swallow. (iscariotic) wrote in retrofitted, @ 2010-02-04 07:58:00 |
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NC-17 :: sex and violence.
on my back i lay it down for plenty
these bones to crack
i'll scream till it's empty
i learn how to dance with the dog
Bloody hell he was so. Soddin'. Hungry. So hungry that he was inadvertently chewing on the inside of his lip, drawing blood but not noticing it. Self cannibalism was commonplace and it followed after he'd missed his hourly meal. He wasn't being dramatic. When he was steadfastly evaluating every square inch of his paranoid world, he burned energy fast. It was this stress that kept him lean and muscled, as well as a constant schedule of running here and there and killing things. Tension burned his body into mean, unforgiving tendons. His face was a twist of displeasure as he skulked into the Travesty, the lighting and the people and everything in it aggravating the piss out of him. It wasn't tactile or to his benefit to be smashed and buffered by throng of people. He wasn't much fun, needless to say. Bayard didn't drink, didn't dance, didn't sing. Strung out, he quickly prowled past the herds of moving flesh and towards a frustratingly long flight of stairs. A scowl was imminent as he hustled to the top, becoming less exacerbated as the sound muffled from the height. Growling, he reached his employers' door and knocked on it too loudly to be polite. it echoed. echoed across the flat of the floor and the sparseness of the furniture, through the windows and through the door ( ceiling to floor, ceiling to floor ), but he recognized the knock. to bayard, all it seemed was that the door unlocked itself beneath his knuckles, all soft creaks and simple movements. swallow made his marks out of ghosts, lit his cigarette, and folded his pieces into the couch. Licking canine, a nervous habit, a habit that betrayed distrust. There was an intrepid shove of the door to saunter in, the mahogany crested boy looking at the araneous being in front of him. He kept a respectful distance of 5 steps between them; still standing. Distrust and wariness was a show of honor in this line of work. A tick displayed was a belly up, a show of submission. He wasn't quite on his back but he was not willing to tempt it at the moment. Instead his stomach growled and his teeth bared. "Have anything to eat in this-." Hole. No. Don't insult your boss. "Bright little bungalow?" A tinge of gall in the careful request. bungalow? the assassin didn't even grace the statement with a curious look. "depends." breathe. exhale. & how it curled. "what do you have for me?" Caustic smile to crooked bitter smirk. "Mm, well lessee here. Ah yes, I believe I have the favor of some little nutter of a doll and also the bleats of a little lamb that I had some fun with." Finger jerk into fists. Open and close like pistons "The lamb was none too happy 'bout it, no," he commented, eyes drifting around the room unabashed. Looking for exits if he needed one, all unconscious offerings to a god of blood. Rituals: kneel, pray, shoot, run. "i assume your nutter is okiku. and your lamb?" if swallow was suspicious, it showed only in his standing, his crossing the room, the finger that stroked its way from shoulderblade to shoulderblade as the assassin circled the soldier. if one was prey, the other was predator. it was only natural to lick the teeth. Shoulder blades were incised; ligaments rippling at the toppescent touch. A snort of uneasiness. That finger might as well be a claw, a hook, a knife. The contact was foreign unnerving. He only touched what he wanted to be touched by. But the offending hand was not something he'd take up qualms with. Dead still. "Yea, ya got it. The other is eh, Noah. Noah Pryce. I took him home, had a nice gab and gag." that scent. he knew it. plasma. copper. iron. the way that hemoglobin smelled when it hit the skin through cloth. that was it. when swallow circled to the front, he tore open his charge's jacket-- took his hand and checked his nails. he was satisfied that he was correct. he knew. just knew. you didn't get that stench from rolling around in okiku's spire. bayard was on his back against the wall with a hand to his throat. "tell me he is alive." He boy only began to protest with an embittered inquiry but didn't even have time enough to verbalize; he was strangled. There was a yelp of surprise. Blood rushed to his head, already bloodshot eyes turning him into something that was close to enraged. Yet he didn't attempt to stop him. Hands at his side, mouth in a contempt snarl. Burning, burning with a memorial of chemicals and nerves. Ah the langsyne of the flesh. The vitriolic questions from Swallow made his mouth curl into an endearingly nasty simper. "Yea, he's bloody alive." His bark was philippic but surely the reaction warranted it. he placed the younger man's hands above his head. sliced right through both pieces of meat and hung him to dry against the wall. this wasn't a question of the struggle, of the speed, of the drop. it was a question of tolerance. "you know what i want to know-- don't get fucking smart with me, bayard. what did you do to him." Shooting pain. Searing. His body deadened and shook. Any movement could ruin the ligaments to his hand, if they weren't shot to hell already. He gasped, suddenly containing the pain setting his arms and body on fire. Unbearable. No control. Control was key. Amytal eyes were surrounded by a pool of blood-fled veins as they glowered at him. Carnivorous entrancement. He clenched his jaw tight, every tendon in his body quivering with anticipation. Malice and spit dripped from his mouth, all humane mannerisms about gone. "Shoved corpse rot...in his face and stabbed his hand...," he snarled, malice laced groans in between words, "and what the fuck got it into your head that kidnapping someone, anyone that we're not paid to silence was a good fucking idea?" the words were barked, almost directly between the other man's lips. Tongue lolled out, the nasty questions echoing almost to the back of his head, leaving fiery burns and aches in his mind. Everything was still burning and the blood running down his arms was like lit oil. He focused on the blurring face before him, everything doubled from the pain and the closeness. "He's...bloody alive..." Robust growls and mutters. "Little piss head...can't do shit...about it anyway..." A wry grin, a wide smile. Control. Control. Control. a backhand cracked across the soldier's face so hard it pulled the knife from the wall and dropped the younger man and his crooked smile to the floor. it echoed. that thud-- it echoed across the flat of the floor and the sparseness of the furniture. the crack of body and bone rang through windows and through doors, ceiling to floor, ceiling to floor, & swallow dropped astride his chest, hand to his throat. "i'm going to back you on this," the assassin whispered, suddenly gentle-- save the grip of his fingers. "but believe me, bayard-- you will owe me and you will owe me and you will owe me for not giving your life to the observers." swallow would never give him up despite these actions. never would he. never. Control was gone. His hands ripped from his crucified stance on the wall. Blood ran down the wall, down his arms, a wreath of red around his neck. Then that oh so sharp crack against his mouth sent a spurt of ruby liquid to the floor. Everything stopped at the sound of that snap, that snap of skin breaking, teeth chipping. Hands were burning but caught himself as he fell, only to be overturned in his distraction. Yet he welcomed the distraction. He licked his lips, a diamond of red splashed and dripped across his face over eyes and mouth; make shift war paint. His smile turned to just a crooked grin, small and not as obtrusive. His tongue slipped up to lick away liquid pouring down his face, out of his mouth. The kinetic pressure and impact was a cordially received, mouth parted as he panted; this wasn't punishment. This was reward. spit's leader took a finger through a stream of blood, striping it down bayard's cheek to his lip. pull. breathe. "say something." he released the other's throat. The lack of air was making him woozy but pleasantly so; a complaisance that only a volatile mind like his would enjoy. Words were lacking in his head, just actions, actions that demanded to be put into motion. Hand were shaking, whole body tensing, tensing, tensing. Waiting to spring? Waiting to bite? Waiting for permission. "I'll happily pay the debt." Growls feverish and low. "then pay it." another backhand beasted across the submissive man's face, bruising the knuckles that split the lip of that mouth, that mouth. "and pay it." fingers in hair, jerking that throat exposed. "and pay it." and he tore the front of that shirt from collar to sternum, that dirty, bloodstained t-shirt-- and bit that lip until he tasted blood. it ran. Those bites that the garroter gave, those nicely rips and tears. The ground was stippled with vermilion, splashes and smears. His sable mane matted as it leaked past his cheeks, ears. The taste of his own blood was absent from the overwhelming quantity; but his mouth, his skin, his substance, distilled the numb taste. Now it was corposant, the charges flying out from the epicenter of his mouth into his limbs. He grabbed the others waist roughly, grabbed the air, squeezed so hard. He was going to bruise, going to bloom the red and the blue. Only control, the reign over his mind, held him under the man. It was fading. Fading fast. He'd pay. With interest. With excess. Every red drip for red drop, if he wanted. swallow's blade threatened to gut him, to tear him to pieces, it's point hollowed and hallowed even as those incongruous fingers finished tearing his shirt to shreds. when he pressed his hand flat to the other's stomach, he marvelled at the taste. "you think you can satisfy your debt? with this skin, this broken mouth?" if he kissed him, it wasn't intentional. ( it would leave its bruises, in any case. ) The agitation, the murderous magnetism, stretching and pulling at his muscles to retaliate. He didn't really care about the others intentions, the pain satisfying. Satisfying in a way that he'd been starved, starved for the wounds, the adrenaline that had marked the past. Marked the ashes of a life on fire. The blade was drawing thin lines down his skin, adding to the collage of previous signers. Next to the bullet's kiss, next to the shrapnel's signature, next to the daisy cutters acid hug. A relentless pull back for every capillary crossed. A dog that'd tasted blood. He still was in surrender, wanting more, more of that vascular, more of that combustion. Shivering hands, pulling, begging, clawing; savage pain beggar. "At least part of it..." "i don't function in parts," the assassin whispered, the blade carving to the bone of the other's sternum-- sudden and sharp and fast. "all or nothing." The soldier groaned, grabbing that warm hand that was delivering that agonizing cut in a iron grip. "All?" He stopped the blade over his chest; pushed the blade in deeper, the knife almost disappearing under his clavicle, body shaking in rejection of the pain and acceptance all at once. "What will it take? Want to kill me? Behead me? Need a chew toy?" Only the handle of the blade was visible, the blood throbbing out like a spring. His face was red but his blue eyes were clear. Sky blue. Yearning. Young. The boy ground his teeth, nearly crushing the others wrist but only out of anguish and ecstasy. "i want you all over me, in my carpets, between my floorboards," he hissed like a demon, hissed like the wind through a cracked window face ceiling to floor, ceiling to floor and he pared the boy apart with his hands guiding his jaw. he let the knife go. he had more. "did you do this to get here?" almost a coo, something gentler than the pulse of blood spilling from the knife wound. slower & slower & slower now. The knife was pulled out and flung so hard to the side it embedded into the wall to the right of them. A clawed hand, unmerciful, grabbed the nape of the others neck, pulling him down. Still hungry, mouth agape, teeth grazing jugular. Beat. Beat. Beat. The length of a serpent's tongue between them for a moment, eyes both inviting and withholding. The red mask was still wet, glistening as he pressed his mouth against the others collarbone. Bite, nip, gnash. Cerebral deafness from the blood pounding in his ears, he stayed silent, letting out growls and groans of frustration. A dog with his ears being pulled; let go and they will turn. he almost let go. almost let himself get pulled into that deafening grip of mouths and teeth and veins that made up the core of this supposed lover's cavity. they were comprised of pits and stingers. yellow jacket messages. nails. broken teeth. deadbolts. ( locks. ) the crack echoed from ceiling to floor ( ceiling to floor ) when swallow slammed the other's head to the ground, ripping his teeth and his claws out of his flesh. broke his nose with the blow that followed. strung the blood like christmas lights across the face of their proximity. "i want an answer." Gurgling, limbs convulsing; arms were vertical like half dead roadkill, fingers hooked in the air. Like waiting to choke someone. Someone. His leg shook inadvertently, encephalon warnings. There was a mush of sounds, mashed up; he realized there was need for an answer. The blows a love tap to awake from his lycan edacity. Still on a pained high, aorta pumping hard. He didn't touch the other, hands positioned besides him in the air, shivering as if readying to choke the dominant man. He tried to think as hard as he could but it just wasn't enough. Guttural choke, pant, pant. He couldn't find reasons. Couldn't find logic. He just knew he was thirsty, unfed. "I don't...know..." "you want me," he breathed. "i can feel it in your spine." all truths, all petty truths. swallow leaned down to ease away the force of his blows with the calm of his lips. the tension of his fingers belied the gentle faith of his mouth. all lies. all those fucking lies. there was more violence in the pulse of his unclothed veins. laid bare for the soldier's eyes, mouth, fingers, skin. Respiring, sweat turning the thick red to streaks of rose and amaranth. His tenor was grating and raw, usually kinky mane now in long, wet locks. He wrinkled his nose, hands again touching the assassin's ribs through his shirt. Cotton hide was keeping him from that marrow. "Like I said. I'm hungry." Ripping, fraying fabric. "I'm starving." Stained fingers scraping flesh down to the hip. "I'm gonna eat you." Digging into pelvis bone. He was losing it. "is it the taste or the hunger that's got you out of your mind?" there would be bruises in the morning. elbows, knees, lips, and throats. hand prints. teeth marks. nooses. if he panted, it was nothing but the rain. He was getting numb, dopamine rushing in. Everything was just a pulse, a throb, a pressure. A homicidal grip on the others vertebrae, hands working up and up and up. "Both." Vocalized words, a murmur, a lion-like whisper. Battered face turned three quarters, every muscle in his body locking up. He wondered how much of himself he'd leave in his employer's flat. How many pints of blood, teeth, strands of hair. He was aching, it was so difficult to not take the man in a half guard, Even as a soldier, a pawn, a drone, he was well trained. All guillotines and chokes and locks. A query, one tantamount to whether the other cared to have the same carnage done to his own body as was about to soon happen. A last chance, last rope fraying around his neck. "Swallow." Cough through the blood, raspy but sure. "If you stay...any longer..I'm going to make you bleed." "if you wanted it, you should've taken it." teeth to lips smeared blood down his chin. he was a messy eater. it was no one's fault. if he lingered for a moment to savour the scent of it, was he really to be blamed? "i'm not much for talking-- if you ask me again, if you threaten me again--" a knife slammed down through the other's shoulder into the floor. locked. loaded. hooked. "i'm going to put you down." and then, my dearest bayard, no debts will be paid. Exoskeletal panic at the repeated poaching. Pinned like a bug in a collection; panic aflutter. He groaned but with a tone of acceptance. Bayard was not one for words either, a mute in his confusion, a deaf for his wounds. Malice aforethought and again another carmine spring. He was going to go home like he'd just dipped into a pool of wine. (If he lived to go home.) The panic turned into adrenaline, the empty mouthed boy suddenly jerking his body upwards in an energetic frenzy, ripping the blade out of the ground though still deep within his shoulder. An escape. An over turning. A waterfall of red scarlet cascaded from his body onto the one that had brought it forth. He panted, sighed, straddling the man in a full guard. His face hung to the side of the others, cheek against cheek, mouth open. Exhale, inhale deep. Silent. A gauge for submission? No, just reading. Reading sphygmic waves, arteries, connective tissues. Seeing if his parorexia registered with him; if Swallow was as hungry as he was himself. on adrenaline's reflex alone, when his spine hit the floorboards, another of swallow's blades kissed bayard's ribs-- but somehow, the assassin found it in himself to keep the killing thrust at bay. instead, with knife poised, swallow turned his head, & he drank of those wounds. licked up the copper coating his face, from jaw to cheek and sealed it with a kiss. he swallowed-- even with every muscle stiff, poisoned, on edges and blades. swallow studied his query from close proximity, jaw locked, words stunted. He lent on his forearms, each resting on either side of that pretty damned face. He didn't move. He felt the charge of knife against his rib cage; he was prepared to be gored again. Like a bull charging at a matador. Over and over. He didn't mind. Not if thats what he wanted. That scimitar tongue set his skin ablaze even with the cuts and breaks pounding for attention. Arrhythmous mouth moved in, ever so gentle, mouth dragged from his temple to the corner of his mouth, the weight of him settling in on the other. He looked inhuman, bathed in some necrosis and looking vacuous; amorous brute. swallow would have it no other way. "you're not going to bleed to death on me, are you?" maybe he was at least a little serious, the thin film of a smile trickling from the corner of his mouth. red saliva, sanguine teeth. carnivore grin. He looked sideways at the mouth murmuring to him. Impudent, short chuckle. His dark was pooled around them in a shadowy veil and he barely acknowledged the questions with the exception of the first genuine show of affection; red mouth compressed against red mouth. Gratitude. His back arched upwards so he was was bent like a hyena feasting on some carcass. Predator to prey to predator to prey. His mouth kept searching deeper, indulging in the gluttonous cycle. they made their sacrifices behind liquid masks and swallow, as his altar lamb, slammed his knife to the floor. fuck. there were more where that came from, curled in his fist as his other hand curled into the other's tangled head. he wanted a mouth. he craved control. he got what he wished for. Taunting body was followed by an inarguable shedding of clothes. Their kiss was a mange. Tunnel vision aesthetics; he shut his eyes, forcing his sense of touch to take over which it did. Shredding fabric, tugging here, scratching there in hurriedly. Finally he felt the impact in return, that craving. He knew it was in him. He bit back, licked back, hands pulling those hips up. Avalanche from punctures from the rapid, fevered movement. A snarl every other kiss, vaulting the assault until it was unencrypted. He didn't know what was in there, what was inside. Just the pain, the starvation and he knew his meal was in front of him now. his shoulderblades scraped valleys into the floorboards. he scraped up the violence of plate tectonics. triggered failures and joint locks at his finger's mass disposals. and when he took the other by his neck, all opposite that throat he'd destroyed, he looked direct-- hazels to blues-- to see all the tangle twine of the electricity behind his eyes. "don't look so scared," he whispered, placing a hand atop bayard's own. he moved him moved him and didn't bother looking back. "even if you've never done it, you'll figure it out if you want it bad enough." He wondered, with the brevity that his near bloodless mind would allow, who he would be without the bruises. Who he'd be without all the blood and skin under his nails and the scrapes and scratches. Still the foul little crusader. It was galvanic as the two caught each others gaze. Lost a little, blue eyes looking torpid during those silky words. An endentulous mouth pouted and sky blues glanced away, feeling like Tantalus. Teased and tricked. Distempered. His appetite only allowed the demure to last for a moment before he assaulted the others mouth, osseous hips suddenly pressed together forcefully. Finally a descent into a violent rut, a hot iron-red marking their skin like flashy warning colors. Careful, we're poisonous. Careful, we bite. & if he cried out, saliva clinging to his teeth if he clawed and scratched ( if he panted that man's sullen name) if he sucked the blood from those ruined lips and swallowed it down into his belly of vapors if he arched & arched & arched till his spine forgot the memory of the floor if his heels hooked if his tongue cracked if his teeth ground out the rhythm of their innoculated rage if he failed to let go of the knife gripped in those white knuckled palms he'd survive. and he'd beg for more. he'd beg for fucking more from this monster of a creature he'd forced into captivity, bloody & tame. he was venom. he was antivenom. they would both still die. For every movement the assassin made the soldier countered with fervency. Body howled, and howled. The burden heavy, the fire-breather turning into something truculent and sweet. He didn't know who this was. He forgot who he was. Suffocating and brain dead. All he could do was burn up all the pain in a constriction of bittersweet pleasure. Mouth open, tasting the sweet and the sour; the sweat, the blood. Curled fingers under the small of his back, mouth breathing hotly into the crook of his neck. Moving, moving, moving in arrhythmia. Tendons, muscles straining, running on hot blood, awash with cold on the outside. Flirting with this bomb, lingering around this vicious component, he was denying his instincts and running on them at the same time. he bit. took the hook and took the bait. made away like a piranha at the promise of salt on the other man's skin. when he tore that head back by way of hair, he bit. hook and line baited ( how he bit. ) and strings of spit connected their mouths. how he laughed laughed and laughed and laughed until the rod took to his spine and he shook in those arms, clinging like something less than he should have been. "i'll kill you if you stop-- i'll fucking kill you if you stop fucking me--" So he didn't. Localized pain and pleasure again swelled like a terrible cavalry; the gashes and punctures pouring an unholy liquid between them. The scraping and the rattling and creaking echoed in his ears, every noise and color and motion polarized into a tornado of ferocious sensations. Dripping, panting under all the vulgar mass, Sweat-slicked and almost cleansed by the salty fatigue. Tongue lashings and infidel teeth. He held him hard, pushing, shoving against him violently. Unrestrained. Their presences suddenly disappeared in an excruciating wave of inoculation. His mind was absent, all he knew was to keep moving, keep moving as the command was bidden to him. Moving, burning, that feeling his body moving into astral intensity. if he was anything in that moment, he lost it. the assassin pulled the blade from his lover's shoulder, harsh and careless and desperate for a cry from that mouth. the knife hit the wall when he tossed it away. the blood speckled the paint. he greyed out the interior. it was necessary. necessary enough to claw and arch and pretend with the roof of his mouth, to force his tongue betwixt those lips and lick the blood from those teeth-- to claim them for these hours between them. to claim them "bayard," he begged, raised hairs and hisses. blood caked on their abdomens. dripped rewetted by their sex. if this house was holy, there was hell on the ground, and swallow loved every second of it. he lapped it up like rainwater pooling on the kitchen floor. "come," he begged. he begged him, "come, please--" his head shot back from an overload of sensation, his jaw strained underbit in that moment of venomous ecstasy, and bayard was under his nails so deep so deep that swallow couldn't find him, even with those useless eyes still open. The sounds, while welcome, was also intruding on his senses, causing him to sink his teeth deep into the other; so deep. Deeper. He was going to rip him apart. The removal of that damn knife was staggering, letting practically the last of his blood flow carelessly out. He didn't even have the mind to contemplate the aftermath. So he ground his hips and pushed against the other, harder, faster. He growled and moaned, an animal hymn. Scarlet bruises scattered across their bodies like spots on a leopard. He might as well have been. All claws and soaked and simmer in ruby.They were in every part of each other, wet, sliding, everything altogether. Open mouth, tongue and teeth swarming in a last attempt to grab at the rising of pleasure, the ice, the fire, the wet, the dry. He shuddered, eyelids sinking, mumbling the others name or making a request, he wasn't sure. Swallow. Visible animal. Visible monster. Almost out cold but still alight with salamander vehemence. when all the calls, all the sighs, the growls, the howls, the coughs and chokes and curses died out they were left with a simple pile of intertwined pieces all deconstruct tangled and ill dispersed across the sopping bowed floorboards, settled in a swathe of dried blood and skin. swallow tilted his head back, somehow finding it in himself to pull the other close, spent with all the fluids between them that left everything rough and disgusting and loathe to anything clean or proper. there was nothing right about this, but he treasured the taste of tin on his tonsils. he said nothing. there'd be a doctor tomorrow. more abuse. more holes in the walls. more holes in the body. those gentle fingers in bayard's hair spoke nothing of this. He was at the surface again, crawled out of that sacrosanct nest of cartilage and melanin. Burnt and terminal to the venomous metal. The cold was a scalding answer to his calls. Brunette hair stuck to his body and neck like new born larvae, dark clots of blood spotted his chest like war-worn ribbons. Emissions coated his skin, glossy mange. Embalmed in a death dance and a rain of plasma. He was an aura of nerves but he was dropping off, falling of the side of a hematoid cliff, drifting pitifully into a state of hypostasis. Side by the side the animals were mirrored; mending the prosthetic of their link by forgetting? Ignoring? Him and his false witness, all palms as he reached up to drape across his chest. Moths finding their way toward warmth Speaking with his palms, with grunts. He'd need to unwrap that corpse later, that roadkill done wrong. A gash of a mouth reached closer to his and licked and swallowed the other boy goodnight. there would be hell in the morning. all the bones, all the pounds and pounds of flesh to sacrifice. but mouths were mouths, even connected. he whispered it. goodnight. there were no words. |
it's a fox
it's a bird
it's a snake
it's a word
i heard it crawl from my veins
your name
it's your name
it's your name
i learn how to dance with the dog