“I want you to undress me,” Kasse requested. He always looked so haughty when he cast his gaze down, when he held his chin high, effete creature all insolence. The capricious angle of his brow, arrogant despite his diffidence, only ever spoke in dares despite the sheer harmonics of his entreaty. “…Please.”
It sent Eoran’s heart racing, cheeks ruddy with a sudden warmth unspoken in the cool hues of the moon’s borrowed light. His digits were suited for no better work than this: to pull fabric from the framework that filled it, to conduct himself with obeisant indecency in the indiscriminate shadow of his friend’s high brow.
Eo drew nearer, hands already greedily filling themselves with the rough-woven uniform covering Kasse’s chest.
“Alright. You’re sure of this,” he asked, downstroke tone less of a question than it was a plea for confirmation. “Is it okay if I touch you or do you just want to get naked?”
Kasse laughed, an abrupt breathy figment of the dire exerate pristine across his brow, half anticipation, half affirmation,
all agony.
“I want you to touch me,” he confirmed, happy prey to Eoran’s locust consumption. “I want… I want to be all you think about, all you dream. I want to be the only thing you taste when you look at the sky. I want to see you so disarranged you don’t know if you’re coming or going until I tell you you’re fucking coming.” As he spoke, the words curled through him and took possession of his wayward tongue, wanton and lush and bare. His fil de voce lilts grew confident, demanding over the course of his pretty heresies sung to this boy so willing to receive his every libertine confession. “I want the way you want me. I want to fall apart in your arms. I want to rearrange around you, I want every configuration you’d have me in, I want to forget how to fucking breathe. I want you to hold me and teach me how my lungs work—I want to hear you tell me: Inhale. Exhale. Eo, I want to be in shambles.”
“Okay,” Eoran murmured, velvet voice sweetened by his gaze, lidded in appraisal of the task before him, double-crossed by his longing on the eve of its meticulous unwinding. “Be still for me—I’ll tell you when I need you to move.”
He started at Kasse’s neck—released the boy’s overshirt from his stranglehold grip and smoothed it out in an unnecessary mockery of politeness before the ghost’s bladeless flensing—took that flesh in a sweep of heavy hands guided by the taut lines of his friend’s jugular. Eoran averted his eyes as if, suddenly, that boy’s pretty fucking face didn’t matter anymore, as if he was confident the night would allow him to see it suffer through being taken apart in abundance, as if it was a kindness to be let free from the prison his consumptive stare built. His nimble digits worked the velcro of his neckband in a gesture made crude by the fricative rasp of its separation, then descended, unblind, past the square of his rank to the edge of his waist where the jacket’s hem leisurely hung. Glimmer of a zipper exposed to the moon’s long, scopophilic stare, Eoran drew it down in languid unmaking, split to the air and pulled apart by his own shameless glare. He eased off the left shoulder, then the right; pushed the overcoat down Kasse’s arms and let it fall in a heap on the dusty floor of that uninhabited roofspace.
Eo’s studious fingers pinched the boy’s undershirt and drug it out of the uppermost border of his slacks. He circled him in that gesture, pausing to stand behind his friend before he pulled him close against the shape of his own body. This was not so much to evaluate the way they fit together or to eke out some greater understanding about where Kasse’s street-honed angles fit against the domesticated bends of his partner-in-crime. It was to outright assail him. Eoran looped his arms around Kasse’s waist, palms dipping beneath the meager cover of sage-colored cotton. He drifted along the planes of the captured ghost’s abdomen in a tender glissade, fanning touch unhesitant between the suggestive curve of obliques and the serrated tooth of scrap-sustained ribs.
His mouth conducted worship along the slope of Kasse’s neck, nose brushed against his nape, lips devout in their vigilant threnody played along the ridges of his spine before he sank into the obscurity of the shadows shared between them. Here, Eoran pulled Kasse’s shirt half up his chest.
“Lift your arms,” he said into skin, a command dressed in the avid timbre of his sermon.
Perhaps that Toriet boy hadn’t been left out of his bloodline’s homiletic patrimony after all: Kasse fell helplessly rapt, bound by the faith Eoran preached into his skin from the comfort of his delectate pulpit.
He complied in silence save the hitching of his breath. Whenever the navigator touched down along the technical diagrams ley lined over his body, all isograph ragged, all schematic synopsis where the soft contour of topographical detail ought to be, Kasse felt himself break—he was caught between the drawling calm of Eoran’s slow possession and the restive apprehension of what would come,
how he would be the ashes
in his best friend’s
crematory
mouth.
Freed from his shirt, he dared not interrupt Eo’s hallowed work, his dedication to the task before him, but the boy couldn’t help the way he arched into his lovelorn distress. He was so elegant in his ransacking, despoiled and bereaved, reaching back to run his unsteady fingers through Eoran’s dark hair, silently begging his worship. Cynorexic, addicted to the exustion, Kasse could only exalt the whisper thin benedictions overriding his every function, his navigator’s scelerat deluge hot down the charting of his godless spine.
Had he no other work to do, Eoran would hold Kasse against the smelted doors of his long burning vault until they were nothing more than a ragged commixture of their former glories—Eo the wretch of an architect whose relentless hands rendered them mottled and malformed by the will of his burning bend; Kasse his precious study, viscid and metallic and painted all the daedal shades of iron and aluminum and earth and star-mess. But the boy was born of distraction, held thoughts more dastardly than his innocent face would ever betray. Before he’d ever been given permission to pull his friend’s parts to piecemeal, Eoran often wondered if he was sick, broken by the longing that sent his fingers to shivers even in their most mundane moments. He wondered, and yet he already knew: he was. Ill, depraved, dying for affection, dying to incite the lewdest violence from that predator wearing the skin of a tatterdemalion.
Eoran returned to stand before his friend; looked him up and down in a vicious, acute evaluation that was too serious for the way he so often behaved, so gregarious, so light hearted. Unwavering, he sank to his knees.
The bloodwright ran through the process of removing Kasse’s boots. Pedestrian and rough, he ripped paracord laces from their eye sockets, friction warming the skin of his index and middle fingers hooked through that graveyard of crosses running up and down the ghost’s ankles. He made no request in all that taking—Kasse was expected to simply understand what the barely younger boy wanted and respond accordingly. The boots were thrown aside.
Rising again, Eoran was close, but not from a point where he could no longer observe. The intensity of his scrutiny was a direct contrast to the swooning slide of his touch; his left hand fell into a rhythm along the zipper of Kasse’s pants, the right worked the prong of his belt’s buckle with an agonizing drawl.
“Are you ready?” Eoran asked, smarts of his sedulous glare deliquesced by the humectation of his concupiscence. It was obscene—as he felt up that boy before him, Eo’s darkmatter eyes never once dared take in any other sight but Kasse.
Kasse thought he was, thought he knew. He thought he was ready, thought he understood what he asked for when he’d repeated the word shambles in garnet mouthed exigence. For days he’d carried himself like he’d ever been an actual fucking mess before, like he knew what it meant to be glass-eyed and brackish and fucking devastated in the wake of all the destruction staring down his shore. There Eo was, a storm surge running xylophone tricks up and down his fly in some cyrenaic domination that started with games, behaved like a lesson, and ended with the ghost’s spit pooled on the floor. Eoran would rack his bones for the pleasure he might find in the sound, drink his nerve slicked come like marrow broth, and kiss him hard before he swallowed.
Kasse had never known anything like Eoran. He’d be vain to think he was prepared for his best friend’s absolute depravity, pornography like a martyr’s virtue in his soon-to-be lover’s infinite dark, eyes an illicit void at the edge of his best friend’s esurient pyre—naive to think he’d ever be ready to leap into his flame without a push.
Desipient for never seeing the way Eoran always looked for him.
“Yes,” Kasse whispered, overindulgent before he pressed his lips together. He barely sounded like the person he called himself, already inhuman, already raw and growling and they hadn’t even started. Fuck how could Eoran look at him like this? How could Eo do this to him? How was Kasse supposed to survive? The navigator stared at him like he knew so much, wanted so much, had so much planned, willing and able to make absolutely fucking sure no one else would ever, ever compare—to make sure Kasse only ever choked on one name every time he died.
“Please…” He swayed, unsteady thing seeking the other boy’s lips on his blood stutter, desolate pulse so utterly and devastatingly infected. “Make me yours.”
Eoran smiled, his expression so keen, picking apart a
buckle, a
button, a—
breach
past boundaries he thought about dismantling from so many angles, in visions with a rampant fever ignored and incurable,
in dreams marred by damplust surfacing when that boy woke all drowsy, still spinning from scenarios spilled from the deepest, most filthy recesses of his subconscious mess.
Eoran’s mouth met his skin again in a lurid lean, lips to
l i p s j a w n e c k c l a v i c l e c h e s t s t o m a c h—
knees again to rooftop, split like the slut he tried so hard to pretend he wasn’t, save this very particular moment, the degenerate freedom that had him tugging at hipcloth and elastic waistband to get at the prize he ardently sought to claim. Here, where it was only them against the glittering velvet of the universe.
Teeth apart, Eoran met his friend turned lover in a savored breath. He drew his nose along the curve of Kasse’s exposed hip and let all those lines lead him to the ghost’s frail center. He lingered lovingly in the long eduction of his attentive hand before dashing the restraint of his display on the cliff of the indecent lapping that followed.
Extended tongue a shameless platter for his lover’s moonlit offering, Eoran glanced up, eclipsed pupils stark in the white of his stare when he
took that boy to his throat.
Kasse could’ve fallen apart right there, forcing himself to watch despite his body’s instinct to double over, to crumble around his lover’s cruelly victorious honeysuckle swallow. His plaintive hands begged the surety of Eoran’s possessive touch, open palms equal parts prayer position and invading force, accidental anatomist just below the surface of Eoran’s skin. He stroked nervous back and forth along the length of every extensor tendon flexed taut against his metacarpals.
“—oh—” he groveled in his captive observation, an endorphin induced third party to his very own taking. He’d drown himself if it meant keeping his eyes open underwater, anesthetized by Eo’s protean consumption. Kasse shuddered because he couldn’t breathe, head tilting back for a moment before he snapped his attention back to his friend. “—Eo, f-fuck Eo, you’re—”
so fucking beautiful
every time I feel your
eyes on me
my world
fucking
spins.
Deviant boy settled into his genuflection with ease, heatmouth slip of his focus tracing his friend’s topography, font slick with an emollient born of his most carnal inclinations. Eoran put on a good show, but he was not impervious to his own weaknesses. He was tumbling, headlong, into indoctrination, a feeling he would consistently choke and smother and douse in the bloodbeat tides of his lover’s aetheric whirlpool; how he’d map his veins again and again until he knew the metronomic stammer of the pulse that lurked within like it was his very own. | I will take you unsteady and unsure, deplete your reality with my misdirection, rebuild your cardinal degrees from my most unvirtuous vectors, so you only know your way to me. I will drag your body through air-thinned altitudes asphyxiate you with my adoration then watch you fall and follow close behind to smash my bones against your wreckage gods, Kasse, listen to me, how can you even stand to be around me? I want you to take all your nervous energy and put it into me, I want you to fuck me until you’re calm and comfortable taking whatever you want from my heart laid bare for you, my body bent by the force of your will. I want to feel your breathing steady down my spine, hear your scream beneath my skin in silent shudders in ecstatic grief. |
How transfixed he was in Eoran’s lyrics, calliope mind attaminate, mirror mazed. His rakeshame epithets carousel swirled ’round that evidencary innocent, that incorporeal bearer of Eoran’s broadside lust beswike
but Kasse wasn’t sinless,
even if he played his part
so fucking well.
Silencing Eoran when he pulled his touch back from the breach, he watched. He seemed content to tuck his thumbs into both hemmed cuffs of his friend’s fatigues. He caught his lip between his teeth, spectre boy so easy for Eoran to exorcise with his tongue alone, gag-order throat the only prison Kasse’s felony lust would ever see so expertly imparled.
With one quick tug timed with his consopite honey moan, long distance longing too vivid too real too cruel, Kasse ripped the other boy’s coat through him till it was loosed from his frame, held in his hands by both wrists, undershirt contained within. He stripped Eoran in a single blink of his ashen eye and tossed the garments where his own laid.
“I want to hear you,” he said, like he knew how he wanted this to sound, pulled back from the conine promises Eoran’s mouth so fervently imparted. Kasse sank to his best friend’s level, knee to dirty knee, sought that mouth in consonance with his own, took him by the steel of his belt,
did it all aching
all slow.
“Tell me how I fucked you the first time you woke up hard for me,” the ghost said into Eoran’s mouth with a grin, eyes half closed. “Tell me how you fucked me when you came stifling the sound of my name.”
oh,
that boy
would
learn.
Eoran’s unsteady breath bled a curse into the incurvate treachery of his friend’s wicked expression, stripped and stifled by truths he hadn’t expected to surface, glimpses of his own skin he hadn’t imagined he’d see so fast. The wideness of his eyes was fluttered away—lashes to cheek, like he had even a mote of demure humility still alive in his squalid consciousness—and that boy receded like a tide sucked out to sea by the submerged convulsions of a great temblor,
a calm before a storm,
intimate silence before the sun,
sublime serenity belying the wanton threat of his grote mandrenke.
“If I tell you all the details of my affairs with some pale mockery of your construction, will you be jealous of it or will you try to upstage it?”
Already he was reclining, arranging himself on elbows bent, forearms bare atop the clay swept abandon of their skyhung hideaway. For all the damage incurred to Eoran’s innards weeks ago, the exterior presentation was small—pink punctures were left open to the air lacquered with the tender growth of new skin.
“How many times have you listened to me choke on the sound of your name and said nothing?” He prodded, persistent. “How many times have you looked me square in the eyes after knowing I fucked myself in the shower wishing it were you?”
Legs spread like it mattered if he made this any easier for the ghost who could disrobe him in a trice, Eoran hummed in antiphonal yearning tortured by the protraction of Kasse’s deliberate care.
“I heard enough to fuck myself back two stalls down, wishing it was you, too,” he confessed with a lurid slur, daring in his arousal, strangely serene for the violence of their aggregate wanting. “If you tell me, I’ll make him irrelevant—I promise I’ll be the only me that ever fucks you to tears.”
Kasse didn’t give Eoran the chance to ebb, straight to the quick of him. cottonmouth frightful along his venom edge, his criterion teeth. He gathered his lover close, riven flush across his hips, and left the rest of his attire where he’d attempted to lay. The ghost left a spectral memory shivering through his lover’s frame, sought to keep him reeling, a desidiose victim to Kasse’s ulterior motives. He wanted Eo unaware with his mouth occupied by corrosive kisses, heroin spit too addictive to consume clean, adulation left sloppy smeared across mouth and chin, across that face he wanted to see
in magnificent lament
wet from witnessing the
trauma of his vivisection
so expertly capsized by
Kasse’s vandal-heart
petriflut.
Blurred motives remained unclear until Eo’s spine hit cold steel, still somehow sturdy after so much time abandoned. The chain link jangled briefly in either protest or collusion—it was difficult to determine, but it didn’t matter. Kasse was trained only on making Eoran crack open and fucking howl.
“Did I fuck you upright? Or did I lay you out? Did I hold you by the wrists or did I hold you by the throat?”
The grey eyed ravager pushed two fingers into his lover’s mouth while he worshipped his jaw, mined him for moisture before departing on a spidersilk dew string to tease Eoran ajar, to push through his every barricade and leave him vulnerable to Kasse’s incursion withheld, pensive in the twilight.
“Did I taunt you like this? Did I warm you up or did I fuck you raw?” There was a playful lilt strung through his obscene queries, breathy and beautiful and so ready to feast.
“Hmm, the first time,” Eoran sang on the sex-starved exhalation of his adit adored, debauched in the strain of his tease. He forced his head abaft into the rusty chime at his back, hair ruffled in a careless array, chest heaving like he was already so fucking prepared to spit every rotten driblet of his soul from the aliquot strung tendons pulled recklessly taut along his weakly brandished throat. “Mm, the first time… let me—ah—try to recall…”
He held Kasse in the ragged ring of his legs, knee acquiescent against the tangible side of his phantom votary, provoked in all his cleaving, maligned in his discomposition but headstrong and unabashed even with his bareness impelled into the support of his lover.
“I remember…”
Eoran was a harmonious deluge, a raw confession coaxed only on the crossed-heart, hoped-to-death swear of his every deconstruction.
“—stars. Not of the sky, but of my eyes
flickering and flowing in the swell of a lightshow
you know, when you close your eyes too tight and can see
all the patterns of your mind alight, your veins thrumming, swirling
and spiraling out of control. I don’t—
a-ah
—think you said anything, but you were very
sweet to me, slow like satin sliding between my thighs; a touch, a caress.
I was face down, that’s how I was sleeping, you were at my spine.
I felt your outline, your weight—wrong, of course, because I didn’t know it
at the time—against me like air made leaden by the whirlwind always haunting your stare.
We didn’t even fuck, it was enough to just feel you there, to inhale the air between us,
sharp like motor oil and slick; tangy sweat and harried breath.
When I came, I felt you like a benediction in my bones,
some waking nightmare left tracing the edges of my hypnagogic distress,
wrapping me in shredded ribbons…
I thought—
fuck, if I could just wake to see your face too close to mine,
to feel the divine silhouette of you against me
then I would be… so happy.”
The bloodwright leaned forward at the end of his panting diatribe, teeth finding Kasse’s jaw to scrape along its bezel edge, to sink into the soft curve of skin just beneath and tempt a bruise with inconsiderate tongue and indignant suction.
“But don’t let all that mislead you. I want to be brought to tears, too.”
The ouverture confessions sank into the ghost’s temporary skin, Eoran’s sudden sweetness a sticky film that dripped down his neck, across his shoulders, rivulets down the bump and curve of his every austere rib in shadow, the starkly woven thatching of his obliques tight on the inhale.
He didn’t know what he’d been expecting to hear. Some visceral taking, maybe, the result of a depraved snap that left them coupled in the dust, pants barely removed, a whirlwind of animal instincts save the splanchnic conduit linking their lust in hyperfocal elegies. Poetry in their breakdowns. But it sounded to Kasse like Eoran caroused rough along the edge of sex to feel something else, like sex was the onset symptom of a greater plague, like he feared anaphia and thus begged a deeper pain,
pervasive and pernicious
vauqueline
gory.
Kasse wrapped an arm about his best friend’s ribs and laced his fingers through the chainlink digging at his outlines. He pressed his lips in devotional supplication to Eoran’s own, orant despite the immediacy of his filth. He wanted to taste the afterburn of that sugar-spun fantasy when he sank slow into the fever, when he succumbed to the sublime sickness trembling in his lover’s every bone,
when he dedicated himself to the redamancy he could only express through archaic sighs
soft and direct in confidence to Eoran’s eyeteeth.
“I have you now, Eo—” he said with a longing meant for other words. “—oh gods, I fucking have you.”
Eoran m e
l
t
e
d
.
Silkslip shudder in the softest pule of a sigh, that sabred boy responded in resplendence, falciform arch of his vertebrae pushing forward into the moonglimmer glow of his luminal lover. The bloodwright closed his eyes to wallow in the sensation that had become such an acuminate want in the bottomless well of his desire, unconcerned with the macroscian form of their audacious union thrown to the ground like an outcast to writhe, shed from their blinding effulgence, banished in preference of their brute physicality.
“Oh, Kasse,” Eoran purred into the other boy’s ear, “I’ve wanted this for so long. I’ve wanted you for so long.”
Body subservient, ever refined by the sway of Kasse’s comminution, Eoran’s hands found that boy’s shoulders. His nails carved petroglyphs of his experience, a turgid tale of his taking in rudimentary symbols scraped into pliant stretches of street-honed muscle,
rabulous and
thanatographic
even in their vestigial transience.
It was beautiful—the way he came together in all his falling apart;
the raptus that made his voice shake through all the heathen chanting of his transfixion;
the devious euphoria and pristine suffering worn upon his features dripping in disgusting virtue
when he welcomed the ghost’s possession like he were sacral vestments necessary to don in their dog-god rite
like Kasse was the only thing that could make Eoran entirely whole.
“I’m here—” Barely articulate, that spectre of a soldier shuddered into the hollow of his lover’s throat, pressed tight against his jaw, incapable of focus along any line but this plummeting daedal isobase. “Fuck, Eo, you’re so much more than—a-ah, than anything I’ve ever imagined and I fucking—I fucking have you now, I—”
Whatever Kasse was, whatever—whoever—he thought himself was irrelevant through Eoran’s refractions. That boy all slack jawed and taut throat in his arms, half-spat words and thersitical hiccups drowning out the replay of every historical coercion, discissive in the trimming of his body’s reel. He was edited, debellated so expertly—he, actively aggressing in helctic urgency against the chainlink clamour of his sudden interest in hamartia.
He, perfect specimen of Eoran’s vulgar fabrefaction come alive, was so intent on proving his affection, proving his worth, dragging his name screaming from his lover’s fantasies through the colour of his hadal mouth.
When incursion skewed to vandalism, he regressed to viscera, five-fold searching for a hold between ribs, hooking an arm under a knee to hold his lover up to the keening metal moans of their barricade gone metronome,
fucked him like the world would collapse if he didn’t leave a mark,
if he didn’t leave a line of bruises for Eoran to relish in aching arousal tomorrow,
if he didn’t leave evidence of their new reality hurting like a rampage
scrawled in every muscle
mapped in every bone.
I want to be yours
his body betrayed,
even when his
mouth asked:
“Are you mine?”