#eyehunger

[endawn]

pax getting cunty with a prince because they woke him up from sleep

[lordvile]

would you say you're octopussy-whipped?

❝ i would literally let mora put a collar on me and spank me with a spiked paddle. publicly. at the gas station. ❞

[bendwill]

@eyehunger / unprompted

“I find it curious I never stumble upon my own works here. Where do you keep them?”

[prodigum]

@eyehunger : Where mere seconds prior had been an eye, now spot lay vacant of orb. Swallowed into the restless abyss, but not empty-- - teeth filled the cavity in plentiful amount. Brushing along the skin of the other Prince. First shoulder.... then neck.... then apex of throat and cheek. Occasionally what had been lid fell over the rows and touched flesh like the more understandable equivalent of this action. It spoke not, it spoke endlessly. Whispered cacophony of words piling upon each other, near undecipherable except the occasional piece that slipped. Certification, questioning, emotion, rational; a muddied blend all spilt from the touch of Great Eyes maw and to coil around the mind like the very tentacles that did the same / mora & vile

𝐀 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐏𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃. one body opening and the other overtaking. new definitions of form and flesh and being. he could not describe desire better if he tried , in so many words.

the prince's head falls back , exposing his neck and giving easier access. he could have this now , and later , and again ... time is theirs alone — hours , years. the SUM of it all a knotted mass in the back of his mind. greed bests him and he knows that the other could never give him as much as he so desires. it is beautiful and it is spilling towards him and he wants nothing more than to be swallowed WHOLE. ivory and flesh and hair and should he be eaten , at least the taste would be sweet. might rot some of those many teeth in his descent. a gift to remember him by. vile could see it now: painted in the FIELDS. some dark and deep cave. twisting and turning and dangerous and lovely. yes , he should carve out his muse in his own plane. marring its beauty with the grotesque.

when he feels teeth on his cheek , he retaliates. runs his tongue along the back of a row of teeth. commits himself to the deep and the dark. a hand slides down the nearest tentacle , fingers digging in deep. eyes are red-rimmed and heavy as they stare into the abyss. desire weighs down his lids. his tongue aches for even more — to leave the whites of its eyes glistening in its wake. he could pray for such a thing — as the mortals do. except he is not praying for a blessing. only to be haunted for his long and dreadful and unending lifetime.

[lordvile]

@eyehunger : quietly   whispering   “i   missed   you”

𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐥𝐟𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐚𝐲 — all warm in the back of its throat. swallowed whether ready or not. sliding down and staining and the darkness some soft blanket over it all. all full like yesterday when it was something he would die for. hardly reminiscent of his own realm and ruling and yet vile has learned to love the night. dark and lovely and primitive. scent of something that waits. the trees murmuring , all tall and proud. burying all the sound around them. and , all starry-eyed and sluggish , he finds the night something best felt within his muscles. between his bones.

one arm curled around its torso , an anchor holding its back to his chest. heart to heart and not nearly close enough for his own desire. face buried in the center of its shoulders , lips at the back of its neck. his own soft form flush against its own and blooming — always blooming. spiny or soft or stretching. can't touch the other without some consequence. give and take. neutral ground. longed for for so long and all starry white and blossoming. 

❝   i missed you.   ❞   the words are murmered into flesh. they ring true against its form with the hope to sink into its bones. i missed you. not as the flesh wants flesh — but as one soul that remains incomplete without another. long has vile wished for this closeness. long has he spat out his heart in tenths just to get some ragged and sore point across. long has he hoped the fleshy matter would stick. on its cheek. maybe forehead. to be received in any certain measure. slumped and glassy eyed and hopeless.

and he knows better than to assume the other half of his self is asleep so soon , even at this hour. and he pretends all the same. pretends so that he can say the words better said without the cool and decimating power of its own gaze. a hum leaves his lips , half like a laugh where they're pressed agains its neck. directed at himself only and a half measure sad.   ❝   all of you. the good and the bad.   ❞   a pause. years stretched upon frames in his mind. treasured and dusty. he does not , even now , forget a moment.   ❝   thought i might spend the rest of my own eternity missing you.   ❞   vulnerable. soft-spoken. given to the whims of the night and all the more grateful for the peace it now brings him.   ❝   sometimes i think i might blink and see you gone.  ❞

[lordvile]

@eyehunger : "You did forget this."

𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞 — in his mind , laid out plainly. underside still traversable. he could go around , even. and yet forward the grass gleams some bright green and with the morning dew still weighing heavy on its limbs. and he is unsure if all paths lead to such clear visions — that shorter path all the more alluring.

vile takes the returned book in hand with a shrug. ❝ it was a gift , but if you insist. ❞ corners of his lips curled upwards in spite of himself. too amused to twist any other direction. with eyes that do all but knock against the doors of its own. do all but pry their way inside. and he is some great gust of eastern wind — curling all around and light. sporadic thorns and slim and swelling with life. ambitionless. free.  

❝ the eye was a nice touch , i’ll give you that. ❞ would deny it now , but not alone : it had been a cause for concern. teeth bared and sharp and before him with little warning and the bait taken by his own curiosity. retaliation , only not how he would have imagined. not what he would have expected of the prince. and in that lies the seed of something far more significant than the stretch of his own gaze can make out. a valley he has yet thrust his own two feet upon. green and alluring. tumbling down. 

❝ but next time , i’ll be better prepared. ❞ a threat. a promise. a request. to go again. to strike while the iron is hot. to exchange their own exclamations , him with and in the bones of his life. fount of the morning light and overfilling. too many blossoms in the sun of his mind and nowhere to spread them. too long alone and too long wanting. he is all roots — far too ready to be upheaved.

[lordvile]

Will you be my fool for the first of April? You fit the task quite well.

                             ❝ might be a fool , but i'm a fool in love. ❞

[lordvile]

@eyehunger : [ HIPS ] + [ reverse ] & [ PULL ] / prompt.

𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 from the ground : his own warm touch as a beginning. and growing. and growing. taller than his own eyes. the both of them so much more than what the flesh translates here and yet something blooming all the same. smoldering of some several centuries or more. burning in the pit of his chest. projecting on the state of the other. the distant grass is overgrown. the ash is silken and falling between his fingers. tomorrow , maybe. and even that is so far away.

a recollection : some time ago and on his knees. reddened with the sweet pressure of the ground. remembrance crawls down his skin with thorny edges. his knees do not bend now. back against the likeness of his once most beloved. abandoned , now. and given to the ages. they are alone. and time is some strange and funny stream drawing the line between them. his own soul gone all quiet. gone too stiff. repressed. into the black — the depths of his own chest are a home. withdrawn to them. and comfortable there. secrets of his own heart in the velvet streams of his blood. restless , but the clawing to be free so much less of an ache than the desire to lash out. 

eyes wander in search of connection. up and down and settling on its torso. softness of its hips a call for his touch. he grabs them. in both hands , and thumb pressing against where bone sits shallow under the surface. fingers curling against flesh. he pulls mora near , hips against his own.   ❝ depressing , isn’t it? ❞ vile motions to their surroundings with a jerk of his head. a lazy digging into an open wound. ❝ though i can think of one way to liven it up in here. ❞ are intentions read correctly? it hardly matters — he would go this direction anyways. in intimacy or in fight — fulfilled all the same. the beginning to some confused and certain end. eyes that look straight through , heavy lidded. and a tongue that unburdens itself in the curve of its shoulder. and up to the neck. parts his lips in a move to bite and — pain. star white in the back of his eyes. strands of his own hair pulled , and rough. a pain that does not equate to pleasure. teeth grind against one another. head lifts and eyes bear onto the other with such disdain. it knows his weakness and in exploiting it has set the tone for their match.

hand replaces lips on its neck. grips until knuckles turn white. with this hold he swaps their positions , shoving mora into its own lost shrine with the force of so many years of hurt behind it. hand tightens. then loosens. then slides up to grip its jaw. vile leans in , close but eyes still meet in focus. and he makes a show of looking up — up at the stone carved and crumbled so with time. a vision of old. form of something so tender. shape of a scar larger than his own body. red hot and boiling up his throat. love left to rot. eyes return to the vessel in front of him. look of disapproval on his face.   ❝   how you've fallen.   ❞   lips press against jaw. and bite there. and pull flesh until it slips from his teeth. sharp on the edges and finally extending out : his desire as a weapon. hardened like the ages and pressing out from his own being. the morning sings still , even now. even in the rose of his lips. and even in the base of his throat. coughing up the light of the day as though a curse — the taste of it upon his tongue reminds him of the days of old. aimless and nameless and looking above to the skies for some answer. as if he were not his own god. as if he were not his own fate. in time — all swallowed. the sun. the sea. foaming on his lips — but slithering down. the learned stretch of his muscles. the knowledge to consume. and nothing but the spitting flames of a star to put him at ease.

desire is a wretched and scraping thing. his tongue forces its way behind teeth and into the cavity of its mouth in a sloppy kiss. longing : putrid and in shades of red. and not without biting. his knee moves to pry apart its legs. one hand to return to its neck and one to wander. scratching its way down its chest. splaying against stomach. softness there some shove past the brink. heat that begins in his stomach , seething and spreading down. hand now slinks around to grab its ass and with that pull their bodies even closer. intentional to allow his hardness to press against stomach. an easy admission and a promise all the same. kiss broken to whisper in its ear. ❝   you are nothing. ❞ words leave his lips in a near growl. old anger. new anger. anger at his own body for allowing ' nothing ' to elicit such responses from it. and after centuries of being idle for every other. ❝ and like this place , you’ll be forgotten. ❞