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“Look at you.” Veneration as he speaks, Tyler smiles. He settles his thumb to Josh’s knuckles, blanched by virtue of the vice-like grip he exerts upon the bedframe. “Are you comfortable?”
Josh purses his lips. Impeded by the shackles adorning his wrists, he assesses with a resolute tug, before he nods. “Comfortable,” he assures.
“Good.”
Josh lowers his head to his shoulder.
Tyler is kissing his way from his forearm to his chin—sowing the seeds of his adoration into the flesh deeply rooted within the soil of his whims.
“What are you?” he asks him. “Today—what are you?”
“Yours.” Josh’s exhalation stuttered, “I’m yours,” he avows.
“You’re mine.” I see you. “You belong to me.” I see you, inside the mouth of every lover I have swallowed.
Lashes fluttering, he plants his lips to Josh’s own. It is an unrivalled alliance, purloining drool, and entwining tongues—the taste of spearmint, assimilated whimpers, and cacoethes.
“Give in.” He plants a hand to Josh’s sternum. “Give in to me.”
“You don’t need to convince me,” Josh huffs into his mouth.
“I do.” Lips swaddled in saliva, Tyler withdraws. “Give in to me,” he repeats, as he laps at the thread of drool uniting their flesh—draping from his tongue, delicate, before smothering his chin. “You’re mine.”
“I’m yours.” The utterance as rudimentary as breathing, “You have me, always—had me since we met,” Josh breathes. “Got lost, and then I found you. I found you again, and again.”
Asphyxiating the length of Josh’s figure with his own, “Keep finding me,” Tyler says. “I’m here,” he heaves, shifting the mass of his hips into the meat of Josh’s thigh. “There you are, c’mon. Come find me, Josh.”
Josh relinquishes his skull to the headboard as Tyler’s flesh smothers his cock. He raises his hips—a staggered rut, and a pitiful whine—before encountering the steadily increasing stature of the other’s erection.
“There,” he affirms. “I found you.”
“Right.” It is something akin to a plea, frangible, trembling. “You don’t need anybody—anybody else,” Tyler stammers, as he begins to grind his cock into the swell of Josh’s own. “Can’t move, so give in to me. Nobody else but me.”
You search for me in unfamiliar skin. “Don’t want anybody else.” You search for me, only when I am absent. “I never did.”
“Not even then?” Tyler murmurs, fingers impetuously travelling southbound, sinking their way into the hollow dip of Josh’s hipbone. “Then—when you were out spreading your legs for—”
Josh grimaces.
“Tyler, please.”
The air is fettered by an unpleasant stillness. Tyler clambers to his knees, before settling himself against Josh’s thighs. His inhalation is curt as he pinches the crook of his nose—he mourns the loss of his squandered years, devout in his beliefs, and destitute of Josh.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just—”
“You need reassurance.” Josh culminates. His restraints imparting an insistent click, he attempts to shift his weight. “You have me now.” he soothes. “You have me for today—and for every remaining tomorrow.”
Tyler’s gaze flits to the ceiling. Its whittled, beige-grey paint. “You want free of the restraints?” he asks. “I feel bad for making you—”
“You didn’t.” Josh says. “You didn’t make me do any of this.” He only longs to latch his hold to Tyler’s cardinal cheeks; his face is positively heat-swollen and profoundly disconcerted. “I’ll do whatever it takes to remind you.”
“Then, kiss me.”
It is more akin to a plea than a demand. Tyler plummets to his forearms, setting his lips to Josh’s own. His tongue darts beyond his mouth, skimming the linear line of reconstructed bottom teeth—the repercussion of an epoch frittered in Los Angeles—before a tentative moan escapes between their melded flesh.
Josh is groaning in concord as the other’s fingers begin to drift, interweaving with the light coils of blush aloft his nape. Tyler demanding he submit with an abrupt, covetous tug, his fist is wresting and assertive, guiding his partner’s skull slantwise.
He slips downwards, incisors staking their claim to the flesh adorning Josh’s neck; his teeth are an adversary to those who dare refute his proprietorship. He sinks his misshapen dentition into the plane beneath his jaw, the impression of his teeth forming an unsightly mottle of crimson—preordained to bruise, a smirch of lavender, chartreuse, sepia.
“Tyler,” Josh complains, albeit whimpered, pleasured. “Too high.”
Tyler heaves into his jugular. “Not high enough,” he rebuts.
Ingurgitating his lover, his gaze drifts towards the nightstand. Resting there, positioned knowingly, is a bowl replete with charcoal paint. Sliding a hand towards its rim as he continues his assail, his fingers skim the viscous damp, palms subsequently swallowed by tenebrous pigment.
“Bothering you?” he teases, heaves, as murky driblets of ink fall from his wrist to his forearm. Drawing his mouth towards the juncture of his partner’s earlobe and jaw, he carefully dips his tongue into the aperture shaped by Josh’s gauges. “How about—”
Josh shudders. He involuntarily arches his back as Tyler’s fingers besmirch his skin. His flesh bespattered, filthied, a stain obscuring the flourishing bruise gracing his neck.
“—now?”
Tyler smiles as he settles to his knees.
“Smearing me?” Josh huffs.
“No,” he corrects. “Making you mine.” Uniting his palms, and interlinking his fingers, he slathers the paint until neither hand remains clean. “Staining you. Ruining you—for everybody else.”
“Right.”
Massaging turbid fingerprints into Josh’s supple pecs, Tyler’s cock begins to twitch. Heavy and neglected, abutting the other’s stubbled thigh. He emits a sibilated moan as Josh’s knee bends to alleviate the searing strain of his erection.
It is temporary. “Does it make you feel better?” It is a temporary mantle. “Do you feel better, Tyler?” There is no use.
“Only a little,” Tyler laments. “I kinda wish you could wear my skin.”
Josh laughs.
“You tattooed your name into my thigh,” he huffs, a tremor to his figure as Tyler continues his descent. “That not enough for you, huh?” He promptly tarnishes his abdomen—ridgid muscle defiled by denticulated nails.
“Was.” Reminded of its presence—as though he could forget—he drags a forefinger towards the perennial scrawl of his name. “It was.” Etching a haphazard heart into its neighbouring flesh, “Need more,” Tyler tells him. “Yeah, come crawl inside me.”
“I can’t.” Josh reminds him of his prohibiting restraints. He jostles his wrists, his shackles rattling accordingly. “Trapped.”
Tyler laps at the other's imperfect tattoo, his tongue laden in drivel, soot. “You like it,” he mutters. “You like it.”
“I do.”
His figure contorting as he extends his reach, “Pervert,” he hisses, bites, plenishing his palms in tenacious paint anew. “Just a pervert."
If ‘pervert’ is his designation, so be it. Tyler prefers him this way—debauched, acquiescent, malleable. They are an amalgam of depravity, kindred spirits, wise to each others’ needs, colloquy redundant.
Tyler’s hand a nimbostratus, his fingers shape a murky rainfall, ink descending from their tips before they land atop the swell of Josh’s chest. He settles tinted digits to the base of Josh’s cock, the upstroke producing an umbral smear, dispensing the pigment across his sensitive cockhead.
Josh whimpers, moans, as Tyler works his rigid flesh. The downstroke delicate, dextrous, before his base is re-encircled. His grip is wholly inflexible, a sturdy, throttling hold. He handles his lover with diligence.
“Look beautiful like this—like you’re mine,” Tyler says, bottom lip sweeping the other’s tender tip. He dips his tongue into the slit, marring his chin with bitter filth as he delights in the coalescent flavour of pre-cum and paint.
He spits after a moment, sequential to swaddling his teeth in saliva, cleansing the enamel with a curt swipe of his tongue. His drool cascading along Josh’s shaft, pursuing the bend of a vein, before it seeps its way into the wiry hairs adorning his base.
Once sated, appeased, Tyler settles to his knees. He positions himself above his lover.
I am wrested apart. “Gonna take you, have you.” I am eroded, unclean, and my body is absent. “Like this—I can take you like this.” There is no room for form with love this strong.
“Tyler.”
Josh’s opposition falls on deaf ears.
Tyler lowers himself, a feeble outcry of distress, as he obstinately forces himself to the hilt.
The lack of preparation only causes him to pleat. His chin tucked to his sternum, his bottom lip an obtruding tremble, “Josh,” he snivels. “I need this,” he cries, thighs spasming in coalescence with the unwavering ache. “I need to—need to feel it. I just—”
“Fuck.” His lips parted, brow corrugated. Josh’s expression is a synthesis of euphoria and fret. “You’re tight, so—so fucking tight.”
“Yeah,” Tyler stammers. “You like this,” he discerns. “I—I’m the best you’ve ever had, right? The best you’ll ever have. I’m the—” Interrupted by a fragmented sob, “Josh, please,” he cries. “Please, tell me it’s enough. Tell me I’m better than them—than they were.”
“Proving yourself to nobody,” Josh hisses through grit teeth. “You’re better, always have been.” He wrests his upper-body, thrashes, to no avail. His inability to comfort Tyler forbids him, same as always. “Don’t need to prove yourself to me. Don’t need to—”
His utterance is interfered by a groan. Tyler is rising, panting, before he doggedly descends, palms acting as support as they adhere to Josh’s chest.
“Give in,” he moans, weeps. “Just—please. Give in to me.” Notwithstanding the manner in which Josh cleaves him asunder, he finds the stretch is a little less daunting than prior. “I can take it,” he decides. “I can take it Josh, please. If you want me to stop, then I can—”
“I don’t.”
“Hah,” Tyler heaves. “Right.”
Blessing granted, he establishes a rhythm. His tears incessant, unremitting, as he begins to rock his hips, creating narrow rivulets, torn from his lashes to his chin.
Josh battles with the urge to chase his pleasure. Tyler’s innards are a tourniquet, binding his flesh by means of his hedonism. His conscience combating the guilt of his antecedent actions, the remorse wrought by driving his lover to this—ferverous, endeavouring to prove his worth—Josh ultimately settles on a hesitant rut.
“Yeah.” Stifling a sob, Tyler exhibits his approval. “Yeah, there.” Josh is striking his prostate, the pleasure forged by his movements supplementing the agonising ache provided by his girth. “I can take it,” he whimpers. “I can take it—again.”
“You’re so fucking tight. Squeezing me,” Josh mutters. “Doubting yourself—stupid. You were made for me, for this.” He raises his knees, planting his feet into the mattress only to emphasise his point, a shuddered exhalation as Tyler scrambles to adapt to the sudden shift in their position. “Should be doubting me, Tyler. You should be doubting me, instead.”
Tyler reclines, wobbles, setting his hands to Josh’s hips. The remnants of pigment leave an incessant impression. “I doubt you all the fucking time,” he blubbers, features crumpled, a protruding bottom lip, as the crook to his nose angles itself towards the ceiling. “Not doubting you now. I only doubt you when—when you’re gone.”
If only Josh had never left—dispensing himself to faceless strangers, entombing affections beneath the bodies of transient lovers.
Not that it can be undone.
He cannot repair this. He can only mitigate the harm.
He benevolently angles his hips, the movement gracious, serving to further encroach Tyler’s innards. “You can feel me, can’t you?” he asks, moans, grimaces—all at once. “In nobody’s bed but yours. I’m in front of you now, Tyler. I found you.”
Tyler nods, clenches. He rocks his weight until his thighs begin to spasm. “I know,” he snivels. “I know.”
Josh’s gaze flits from his lover’s face to the neglected flush nestled between his thighs. “Feeling good now, aren’t you?” His cockhead weeping in conjunction with his lamentations, an ample attestation to his pleasure. “You gonna touch yourself for me?”
"I’m supposed to be in charge.” Tyler cracks a wry smile.
Josh scoffs, a crinkled nose. “You don’t wanna cum?” he teases.
“Not what I said.”
In accordance with instruction, a ruptured whine immuring his throat, Tyler seizes hold of his cock. His slick palm engulfing his untended length, his fist is nothing more than an umbrageous blur. He chases his orgasm as though an overwrought hare—frenetic, the hurried rise and fall of his chest.
Josh is persistent. He fucks into his partner with assiduity, each unrelenting rut marrying his cockhead to its mark. “Gorgeous,” he murmurs. “You look gorgeous. Squeezing me tight. Such a good boy, aren’t you?”
“Josh.” Tyler collapses in the face of praise, an embered ache impounding his gut. “Josh, Josh, Josh.” The steady motion of his hips is superseded by a lurch. His cock twitching, pulsating, before a heavy surge of semen bespatters his partner’s abdomen.
“Fuck, that’s it. Good boy,” Josh coos. “Gonna let me fill you up?”
“Yes.” In the midst of his orgasm, fettered by his pleasure, it is the only word he truly recalls. “Yes.”
Restraints unsettled in the wake of his thrashing, Josh emits an unchaste groan. He raises his hips, chin tucked to his shoulder as he burrows himself to the hilt. Throttling his sensitive flesh as he spills, Tyler’s innards adhere to his shape—as always. Perhaps they are congenitally moulded this way, bespoke to the other’s requirements.
In time, Tyler scrambles to lift himself free, semen leaking in silvery streams. The paint coalescing with Josh’s orgasm, a slate-coloured stain slowly encompasses his thighs.
You will hear me hailing from inside. “Do you feel better, Tyler?” From the inside of your open grave. “Do you feel better now?” Soon, you will realise how we have always been together.
Tyler contemplates the query as he droops to Josh’s chest.
“I think so,” he says, “I think—yeah, I do.”
He nestles his nose into the bend of Josh’s neck.
Josh strains to place a kiss into his hair.
“Good,” he tells him. “I love you,” he says.
Perhaps better is enough.
They cannot repair this, after all. They can only mitigate the harm.
“No matter the weather.”
“Come rain or shine.”