**warnings for mild kink, asphyxsia and cutting**
He’s down, so fucking down, and there’s only one thing can get him away from the corner he’s crouched in. Words whisper against his ear, soft breaths then teeth then a sting of pain against his neck.
“Come on, baby.”
“Give me,” he breathes, mouth wet, mouth dry, drool hanging in a spittle thread from his lips. Needs it. Needs it more than H. More than White. More than fucking life.
He’s dwarfed; the crotch of his leather pants swelling as the tongue traces a path around his throat, ear to ear. Hot turns to cold and his hips thrust outward even in this knee-hugging, hunched-up state. Even now he’s hard from the sting.
The straps fasten tight around his wrists and he’s winched upwards, chest exposed, nipples erect, breath tickling, mouthing, sucking, biting, and then the sting. The sting and the blister of pain. And he’s hard, like metal, like rock and he can hear the words singing to him again. He’s not blind any more.
Wet, sticky fluid seeps into the leather of his pants. Does it for him every time. The sting and the blister and the bite as the straps tighten and pull and he’s hanging there so very alone. Never alone. Alone.
Coldness expands as his pants slither away like snakeskin. Snake. Skin. And he’s left raw, wounded, naked. Open to the song as it seeps into his veins. Better than smack. Better than coke. Better than crack on a cracked-out night under pin-prick stars that burn him like fire.
“Burn for me, baby.”
He jerks, suspended from the chains and the straps and he’s high, higher than the cracked-out pin-prick stars. The grin guts his face open unnaturally and he sighs and the pleasure slices across his thin white expanse of skin in rippling waves.
“Bleed for me, baby.”
Cut. He’s wet. Hot and wet seeping down his thighs like sperm. He’s bright. Brightness twisting around the edges of his eyes as his cock demands absolution. Too full. Too. Pain. Full.
The sting zig-zags across his chest left to up to right to down and he’s burning up from the fever. Pinprick red blistering like the hot sun as he bleeds like come. Always alone. Never. Alone. Never. Quiet. Quite. Alone.
“Come for me, baby.”
He’s dwarfed, broken, suspended in time, suspended in space and the coldness draws upward, downwards, teasing, testing. The black plastic slips over his head. Masking the dirt. The belt fastens, pulls, tighter, tighter…
The blood calls.
The blood calls.
The blood calls.
Sting from cock to throat, cold, hot, wet, breath, no breath. More. Tighter. Deeper. Tighter. More….
Cold hotness. Hot coldness. Sighs. Drowns. Drowns. Drowns.
“Cry for me, baby.”
“Bri…”
DONE