Prompt #6 [2/3]airgiodslvAugust 17 2007, 12:01:56 UTC
Ryan is standing in front of Gerard’s canvas with the paintbrush in his hands. The tree waves its branches back at him, blue-grey and ever-present black, waiting for him to finish it.
I can’t, he says, but Gerard’s hand is over his, dipping the brush into a pot. He doesn’t even know what colour.
He’s petrified, frozen with fear, but Gerard just lifts his hand until it hovers over the canvas, supporting without pressure or direction, not showing him where to go. I’ll mess it up, Ryan says desperately, but Gerard doesn’t let him go.
He finally forces himself to trace one of the lines that’s already there, barely breathing as he applies the paint, heart pounding in his chest.
More, Gerard says, and Ryan tries, but his lines are uneven, shaky, the curves all wrong. The tree looks crooked and distressed, and Ryan doesn’t know how Gerard wanted it but he’s sure this isn’t it.
I can’t, he says again, helplessly. I can’t.
Gerard doesn’t guide his hand, but he’s still holding Ryan’s wrist, keeping him there. His breath is soft against Ryan’s neck. Ryan stands frozen for longer than he feels should be possible, completely terrified with no idea what to do, and then he thinks…he thinks he sees. He draws a line that doesn’t follow Gerard’s curves, striking out in a different direction, a dark bold purple.
Gerard laughs into his ear and says yes.
Ryan wakes up and feels good, amazing even, up until he realizes that his boxers are sticky and the sheets are rucked up around his waist, twisted between his legs and damp with sweat. He sneaks to the bathroom when he can finally force himself to move, clammy with shame, praying that no one notices.
Gerard is lying on his stomach in the grass, sunglasses on and face pillowed on his hands. Ryan only realizes he’s shirtless when Gerard says, new canvas.
It should be more frightening than it is, but Ryan has been drawing on Brendon and Spencer and even Jon for months now, so skin isn’t an unfamiliar medium.
He straddles Gerard’s waist and considers, trying to see the design beneath the skin, the painted tattoos waiting to emerge. There are paints by his foot, but he can’t find a brush. Gerard wiggles his hand and says fingers.
Ryan starts drawing. He draws without thinking, the way he’s seen Gerard paint, trusting that it will be right. Trusting Gerard. He draws until he runs out of skin, up Gerard’s arms and down to the waistband of his pants, and when he can’t find any more space to draw Gerard just rolls over.
It’s different this time, somehow. Gerard sighs when Ryan traces over his ribs, sucks in a breath when Ryan circles of his nipples, smiles when Ryan dips paint into his navel. He’s less a canvas and more a participant, his reactions guiding Ryan’s touch.
Ryan is following the trail of dark hair that leads to Gerard’s waistband when he suddenly realizes what he’s doing and stops. What are you doing to me? he asks.
He can feel Gerard’s laugh in his fingers, through his sun-warmed thighs. Saving your life.
Prompt #6 [3/3]airgiodslvAugust 17 2007, 12:02:58 UTC
He’s drawing on his own face again, but it’s frustrating. He can’t get the lines right, he’s smudging, crooked, uneven, wrong. He throws down the pencil and Gerard is there, picking it back up. Trust me, Gerard says, and Ryan turns to face him, away from the mirror.
There’s paint on his fingers. Ryan draws lines around Gerard’s eyes and they’re perfect, even when they’re not, and even more so when Gerard smiles. Gerard wipes away the colours from Ryan’s face and Ryan turns back to the mirror, drawing again, quicker this time.
He freezes up right when he’s nearly finished, when he sees what he’s done and for a second it’s all wrong, his stomach drops out and his hands shake and he can’t do this, it’s destroyed, he’s made a mess of everything.
Let go, Gerard says, and he moves the brush when Ryan can’t, until they’re painting together and it’s right again, it’s better.
It’s not perfect, Ryan says when they’re finished, looking at what they’ve created. He can still scrub this away and start over, he thinks. He could do it again.
Gerard turns his face with one finger. It doesn’t have to be, he says. And then they kiss.
Ryan wakes up sweating again, but his boxers aren’t sticky this time, and his cock is aching, hot and heavy between his legs. He hesitates, but there are whispers and colours and shapes behind his eyes, so he gives in, reaching inside and stroking, stronger after the first pull, more sure.
He traces lines over his own body, across his chest and down across his stomach, patterns and curves and lines that change direction and arc into something else. He’s not thinking about girls when he does it, and he doesn’t care. His hips stutter and his finger swirls bright and bold around his rib cage, and he thinks yes and hears Gerard, let go, and comes with colours splashing behind his eyelids.
It’s more perfect than anything has felt in a long time.
Re: Prompt #6 [3/3]patchworkwoundsAugust 17 2007, 12:36:50 UTC
Utterly fucking awesome. Just wow. I love it was Ryan dreaming/imagining, how Ryan has this drive and obsession with perfection than he can't really attain.
Although I'm kinda annoyed now though because you've just gone and done this prompt way, way better than I can :P.
Re: Prompt #6 [3/3]eleanor_lavishAugust 17 2007, 13:25:33 UTC
absolutely gorgeous. Gerard as Ryan's internal guide, his compass, making Ryan let go-- that's kind of brilliantly amazing. And this is so lyrical, it reads like dreams. Lovely.
I can’t, he says, but Gerard’s hand is over his, dipping the brush into a pot. He doesn’t even know what colour.
He’s petrified, frozen with fear, but Gerard just lifts his hand until it hovers over the canvas, supporting without pressure or direction, not showing him where to go. I’ll mess it up, Ryan says desperately, but Gerard doesn’t let him go.
He finally forces himself to trace one of the lines that’s already there, barely breathing as he applies the paint, heart pounding in his chest.
More, Gerard says, and Ryan tries, but his lines are uneven, shaky, the curves all wrong. The tree looks crooked and distressed, and Ryan doesn’t know how Gerard wanted it but he’s sure this isn’t it.
I can’t, he says again, helplessly. I can’t.
Gerard doesn’t guide his hand, but he’s still holding Ryan’s wrist, keeping him there. His breath is soft against Ryan’s neck. Ryan stands frozen for longer than he feels should be possible, completely terrified with no idea what to do, and then he thinks…he thinks he sees. He draws a line that doesn’t follow Gerard’s curves, striking out in a different direction, a dark bold purple.
Gerard laughs into his ear and says yes.
Ryan wakes up and feels good, amazing even, up until he realizes that his boxers are sticky and the sheets are rucked up around his waist, twisted between his legs and damp with sweat. He sneaks to the bathroom when he can finally force himself to move, clammy with shame, praying that no one notices.
Gerard is lying on his stomach in the grass, sunglasses on and face pillowed on his hands. Ryan only realizes he’s shirtless when Gerard says, new canvas.
It should be more frightening than it is, but Ryan has been drawing on Brendon and Spencer and even Jon for months now, so skin isn’t an unfamiliar medium.
He straddles Gerard’s waist and considers, trying to see the design beneath the skin, the painted tattoos waiting to emerge. There are paints by his foot, but he can’t find a brush. Gerard wiggles his hand and says fingers.
Ryan starts drawing. He draws without thinking, the way he’s seen Gerard paint, trusting that it will be right. Trusting Gerard. He draws until he runs out of skin, up Gerard’s arms and down to the waistband of his pants, and when he can’t find any more space to draw Gerard just rolls over.
It’s different this time, somehow. Gerard sighs when Ryan traces over his ribs, sucks in a breath when Ryan circles of his nipples, smiles when Ryan dips paint into his navel. He’s less a canvas and more a participant, his reactions guiding Ryan’s touch.
Ryan is following the trail of dark hair that leads to Gerard’s waistband when he suddenly realizes what he’s doing and stops. What are you doing to me? he asks.
He can feel Gerard’s laugh in his fingers, through his sun-warmed thighs. Saving your life.
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There’s paint on his fingers. Ryan draws lines around Gerard’s eyes and they’re perfect, even when they’re not, and even more so when Gerard smiles. Gerard wipes away the colours from Ryan’s face and Ryan turns back to the mirror, drawing again, quicker this time.
He freezes up right when he’s nearly finished, when he sees what he’s done and for a second it’s all wrong, his stomach drops out and his hands shake and he can’t do this, it’s destroyed, he’s made a mess of everything.
Let go, Gerard says, and he moves the brush when Ryan can’t, until they’re painting together and it’s right again, it’s better.
It’s not perfect, Ryan says when they’re finished, looking at what they’ve created. He can still scrub this away and start over, he thinks. He could do it again.
Gerard turns his face with one finger. It doesn’t have to be, he says. And then they kiss.
Ryan wakes up sweating again, but his boxers aren’t sticky this time, and his cock is aching, hot and heavy between his legs. He hesitates, but there are whispers and colours and shapes behind his eyes, so he gives in, reaching inside and stroking, stronger after the first pull, more sure.
He traces lines over his own body, across his chest and down across his stomach, patterns and curves and lines that change direction and arc into something else. He’s not thinking about girls when he does it, and he doesn’t care. His hips stutter and his finger swirls bright and bold around his rib cage, and he thinks yes and hears Gerard, let go, and comes with colours splashing behind his eyelids.
It’s more perfect than anything has felt in a long time.
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Although I'm kinda annoyed now though because you've just gone and done this prompt way, way better than I can :P.
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This is so beautiful and perfect.
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Thanks so much for this wonderfulness! :D
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