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The Bible of Skin and Holes
Roxas stood on one of New York’s busiest sidewalks texting. It was pouring rain, but no one seemed to notice that rain conveniently missed the California boy. He shot his soulmate lover a text, and asked to meet. He agreed, and knew that he was going to be the flavor of the week for Axel Kingsten. The flavor being gold instead of sapphire. The bitterness coated Knight’s mouth and made it dry, and he ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth and hoped the bitterness wouldn’t seep into his whirlpools for eyes. It was hard to hide his feelings with his thick, dark brows that would furrow whenever he thought too long about the other guy who was often between Axel’s legs. No one knew about their passion for each other. That passion could easily be translated into ugly obsession. Axel kept a vile of his blood. Roxas watched him from afar, and loses his mind whenever Axel ‘breaks up’ with him. It couldn’t be helped. “Let’s,” he responded, and left the lobby with Axel. He wasn’t sure where their destination was, but walked in whichever direction Axel wanted. Roxas was conscious of his expressions and behaviors. His low self-esteem and masculinity complex restricted him from doing certain things. He didn’t cling to Axel as if he was full of joy and relief to see him again. Instead, he smoothly wrapped his arm around Axel’s thin waist. He didn’t shoot Axel uncertain glance that quietly whispered, ‘Do you still love me?’. He kept his focus on the sidewalk in front of him. Their clashing auras kept humans from walking around them, and created this bubble around them that no one dared to penetrate. He remained collected and showed no signs of desperation and jealously. He cooly spoke, “Let’s go to your place.” He would do anything to keep him around. Saix, Saix. Fucker. He appeared in the lobby of Kingsten Designs Co. The lobby was completely grayscale to him, as well as the rest of New York. As he scanned the lobby, he suddenly spotted red. It poured over Axel’s shoulders, and complimented his dark skin. As habit, he reached out when he saw Axel reaching out toward him, and he gripped onto his forearm and tilted his head just right for their mouths to finally mesh. Their teeth clanked together, and Roxas felt as if that summed them up. Intense. Too intense for anyone else. Why do you still find yourself so attracted to Axel Kingsten? Good question. Maybe it was for all the wrong reasons, like how Axel wasn’t stable. There wasn’t a time that Roxas could recall where Axel was stable. Ever since the beginning where he met Axel, he had his hand wrapped around his throat and he didn’t know if Axel was going to choke the life out of him or not. He wasn’t sure what Axel was going to do to him in that basement. He also didn’t know if Axel was going to pull through his coma or not. Axel Kingsten had never been stable for him, but that didn’t deter him from being attracted to him. Nowadays, he wasn’t sure about them. Maybe that’s why he kept coming back, checking in, and doing everything he could to keep Axel interested. Usually that consisted of allowing Axel to do whatever he wanted with his body, or rutting into Axel until he released five whole loads into him.
The other man; significant other. Applying descriptors ate away at the ‘once upon a time,’ skinned what Axel still fetishized as good. Not good as in ‘satisfaction, quality service, cash refund,’ but good as in ‘wholesome, the giants birthed from angels, heavy clusters of black grapes on a vine.’ There’d been a point in their three-year dalliance when he saw Roxas Knight and was certain of The Immaculate Conception. But the culmination of cum, blood and tears had rectified that misread scripture with screaming matches and the crumbling of Innocence’s pillars. When they were together it was burnt bones stomped to dust in the desert to hide the murder of sweet nothings and the belief that the red string would save them; not hang from their throats like intertwined nooses. “My place?” Axel asked and his catty stare flitted to the left, then right. He smoothly traced one boot behind the other and turned toward the door. His fingers, long and precise, caught Roxas’ shoulders and he directed him in front of him before leaning over his shoulder. “What’s at my place? You know it better than me, House Sitter.” It was him. Him fucked until Roxas raised the dead from his chest and quite literally reveled in the wicked plumes that followed their euphoria. Sex that made his thighs sweat and teeth chatter only to be accented by the garlic scent of pizza and Roxas joking about how nicely his balls hung on Axel’s chin when he swallowed his ‘half-babies.’ And why did the love Roxas Knight? Because no one else dared to love him back; Haagenti, Baphomet, Abaddon. Axel was a trifecta of demons and instability that no one but a special breed could love in its bloodiest form. Not that Roxas was better, and that evened their playing field, opened the doors to a slaughterhouse. Those voices that were neither ghosts nor entities blossomed behind Roxas’ eardrums and drove him into whispery fits in the darkest recesses of wherever they lived. But it was everything Roxas hated about himself that allowed Axel to feast heartily, because unbeknownst to the blond, Roxas was oh-so beautiful. Archaic beauty, prince charming; “Save me from the tallest tower, Roxas. Kill for me.” A culmination of perfection that Axel got on his knees to encourage Roxas to recognize even though Axel knew, once he did, he’d stop loving him. Suddenly, Axel laughed and cut Roxas a knowing overlook before taking his hand and silently striding across the lobby and onto the wet sidewalk he’d just escaped from. They were a vision together; light and dark. Strong shoulders brought back and narrowed cocky stares bred through their self-aggrandizing wealth. Though Axel was taller, he didn’t outshine the intimidating nature of Roxas’ halo, and people stopped. Just for them, the world stopped and embraced the cataclysmic event that was saints and the forsaken staining sheets and squealing like pigs ready for the butcher’s block. They turned a corner toward Axel’s Upper East Side flat, entered through the fingerprint-less rotating glass doors and made a beeline for the gleaming elevator. Axel fleetingly glanced over his shoulder to ensure no one would follow, and he gripped Roxas’ forearms. There was a divine tug between the two men’s chests that Axel failed to conceptualize, but he smiled with a wolfish gleam of canines as the stainless steel doors shut. “Do you love me?” He asked tauntingly, knowing the answer, but yet still doubting it. “Tell me.” Love was asking to be strung up and bled out in the claw foot tub. Stringy abdominals opened like books with its contents drained and clogging pipes. When he was with Roxas he circled the drain and thought about eating the heels of his palms. Visions of biting into the pulpy flesh and screaming, ‘This is love! Pluck the skin from my fucking ribs and suck the marrow because this -- this is love.” But he didn’t scream. He waited and hummed along with an eye roll due to repetitive nature of the elevator music he heard every morning, night and always.
The Bible of Skin and Holes
Bed. He loved Bed. The milky plateaus of stale sheets rumbled and distressed around his lazy limbs, tangling and threatening to choke him with just the right contortionist’s trick. Egyptian cotton mapped the escapades of a man with one too many lovers, and when found, Axel could lie on his stomach and scrape dried cum stains with the tip of his thumbnail for hours. He wondered whose it was (his, the blond, the blue). But mostly, he wondered why he wasn’t kind enough to change the sheets in between carnal excess; nest shaking, skin smacking, the wet reprieve of, ‘I love you’ – but for now. Just for now. Only long enough to let it dribble down his chin and devour his masculinity with a hard sob because, ‘I promise I love you. Fucking kill me.’ Again, Bed. But he wasn’t in Bed. Beneath Axel’s Chelsea boots was the naked submission of New York City. Another day, another dollar in a city with an aesthetic reminiscent of hot dog water filled toilet bowls draped in pearls. This center of the world was simultaneously the underbelly, but Axel’s aged love affair with the metropolis was refined and classic; all black and white with musical numbers and dead actresses. The thought forced him to lick his bottom lip so that he wouldn’t chuckle to himself on the populated street corner. And then he thought, ‘I belong here. I belong on this corner for everyone to see. Spread-leg whore.’ He crossed with the human thickets, hands dipped into his jacket’s pockets as his phone incessantly vibrated. Mentally, he ticked off who it could be: secretaries, distributors, public relations, and then finally Roxas. Roxas Knight, or the man who received the capitalized He, was his Holy Water boy. Boy? No – not anymore, at least. He’d ascended, been rebirthed when Axel was too busy to watch amniotic fluids drip down Mother Nature’s nude thighs. The burst of hormones, thickening hair and making his voice grate and tear, had passed him like an eclipse. They were meeting. Two weeks? Three? It’d been too long since their last. This visit was a different breed, though. His grin opened like a flytrap when he pushed the doorway to the Kingsten Designs Co. building’s lobby where he immediately spotted his ‘sun god.’ His heart (?) knocked on the Bible of Beaten Skin and Gaping Holes as he strode with sea-skipping legs toward the man whose spine sat splayed toward him. Roxas was distinguishable with his barely tamed locks that licked toward the sky like frothy tidal waves, and he was Apollo in The Rising of the Sun, forcing Boucher to roll in his grave -- a true testament to love’s forgotten allegories. Axel’s tongue moistened as he reached out for the other’s arm, and with that raspy ‘Roxas,Roxas,’ he tugged the man around and seamlessly guided him into an open mouthed kiss, taking his time to dig teeth and suckle muscles. “Let’s go.” It’d been a week.
[ -- IN RESPONSE TO THIS ]
So there it was. With such simple words, Isa finagled them out what had morphed into an unbearably long standoff where Kingsten no longer wanted to feel obligated in their realm of one-sidedness. Because that’s what it’d turned into. A completely unreciprocated attempt at an unnamed relationship, brimming with a soft unspoken spitefulness that was more give than take.
He was still angry -- -- stirring embers of disappointment.
But this was their truce. An attempt at making something okay even if the ‘okay’ was just through a thermos of coffee and the sleepy conversations that had united them ‘once upon a time.’ He stared down at his phone, curled up in bed with his Swedish Fold kitten and pretending he had a reason to be awake. His only reason was in fact the rustling thoughts about Isa. Isa the Seer who had become an intrinsic part of his supernaturalistic identity. The person he’d thought understood him with an absolute angle. Something so warm and tangible he’d melted like lightning attacking sand, becoming a rare and fragile glass for a ‘friend.’ S o m e f r i e n d. Axel rolled his jaw when he reread Isa’s reply. His fingers twitched as he considered exactly what to say back. Coffee did sound amazing right then -- and yes, his company. King ran his fingers along cheekbones and then began typing.
[MSG: Bébé ☽☾ Lune ] (1:50 AM) Right. Yeah. Come over. I’m just lying in bed with one of my babies. [/MSG]
wip
“It’s been a while since I last mingled.”
1337tattoos: Dmitriy Zakharov
"Hey, Isa." Axel's long narrow form leaned over the marble railing of a gilded bridge and hung at a daring ninety degree angle. Gazing downward, he'd spotted the seer on the cobblestone path below both by chance and his whimsical choice of color in his traditional garb, but mostly by the color. A smug, close-lipped smile had unfurled across his face almost immediately, and he raised a small brow before tonguing his right canine. Axel anticipated Isa's attention, and he couldn't see it, but those who passed him were pausing to watch the wizard's daring stunt that made it seem as if one hard wind could send him toppling over. "You got a minute for me?" They'd met by chance. Mostly because Axel was persistently unnerving and could practically smell the occult radiating from Isa's pores, and after showing Isa the drawings he'd done of him while making him a victim of his people watching, they'd developed an unorthodox friendship that made Axel's fingers twitch with in anticipation. Even though Isa was unforgiving with his side eying and mock disinterest, that didn't deter Axel's appreciation of the other. He could always go for a game of chase, but Axel genuinely wanted to know Isa.
I need this sign. (at Anastacia’s Antiques)
Hellenistic Roadkill
divinus-crepusculum:
"Perhaps I should rephrase …" he began in regard to the other judging his motivation," The only persons opinion that matters is mine. If someone else wants to lecture me on what they think I should have done, or if they don’tlike my subject matter then they can go fuck off. I’m doing art for me. Not for them." He cleared his throat and discardedthe quickly burnt cigarette butt before replacing it with a new one that was slightly bent. It didn’t matter to the messy silvered cerulean haired male though. If it was enough to take whatever edge off he had then he’d use it. Read More
Their cups of frothy brew were acquired in filled to the brim black mugs. Stars had been artfully embedded in the film along the surface, and Axel readjusted the wide headband he was wearing before smoothly picking up both saucers and leading the way to a private table far from the potentially drafty windows. He set the too full mugs down without spilling the precariously swaying drink and then took a seat after stripping his jacket. Their audience's gazes periodically roamed toward their direction, but Axel still didn't notice, and the excitement of a stranger alongside him in that realm had drifted. On the table was a black candle that angrily flickered in the presence of Axel. He stripped his glove, smiled and then tauntingly drifted the pads of his fingers along the tip of the flame. "I don't do art just for myself," he said, continuing the conversation from before, reaching for his mug before the drink cooled. "Again, that's idealistic, I think. At least, it is for me. I do art to bring solidarity to others, and I'm sure there's some selfish inclination there, but..." Axel trailed off, savoring the aftertaste. "...I don't know where to go from there. It's sort of my extension into other's heads. Art is timeless, too. The idea of being timeless is unabashedly appealing to me because human bodies are so temporary." The spicy coffee washed across his tongue like a tide, and Axel leaned back, finally relaxing entirely in the other's presence. A comfortable silence ensued, but Axel propped his elbow up on the arm of the velvet chair and cross-examined the other's features, appreciating the peculiarity of his nature once again down to each modification he could see. Human beings were their own art collective, in his opinion, and drinking them in over and over again never ceased to entertain him. There was something unsettling about it, he was sure, and he attempted to tune into the surrounding supernatural climate in hopes of overhearing dead whispers about the man. There was nothing yet. Nothing except a radiation of inexplicable sadness. "How old are you?" He finally asked. As if that fact would solve plenty of the puzzles building between them. "I've been trying to place your age the entire time, and you're radiating early twenties, but you make these faces that are insinuating you're as old as I am."
Hellenistic Roadkill
“I’m not interested in being admired.” Saix spoke with thecigarette through his lips, stepping into the direction of the other. As hemade his way away from the anguished cries of a frantic mother that were fadinginto history to him; he was sure he would have to hear about it tonight . Likely talked about in the studio with the night owls who often lounged around to work on whatever term project they took on. Read More
"Then you're one of the lucky few," Axel said, his jaw rolling in contemplation before he brought the filter to his mouth to buy his pause more time. "The idea of not caring, not seeking out someone else's approval, sounds almost too good to be true, but that's probably because it is." He didn't dig into that anymore than what was considered polite and suddenly chuckled. It was a bright laugh that brought the tenebrism to his entirely black wardrobe, deep wine hair and olive toned skin. Axel's entire personality was what made him the personification of chiaroscuro. "Art is the only thing I'm good at staying committed to. I suppose it's cathartic for everyone who does it in some way -- or well, as you've apparently experienced, it's a kind of inexplicable yearning. A real blossoming in the chest some people just don't have. I don't know how people feel without it." When Saix agreed to go with him, Axel motioned for the younger man to follow his path, and they put a wall of space between themselves and the car wreck. The walk was mostly a quiet one due to the rush of people whipping past them in gusts, the majority attempting to escape the drifting snow that was already icing over Axel's bone marrow. A block down was the door to their destination; oaken, intentionally aged and homage to an era long gone. Gold letters were etched across the front and displayed the words 'Never Was,' which was the name of the bustling coffee shop laden in dark woods, erotic art and caffeine addicted eccentrics. Axel's mod-goth crew was typically found packed around the raw wooden tables, muttering about the current upper-levels of the art realm and blaming the foundations with fist shaking ferocity. The truth was, Axel knew each one of them still jerked it to Bauhaus vinyls and ached for Peter Murphy's touch, making them more comedic than intimidating. He pushed open the door and escorted Saix inside. The lights were dimmed and muted new wave trilled from the invisible speakers. The collection being displayed across the walls that month belonged to an artist who clearly referenced Caravaggio but in the form of dark fruits meant to resemble vaginas. Axel approached the counter and didn't pay attention to the people who'd stopped mid-conversation to stare at what they considered to be the closest thing to a primordial figure in their clique. His attention was fully on Saix. "They have this drink called The Alchemist," Kingsten explained as he viewed the menu, "and trust me when I say it's the best fucking thing you'll ever have. I usually drink just black coffee, but this has cocoa, cayenne, cinnamon, pepper and agave nectar. It'll take you places. Hands down the best cup of coffee I've ever had, but get whatever." Axel ordered himself the aforementioned drink, and he naturally flirted with the older barista via a series of looks and 'too close' knowledge of one another that continuously was accented by laughs.