Duke's POV
As another battered sun sets on another day in our crumbiling Babylon, Fanboy turns to me and says in a sad, cynical voice.
"Why does it always have to be like this?"
Remember when you didn't ask any questions? Remember when you only had a backbone if I challenged and provoked you like the manic beast you are? When did you wipe away the dust, dirt and blood to reveal something that we've sheltered ourselves from?
"Because," I sigh, shrugging as I do so.
I prefered it when we were blind and ignorant. When this was a game that could easily be forgotten. Now it just seems like a losing battle.
Fanboy doesn't say anything. He shows neither disgust or approval. His violet mask that he wears create the illusion that he's immune to tears, that stupid mask have cut off any path to emotion. Though sometimes I see his eyes. His intoxicating, bitter, captivating eyes like bottomless pools of Absinthe, I could lose myself in them. But I'd never let that happen. His mask conceals the bruises, like anybody's going to see. We hardly ever leave the house.
We can't take our hands off each other. Drunken arguments. Arms raised defensively. Crashing down and striking the other. Not a flinch or tremble. Seamlessly woven into each others arms. Roped in for a kiss. Greedy, empty touches before the passion leaks out onto the bed, floor, dinner table.
He turns away, his back is branded with my bruises, scars and swastickas. Another round soon begins.
~x~
In my dreams and nightmares I still see ourselves as little boys. Broken children with an arsenal of foul words who's meanings didn't run deeper until we faced them in an unfamiliar, electrifying territory. We ate, thrived on people's flaws whilst masking our own. We were empty canvases for our amatuer parents to draw on, their imperfections weren't erased, we inherited them, unwanted spots of paint that we tried our hardest to conceal.
Fanboy was once a child. Believe it or not. It seems crazy to believe that in our world, a demanding, relentless world, we ever got to have childhoods at all. He was one of four in our surrogate family and he stood out from the rest of us. We all defined each other in one way or another and Fanboy was our loud-mouthed, imperfect leader, the modest glue that held us together.
Though he had many shortcomings that to me seemed irresistable. He was stubborn and proud, volatile and insecure. Traits which undoubtedly he picked up after watching his smothering, self righteous mother. He didn't have the same emotional instabilty that Chum Chum possessed or the hushed demons that plagued my dear misunderstood BFF. Fanboy never told you anything, he kept every confession and secret bottled up until they imploded, he acted irrationally which made people weary of him. I knew him and I shared the same phobia of abandonment and vulnerabilty. I had only seen him cry a handful of times and I knew he was falling deeper and deeper into a pit of asphyxiating self loathing whenever his tear filled eyes met mine.
He has been a constant prescence in my life, from the moment I saw him, argued with him, clashed with him, I knew we were somehow bound together in this crazy, macabre universe. That he had left a beautiful, callous mark on me and that I would be drawn to him until the world did us a favour and returned us to the ground. Six feet under. Though maybe hell would be kind enough to reunite us. Seeing him in pain, whether physical or emotional, even as children would satisfy a sinister need that, as a kid, I thought was just for fun, a game we played that whetted our depraved appetites. And seeing him conjour frightening, angry, exhillirating emotions towards me made me feel more content than anything. How he would grab my arm, hit me or shove me away or the way he would say my name with venom, anger and pure hatred stirred a tornado of sick excitement within me that I would dream about for days and days.
But I knew I wasn't alone. I knew Fanboy, I could dissect him, read further into him than anybody else could. We understood each other. We would exchange looks that confirmed that. His youthful eyes that usually gleamed with boyish recklessness and naivety would shamelessly beg for me. I would notice in the heat of our battle, his mouth twitch into a satisfied smirk before he willed it away and panicked. Fanboy always panicked. And I abused that. He never used to think I noticed how happy he was with my cruelty, but I could never take my eyes off him. He could never leave my focus. The thought of losing him terrified me, he had become an obsession, an addiction. Even at such a young age, we were in love. Attracted to one and other. Our hatred and disgust feeding our poisoned hearts. We didn't know that. Though we felt older, worn out from forgotten battles, there was still a child inside us screaming out for answers that were still so teasingly out of reach. But still, even if we were to understand the difficult concept of love, that can never truly be grasped, our roots were tangled with such fear, hatred, resentment and battered trust that love in it's purest form could never reach the surface. So I guess this frustration, confusion and constant torture is our prize.
As we got older, Fanboy was learning from me, he knew how beautiful he was and used it to his advantage. He was making a name for himself as somewhat of a heartbreaker, a harlot who ignored the lovesick tears of others and strung his admirers along to the point of no return. I'd like to think it was all for me. For when we fought now, he'd look at me hungrily, smile in a flirtatious, loving manner that I had never seen from him before. Cancerous false romance attacked, invaded the illest parts of my brain, feeding off my decaying flesh like armies of parasitic tumours, triggering obsessive thoughts and vivid fantasies about my darling daywalker. He was a siren in my mind's dark, abyss that swam with the spirits that had tormented me. And even though I knew he was slowly turning me into a slave, forcing me to worship his heavenly being, with only a slither of emotion oozing out of his stone, pretty face, promising that he would bestow unknown treasures upon me... I let it happen. But made sure Fanboy realised that I knew his game and that he had met his match.
I was sure to think about him everyday, how it would feel to run my hands through his soft brown hair, tugging at it viciously before he whined like a helpless animal, to force my mouth against his beautiful flushed lips, what it would taste like when our tongues were entangled. Pining after each other's blood. How soft his alabaster skin would be if I ran my hungry lips over it, drawing blood from sacred places and how his body would beg and cry out for further corruption. How he would scream, moan, writhe, cry and whimper when our bodies were intertwined, consumed, when I dominated him without remorse. How I could strike down my God, my deity and peel away the supposed purity, bite into raw flesh and feel how hot and human he was. Most importantly, how when we lay together, a layer of blood and sweat covering our exposed, trembiling bodies, his eyes would be screaming out in hatred, love, relief and shame. I hated him even more for controlling my thoughts like this, how I was succumbing to his incredible features and powerful techniques of seduction.
I was sixteen when Fanboy and I first had sex. I knew he'd been with others before me, his name was constantly on the twisted tongues of malicious gossips, especially when discussing carnal matters. Fanboy revelled in it, made no excuses. Lying next to him afterward, touching his sleeping face, I saw the boy who I fell in love with long ago, he was disguised as a captivating, dismissive, smouldering faunlet. Underneath his flirtatious demeanour, God like aura and lustful cravings there was a child, begging to be freed, whose memory haunted him in the dark ravines of the night. He had always given me the most amazing pleasure, passion. Even when all that was between us was mangled words and our bodies had never met.
It all started with a fight, a cut throat, lethal fight that made us shiver, our hearts hammer dangerously, made my stomach acid sizzle with excruciating adrenaline. We were like mocking mirrors, reflecting and magnifying our emotions, weaknesses. Which is what makes us so impulsive, careless, oddly compatibale.
It all seems like a breathtaking cyclone of heat, of raw emotion. A war that strangles the air with blood, sweat and unadulterated fear. I cut him off mid insult with a punch that made time freeze, the world hushed. All focused on us. Just the image of him, his head turned away from me, his fists clenching, his breathing laboured and a drop of rich crimson blood running down his chin sparked the arousal in my quickly tightening jeans. I saw him smile, licking his lips, not even caring that I was witness to the fufillment of his kicks. Before he threw a punch at me, lightening, vivid, enough to make me come right there.
Then we're kissing, thrashing in each others grips, our hands twitching and shaking with the desire to take off our clothes, our groins rubbing together, his hardened cock aching and begging to be freed from the confines of his skinny jeans. Then I'm making him beg, on his knees taking me all down without hesitance or encouragment and just the fact that it's him, manipulating me, granting me this unbeleivable ectasy is enough to make me groan and beg like a cheap whore. But he quickly pins me and forces me to do the same, dying a magnificent death inside when I see him dip his head back and watch the pleasure leak from his mouth. Like the chewed remains of a golden apple that erupts with discord and punishable sin. Watching him come undone and seeing him in the throws of pleasure...
That boy.
My boy.
It filled me with an insatiable need for him. All the while we managed to make each other hurt, bleed, leave bruises and scars that we could trace whilst we looked in the mirror and provoke the memory of our enemies, our mutual hatred, our undeniable passion and obsession. So sickly enchanted by experiences like this. When he told me to hit him harder, I did. When I told him to drag the blade across my bare skin, he did. When I forced him onto his hands and knees he obeyed silently and when he told me to go harder, deeper and to never stop, I did as I was told. And we did all this through the eyes of miscreants, theives and soulless monsters. Any feeling that told us otherwise was pushed aside for the darker, more delicious emotions to manifest.
A part of me knew that everything we had ever gone through in our tormented childhood and in our now corrupted and blemished adolescence was all leading up to this. Tearing each other down and exchanging sinful secrets. There was no victory. No clear winner. Nobody was winning in this battle of flesh.
He looked so beautiful, every movement of his elegant, lithe body, every breathless moan and tear stained cry, every movement of his lips, every delicate trail over abused, quivering places. After our aching bodies had been granted sweet, glorious relief, he lay next to me, softly falling asleep, I brushed a damp brown strand of hair away from his forehead. It was then I felt this great sense of understanding, realisation. He was my fallen angel, banished from a pious heaven, crashing to the earth without a halo, his wings muddied and torn. I knew that nobody else could satisfy me, make me feel complete. And yet make me so resentful, bitter and crazier than I already was.
For with every secret tear he sheds in regret, every carefree laugh when the world is in our favour, our elysian days under a rotting sun and a tedious yet thrilling routine and every time he shouts my name, like a muse humming sweet symphonies, stirring the most complex emotions within me, I still see that nine year old. Who I first fell in love with. Who's trapped in the useless, barren wasteland of my heart. And I know that the younger me, who he begrudgingly never let die, is trapped in him too.
Which gives me another reason to hate him with every fiber of my being.
~x~
A breakfast I cannot stomach is laid out in front of me. A hot tempered, nosey sun peers through our kitchen window and casts my fiery brunette in a glorious light. His t-shirt with a tear, that swamps his skinny body, his eyes match mine with their purple rings. No sunglasses whilst we eat. No sign of life igniting between our battiling cosmos.
I bite my lip and weakly shudder at the thought of ripping that thin material and letting the daylight devour his scars. Let the beautiful earth that bore him glance at his wounded body with both disgust and admiration. Strike fear into the hearts of lathargic clouds and let them know what I'm capable of.
"So we're not gonna talk about what happened last night?" Fanboy asks, in that sarcastic, biting voice of his. Even in the morning his nerves are shaved and barbed and his tongue is twisted in malice. He's unbelievable.
"What is there to talk about?" I reply in a dull tone. Seriously, what is there to talk about dear? How we argued about something that the shore of time has claimed? So therefore is pointless to talk about? Or maybe we should talk about how you've probably broken my nose for the sixth time or how I heard you cursing my name in our loving bed when you couldn't stop bleeding, and I pretended to be asleep? Or should we talk about how I wanted to coil my hands around your beautiful, slender neck when we were making love? Or how it's impossible to not grab you and kiss you when you're angry? Or should we talk about how you were incredible last night? I gotta tell you Fanboy, when you're in that threshold of being extremely turned on, begging for me softly and insanely angry, it's enough to make me blow my load right here. But you'd love that, wouldn't you? To know that there's still something you're good at. Something that means you still have leverage. It may make you giddy with happiness, but it terrifies me to my core.
Fanboy rolls his eyes and laughs bitterly. There's something about me that he finds endearing. It's been exactly the same since we were kids. He couldn't survive without me, though bloats himself on the pitiful lie that he can.
I let his laugh ring loudly through my hollow, carved out skull. It's had so many blows recently, that any noise mutates itself, creating fabulous illusions like a clean narcotic.
"I'm having a shower... Coming with me?" He asks. I simply raise a tired eyebrow.
While he shrugs his aching shoulders, sighing in exasperation, muttering softly under his breath "Of course you're not."
I watch him walk away, leaving a soft trail of temptation behind. God, he's sexy. I laugh at the fifteen year old me, who used to jack off to Fanboy's high school picture, concocting brief fantasies that rose and fell in vivid colour and piercing noises to muted tones and hushed, clear whispers and murmers that rustled and trembled. After the relief and dizzying, sick fufillment wore off, I'd hate myself and Fanboy for making me do such things.
Who would've thought that any of those fantasies would become a reality? If I had my way, Fanboy and I would be making love 24/7, though I suppose that could become a reality. I could pin him down, muffle his screams, just the thought is making me hard.
Fanboy wouldn't care either. He's just as willing, depraved and as messed up as me. He could easily play the whimpering, helpless victim. He would play it well, effortlessly making every sick dream come true. Though that would mean one day I would have to let him control me, inflict revenge upon my body that he has destroyed repeatedly.
An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. Unless you choose to ignore it.
~x~
There's a picture in our room. A memory preserved in ice, beneath a violent chasm. I recognise those two boys. Fanboy and I. Looking happy, with anger boiling and stirring in the realms of our still eyes. I refuse to believe we're happy. I refuse to believe we're sad. All I know is that I love him and hate him and being so recklessly irresponsible with my heart is nothing new.
I don't know who took that picture, I think it was Chum Chum. Or was it Kyle? I honestly don't remember. Or care, for that matter. We're sitting on the steps in front of Fanboy's old wate tower house. Our feet are huddled together in the snow, sneakers we wore for superficial purposes, not because they could maintain the cold weather, are dampened. We're cuddled close, foreheads pressed together, eyes firmly fixed on each other, our fingers are weakly linked. Fanboy has slender fingers, delicate and soft. I think I had broken two of them before this picture was taking. In the hospital I lay next to him and kissed them better beneath stiff bandages. His lips are reaching out for mine, but I simply smirk against the warm centimetres of air that come between us.
Fanboy was always modestly dressed, his mask that he rarely wore now, was resting on his lap. His beautiful legs that I've bitten, kissed and broken look like they've been poured into his bright green skinny jeans. I think they're Levi's. He likes that brand, I'm not suprised, their jeans have always complimented his graceful body. His favourite purple jacket is already starting to show signs of aging in the photo. The colour slightly faded, the material looking weathered, even for polyester. But even to this day, he says he doesn't care, it has some weird sentimental value for some vague event that he has convinced himself is memorable. In the photo, we look proud of each other, he's happy to show well deserved affection to his favourite rough around the edges paramour whilst I'm proud to say that this coveted, heavily admired, brunette belongs to me.
We're immortalised by the golden storm of sun, drenching our backs and feeding us riches. Free to be silly, careless, spending our lives laxly indulging in one and another. Sometimes I think just looking at him makes my life a little less rough, I feel genuinely happy. And knowing that he feels the same way is like the arsonic laced cherry on top. But we're captured in a flash, a magnesium net blinds us, we try to ignore it, take it back. But it's archived now, free for voyeurs to marvel at, comment on, running their fingers over my boy. Nobody can see him like I can, touch him, or hurt him like I can. And he knows that. I enjoy this mutual understanding we have, just as much as I enjoy fighting with him to the death.
I wonder how long it took for us to fight and scream after that picture was taken? And how loud we lustfully cried out in shameless enthusiasm when we engaged in the rampant, passionate sex that follows our callous, cruel foreplay?. We use our lips, tongues and hands. But not in affection, not silently, we use our fists to punch and hit, we use our bitter lips and talented tongues to form pearls of hatred.
I remember his bare legs on my shoulders, I remember my dry mouth turning up into a smile when I studied his beautiful body longingly. He begged for more and writhed when I was inside him. He cried too.
But his tears have lost all meaning.
~x~
I always give in to Fanboy, one way or another.
Like now, for example. I decided I might as well join him in the shower because I didn't want to miss an opportunity. Even though it's not as if it's a once in a lifetime thing. Far from it. But I couldn't stop thinking about him and how deep down, he wants me.
I try to stay silent. Try to hold back every weak, aroused breath as I stare at him. Pearls of soap clinging to his body, desperate to stay with him. But just like every one night encounter before I came along, Fanboy doesn't care when they slip away, meet their fate, get sucked up into the drain. Just like every lovesick mess he's come across, he completely dismisses the tiny, pathetic things. His lonely sense of power matches my overwhelming God complex perfectly.
He shudders and writhes at the feeling of my hot breath on the nape of his damp, elegant neck. I run my longing eyes over his beautiful, gleaming shoulders, the delicate rope of his spine, his tight ass. Everything. It's all mine.
I knot my fingers in his dripping wet hair, his breathy moans in his fragile voice coaxing me to touch him. My lips tread over the fresh expanse of his shoulders, neck, licking the shell of his ear. A flood of arousal rushing to my cock when I hear his eager, hungry groans.
"You came," He sighs. His voice is dripping with lust, wanting me. That just sparks my arousal even more.
"Yeah. Now shut up," I reply through gritted teeth.
I smash his head against the tiles of the shower. He whines softly in pain before turning his head, so his voice is vaguely comprehensible.
"I hate you," He spits.
His anger is an aphrodisiac that both starves and fufills me.
But it's when his eyes briefly meet mine, when he licks his lips invitingly and grinds into my aching groin, that passion claws its way through me and leads me to sick, intoxicating abuse.
~x~
Fanboy's best friend never liked me. To be honest, I can understand his trepidation, his, what Fanboy calls, "irrational" feelings and fears towards me. To be even more honest, I guess the feelings mutual.
When Fanboy and I were nineteen we decided that we were going to live together, we had secretly looked at houses, saved up every penny and soldiered on with our tedious, frustrating jobs just so we could come to the marvellous realisation that we could own something that was ours, something that we were bound together with, something to make the future a little less bleak and crappy. The feeling of already detatching ourselves from the dependant lives we led, accumolating secrets and engaging in things that wouldn't even enter our friends heads was exhillirating. We gorged ourselves on this rich, potent nectar, drank by people who we were jealous of, who were already living a life we suddenly craved. Our shaky, infant legs blindly and naively trapseing after them, sinking our feet into the grooves of their footprints. It seemed that we had everything figured out, our wonderful, intricate little secret. Except when we had to tell people our plans.
Listening to Fanboy and his best friend Chum Chum argue viciously in the kitchen whilst I waited in the hallway, made a silent, wicked smile spread across my face. I loved to hear Fanboy shout, he was so fierce and biting when he could be. Quick, ready, wit and sarcasm was housed in his sharp veins like a rich plasma that seemed to get thicker with age. I let his friend's potentially hurtful words slide off me like blanks, like I care what anybody thinks. I've heard worse. He claimed that I was dangerous and not right for Fanboy. Well Mr Chum, if you think that, then you clearly don't know you're bet friend like I do. The fact that nobody will ever know that brings me glorious satisfaction like you won't believe. He said that we were too young and when Fanboy said that our age didn't matter as long as we knew that we wanted this and were sure about our feelings for each other, my heart softened and relaxed, making me feel content and frighteningly happy. Fanboy always manages to provoke the most vivid emotions out in me and makes me crave them at every waking moment. Chum Chum said that I didn't know anything about Fanboy, that we didn't really know each other. I beg to differ.
I know that Fanboy's favourite colour is purple.
I know that he's scared of Boog and zombies. And sometimes, in our suffocating, lost moments, me.
I know that he dreams of being a doctor. Every time we're bleeding, lying together still choking on the fumes of intense battle, he marvels at our wounds and how our bodies work and bleed, thrive and wither, fight and die.
I know that he's changed my life. For better or worse, I don't care. But now that I have him, I'd rather die than watch him fade away, slip from my fingers or break my heart.
~x~
We climax powerfully together, just the force of my orgasm makes me wither slightly, my teeth sinking into Fanboy's shoulder clumsily. His heat daring to conquer more of me, our fingers desperately interwined, our knuckles white, my pulse relentlessly beating against his wrist. He tastes so good. So sweet and real.
We watch the water, the blood, our glorious relief circle the drain. But I'm determined to not let our lusty cries evaporate under the searing steam. I wrap my arms lazily around his waist and leave those rare, affectionate kisses along his damp shoulders and back. His eyelids flutter, his breathing slows and he sighs and keens to my grip. The fresh, still blossoming wound from when he smashed his head against the tiles is still crying blood, silent tears who's scream ring loudest when the moon has turned away from me. He shivers, groans, desperately trying to grab my wrist but fails spectacularly. We're melting under empty, sticky air. Clinging to our lungs like scorching molasses. Saccharine, thick, lathargic breaths, ripe amylase, making our tracheas shudder.
He starts a wordless protests, he pouts and groans like a sulky toddler and I take it as an invitation to scoop him up in my arms and take him out of the shower. As I wrap him up in a towel a sick thought flashes through my sluggish brain. The thought of pinning his limp body down and making love to him on the bathroom floor, his back lazily arching against the coldness of the tiles, ignoring his weak protests, watching his dead eyes roll into the back of head as he succumbs to a world of slumber. My beautiful, corpse of a doll. One last sickeningly passionate, unaduleterated, liberating fuck of mercy and gratitude. Something to really heal his scars, give them love and assurance that he's stunningly breathtaking. He's been left bleeding, screaming, limping, shaken up, many times, what's one last fling?.
I ignore it of course, years of supression has made me a master of disregarding my thoughts and putting him first... albeit rather begrudgingly. Instead, his stony, blank stare reaches my cunning baby blue eyes. I see a brief spark which is quickly replaced by his soft, impatient smile. I run a hand through his sticky brown hair, dying to lick the parasitic crimson which has clung to my fingers.
The small gesture warms his smile. And I can feel the both of us getting excited. For different reasons. While I crave dominance he craves intimacy. We're the embodiment of that fine balance between the two.
"I want you to carry me..." he moans mindlessly. I sigh, scooping him up, my one arm supporting the backs of his thighs, my other arm supporting his back while he grabs my neck and stares longingly and happily into my eyes. He's delirious. Though I have the power to convince myself it's genuine.
He erupts in empty giggles when I recklessly place him on our unmade bed. A young, naive thought pushes through the dirt in my mind and tells me to take him to the hospital. But that sharper, wiser voice tells me to shut up and that the people at the hospital are talking about me. Us. Fanboy and I have sat in that waiting room too many times, been impatient in uncomfortable beds and were quiet voyeurs to washed up nurses as we cried and mumbled our bitter apologies to each other through banadged ears. I don't want to go there again. What's the point? No thank you.
Fanboy will be fine. We're so used to destruction that we've become immune to life's lapses. We'll fade spectacularly together, evaporated by weak, morning sun, nobody will find us until we've vanished completely. Until we're pixie dust.
He places a flirtatious finger inbetween his teeth, sprung into a coy smile. He groans animalistically, arching his back and opening his legs slightly. A hand trails down his moist, lovely thigh, fingers hesitating and skidding on treacherous ground. Ground that has been covered by silver, breath and loved flesh.
I don't like to look for too long. He becomes a mirage and I don't want to lose his touch, taste, smell. I want to grasp onto it as long as I can. I want him to come undone with me, to hold me, to break me and hurt me and for us both to still have the ability to remember it the next morning. Like we're wading through dreams and fantasies.
As soon as I tower over him, he forces his cautious lips to brush against mine. I tug at his hair, taking my time as I search through quickly drying blood. My lips glide harshly across his, making him whine, retaliate, he bites my lip gently and smirks wickedly when a rivulet of blood invades his eager mouth. Our cocks twitch simultaneously and my tongue opens his swollen lips with ease. He welcomes me, pulling me closer and inviting my tongue to bless every part of his mouth, his hungry lips, his teeth, his own fighting tongue that pines for my taste. But I pine for his because it's an addiction I've never been able to cure myself of.
Our moans and whimpers occasionally force our lips apart, his weak noises of lust burn my throat, so flammable that they make my organs flare, cooled by the forever stirring cesspool in the lower half of my stomach, sparking beautiful arousal in my aching groin. I love my boy and the pain he brings me.
"You love me, right?" Fanboy whispers breathlessly, almost anxiously into my mouth. It leaves a foregin taste on my tongue that sends a shiver down my spine.
I nip at his bottom lip, his chin, before bruising his trembiling neck with hard kisses. I can't look at him right now. His eyes are too manipulative.
"Yeah... I think I do" I reply.
"Then tell me." He hisses through gritted teeth. And I have the strongest urge to obey him.
"I love you Lance," my breath sizzles as my lips and tongue slide effortlessly down his hot, wet neck. My moans translate into murmers as I greedily soak up every drop of him, delicious. I rub my begging groin against his when I feel his arching back, vibrations of pleasure against his stubborn mouth, his heaving chest... All of this because I said that I loved him. I never realised he was so desperate to hear it.
He fingers the nooks of my spine in appreciation and love, tracing the outline of my writhing shoulders. And since I don't allow our vulnerable eyes to meet, this is the most honest and intimate gesture he can make when he replies, in the most painful, sincere voice I have ever heard. "I love you too, Duke."
I didn't need him to prove that was true. I can feel him underneath me. I know that he meant it.
"I love it when you say my name..."
"Duke," Fanboy giggles, as I move my lips down, kissing gently and slowly above his navel, his smooth, toned stomach. His giggles turn lusty once my mouth travels south and his gentle fingers run through my hair.
"Again..." I sigh sweetly, feeling his feverish skin react underneath my hot breath.
"Duke, Duke..." Fanboy lets each syllable roll of his flexible, teasing tongue and I imagine it twisting, diving and twirling around my throbbing cock.
I kiss upward, over the concave of his ribs, his frantic chest and while I pinch one of his nipples, I run my tongue over his quick, helpless heartbeat and let the wetness of my mouth make his other nipple harden as I kiss and suck softly.
"Say it again... A couple more times... Don't stop just yet..." I pant around the hard bud in my mouth, as Fanboy grinds into my hips and is excruciatingly bringing me into ectasy.
"Duke, Duke, Duke!" He groans, arching spectacularly as I squeeze and suck harshly.
Fanboy whimpers my name over and over, mindlessly, mutating my name until it's given a new, passionate, lusty and delirious meaning. Fanboy cries out and bores his fingernails into my hair when I bite down viciously. He sits up into my embrace, inhaling the sweet smell of my damp, wet hair as he laughs hysterically into it. I smirk too and mumble something incomprehensible into his chest, a shiver running down my spine when I lick the copper from my teeth.
My lips run up his neck until our mouths collide. Soft, deep kisses that speak to both of us.
It's then I wonder, why would I ever want this crumbling Babylon to change?