bleadhound

[bleadhound]

He’s losing the boundary of himself.  It’s been done before  —typically by means of torture,  abuse,  wire collars dug into his throat and chain bindings strapping his body to board.  Moments in where he is so burdened by painful,  unbearable sensation that he finds himself flung,  an incredible force,  extrapolated from his very form.  But it has always been pain alone that has pushed Alo from his body.  Not this.  Not this.

This is more than pain warring with pleasure.  It’s pain compounding with it,  making something new.  It is the sear,  burn at his throat  —the sound of Kerry drinking thick,  pulling red heat from his wound,  compounding so sweet with the languid stroke of Kerry’s hips sliding against his own.  Alo can hear all that blood rushing.  It’s hot down Kerry’s throat,  pooling in his mouth as he fucks Alo good,  lurid and vulgar.  Their sounds are all wet,  now.  He should care,  he thinks,  that Kerry could very well lose control and drink him dry.  He doesn’t care.  He doesn’t really know why he should care.  Lately,  being Kerry’s prey is the only job worth having.  

Kerry’s hips are quivering,  working agonizing against the ache of his entrance  —tightening coil,  a muscle that won’t stop flinching  —that won’t,  can’t,  refuses to forget.  And it’s all a goddamn blur.  Kerry’s fucking the retention right out of him,  draining him of any sense or rigidity —its something Kerry does,  only Kerry.  He feels another one in him  —that tight,  agonizing pleasure fluttering to life with every deep stroke,  suck of his love’s mouth against his throat.

His shoulders,  freckled and wide  —-  raspberry mouth  —  the defined muscle at his waist,  taper of it —-  the shape of his beautiful fucking hands.  His beautiful fucking cock.  The fluid drive of him.  He fucks like a cat,  Alo thinks without thinking,  striking him exactly where he needs to be hit to ensure that his knees stay wide and his prick stay twitching.  His mouth is so goddamn wet.  

And then Kerry’s unloading into him  —firing hot,  spilling into Alo thick and deep.  Sweet.  Ragged breath,  flailing palms  —the agonizing shudder of the man’s cock filling him with the ache of seed.  Hands clinging,  arms locking painfully tight.  The throb of sound,  shameless,  vulgar,  spilling hot from their lips as Kerry’s hips shudder forward.  Burying thick arousal.  Alo can’t help but nod his bloodless head.  

        “Th… that’s right,  Ker,  that’s so good,  honey —…”   Panting hot. Bleeding out.  Still locked in.  His stomach is drawn,  twisted.  He knew,  somehow,  that this would happen to him.    “You… you feel  —- so fucking good.”

Vulgar. Kerry's desires always came with some sort of vulgarity to them but he never acted on those vulgarities. He felt like a monster after all —is a monster after all. For a long time he was forced into some complacent area. Always being chased, always being used. Always a boot on the neck. But here, it was different. His eyes, once a pretty blue—cornflower, the color of azure skies, the deep currents of pacific ocean— now muddied and glistening red all the way through the sclera. Not a pinch of white. Not a pinch of anything but swallowed up darkness. The kind of red that might look black under a full moon.

He's no longer biting down. He's drinking. He's eating. His bite overlaps. His teeth aren't human teeth. They're splintered stones. Sharp, pointy all across. Gums opened up to needles, needles now piercing into warm and wet flesh. And his hips continue to gyrate in tandem with his biting, his gnawing, his suckling. Blood drips. Sweat drips. His mans weeping cock drips. Vulgar. Vulgarity.

His mind is nowhere else. It's just here. Right here.

He moans, his mouth full of blood.

His nose and lips and jaw covered in the other now. Some of it dribbles past his teeth. He opens his mouth, gasping.

"...fuck..." He's gonna come. His red eyes roll. He hears Alo more clearly. The man is whimpering. The man is telling him he's in the right spot, that sweet spot. His legs, lewd and falling wide open for him. Raw. Put to good use. That he might come again. That Kerry might just get him there. In that nice, nice place. His palms are latching onto the other now. Their bodies clap less aggressively. There's a warm and inviting tempo. Kerry's hips are starting to quiver. He's close. It's a perfect sort of agony. It feels too good.

Not just close. He feels his orgasm rock him to his core. He hands splay hard against the table at either side of Alo. Gripping. Stiff. Claws, nails. Whatever they are. They hold on tightly while Alo holds on tightly to him. And the sound he makes shatters him.

[bleadhound]

He hardly feels the pain of the tender skin splitting  —or maybe he’s just not one to mind it now,  in this moment,  where the boundaries of his body and psyche are drawn tighter than a razor wire.  And he’s buried beneath it all,  dirt clods in his lungs,  gravel ground in his eyes.  Buried,  but not without use  —the merciless cinch of him that makes up Kerry’s true home,  the monster blood that runs hot  —boiling,  steaming in his body until Kerry’s drawing it out with teeth and tongue.

Kerry’s feeding from him.  He’s hungry.  He’s felt it once before,  also in New Orleans,  back when Kerry’s organs were falling out of him by a butcher’s cut and he was bleeding all over town.  But then wasn’t like this  —incomplete,  without the fervent,  purposeful thrusts his boy blesses him with,  riding him through the vicious quakes of his orgasm until tears are clinging to his curly lashes.  His blood is hot and spilling down the side of his neck.  His head has long since been untethered from his body,  but maybe the blood loss is making him extra emotional.

Maybe all he’s wanted to do all this time was give something good to Kerry. 

Doesn’t Kerry know?  Alo’s been useless for all of these weeks now that he’s not calling his name. 

Alo’s making shameless sounds with his lurid mouth as Kerry grips him so tight at the hips,  he’s certain the bone might splinter.  He’s certain he doesn’t mind.  That he’d welcome it,  welcomes the extra leverage as Kerry drives his cock into him with deliberate,  aching thrusts.  His own ample seed is hot on his chest,  body more of a reflex  —a nerve left raw and over-exposed to the elements.  But it doesn’t matter how much he writhes,  squirms beneath the solid weight of his paramour.  Doesn’t matter that he’s white-knuckling Kerry’s back,  digging his nails into glistening skin,  panting like a goddamn dog in between the vulgar exhale of his affirmations. 

       “Honey…  fuck  —”  He drags out the sound with his chest,  a little whimper caught against his ribcage as he draws Kerry in with quaking hands.  His knees are shuddering,  body aching,  nerves singing,  vision blurring,  but he’s not letting go.   He’s gripping Kerry to his neck.  He’s getting fucked and fed from at the same time.  It’s making his head spin.  He’s starting to drool.  He’s hardly aware of anything else but the thick column of muscle beating into him,  the well-loved mouth drawing at his blood as though it were ichor,  live-enhancing,  mind-melting.  Maybe it is.  He hopes it is.  This is the closeness he’s been dreaming of.

Kerry hits him at that good spot and Alo’s shaking knees are falling open in response,  jaw going slack.  His eyes burn with tears,  vision going with blood loss,  compounded pleasure.  He manages to speak,  grated,  as raw as he feels now.

      “Fuck.  Holy fuck.”   He’s not thinking about his words anymore.  Brain-fried,  dead.  That was Kerry’s effect.    “Right there,  honey.  Right the fuck there.”

The blood adds something more poignant to this dance between them. The taste—tangy, sharp, and sending pleasure signals straight through his skull. His thrusts have let up some, now centering to a hard and purposeful pounding than a rampant rutting—all creaks and shakes of the table now drawn out long and full of creaks. He keeps himself deep inside of the other, nudging that place inside of Alo that sends the man beneath him crying and shaking like a boy. He hears his name being called out. The cursing, the crying. He hears it muffled under the delayed loop in his brain. Over and over. A nice muffled vibrance as he draws blood out of the wound now opened in Alo's throat.

Kerry was very hungry. Had he been this hungry this whole time? He hadn't fed since the last time.

Some gas station between Mayflower, Texas and here. That shite of a man who had thought it wise to mince words and be so forthcoming behind the counter.

Kerry hadn't fed since then. And he hadn't fucked since before that. He liked to think Jack didn't count. Not in this way. Not in anyway close to this. Whatever lustful thing he had with that stranger (no matter the voicemails that Jack had left on his machine), it didn't come close to this thing between he and Alo. Could anyone ever get this close? Would anyone else ever understand this type of hunger?

The noises that leave Kerry are just plain aggressive. Gruesome and sopping wet as the blood runs hot down Alo's heaving clavicle. His hands twitch and grip so firm that he knows he'll leave bruises on the muscled curve of Alo's hips; right there on that dip where he was cradling him close and using him for leverage as he fucks him. He feels the other's seed—warm and generous— all over his stomach. Even when the man bows back—the back of his pretty head finding the table, Kerry follows in pursuit. He's hungry after all. He's ravenous. He wants that precious thing that Alo gives him even as the man curses and twitches beneath him like some prey animal.

He likes the way the other takes it.

And the blond continues to feed even as he rocks into the other; thighs still drawn out around him, the blood hitting in droplets against the hard wood of the table.

[bleadhound]

does anyone wanna be this 70 year old gay man's mom or

[bleadhound]

His waiting orgasm is filling up the back of his throat,  drowning his gaze with heat and lustre as the table creaks with every shudder of their writhing,  sweating bodies.  Squeeze of muscle and sink of flesh.  It’s not fair,  he thinks,  that he can’t last as long as he wants to  —as he needs to.  Downright fucked that he can’t take this moment and stretch it into a goddamn eternity.  He’d take it on a loop,  over and over again,  if that was how life could work.  If that was how anything could work. 

But he can only stave off what builds,  and builds,  and builds,  for so long.  He can only grit his teeth and weep achingly against the burning cramp in his body,  like snakes writhing,  like a hand squeezing into a fist.  Blood vessels throb.  Every part of him aches to feel Kerry’s striking him fully,  repeatedly,  filling him with so many thick inches that Alo can’t breathe even anymore.  He’s all panting,  wet-tongued,  hearing Kerry tell him to take it with a desperate little nod.  Yes.  He’ll take it.  He’ll take whatever Kerry’s willing to give him. 

It’s the bite that really sends him over,  casting that stone within the glass castle  —razor-edged and sinking into the artery that throbs,  bleeding at his throat.  Alo sees burning white.  Oh,  he’s bleeding.  Kerry just bit him.  He can smell his own blood amid their sweet sweat,  arousal.

       "Oh... Oh Christ..."   He sounds on the verge of tears.  It's raw in his voice.    "Ker  —"

He's cumming.  He's bleeding and now he's cumming with tight fists and a twitching mouth.  It spills out of him in thick,  agonized strokes,  punctuated with each hard thrust,  bury of Kerry’s cock at that perfect point inside of him.  He is segmented,  fractured.  Locking around Kerry so tight that his mind breaks completely.  He is the burning weight that comes down upon him,  crushing his ribcage and caving in his skull.  He is all heat,  tears breaking,  dark and damp head thrown back against the table so hard but he can’t differentiate the stars he’s seeing anymore.  Not any longer. 

     “Kerry.”   Name gasped,  brain fried.  He’s writhing reflexively,  squirming beneath the cage of his boy with a cry —hard,  pitched and aching,  body shuddering from overstimulation.  But Kerry’s still rutting at him,  his sweet mouth on Alo’s wound.  Alo’s face is wet with sweat,  with tears.  He cries out sharp as Kerry drives in deep,  all shakes.  Hard trembles.  Earth quakes. Kerry's not letting up. It's agonizing. It's wonderful.    “Jesus fuck.  Christ.  Kerry.  Please.”  

Their bodies are slick and dripping with sweat now—skin sticking, sliding, breath catching where collarbones meet damp necks. The air’s thick enough to taste, humid like the inside of a fever dream. Every inch of contact feels louder in the silence. Kerry’s palm curls hard and tight against the small of Alo’s back, steadying him as they move, and it’s hot there—burning almost, like the heat’s been trapped between them too long.

Alo’s shoulder blades glisten, salt catching in the low light, and Kerry traces a line down his spine with his thumb without thinking. There’s something hypnotic about it. The way they’re both breathing like they ran here. The way every part of them keeps sliding back together—no space left, no cool air between. Just back and forth. The two of them making use of one another in a way that only animals can. Animals divulged entirely in this ache.

I want him.

Why does it hurt to want him?

Why does it feel this good too?

The table beneath them jerks, rhythm out of sync now and then as Kerry adjusts his grip, his weight. It creaks like it might give, but neither of them care. Not with Alo gasping under him, gripping whatever he can to stay grounded, not with Kerry leaning into the noise, the heat, the unspoken mess of it all. He hears the other curse. The way his voice sounds; all weepy and agitated. Oh, baby.

Pressure builds. They’re a knot of tension and sweat and need—and Kerry can feel that encroaching pleasure. Alo is going to smolder before Kerry can and all Kerry can do is make use of it; riding the other out even after completion. A nice and steady ecstasy.

"Take it..., take it a little longer—fuck, just take it..."

He feels it between them. Not just inside of Alo but inside of himself; a building crescendo. The sounds of bullying hips, the gasping, the writhing, the frenetic nature of everything. Kerry withdraws their eye contact; pupils blown and almost overwhelmed before he draws his focus elsewhere. Thrumming veins and arteries. His laps his mouth around the others throat and bites down. Hard enough to cut, hard enough to taste copper pennies. His eyes fogging up red and wet lashed.

[bleadhound]

gay ............... fucking

[bleadhound]

Lurid,  tremulous.  Alo is shaking from head to toe,  locked in this cage of compounded bliss and ache,  tooth and tongue.  The world around him is chipping away with every fluid drive of Kerry’s hips,  assault of his cock striking him so deep that his eyes are knocking back from the second his boy’s hands grip at the small of his back and drag him forward.  That impossible closeness.  Any closer and they’d explode,  like fucking hydrogen atoms   —but he understands,  now.  He understands the merge of atoms.  He understands that real hunger,  true hunger,  is wanting something that you can’t have and still being able to taste it at the back of your throat. 

The table’s groaning beneath their shared weight,  the merciless shove of Kerry’s hips burying balls-deep against him  —chipping away at the world,  rendering him wet-tongued and compliant and close,  way too close.  He thinks he hears the shriek of a landline,  somewhere,  buried in the distant ground for all it mattered to him.  For all anything mattered but the tightening knot,  compounding,  pressurized aerosol in his deep abdomen that demands more and more of him with every rutting thrust.  Whites of his eyes burning with fire.  Kerry’s salty-sweet sweat warming his tongue,  drenching his mouth.  He licks a long strip up the side of his honey's face just to taste that ichor.

Close.  So close.  His blunt fingernails are biting into the backs of Kerry’s arms,  knees digging hard into the other’s side   —locking him in place,  caging him close the best he can while his long-lashed eyes squeeze shut against burning tears

He’s fitful.  Agonized.  The orgasm threatening to unfurl,  stretch itself in his abdomen  —its rising up in the back of his throat,  driving his hips to stutter into the tight-locked contact.  He’s so close it hurts.  It cramps in his deep abdomen when Kerry speaks,  languid,  so kindly reminding Alo how good he feels.  Heat fissures,  tight muscle coiling like so many snakes locked inside of him,  drawing him out thinner than a piece of leather stretched over a drum. He’s losing track of everything but that ache of mounting pressure inside of him,  twisting his boyish features,  burning in the backs of his eyes.

       Hold on for me,  just a little longer.

Alo makes a steep,  pitched noise in his chest.  Was he so easy to read?  He’s got no sense to question it,  it’s being knocked out of him with every thrust.     “M’close,  Ker.  Y-you keep hitting me like that…  honey,  honey  —I won’t be able to help it…”    Ragged whisper.  The air between them is rife with heat,  sensual succor.  Their foreheads press.  For a brief and very dangerous moment,  their eyes meet.  Kerry’s hips snap.  The head of his love’s cock strikes him deep and hits him right,  scintillating,  fissures bursting white behind his eyes and his lurid mouth rounding out  —aching,  too erotic to be pornographic.      “Fuck.”

Kerry breathes hard against Alo’s mouth, their foreheads touching, sweat beading down and along his freckled back. Muscle's move in liquid motion. Every movement into the others body feels like remembering—like reclaiming something he thought was gone for good. And maybe it is. Maybe it all slips away in the morning. But for now, Kerry lets himself fall into it, into him, and forgets everything else. He even ignores his phone ringing; the land-line going off in the corner of the room somewhere. It's all just a buzz. It doesn't matter to him. He knows Toni is calling and yet the anxiety is gone.

It continues to ring. The sound of it trickles against the walls.

It doesn't matter. The noise outside the apartment, doesn't matter. There is no hesitations.

All of his focus is on the other. Alo’s heat, his sounds, the way his fingers dig into Kerry’s shoulders like he’s trying to stay tethered to the moment—it pulls something loose and trembling from inside him. He feels the other coil impossibly tight. He doesn't know how to describe what it's like to be inside the other without thinking about every muscle, every inch of friction, that quiet buzz behind the eyes that happens when the pleasure gets so insane that it makes his vision blurry.

Alo makes a noise like a frightened animal. God, yes. Fuck, yes. Kerry shudders; all mouth, all gasping for air. His brows furrow when he concentrates on the sensation. The hands, the hair, the way the other sounds as he starts working his hips back in rhythm. They roll in sync. Tears are hot in the other's eyes. Kerry can feel his own sweat. Beading, rolling into his vision. He tastes salt between them when he kisses the other.

Something about the angle gets him.

Kerry drags his hands from Alo's knees, only to grip at the small of the other's back with biting intention. Gripping, Pulling. Guiding the other towards him while Kerry props a knee up against the edge of the table; the two of them just sweaty limbs fucking each other with purpose.

"F-fuck, that... that right there... like that. Fuck, 'Lo. You feel so good." It only takes a couple of languid thrusts to recognize the sensation in the other, the way the other's features are puckering up, the noises he's making. Christ, the other was close wasn't he? He was already burning at the edges. He's familiar enough with Alo to know when the man is all embers and smoldering heat, when he's about to erupt from the friction alone.

"...Hold on for me, just a little longer..."

[bleadhound]

[bleadhound]

all gone now

[bleadhound]

Ceaseless rut of his boy’s hips piston-like against him is stealing his breath,  blurring his eyes  —the harder Kerry hits him,  the more difficult it is for Alo to contain the lurid sounds that tumble past his mouth,  swollen,  wet from their shared contact and the drool that threatens to drip.  Can’t help that.  Kerry’s fucking him so hard that he’s having trouble seeing anything beyond the full shape of his mouth,  those heavy-lidded eyes.  Tongue hot in his mouth,  words low  —husky against his lips.  Fucking hot.  He struggled to fathom his blood getting hot for anyone else like it does Kerry. 

Struggles to fathom anything beyond that hot column of muscle beating down his walls with a merciless insistence.  Kerry guides him to open up and Alo’s body is responding like a reflex,  a nerve,  drawing tight before his knees fall slack  —before his body shudders and takes heed,  relaxing,  willing Kerry to sink so deep that Alo’s vision burns with water.  He’s choking on it,  the weight of it hot and shoving so deep,  too deep.  Finds that sweet little bundle buried deep inside of him.  He’s the only man to do that.  The notion of another finding their way so deep makes Alo want to vomit. 

Not now,  though.  Now he’s wet-tongued,  wet-eyed.  Now Kerry is pounding away at him,  every sound slick,  wet,  forceful and then yielding  —and Alo’s gripping,  pawing,  tearing at his boy’s back.  His cock is weeping sweet against the hard flinch of his abdomen.  That tight spool inside of him is contracting like a cramp,  emboldened with every roll of Kerry’s hips  —every forceful shove of his cock,  so determined to find that space in him again.  That little home,  that refuge. 

His stomach is starting to burn.  Toes twitch,  curly lashes flutter and he’s feeling at Kerry’s face —palming at his cheeks,  drawing at his hair,  licking at his mouth.  Everything that he’s missed endlessly.  Everything that he cannot accept that he must go without.  

His,  he thinks like a dog in his skull.  He’s mine.  I’m his.  Can’t he feel that?  Teeth dug,  jaw locked at the throat.  There were snakes that ate one another.  Who was to say that other animals don’t do that,  too?

Alo makes a strangled noise in his chest as Kerry’s pace quickens  —groan of the table paling in comparison to the languid groans that pass Alo’s lips,  near-boyish  —fitful.  It’s that cramping in his stomach,  the twisting of his deep abdomen  —he knows Kerry can feel that twist,  strangle,  the lock around his thick cock that makes Alo’s hips snap forward in tandem with Kerry’s quick thrusts. 

He’s close.  It’s embarrassingly quick,  isn’t it?  And Kerry has barely touched him.  Frustration burns quick in him,  a stubborn will to stave off the feeling as it comes.  But it’s written all over his face,  shameless,  flushed and tense —all knitted dark brows,  burnished eyes wet with tears that stick,  cling to lashes.  His mouth is bitten flush,  the shape of it parted  —aching for more.  He pants hot into Kerry’s mouth,  fingers raking up and down his boy’s biceps  —breath hot,  thick. 

     “Shit.”  He tries to swallow,  lashes flutter.  He nods quickly.       “Th-that’s it,  baby.  That’s it.  Christ.  Christ.  You’re so fuckin’ deep.”  Another drive of Kerry’s hips and he’s moaning loud,  obscene,  dragging Kerry into him  —grinding his hips with vicious need.   His fogged eyes on Kerry.  His jaw set,  tight.  He couldn't come.  Not yet.  Not now.  

Kerry breathes against Alo’s mouth, his voice caught somewhere between a whisper and a growl. The room is thick with heat, with the press of skin and memory, and he doesn’t care if the walls are thin. Doesn't care if the neighbors hear or what they are able to hear. That doesn't matter to him. His ears were perked up to the sound of Alo's whimpering. The slight creak to the table as Kerry rocks against it. The sounds of sweatied thighs rubbing against his waist, the nice deep thud of hips against aching hips. The outside world doesn't matter. He can hardly hear any of it anyway.

All that matters is this: Alo beneath him, flushed and real and alive. The way he yields without hesitation. The way he clings. The way he smiles when the rutting becomes more hard and beating.

Alo talks about how he isn't used to this anymore. How sad it is. Kerry shudders. He licks the inside of the other's mouth with amorous intention before sucking on his lips, speaking against his cheek.

"...Then open up for me more, baby... C'mon, it feels too good..." Kerry's hands draw up against the lengths of Alo's legs. Nice, sturdy, strong legs. Soft skin. Hairs prickling and sweaty. He palms at the inside of the other's knees, hoisting Alo's legs further apart. He invites himself in. He feels him sink further inside the other. No fight back. No restraint. A nice and heavy kind of satiation. Christ. "See?... fuck, you're all opened up now..."

He doesn't ease up on the weight. He wants to be this deep. He wants to feel everything. The pause his hips take from the angle doesn't last long. He goes back to rolling his hips, hammering the other greedily into the table.

And the other feels so fucking good from the inside. It's been so long since he had a good fuck. Since he felt something like this. All of his nerves were singing. He feels the pleasure in his hips, his legs, his ass. There's always something so premeditated and animalistic in the way they find one another. He feels it now. He gasps against the other's mouth as Alo draws him in by his hair and shoulders.

Just like that.

He nods quickly. Eyelids heavy but pupils blown, all chemical from the desire. He's almost afraid to look into the other's eyes. Dangerous. It was dangerous to look into the other's eyes when he loved him this much. He feels the other coiling. Good.

"Right there... That's the spot ... I can feel it." And he picks up the pace.

[bleadhound]

Wasn't like begging was against his nature  —but he doesn't like to beg,  is the thing,  to anyone except for Kerry.  For Kerry,  he's too willing  —-because unlike everyone else in the world,  Kerry was never mean when Alo took to begging.  Kerry wasn't mean to him in general.  Kerry never deprived him or held him at arms-length,  paranoid,  unsettled by the ugliness of a man who needs something so bad that he's willing to break for it.  For Kerry,  Alo can beg.  He can beg and feel open and raw and he doesn't flinch when he does it.  He didn't think that was possible.  And then he met Kerry Lange. 

Heated affirmation tastes like confection at the back of his throat.  The rasped cadence of his once-lover's voice burning low in his chest,  grating in his throat  —tantalizing sound,  Alo's heart is beating at nine pulse points,  and an extra now pinned  —throbbing,  leaking against his hard abdomen as Kerry's sculpted hands grip fiendishly tight at the cut of his waist.  Alo doesn't mind.  He favors it  —Kerry's hard touch,  the dark-purple bruises left behind by the earnest grasp of his hands,  sweet gnaw of his mouth.  Now,  especially.  Without a doubt,  he has gone too long without the other.  It makes him desperate.  It makes him willing to bend,  to break  —as long as it was Kerry applying the pressure. 

Easy.  This wasn't some anonymous truck stop fuck off the I-15 near Barstow.  Wasn't a blind fuck through a hole in some sad little cowboy bar on the outskirts of Needles.  Wasn't even like his first fuck,  which was closer to making love but closer to just being young,  with a man's whose face he can't remember anymore.  Nah.  What did he know,  until he met Kerry?  Nothing,  absolutely nothing.

But after?  The thought cracks through Alo's heat-obscured skull like a branch of lightning as Kerry's slender waist draws fluid against him.  Frightening notion,  there being an "after"  —but there always is,  isn't there?  Even if they're seeing stars now,  what happens when they're all used up?  When Kerry's looking at him,  veil of needy desperation long since dissolved?  

And what would happen,  when Kerry found out about Jack?      Oh,  God.   Thought like that would've been enough,   maybe  ( big maybe ),  to knock him out  —sober him up.  But then Kerry kisses him.  It's like diffusing a hydrogen bomb.  Satin mouth,  swollen and tasting of them both  —the slow,  but urgent press of Kerry's sweet tongue filling his mouth.   His once-lover's cock pushing,  sinking into the cinch of him.

Alo's no longer thinking about the after.  Kerry's fully sheathing the beating girth of him inside of Alo  —drawing him tighter than a bow,  the reflexive ripple of tightening muscle and blinding pain-pleasure burning the backs of his eyes until they're wet and prompting his body to lock  —wrangle,  drag Kerry in with moans lurid,  wet on his lips.  His mouth open and yielding to Kerry's contact.

Pitched.  He's making those soft,  gravely noises when Kerry's filling him up like this.  Then he's drawing back,  just when Alo's about getting used to the side of him  —he's sliding that thick cock out of him.  Alo's tipping his head back,  breaking contact without considering.  

       ...that's it. 

Hips shove  —rut,  burying the thick chord of his cock back inside oh him full again  —lights flash,  burning bright in the backs of Alo's eyes  —knees knock,  ragged ache of his mouth sounds something so lurid,  he hopes the neighbors can't hear.  But then he kinda hopes they do.  Eyes rolling back as that pain-pleasure dominates the expanding knot in his chest.  

        "Jesus,   yes  —"   The angry rut's got him panting.  Excited.  More than.  His knees are locking Kerry in.  His hands are gripping at the back of his neck,  his hair.  Mouth sloppy against his own.   "—just like that,  honey.  Shit.  Shit."  Burning,  breathless.  There's a strangled laugh in his chest.  Crooked smile.    "Feels so fuckin' good.  Hardly used to you anymore.  Jesus.  Ain't that sad."    It's was true.  Even after Kerry's attention,  he's tighter than a drum  —clenched tight around his lover.  

Kerry breathes him in. It’s a trembling inhale, like he’s trying to fill a part of himself that’s been hollow for far too long. Alo’s voice rings in his ears—raw, wrecked, pleading in a way that Kerry’s not sure that he's heard from the other before. And when their foreheads touch, it jolts something loose in him. The soft bump, the shared breath, the sweat slick between them—these are the things that break him apart.

He shouldn’t have said it. Not aloud. Not like that. But now it’s there—between them, beating like a second pulse.

Alo pulls him in again, desperate and warm, and Kerry lets himself fall into it. His hands settle at Alo’s waist, fingers dragging over skin he’s memorized in too many pieces over too many nights. The request—please, honey—rings in his chest. He likes the begging. It makes Kerry gasp against the others mouth before sucking the other's tongue in for a wet and greedy kiss. He feels their bodies melding together. Flesh and bone. Muscles quaking.

God.

I want to explore his insides.

I want him all over me.

“I know,” Kerry whispers, voice low and uneven. “I know. I need it too, christ I need it too....” He feels crazy when Alo's hands go wandering on him. Nice and needy hands; pawing, gripping, slipping into sensitive flesh. He feels the other spreading him, coaxing him, reminding him of all the other times they fucked around like this in the bedroom, in the bed of his truck, the shower, the kitchen floor. Christ, all of it. Over and over again. Nice, raw, slippery. Meat against meat, bone against bone. Scratches, burns, and rivers of sweat. The kind of fucking that left his body loose and sore the next day.

He grips the other's hips now. Hard, drawing Alo in close to him while he settles between the other's legs, the other's cock slick and pressing up against his abdomen. His mouth finds Alo’s again, not rushed this time, but soft. Lingering. Tongue searching the inside of the other's mouth while his cock presses, and slips inside the other in one prolonged and sturdy thrust. The other stretches. He feels him, like a rubber-band, expanding and dripping with Kerry's saliva. Fuck. He hardly needs his eyes for navigation, he knows the other's body through touch alone. He knows through smell, through taste, through his gripping hands. And the sensation scrapes over him in chills and jitters.

"...that's it." He exhales against the other's lips, his hips already retracting before pressing in harder, angrier.

[bleadhound]

It’s a surprise… Wear something nice.

[bleadhound]

It never was right that he was meant to adjust to a reality where Kerry didn’t want him any longer.  It wasn’t right in the same way that things weren’t right when they were flat-out lies.  It was making him crazy  —not the loneliness alone,  but the overwhelming understanding that Kerry does still want him.  But the pros of being with Alo were outweighed by the cons.  There were too many wounds,  deep and festering.  Alo had unwittingly dragged Kerry over hot coals,  acted surprised when Kerry complained of the thing.  He chose Claire.  He was always choosing Claire,  following Claire. 

Sometimes,  he thinks he’s gonna start acting like Claire.  Or maybe that wasn’t right.  Maybe it was just that being with Claire relaxed that tight band in his chest enough for the monster heart to peek its way through.  He got worse.  He regressed.  He was wayward enough for his violence to drown him.  Claire’s was the hand that reached through lately.

Not always,  though.  And not forever.  He wants to say he’d give her up if it meant Kerry came back to him.  With Kerry’s lurid mouth licking him from the inside out,  taunting edge of muscle delving those tantalizing circles  —he can say it,  it’d be true.  

It’s not just the contact.  Anyone could do this,  but it wouldn’t make him feel how Kerry makes him feel.  It wouldn’t hold a goddamn candle to the wildfires burning in the pit of his stomach as his sweet boy punishes him with that lavish,  keen-drawn tongue.  The hot gasp of breath against his entry,  breathing ragged,  pulling at his wet cock while telling him to relax,  baby,  that’s good  —you’re so tight. 

Alo’s head knocks back,  adam’s apple bobbing in time with the hard swallow  —knot tightening in his belly,  rigid,  flexing.  Every part of him wants to lock around Kerry.  Find himself buried so deep that he could no longer sense the boundaries that separated them  —their skin seamless,  muscle and tendon merged  —it’s always like that with Kerry.  He’s never wanted anyone so bad.  This sort of feeling  —like burning hot beneath the sun,  like dying every good death that he could never die.

Velvet,  aching sounds spill past his mouth,  flushed and bitten  —the rigid stutter of his hips unsteadier than the hand drawing long,  svelte strokes against his cock.  Wet.  It’s all wet sound and Alo’s mouth is laving,  drenched with the same arousal that dribbles down Kerry’s jaw,  glistening his rubied lips  —smearing wet,  hot,  flushed against his sac. 

Alo’s mouth falls open.  Hips stutter,  agonized,  against the lavished contact.  The scintillating sweetness of hearing the drag of Kerry’s zipper,  feeling Kerry’s wet tongue cleaning him better than any shower could.  Alo’s half-blind with his arousal,  heartbeat no longer just in his chest. 

Kerry’s working his way up.  Not fast enough for Alo,  who grabs at his boy by the shoulders  — his narrow waist,  defined muscle and flushed,  slick flesh.  Fingers dig,  grip.  The small of his back.  His little dimples.  His grip is knocking away Kerry’s jeans so that he might feel at the supple heat of Kerry’s ass.  

Firm,  but not so firm that Alo can’t dig his grip into Kerry’s ass and spread,  splay,  the agonized grate of his chest burning from the allure  —the attraction.  It really was that serious.  People who weren’t meant to be together don’t touch like this,  they don’t feel like this. 

      Wanna make it feel better?       Fuck.       I want you. 

Copper eyes flash hot and his short nails are gripping,  scraping at the fleshy seam of Kerry’s ass  —up his back,  seething with heat and sweat.  He’s nodding like he knows nothing else,  breathless,  laughing shaky.  Desperate dog.  Knees spread,  thighs flushed as his hands grip at Kerry by the shoulders,  the back of the head.    “Jesus.  Yeah.  I do.  I fucking do.”  Drags him close,  till their foreheads are bumping and they’re sharing breaths.  Until he’s close to tasting Kerry again.  Until he can’t see anything but Kerry’s face  —the one he loves so much,  the one he goes to sleep thinking about,  the one that flashes in his mind every time he wakes up in the morning.

Kerry shouldn’t have said those words.  Now Alo isn’t even gonna forget it. 

       “I want you inside,”  heated murmur.  Historically,  he’s never had any reason to know these words.  But with Kerry?  It happens.  For the first time with anyone,  it happens.  He drags his boy in,  fitful.  Alo presses a hot,  open-mouthed kiss to Kerry’s mouth.  He’s never tasted so good than on Kerry’s tongue. 

       “Please,  honey.”   Near-whined.  He's not used to begging,  but he's awfully good at it.   "Just fuck me.  Just need to feel you inside'a me.  Please."

Yeah. He is hard. Cock curved and painfully stiff in his pants.

Kerry can feel it—his own pulse, deep and rhythmic, thrumming through him in jolts that make his hands tremble and his thoughts blur. It's not just arousal. It's the tension. The history. The ache. Every breath he pulls in feels thin, like it can’t quite fill his lungs. Sweat prickles at the nape of his neck, collects at the small of his back. His skin is a livewire—shoulders taut, nerves drawn tight across bone like strings ready to snap.

If he could relate this sensation to anything, it was being strung out and high in the middle of a blizzard. Sensations on top of sensations.

There’s something about being with Alo that undoes him. There has been very little rhyme or reason in their relationship other than the instinct to want each other.

And not just any man can make Kerry feel like this. Kerry’s tried someone else before—tried to build something new, something simple and purely lustful with Jack. But Jack had felt like walking through someone else’s dream. Mismatched rhythms. Quiet misunderstandings that never quite got loud enough to fix. Jack was a soft war. Jack scared him. Jack reminded him that Kerry was forever someone's fleshy prize, not something else, not a person.

But this? This doesn’t feel numb. This feels alive. Hot and real and completely overwhelming.

And it shouldn’t. Should it? Maybe it should.

Alo and Kerry broke up. It’s not lost on him—none of it is. This isn’t the moment you’re supposed to find your way back in. But bloody fucking christ, he wants. Wants until his chest aches with it. Until his fingers curl too tightly into bedsheets or skin. Until it hurts a little to breathe through the wanting.

Kerry doesn’t know how to stop chasing him. He doesn’t know if he ever did.

Their whole history is made of moments like this—half-measures and almosts. Desire tucked into silence. Pain wrapped in apologies neither of them ever finish saying. They orbit each other in fits and starts, a dance with no music, no finish line. Just this quiet, familiar burn that never really leaves.

And maybe that’s what undoes him most.

He’s lonely. So achingly lonely that some mornings it feels like grief. Like he’s missing someone who hasn’t died but simply left the room and never came back. Someone who still shows up in dreams. In songs. In the feel of hands that don’t fit right. In the silence that falls when the laughter fades.

Now Alo is here. And Kerry is here. And he's fueled by that punishing desire. Alo speaks in that sweet and yearning voice of his. Saying syrupy things like "honey" while begging. And while Kerry's eating him out, no less. He jabs his tongue inside the other, penetrating with ease. He laps his tongue, digging, tormenting, drawing it in circles and then spitting in place to keep the other warm and lubricated.

"Good, baby... that's good - now fuckin' relax... you're so tight."

His hand still stays curled and vice around the other. Yanking and dragging out into a indecisive rhythm. Sweat pools at the crooks of elbows and knees. Hands dig into pale strands of hair. Alo's words give into a sense of humor. Kerry gasps, lifts his face and drags his mouth back over the other's sac with unyielding passion. He sucks flesh into his wanting mouth; rivers of drool grazing over naked and pink plains of skin. He only breaks from the trance-like motions when he feels himself beating against the front of his own zipper. And so he caves. Reaches down, unzips himself with a grunt and let's himself out.

Fuck. He can feel his own precum on his fingers. He let's out a hoarse, surprised laugh and draws himself up between Alo's thighs.

"Wanna make it feel better? Fuck. I want you." Things that shouldn't be said. Truths that can't be denied.

[bleadhound]

[bleadhound]

[bleadhound]

many of you

[bleadhound]

The Kiss of Life, Rocco Morabito (1967)

[bleadhound]

Kerry’s mouth feels just as Alo remembers it.  Flush of tongue,  soft and wet  —the sucking stretch of his wide mouth swallowing him down inch by inch.  Alo moans when the depth of Kerry’s throat coils around him and the man is gagging,  soft,  around the girth of him.  He’s drawing back and taking Alo with a merciful hand.  Alo’s lashes flutter to see the Kerry’s   He strokes him full,  languid  —Alo’s hips shudder,  cock flushing bright with ache. 

It’s just like he remembers it,  dulcet press of Kerry’s mouth covering his thighs,  wincing muscle.  That luminous gaze is hinged on him alone,  and Alo is too aware of it  —desperate,  yielding,  too willing to be seen.  He can feel Kerry’s gaze like hands dragging down the cut of his waist,  his naval  —hard pubic bone,  the many scars,  bullet-holes that litter him.  He feels it all.  He flushes in spite of this,  sweat dampening his chest  —the cut of his waistline.  Needy thing twists in his chest,  cavernous ache in his chest. 

It’s better than a dream.  But it’s not enough.  His palms itch,  ache to touch Kerry himself.  His muscles tense as if in preparation for lunging,  pinning,  caging.  The need glints dark and heady in his eyes as Kerry’s voice grates out,  words issuing a new surge of heat to pass over him  —knees stiffen,  quiver. 

Lewd.  Kerry likes those lewd,  filthy words.  Alo knows this.  He hadn’t thought that he favored it himself until he met Kerry.  Until words like shame and embarrassment started to shift on their rigid foundations.  He was always so ashamed to say what he wanted.  But Kerry never let him get away with it  —he likes it best when Alo’s communicative,  not afraid to use his words.  He’s inclined to while he can.  There is a horrible underlying fear that Alo does not know when this will end,  now.  The ground was not safe.  But he’ll take it.  

With Kerry touching him like that,  he’ll take anything.  The sudden grip at the back of his knees has him making a pitched sound in his chest,  

       “Oh,  fuck.  Shit.  Ker.”

His hooded eyes flicker wide   —hard gasp,  tough in his chest,  as Kerry takes the tight mound of his balls into his lavish mouth.  He’s breathing ragged,  throwing his head back against the rigid stutter of his hips into that languid hand.  Jesus Christ.  It feels like heaven is suckling on him,  tasting him for what he’s worth  —the fleshy dip of his tongue,  shameless,  soon delving against the tight seam of him  —and Alo’s shaking,  shuddering,  knees locking tight against the soft-tongued intrusion.

        “That feels good.  Honey.  Honey.  You don’t know—”   Thick words broken by the hand pumping his cock and that velvet tongue burying against his entrance.  His vision goes white,  hands fighting to splay  —grip at the table,  Kerry’s hair,  choking breaths.  He’s shaking with how good it feels,  burning hot behind his eyes.  He’s shaking with how good it is. 

He’s shaking because it still isn’t enough. 

His opposing knee dips forward.  He feels the hard ridge of Kerry’s cock beating tight in his jeans.  His vision blurs  and he shudders.  

       “You’re fuckin’ hard.”   Managed between breaths.  His words thick with want.    “That hurt,  honey?”

Kerry doesn’t respond at first—he just lets the sound of Alo’s voice wash over him, thick and trembling, ragged with the kind of hunger that speaks louder than any plea. He moves slower now, more deliberate. His fingers skim the inside of Alo’s thighs again, reverent, like a memory being made flesh again. There’s something sacred in the quiet way they fit together—like they’ve done this a thousand times but never quite like this. Not with this ache. Not after so long apart.

Kerry’s mouth feels raw and wet—a pleasurable moan resounding as he continues to lewdly lower and then pull himself back. He breathes deep through his nose, and the scent of him makes his chest feel heavy, makes his eyes sting. Not just with plain desire but with something carnal, more flesh and bone and intimate. The kind of yearning that chews its way through ribs and settles deep in the spine.

When he looks up, Alo’s eyes are on him. That same gaze—burning, open. The blond gags a little bit when he feels the other hit the back of his throat and he withdraws with spit shining his mouth. He draws his hand around Alo's cock with swift motion; continuing the contact without much pause so he can now kiss a pathway down the backs of the others thighs.

Fuck. Alo already smelled like sex. And his knees were all flushed pink, his thighs, the nice and sculpted plains of his hips, his ass.

He draws back, just enough to look, to see. Alo’s body laid out like something sacred and sore. The flicker of light dances over the cut of his hips, the faint trace of older bruises, the patchy constellations of freckles and scars Kerry remembers tasting before. Every inch of him feels earned. And God, Kerry missed him.

"Keep talking to me like that... I like it when you talk to me like that." His voice scrapes, desperate. He likes it dirty. He likes it when Alo speaks because he sounds so messy and boyish.

Kerry's free hand roams with reverence now, not greed. But he asserts himself. They skate across firm thighs and then linger at the hollows behind his knees where he draws the mans leg back, baring up pink and ripe flesh. He sucks the mans balls into his mouth, humming and moaning, before maneuvering his way even lower than that. He slips his tongue inside the other. And the fucker is sweet. Saccharine. He's got the ass of someone that doesn't take it often. And it turns Kerry's skin to pleasurable tremors before he starts lapping, drooling, impatiently. Hungry. He burrows his face shamelessly while his tattooed hand continues to tug and pull at the others cock.