“You said you’d make me come without touching me,” that dastardly boy teased into his lover’s ear, their pleasure in waves pressed quaking to the Bloodwright’s back, hands ever controlling their position. He pulled 18C’s head back playful by the hair, licked his neck like he could live off the salt of him, like he could live damp and reckless on his skin. “You didn’t say we had to finish that way.”
His immersion was a slow stroke shared, minimal—just a pulse, a gutteral taunt, flush till blushing, spiteful hip to vanquished rear.
“Gods—fuck, Ka—” Eoran was barely able to utter the words in his rapid-fire disassembly, an awkward collection of limbs splayed to the boy above’s liking. His arms played a catchall part betwixt his legs, legs protesting in angles working the edge between what looked natural and what did not. Despite the ache of his sudden incursion, that derelict with a head full of smarts not only made quite a good rag, but seemed thrilled to be flung around—whipped into shape, shaped into place, placed like perfection: plowed over and pulled asunder, coup d’etat captive, broken by the rebellion he was perfectly content to have fostered in his brief reign of terror, autocrat brat so easily overthrown.
“Fuck you,” Eo croaked with a sweetness barely escaping the snarl of his bared teeth, “I love you, but fuck you.” He quivered, resplendent, shifting his body the smallest degree to allow his arms some minor movement. He inhaled deeply, like his lungs were starved, but that wasn’t quite right. Disadvantaged wretch was enthused, trying to find the calm in the afterimage of their conjoining, the sub-sound serenity normally kept within his ribcage, made frenetic in his meager display of thrashing about.
“Fuck—” He said again, soft, pliable; an echo of himself, a breath unable to be caught.
“You can fight harder than that,” Kasse goaded with his willow switch tremor, his moaning night terror growls doubled by the chorus of his headspace reverb. Him and his scraping teeth, him and his maddening bite carved from curve of neck to flatline scapula—he always terminated in tomorrow’s bruising bloom.
A wire framed s-curve wound slow at the navigator’s compromised sacrum. How it must have betrayed him: that rebel geography, his debilitated diagram turncoat forsaking his autonomous bloodsport for the thrill of a second person hunting party.
He was
a stroke of
Asterion, flooded
him out, held him wicked,
held him merciless—that willing
captive & his monstrous interrogator
locked by wills
willed by sight
set dressed red:
cadmium, quinacridone,
perylene, all scarlet undine
letters and numbers mutilated
in that terrible mouth
that beautiful
fucking
mouth.
Eoran always begged when he made them do this slow
and Gods how Kasse wanted to hear his boy beg.
“You must be real scared of me,” Eoran hummed through his instigator mouth soothing as a mantra; insect pinned in wanton arrangement, silver at his spine and all the sources of his movement, holding all his fight at bay. “To keep me like this.”
Cornered wastrel, rat pressed at an angle,
he scanned the hillocks of his bedsheets,
desolation swathed in a stifling sage, for
an advantage that was not there. He was
approximately half-committed, bisected
by indecision, fight or flight both equally
impossible, no run and gun because he
was one and done—
but, in the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter.
Eoran suffered so well, stroke of genius brow conforming to the passion of his torment in the fixture of its furrow, lips curled to the exact degrees of his useless struggle. This was—
Thanatos impaling Eros
Eros impelling Thanatos
poppy torch & touch inverted
arrow to his lovedrunk eye.
“Aah—don’t worry. I’m not looking for a fight, I’m looking to get fucked.” The navigator’s dark sight glanced back, lined by white in the glare of his deliberate acrimony. “So hurry the fuck up before the whole fucking squad comes back and hears me shrieking how bad I want your dick. I’ve seen vultures clean whole carcasses faster.”
Even expropriated, Eoran was so obstinate in their dualism.
Kasse’s street spirit grin was coy despite his supremacy, his obscene reckoning successful in its rough-and-tumble coup d’etat.
He was nectared rainwater, a blood-stained wave all sanzu lapping at his navigator’s furthest shore.
He was a phantom of a sea long past swansong sighing, ebbing and flowing in the hollow space left in trembling restrictions, their last gasp dictions.
“You misunderstand,” Kasse said, cigarette smoke and spearmint on his breath like long nights, early days. Electric ghost, erratic wraith, that cataclysm with a boy’s razor lined shape was heavy with a turbulent longing that rocked with growing persistence in Eoran’s growling blindspots. “I want to fuck the fight out of you.”
He cast Eoran’s head away rough, careless—down to the sheets before his cruel hands once more lovingly took him fast by the nape.
Subdued boy whined like no other, swain supplicant
swine adored, stifled salvo snuffed before any shots
fired could even think to pierce his starless sky.
“I want to—hng—watch you.”
Eoran groaned in caspian suffering, salt and cyan
endorheic catch basin of their mounting consternation
nightswell strong, seabluff contentious
battered by his neritic lust adrift. He was
lost city suffocated in a burial of bedlinens and
funeralia flayed by his lover’s refractory fingers—
all that friction along his spinal column, all that
force between his legs.
He lay in a six-coin sprawl, orderly limbs an
effigy of perfection, silk-spun form a delicate
knot wringing esoteric concepts from the axes
of their intersection, composite number, pinnacle
placement, heart racing in his filthy debasement.
Even as he squirmed into the constraints of his hold, Eoran made demands like they were his birthright. Spoiled egoist knew the taste of no safewords—his mouth only ever curved to fit around the shape of what he wanted.
And, fuck, he really wanted.
“Kasse, let me watch you.”
The ghost was cruelest when he haunted his lover’s peripheral vision, denied him the satisfaction of having everything his sandstone heart could wish for.
“What exactly do you want to watch, Eo?”
Kasse’s gravel voice gave way underfoot, the weight of his every word a sharpened rasp of stone against stone, breath like the snapping of twigs. Him and his escopet mein, venary undaunted, carved a straight and narrow path through 18C’s lust rife landscape, cleaved him of his wants till they bloomed into needs.
“Mm, Eo, tell me: do you need to watch how I fuck you? Do you need to watch me come? Do you need to watch how I bite my lip when your body begs me not to go?” he murmured like some roughshod I love you when he struck through his navigator’s core, tried his best to shatter the quartz that kept his lover ticking every time he bottomed out with that slow motion trainwreck abandon. “I love how you hold onto me like I won’t fuck right back into you, Gods I love how you fucking hold on.”
“YES,” Eoran wailed, stentorian and precipitous, sound smothered before the branching pathways of all its possible follow throughs, his mores & obviouslys & nows & hurrys left as a static drone woven betwixt the cords in his needy throat, noise for the sake of needs just out of reach. He gripped those sheets in white knuckled transfixion, emphatic aphrodisiac ever eroded by the tidal beckoning of his lover’s force majeure follow through; his torturous
dr i p
d r i p
d r i p . . .
“I don’t want to miss a moment, I don’t want to miss a word. I want to read your expression and let it tell me all the things your lips won’t say—f u c k—the things your mind won’t think.” The bloodwright’s voice shook like object permanence was something that hadn’t quite set in after all this time. “I want to see you made soft, surrendering, afflicted with euphoria and know that I fucking did this to you, know that when I spread my knees, it makes you crumble to yours. I need this, Kasse, I need it so fucking bad—”
Gods, how was Kasse so powerless to that quake?
Without a word and barely a sound, that electromagnetic spectre tore his lover from the sheets by his hair alone, other arm eventually wrapping around his waist as he pulled them both back to seated. He was careful to maintain their nesting flush till he’d unfurled his lover’s spine link by link up his chest and off again, unnatural arch defensive as he held that beautiful head back against his shoulder.
“Watch,” he threatened through his smiling teeth. When he let Eo’s head go, he shifted them roughly around till they mostly faced a mirror fastened permanently to the back of the locked bathroom door. “Watch how my hand wraps around your throat.” Kasse’s slow hand roamed possessive over his best friend’s chest, traipsed across him like he owned that firestarter boy so desperate to see, like he was intent on being the only pyre Eo would ever light. He climbed him, sternal ridges his fingerboard, clavicle his upper bout, till he reached that beautiful fucking throat. He strummed across his strings, caught in the rapture of his sound, then wrapped his maestro fingers about his lover’s Stradivari neck. With his grip latched, his other arm came around, fingers lost between the Bloodwright’s ribs.
he had him now
oh fuck, he had him now.
With each movement, Kasse yanked Eo down to meet his incursion, fraught and brutal in the sprawl of his intention.
“Watch how you cave, how hard you get when I jerk you around, fuck—how beautiful you look when you beg—oh Gods, how fucking hard I get when you beg.”
“HAh—fuck—”
Oh, how Eo unwound, lily-limbed and draped in his depravity, petal posture so pliant beneath the ghost’s corrosive touch.
He played that boy a beautiful song, manhandled instrument made to ring, guttural moan tuned to scales transcendent as he was plucked and prodded, horsehair digits to catgut neck; rosin dust and wood grain grasp. He was a chant into his lover’s ear, sonata not yet moonlit, seared by the day’s final drops of scarlet, bled dry and blue, intensity waning into the realm of midnight hues. Chest heaving into Kasse’s hands, ribspace constricted by the machinations of his serrated breath, Eoran dipped his head back onto that transient boy’s shoulder, unconcerned with offsets.
For all his begging about wanting to see, what he actually saw was from a skewed perspective. Eo only had eyes for Kasse, and those eyes couldn’t drag themselves away—not to watch himself, not even to watch the pair of them through a mirror world, an imprint, an echo. No, he wanted him pure and near; glanced aside in hyper-vigilant observation, enrapt in all Kasse’s minor details, tracing his every shift and shadow, his heart of darkness psyche like an errant vein of anthracite betrayed in each narrowing of his mercury eyes.
“I love it when you use me like a tool to get you off, like it’s the one thing I’m good at—” Legs split across the adjunct’s lap, Eoran lifted an arm and combed his fingers through Kasse’s hair. He spoke into those hands wrapped up in his voice, defiant implement, devious device. “Like my body was made for you. Wear me. Fuck Kasse, wear me out—”
“—like all I’m good for is bringing you off,” the ghost finished so sweet along Eoran’s harlot jaw, drug his words like bait down that pathfinder pillar of a neck. He didn’t stumble, didn’t stutter, didn’t stop; he owned his role in their tete-a-tete-a-tete. Playful in his interstitial threats on Eoran’s life where a nervous skirmish would normally rise to eclipse his lust entirely, blot out Kasse’s optimist sky with candy bar wrappers and empty vaccine ampoules, crumpled singles, survivor’s shame.
How far he’d come to think himself so worthy of this boy always begging for affection, always focused on his singular attention, always so eager to sing his billet doux tune.
Kasse had no qualms with their reflection—he could watch this collision for days. His stare was unraveling, shaken loose every time he heard Eo’s involuntary breath convulse a word into its syllabic parts, centrifugal wayfarer, center of Kasse’s entire fucking world, breaking down into stuttering consonants, howling vowels. He spread him thin, held him tighter,
frayed every cord that kept that parcel boy tied shut.
“Come for me like all I’m good for is this,” Kasse growled in refrain, doubling down on his zealot position, wringing 18C out and drinking up his vespine struggle like drugs.
I could watch you writhe for days,
I love how you cry down the moon when
you beg for release, I can’t get enough, never enough—
Eo, fucking promise me, promise me, oh gods, promise I’ll
never have to give up the way you come for me.
Easier then, softened by Eoran’s every shudder in extremis of his waking violence, drunk in the echo of his terminal force. “Yea—f—fu-c-k yes, that’s what I want. A-ah Eo—”
you say all of this like
you’re not going to
come with me
hellfire sharp in the absence of sound, his toothless words dripped in deistic resonance amid their compound thoughtscapes. this was a call to action, a holy vision to that heathen deemed most worthy, schizophrenic and mad, power played between them until that paltry suggestion reformed itself into religious doctrine.
eoran was ship wrecked shore strewn
coriolis laid atop his lover’s clockwise bones
inhaling all their hourglass sands as though
END was a concept not yet invented. and yet
he remained a finite thing, a moment of time
that wallowed in something like stasis,
in this,
in kasse,
in debris field glee all over the contours
of that boy’s backboard frame. he rampaged
in his bedrock, every fiber fondled by his
thermohaline touch like a flame he wielded
in flagrant disregard, anarchist wretch alive in
the resilience of his boundless energy looking
to wrap himself in the force of a riot,
gasping for sea air from all that silica and
crawling climax strong across kasse’s every
embankment; a trade wind vagrant charting
volta do mar trajectories through his blood
currents like he owned every bit of that land
and
sea
he
retaliated, at last. his hairgrip hand yanked that boy’s head into a vulnerable angle as eo shifted his weight, chin angled aside, lips seeking the sloping skin between the ghost’s jaw and neck. the bloodwright etched his name into the fragile terrain, a fostered bud of browns and blues, violet violence sloppily wrought in the pen stroke of his elementary tongue and teeth, letters all ablur in the shape of a bloom to be, carnation crisp, carnassial backed, carnivore incarnate.
he left a trail of spit in his wake
he clasped a trail of incandescence in his hand
he came somewhere between felicity and fervor
he came like that body was his welcome home
eoran always came like he was never leaving
door locked behind him
barred
boarded
broken
breathing
he was just barely
breathing
barely
just
he was
cloying claw
somber wraith
vespertine creature
made docile by nightfall.
kasse always came with his fear of losing,
came like he’d never be able to survive the night alone—
he came like he was made to occupy, crafted and scored into the form that took Eo best, shudder shocked and melted to his cartograph spine, desperate to prolong the fleeting moment, the fleeing light.
The more vile the boy, the sweeter his apology:
he haunted his lover’s plain, staked out his shoreline in kisses, burned through all the fences he’d torn down with his listless slack. He pulled Eoran around just enough to meet him mouth to mouth,
always craving
mouth to mouth
breath to moore
morning virga
starless dew
“I…” Kasse hummed into his lover’s mouth, incapable of completing his clear and present thought.
Eoran’s sigh was slow across his lover’s lips, underscored with contentment brought about by their coupling and the precarious arrangement of their temporary scenery around them, the luxury of their solitude. He watched Kasse through lidded eyes, greedily hoarded all that boy’s fineline details and meticulously organized them into memories he would daydream upon later—in moments when they couldn’t be so open with one another, in rolling trucks and in high noon line ups, in never ending days bookended by long looks down gunmetal shafts ending in the pinpoint apertures of steel sights.
The navigator rested laggard against his weapons sergeant, unwilling to let him go just yet.
“You make me so happy,” Eoran said, perhaps also unwilling to pressure the other boy to complete his sentences. “Sorry, I probably made us miss dinner.”
“I’m not hungry,” Kasse lied. Of course that horrible boy was hungry: he was awake. The sentiment his lie conveyed was more a matter of singular priorities, his wants over needs—how, yes, he wanted dinner, but he wanted these quiet moments at Eoran’s side far, far more.
Languid in his long form stretch, his truant form idle, he understood he belonged at rest alongside this other boy’s pulse, that the engineer’s halcyon was the only reprieve from his game fox heartbeat ever on its bloodhound run.
“We can find something later,” he insisted, burrowing like he could live his life in 18C’s jugular. “I want to stay here.”
The shorter boy resituated, shifting angles, languid form. He arranged himself in Kasse’s arms. His hands were at the boy’s waist, loosely clinging to the rare delight of their bare skin sprawl.
“Do you think Locke or Dev would tell if we slept in the same bed?”
“Even if they’d keep it quiet, we still have to clean up,” Kasse confided lazily, eyes already shut. “We’re fucking disgusting.” Peeking up at Eo, the grey-eyed boy smirked, all tease. “We could shower. Together. Unless the filth helps you sleep.”
“We’re always fucking disgusting. You can fight and flail and rebel against the truth, but it’s only ever going to be what it is, Kasse.” Wizened boy passed on his sage knowledge with a humorless tilt of his head. This motion was soon undermined by a creeping smile. “Yeah, I’ll shower with you. I’m gonna fuck your efficiency up, though. Make sure you really savor it this time.”
“We can talk to Locke and Dev when they get back,” Kasse replied, providing some chiding voice of reason to Eoran’s impulse to simply say fuck it—the opposite of their typical roles. With his stop motion limbs slow to unfurl, the ghost began the arduous process of disentangling himself from his navigator’s compass rose grasp, the ivy crawling of his night blooming jasmine touch.
Eoran let the ghost off relatively easy, cooperative even in his reluctant extraction. Pushing up off the meager bed, his darksight slid to the small apartment’s door to briefly contemplate the lock before he turned his focus elsewhere.
“Hey, Kasse,” the bloodwright hummed, gathering up his discarded clothes, “Do you think it’s weird that we keep running into Riki when we’re out on missions?”
“Maybe she’s got a crush on you,” the adjunct teased. Honestly, he hadn’t thought much on the topic: with how quick the girl was, it only made sense that she’d be utilized in the resistance against Amstead’s brute force takeover. He followed Eoran too closely, arms inescapably wrapped about the Bloodwright’s shoulders as he sing-songed his jeers. “Just coming ’round, tryna get another look at that pretty boy that got away~”
“Pft, shut up.” Eoran flapped a hand back at the boy in an ineffectual swat. “I’m being serious. I hope she’s not planning to long-game fuck us up. It was just me and Brint out there, she could have easily taken us out…” The trail of his thought was as ponderous as his steps. Eo drug them both into the bathroom, tossed his clothes aside and turned to look at his friend. “Besides, I don’t know how she’d think she had any speck of a chance with me after you looked at her nana like you were going to rip her molecules apart.”
“Mm, I was gonna murder that old lady for you, yeah. She’ll merc me to get a shot at you someday,” he replied, still lingering outside the realm of legitimate motivations, actual risk analysis. Eoran was magnetic, Kasse electric: whatever Eoran did, wherever he chose to go, Kasse would always follow, lost until he could rest his chin once more on his navigator’s shoulder. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take—my boyfriend’s in high demand, I get it. He should be: he’s fucking beautiful.”
Eoran rolled his eyes. “Ugh, Gods. Stop this. You’re making me sick. My innards are withering.”
Still, he took that boy with him, beyond the glass panes of the old shower, into that humid haven tiled with squares of sage and hard water stains. The sudden rush of the running showerhead muffled his words, but volume was of little consequence—Eoran was close enough to give the syllables directly to Kasse’s mouth. A flat palm on the wall next to his head pinned the boy between skin and porcelain.
“We decided that we’re fucking disgusting,” he reaffirmed, “I don’t want to be anything but fucking disgusting with you.”