Ashes to Ashes Pt. 05

I slowly start to move my hips to take him out of me. He tries to stop the action, and he finds that he simply cannot. He cannot go through with the shift of the body and the movement of hands to stop me. There is nothing he can influence now. He had his chance to influence the world to bend to his will and he found the world does not bend that way. So, I do the work for him. I do what he should have done from the begging. I move my hips and it is not quite the same as the world collapsing on top of me, but it is certainly what I need. I smile and close my eyes, savoring him and his pathetic attempts to turn the world away from its axis.

There is a particular sway he seems to like that I don't know if I should keep from him, just as punishment. The conundrum is that particular sway is also the easiest path I have found in my exploration for my own ends. So, I ruminate on the terrible choice of an unpunished Ike or an unsatisfied me. Both are terrible. Simply terrible. There is no lesser evil no tolerable sin for me to continue with. The thoughts bounce and rattle in my skull as the weight tries to fight back against the herd of sharp things cutting into its flank in full force.

My choice is suddenly taken away from me by a shake of the hips and a razor whip thin man as he starts to finally move. He joins me in the sway of warm water. The waves lap at the distant shore of poured stone mixed with the ones that fell from the mountaintops. I keep my eyes closed. There is nothing to see. Ji Know, I know that the stars are still there, that the clouds hanging over head keep collecting and blotting out the orange afterglow of a day well spent.

But he is moving and moving well, the choice I mulled no longer matters. There is an Ike in me hitting deep and full and the sharp has something to play with again. Some marionette type thing with dark skin to pull with string bleeding fingers. He dances, he dances so well with the shock and the awe.

He hits the marks and marks the spots, still holding the immense weight of his in the pocket of nonexistent space. I am growing bored. Pleasurably bored, but bored nonetheless. There should be flashing lights and loud music and just have the soft steady bass drum of a behemoth marching. My ceiling remains standing, my walls untroubled and whole.

He once again starts to tease the gossamer soft end that comes from this particular path. It is a shame. Even the imprisoned malnourished Ike put forth a better effort than this. A lost touch, maybe, but that is simply impossible. I can feel it. I know it. I know there is more to be had and it does not come.

Angry, he is actively making me angry. I feel the rage start to build like a wall, brick by brick. It channels the sharp, and the sharp lets itself be channeled. The anger, the rage, the indignant fury of behind unsatisfied consumes the act. My hips and my legs respond, trying to toughen up the curtain of soft little death.

I do not make it in time. The blanket of soft white light consumes me and leaves me in the blank wastes. But then the wind comes and the rain dots the white sand. And I do not mind it. I do not mind it at all. It is nice. It is nice to feel the rain pound under my skin and to my core.

It is warm and my anger turns to abject fury. He finished inside me. I don't mind the inside me part. That's rather nice. He can do that again. It's that he finished at all and left me like this with the winds still once more and the endless wastes still vacant and hungry.

To his credit, he looks like he didn't necessarily want it all to go down quite like it had. But it did. The should haves do not excuse the actually dids. So, my glare turns to him and waits for an explanation, more a dare to say anything at all that might urge the temper, just a bit.

"Sorry," he mutters, "I tried not to move too much. I knew that would happen if I did."

I do not forgive him, but there is a modicum of understanding that slips through my mind. He should be better, but he is not. Something to work, as summarized every single time there is union. I take a deep breath in and let it fade slowly. The rage does not diminish, but it does change forms. It goes to the sharp with a dastardly scheme and I allow it all to happen. I will get my ride and he will get his and nothing in the world can stop that.

The sky darkens just a bit more, just a bit more shadow to spread over the world. I smell rain in the air. I smell thunderclaps and lightning bolts hitting the sand and turning the dunes to glass. For a moment, I am gentle. For a moment, I allow him to think that I am a loving forgiving sort of thing. I touch his lips with mine. A calm rainstorm, that is all I can be right now. Gentle drops to run rivers and water the dunes. Turn the puddles into dancing circles. The children will get a chance to play, the heat will break, just for a moment, and there is a calm excuse to stay inside and rest with no care in the world. I

I flip in over as the sharp eviscerates every nerve, every vein, every ounce of his soul raw and bloody as I thrust my tongue to his mouth. I pour the pain into him and his eyes go wide and terribly afraid of me. A moment, then another, with me on top of his hips, and I force him to be hard for me again. The sharp makes the blood do as I wish and he is simply afraid of me again.

"Do not disappoint me again," I whisper, the icicle venom dripping from my voice.

His wide eyes search for some trace of warmth, familiarity, promise of nonaggression. He finds wastelands to the horizon and back of cold harsh sand sharped to knife points and howling winds letting hail and grit turning everything tender raw. He nods. Good. He has enough wits about him to understand certain things. I wish he had understood earlier, but he is certainly far from perfect.

But he is delectable. Just to tease, just for sheer spite in my veins that flow crimson ruby red, I linger at the edge of him, just the tip, just the suggestion of what I am about to do hanging in the air without any worry at all. His mind races to find something to hold onto. There has to be a fantasy of something to make this right. Those red eyes wander in search of some form of nightmare to grasp. The demons he imagines must be more terrible than the one on top of him. Once again, he is wrong.

I shift downwards and force him to spread me open and wide and deep. The strings of sharp pull the marionette together. It is unleashed. The awe, the hunger the sheer annihilation of the core has turned out once again to the world. The water's surface glimmers and dances with wayward lighting, the more chaste of the brood content to play amongst themselves in the puddle. It's fun when they come back to rest for a moment, another little sharp tickle through my body. Ike has his teeth gritted, as if that would help. It doesn't because it can't I can't help the sharp be less than it is. He is panting. He is whimpering and I am on top of him finally feeling something better than nice.

I raise and drop, raise and drop, shift and turn and let the sharp do what it wants with my body. It does not know what it is doing. Erratic destruction of the self, metal wires to play through and guide. Warm bodies and water in a cold night of dark clouds, so dark there is not a speck of light to carve the way. A shadow always hanging above, the sparks cut through and cast deep dark though both of use. I glance at his chest, the lines as valleys. He sees my smile, sharp and deadly all the while. I throw my head back and raise my arm to the sky. I am joined, I am whole in my mission to destroy.

His weight has remained silent through the rampage of my body. Tired, or scared, I am not sure which. It has finally learned that it is better, so much better to be still and let me have what I want, what the sharp wants, what the world wants to be. As immense, as strong, as absolutely indomitable as it can be, there is no fight to be had here. I want something. I will get that something. Just as gravity pulls the thrown rock down, that is a rule of unbreakable tenacity.

The dance begins and his hands are on my hips. Good sign, that is a good sign. There is still some sapience in there through the fear. HE can still give me what I want without some contortion of the soul. He does try to slow me down through the rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall. He does not. My hands are on his chest, that expanse of dark sky constellations and I have him still. He is my toy now, refusing to play along. I will play with instead.

The machinations of the body override whatever sense of control he has. The sharp helps along the path of primal devotion. He is bucking now, wilding and bronco. He is thrusting and tuning, trying to anticipate the way the sharp pulls at his strings. There is a mostly current dance between the two. There is an understanding that he will take the board motion, the sharp shall take the fine details of the steps. And all the while, the chill, the sharp, The scouring pain of midnight bliss, riot through our shared bodies.

It strikes and cuts and slices and sharpens the world into catastrophe in my core. The way it so delightfully hollows me out with shear saw fingers, blunted with size and heft and pressure. The way it writhes in my mind, always feeding back into itself in an inexhaustible loop of apocalypse. It is rapture. It is writhing blood rapture of cold metal energy current in my mind. No control, no hope of control and the weight is learning every single permutation of its ceaseless rebellion against order.

He grips tighter. Ike holds on and tries to stop my rampage of otherworldly delights. He does not. He cannot. There will be a day when he learns to give what I want, and that day will be glorious. The earth will shatter, the sky will crack and bleed. The very air will bend and snap from the waves of euphoric noise.

And he moves position and holds still. All it took was a slight shift in his spine to take shape and the current has been thrown off.

I am still on top, still riding the wonderful length that spreads and fills and throbs. There is too much motion to stop. But the waves move around the rock in the pond, no longer lapping at its surface. There is an obstacle to the will, the current. IF finally open my eyes again. There, a sliver of a line on the horizon is a deep orange glow. The last of the night. The blanket of thunderclouds has consumed the light in all but that. The light still peaks through, deep shadows overhead with the roll of the clouds.

His mouth is to my chest with gentle teeth and lips and tongue. I moan, deep and ugly and rumbling like earthquake thunder, loud enough to rattle windows and shatter glass. It's wonderful. Pain, there is pain that I do not care about for the sharp to play with. it goes into his mouth and down his throat, to his lungs, his stomach, turning him inside out as he does the same to me.

There is no line from me to him. There is no sense of being anymore. Shape and weight, mingling and touching, entwining and mixing into slurry of molten glass. He whimpers something to me, to the world that made me, to the very idea of existence that could end with me. And his prayer dies in his throat with my hips. He is hard and I am open. Reason does not need to exist beyond that. Even those two modifiers are mere coincidence of the grand cosmos. There is no reseing. Only us. Only facts that cannot be defined. Only existence with no name.

He sighs. He does not moan or whimper or cry. Something stirs in Ike, something vast and tectonic as the weight behind his reality, his truth, changes positions once more.

Vast, immense, simply incredibly big, blotting out the sky and the stars and the idea of something other than its bulk. It was hiding. The shapes I saw were hiding that, the other immensity pockets away from my mind, lest it shatter with the realization that the sharp, the pack of wild gnashing teeth and slicing claws was even more dwarfed than it already was.

Galactic in scale, I marvel at the world he houses in the vessel of razor thin profile. And I laugh. I laugh because there is the implication that this will stop me, that this will sate me, that this will undo the world and make it something different once more.

Something does actually make me shudder and halt. And that is the tensile strength of his digits against the muscle lines of my hips. They are not gripping harder, although they certainly have that ability to do so. It wouldn't even be that hard. It's the reverberations that start to travel up the pads of his fingertips, the lines in his palms, down the veins twitch eh sharp cutting into him. The paths are wider now, wider than they have ever been. It's glorious, the unveiling of the monstrosity hidden in dark lines and constellations. Eldritch and unknown, not malicious, but the presence of such immensity is enough to drive the insanity spike through the calmest of minds.

"I fucking dare you to try," I whisper in his ear, with a little nip of teeth and rake of nail over his chest.

There is no rapid change of pace, no sudden movement., no instance of one to the next where all of reality turns topsy turvy inside out. But there is a moment where he shifts once again, lining up his hips, sitting up with his spin on a helpful little rock to gaze eye to eye.

It is curious, not vengeful or hateful or any sort of ful. Just curious at the pack of electrical currents running through legs and heels, no more than gnats buzzing and lapping at the sweat. No mind, they are of no mind, no great important.

The sky shifts a bit more and the pressure for the heavens sweeps over. I can feel it in the way my sides stitch together. There is a storm. There is a storm of rain and lightning and thunder coming. And it is about to open up. To assure me that my knowledge of one event to the next is correct, a deep boom of rolling thunder comes from the black cotton suspended by marionette wires. Ike leans fore and buries his head in my chest., taking the soul, the heat, the scent of me before the rain comes and washes it all way. The sharp is excited eager for the play of storms and tempests. Ike does not mind. He has the soft red eyes of glowing fire light, the sharp, deep dancing lines of shadow from the sharp line. Ike is smiling and loving as he gazes up at me, the storm and electrochemical collapse no more than a fun party trick.

I hate it even more than the complete and utter failure to satisfy me.

He does not get to smile anymore. He does not get to have a good time with me tearing into him with hips and core and hands. He does not get to look at me with soft eyes, with care spreading across his lips. He does not get to look at me in adoration and awe when he should be gritted teeth and grimaced lips, hanging so beautifully over the edge of the abyss.

"I think I love you," he says.

There is no grand emotion to those five words. There is no statement of world-shattering intent. Pleasantness, agreeableness, mild amusement. He just said a fact that is. The world aligns behind that will and makes it true through no act of his own. He just is. He just does. There is no explanation other than its existence in him.

I stop. He finally gets me to stop and there is no victory, no savage undertaking of destruction. There is an odd feeling in my chest that opens up like a flower blossom of ebony petals and long drooping stems.

The thunder comes once again and it starts to rain.

I kiss him. He is gloriously inside of me and I kiss him as deep and as full and as long as our bodies will allow. It is not enough. I want more of him, all of him, that immensity of world shifting weight poured into my veins again and again and again until we are both withered husks and bleached bones. I kiss him and feel the plump soft of his lips touch mine with just the same hunger.

The weight pulls in him, snapping the strings of the marionette pull and I ride him. I ride him with the intent to break and maim and pulverize into motes of dust. He holds me tight and kisses my neck, my shoulders my chest with the rhythm. I growl and chuff and moan with wanton abandon.

It's nice, the soft rain on my skin. Cool and calming and gentle, the sparks play with the falling water, dancing up the lattice work steps, jumping from one drop to the next. We are surrounded by stars, by a sphere of charged rain. The cracks and snaps with energy and I do not stop riding him.

Deep, he is so deep within me. Every time he pulls out there is that terrible hollow in my core once again. It is detonated away with this reemergence. His head is buried in my shoulder, the lips robbed from me. There is the act. There is only the act. There can only be the act of him inside me and the thrust and the ride and the buck.

All of my viciousness, the insanity of carnality, he takes. The nails the teeth, the ravenous bloodlust for more and more and more. All of that is smothered and soothed by the heft of immensity. I keep fighting it. I keep fighting every ounce of that megalith with every ounce of my own. Savagery, brutality, anarchic chaos pours from every fiber of my being. He keeps thrusting with the calm gentle repose of mountain stone.

Wonderful, simply wonderful with the length and the heat and the rain on my skin. Good, his is so good with the simplest of motions.

It clenches as the weight continues the slow plow of the world within me. The lightning grows closer from overhead. The world, the world collapses with the collapse of noise and the shatter of sound. The light, the blinding light casts him fully for me once more. Dark and sharp and open, eyes half lidded in my sensations, lips parted in a quirked smile of letting go. There is no control for him either. There is the rain. There is the spring. There is me warping around him and trying to gut him like a beast. And all the pain I inflict is rapturous. I kiss him, and I don't stop.

I finally move beyond nice. I finally break that mocking barrier with malicious intent, each speck of that glass round back into sand, only to be melted in slag by the sharp and the cut. He opens me and I close around him. His length prods and thrusts and spears the sparks and takes the current for its own. I give it and take the weight from him, each path widened once more until the walls burst.

The sharp stills for a brief, infinitesimal moment. Each finger crawls through veins and nerves and raindrop led staircase. That same moment brings fear back to his eyes. They are turned up to the clouds of blackest night. As are mine. I think he sees what I see and knows that he might have done something a bit beyond his ability for the moment. But I don't mind. He will survive. He is strong. He is kind. He is mine and mine alone. The world will not take him from me.

I shout it ecstasy, the basest form any mind can be as I climax. Despite everything, he finishes well, putting that paltry display of overeager flesh to shame. He is detonating inside of me, all that incredible weight comes to bear down on a singular point inside of me. I writhe and squeeze and coax every synapse and nerve in his body to be wide open to the electric climax. He shouts as well, the agonizing paroxysm tearing his mind in half.

The moment ends when the thunderbolt drops on the both of us.

I don't think. I don't feel. I don't do anything so burdensome as that. I am white and blank and clean. All the wrinkles and dunes of the wastes are once more wiped clean and blank and smooth. I see past the curve to the horizon beyond the horizon and there is simply nothing. Not a black pit or unceasing hunger. Not an expanse of neutral white sand. No impossibly tall sky for the world to shrink under. There is nothing. Nothing at all. And I am with the nothing once again.

Not for long, unfortunately. I am reminded of my terrible existence with a glowing warmth in my belly, rising and falling like the tide. It's dragging me back down the ethereal consciousness of not being, into something more solid-state society. Awful. Simply awful. Someone should be punished for all this. Not me. I never did anything wrong ever. So, someone else. Maybe the kind crimson eyes gazing into mine with their ember heat and soothing glimmer.