Title: Making Music
Rating: R -not really graphic, but sexual nonetheless. I don't really like to say it's a PWP because everything I write is PWP to an extent, so I prefer to say this is a moment in time. ;) (just go with it. lol)
Summary: Seth/Ryan "The slippery, copper taste of sin is on his tongue..."
Disclaimer: I don't own anything etc. etc. etc...
Feedback: Please. I would really appreciate if people could tell me what they thought, especially for this piece.
Notes: There is something about these two that is musical to me. And by that I mean, there is a certain flow to their scenes... I'm not sure I can explain it
properly, so this is a result of me trying to explain it. I think I just made a big mess, which is why I hesitated in posting it.
Making Music
________________Eph 5:3
--- "But among you there must not be even a hint of sexual immorality, or of any kind of impurity, or of greed, because these are improper for God's holy people."
__________________
The slippery, copper taste of sin is on his tongue. A serpentine slur slinks through his brain. The word pounds from his nape and vibrates down to his toes.
And he dreams.
Hands searching.
Tongue sweeping.
Uncovered flesh.
The high, blue moon.
He bolts upright in bed, sweating and panting.
The dreams are every night now and there is no use denying their meaning.
They make their own rules. They set their own destiny. A new religion in which Cain and Abel are brothers taking on a new sin. Murder and jealousy are not
in their realm, instead they commit the greatest sins of all. Lust. Love.
He walks into the darkness, a pound of warm water against his temples. A shallow breath in the Mannequin sky.
Wet oak and sodden earth permeate the air. A waft of poppy stings his nose and reminds him of the silence he must endure; the right of holiness he will
never possess.
Like a Maestro, he plays the clouds with whispers of prayer. They hold, gray and threatening, like the eye of God.
"Jesus Christ, I can't."
He can.
He will.
"Fuck...please."
He begs for strength.
A cadenza of words as he struggles to see through the blinds...as he struggles to see through the rules that forbid this exchange.
He can't get rid of these feelings at a pawn shop. He can't push them over a cliff and forget they exist. They are apart of him, burned into the cells of his
blood. Not like a virus, more like a cure.
When he opens the sliding doors, he is shivering. Part rain-soaked skin and part nerves.
Ryan sits up in bed, an evident erection under black sheets, crumbled in his lap. "Seth. What's going on?"
He doesn't speak.
"Are you alright?" The desperate sound of his voice cuts through and drowns out everything else.
He looks everywhere, but directly in front of him. "I'm fine. I don't even know why I'm here."
He tries not to look at all the tanned, smooth, muscled flesh. The sculpted form of his bronzed biceps look like that of a Greek God. He could be Adonis
reincarnate and Seth would still be his weakling slave and Ryan doesn't seem to notice.
Ryan kicks the blankets from his feet and swaggers to his full, unassuming height and yet there is something commanding in his stance. Something that reeks
of confidence and purrs of beauty.
He touches Seth's forearm and makes him jump.
A throb trickles deep inside.
A thirst sandpapers his throat.
His skin glows with fire.
His jaw aches with guilt.
"You're freezing," Ryan says, with a curl to his lip and passion in his eyes.
He leaves him standing there, cold and wet, returning with a plush towel that feels like lamb's skin against his face.
The towel brushes over slick skin with the aid of Ryan and all Seth can do is watch. His wet curls mould to Ryan's prying fingers as water drips onto the floor.
"Here. Take this off." Ryan lifts the thin shirt off Seth's body and lets it fall to the floor. He circles him. His tongue darts out and licks away beads of water.
"Better?"
Seth nods. It's all he's capable of doing.
He hears a chuckle full of bass, it trembles inside his rib cage.
Ryan's mouth feels so good on his sharp shoulder blades. The curve of his spine. The back of his earlobe. He closes his eyes and listens to the hammer of
rain against the roof and the uneven breathing of his own making.
He is untrained, unable to make sense of everything around him, but so eager to learn more. A dirge sounds as he says goodbye to innocence and lets himself
be taught.
Ryan shadows him. Drums his fingers across his stomach and down his hips. He pulls him to the dim depths of his mattress; a bow stretching over a violin.
They begin a duet. An embellishment of chords, a low, ripping, tender song. Hands cover skin. A slow scrape of flesh and slide of tongues. Lips confide in
secret admiration. A ghost trail of teeth. A splinter of pain.
They make it to the tune of the rain. A slow, powerful storm that rocks them.
Lightening breaks the sky into punches of technicolour light and the rain continues to fall. The rain will always fall. Just as a rogue note will always break
him. He will always tinge red with the strange strain of his name coming from Ryan's lips.
They hit the crescendo and come crashing down with the smash of thunder and the cry of the wind.
They lay together, an imperfect cadence of breath and speech between them.
He wonders if Ryan has ever had anyone tell him they love him and mean it. If he ever said it, he knows he'd mean it.
And he knows there is no going back.
If it makes him a sinner, he will gladly sin. From Gotham to hell, he will rest in the curve of Ryan's shoulder and murmur his complacence.
A shadow of life bubbles up from Ryan and he slings his arm across Seth's chest, pulling him close. It's a possessive gesture. One made in ownership.
The slippery, copper taste of sin is on his tongue. It tastes sweet.
______
end.