Seihar Artblog

The opium rolls through him like fog upon the shore. His world grows softer, settling the sharp thrum of pain between his eyes into a murmur. Jana sighs, releasing a perfumed cloud from his lungs.  

He loses seconds. Minutes. Propped on his side amongst a valley of pillows, everything grows languid. His muscles, his thoughts.

In deference to the headache that finally pushed him to unboxing his pipe, the room is dim, shrouded in shadows and the dreamy glow of lamplight. It pools over high points like drizzled summer, golden sweet. Releasing the pipe, Jana rolls to his back, content to unfold in a lazy sprawl of thick musculature and heavy eyes. His robe is barely tied, gaping to reveal a swath of chest, broad and scarred. Each mark is purposeful, a raised network of ritual carved into flesh. The silk catches against them, reminding him that he’s corporal. Real. A thing with a pulse and blood and bone.

Jana chuckles.

His head lolls on his neck. The room spins.

At its center, a vision.

How strange, to see such a vital piece of himself outside of his own body. It seems wrong. Jana’s brow furrows, his lips tilting down. Ridiculous, that Drak should sit there before him, apart and self contained, instead of sheltered between Jana’s ribs, in the warm, wet cavity of his chest. A cradle of safety for all that remains human and vulnerable in him.

Floating from thought to thought, Jana can’t quite can’t name the malcontent thing rumbling in his marrow. Drak looks over with his trademark scowl, but the expression softens at whatever he sees.

Pretty little thing. All teeth and snarls and soft, tender need.

Watching him, Jana’s gaze grows hooded, the pleasure of his image enough to sustain him. Here, in the privacy of a room to themselves, Drak’s posture seems lighter. Less guarded. As sharp as his claws but perhaps lulled by the same peace sifting through Jana. 

Again, time slows. Jana drinks him in, ever greedy. The stubborn point of his chin, the plush set of his lips. His own robe reveals the cut of his collar bones and the smooth column of his throat. His lovely lovely throat.

A hawk intent on its prey, Jana loses himself in the beat of Drak’s pulse, visible beneath delicate skin. Thumping like a broken bird wing. It makes Jana ache, that little tremble of life. Makes him aware of the weight of his own cock between his legs and the curl of his own tongue against the roof of his mouth. He can’t get hard in the throes of so much opium, but he can yearn.

He blinks and behind his eyelids Drak is hissing up at him, spread and pinned. Jana wants to keep him trapped beneath his weight, wants to get him flushed and gasping, his face wet with tears and his thighs wet with Jana’s seed. He wants Drak clenched tight and helpless, filled to the brim until Jana is so deep inside him that Drak’s every heartbeat is a call of his name. 

Arousal pulses through him. For a long moment, his world is impressions - the taste of blood on his tongue, the give of flesh beneath his teeth. Ghosts of memories or fantasies, he can’t tell. Doesn’t care to.

He blinks again and finds he hasn’t moved. Has merely stayed still and focused, drinking in every shift and breath the other makes.