KP Arts & Drawing

When it came down to it, they would say it was a fight. It's always a fight.

An uppercut, a swing, knocked out knees and a broken bone. Snarling, yelling, shrieking, yelling. Hoarse throats, lasting bruises. Pushing and pulling and pushing and pulling—

Heinz gasped, throwing his head back, hearing it thump against the smooth, cool tiles of a sooty laboratory, but he can barely feel it. Not with the way Perry lets his lips trail down, lingering, pressing against against the jut of his collarbone and his hands pressing the back of his thigh—muscles straining, chests heaving.

This, too, can be a fight.

"Perry-," he whined, hands scrambling—for purchase, for mercy, he can't even remember who'd lost (him) who'd won (Perry), how they ended up here (except he does, doesn't he always? Isn't this where they'd always meant to be? Don't all roads lead to Rome?) "Perry, sheiße, bitte, agh-,"

The agent snarls, teeth red--their blood together, intermingling. He thrusts, the bulge of clean-cut slacks pressing against his own—electrified through layers and layers of fabric.

Heinz arched, desperate—his hands reaching forward to bury themselves in Perry's hair, pulling him up, pulling him close. Lips meeting together like a sucker punch, knocking what's left of his breath from his lungs. His hands—sore flesh and titanium bone.

Heinz burns.

Fingers on his belt, Perry's buttons, they can't quite tell where someone ends and the other begins. Perry groans, choking, his temple pressed against the smooth tiles beneath as he ruts against the bony jut of Heinz's knee, and Heinz breathes, breathes, breathes.

"Yes," he said, then louder. "Yes, yes, yes, Perry, yes, please, harder,-"

Make it hurt, he thinks, as Perry presses the jut of his palm into his temple, shoving his face into the floor. Make it stick.

He cums, blinding white behind his eyes, white on the front of Perry's shirt. Heinz pulls him into a kiss, wrist wrapped around his tie, falling into each other. He can taste the adrenaline, dopamine, on Perry's tongue, oolong with maple syrup and gunpowder.

(He wonders what Perry can taste on his own tongue, wonders what leaks through—if he can taste the yearning, the desperation, can taste the heart that's climbed up his throat that yearns for it's master.)

(He wonders if Perry can taste every I love you he had bitten back and swallowed throughout the years. Perhaps that is all he tastes like now, God knows it's the only thing he eats, nowadays)

Their touchea linger, messy silhouettes painted on the lightly charred floor. It is the only time they allow it too. Heinz presses his thumb into Perry's mouth, left unbitten. Are you alright? Perry brushes his hand against his exposed stomach, a gentle kiss. I'm fine. You're fine too.

Scratching down Perry's back. Please stay. Perry putting his hat back on. I can't, but I'll be back. You're the only thing worth coming back to.

He leaves, and Heinz is left alone like another piece of rubble. He thinks about promises, filling out a book with blank pages. Everything unsaid, an unwritten history marked by the scars on their skin.