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mortal
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You swear you can hear the coliseum roaring in your chest. |
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Post by DMITRI ALEXANDROV on Apr 9, 2014 0:37:49 GMT
He'd learned of Saint Ignatius, of Loyola, as a child. The parton saint to soldiers, but Iggie was no soldier. Iggie was in no way, he'd swear on it again and again, that he was a saint in any way. But in the same manner, neither was he. No soldier, no. A mercenary and almost nothing more than that, if not devout. But what comes with being devout if you do not truly uphold such things? Does effort count, is it the attempt that matters? Dmitri sighed as he tried to stop thinking about it.
But here he stood, fingers pulling Iggie's shirt from his skin, over his head; he was playing the part of a saint. Does this count, he asked himself again and again. Does this count? He looked back at Iggie for only a few seconds, Saint Ignatius but not so saintly.
Does this count, he asked himself as he leaned down and, with no pretense, kissed Iggie before he pulled away once again. Is this owed? Saints do not take what is not theirs, do they, Dmitri. He stood above Iggie still, in a daze if anything. Where to go from here, it was always the questions. Always the questions, the sentiments, and the answers he could never find. (You care so much that it hurts your head.)
"You're such an idiot, Iggie." he said quietly.
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mortal
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crawl so low with some gin-soaked boy that you don't know |
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Post by IGGIE VAN ALLAN on Apr 9, 2014 3:22:51 GMT
He didn't think of saints and soldiers, he just lay back and let Dmitri peel off his shirt. Dmitri's job was pushing around guys like Iggie, guys who couldn't fight back sober, never mind now when he could barely stand, barely question it. But it didn't have to do with brute strength in the way it usually did. If it had, Dmitri would have long thrown him in the dirt and let him stagger home. And why hadn't he?
None of this happened like it usually did. None of this was the usual; split lips, black eyes; Iggie was too numb to feel it anyways, and all that was left was faint and yellowed along his ribcage. The rosary was cold, it made him start when Dmitri leaned in and it settled on his chest, between them.
Iggie's shirt was crumpled somewhere on the bed, and god only knew where his mind was when Dmitri kissed him and still, he let him. Still, heavy-lidded eyes and dry lips, he kissed back vacantly. He stared up and thought of all the things that Dmitri had done to him and none of them had ever put him at a loss like this. If he hits you, hit back, hit back until you can't hit back and there is nothing you can do.
There is nothing he can do, but heave a sigh and mumble, "What are you doing," flatly, waking up from a dream at a loss.
DMITRI ALEXANDROV
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mortal
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You swear you can hear the coliseum roaring in your chest. |
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Post by DMITRI ALEXANDROV on Apr 10, 2014 1:18:19 GMT
What was he doing, that was a good question. Even Dmitri couldn't answer that as he pulled his own shirt off, and one hand went to the top of Iggie's jeans. "Just go with it." he said, once again thinking of the great Saint Ignatius. No, he's no solider, but he's something. He's something to you, Dmitri, as much as you don't want to admit it. You never want to admit anything, do you? (Always, even with your bulk, your faith, you've been a coward.) He messed with the button until it came undone. Even saints get nervous he told himself.
He kissed Iggie again, hoping he would just kiss back. Don't think, just do. Without pulling away he'd thrown his pants to the side of the bed. It was like this, hovering over the semi-naked Iggie that he truly realized how much of a beast he was in comparison. But Iggie never cowered, as one usually does with such a beast. He could break Iggie to bits so easily, and he'd never really noticed; until now, when he was more vulnerable than ever.
One hand rested on Iggie's chest, it was gentle. Like the rest of his movements, thoughts, gentle. Gentle as a prayer, as something softly whispered.
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mortal
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crawl so low with some gin-soaked boy that you don't know |
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Post by IGGIE VAN ALLAN on Apr 11, 2014 22:32:59 GMT
Dmitri, shirtless, back on top of him; he was strong and Iggie was weak. He felt spineless in every sense of the word but struggle didn't even occur to him. His head was swimming and it was easy to lose himself in the current, so much easier not to think, and wasn't it always? Float on the high, drift dizzily to morning. It would dump him unforgiving and sober onto the shores in the morning; but that was far away, that was besides all of this, whatever this was.
This was a hungry kiss, a hand light against his chest, blood pounding in his head. The arch of his hips, his jeans tangled in his feet, and a hand draped loose at the nape of Dmitri's neck.
This was Roman fever, this was laying with the lions. This was a saint's valour because he didn't hesitate, didn't resist; no room for fear in his hammering heart.
DMITRI ALEXANDROV
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You swear you can hear the coliseum roaring in your chest. |
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Post by DMITRI ALEXANDROV on Apr 13, 2014 2:44:26 GMT
This is victory, this is victory and the soft glory that comes with it. Maybe the trumpets were your breath against the nape of his neck, your hands on the inside of his thighs as you spread them apart. You stop for a few seconds. In the brief silence you take the rosary from around your neck and place it on the table beside the bed; you take your faith, and for just a minute, forsake it. You all do it you've come to realize. Your father when he drinks, your mother when she's silent, and your sister in her very manner. Why should you be the perfect son?
You're gentle with him, more than you ever have been. "мой принц." you say, and in this moment you acknowledge what he holds over you. His fingers rest on the edges of your throne. You're gentle as you pull him into your lap, as you're inside of him. Your teeth in his neck, nails digging into his hips; you're gentle.
Saint Dmitri, how you've fallen. (speech means my prince)
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mortal
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crawl so low with some gin-soaked boy that you don't know |
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Post by IGGIE VAN ALLAN on Apr 14, 2014 4:44:58 GMT
It was dark and humid, hair stuck to the back of his neck, sticky skin, heavy limbs and languid motion. In his mind it was all hazy and distant, but Dmitri was solid and sober, kissing him, guiding him, inside him, pressed against him.
Nothing hurts, the high has him numb and this has him tipping into a different euphoria, nerves trembling, and senses alight. Nothing hurts, Dmitri holds him steady and his palms are calloused and his hands are warm, and his teeth are dull. Nothing to be afraid of, only something that sounds tender and warm breath blowing across his neck.
He can barely feel the tension in the bend of his back and his hitching breath, not until it's released. He's barely awake when Dmitri lays him back down and brushes hair from his face, when Dmitri is stirring softly behind him.
It's the sunlight that wakes him.
DMITRI ALEXANDROV
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mortal
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You swear you can hear the coliseum roaring in your chest. |
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Post by DMITRI ALEXANDROV on Apr 16, 2014 3:09:36 GMT
It's in these moments, with arms wrapped around someone's stomach, a little too warm under the blankets as the sun rises that you're allowed to forget. You don't have to think about all the times you've broken the boy under your arms, you grumble a bit and just tighten your grip. With this forgetfulness you're not ready to wake up, completely, just yet. Then again, nobody ever is. You've come to think that if everyone could stay in bed, even if to just forget their sins they would.
You forget your father's disappointment, your mother's distant look. (She always seemed to be staring miles away, as if something in the distance was liberating her from the moment she was in.)
"Good morning." you growl more than say. You still don't open your eyes as the room is faintly lit. You know in the pit of your stomach when Iggie wakes up he's going to have a fit. A meltdown, something not so pretty. That's okay, though, you think. Ruin the saintly glow he'd given his name on your tongue. Ruin it just for a bit.
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mortal
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crawl so low with some gin-soaked boy that you don't know |
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Post by IGGIE VAN ALLAN on Apr 17, 2014 3:15:00 GMT
There's a part of him that doesn't want to move. Weighed to the bed by the arms around him, the comedown, the afterglow. The gauzy sunrise, the hangover banging in the back of his head, the stranger's bed, are all familiar. Iggie feels Dmitri's voice rumble in his chest, it jars him out of it, the sleepy apathy that's nearly overtaken him.
Groaning, he twists sluggishly out of Dmitri's hold, twists to look at him. His expression is vacant, his memories stumbling to catch up. When they do, bewilderment shifts to horror, his heart taking up double time, stomach contorting like it's turning inside out.
"Oh, god." Iggie's voice is strained as he scrambles back off the edge of the bed. Hitting the floor hurts, he's awake, he's awake, the hangover is unmistakable, Dmitri is unmistakable (which feels a strange word to use, Iggie's made the biggest mistake of his life).
"Oh my fucking god. Fuck no. What the fuck did I do?" A broken record, he presses a palm to forehead, he searches for something steady in this shitstorm whirlwind. "What the fuck did you do?"
DMITRI ALEXANDROV
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mortal
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You swear you can hear the coliseum roaring in your chest. |
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Post by DMITRI ALEXANDROV on Apr 18, 2014 15:06:59 GMT
And just like that, the domestic dream is over. You let go as he twists away, as he turns to look at you in what could be horror. Surprise, even. With a wry smile and a yawn you sit up with the blankets covering your lap. There he goes, you think. There he goes, off the bed, out of his mind. You expected this, of course, and you'd handle it accordingly. Well, probably not. You never were too good with these kinds of things. It comes with being a terrible person. You learned this early on.
"You rode me like a fucking horse is what you did." you say with a smile. Iggie's still undressed as you stare at him over the edge of the bed, sitting at full height now. With another yawn you run your hands through your hair, and the last traces of domesticity are gone. Back to being yourself, back to being a brute. "You moan like a bitch, you know that?" you say as if it's a fact, which, of course, it is.
"I just gave you what you wanted." you shrug your shoulders. The thought of Iggie telling anyone hadn't even crossed your mind. He wouldn't. He was too proud, or for lack of better wording, ignorant. Pride was your sin, you've yet to churn out the list of his.
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mortal
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crawl so low with some gin-soaked boy that you don't know |
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Post by IGGIE VAN ALLAN on Apr 20, 2014 6:45:41 GMT
You can't say what he tastes like, but it coats your tongue and slithers down your throat, bringing up bile. His smell sinks into your hair, his touch won't be scrubbed from your skin (even though you'll rub it raw trying). There's a pounding in your skull and a flush in your cheeks and there's barely any room for embarrassment when you're brimming with what feels like the worst hangover of your life. And when your life is one long hangover, it's a weighty thing to think.
But fuck thinking when your innards are writhing and twisting and trying to force themselves up and out your throat. Stumbling to your feet - the place is small, you find the bathroom just in time.
You're bent over the toilet, the porcelain is cold against your bare skin and you're still cramping and puking and none of that is half as bad as knowing where you are and who you're with. Who you were with.
Like a fucking horse. You retch harder and wish everything was this easy. That it was as easy as emptying yourself, forgetting.
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You swear you can hear the coliseum roaring in your chest. |
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Post by DMITRI ALEXANDROV on Apr 20, 2014 20:02:01 GMT
You can't say you're surprised, of course. Whatever made him sicker, however, you were at a loss for. The night's liquor, or the realization of who, what, he had fucked. You remember how you felt the first time you slept with another guy. It wasn't a good feeling, not at all. Over time you've perfected the art of swallowing the bile, shoving the feelings of guilt down to your stomach and not getting sick. Not everyone's you. Sometimes it's an easy thing to forget, that people react differently. You wondered if Iggie was in the bathroom muttering some half assed questions to god, and knowing him he just might be. The masses that couldn't bear their burdens always turned to a scapegoat.
You slowly crawl out of bed, away from the warm blankets and sheets. With a yawn you lazily make your way to the kitchen. "There's coffee when you're done puking you little fag." you say, and it came out much meaner than you had intended. You sit down at the counter with a small cup in front of you, only taking a few sips and waiting for Iggie to stumble out of the bathroom.
You smiled at what he might have to say. Watch, you thought, he's gonna use every excuse in the book.
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mortal
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crawl so low with some gin-soaked boy that you don't know |
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Post by IGGIE VAN ALLAN on Apr 22, 2014 4:42:52 GMT
You stay crouched on his bathroom floor long after you've cleared your stomach, waiting, trying to clear your head. There's a part of you, shaking hands and gooseflesh, that wants to crawl back into bed, his bed, any bed. Ignorance and bliss and warmth, but you can't undo the realization any more than you can ignore his voice.
Your reflection doesn't feel like you and the floor is slanting beneath your feet and you're sure you'd throw up again if there was anything left to purge. Anything you could purge. You can barely remember the night before and you're really trying not to but you swear you can still feel his fingers ghosting up your spine and his lips on your neck and fangs and claws - it's just you burying your face in your hands in the mirror.
That's something new, shame.
You rinse the vomit from your mouth and try to clean the flush from your skin. You try to bare your teeth and stand, not straight, but that cocky sort of crooked. But he fucked you, he fucked you like a woman, he fucked you like a twink and that's a low even for you.
Something all-encompassing, shame. Kneeling on the bedroom floor and digging through the sheets, his shirt his damp and his jeans are crumpled, not as badly as his pride. You should say something clever and biting when you see him again, you should have a seething gaze and a set a jaw. Not drowsy eyes and a bleary string of curse words. The smell of coffee is nauseating, this whole fucking thing is nauseating, and you want to keep walking but you have to stop and you have to press a hand to the counter for balance and meet his gaze. "That didn't fucking count."
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mortal
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You swear you can hear the coliseum roaring in your chest. |
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Post by DMITRI ALEXANDROV on Apr 22, 2014 12:40:17 GMT
It's how you've been raised, you would say. You could say, though with some self-indulgence, being raised with iron is why you're here. You sit here with simple things, but the situations you seem to land yourself in are anything but. You think of jokingly calling you father, telling him that Saint Ignatius is vomiting on your bathroom floor. That you, his son, had brought him to his knees. He'd beat your ass black and blue for such a thing, though, but the temptation is still there.
You sit here with simple things. You're a simple, or so you like to say, man and here you are. The door clicks and you watch him walk back into the room with what you have done so many times before; shame. You can't help but smile when you notice the bruises on his pale back; the prettiest one is on the side of his neck, you're sure he saw that.
It probably made him retch a bit harder. Surely he's done worse.
Your stupor ends and there he stands. In front of you trying to bare fangs; but Iggie, you want to say, your teeth are around my neck on a string. You have nothing to bite me with. You remind him with a small smile. You remind him by reaching across the counter and taking his jaw between your fingers, running your thumb across his skin. "It seemed that way when you were moaning my name." you say, and your grip tightens.
"You really got into it, I don't think I've heard anyone moan like such a bitch in a long time. How's it being a little faggot, Iggie, hm?" you say, not trying to be nice. You're tempted to keep going. You know that, with enough words and a tight grip, you could make him retch over and over and over.
This is you, and there's Iggie; and once again, your apartment has become a schoolyard. Maybe you should tug at his hair, would that get the point across?
You of all people know it wouldn't. He isn't as simple as you pray for him to be, he isn't simple as you hold his jaw with an iron hand; for once, it's not a fist. You really are your father, aren't you?
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mortal
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crawl so low with some gin-soaked boy that you don't know |
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Post by IGGIE VAN ALLAN on Apr 24, 2014 2:44:01 GMT
"Don't fucking touch me." Iggie's still drowsy and sluggish and sick, and Dmitri catches his face before he can jerk back from his touch. He tenses, feels the hair stand up along the nape of his neck, like an animal, cornered and wild. But he isn't a predator, even with his narrowed eyes and gritted teeth. And if he is a predator, he's one entirely outclassed by a bigger, stronger beast.
Dmitri could snap his jaw like a wishbone, but he doesn't. It might have been more comfortable if he had, anything might have been more comfortable than the way he traces a thumb along Iggie's cheek. He tries not to flinch, but he can't remember Dmitri being gentle. He can't quite remember, he can't quite tell if Dmitri is lying.
"Faggot," he spits the word back as if it hasn't slipped through his ribcage and coiled in the pit of his stomach. As if it isn't going to ring in his ears for weeks. "You carried me to your fucking house." At least Iggie remembers that much.
DMITRI ALEXANDROV
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mortal
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You swear you can hear the coliseum roaring in your chest. |
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Post by DMITRI ALEXANDROV on Apr 25, 2014 3:15:37 GMT
He tells you not to touch him like he has a say in the matter; oh, not at all. He's not like you, no, you can make people listen. Your grip is still tight as you stare right at him. Possibly even past him, to your bedroom. "Make me, Iggie." you say softly. It would be interesting to see him try to stop you from anything; but god the ways he owns you. He owns you and you can't bear to admit it; you're a dog, but Iggie can't seem to remember where he put your leash.
So like any dog would, you take advantage. But you won't bite, not yet. "Because you were fucked up pretty bad, you долбоеб." you say. Your thumb has still been gently tracing his jaw line. "It was a nice gesture, not that you deserve one."
A nice gesture, that's what you were calling it. You saw opportunity and took it between your teeth; the evidence is bright against Iggie's skin. "So, Iggie," you let go of him now, taking a sip of your coffee; still undressed sitting at the kitchen counter. "You sore?" and you smile again.
Maybe he'll throw up on the counter, you thought. That would be funny. "I'm sure you've done worse. I'm not bad looking, at least." you say as if it's a fact, and of course, it is.
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