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The first time Othello fucks Mitsume, its on his four poster bed spread with satin and silk and wrapped with roses and devil's thorns.And it was a clumsy affair, with glaring giving way to scowling giving way to screaming giving way to sobbing.
Giving way to silence.
And he had fucked him so hard, so desperatelyroughly hard, that there were bruises riddling his elbows the next day. So brutallypainfully hard that there were blossoms blooming like ink in well water over his angled hips. So madlylovinglydisgracefully hard that there were whimpers and sobs, though no pleas, echoing violently in his ears the next day.
And Mitsume had bitten Othello contemptuously the night before. It wasn't a love bite--no. It was a carnivorous tear. A grip and pull and glare, glare hard and unblinking, through the haze of bastard pleasure and treacherous tears.
And: hey.
He was smoking again, spinning twirling loops from his mouth.
And: hey you.
And he was itching again, itching like pestilence breeding in his lungs, all too real but too close to scratch.
And: hey, you okay?
X.
The first time Yotsuba fucks Mitsume, he thinks it's better than whiskey on Tuesdays.
And it was a diplomatic affair, with talking giving way to kissing giving way to touching giving way to gasping.
Giving way to fucking.
And it wasn't hard--no.
But Mitsume cried anyway.
X.
And: you've been fucking Yotsuba.
Not a question. Just a statement.
Silence.
And: right?
And. Silence.
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