#jw: game | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mimaveil · 4 months ago

Text

Haze (VIII)

Governing concept: Chatty mpreg political thriller, feat. an arranged marriage between two anointed sociopaths and the grownup hangups of their caretakers.

Summary: Permission to misbehave, with honor? or: sex as chronos <> sex as kairos

prev: the orchid and the wasp, worm moon, haze (i), haze (ii), haze (iii), haze (iv), haze (v), haze (vi), haze (vii)

cw: VERY nsfw, mention of child abuse

Nut on the carpet, and describe the weave.

“Yeah, don’t think your,” leaving the é ambiguous, “fee-on-say’s ready for an industry-grade fuck,” Boyd says, hurling his shirt out the en-suite door while catching his heel against the drawer pull of the vanity.

Off his right, within a pigtail yank, Eweyan flicks on the sonic. The shower’s diverter valve trims actually have factory-style wheel handles, matte black. Same with the sink faucet — Roman numerals etched on the gears.

After docking, the airyacht expedition module is serviced; bugs swapped, 630-gram terry sent for laundering, so 10ccs of Second House come—that’s the civilian term*—might get noticed on the pricey textiles.

Meaning, with all the congenital delays of investiture, they’ve got, say, 21 offline minutes for a tactical quickie plus wipedown before they’re ushered to some dais.

Under frosty incandescents, he licks a line up the curb cut of Eweyan’s torso—nice and crisp, from all those weighted repeaters. Barrel-leg fatigues, briefs, crew socks back-chucked out the door, the clunk of a vape falling out of pocket. Their quarters are hilariously, insultingly small.

“So try romance?” He finishes his thought with an inhale of peaty moss, Eweyan’s cock spring-loaded against his smirk.

Ricochet, the slick gore of Eweyan’s inner thighs: Make it as hard or easy as you like, but I want perfect form. As someone whose bpm crests at 70 during sex— the wearable on his wrist doesn’t even light up—Eweyan has an agenda. “Any idea what happens during this pony show?” he asks, puff of musk, as he saddles up on Boyd’s face.

Lube’s out, so. The blowjob buys him time on penny-round tile. Plus, the meditative sucking gets him hard, natively.

“Any time now,” Eweyan brats, rapping the sink-lip with his knuckles.

With a sigh, Boyd slips cock from mouth to fist. His sole knowledge of investiture protocol comes from shadow-scripts of the porno that the Eighth quashed production on.

“There’s a, tiara and some imperial swag, most likely a sword, jewel and mirror. Which you’d know,” tugging meanly on sponge, “if you read the dossier instead of posting your betrothed’s face-pic on r/am-i-ugly.” His neck creaks.

(The most upvoted comment, which Eweyan had shown him, was “looks like a seahorse but id still glaze it.”)

Toying with the beads of his rosary bracelet—the old-fashioned kind with ground-up rose petals in clay—Eweyan beckons him up. Not for a face-to-face kiss, he doesn’t like that. Obstructs his eyeline, which limits Boyd’s options.

Fine, intercrural’s kiddie league—phrasing—but with the lube jar empty, he’s not going to trust his junk to the travel toiletries of the Eighth. Hoisting himself up on knurled brass pulls (that’ll leave diamond marks on the palm, cute), he swivels Eweyan around to grip the washstand gears and sinks a bite into his ward’s left delt. They’re matched for height.

Huffing, in between pumps, the tassel swing of Eweyan’s braid, fist to cosplay-faucet: “Baby Scion gets on set and ritually informs his ancestors that he’s assuming power,” presumably without rimming, but joke’s on them:

If there’s a dumb idea, the military’s tested it twice.

If there’s a kink, the church holds patent.

“Uh, um, privy seal, state seal, scepter, juice box inna ‘jacent—courtyard to represent the ho,” re-adjusting their join, “ly people. Speech-speech-speech, vạn tuế, vạn tuế, vạn vạn tuế.” Lotta wig glue to keep the tiara on.

Shame about Salt Haze, Haze8 or whatever. He hadn’t been called in for that project, but the set designer Safira (?) had posted sketches: the great acrylic pavilion with good impact resistance, voile curtains on a quiet-glide pole top, the octagonal pedestals hoisting the minimalist throne.

Safira, right? Against Eweyan’s tight squirm, he tots up the names, beads clacking on rods, upper deck and lower deck, the marble slat tumbling on the bright girlish shag: Nera, Norfolk, Nomad, Bria, Kalindi, Weber, Boden, Ford, Corbett, Fairfax, Garner, Holton, Cedro, Roland, Baylor, Tyne, Greenwich, Gavin, Montego-on-Butler, wonder where they are now…

The whine startles them both. Hasty, backreach, Eweyan grabs his dick. In the anti-fog mirror, hexagonal: “Do you want to come in me?” his reflection asks, clumsy. The uncertainty rakes his mouth into softness, Boyd’s well-trained dick pulsing like live bait.

Quick, lie. Soft eject, Boyd drops a kiss to Eweyan’s spine, accent on the L2 and L4, sweat cooling on a rope braid. Sure, he could fuck him raw-to-rosy, drive him to a dirt parking lot of a beach. Pelt of tilapia from a surf shack, grease napkins, stare down the barrel hole of a red sun, a leather clutch cut like a picnic basket for his moon watch and Eweyan’s cherry vape. Every inch he sinks in him is another inch he’s not thinking about Liv, but.

God’s truth, they’re meant to be worn loose to each other.

Boyd’s jizz gutters the diamond knurling, so that drawer handle’s due for a wipe. He lets Eweyan come on some high-micron plating, laps up the evidence. Sex with men, in the wild, is like jazz; it’s just—yeah, swing. Blunt instrument, he briefly wonders how the Eighth Scion’s body plays, yeek.

Safrya! That was her name, he remembers the logo she drew. Y like the legs of the costume-throne lounge seat, likely scouted from an estate sale and re-upholstered in a washable for the money shots, and through it all, probably still more comfortable than every single fucking chair the Eighth has provided on this tour.

“What complaint against comfort do these freaks have?” Boyd says in the sonic, accidentally. The fennel and grated wasabi (the hell?) face-wash fries his sinuses.

“Right?” Eweyan gurgles around a toothbrush, naked except for his rosary bracelet and chain loafer suede mules. He lifts his braid to spit in the sink; the washcloth barely covers his chin. “I’ve been eating these cassava-root gummies—I think they’re for dogs.”

Nonchalantly, toweling off, “What did the Eighth want to borrow me for?” He’s read up on Ben’s law. Even what little he was offered—made him kinda sick.

Their clothes mingle on the scented, still-broken bed; afterwards, Boyd’s satin jacket lining will smell like juniper berry and red wine. Eweyan steps into his coat-dress with a shrug, hairline oily, rebraiding with his good side to Boyd.

“To feed you to the mountain. She likes bilateral symmetry,” touching his own cheek, scanning Boyd’s expression. Under the rose-clay rosary beads, Eweyan’s formal wearable flares ulcerated orange: Funny, Boyd’s never seen it that color before.

The hamster wheel in Boyd’s head whirls, slurry with come.

“Huh,” he says, holding his socks.

The bathroom door shuts of its own accord; the auto-tuned hornbill splits the silence.

“I told you, I told him no,” Eweyan frowns, suddenly offended. Briskly dressing, sliding his wearable into a welt pocket: “Anyways, what does van-tue mean? When they chant at the end.”

Boyd steps into his padded suede ankle boots, rubs a stain off the split-grain. Lining’s wool; he should have packed a thinner sock. “Variant of a myriad chant. Means 10,000 years,” or a coupla trees. “It’s a big thing in Sinography. Shorthand for ‘forever.’”

The corridor’s dark; on the exposed helipad, south side of the mountain, the docked airyacht peers into perforated mist, hunched granite domes, the chunky pulse of the service machinery, the ancient bee-hive kilns and white-resin weevils and the sticky red needles below.

Back home, the ancients used to mix weird shit into their buildings. Tree bark, volcanic ash, rice, beer, piss. Supposed to heal cracks where they formed.

From behind, Eweyan’s breath curls off his jaw, fennel-minty. “I don’t think I want the earth to have you.”

He looks down dumbly at Eweyan’s arms around his torso, half-expecting a stick poke. “That a poem?”

“It’s a line from your robot-fucking screenplay.” To a tongue-tip, Eweyan’s teasing black jellybean lipgloss into his ear. He can smell the smile against his skin.

Shit, Liv, I’ll give it up.

Fine, he’ll die in exile with dirt in his mouth, just like his brother.

“The dialogue was experimental,” he defends, Eweyan’s rosary beads pressing into his belly. Piss in a mortar.

Before the Second had bricks, they had boys.

And beside, God don’t take a safeword.

—

In much sport, an offensive player challenges a defender to a duel of imaginations:

Can you think the way I do?

Can you taste my pre-cog and mesh your muscle with mine?

Or am I about to rip the binding from your mind?

—

Ben thinks, offensively: Can’t you let me die the way I want.

A myriad or more ago, when this Cathedral of Our Mum with the Good Nails was a dream curled in an ovary, livestock used to be driven around this mountain-foot eight times to ward off disease. Witness the rice villages where all the women wore wigs made of their foremothers’ hair; in this great genetic time-braid, mitochondrial mutations pass intact, an heirloom in a jade claw-clip.

Owen’s an idiot if he thinks this lingerie’s gonna pull. Ben had seen the party dress, strung up, and laughed. Pouty mesh, pearl cuffs, pitiful.

If he really knew what Ben liked, he’d be in a ringer tee, rugby jaw, scraping his bare dick against curved denim. Instead he’s here in this rehabbed confessional, a churchy cuddle-nook of black pitted tile, linear chandelier swinging its bulbs wildly against the dark.

Owen’s meant to get ready. There’s a ceremonial bathing basin right under the chandelier, gobbling up most of the 8’ by 8’ floor plate. Wall hooks for clothes and towels, a hinoki bath bucket atop a matching stool. The steam, satsuma and cypress, is a little much on the sinuses.

“They’re not going to start without me,” Owen says, standing naked by the filled tub, palm skiffing the water. From a nook, a pierced candle-holder casts firebugs over the anointed’s scabbed torso.

Ribs flicking shadow, the anointed-elect’s nervous. Ben’s clothes are wet; Owen presses against him with a full promise, at sea level:

“I’m giving you permission to misbehave, with honor,” he says into Ben’s damp neck.

Above them, a single luna moth is trapped in the chandelier.

There’s a grey quick-dry mat, for grip. This unsupervised rig-up is where Ben’s supposed to finally admit it, dick slack between them, that he would like to, formally, stash in the vault, save it for the wedding night, in for a penny round—

The papal tiara’s gonna be heavy on Owen. The Seventh sent over an 18-pounder, made deliberately too small for his head. Three tiers, the cloisonné moves, he’ll receive the tiara adorned with three crowns and know that thou art mother of princes and kings, holy ruler of the world, earthworms on pavement like uncut pasta, a leather cock keyring on a dog clip,

truth on earth of our Necro-Lord, to whom is honor and glory in the ascent, stained-glass tulle, sequins washed in the river, all well and fine at dinner, the owner setting out gratis pureed melon for the girls and condensed-milk tea for the adults, until Caro tried to order that one fried rice dish and he—almost hit her, the smell alone? the yell rollicking off his tongue, her alarmed eyes bouncing like garlic cloves on the pan, sliced tangerines on broiled duck, the takeout tipping over in the trunk so the car smelled like anise pork broth as he and Emma silently fought all the way

church militant, church suffering, church triumphant in eternal date on the pier and he’d written down the recipes and burned the journals, left ‘em shredded in compost, pisco, falernum, passionfruit, grilled pineapple agave, borghetti, coffee, horchata foam,

order — ma’am, it very much does appear this grown man is fucking your son—

jurisdiction—how did you get clean, Ben? Do you even remember? You checked yourself into Nazareth Terrace because you lost your phone and concocted some wild story about

and magisterium, daddy, is a confessional where you tell the truth?

The Emperor conquers! Reigns! Commands! Hear, O Necro-Lord

For the Keeper of the White Glass, everlasting safety! Redeemer of the glass, come to her aid

Holy Mother, Queen of Apostles, come to her aid

Saint Malaga, Khauri, and Pavna, come to her aid

Saint Varsha, come to her aid

Saint Suvali, come to her grubby negotiations in rosy estates

For Supreme Pontiff and universal Father, life!

For the bishops, custodians of the apostolic faith and for the faithful in their care, life!

Saint Striata

Saint Kavala

Saint Matira

Saint Marbella

Saint Vigo

Saint Mesa

Saint Olema

Saint Bahira

Saint Trellica

Saint Trieste

Saint Cassale

First Martyr, First Schist, come to their aid, all ye holy sawed-raw on blond wood, his guts write like a dream, pinky-quartz

Journalistically, would knowing make the hurting less?

No,

Put your cock on the hinoki, he orders. A charred luna moth-wing drifts to his wrist. His blood’s the proper soak of a storm, like he just bellyflopped into a dirt-lot puddle while the gulls work overtime. Unload your pallet, short it out, mate, he saw you bring yourself off, show your dinosaurs, Boyd says in a jolly hand-wave, used to have an ex-girlfriend with a son, handsome kid, kinda, squint-hesitates, retarded, and man he loved those plastic toys, wave ‘em under my nose, we’d race ‘em along the apartment complex fences. They were precious and he wasn’t shy about sharing. Touches his buffed chest, above the rosy nipple. He didn’t know me, didn’t know I’d stay—I didn’t, his mom’s husband was an asshole—but shit was courageous. I try to live like that every day.

In this aromatic steam, every moan burns. He tells Owen, nicely, to put his dick on the hinoki shower stool, as you please. Corners are rounded, that’s good, Owen squeals as he lowers himself and finds the groove that digs right into, ah, the inky glide of Ben’s hands guiding his haunches, squeezing the acoustic fat that starvation won’t fix. Thisclose prey can’t dodge or jam, and Ben’s nearly knocked over on the grippy mat, probably where the previous cavaliers got fried, steam gouging their eyes.

“It won’t hurt me if you come,” he drily informs, but the hot jolt of Owen’s spine against his shirt, lungs tight, the sore throb—

No metaphors. He can finally admit it, his dick hard in quick-dry trousers, that he wants to finish on Owen’s face, pinch his constant-frequency clit to jam the soul-pull signal. Say something mean and then plunge his nose to Owen’s gash, where the pube-moss’s been razed.

If Owen’s willing to offer an apology tour of his cosy cunt&ball quarry, Ben will take those fucking reparations starting now. Gag him, blind him, make the tile rattle. Hit him with the bucket, wipe him clean, see him get wed in some come-mantilla, please him, spoil him, let some—vapid prick—kiss him with hungry scoops, smell the dent in his pillow, flush his pills, feed him jam? Hold his pup wriggling to the light and lick its astonished eyelids clean?

No echo without a call. He’s impaled on these spikes of fantasy everywhere he goes, I come in you pre-installed, the boy says, the high of their grunt-deep call-and-response. The shame and the light. These contradictions breeding in his body the only magic you’ve ever known, we can close this audition, you can wake up to me on the balcony, the wind-cut linens, a moth-wing dress hooked on the wall, almost dry. I’m your arena, your kernel of the universe, the toy, the puzzle, the mystery, the blood, the pollution, end it but not yet, show me the kingdom to come, not that, but a white glass where we get the choreo right, scritching my hair while you remark, “I never had a dog,” and what did those sluts on the Seventh offer you? A new puppy, a new face? A fixed son, a forever-flushing toilet, mirrors all set to child’s height?

“I’m your dream boy,” Owen insists, and knees to the mat, Ben submits, Ben wants this, vạn tuế, vạn tuế, vạn vạn tuế.

FOOTNOTE for civilian terms:

“On-set? Oh yeah, lotta terms!” Boyd grins his hairline into the ruby lighting, all cinnabar. “Depends on consistency, production, and angle/object. You’re gonna wanna high-visc,” stretching his hands, “that means high-viscosity, Monomer A and Monomer B going cootchie-cootchie coo down your principal’s cheek in close-up,” mimicking a pretty linger, “but in group work, you’re gonna amp up the splash, take that dial from 12k cps to bout an 84,” reminiscing, “some directors get hyper-specific with the numbers, just so’s everyone on the same page.” His eyes mist, fond.

Over the Minister of Education’s chagrined shoulder, the Eighth House Scion is still sketching out his bento-uterus.

“It’s all about communication,” he concludes to himself, scratching at his oblique through his kidskin shirting. “Makes the difference between 5cc of gob and a plug of groats drying down on your nutsack.”

#ask for a key when you ride that dick #kaveh akbar said in an interview with anna sale that the high of poetry #(and later drugs) was ~the only magic ive ever known~#let me press my process in the marginalia #then i reread the echolocation chapter of Ed Y's Immense World and it was game oVER #serving puss2god moth style #everyday investiture looks #eweyan's character is built boots-up from JW Anderson fits #owen plans to wear the 2011 givenchy for his big-day. hence the washed sequins #apologies to AHP i bet her keen reportage on fraternity hazing didn't anticipate this runoff on tile #h(viii) was always going to be the freak show

18 notes · View notes