초크

You would never,　ever find yourself with the roles reversed.　It’s not something you can so much as fathom happening.　Not when the very notion of another having power over you,　another being above you,　beckons a darkness to your stern gaze,　a spiral of fury down to the pit of your stomach.　You don’t like that fury　⸻　you can’t stand it nor the person it morphs you into.　Debased by yourself,　eternally chasing the high born of Angel deliberately quickening your heartrate.　You let him do it without question,　desperate to unravel those tightly wound threads of normalcy strung up in your chest.　Whatever kind of person his presence reduces you to,　you love it.　Life is easier when you stoop to those murky depths,　losing yourself in a wildfire of sex and violence.　The simple explanation is that every part of yourself is at odds,　an existential paradox.　To be tender has underlying threshold of toughness,　forged by the defense of what is yours and yours alone.　To be gentle implicates you in robust strength,　something you always have the capacity to employ and merely opt against.　Being a man entails both what you are and what you are not.　Endure that complexity.　Tolerate it.　Angel always manages to tug it loose because you are so grossly hyper-vigilant around him,　surveilled by a panopticon of men’s expectation.　Forever struggling to measure up.

Back and forth and back again:　what does Angel get out of this?　Is it only to meet those carnal needs?　What does a man of his caliber gain from giving it up to you?　Festering warmth until it is snuffed out too suddenly,　you two are close,　too close,　and the gelid bite that follows makes your head spin.　Try (fail) to put him in his place,　and lower yourself to all things you despise　/　the violence you have been running from　/　the violence you have been running from　/　the violence you have been running from　/　the you you have been running from.

He lets you do it,　so you do it.　Maybe the kissing comes first,　as you think it’s meant to,　weak approximation of every women you’ve been with prior.　It was always like you were following some glossy-paged guidebook hidden in your skull’s margins,　put your hands there,　don’t move too fast,　plant a kiss and then another against petal-soft lips failing to entrance or allure you.　You’d press on anyways,　coax yourself into passable hardness sufficing in sheathing yourself inside,　praying you’d finally feel something.　You never did,　not like you feel now.　Heart thrashing wildly,　rising to some grand crescendo while your hands tremble with adrenaline,　with the thought of all things you want to do to him.　You know it’s not quite right　⸻　not the proper way to comprehend things,　rationalize and spin a worldview　⸻　to think of this exchange in absolute black and white.　Being the man above him doing the fucking doesn’t enforce any true superiority in you,　but fuck,　it feels good,　alright?　You feel good about yourself in doing this,　like you’re somehow taking the things you lack straight from him.　Like a leech or a parasite.　You don’t care what he says or what he has you do so long as you have that over him.　You’re a fucking idiot,　Dae-ho.

It’s not the first time this has happened,　between the two of you,　and you pray to whatever fucker is up there that it won’t be the last.　The kissing,　that’s right,　you know you don’t do it very well.　There’s too little tongue and too much teeth,　and some stupid amalgamate of the two,　but it’s just enough to rile you up in stripping garments off,　baring beefy chest that’s puffed out obnoxiously,　bull-headed oaf that you are.　You roughly grab at his face,　just shy of pulling him onto you.　You want and want,　and for once in your life,　you’re going to get.　Avalanche of progression,　then,　touch on touch on touch on touch snowballing to where you’re effectively begging to fuck him with your desperate pawing,　weakening at the flash of broad grin dissipating into nothingness.　He says something that doesn’t register,　maybe something that you don’t care enough to internalize if it doesn’t directly escalate to you pushing inside.　Finally.　Fucking finally.　

This,　again,　feels simpler when it’s all take,　offering up no vulnerable parts of yourself to be stolen away by these late-night trysts　⸻　when you have him pushed over on the mattress,　left hand pinning down just below his neck,　between his shoulder blades.　No eye contact,　no distress,　nothing.　You are free to fall victim to temptation.　Your skin glimmers with sweat,　the fruits of your labor,　having worked your thrusts up to a satisfying and consistent pace.　You hit deep,　biting back an impassioned groan each time you fuck into him.　That damned left hand,　depraved and solicitous,　snakes up,　searching for a fistful of hair to tug.　Take some violent action to feel something,　to embolden yourself in all that manliness you know you lack,　pitifully,　pathetically.　Eventually you will cut this thread loose,　when Angel has outlived his usefulness in his life,　when you no longer feel urged to bask in the self-hatred that he alone unleashes in you,　always without fail.　Sometimes that dread creeps in before you’ve chased the peak of your climax,　a lilt in your thought process to remind that you’re not gay,　that this says nothing about you so long as you are man enough to do the fucking.　It’s not always easy to believe.　You’re an experienced liar,　after all,　and the person you’ve deceived most often has always been yourself.　Trying to be something you’re not.　Stronger.　Smarter.　Braver.　Not a fucking faggot.

This is so goddamn stupid.

❛❛　…　❜❜　Lips curl inward,　radiating with words unspoken;　you want nothing more than to bring him down to your level,　make him feel as small as you do.　It’s the one thing sex can’t remedy.

Fuck,　then.　Your free hand traces down his back,　weaseling into grasp at his sides.　Every action you take burns with envy.　You want to look more like him,　act more like him.　You want more attention than he gives you.　You want to smash his stupid face in with a hammer,　or at least shatter the ice-block of this back and forth,　push-pull,　hot and cold.　You

You

You

You

You

You

You

You

You

You can’t take it anymore,　not these nauseating feelings,　not the heat pooling in your gut.　A lean of your weight forward,　just to bridge the gap,　just to feel close enough for your worthless plight to mean something.　Whatever power you have now,　you’re choking on it.　❛❛　I hate you,　❜❜　you sputter,　hips fighting tirelessly for your release.　❛❛　So much.　So fucking much.　❜❜　(It’s not worth a lot.)　Beholden to your lechery,　you chase this stupid gratification no matter the harm it brings you.　You slam into him,　shifting to pull him further down onto your cock as you finally spill into him.　Your grip intensifies,　blunt nails dug to where they may not do damage;　you try and try and try and it will never be enough.

Bold what does apply to your muse,　italicize what applies in sometimes,　strikethrough what never applies.