swallow. (iscariotic) wrote in retrofitted, @ 2010-02-06 06:47:00 |
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Entry tags: | bayard, swallow |
sit. stay. roll over. fetch. attack. bite. play dead.
nc-17 :: cheap gay sex and face-punching.
cast your blood to my open veins
i won't tell them, we'll just play your game
Circadian eidolon gripped and warmed the the tattered and smeared boy on the ground. Sleep phase working in reverse to attain opened eyes; he was getting warmer, shedding that cold snakeskin that tied him up in a deep deep sleep. A skull and crossbones blaring a warning towards the wisp of life he had left. Sill he was strung out on the cutting board, still he laid splayed and catatonic. Cramped insides and unwashed. Tresses in a matted diadem on the floor. King of contusions. a sharp blow to the ribs struggled through the haze. if anything was the matter, any matter at all, it was this shit stain of a boy still crumpled on his ruined wood floor. ( the fact that swallow had kept vigil, all watchful weary eyed, was remiss. radiated. out. ) "you alive or should i start disposing of your corpse?" A mutilated snap from the grumbling pile of abrasions. He roused himself out of the cycles of somnolence. Laggard. Turn, peeled off the blanket of scabs and coagulated blood. He felt like he was missing something as he gradually rose to a kneel. Red spat out of dried gouges. Oh, he was missing some shoulder. Some chest. All shanks on the floor around him. He pinched his eyes in a pained attempt at recollecting the previous events. Panic, panic, body warming up. Fly or die. Fight or flee. His eyes darted right and left worriedly. The blows to the head didn't help the recall but he got the gist. "i can run faster than you-- especially now." swallow lead his walk with his hips. that was how it worked. his swagger of knifestrokes turned from the semicircle of blows to the coffeetable, dropping a coffee and a couple advils down. "drink the coffee. take the advil. i don't care if you don't like it black." Smacking lips, tonguing a loose molar in a gaping maw. He didn't see it anywhere; he'd probably swallowed it during the night. Less than decent, the feral man carnally perched on the floor, assessing, touching, prodding those open gouges. He looked sharply at the fastuous skinner, suspicious blues glowering a little at the recommended prescription as if it'd help. He staggered to his feet, looking embittered and scrupulous as he stalked over to the drink and meds. He wanted to vomit as he drank it, the heat stinging the soft spot where teeth had gone missing. He gagged, coughed and hacked up a tooth. Oh there it was. He spat it nonchalantly on the floor, back of wrist wiping away saliva, blood, coffee. Derelict boy finding his voice which was scratched raw. "That sugar pill was nice. An elephant tranq would work much much better..." Drip, drip, drip. "i don't want it to hurt less," the assassin murmured in those hushed, secret tones. "i want it to hurt more-- but then you might up and die on me, and you can't do that just yet." his skeletal system folded in those familiar angles, settling his body breaks against the arm of the couch. "you're a screamer. did you know?" Red footsteps then a thud as he dropped to the ground, straggling meat and bone laying on the table. Dirtying everything he touched. The tranquilizer was not a joke; it was a wish. Old sedative friends, a 5 day long vacation. Death would be a long tomorrow, a welcome sleep. But like he'd said, not yet. His mouth bent into an unsure scowl, naivete glancing over his features for a moment before he reddened, dropped his head on battered limbs. His head floated, dropped, weaved, trying to find ground again. "And you're a bloody butcher, ya know that?" Low, bass groan. "Like screwing a spiked grenade, good god..." Too tired. Too tired to know that the game wasn't on at the moment. "you've screwed a spiked grenade?" the assassin's lips quirked into a grin. "you seemed pretty new at it to me." "Eh, the grenade screwed me if you want to be smart about it.." He peeked out from the blockade of his arms, eyes narrowed and chastening his initial reaction to lunge at the other. He didn't do well with shame; this was a very buried reproach. He huffed, recalling the cleaving of sinew-wrapped bones and joints, smashing. The slap and suck. A blueprint he could relate to. He covered his face again. Maculate, ashamed. Sex was something that he was taught but not allowed, threats of castration and amputations keeping the young soldiers in line. Show but not experienced. The only contact, wholesome touches, were those of fatal impact, metal kisses. He refrained from moving, recovering, not noticing he was springing scarlet leaks yet again. Blood cycle not refilled, he was drifting off... without warning, the assassin's lips were at the other's ear. "don't act so ashamed, love." a kiss, chaste and delicate. "it's just a body. it's just sex." maybe it was pity, or leadership, or the little bit of human clawing its way out of the butterfly's chest-- but he hooked an arm around the other and drew him up. he lacked the words. but there were still things he could fix-- even with the abuse. Icepicks in his spine at the hollow sounds, sounds were words, but they didn't mean anything. He didn't really understand. He just felt, felt that a punishment was coming on, a removal. Masseter tensed at the touch, that mouth, those pulp-soft lips. Instinct, lean in, partake. It was deterred. But he was standing again, asinine youth making cicada groans. Flesh moved, muscles flexed, wounds opened. He muzzled the autotomy, drone mind enjoying the warm lingering body besides him. Eyes caught sight of the execution remnants, holes and dents and all sorts of macabre ornaments. "Your dungeon looks a lot better. Far more fitting, yea yea. I think I've improved it greatly, no?" "dungeons are typically underground, yes?" mused and amused and turned right around, the assassin dragged the younger man through his mess of a body liquefied and putrefied on the ground. bayard's lack of clothing was of no concern, no distraction. it was just a body. it was just sex. "cold or hot?" "Hot." The red drizzled and the finger painted milk body laggardly followed. Cowlick curled across his eyes and pasted its way down his neck, following the line of his spine. As he moved, he was choking and aware his nose was strangely bent in one direction. He snorted, midair, difficult to breathe. Crack Better. Bayard held his nose in a useless show of thoughtfulness as again he poured, poured, his life on the floorboards. he dumped the corpse to the cold of the tiles, turning the water to scalding hot without a care in the world for the comfort of the dirty boy under the pelt and peel of the water's cleansing rage. when he leaned against the doorway, he might have smiled. "i'd help, but we might get into a tiff-- and i don't think it'd be so good." with all that blood turning pink in the drain, not good at all. The heap of scraps leaned tiredly against the shower wall. The extreme temperature was a stain of memory, the burning welcome and numbing the pain in blistering heat. Muscles waxed and waned, back towards the onlooker. Spine ridged and everything exposed. Hands dragged throw water black mane. That komodo smile radiated on his back. The animal skin was not shed; slack jawed he turned, a smirk making it's way to his face, all hollow shadows and defiance. A challenge which he was half certain the sharp biting bird wouldn't take; he turned away again, a splashy chuckle, echoing as if disappointed. "don't start," the butterfly growled as if he could turn away. Dark locks were whipped back, the ritual cleansing leaving the soldier stainless. Trapezius rippled, deltoids hardened. "Y'know, I was thinking. I didn't get to tell you what that lamb told me. Knives were too frisky for chat, yea. I guess it may be of no consequence then..." Tomb of a mouth again, disobediently, turned towards the other again. Silent laughs. Mocking, no, but defiant. Itching for those hands that left the only marks that hadn't washed away.Utter confidence in the chemical obscurity. the assassin levelled his hazels with the other man's blues, terse and disaffected and significantly wasted. "speak." Pale face went from coltish to marble as his challenge was inhibited. Quiet, thoughtful. He wasn't one to surrender, no, not at all. Finding his skin saturated, sopping red punctures contained, he shut off the water and stepped forward, glancing every which way for a towel(?). Stepping forward a little to close, steam rising off the boiled soft skin. "Something about Adelio?...no.." A effulgent pause in thought, palms touching the others' hips as if he would float off. "Ah, the Complex..what was it he said..." A hard stroke down towards the small of his back, fingertips touching on the hilt of a blade. A close smile issued towards the other, affectionate, endearing. Mouth steaming, the blade was removed in an almost unnoticeable current. "He told me what it looked like, what was off limits." Then the blade was at his throat, his own tyrannical grin finally showing. the creature of wills and woes melted his body to the other man's skin, his hand creeping to everywhere it shouldn't have been. "i thought you'd have lost too much blood to want me again." the knife was hardly a threat. if the scandalous thing warming his back could find one, swallow could offer five more-- and without a skulking swathe of footsteps to lure it out. he purred, unaffected. "This?" Motion to the mutilation, to the gash and the holes. "I'm not tired at all, no..." This is what makes me want you. That touch so deep, so deep and rare, he didn't find it among the civilized, among the concrete and asphalt weak in comparison to the jezebel jungles he'd grown in. Now he just craved that drink again, that bit of skin in the bend of his neck. Steam condensed into rivulet, getting them both wet. He wanted in like he'd let the other in. Down through that epidermis, down to the bone. swallow arched against the boy's body, pressing the blade harder against his skin. "i should hardly reward you for the things you've done." he breathed in shivers, slivers. shards of glass. his touch was drinking water set out too long. teeth like steel cutlery. stone. nothing but stone in those fingertips. if bayard's lips were marble, the butterfly acted the chisel as he turned, ignoring the blade altogether. he wanted that mouth. wanted. want. "now," he whispered and it echoed Crowned with a halo of vapor and new pelt. Invading those skin cells, down to the base. He wanted all the epidermis and pores, every. Little. Piece. He never doubted the butterfly. Not in the least. He was only alive thus far by his one, natural born ability: to accept. Accept without question and to deal. He knew this soft songbird was more than enough kindling to relight any fire, deaden any embers, if need be. So he drew a cut into the other, hardly even need the serrated edge. All he need were teeth and he ate ate ate "Do it. Do it because I forget so easy." And he did. He was unifying, heat unresistant. He needed the shackles, the choke chain. Pulled back in bliss, those elysium lips bidding him onwards. Mouth agape in the swirling well, chunks of meat dropped from his mouth. He needed to gulp that boy down. he twisted the knife, twisted the knife, twisted the knife and how he smiled, his tongue pressed to the back of his teeth. "you're hard again." cauterizing. if one was an infatuation, the other was addiction. there wasn't another word to speak of it. the simple terms were all used up on the tips of knives, the tips of tongues-- lapped and curdled like so much blood between the sheets neither of them had hit. his heart burst from all that intoxicating hatred. he threatened to break his blade with his grip. Bones chipped and splintered under the onslaught; oh, was he in an empyrean skirmish now. Why had he even bothered to try and sweep away the previous battle was beyond him; fingers crawled their way down hems of pants. Oh, how the flavor reincarnated old rushes, old thrills; the only things he knew. Again overstrung eyes turned destitute, begging mouth almost silent from aphasia. "You...piss me off..." Internal intercostals inflamed, mouth moving all over that velvet face, across lips, temple, eyelids. Metal clattered to the ground, cuspids and tusks all that was necessary to get through that raw hide, down to the ivory he was after. "and what are you gonna do about it?" inch for inch and spat for spat the butterfly matched the soldier, in every movement of celluloid fingers and belligerent teeth. he coiled. like a constrictor, python perfect with those yellow eyes and sensory tongue. hung himself on the other man's hips. used his dagger as a handhold. and still he twisted. Gnashing of teeth and an interval of the thump and thud. Pull that cadaver in closer, closer, compacting their flesh together against the wall. Hands held thighs with such unnatural force, he felt a squish under his fingers. The question was snatched out of his mouth by the others, webs of saliva forming if the scant seconds that they weren't breathing in through each others lungs. "I wanna make you say my name. I wanna make you scream." And bleed and beg and cry out. Delicious, Every rotation there was a yowl; bad dog. Caterwaul and travail laced in their acidic drink. He'd come back from the purgatory full force, writhing, putting into action what he'd only recently been able to learn, a creak of moist of skin against dry smooth wall. "bayard..." the assassin whispered, hissed. a taunt. not nearly the strength the soldier desired. he drew out the vowels like molasses, carmelized and slow dripping from his bruise blessed lips. the creature in bayard's arms was a demon. he felt nothing in that empty rotten hollow he called a body. but every drop of blood the poor boy fed through his skin, through his pores, the more heated his claws, the more fervent his glares. "bay..." all whispers. swallow could function without the volume. but could his loyal, loyal soldier dog? At the moment, Swallow was his only tropism. The only one that had ever elicited this response from him, this craving. He was feeding him and teasing him all at the same time. The whispers turned him wroth Body check against the wall, all of that kiss turning into a condemnatory headbutt. He was inside him but still pounding that body, crushing that butterfly between concrete and furor. "Swallow..." A clear warning note out of that swollen esophagus, sweat rolling down his back, his neck. swallow tore the blade from his lover's collarbone and stabbed him right in the back, reverse of that wound still tore into his shoulder. bloodstrings down his face, from that immaculate nose. he snorted it all cocaine lines and poison rings, post-nasal and salivated. he spat it in the other's face and watched it crawl. "fuck you," he whispered, and moaned. "fuck me--" The liquid was fitting amongst the rest of the cacophony of wet and moist and filthy. Again. he was eating glass out of the other mouth, hoping he'd please justshut up. Triple response to that touch, the flare and the burst. They were a bottomless pit of tremors and power struggles. He was tracking through the others veins, the pain now just above his shoulder blade sending lightning strikes of white through his line of vision. He was walking into a coffin. This man was a noose. And he was still talking; at which, beneath those black locks, sawtooth and broken eyelid gazed scathingly. He stopped. Disobedient, head tilted as that siphoned away those sweet nerve endings. "Say my name...say it..." "bayard," he hissed, delicate wraith and ghostly sweet under the gossamer hailstorm of the shower. AND HE TWISTED THE KNIFE-- DUG IT DEEPER AND DEEPER AND DEEPER. for all the fucking he wasn't getting, he'd fuck him right back. The instant that knife got deeper, tore though his teres minor, his forehead cracked against the others with ferocity of a bull. Whose blood was dripping between their agitated faces, he didn't know. "Louder." He was bolted from the pain, nourishment so very close but no, it was being difficult, wouldn't let him hear those words. Just one little word. Dirt regarded the butterfly with a zealot's avarice, tapping that fresh wound, split from pressure. "LOUDER." "Bayard--" he allowed, voice echoing against the tiles, reflecting back into the soldier's ears. would the puppy come to his name? would he wag his tail and lick the blood from his master's face? "Bayard." offered louder, lured and baited for the dog between his thighs. THEY WOULD DIE LIKE THIS. it was not a question. he wound his finger through the other's wet hair, blood still dripping from the tips across their mutual skins. pulled with his frenzy. attacked that throat. aimed for the jugular. "Bayard, fuck me before i kill you." screamed to the cyclical circle of that ruined ear. The howler was spoiled, the hold of and gestation bringing forth what he wanted. Those echoes were sugar sweet to the near blind man's ears. His face took on a serene, almost thankful look, gratification while on a deathbed. Wrought with virulence, again he happily pushed into the other; take, take, take. He knew then that the boy ached as he did and that he wasn't the only serpent. Pendulum of pain slurred him back and forth, pain vaulted in the core, forked tongue against devils horn. Weakened knees and cut wings, he pushed into the other until he couldn't tell where he started and ended. he was a pile of regrets carefully sorted and stocked away. he showed nothing. a sandcastle made of ashes. he felt them less. he snorted the bloodlust, all winds and reprieves, and coveted that mouth all ticks and tocks, ticks and tocks. if he was ill, his hands would shake. if he was unwell, he would recoil. it never happened like this. but he drug his nails down the other boy's spine in any case, howling like he could see the moon in this god forsaken town. Metacarpi, carpe diem, deemed unworthy. Licked that snout and that face did bleed. Stripping bones bare, he looked at that body with a culinary eye. body sautering, all that wailing, perishing, vandalizing that pallid body, that peroxide. Hints of a cipher bobbed up through the murk of his mind; he craved this collation but more than that...more than he wanted it to need. Mouth hooked and pulled and that hook melting to that mind, ectoparasite. He wanted to be a permanent monolith (bow, worship, sacrifice), he wanted the other to need/want. His own little exigency. "lay your claim," the assassin growled. he was a simple husk of wicker words, doppleganged and emminent in his for those simple words, he'd do anything. for some simple words, oh. anything. he wove the hurt through his veins. tore the bruises from his face and made a mockery of comfort between his thighs. "take. me." Too happy to acquiesce, banging that body like a sledgehammer, sequestering the nutrients; beastly protein vindicator. So he took what was offered, satisfied that he'd placed the cenotaph behind that chest wall. Sweet tooth relish, maw to maw, tusk to tusk. NOTHING LIKE DESTROYING THIS BODY. There was something close. BUT NOTHING BETTER. That tight hurt and the bruxism and that spider-eyed face. He kissed it, crushed it, decapitated that apricot mouth. he coiled, recoiled. the pit of his stomach convulsed with the scent of his saliva. this foreign entity. alien face. vertebrae fresh and forged of paroxysms. they were creatures of hands. made of fingers and nails, teeth, claws. nothing more than a conglomeration of sensations. it couldn't surface. not in this storm. that tight hurt and that viperfresh tongue. poisonous. dedicate. he wanted the words. he wanted his words. whose words. who's word. but it echoed. how it echoed. Momentum had him blacked out, spasmodic now; oh those muscles did rock under those hip bones. Grip those hips, split that lip. "Let me have everything...I want more...Everything all the time. Give it to me, give me bloody all of it..." In that tapped millisecond he gasped out of the whirlpool, he snarled those sound waves down his throat. Tracheotomy under way, epulary quenched. Dropped to the ground now, unpinning that demon from its vertical shrine though still locked in a hostage taker's "you don't." his words were soft, his teeth like screws against the other's skin. "you can't." he couldn't see past the shades. they closed. shades drawn down, window to door for the sake of nothing. all nothings. every nothing. he didn't understand. all these syllables-- they turned his head round and shuttered his collapse. there were fingerprints in his backbone. clawmarks in the tile. everyone bled. especially this one. and he couldn't fathom why he loved the taste so much. body giving out. he could feel it-- but adrenaline forced his movement, forced his hand, forced the tension in his eyes and his throat. just get through the night this time, this time, this time. all he could do was hurt. all he wanted was this. how could he? swallow couldn't even hear his angry curses rip through the memory of their sex. all he could do was hurt. all he wanted was this. By the time they were done he looked like he'd been mauled by a pitbull By the time they were done he looked like he'd been in a car wreck. By the time they were done they had enough carrion on the ground to feed three lions. By the time they were done they looked like they'd just been through seven levels of hell. Seven perfect layers. He wanted to entrap the other in his own hide, feeling that violent drop in his heat, his rigidity. Encased in an iron maiden, tingling spikes battering him into that downward glide. He held on tight to that carcass like he knew it'd be the last thing he'd eat for eternity. "Why d'ya taste so good," grumbled that callow wolf, the gnaw of a growing ingenue on his clavicles. "why are you so fucking hungry all the time?" the butterfly sighed in return, all collapsable parts and nose touches. eyes closed. as close to trust as violence came. fist in hair. relaxed. tensed. relaxed. he flexed his ankles. rolled his head. "i'll feed you." a hand full of whispers, a head full of droughts. "Because you're so bloody tasty," mumbled the dovish pout, at a stupid question. This was the way of one ground down to dust. This was the sygil of desperation that he'd been given. Diapnoic and benign eyes following, following that answer. Long lick up master's face; dog pleads and dog tricks. "I'll sit and stay if you do..." Roll over, play fetch, attack, guard, bite, play dead. Those automatic commands he'd trade for him. All of him. "i won't leash you." he wouldn't leave a bowl outside. he wouldn't leave the door open. new dog, new tricks, new jobs. the mange was creeping into the both of them. the water'd run cold. hoarse voice on truest words. "i get angry." he tore the other's head back, to speak directly mouth to mouth. "if you want my blood, my bones-- it's all you get. i get angry." released. petted. he kissed him roughly, then. "i don't take strays that go door to door." Maned young lion kissed, then curled those cut cheeks into wild grin. "That all I want." Warning didn't register. Fence didn't make it into that concussed brain. Nails scraped the floor before ascending, heavy foot steps out of the bathroom into the living room, gathering those scraps of clothes. Too long he'd been in this collision, he lost sense of time, duty. Appetite satiated. "you have a new assignment," the assassin catcalled to his fleeing conquest. "And what, pray tell, would that be," laggard tone wistful and distracted. With his clothes like they were he'd have to hug the shadows and alleys; he was easily a crosshair magnet if he'd ever seen one. "observers are going to want your body. i won't be supplying it." swallow's nudity was nothing new. cigarette between sopping lips. it was amazing he could light it at all. "they'll probably come for mine." Barbarian face looked the skeleton over in thought, perturbed. That body was his and it would be a grave mistake to aim at that butterfly in front of that hyena. "Want I should bite first then?" "iie," he murmured. corrected. "no. bodyguard duty." that was all. the assassin turned back into the bedroom, to the bathroom. the bloody nose wasn't nearly as entertaining without the fucking that came with it. The soldier nodded, adjusted his jacket and vanished from the flat with a coyote haunt. That body was his and anyone would be crazy to point a barrel/throw a grenade/thrust a knife at the butterfly in the presence of the hyena that would now circle him. Someone would get hurt. Someone would |
i'll play your game
just pull me under
i'll take the blame
just pull me under