“I’ll cut this moment into your hide so you can’t escape my marauder memory,” the ghost so well-caught huffs between their collisions, impetuous and reckless in his seething pit of serpentine threats. Something broke in that feral boy when he felt his lover’s knuckles crack across his cheekbone and now he is a writhing howl of hatred, a trembling wreck in the shadowy shape of something that tastes like love. “I’m gonna break your ribs one by one till you can’t breathe, can’t even wheeze my name—you glorious piece of shit, fucking hit me again—”
His hips angle up unbidden. Kasse is lost to Eoran’s game.
Eoran is scored on Kasse’s bed of nails. He rears back with a gasp as he comes up for air.
His hand is held high in a culmination of flowing lines and fluid movement, a ballet of wrath willing to oblige in the brief period where their interests are overlapping. A sound breaks the airiness of their fervor. It is sharp and painful. Fast. Skin to skin, bone to bone across a face that is already birched. Eoran tears into that boy again, keeps him in a measure of backlash that burns across the tendons of his knout-hand.
“It’s cute that you think I don’t wear you like a plague,” the bloodwright says to this monster he holds hostage, his breath like iron, his lips smeared cherry. “You’re so precious when you think you have the power to take yourself away from me. I got that name fair and square, so fucking listen—” Eoran is back down the ghost, painting his saltneck with sweetspit. He shoves a hand between the split of his legs and into the waistband that holds onto Kasse’s hips. For all the vivacity of Eoran’s savagery, his fingertips move like honey when he finally gets to the point. His voice is a dire prophecy carefully delivered.
“I’m going to fuck you, and I’m going to moan your name all the way into the afterlife, and there’s not a fucking thing you can do about any of that.”
He is helpless, smashed to avulsion, sullied and tattered. Kasse drowns in his lover’s slack water tide, intercaustic victim rubbed raw against Eoran’s littoral bluff.
Stunned,
he is
stunning
“—oh fuck—Eo—”
How he whines his joy aloud in a veil of arrogant loathing, groans his consent through his listless struggle, his play at escape. He uses the language of stop to demand his lover proceed so viciously
please
that reeling specimen, a
parasite with his claws dug lethal & deep.
He pushes his waistband down, yields to his navigator’s boisterous claim, snatches clumsily at his vile boy’s belt and demands to be let in. The sting of tears glowers in the corner of his eyes, lips snarl tight around his menacing drawl.
“How dare you tell me what I can fucking do,” he snaps as he rips apart that belt, tears open that fly. “Watch, oh fucking watch me: I’ll tear your throat open and get drunk on your violation. I’m gonna get high on the disregard in your black blood, a-ah—“
He defies his yes fuck yes logic in contempt: he spits in his lover’s face, seething his disrespect, twisting like a mongoose in Eoran’s cobra hold.
“Promises, promises,” Eoran hums in acrid rebound. In a quick shift, his feet are on the ground and that boy is quickly regrouping. His fingers turn rough when he takes himself away from his lover and instead grabs at his thighs. He pulls Kasse not apart, but twists him to the side, points his knees at the ceiling, then wrenches them to his right.
“Shut the fuck up.” Eoran knows that the bindings of clothes are an inconvenience to the adjunct for only as long as he will allow them to be. He silently ponders this inhibition half-dressing his heart’s desire, trousers and underthings pushed and twisted up around those askew legs before he’s again spouting his eternal fire. “You’re not going to do fucking shit except beg for how badly you want me.”
His weight is utilized as a pressure to keep Kasse’s wiles at bay, his touch is purple passion, brown blight focused on making that cunning thing stay. They are nothing more than animals always so willing to leave bruises in the places they have been. With his other hand, Eoran slides his index finger through the globule of saliva trailing down his cheek. He hopes that boy has been generous in his impertinence
because that’s all the preparation he’s going to get
—damp digit, sleek stroke—
before Eoran
shoves himself inside.
The time is 2236hrs, but he bites this knowledge back. He is proud in his insolent grimace, blissful in his lover’s lasersight torment.
“—FUCK YOU fu—c-kk you fuck y-ou—a-a—”
Kasse’s agony is absolute
his body a riot screaming
both curse and praise into
the waning varnish, his
only comfort a bleak
woodgrain gleaming.
18B shakes. He is the constant growl of carbon monoxide purring through his engine room guts, winding, winded. His yowl’s consistency is only affected by his lover’s cruel lust: the shock of Eo’s repeated re-entries meritting a glissando shrilling of curses upon every self-serving impact. Kasse had not been generous in his revolt. He is and was a cottonmouth victim to the nerves of his reception.
His voice is a ragged fray. His rope is cut. He can no longer hold a knot.
The ghost falls apart and drifts to sea.
When he accepts his punishment, he
takes his navigator to the heart sheathed deep—
but Eo does not get to remain unscathed, no:
if Kasse is meant to drown today,
Eoran will drown here with him.
“—a-a-aah—hn fuck-k-k-k,” he brays, exhausted along the knife’s edge of his impending breakdown. He weakly grasps at his captor’s hands and sinks just beneath, offering him a mirrorside seat to the shredding in his fever.
Eoran teeters, unbalanced and unsure, in the space he’s allotted for a half of a breath. He is split between his lover and himself—he is here and now. His black eyes scan over the clock as he exhales, and yet he isn’t really looking. He doesn’t, even as a passing fancy, pause to consider the time.
He catches himself. He shifts along to the speed of his breathing, drifting slow, sinking into their poison sea like he’s in no hurry to let any of this life at Kasse’s side go. Inhales come groundstone humid and diamond dense; crystal hex code colored to hurt, hurt heady through the latitude of his carefully mapped thoughts. On the inside, Eoran is clean as air, crisp and cool, brisk and sharp, a cave pool obscured by sharp substrata and the impenetrable night. He arrived at their conjunction with the clarity of melting snowdrift, freshwater tides clashing with brine: dark and deep, blue and bold. Together, they are murky.
The navigator exhales again. He is meandering to the orchestrations of a very particular rhythm, he is always ever only humming the notes of their cryptographic melody. Self infliction is making him more tenacious.
He is a fragment
fractured
fra c ta l
fa u l t
fal t e ring
f u c king—
“Oh, Kasse,” Eoran coos. “A-ah,” he sings, like the praises of this boy are the one thing he is able to attest to with any certainty, even in their cruelest games.
“I love you, I love you, oh Gods, I love you,” Kasse mewls, coherent for an ardent blip of a zealot moment, mired in his peracute struggle to worship, catabolinfected, grifter scrawl to echo fit. He may be here but now? He is then, he is this: before and beyond, but current—incorrect but in extremis,
swooning wrong in his exacting,
his sapphire turmoil leaves a singed
ruin warbled off center, keeled.
he is defective
but he is
perfect
he is
right
this
is
r
i
g
h
t
fuck,
this is
so right.
“Mm, I—I wanna see the way you fucked me when I look myself in the eye tomorrow, Eo—” He leaves his lover’s halfway hallway and grasps at his chipped wooden admin edge. He is in a constant struggle to steady a heavy hand but he has no bearings, he cannot aid this brute force without a foundation in desperation, halfway bare yet halfway bound.
He lays his cheek on the desk along a gouge he put there himself. He can see the molecules rattle in the rejection of his cells, magnetic dysphoria and tandem lye,
catalyst call,
siren repose.
He unravels but this is not new. He knows Eoran loves nothing more than watching him come completely undone. He wraps his lover’s hand in his hair and begs,
please,
hold me steady,
hold me down.
“I want you to look at what you’ve done to me—f-fucking look at me—I want you to fall down helpless in my reverb,” he sighs like tidal volume, he cries in his guiltless grace, he demands on spit and splinter. He will not be denied. His eyes can’t hardly open, he is breathing in minutiae and still he is a sick challenge, still he is a beggar’s charm. He thinks this may be death but it’s okay, it’s okay: so long as Eo holds him steady, holds him down. “I—a-ah, I want you to look at my face and remember: remember how I fought you, remember how I succumbed, remember so vivid and so bright that no matter where we are, you can’t help but take your cock in your hand and beg, fucking beg my specter to let you cum—”
Eoran is disaster strewn on Kasse’s bone crushed shore, culled to pieces in his saline sailsong. He huffs curses into that tempest. There are skyward nails in his planking unmade, tetanus pinpricks all over his shudder-sighs. He lockjaw seethes through clenched teeth, body shaking in waves rollicking asunder, mouldering waste flecked in sweatglass.
He is pieces, fuck, he is falling to pieces—
“I’m always looking. Don’t you know? I always see you.”
His neck is long. His chin is up in terminal luxury. Eoran peers through ink so gunmous and is blinded by what he sees: jagged feldspar spectrum-struck in refractive wonder, cliff side thighs shadowed in treachery, ivory and oxygen, lapping atmosphere.
“I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful, there is nothing comparable in nature—ah—not all the stars in the sky, not the broken beam of a light passing through a springtime storm, split like a fan in every color—“ Eoran leans forward. He moves his hand away from Kasse’s hair and curls his fingers around the blade of his hips. He is stumbling forth in ritual, idolizing a smear of perfection. He seeks sainthood in all their tawdry sinning. His body makes a ballast and he can’t quite grip that boy by the ribs, but a kiss pins him like he can.
“Not fields of poppies, bleeding sleepily across un-tended lands, not catch basins stuffed with peonies, puffed petals and rainwater notes, cramoisy cavalcade on a blushing breeze. I would carry you in scars over my body, your quantum pattern etched into my flesh blooming in bruise-solved algebraics. Fuck Kasse, I would carry you in scars.” His breath is a scroll unfurling and unruly on his lover’s skin, dip pen trailing in strokes lovingly drawn by some harried hand.
Eoran’s revolt is weakening, his resistance is failing beneath the barrage and constant shelling, flooded frontlines, frail warfare. The bloodwright is a remnant monarch bowing before a battlefield strewn with the old blood of corpses. He fills his lungs with secondhand ruination. In its place he offers ecstasy.
How quickly they evaporate, the both of them.
Kasse needs Eo. How he fucking needs Eo. He struggles in his sand dune shifting to take his lover’s jawline in his hands, vandal-heart lips parting with those ivy vine fingers a-tangle in midnight hair. He needs to bind their gradient stares, black to grey to white. He is only breathing in theory, a tremor oscillating the crucible slip of his meandering confessional, his earthquake vows.
“I will cover you, Eo.
I will shield you however I can.
I will wrap your body in lights and
leave you striped so when it is dark,
when we are old and blind
when we have survived this war
and whatever else may come,
when we have lived our lives
and have stopped to rest with our
eyes closed to the sun at noonday,
you can read our story aloud to
me from your Braille skin
and I will be so,
so happy.”
he licks a hole in the palm of his lover’s hand. it is a promise, better than a ring, ardent and uniquely forming, an adjunct gift of permanent disarray to the bloodwright who’s learned to tame it. his somber eyes don’t stray between each compromised breath as he illuminates his manuscript with filigreed directives, dresses his lover in saliva, in honey, in a welcome home that always stands, repeats in on itself in limestone replay. he is black and gold, invitational, calligraphic and careful. he makes Eoran a permanent map through his turmoil to the cinder block threshold of his quantum step, pulls him past his battered and barred steel door and sculpts a key into the very silk he is spun from so he might always find his way through kasse’s barbed wire barricade,
find a forever in his access to the in between,
find his way inside of a forever Kasse
doesn’t entirely understand
but knows he wants—
oh, fuck how
he wants.
“I give,” he moans when he lays his head back on the desk, offers himself to the delights of Eoran’s pyre aflame. “F-fuck—I give you everything.”