|Yes, there is a *KINK* warning. The boys are
playing with sharp things. Don't come whining to me later on.
|He is the most beautiful creature. All clean and
pink skin, except for the heavy lines upon his bicep. I
have often wondered who made those tracks, who was the first to
pierce his virgin skin and reveal the honesty underneath.
He told me once, after I spent hours tracing it with my
fingertips, that the pain of it made it special. Made
it real. And it's true. Pain makes everything
real. Makes you brutally honest and subservient. Pain
And that has always been the constant in my life. One lesson that I have learned over and over and over. Love hurts. And the deeper the love, the more intense the pain, the longer the ache, the bigger the scar.
My mother's love is a faint hitch in the back of my chest, half-remembered but still there. Like a tiny sliver that has worked its way under your skin, close enough to feel when you press upon it, but too deep to dig out, no matter how sharp the blade.
Dad, well, he's a bit closer to the surface, like a low-grade infection that heats your skin, takes your strength bit by bit. Fever bright sometimes, but in the end can be ignored, pushed aside and buried deep, just like the splinter.
Victoria knew about love. She would have given me everything, ripping my soul apart and hooking those long beautiful nails into my flesh, and I think that kind of love could have sustained me for years. Built me up - wall-by-wall and torn me down again brick by brick, over and over.
But Ray Vecchio came and introduced me to a new kind of love - the kind that burns its way under your flesh, twists your spine until all that keeps you alive is the pain. Yet, is so fleetingly quick that it's like a brush fire; hot and fast, leaving nothing in its wake, dying when it can no longer feed itself. When your lover leaves and you're alone.
If you ask who loved me more, my parents are an insignificant itch next to burn of Victoria, but even that heat has lessoned. Deep in the night, however, my body still aches from Ray's affection.
And now, here I am. Inflicting my own love.
I run the cold blade over his nipple, delighted with the slow puckering response, his instinctive breath as he tries to move away. I've always been stronger and hold him so easily. I trace his belly with my free hand; sweet little touches across the cradle of his hips, reading the tiny invisible network of scars, a spider web of possession. If I look closely I could see the older, whiter marks, but they blend so perfectly into him that I can only feel them if I stroke him lightly. Like I am now.
There's the first one, beneath his navel. It's slightly crooked, my own nervousness showing, and is longer than the others. He cried that night until he was ill. Below that, shorter, straighter, my comfort when he couldn't let go of Stella. I know every line on his body and what it means, what it tells him. Each individual mark a moment of our lives. A map of sorts.
Tonight, his eyes are red and swollen from crying.
Botrelle. Franklin. Two silver kisses to give.
I make the first cut, then another, watching the bright welling
lines on his straining belly. Hot beneath my fingertips,
salty slick on my tongue. I could drown in his sweet taste
and I do, losing myself for endless moments. Only the
impatient shifting of his hips against my chest moves me.
He tastes of fragile things and I want to devour him
bit-by-bit, sliver-by-sliver, one tiny bite at a time. I
can feel in the tremors that rack his body, he wants to do the
same to me.
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