Spinning, curling, twisting back up and down, striping skin with bone and falling away My mind is rotting, fragmented, useless bits scattering this way and that. How the hell I parked the car, I'll never know. He's still here, just a hairsbreadth away. The gravitational pull of his psyche keeps me in orbit, following along a path I don't have to acknowledge to be bound to obey. He's calm, calmer than I would be if our positions were reversed, almost serene even though I know he's hard. Sweat is rising in tiny beads along the back of his neck and I can smell it, radiating off that gilded skin and calling to me, singing for me to claim, take, open up and disassemble, muck amok tattered and torn.

I want to ignore that urge; right now touching is more akin to rending than taking. My fingers hurt from being bent into claws and I can hear my heart thrumming, teeth coming together loudly. There's that thing inside him that is more-than-Justin, the part that seals me to him. I want to see it, come face to face with the deity that resides within him, hold myself up to it. I know the experience would kill me but I still want. I want the purity, the blood, the sure truth that all things came together and fell apart on the altar of my hands. I want to worship the creation of my end.

As soon as I hear the lock click into place, I turn to reach for him, fingers gliding through unresisting air until he catches my eye and

then there

I'm stopped. The world, rank with decay and malice, clambering over my shoes and into my pockets, stops. The cacophonous throng of mantras and slogans that were chained to my eyes fall away into dust.

I am quieted and he is here, fingers gliding easily over my arms, bringing us closer together. He asks me to kiss him with a tilt of his head and the taste of his mouth is remembrance. It was for want of this that I fell into my unreasonable frenzy but now, being given it, I am struck by its presence. Warm, liquid smooth and jarringly simple, this thing is. Him. I want him. Everywhere.

Step kiss glide sigh trip laughter and here I'm falling backwards, bluest-dark wings fluttering around me, crushing up against my body as he holds me down. They're creeping under my clothes alongside his clever little fingers, sensual tickling drawing my focus from his lips and down to the rest of him. I want him naked, pale and slick against me on me and around me. Hot and whispering things I strain to comprehend, letters I struggle to sort into words. Want what I want, wanting please want this like I want it all.

I've accepted that I want his tongue where it is, stroking against mine like he owns me--not that he doesn't, at least the part of me that's here now. And the parts that aren't here now, or later, but they can be tracked down when I'm not distracted by his nimbleness. We're naked and I'm impressed at how fast he did that, although time isn't moving normally at the moment so I can't be sure of anything but where he is. Here on top of me, thighs holding me steady, cock kissing mine. I want to be inside him, to shove myself deeper and harder than I can imagine being and just like that, cool something-or-another coats my fingers. He's reading my mind again, guiding me backward until I can press forward, up and through, ignoring the pressure until I feel the snap resiliency I know all too well. He wants me here.

Inside, slick and hot reaching, he's squirming, trying to get closer. There's little space between us, but there could be less and in the sweetness of time there'll be none whatsoever. The cadence is uninterrupted, his urgency not crazed by impatience, all too willing to let this languid pace be as dizzyingly intoxicating for him as it is for me. Loosed upon himself, spiraling down until he's dancing in place, swayed by his own body.

He's so caught up in it that when I slide my cock into him, he doesn't pause; his body accepts me with the same regard it gives the blue lights cast down upon us. I'm here to give him something to drape across, a form to envelope and release. He's captivating, captured by sensation, and once again I want to immortalize that image, keep it burned in my mind.

My body says move, muscles tightening and hips thrusting up, sending his back forward into an exaggerated curve. He's riding me in slow motion, every joint flexing with incredible control as we are deconstructed. Fucking broken down into its constituent parts, and only now does all that touching seem like it's part of the act. It's not foreplay, or affection, but rather an integral piece of the whole. The in-and-out cannot be accomplished without communication between the this-and-that of the rest of our bodies, my mouth finding his shoulder, whispering through it to his knees as they press a message from my hips to my fingertips.

We're orchestrated effortlessly, minimalist direction telling us only what we didn't already know. The silence is gratifying; this we've done often enough that being in is a shock only in that it still leaves me breathless. Oh god I'm caught up, hands locked on his hips, dragging me up to meet him down, legs aching and shoulders protesting how my back is arched skyward. His cock is pressed tight against me, heat marked by how my chest is cooled as his belly arches away, arms on my shoulders holding his head high. Eyes canted upwards but I can still feel his gaze, even as his calves spasm and clench, heels slipping on velvet. I can hear him reaching, pulling us taut, apart, slung back together in an instant of away again.

An icy sliver of absolute cold presages the end; my spine freezes in warning an instant before an unholy pressure holds me up and rips me outward up into him, his weight balanced on the fulcrum of my body, still. Poised in ruins.

Cities have fallen faster than we're coming down; each microscopic shift is an act of postcoital foreplay, winding up and settling down a thousand times a second. Collapsible artwork, folding in on itself, his breath soft against my neck. I don't need to hold him in place, but my arms want the reassurance that I'm still around him, tethered safely inside us.