AN: No excuses for this one: I adore the Riders. That's it.
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Famine/Pollution
Lovely Boy
Sable remembered sometimes, and would shrug, nonchalant, debonair, and more empty than the look on that first starving child's face.
He'd turn to Bianco and walk out without a word. He never turned back to check if Bianco was following, never said anything as they drifted across town. Men and women and children stiffened as they passed, something dirty and unspeakable and hungry in the particles between that slim, well-dressed man and that creature following him.
Bianco was beautiful, yes, yet gossamer hair and cool marble skin only emphasized the filthiness underneath it all. Clear quartz eyes bespoke defilement and corruption, stronger, more visceral in their loveliness and purity than the bleary yellow spots on the faces of night-crawlers. A lovely boy, his body whispered, a lovely boy, sordid and foul. He wore contamination like a cloak, and he walked like soiled newspapers in a dust cloud, dance macabre.
Lovely Bianco, Sable thought, lovely Bianco, you filthy whore with the sickness of thousands in your drug-smooth eyes.
Whore and dog and exquisite boy with a mouth like thick gray smog, velvet-rich with LSD.
And the nights spent with him, mused Sable, sliding Armani charcoal silk down sleek thighs, were polluted and dazed. Dusty gray sheets and dusky white skin sliding on top of each other. The crush of two bodies twisting and turning, slowly, a slender throat catching the light. Submission. Then it was lean thighs holding his hips, lowering slowly, slowly, slowly. Hands like creamy foam on the River Uck skimmed and delved and stroked, never pausing, fireflies of white smog. Then it was pounding, frantic movement and distant screams that disappeared in his throat and didn't pause the pushing back of thin white hips. Pain, he thought distantly, he /craves/ it.
And taking Bianco into your arms felt like defilement, and you needed to shove him away. And yet Sable came back, again and again and again. Drugged, his mind screamed, entrapped by that harlot of filth in boy-shape. Whore who needed the pain, needed the perversion, needed to be degraded.
Worst of all, Sable needed to give it to him, needed to give the shame and the debasement, needed to give, and give and give. Because he understood that just as Famine needed to shove and smash and take until nothing was left, when only the ghost of a visceral hunger was left, Pollution needed violation and depravity and contamination. Needed it like nothing else on Earth.
They were each other's tool. Use, and Dispose.
Empty plastic cup in the wind.
*
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Famine/Pollution
Lovely Boy
Sable remembered sometimes, and would shrug, nonchalant, debonair, and more empty than the look on that first starving child's face.
He'd turn to Bianco and walk out without a word. He never turned back to check if Bianco was following, never said anything as they drifted across town. Men and women and children stiffened as they passed, something dirty and unspeakable and hungry in the particles between that slim, well-dressed man and that creature following him.
Bianco was beautiful, yes, yet gossamer hair and cool marble skin only emphasized the filthiness underneath it all. Clear quartz eyes bespoke defilement and corruption, stronger, more visceral in their loveliness and purity than the bleary yellow spots on the faces of night-crawlers. A lovely boy, his body whispered, a lovely boy, sordid and foul. He wore contamination like a cloak, and he walked like soiled newspapers in a dust cloud, dance macabre.
Lovely Bianco, Sable thought, lovely Bianco, you filthy whore with the sickness of thousands in your drug-smooth eyes.
Whore and dog and exquisite boy with a mouth like thick gray smog, velvet-rich with LSD.
And the nights spent with him, mused Sable, sliding Armani charcoal silk down sleek thighs, were polluted and dazed. Dusty gray sheets and dusky white skin sliding on top of each other. The crush of two bodies twisting and turning, slowly, a slender throat catching the light. Submission. Then it was lean thighs holding his hips, lowering slowly, slowly, slowly. Hands like creamy foam on the River Uck skimmed and delved and stroked, never pausing, fireflies of white smog. Then it was pounding, frantic movement and distant screams that disappeared in his throat and didn't pause the pushing back of thin white hips. Pain, he thought distantly, he /craves/ it.
And taking Bianco into your arms felt like defilement, and you needed to shove him away. And yet Sable came back, again and again and again. Drugged, his mind screamed, entrapped by that harlot of filth in boy-shape. Whore who needed the pain, needed the perversion, needed to be degraded.
Worst of all, Sable needed to give it to him, needed to give the shame and the debasement, needed to give, and give and give. Because he understood that just as Famine needed to shove and smash and take until nothing was left, when only the ghost of a visceral hunger was left, Pollution needed violation and depravity and contamination. Needed it like nothing else on Earth.
They were each other's tool. Use, and Dispose.
Empty plastic cup in the wind.
*