The Glitter Jungle:
Fiction:
Eye For An Eye
Giles/Ethan PWP
Info:
"Smell is the most powerful trigger to the memory there
is. A certain flower or a, a whiff of smoke can bring up experiences...
long forgotten. Books smell. Musty and, and, and, and rich. The knowledge
gained from a computer, is, uh, it... it has no, no texture, no, no context.
It's, it's there and then it's gone. If it's to last, then, then the getting
of knowledge should be, uh, tangible, it should be, um... smelly." [quote]
He was nearing sensory overload.
The book was old and musty, leather bound, with a faint smell of smoke - maybe it had survived a fire, or perhaps generations of scholars held it by candle light, devouring the knowledge and wisdom in its aged, yellow pages. There were gaps, lacerations in the cover, as if someone attacked the book with a knife somewhere along the years.
The slip was satin, red and shimmering, cool like water, soft when he brought his lips to the fabric. Its scent reminded him of something, slippery memory flitting, something he couldn't pinpoint but still sent a shiver of thrill to his gut, maybe even of lust. The memory evoked was so strong it made him sweat, and when the smell of his own body came to his nostrils, he remembered. He knew.
"Ethan Rayne."
Even as he whispers it he knows somehow that the man is not far, maybe right outside the door, maybe even here, in the room, lurking in the shadows and waiting for everything to *click* before making his grand entrance -
But the man emerging from the corner of the room doesn't sneer, or mock, or make any kind of derisive comment. He just stares at the red slip in Rupert's hands, at the way his fingers still clutch the satin.
"You... put this here." It's not a question. Ethan nods. His eyes are still fixated on Rupert's fingers. Rupert remembers. Their nights together. The sex. The books. The joy of learning and reading. The magic, before it all got out of hand, turned bad.
Ethan is closer to him now, and Rupert expects it at any moment; the comment or insult or taunt that would break the spell and make him hurt Ethan again. He doesn't want to, but Ethan has such a knack for bringing it out of him in a word, in a touch -
A touch to his hand, soft, and then Ethan lifts it to his mouth and kisses each digit softly, reverently. Rupert drops the garment he's holding, his hand is shaking so badly.
"It's yours, isn't it," he says, his voice colder than he meant, with the effort to control it. "You wore this."
Ethan smirks, but even that is slow and softened. He glances at the pile of red satin on the floor.
"I wore this," he says, "and I did... this."
His fingers caress the rough cuts on the book's leather binding. Rupert is horrified at the defilement of the book, the *hurting* of it.
"With this," Ethan adds casually, taking a knife out of his pocket. Rupert flinches but before he can react, protect himself, fight, Ethan is already handing him the knife. Hilt first.
So this is what he's after. Rupert takes the knife silently. He doesn't make a move to agree or to reject Ethan. Ethan bends to pick up the red slip and Rupert is surprised to feel a shiver run all the way up and down his spine at the sight of Ethan lowering himself before him.
"I was going to have a wank," Ethan says, and the words startle Rupert, "over the book." He's running the satin over the gashes in the leather and Rupert shivers again. "I didn't," Ethan adds almost as an afterthought. Rupert has had enough.
A step forward, one hand grabbing Ethan's collar and the other holding the blade to his throat. Ethan swallows.
"The slip... is yours." He says, or rather whispers.
And Rupert cuts him. Just a little, just over the collarbone. Like the gash on the book where the title is printed in golden, faded letters, flaked away with time. Ethan gasps. There is hardly any blood, only a hint of red on the skin, not far from a visible pulse point, but it's enough to send Rupert into an entirely different state of mind.
"Take your shirt off," he says and removes his glasses. Ethan obeys, fingers shaking too, fumbling to undo all the buttons and shrug the shirt off his shoulders and onto the floor.
"Put it on the chair," Rupert says. Ethan pauses, for a moment, and then picks the shirt up without a word and folds it neatly on the back of the chair.
And Rupert gets to work. He holds the book in one hand, and carves into Ethan, the very same cuts and slashes that are on the book cover. A mindless pattern of anger, painstakingly retraced onto flesh. Ethan whines high in his throat. His chest is a criss-cross of thin bleeding lines. And he's so hard it must take all of his will power to keep his hips still.
Rupert makes one last cut, then steps back to examine his work. He's pleased with what he sees; not just Ethan's blood, but more than that, the look on his face. His eyes. Burning and *daring*.
He takes another step back, starts removing his clothes meticulously, folding them neatly on the chair. When Ethan takes a step towards him all Rupert has to do is glare and Ethan stops. Controlling Ethan when he doesn't want to be controlled is difficult, but today dominating comes easy to Rupert, for some reason. He puts the slip on.
Pauses to admire its cool, sleek, *caressing* texture. The way it sort of *slides*, slippery around him. Smoothes it over his thighs.
Ethan can't stop his moan.
"Lie down."
Ethan looks around him, at the couch on the other side of the room, at the stairs leading to the bedroom. Rupert doesn't make a move, doesn't help. Just waits.
Ethan lies down on the carpet. Faces the ceiling quietly, hands folded under his head.
The blood has mostly dried up, wounds too shallow to last, but some of it is still dripping down Ethan's sides. Rupert admires the view. And then he moves to straddle Ethan's chest.
The satin must be dragging on the cuts, Rupert surmises when Ethan moans in pain around his cock. Red on red. Soft on sharp. His hips thrust into Ethan's mouth, careful not to choke the man. But Ethan doesn't even take his hands away from their position under his head, he's not struggling, just sucking. Hard, steady, no nonsense and to the point, just like Rupert's always liked. The satin rubs against his own chest, smooth but catching on his nipples. Ethan's throat works, the muscles there swallowing repeatedly. Rupert feels it building up in his balls, and pulls out, moves back, the last few strokes are done by his own hand and the come lands, hot, wet, on Ethan's chest, on his open wounds. Some of it lands higher on his throat, his face. He moans with it, and his voice mixes with Rupert's grunt.
Rupert moves down, straddling Ethan's thighs now. He considers letting Ethan go, kicking him out like this. He doesn't owe the man anything. But he also wants...
He lets the straps slide from his shoulders, lets the slip pool around his waist. Unzips Ethan's trousers, already stained wet where a persistent erection was leaking for a while, and takes his cock out.
"Ethan..."
He doesn't know what made him say it, whisper the name at this moment, but the reaction is obvious. Ethan whimpers and his cock jumps in Rupert's hand. Rupert grins, leans to kiss his lover's hip bone, and then wraps soft red satin around Ethan's cock and starts rubbing it. His hand is strong and sure, the satin is soft and gleaming, and Ethan's wounds are rough and uneven under the tips of his fingers. After only a few moments Ethan arches up, and his hands fly to grasp Rupert's shoulders. He groans and spills into the red slip.
They stay together, sticky, panting, for long moments before Rupert gets up and lets the slip fall to the floor. Ethan follows him, zipping his trousers and taking his shirt from the chair.
"You can keep it," his voice is raspy, "and the book too."
Rupert is silent.
Ethan walks to him, surprisingly fast, and kisses him, lips pressing hard until Rupert allows a way in and then they're really kissing, hot and sweet and messy.
Ethan disentangles himself and goes for the door.
"Wait, where?....." Rupert bites his lip a second too late, after the question is already out in the open.
"Don't worry," Ethan smiles, and this time it isn't a smirk, but a soft,
compassionate expression. "...I'll be seeing you."