over his nipples, which hardened from their touch. Liam moaned and leaned back against him, turning his face slightly, wanting to find those cold lips, wanting to run his tongue over them until they were as warm as his. But the man pulled back, and Liam could feel, rather than see, him shake his head slightly. A soft sound, filled with disappointment, slipped through Liam’s lips and immediately the man pressed his lips to Liam’s neck, a low, answering groan vibrating against his skin.
Liam pushed back against him, rubbing his ass against the hardness he could feel, and the man slid his hands down to Liam’s hips. He felt the man’s fingers brush against his ass as he released his cock. Liam moaned deeply as he felt that hard cock reach for him, leaning forward, instinct abandoning reason, as the man slowly rubbed his cock between his legs.
Liam tensed as he felt the man’s cock pushing against his entrance. He caught his breath as the man pushed himself slowly inside him, stretching him, filling him completely, pain yielding to pleasure as Liam relaxed around him. It felt right, natural, familiar—as if this man was not just meant to be inside of him, but to be part of him.
And they moaned as one.
Liam had never felt anything quite like this. All of his sexual encounters had been quick, hard fucks against the wall; or, the one time he and Tom had had sex, an equally quick, equally hard fuck on the floor of someone’s bedroom at a party they had both been to. But this… The man moved inside him as if time stretched out endlessly before both of them, each thrust deep—very deep, but almost painfully slow, as if he wanted to savor even the smallest sensation. Liam rocked against him, urging him deeper inside him, urging him to take him harder, faster. “Please…” he half whined, half whimpered.
The man’s response was immediate. He groaned so deeply it sounded like a growl as one hand gripped Liam’s hip as hard as he had gripped his wrist and the other braced against the headstone, the gloved fingers brushing against Liam’s as he drove his cock deeper and harder into him. Liam gasped from the sudden force of the thrust. And as the hard cock pounded his ass, deeper, harder, faster, Liam moans turned to quick, panting breaths as he stroked his own cock with the same quick, hard rhythm.
Liam closed his eyes and surrendered himself completely to what he was certain would surely be his death. He felt like his body was being consumed by fire. Pain blurred by pleasure, pleasure surrounded by pain—he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. And he didn’t care. He just wanted it to never stop. He wanted it to go on forever--and only death was forever.
But even as he wished for his own death, Liam felt the body that pressed against his tense, felt the shudder that rippled through him as he found his release deep inside of Liam. The hand that had gripped Liam’s hip slid up his side and over his shoulder, steadying him as his other hand covered Liam’s as Liam brought his own body to climax.
Liam leaned back, his breath hot between parted lips. The breath that ghosted over the back of his neck felt less cold, almost warm—as did the lips that touched his skin. He turned his head, wanting to look into the eyes of this man, this man who-
“Liam?” It was Tom’s voice. “What the fuck are you doing over there, man?”
He groaned and reached for his jeans, his hands shaking as he tried to pull them up. “Fuck, man, your timing is shit!” he muttered, and moved to turn around, but hands gripped his shoulders tightly, stopping him.
“Please, I-“ He tried to turn just his head, but a gloved hand stopped him, the softer-than-skin leather brushing gently over his cheek before slipping back to his shoulder.
“Please, who are you?” he wanted to know, he needed to know.
“My name is Noel Keane.”
The hands that held him released him.
“Remember me, Liam.”
The words were little more than a whispered breath against his ear, a warm breath, as warm as his own.
“Who were you talking to?” Tom was looking around, and obviously not seeing anyone.
Liam turned around quickly, “I was—“
Tom grinned and shook his head. “Never mind, I can see what you were doing.” He gestured to the front of Liam’s jeans. “At least zip up, will you? Fuck, man, jacking off on a headstone… And I thought I was the perv.”
Liam stood still for a moment, staring off into the darkness. He could still feel him, could still feel him inside him, could still feel his lips on the back of his neck, could still feel his fingers on his cheek…could still hear his voice in his ear.
“Remember me, Liam.”
And he wondered… how had he known his name?
Tom slapped Liam on the back. “You know, you could’ve just joined us. You wouldn’t have minded a threesome, would you, Angela?” he called over his shoulder. Liam heard Angela giggle.
“Fuck off,” Liam muttered as he zipped his jeans and pushed past Tom.
***
The silence of the graveyard was both oppressive and soothing—just as it had been the last time he had walked through the old iron gates. But this time it was daylight. And this time he was alone. And this time he wasn’t wasted. He had been the last time. Really wasted. No question about that. And that made him wonder if anything had been real. It shouldn’t have been. It couldn’t have been, could it? He’d been thinking about him, about the guy whose grave he had been sitting on, and he’d been thinking how horny he was. He must have fallen asleep. And it wasn’t like he’d never had a wet dream before… Couldn’t have been anything else…could it?
Except that when Tom showed up he had been standing, leaning against a headstone…
Except that when he looked up the name--
“My name is Noel Keane.”
—on the net he had found something. Something in an article called “A Most Scandalous Profession – Theater in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries“ that made him wonder:
Keane, Noel - b. December 26, 1806 d. August 15, 1837
Like most actors, Noel Keane’s goal was to give a performance that would be remembered for all time. He ended up being better known for his exploits off stage than on, however. He was found shot to death in his bed. His wife, Abigail Ramsey Keane, later confessed to the crime, and a subsequent rather scandalous trial revealed that Keane had been having an affair---with her brother. Liam Ramsey was found dead a year later, lying on the grave of his lover, a victim of his own hand. The words on the note found with him, “I will remember you, in this life and the next,” were widely believed to be in response to the words engraved upon Keane’s headstone, “Remember me.”
“Remember me, Liam.”
He found the headstone and knelt down before it. His hands shook slightly as they reached out. It was old, very old, like everything else around him, its age now even more evident in the light. The writing was nearly worn away, the edges that must have once been deeply etched, were rounded and soft to the touch. He ran his fingers over those soft edges and could imagine them being rubbed away by years, lifetimes, of gently massaging fingers. He traced each worn surface carefully, trying to feel the letters he couldn’t quite see. Except now, now that he knew what they must say, he could feel them:
Noel Keane
born 26 December, 1806
died 15 August, 1837
Remember me
“Remember me, Liam.”
He closed his eyes and caressed the worn letters. “I will remember you, in this life and the next.”
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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