Fic: Like in the Movies
Apr. 20th, 2006 11:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
knights_say_nihNC-17
Ramon/Random with influence by Johnny Depp. Is it fair to claim that man is an enabler for smutty fanfiction?
“This is going to sound stupid.”
Which might not matter really, Ramon thinks, as the first silk scarf tightens around his wrist, because he’ll listen to anything Random has to say in all seriousness, with things being the way they are.
“Largely because I heard it in a movie, and movies are always trite.”
Ramon does laugh, a surprisingly soft sound, because Random’s hands are setting to work and he did not know touching like this could feel quite this sinfully good. Still mostly dressed, for Gods sake, and already starting to get hard, just from Random’s fingers, lips, on his knuckles, palm, wrist.
“But anyways. I got lost in the image.”
Lips on his wrist, teeth then gently grazing over the moist skin and then adjusting the silk; and then, metal, cold and hard and not so much as grazing his skin. The knife cuts easily through the shirt cuff, leaving the material loose. The blade draws it back a touch, and Random leans down to turn his attention to the forearm bard. Ramon moans, despite himself, as the caresses continue along the newly bared skin.
“A violin player. The finest violin player there is.”
As he speaks the knife draws along Ramon’s arm, again never touching his skin but slitting the shirt to the shoulder.
“And the finest of instruments.”
Random’s blade makes quick work of the other sleeve, and he bends to kiss the inside of the other forearm, the soft skin, unguarded.
“Imagine, if you will, that the man is playing this violin. Coaxing note after note from it.”
A mirror to his words, he continues to explore, to touch. Ramon is soon complaining, asking for more, and Random ignores him happily. He’s bent himself to the task, and intends to relish it. Eventually, Ramon’s shirt is slit from shoulder to collar, while Random’s spare hand gentle tips his head to the side, letting him cut the fabric without worry.
“Each of these notes come together to form the most beautiful of songs.”
Each button makes a faint snick sound as the knife flicks them from the shirt and a faint clink as they’re unceremoniously tossed from the bed. Random’s smile widens as each one is cut away, and then gently brushes aside the remnants of the shirt.
“Slowly, the song will progress. And we, we will sing of desperation, you and I.”
And they do, because Random’s hands, those hands that have killed and touched and held so many, they’re practiced. Almost obscenely so, when he puts his mind to it, with nine thousand years of lovers and not quite as many men as women among them but enough that it doesn’t really matter.
“Of desperation, of lust, of love.”
Pants are easier. They’re merely pulled off in the conventional way, because his legs aren’t bound, and even if Ramon tries to thrust into the touch as fingers work at his fly, it’s manageable still.
“Slowly building towards a final note.”
His hands, his thin, wicked hands, are back and then more, and Ramon swears that Random is overwhelming him and he can’t think of a single thing except the man hanging over him with his lips tracing his thigh and his hands feeling out gentle patterns behind Ramon’s knee and yet another place that seems to be drawing more pleasure from him than it has any right to.
“Not yet, of course, but building towards it.”
Ramon doesn’t know if he understands what’s being said any longer, or if it’s just the soothing timbre of Random’s cultured voice saying such loving things to him as he draws more and more from his body.
“When it comes, though—look at me, lover.”
Lost, desperate eyes are turned on him and Random’s resolve crumbles and the two slide together with the ease of any pair who have held each other a hundred times and know each others bodies a hundred times over.
“That’s better. When it comes it’ll be a final, perfect note.”
Their bodies move, Ramon’s urgently, Random’s with a smooth, unearthly grace. And they build, and Random continues to play, allowing his hands to roam and touch Ramon a hundred places he hasn’t dreamed of, and make him feel a thousand things that he might have known but had forgotten.
“Long, lasting, and with the violin strings singing with tension.”
There’s love in Random’s eyes, and pleasure blinding Ramon’s, but it scarcely matters because he can feel it in each of the touches.
“So the musician- well, he draws as much pleasure from hearing it as you will.”
Random’s body rocks into Ramon’s, and when their eyes meet Ramon feels as though he might drown in this man.
“Sing for me.”
If he wanted to help it- not that resistance would ever occur- he could not have, he’s sure. Couldn’t have denied anything in those moments.
Afterwards, when Ramon is spent and shaking and allowing himself to be held tight to Random’s chest without worry, because nothing could be more natural, he asks if he meant it.
Random asks which part of it.
Ramon says all of it.
The answer is with all my soul.
And when Ramon has rolled, and pulled Random to his chest and kissed him gently, he asks which film it was from.
Don Juan de Marco is the sheepish answer. Does it matter?
No answers Ramon, with a smile. It doesn’t.
He’s right.
Ramon/Random with influence by Johnny Depp. Is it fair to claim that man is an enabler for smutty fanfiction?
“This is going to sound stupid.”
Which might not matter really, Ramon thinks, as the first silk scarf tightens around his wrist, because he’ll listen to anything Random has to say in all seriousness, with things being the way they are.
“Largely because I heard it in a movie, and movies are always trite.”
Ramon does laugh, a surprisingly soft sound, because Random’s hands are setting to work and he did not know touching like this could feel quite this sinfully good. Still mostly dressed, for Gods sake, and already starting to get hard, just from Random’s fingers, lips, on his knuckles, palm, wrist.
“But anyways. I got lost in the image.”
Lips on his wrist, teeth then gently grazing over the moist skin and then adjusting the silk; and then, metal, cold and hard and not so much as grazing his skin. The knife cuts easily through the shirt cuff, leaving the material loose. The blade draws it back a touch, and Random leans down to turn his attention to the forearm bard. Ramon moans, despite himself, as the caresses continue along the newly bared skin.
“A violin player. The finest violin player there is.”
As he speaks the knife draws along Ramon’s arm, again never touching his skin but slitting the shirt to the shoulder.
“And the finest of instruments.”
Random’s blade makes quick work of the other sleeve, and he bends to kiss the inside of the other forearm, the soft skin, unguarded.
“Imagine, if you will, that the man is playing this violin. Coaxing note after note from it.”
A mirror to his words, he continues to explore, to touch. Ramon is soon complaining, asking for more, and Random ignores him happily. He’s bent himself to the task, and intends to relish it. Eventually, Ramon’s shirt is slit from shoulder to collar, while Random’s spare hand gentle tips his head to the side, letting him cut the fabric without worry.
“Each of these notes come together to form the most beautiful of songs.”
Each button makes a faint snick sound as the knife flicks them from the shirt and a faint clink as they’re unceremoniously tossed from the bed. Random’s smile widens as each one is cut away, and then gently brushes aside the remnants of the shirt.
“Slowly, the song will progress. And we, we will sing of desperation, you and I.”
And they do, because Random’s hands, those hands that have killed and touched and held so many, they’re practiced. Almost obscenely so, when he puts his mind to it, with nine thousand years of lovers and not quite as many men as women among them but enough that it doesn’t really matter.
“Of desperation, of lust, of love.”
Pants are easier. They’re merely pulled off in the conventional way, because his legs aren’t bound, and even if Ramon tries to thrust into the touch as fingers work at his fly, it’s manageable still.
“Slowly building towards a final note.”
His hands, his thin, wicked hands, are back and then more, and Ramon swears that Random is overwhelming him and he can’t think of a single thing except the man hanging over him with his lips tracing his thigh and his hands feeling out gentle patterns behind Ramon’s knee and yet another place that seems to be drawing more pleasure from him than it has any right to.
“Not yet, of course, but building towards it.”
Ramon doesn’t know if he understands what’s being said any longer, or if it’s just the soothing timbre of Random’s cultured voice saying such loving things to him as he draws more and more from his body.
“When it comes, though—look at me, lover.”
Lost, desperate eyes are turned on him and Random’s resolve crumbles and the two slide together with the ease of any pair who have held each other a hundred times and know each others bodies a hundred times over.
“That’s better. When it comes it’ll be a final, perfect note.”
Their bodies move, Ramon’s urgently, Random’s with a smooth, unearthly grace. And they build, and Random continues to play, allowing his hands to roam and touch Ramon a hundred places he hasn’t dreamed of, and make him feel a thousand things that he might have known but had forgotten.
“Long, lasting, and with the violin strings singing with tension.”
There’s love in Random’s eyes, and pleasure blinding Ramon’s, but it scarcely matters because he can feel it in each of the touches.
“So the musician- well, he draws as much pleasure from hearing it as you will.”
Random’s body rocks into Ramon’s, and when their eyes meet Ramon feels as though he might drown in this man.
“Sing for me.”
If he wanted to help it- not that resistance would ever occur- he could not have, he’s sure. Couldn’t have denied anything in those moments.
Afterwards, when Ramon is spent and shaking and allowing himself to be held tight to Random’s chest without worry, because nothing could be more natural, he asks if he meant it.
Random asks which part of it.
Ramon says all of it.
The answer is with all my soul.
And when Ramon has rolled, and pulled Random to his chest and kissed him gently, he asks which film it was from.
Don Juan de Marco is the sheepish answer. Does it matter?
No answers Ramon, with a smile. It doesn’t.
He’s right.
