Eoran was right: Kasse shouldn’t just go around saying shit he didn’t know the meaning of.

Eoran slid his leg up that phantom boy’s side searching for leverage in that cramped casket of coition they wallowed in, put his hand back on the ghost’s hip to hold him there, by the force of his need, to exhume every single inch of worthlessness from that scaffoldbone skeleton that was so skilled at retention, to bleach his ivory, to lick his
wounds like he licked his neck.

Fuck, Kasse
Is this ravenous?