Poison Hemlocks

Ch. 05 - Dirty

There is only one thing String knows about Paper that he didn't learn from faraway observation, and that is how his body felt pressed against his.

He knows what Paper's skin is like, how it felt in his hands, on his lips. Soft despite all the dirty work he's had it undergo. Pale and cool like an iced corpse, like no blood ran through, though String knows he's bled, whenever he sank his teeth into Paper's skin and drew blood - something String did almost purely out of spite and to Paper's quiet elation.

He knows where Paper likes being touched and where he doesn't, how even brushing the wrong spot would lead to a minimum punishment of hands wrapped around String's neck and squeezing his throat not for the right reasons.

Paper didn't need to know String only found that even hotter.

He knows what makes Paper's breath hitch. No screams, Paper never screams, it's almost like he is physically unable to. Only soft moans from slow, savory thrusts, back arched from a leisurely ride. He likes taking his time, he likes it when String does the same, when the bigger man envelopes his slender waist with contrasting rough, hot hands.

And String is all here for it. He's all here for the slow, intimate pacing, the lingering touches and sweet, hushed cries.

Because this is the only time String feels as though he is superior to Paper. The only time he has power over him, control, ownership. Every vulnerable noise and every half-moon dug into his skin, he takes as a sign that Paper belongs to him.

But be as it may, this pride never lasts forever, for when it's all over, when Paper lies beside him in bed, tangled in sheets, taking drags of his cigarette with a nonchalant expression, silent; that would be enough for String to realize his place again.

He has no power here. Never had.

And a part of him is okay with it. He's okay with being a pawn to someone like Paper, someone he owes so much to. He can't help that his heart often wants what he can't have; that's how it works by nature.

It's always the same thing. It begins with String's pride and ends with him knowing his place.

He falls for it every time, hypnotized, too caught up in his own fantasies to realize Paper is manipulating him. He always does this.

And honestly, as painful as it is, he knows it'll happen again, it has happened time and time again, his heart and brain going on an all-out war over whether it's okay to want this to happen again.

For sex is run of the mill stuff for a crimelord like him. He knows how it works. You fuck someone, and call it a day.

Except Paper somehow gets him coming back every time. He gives String just enough to make him want more, to keep him hungry, thirsty. That's how desire works; it's all the more impactful when unfulfilled, and the thought of fulfilment keeps them running.

Paper's become a habit now. It's not ten minutes of heaven String wants. It's Paper. Like how you'd want the feeling a drag gives you, and not the cigarette itself.

And habits - addiction, the sort - are hard to quit.

Because he knows this is fucked-up, but what else is new?

Evidently, that question wouldn't be answered tonight, not that he was ever looking for an answer. Because tonight is bound to end the same way. Paper was right, it was going to be a long night.

The layers of their ridiculous masquerade attires now left on the floor - a trail from the door to the bed. For a cheap love hotel, this bed is decent, the room is too, not that String cared much, for his attention was only on his partner for the night. Everything else is forgotten; his morals, the hatred he felt mere moments ago for this very man, the consequences.