In the throes of conflict, Kasse was notorious. He was known to lose track of his strength with an eye trained only on objectives, to raze all things when he had his sight dead set on his wounded chase. Knee like a barricade between Eoran’s twisting legs, the ghost was a conqueror: he had one hand on his beating heart’s throat, slamming him flush to the ground; he had the other tearing past all obstacles on a path that promised to destroy all opposition, slipping past a waistband rendered slack for his convenience.
His hands were cold against Eoran’s blushing heat, wrapped tight to coax his riot to calm.
“Shh, shh—” he hushed his lover once again, stringent and unforgiving, more cruel, more cunning than before. He had a fox’s mouth now, full of teeth and travesties and an intention to maim. “—I got you, Eo, I got you.”
“Aah—” Eoran breathed aloud, pathetic bauble wrung into a second’s worth of tattered stillness, soaking up the exhaustion in his trapped display like a rodent plaything made ragged by the furious motions of his own breathing. He was teasing dead in his delectable spread, tempting defeat in his momentary refrain. Eoran swallowed hard, muscles of his throat contracting beneath the grip that held them, adams apple stroking the hollow of his lover’s palm. He saw stars when he blinked up at Kasse. This was a normal occurrence—Eoran always dizzily tottered along the extremities of
their marbled theory and meteoric practice
their vivisected fantasy and seamless reality
their phantasmagoric love and lubricious hate
like a simpleton that didn’t know when to stop. He was begging now, in the stythe suffocation held within his eyes and through the cadence of his desultory sighs. With his back arched, the boy wrapped his fingers around Kasse’s forearm.
Eoran was begging
but not for mercy.
“You were looking for this.” Kasse was always so beautiful when he was accusatory, eyes cast down with his chin canted up like he was better than all the things his hand did under cover of uncouth zipper teeth, better than his knees digging into the ground to keep his specimen splayed in place. This was a preview of his reward for good behavior, like he was the pinnacle of Eoran’s every want, like he knew this to be true, oh—
if only Eoran would lay down his struggle and
relinquish himself to his breathless woe,
then Kasse would deem him worthy of
his continued consumption,
the awful affection he
sought to inflict.
Kasse eased up, just long enough for a single gasping swallow before he pressed once more against his lover’s throat, secured Eoran’s airway for his own selfish satisfaction, to observe that handsome thing so distressed, under such duress that he couldn’t help the manner in which he came to full attention.
The ghost bit his lip and swallowed his smile.
“Is this how you need me, E-O-Ra-N?”
Face full of sweet agony and sinister suffering, Eoran launched a hand up and popped Kasse in the mouth. It was a brisk and fleeting rebuke from his powerless position, little more than a tap, a tease and torment, from that fiend courting his own tragedy.
“Say it right or don’t say it at all,” he wasted all that precious air to say, match-body negligently fumbling against his blackpowder boyfriend. “Fuck you, say it right.”
Kasse bled in a single streak,
happy droplets splattered on his
lover’s tilted chin, his disobedient
cant all dares and immediate gratification,
fuck the consequences.
It was always easy with his lip pre-split, with
his boy so cornered, so prepared, so
prepped and at the ready, with
his knees so far apart it was
like he’d been paid.
“E-O-Ra-N,” he repeated, soft as a willow’s nightwind taunt, grip growing firmer along both avenues of his bisected attention: digging fingers on his throat, last gasp about his root.
That beartrap boy and his toothclaw grip
stared upward through the fires of his meaning
mispronounced, saw—in tantalizing disarray—
the twisting of his lover’s lips gnawing
cacophony from his erudite simplicity,
his ancient-tongued poetry, and lashed out
again, striking upward, seeking the source
of all that black heart contamination that
spilled forth all those heretical falsehoods.
Eoran snatched at Kasse’s jaw and squeezed,
his nails met the boy at his teeth, seeking
to pry apart that scrimshaw etched with impious
curses and rip out the problem at its onset.
He was a syndetic wayfarer on a mission to
restore the harmony he so craved.
He was a blissful nomad subject to the siren
stroke of that svengali looming over him.
He was wasteful and abominable, marmoreal
motion in the slipsway of his ardor.
How could Kasse deny this man? Eoran, C4 charged and clawing into his jawline for a taste of teeth. Eoran with his mouth ajar, gasping through his every growl,
hateful on the downstroke, infatuated on the up.
How could Kasse deny this man?
he was alternating, derisive position a result of necessity. he caught his
lover’s hands, pinioned his flail with his slip between bones, bound
him radius to radius, shifting tide ready to collapse a lung for all
those elbow & knee pressures not heeding a sternal need to
rise—stop
rise——stop
rise————fall
what a useless thing,
that gill creaking
mouth, singing
silent for him,
intercostal
interossial
diaphragm
trussed in
play fight
mistrust.
“Safeword,” Kasse demanded as he tore his lover’s pants from his struggling hips, leaving him cold on a slab like an autopsy he couldn’t decline.
“Brint,” he said on a last rites breath, a gasp he knew would be his last if he had to utter that man’s name again while they were tangled up like this, while Eoran was flensed to the shimmer of his fragile skin and splayed before the merciless abundance of set pieces evincing nothing but murder. He looked so beautiful in that impressionistic necklace left by Kasse’s fingerprints; the navigator was stunning in the oblong shadow of garnets, orchid form captivating in all his aslant angles, blossoms toiled over for meaning and arranged not to life—but to death.
A glimmer of deceit held tight to Eoran’s upward glare. It shone like a negative impression of a star that used to traverse the endless pit of his black sapphire sight, crystal covered, diamond draped in an everlasting velvet night. Even beneath his tested counterfort structure of his ribs, Eoran was looking to get a rise out of that bloodmouth boy.
“Oh, come on—you’re never gonna say that—” Kasse protested, releasing his lover’s throat. He replaced his branding hands with a heatstroke mouth, gentle now along the jawline. “Don’t make me do this polite, don’t make me fuck you like I can’t afford what you’re like in pieces.”
He delivered his words as he drug himself down Eoran’s chest, button by button, leaving a line of syllables disarming down his partner’s axis. “I can’t show you how much I love you if you’re faberge, let me take you, let me take you apart, fuck, Eo—pick a word I know you’ll say.”
“I didn’t expect you to pay my price. I expected you to steal me away… but fine. Have it your way.” Eoran tilted his chin back, mouth slack to catch his breath. His dark eyes wandered to and fro around the room. “Mm… mercury. I guess.”
Kasse pushed himself up, still astride one of Eoran’s legs. He seemed pleased by that sliver of obedience, the faint glimmer of give he’d wrenched from those wormwood lips always honeysuckle parted. Askance, the query ever moonlighting on his insolent brow couldn’t help reflecting, mapping the line of his long thigh to his hip, fingers following the directives he laid once, then again, under—
and again: under
till he flayed
till he cut
felt him
layer by
layer
till his thumb was taut, tight against the surface of a femur unseen, every digit stroking a linea aspera rhythm on the underside of the bone.
“Undo my belt,” he said, blank save the bite of or else hanging unstated from his coyote jaw—or was it I love you?
So often it sounded the same.
Eoran slid a hand up the inner slipway of his lover’s thigh, his field of fabric traced with ever roaming fingers following a long seam to the metal mouth of his trousers’ fly. There, he dawdled in a contemplative stroke, eyes plain as they watched Kasse, his mind a dither rocking like scales stuck in a silent toil to find some balance between his two-pronged options—
neutral, hot
ungrounded, ungodly.
What a charming thing, a meek and attentive fabulist pulling lies through the splicework of his spindle sharp digits still hungry for the taste of teeth; smile slathered in good behavior like it was an overcoat long forgotten about. He came to some conclusion at Kasse’s waist, wrapped himself all up in the workings of thick-weave nylon and metal to pull apart pieces even in his penetrated prostration. Eoran’s body was gifted in the sense that it would never reject a transplant.
That was how the bloodwright worked:
generous, gratuitous,
a welcome mat always waiting to be trampled in his lover’s ingress,
shadow struck and haunted by his favorite second skin.
In one smooth movement, Kasse snatched his boy by the clavicle and pulled him up, moved from sitting to kneeling for his lover’s convenience. He loved watching Eoran’s blithe greedy perusal, 18C so quick to cooperate with any invitation to reverse engineer his weapon’s every mechanism.
His hard sight was acid rain soothing, his fingers hooked into the ribs hiding behind a collarbone loop; Kasse was obscure, obdurate, coefficient,
so deficient.
“You’re going to blow me,” the older boy said with a rakish confidence Eoran had put there himself, infused with a midnight candor that almost dared the bloodwright to refuse his demand. “And then I’m going to hold you by your spine and fuck you till we get dishonorably discharged.”
“Fuck—” Eoran winced in the throes of a bedraggled regrouping of his limbs, caught abruptly in the strange momentum of being manipulated by his bones. His ligature parts were a shuffle and awkward sway before he was able to steady himself in the resonant rustling of his body-bag skin stuffed full of alabaster kindling. He recovered with a modicum of grace, knees, this time, scuffed and scraped.
Spine straightening in an unsaid anticipation,
Eoran’s lips parted in lewd offering,
tongue extended just enough to
serve as a welcome mat to
that riot at his doorstep.
He looked up to Kasse through black eyes keen with the knowledge that he’d be choking one way or the other, posture poised—automaton boy waiting to start his back alley nickelodeon show, so ready to stifle that lord’s name through and along his fucking veins.
Gods, that deviant was always poised to please. Eoran drew in a breath, long and deep, lifting his chest cavity up into the tangle of digits ensnaring him, playing directly into his lover’s hands.
Kasse adjusted, unbound himself—tugged his waistband down till the silhouette of his inguinal crease stood in sharp contrast to the shadows where they were destined to rut. He was sandstone coloured, slate cold, marble dense when he directed Eoran’s consumption with a careless hand, cruel fingers that rang his ribs like a prayer bell,
tread his filth all over his lover’s veranda, forced down his door,
swept straight through his foyer and down his open throat.
He hoped Eo’s preparatory breath was sufficient because he held himself there, free hand knotted in that wild skewing of hematite hair. He lingered in the disruption of every twitch in pharynx now obstructed in his long-pause irrumation, ruminant thing watchful of every beautifully suffered word left aurally unuttered.
“Oh Gods,” he sighed when he rolled his head along a vertebral pop. He gazed down, fondness never fleeting even in his roughshod cascade. “I love every part of you, but fuck I missed your mouth.”
how lucky was he, quarry-cut perfection & carbonate veined,
sculpture body pulling the setbone strings of his control
to find that gag reflex in a throat so normally bereft—
to conjure all the sounds of eoran’s hollowcheek struggle,
his voice an illicit rattle upon his tongue now ravaged
all the popping and crackling of a static spit soundscape
punctured in the back of his mouth.
it was divine misery, beautiful torment, to suffer for
the sake of his lover’s delight, to please that boy as
though this was a paradise of their own making. eoran
brought his hands to the loose trousers hanging ’round
Kasse’s thighs and took hold, steadied himself against
his own fists and squirmed into the hands that held him
like that protest was meant to signal anything other
than the rotten need in his degenerate encouragement.
eo was high & low in an instantaneous interval of a time
that was unworthy to keep them. he shifted, moved one hand
up, light on a hip protrusion and sluggishly trailing down,
fromward,
fervent,
femoral.
What he knew was irrelevant
what he wanted, irreversible.
he was a pulse, venerate ventei blockade pulseless in eoran’s waking struggle, his concrete knees, his centrifuge heart. he withdrew for the sake of re-entry, but wasn’t that always the case? without parting, the joy of reunion was unfathomable, losing was a state without meaning, without was a figment, no—
kasse craved a little loss so he could wrap himself in being found. the seeking did it for him, being sought, the relief on his lover’s face when he finally came back into view, finally reclaimed his existence in that little sphere of fretful impermanence.
maybe that was why kasse had fallen so desperately in love with Eoran: that boy was always looking for him even if he was but a moment gone.