I Love You (Just Not In The Most Heterosexual Way) || Syan Oneshots||

this sin

I felt like writing smut. Then angst. Then something kinda dark. Then this happened. It's not too detailed but.. brace yourselves.

Also this is horribly OOC

"We shouldn't do this," Ryan says.

But Ryan is a hypocrite.

Because his lips are still attached to my neck, and he's still pressing me against the wall with one of his hands inside my shirt, touching, rubbing. And our erections are still grinding together. Creating friction. Creating pleasure that soars through my whole body to a pool of heat in my lower stomach.

I just mumble something incoherently, groaning his name under my breath. It's damp and hot and it's unbearable.

"Sean, you.." he mutters, "You don't.. get to do this to me."

"I still am," I say, and he's pressing kisses along my jawline, to the corner of my lips before they capture his own. The kiss is close mouthed, and innocent and sweet, before I tilt my head and open my mouth and he tilts his, and our lips mold together into a perfectly fitting puzzle.

And we suck and lick and moan into each other's mouths. Hungry. Desperate.

The kiss breaks with a wet pop and Ryan stumbles back, sitting on the bed. His head down. His hands shaking.

I don't see why.

"What's wrong?" I ask, fixing my shirt and sitting next to him on the bed. I grab his hand, and he doesn't move to stop me. Our fingers interlace. And it's warm. It sends some sort of warmth throughout my body. It sends butterflies flitting around my stomach.

"Everything is wrong," he says and he pushes me down on the bed, pinning me down by the shoulders. And he's looming over me, his thumbs rubbing circles on my skin.

"Even this?"

"Even this," he mutters and dives down and kisses me again. And I can taste his grief and his anger and his desperation, and I can taste his tears and lies and pain. He smells of bitter days and pouring rain and cloudy skies.

What he feels I feel. What he sees I see.

I wonder what he smells, what he tastes on me.

There are no fireworks or sparks flying. There's only chaos and want. Pure, destructive want.

He's found a spot just underneath my belly button and he's there, sucking and kissing and nipping and biting, and I do nothing but moan and squirm.

He stops then and says, "sit up."

And I do.

He blows me (his mouth is sticky, and warm, and it does things I never knew was possible). And I blow him. Just to return the favor. He bucks his hips, thrusts into my mouth and I let him. I suck him and take him in. His hands are on my head, fingers running through my hair.

And soon enough I'm on my stomach, and he's pushing into me. And it hurts but by God it feels so good. He's found a good enough angle, good enough tempo for thrusting. And his nails are digging into the skin of my shoulders. And I'm bucking against the bed even if it hurts because I can't help it.

"I'm gonna-" the words slip through my mouth before I can stop them, and it's too late. I already have, and he seems to have, too. Because he collapses on top of me, exhausted.

We're drowning in this sea of sin. But we can't swim up anymore. We're too deep down. And we're too tired.

Three hours later we're lying on the bed, smelling of sex and exhaustion and temporary satisfaction.

"We aren't," he mumbles, "doing this anymore." And it sounds decisive. Final.

But then again,

Ryan is a hypocrite.

Well this didn't turn as planned. I'm sorry if I've scared you off or traumatized you. But... I guess it's not bad for a first try...