Archive of Our Own

You have been here so many times that you aren’t even nervous about it anymore, which is definitely, you decide, a good thing.
Pan’s Ladder is not the only body art shop in the city, but it’s the only one with a ramp and that’s really what dictated you go there those five years ago, rather than one of the many other places, nested beneath the foundations of street level stores which are accessible only via steep little staircases which dip beneath the footpath.
You pass one of these by on your walk down the street, your footsteps hesitant and measured. Though your wheelchair is long gone you know that you would not be going to any of these places in the future. Mostly because you aren’t sure you are confident enough to actually go in and ask for what you want, and also because stairs still get you sometimes, Your knees lock up, or you have a moment of fearful de-ja-vu, and it is easier for all involved if you just kept on as you are, making your way down the dark city street on a grey Thursday afternoon toward the shop between the alternative clothing store and the run down Starbucks that no-one seems to want to rent.
But also, it is habit. An obsession with the ordained and a disenchantment with the unfamiliar. You dislike the negative feeling it instils in you, you dislike meeting new people, thanks to your bad experiences with your perception of them and those scary feelings you’ve had from strangers in the past, and that need for consistency and familiar faces keeps you coming back.
The daylight is blocked by the curtaining buildings above, and the people who walk down this particular street are of that nervy, vampiric variety. Rickety bicycles and the occasional parked Ford break the cobbled road, and the rolling sound of punk rock drifts from open shop fronts. It’s usual, and you don’t think about it very much. If you did, you would probably have taken a moment to be amazed at your bravery and audacity in even coming here, when you first started. How had you done it? Sure you had been anxious and sure it had been a terrifying experience, but you know that now, if you were still in your stupid chair, you would never even dream of doing so. Unusual people didn’t stand out very much in this part of the city, but if there was one way to go about calling attention to ones self it was trying to manoeuvre your way through crooked side streets and Goth kids in a wheelchair. As much as you disliked the alien, you disliked being conformitive. Which was always an internal conflict you struggled to hold yourself together over. People tended to look at you in normal society anyway, though it was regularity that you coveted so, and you struggled to hide your weakness behind facades of self esteem that failed. The only real ego boost you could get was ‘abnormal’ and it was only with the most terse and disciplined application of personal composure you could pull your strings tight and carry on. You believe that by this point, you were getting good at it, but if you thought a little harder you might see that it was this inner tension and discontentment that was responsible for your sensitivity and unsurity. Even the smallest negative thought toward you, picked up off a passer by, was enough to bruise you these days. Your pursuit of something more permanent to hold you together continued relentlessly, but despite all of this going on inside you bear it well enough. You are a happy man. You do not hate your life. You just feel a little strung up. Like a puppet.
You stop and check your cellphone when you reach the front of the shop, to see if your mother has answered you. She hasn’t, but you don’t think much of it, slipping the phone back into the pocket of your worn skinny jeans and swinging around the ramp side bar to walk up it, rather than the three low steps lading to the door. You think, not for the first time, that in the front Pan’s Ladder actually looks pretty respectable, a the display behind pane leaded glass diamonds boasting canvases marked with charcoal sketches of beasts which grab ones imagination, and large boards glittering with jewellery and body modification tools of every persuasion available. Today, contact lenses appear to be quite a big deal. A poster, next to one advertising a concert from the month before, is tacked in the window of the dark green door. You push down on the handle and don’t hesitate to step in. A small bell above the jamb tinkles.
“Uh… hey?” you call into the dim, empty shop. It smells like incense in here, and it’s very thick. You don’t like it much. “Hello? Are you here?”
Inside, posters and pictures adorn the walls. Posters that look like something right out of nightmare circus, or the carnival of rust. Images of bejewelled goddesses and lots of brightly coloured feathers, more display cases of jewellery and even some more extreme bits and pieces like surgical inserts glint in the low light from the gothic chandelier overhead. There are the normal things too, like trays of tattoo ink, designs, and even rows of nail polish sat on a shelf behind the glass counter, which is filled with rings and necklaces and other things to that effect. From behind the curtain beside this shelf, separated from you by the counter, a head appears.
“Hey brother.” It smiles at you, and you remember the first time you saw such a face. You nearly died. “Just finishing up something. Sit and wait like a good cunt ok?”
“Yah sure.” you smile back and run your hand through your waved Mohawk. “Can I get something to drink?”
“Faygo’s under the counter brother.” He lifts his chin up and then disappears, curtain fluttering in his wake. You think about it for a moment, but decide you would rather be thirsty than drink that crap.
Gamzee Makara doesn’t own this place. It is actually some woman who owns it, although he is manager and pretty much the only employee. This explains the décor. You think that though you are not an expert your body artist and his -isms, you do know that he’s not really so into the elegant gothicka he creates. You think he is more of a white-trash fight-club rap-music sort, but you do admire how well he can cater to the masses. Well, the masses of the minors, anyway. Goths and punks, after all, were much more likely to want tattoos and piercings and body art than juggalos, who could simply paint their faces as he did and wear clothes from the bottom of some charity bin.
You take a seat in the waiting area of the shop, in a relatively comfortable dark wicker chair, and reach for one of the magazines on the low, medieval style chest in front of you. It’s a tattoo art magazine. You don’t care for tattoo art, but think it looks better than Criss Angel’s autobiography. You sit with it lying unopened on your lap, and think. The smell in here is making you a bit light headed.
When Gamzee returns, ushering out a girl with a tissue held to her lip, you see that he locks the shop door behind him with a long old fashioned key, then drops it on top of the counter without even thinking of it.
“Alright brother? You’re looking a bit away with the fairies.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah.” You smile and set you unread magazine back. “The smell, it um… makes me dopey.”
“Ahh…” he nods in understanding and rounds the counter to your side, leaning against it. “Ok. I getcha.” He pauses for a moment, studying you thoughtfully. “So have you been getting all up and healed proper this time?”
You nodded. “Mm. Way better. It’s still uncomfortable to lie on my back though.”
“Ahhh… looks like you want a motherfucker to redo another piercing?”
You pull your most sheepish face.
“If I could?”
He chuckles and lifts his hand, to pull an elastic off his wrist and use it to ensnare the thick dark waves and curls which frame his white and black painted face.
“Course I will brother. No problem. But make another appointment okay? I don’t want to be all up and piercing that before it’s done being infected.”
“I’m on antibiotics.”
“Still.” Hair tied back, looking very businesslike for Gamzee (so not particularly businesslike), he stands up off the counter and beckons you forward. “Now come on through and sit yourself down. We ain’t doing nothing good by just standing here makin’ noise.”
You give him a little grin and do as he said.
Gamzee used to terrify you, he was someone who gave you all manner of powerful feelings and the way he looked certainly did not help. The first three times you came here were the most horrifying of you life. Every time you decided you wanted a new ear piercing or something, you had to spend a month working yourself up, trying to find the guts to do it not because the notion of being treated like a human pincushion scared you, but because the man who preformed the procedures, though expert and professionally impersonal, looked like he got lost on the way to hell. He didn’t match up with your understanding of controlled appearance and normality. He did not adhere to the strict lines of being that you bound yourself with and you thought everyone else should bound themselves with too. It was only the fourth time, when you came in to get your stomach button done, that you actually warmed up to the man and at first you thought it was because he was quite simply someone else.
Without his makeup Gamzee was almost perfect. Or at least, close enough to perfect as one can get with brands across their cheeks. Olive skinned and handsome, his eyes glassed with violet contact lenses, he had worn his hair up that day and a serene, heavy smile that was usually hidden behind greasepaint. He was very tall, very lanky, his arms just as bronze with what you expected was natural colour, rather than tan. He has tattoos, too, on his forearms, and probably underneath the t-shirts he wears.
You don’t know much about him, besides the fact that the feelings you get from him are powerful but indecipherable and by this point you must just be accustomed to them, and that one time he bought six different flavours of faygo and boiled them together in a pot to make faygo soup. He definitely smoked weed, and seemed awful jumpy. Things like his phone ringing and loud noises seemed to scare him shitless. He also has an obsession with glitter lava lamps.
This love for the entubed and sparkly is pronounced when you move into the actual ‘surgery’, where he performs the many body modifications his framed qualifications announce he can, from bikini waxing and manicures to branding and minor sub-dermal implants. You find it to be a comfortable space, filled with the scent of incense, decorated just like the front room save the large doctor-surgery bed against the wall and the tall medical trundle overflowing with sterilised needles and other equipment. A row of glittering lava lamps line on top of the cabinets with his inks and tattoo books in is reflected in the mirror on the far wall.
“Just the last two motherfuckers today then?” he asks you, gesturing to the bed upon which you go to sit, and make to remove your button up short sleeved shirt. “And an appointment to fix the other?”
“Yes please.” you confirm, dropping your shirt onto the floor. It is cool in here, not cold, but cool enough to prick your nipples, the piercings in them popping forward bravely.
“Bitchin’ brother. Lie down, on your stomach.”
You oblige, manoeuvring yourself with minimal difficulty and lying face first on the bed. You hear him washing his hands in the sink on the other side of the room, and the sound of plastic gloves being removed from a box. You wiggle a little and bring your arms up, so you can rest your chin on them. Your shoulder blades lift, and you fan them lazily.
“They look real good.” His voice floats from above and you smile a little. You know this, but don’t say it. “wanna check the spyglass?”
“No, its fine.” You looked at them this morning. “Just do it, make it quick I need to be home by dinner.”
He laughs softly, and you hear him rummage in his medical equipment, before seeing him set down a large bottle of antiseptic by your side.
“Okay, okay. I understand. A brothers gotta get his munch on.” He unscrews the bottle, splashes some of the content on some sort of cotton wool pad, and leans over you carefully. “This bitch is going to be cold, okay?”
You know it but still wince when he touches the small of your back with it, the alcohol dissolving off your skin almost on contact. An excited smile pulls your lips but you try to force it down.
“Do you want the needle or the punch?” he asks no-one in particular. “I could use a needle but it would probably be more of a motherfucking hassle. What did I use last time? Needle right?” he stops rubbing antiseptic on you and you close your eyes, stilling your breath. You aren’t even a little bit nervous, which is a small miracle. You are just excited to finally be getting it done.
Because this is your liberation.
You liked piercings ever since you were fourteen, and your mother bought you a magazine with the photo of the nose ring girl on the cover. Ever since you have simply adored the idea, obsessed with the intimacy and power associated with such a thing, the control over your own body, the confidence they represented, and the satisfaction that came from knowing you had done something to make yourself a little more awesome. Your piercings make you feel like you could divert the reception of emotional frequencies that you got from the others around you. They are like the ground to the electric prison of your body, the course through which the charge was carried to avoid being hurt or victimised. They are moreish, because although your confidence grew with each one, you knew you would never have enough to pin you together entirely. It is an asymptotic system, you could only work with what you have, and hope no-one delivered more harsh than that.
Your first piercings had been your ears, your second, an industrial bar. Third came the septum and things just unravelled from there. Here you are now, with nine piercings in both ears, your nose, eyebrow, nipples and belly button done, and the final touches being added to your most recent artwork, a set of corset style microdermals set in rows of five either side of your lower spine. Each pair of these had been done by Gamzee, on an afternoon like this, three months apart. This had been his idea, and you trusted him entirely with it, because you have only ever had one problem with the modifications he has preformed on you and that was with one of the most recent microdermals which you yourself had caught on your bed sheets.
Gamzee may have been a weirdo, and a stoner, and a little bit mad (you suspected) but he was good at what he did.
“Ok.” He decides. “I’m gunna punch it. While you’re here did you wanna change the heads of your others?” he is referring to the seven healed ones, which he had done with special (and expensive) jewellery that could have the flat heads unscrewed and be replaced with a small ring. You shrug and try to turn your head to see him.
“Can you?”
“Sure. It will cost a bomb though.”
“Mmm…” you sighed and turned away. “Better wait until I have some money.”
“Aww naw brother I’m sure we can work something out.”
And then suddenly you feel it, the light press of his tool against the spot on your back he designed to puncture.
“This might hurt, eh.”
You swear when he delivers the punch.

…

Post procedure, you remain lying face down on the bed, feeling a little queasy. You know you are okay but you don’t handle pain very well and you distinctly remember the time, after having your first one of these done, you fainted from trying to stand up straight afterwards. Gamzee is in the main room of the shop, rummaging around in pursuit of something to eat or drink. It’s probably going to be Faygo.
You reach forward calmly and crack your knuckles without thinking. It’s very dreamy in here, and you feel yourself begin to hem on sleep.
“Here.” He reappears and you stare at his crotch for a moment, before propping yourself up on one elbow and receiving the small bottle of grape Faygo he has presented you with. “I got this motherfucker yesterday too. Thought it seemed like something you would fancy.”
A book is dropped in front of you and you frown, shuffling back so you can read the cover.
Pyskys & faes and wonderful things: an illustrated companion
“Thought it might be good to model ink on or some shit. Lotsa motherfuckers want a picture of a fairy on their arm, but I haven’t got many references.”
“Oh?” you study the cover, and think almost instantly that it was definitely the sort of artwork a person might want on their body, the delicate, dark illustration describing magic creatures and upon a flick through fairy tales as well, from a huge variety of artists and styles. “I uh… don’t like tattoos?”
“Not to tattoo, brother. To look at while I change these.” He pattered his finger over your back and you remember that he had said he would do it today. You frown and try to look back at him.
“I can’t afford it.”
“Don’t worry brother. Call it goodwill. What sort of a guy would I be if I didn’t give a little givin’ to my best customer.” He nudges you over and sits down on the edge of your bed, leaning over to reach the medical trolley and pulling out a plastic bucket draw, set in railings. Inside is what you suppose might be some sort of filing system. This is proved correct when he flicks through it and finds a plastic baggie with an order slip on it, the name ‘Nitram’ clearly visible on the top.
“Sit tight brother and don’t motherfucking sweat it, this might feel a bit weird.”
“Oh.” you are momentarily touched by this gesture of generosity. “Okay. Sure.”
You return your attention to the book and hesitantly begin to flick through.
You love fairies. You always have, they represented the freedom and magic that was absent in your life. You don’t know how he knew this, maybe he could just sense it on you or something. You decide not to ask. Sometimes Gamzee is just like that, privy to things most people don’t see, probably because all the drugs he takes leaves spaces in between his braincells to fill with webs of perception. He just sees the world so simply, you doubt it even seems to him such knowledge was strange.
The book is beautifully executed, and it does distract you for a while, but soon you find your thoughts swaying to the sensation of gentle tugging on your back, from where he is unscrewing the flat heads and replacing them with the adapted ones, which you would be able to thread with ribbons. It feels odd, but not bad. You don’t know how microdermals work exactly, but you find it fascinating that they are as firm in your flesh now as they would if they had grown there.
“What do you think brother?” he asked me “Good art or nah.”
“Mm, it’s great.” You close the book and rest your head on it, hands dropping over the front of the table, bottle of Faygo still in one. “If I didn’t know better I would say you are trying to trick me into getting a tattoo?”
“Aww the motherfucker is on to me then is he?” he finished the fifth screw and reached for another. “That’s a downer… oh well. It was worth a try.”
“Not.” You smile a little and wiggle on the bed. It feels odd, being here with his hip against your side. Gamzee has very bony hips.
“It don’t hurt nothing brother. You just lie back and close your eyes, and I get the ink on…”
“No. thanks.”
“Aww.” He actually seems dejected as he works on the sixth tip. “Whatever then. Thought about what you wanted to pierce next?”
“Nope.” You tell him honestly, letting your eyes fall closed. “Why?”
“Just thinking. You got a lot up on top but none on your business half you know? Maybe you should get a bit of the motherfucking industrial sex appeal.”
You try not to laugh at that. Is he trying to imply he wanted to mutilate your dick? Because that’s the impression you are getting.
“Uhh… how about not.”
“Come on brother it don’t even hurt.” He finishes the sixth ring bead and lays his hand on the small of your back. “Doesn’t even need to be dick junk if you don’t want. I could do some motherfucking neat micodermals on your hips. That shit would look awesome.”
You frown and shake your head. “How does that even work? Why would you pierce… your hips.”
“Looks good?” he caresses your tailbone lightly and reached for the last screw cap. “I can show you my motherfuckers when these are done. Best thing. Nothing better.”
You are surprised by this. You had assumed Gamzee had piercings, but had never considered he would have such piercings.
“What? Hips?”
“Yeeeeah.” He draws it out, and in the silence that follows you can hear the tiny tink of him dropping the old screwtop on the medical trolley. He begins to secure the next, and you have to admit you are a little curious. You really do like piercings and you can’t help but wonder how it looks. Did it hurt? Maybe you should get your hips done? It couldn’t hurt right? Maybe it would be fun, and it would give you something to look forward to…
“All done.” He pats your small lightly, and then flicks his fingers over the one that had rejected to see how it was healing. “I can re-pierce this with a motherfucking ring top, and put these on when I do it. Not a motherfucking problem.”
“Yeah okay.” You sit up with some difficulty and shift your legs into an awkward, semi crossed position. Almost. Only then do you open your glass bottle of Faygo and switch hands, so you can wipe the moisture on your palm from the external condensation on your jeans. “Um, are you also going to show…?”
“Huh? Oh.” He stands up and lifts the hem of his shirt. “See? Pretty sexy right?” a small, dreamy smile, and you return it briefly before leaning closer to examine the jewellery set in the shallow dips either side of his inner hips. They do look good… especially against his stomach, which is smooth and taught and golden, a faint line of soft downy hair ghosting from his belly button to the band of black calvin kleins that peek above the waist of his jeans. “This one too.” He turns around and bunches his t-shirt forward, back curving gracefully. “On my motherfucking back.”
‘Back’ was a loose term, it was closer to the base of his tailbone, a horizontal surface bar with three thin chains strung between each end , different lengths an falling in shallow, pretty flounces against the curve of his behind. That definitely looked cute. Very cute. Appallingly cute.
“Any others?” you ask without thinking, almost optimistically even. He drops his shirt and turns back around, mouth open tongue lifted.
“Shit.” He has the fraenulum of his tongue done too. “That’s a cool thing!”
“I have another one.” He remarks. “But I’m not showing. Betcha can’t guess what it is.”
Your eyes narrow immediately.
“I don’t think I want to.”
“Naww brother probs not. But if you ask nicely?”
“…” you stare at him, unsure if he was making some kind of weird move or just being himself. You decide the mood wasn’t quite appropriate for him to be making a move, and assume thus that he was just dicking around.
“Okay, okay brother please your mothefucking self. Stand up, get your shirt on. We need to make us another appointment okay?”
“Yeah…” you concede, finding your top and putting it on. He moves around you, to retrieve the fairy book from the head of the bed, and you smell him as he passes. He smells different from the actual shop, but no less herbal. Like weed and facepaint. It’s not a nice smell but it doesn’t repulse you. You think he probably smells great under the drugs and make-up, but then stop to ask yourself where the fuck that thought came from.
You set an appointment for exactly one month in the future. You are happy with this arrangement. You begin counting down the minute you leave the shop.

…

“You’re done.” Gamzee smiles, you can hear it in his voice, and you smile too because it feels significant. Important. “Risky as motherfuck but its done. Feel good?”
“Yeah.” you try to sit up and turn your head to see, even though you know you can’t. “But it’s not done yet right.”
“Well, once it’s been laced it will be. Mothefucking beautiful brother. Most beautiful. Can a motherfucker get a picture for his portfolio?”
“Sure.” you smile, flattered even though it had been him who created the piece. “Do you want to wait until it’s laced?”
“I think that would be motherfucking mint brother.”
You flex your shoulders and run your one hand through your hair, smiling at him a little. Gamzee has forgone his makeup today, and you think he might be sober. His eyes are light and unmasked by contacts, the colour a particular delicate blue that may even have been lilac, in the right light. His hair falls prettily over his cheekbones, his lips a peaceful curve, although without the ease of whatever drug it was he used he does look a little tense and tired. He has tiny creases around the corners of his mouth from smiling, and you think that this is very beautiful. It’s a shame he hides it all the time behind a mask.
“You know the rules don’t you? Gotta be careful. I’ve never done a permanent corset before. That shits pretty motherfucking experimental, it’s a miracle it’s worked this far. Never leave them laced for longer than a few hours or nothing. Careful not to get them caught. Might be smart to bind them down when you wear some types of clothing. Keep them clean and-“
“Gamzee its okay I know, I know.”
He hesitates, looks at you for a moment, and hooks his hair behind her ear as if he is surprised at being cut off.
“Oh. Right. My bad brother I’m just real proud of my shit right now is all.” He gives you a lovely, tired smile and rubs his face. “Tired too. It’s been a mothefucking long week.”
“Mm.” you nod in agreement. It’s been a long week of anticipation for you as well.
You watch him as he stretches gracefully and tilts his head to the side, not missing the way his black wife beater lifts around the hem to expose the pretty bars punctuating his hips. A soft sigh escapes you, he glances at your face and your lips twitch. A moment passes between you, but you break it by looking away.
“Um… did you want to put the laces in now then?”
“Hm? Oh naw, not right now. Gotta wait for that last redo to heal. How about next week?”
“Next week?” next week was the first week of winter break. “I guess? What day?”
“Thursday evening?” he suggests, packing away his medical trolley and wheeling it against the wall, before adjusting one of his lava lamps. “Are you staying here for the holiday?”
“Yes.”
“Then Thursday. In the evening after I’m finished work. Come to my flat eh brother. We can up and lace you in and take your photos all pretty and shit. I can even do your hair all up.” He laughs in that particularly wonderful way he does, a smokers laugh, but a pleasant one. “While we are on it I can get some of your face too. You’re my motherfucking project and I want you all up in my motherfucking shop window.”
You feel yourself blush, partially embarrassed partially proud, and rub the side of your nose nervously.
“Uh… I don’t…”
“We will talk we will talk. Come through though and I will write down my motherfucking numbers ok? Address and shit.”
You slip off the bed and grab your jumper off the end. It only just occurs to you that Gamzee is inviting you to his house. Like, outside of this professional bubble. This makes you nervous for a moment, its outside the strict ideas you hold of the safe, the harmonious, the practiced… you hesitate to follow him back through the curtain around the counter.
You tell your brain to shut up, and get your motherfucking move on.

PART TWO

Gamzee’s flat is actually a rental house on the other side of town, one of those old brick cottage ones that cost a considerable amount and mostly are occupied by the elderly. You go there straight after he said he would be finished work, wearing your dorky trenchcoat over your mufti, because it is very cold today. You have your corset bound underneath with a flat piece of cotton cloth, and it feels a bit tight but you are used to it.
“Hey!” you look up in shock when you feel something drop on your head from above, having just reached his porch and pressed the doorbell. “What the…”
“Door’s open.” He calls from up high, upper body out the upstairs window, second ball of paper in hand. “Come upstairs. I’m on the top floor.”
He drops the paper wad but unlike the first one you manage to dodge this, poking out your tongue on an impulse and darting into the house.
Inside, the décor is very un-Gamzee, an elderly fellow with wispy white hair and a beard sits at a kitchen table reading a newspaper, a grandfather clock amongst bookshelves and hanging plants ticks patiently. It smells like vanilla air freshener.
“Hello.” The old man bleats, in a firm, upper class accent. “You are a friend of Gamzee’s?”
“Uhh…” you nod, and he blinks critical, pale blue eyes at you. You think he looks a little goatish, nannying and chewing on his tongue absent mindedly.
“He’s upstairs.” The man informs you, turning back to his newspaper. “Make sure he’s not drinking that ridiculous soda in his bedroom again.”
“Um, sure.” you pass as swiftly as you can through the room and even make it to the shining, darkwood staircase without hesitating to think that stairs were a bad thing for you, and you should probably take them slow.
You struggle up, reaching the landing and looking left, then right, before realising that there is another staircase, probably to the attic, and that it is at the top of this one the door bearing the title ‘Gamzees hood’ and a hatchet-man bumper sticker awaits, slightly ajar, the sound of rap music lolling out. You swear softly and drag yourself up these, the carpet sinking underfoot. It smells very, very nice up here. Like something fruity, fresh from the shower.
“Hey brother.” He greets you when you are halfway up, pulling open his door. “I see you got past the old boy.”
“Yeah.” you confirm, reaching the top and rubbing you thighs tenderly. “Who is that?”
“Grandfather. I rent the attic of his rental off him. Motherfucking logic right?” he laughs and curls a lick of hair around his index finger. “I call him goat-dad.”
Oh well that makes sense. You smile a little and look around, making to remove your coat. Gamzee’s room is more like himself, an attic space with slanted roof, the tilt tacked with posters for bands that scare you a little. He has some pretty Venetian masks as well, hanging on the walls, photos of places he must have been when he was younger, arm around his grandfather in front of places like Pisa and Petra. There are some paintings, and the theme appears to be ‘death circus’. His windowsill boasts two glittery purple lava lamps, his bed is low and huge, unmade and strewn with magazines and what looked like bike horns. There is a unicycle in the corner, on top of an old, faded armchair, and a carnival glass lamp hanging from the ceiling fills the space with an oddly lilting light.
“Oh,” you point to a bottle of moon mist Faygo and remember what the man downstairs had said. “Your grandpa said you aren’t suppose to drink that up here.”
“I ain’t drinking it am I?” he gives you a little smile and ushers you toward the chest of drawers next to his window. Waiting there s a coil of ribbons, cream and chocolate brown silk. “Now hurry up and get your top off. I got some big motherfucking ideas for you ok?”
“Hang on, hang on.” You try to resist him, so you can drop your things on his bed and remove your t-shirt comfortably. He watches with excitement the whole time and you think that he looks very pretty in his pyjamas, polka dot trousers sliding down thin hips, oversized jumper describing the way his shoulders dropped into a v at his waist. His hair is wet, his skin glistening with post-shower moisture, and you decide that the fruity scent you were smelling before was passion fruit, his soap or shampoo or something, and it is a definite improvement on the odour of the shop. “I just walked here, my legs are horribly sore you know. And my back.”
This is true. But it does not impact you ability to do things like have your piercings tied. Something you have been anticipating so long cannot so easily be rendered unimportant. Especially not by an aching leg.
“You can crash here tonight.” He tells you, as if he didn’t hear. “I can sleep on the floor. Or I can pile my horns up and sleep there. A quick and easy miracle cradle, motherfucking brilliant shit that.”
You don’t plan on staying at Gamzee’s house, your mother is just a phonecall away, but rather than bother him with this explanation you remove your coat and clothing, fold your t-shirt neatly, and set it on the end of his bed. The binding around your waist follows, and he moves forward to help you with it, just in case it snags as you unravel. You are glad to show him that the latest fixer upper has healed perfectly, his fingers brush over it happily and the delicate cotton strip you had used flutters atop the cyclone of plum violet sheets on the side of his bed.
“Looks better than I remembered.” He announces, and you smile.
“I think so too, but um… I’ve only been able to look at part of it in my mirror.”
“Not a problem brother. Got the motherfucking answer to that right here.” He beckons you over to the corner of his room, by his window. The lamplight glints off the windowpanes warmly, and you think that for an attic it is exceptionally cosy. Perhaps on account of the chimney pile jutting from the back wall. You expect that his grandfather would have had a fire going in this season.
In the corner of his room, hidden behind his door, is a wardrobe, one of those great narniaic ones, with the heavy doors and ancient smell, which opens in a peculiar acordian style and as it turns out has two full length mirrors on the inside doors.
“Stand here?” you ask, catching on. He nods and adjusts the hinged doors so that you can stand with your back to one and see the reflection clearly in the other. You see the completed set, undone, for the first time.
Admittedly, it’s not hugely remarkable. Two rows of what look like silver nails driven into your back, with small rings attached, running parallel with your spine and curving in sympathy when you moved. He strokes his hand over them again proudly and absently, and gives you a look of excitement through the mirror. You see your little smile reflected back at him, and he wiggles his eyebrow.
“Be a tick, brother.” He turns away and takes two big steps to the draw stack, returning with the ribbons in hand. “Now stay still. Close your eyes. I don’t want you peaking before the finished product ok?”
You bite your lip excitedly, butterflies beginning to stir in your stomach. Oh wow this is happening now right? You are getting tied in, finally completing a several month project and fulfilling a five year old dream.
“After this, I want to do your hair ok? Gets some motherfucking photos of you looking swag and showing off your other ones. You don’t mind me putting you all up in my folio?” he checks again, just to make sure.
“Not at all,” you tell him, flexing your shoulders when you feel his fingers brush the first loop and thread a ribbon through.
“Awesome, brother. You’re my favourite piece. I like your stuff better than some of the tattoos I’ve done. It just looks right on you, ya know?” his fingers find the next loop, and the hair on the nape of your neck prickles when you feel the ribbon whispering between them both. “I still reckon you could use some ink though.”
“I don’t like the idea of tattoos.” You tell him firmly. “They aren’t my thing.”
“Naww you’re right brother and hey that’s cool. This is awesome too.” The next eyelet is threaded, and your heart jumps excitedly. Behind you he moves with a gentle rustle. “So I’m going to tie this with two colours okay? Brown and cream, because those colours match your eyes.”
You pull a face. Why would you want anything to match your eyes? When you were younger, you had a neighbour who told you more than once that they were the precise colour of poo.
You inform him of this and he hesitates.
“Well that’s not very motherfucking nice, is it?” a gentle tone of comfort entered his voice. “I gotta say I disagree with that… girl?”
“Yeah.”
At least you think Vriska was a girl.
“I think your eyes are pretty motherfuckers. Like coffee on a hungover morning, or chocolate on a stormy day…” Gamzee pulls lightly on one of the ribbons, and it does feel odd but you don’t really notice, to flattered by his words. It seems to be all this joker is full of, flattery. But what makes it amazing is that he actually probably means it.
“Uh… thanks?”
“Not a problem brother. Just for the record though, there are plenty of other pretty things about you that I don’t point out. Like your hair and your motherfucking face. I always got the vibe you didn’t think much of yourself though. Seems like a bit of a motherfucking shame…”
You are puzzled by this, and tip back your chin in inquiry.
“What?”
“What what?”
“You got the vibe I didn’t think much…”
“Oh, yeah. I got the vibe. Sometimes I get those you know brother? When you walk down the street and you see some motherfucker passing by, and this little miracle voice in your ear goes ‘hey man, give that bloke a ten’, or ‘she’s feeling down better stop a flirt with her for a while’. Ever noticed that before?”
You shake your head, a little touched by the sincerity with which he spoke.
“People are weird motherfuckers. They give of vibes like antennae. It’s just a sad thing no one else is ever tuned to receive them though, and they only pick up what they motherfucking want to hear. It always confuses me how two strangers can pass in the street and not give each other a second glance. One motherfuckers wife just died, another just stole twenty dollars from the til at work to feed his family. Do these two strangers stop for even a split second to comfort each other? To say ‘sorry brother things are tough but everything’s gunna be all motherfucking right’? You motherfucking bet they don’t brother, and you know why? Their miracle reception is closed, they walk around screaming for help, but no-one else is around to hear it.”
“I… walk around screaming for help?”
“Naw, not you brother. You’re more of a crying puppy.”
Well okay then. You don’t know how to take that, falling silent for a moment and focusing only on him weaving ribbons. The first one must be done now, because he’s tying it off and running the loose one over your shoulder.
“You though, you got one of the best vibes I ever felt. All sweet and good and pretty like. Sometimes I think that I could just eat you all motherfucking up, then pick out my teeth with your jewellery and wear your skin like a wolf wears wool.”
This conversation is taking a very sudden turn down a very dark, very disturbing alley. You make an uncomfortable noise, your nape prickling, and he chuckles lowly.
“Don’t worry brother, not today. This wolf likes to savour his food.”
“… That’s not very comforting…”
He laughs again, and you bite your lip, breaking out in the shivers. He must be able to see this, the way he is goose pimpling your flesh. He really doesn’t seem bothered.
“This might hurt a little brother.” He alerts you softly, before pulling the second ribbon tight. You wince. It doesn’t hurt but it does pull uncomfortably, and he eases up just enough so that you can still feel that tug but its not bothering you at all.
“Okay.” he sweeps around you, freshly showered scent fluttering like a cheerful ghost, and stands at your side, boxing you into the square formed by closet and mirrors. “You can open your eyes now.”
And when you do so, it takes you a moment to get used to the unearthly, golden light in the attic room.
In the reflection of the mirror, you can see the ties clearly, and yes he has done them in brown and cream, and yes they do match perfectly with the tone of your skin. They weave elegantly, delicately, through the beads and criss-cross you in like a truss, not that you need it, the way your body is built removes the need for diet or exercise from your life even if you want to stay a good size. They fall to a stop above your jeans waist, a ten or so centimetre gap, and the small, limp bows he has tied all the ends in dangle, and sway as you move slightly, to get a better look.
You think, for inexplicable reasons, that they look a lot like telephone wires, criss-crossing on a grid, keeping everyone in touch and trapped. This feeling of security is comforting. You feel like it may just have become a part of the great web which held you together.
“So?” he asks for your approval, and letting a smile of contentment break your face, you give it, a nod and your lip bitten in happy excitement.
“It looks so good.” you tell him, the strange conversation of earlier forgotten. “Wow, Thank you so much it’s brilliant.”
“Glad to hear that brother.” He touches your side, fingers just caressing the left line of rings, and runs his hand up your bared torso in a mothering invitation to come over to the dresser now, so he can play with your hair.
You don’t usually let people touch your hair, its kind of your pride and joy, but you allow him to run his fingers through it, moving the wave which fell forward over your face back, then letting it flop forth again, in your eyes. The smooth fuzz on the sides of your head is getting a little long, but lately you had been considering letting it grow out some more, maybe changing styles altogether. You really do like your hair. It was your best feature, despite what anyone said. Rich brown, thick and wavy, you were happy to let him toy with it.
“Did you know I can cut hair?” he inquires lightly, turning you around so that you are facing the window, and he, standing with his back to it, is silhouetted in the sunset, his lamplight warbling over his features in contrast to the natural glow of the space. “When I dropped out, goat dad sent me to the only place which would up and motherfucking take me, and it happened to be motherfucking beauty school.”
You laugh, trying to imagine Gamzee fitting in with a class of blonde cake-faces, blowing bubbleum bubbles and chortling about last nights episode of Jersey shore.
“Serious?”
“Yup. Graduated too. Top of the class. Everyone else there was fucking stupid or some shit.” He sighs. “I wanted to fucking go to clown college.”
Oh now this one really made you laugh. Not because the idea was stupid but because the idea was utterly perfect. Gamzee did seem to have an obscene affinity for the red-nosed and terrifying.
“That would have been so you.”
“Yep, sure would have brother.” He reaches for a pottle of hair product on his drawer stack and sucks his teeth. “Especially when I was sixteen. Not any more though.” He almost looks wistful as he unscrews the lid. “I think I’m growing out of that shit now. Makes me kind of sad I reckon.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty three.” He scoops a little of the product (wax you think) into his palm and sets the pottle down to massage it into his hands. “Twenty three and fucking lonely. And bored. A motherfucker gets up and bored with his life sometimes, you know? When he’s got nothing to do, nowhere to go… he starts to feel trapped. All tied up and fenced in and imprisoned.” with a sigh he begins to work the product through your hair. “Maybe tomorrow something will happen. Something motherfucking brilliant. Something…” he hesitated, “Miraculous. Did you want this done all up and pointy or more sort of natural?”
“Um, natural looks best.” You smile a little and tip your head toward him. “Did you want to do anything else to me, while we are here?”
“Well I dunno. Can I magic marker a big old tattoo on your arm? I promise it will be a motherfucking nice one? Just for the shoot?”
You laugh some more at his eagerness.
“Well I don’t know. I um… I suppose you can?”
“Yus.”
He seems delighted with that.

…

“So can I get a brother to stand a little more… like… no here.” Gamzee steps forwards, dropping his old fashioned Olympus onto the strap around his neck and moving forward to adjust the way you are holding your shoulders.
“That way you can see the corset and the fuckin’ hair. Okay? Good cunt.” He snaps a photo and you smile a little, enjoying the attention. You also enjoy the creeping Minotaur he has doodled on your upper arm as well, but you refuse to tell him this. If you tell him such things, he will take it as an invitation to actually tattoo it.
“I’m almost done. Mother fuck brother these are fucking miracle pictures. They are going to look all professional or something when I’m done.”
“You think?”
“Fuck yeah. It’s the light in here. It’s all luminous and shit.”
You agree, and think that it’s probably on account of his lampshade, which separates the light into oily rainbow colours, splashing it on everything in any number of different ways. It’s since fallen dark outside.
“Well, that’s good for your business isn’t it?”
“Yeap. I guess. I dunno brother, I don’t really care. It’s more my folio I care about these days. I don’t reckon I will be sticking around here for much longer.”
“Huh? How come?” he takes a photo when you turn to him in wide eyed curiosity and the flash blooms white behind your eyes for a moment, before yielding to sight once more. “Where are you going?”
He shrugs, and removes his camera from around his neck.
“I dunno. Wherever I end up I guess.” He smiles and ruffles his hair, which has dried into a nest of tight ringlets you had never once considered might look flattering on him. You think that he must style his hair then, before he goes into work. You don’t know why though, because those corkscrewing curls made him look like some sort of hand made doll and it’s definitely all sorts of attractive. “One morning I will probably just get up and motherfucking piss off. Join the gypsies, or some shit. Seize that freedom, Run away…”
“And join the circus?”
It’s not a cruel tease, but you nail it, earning a small smile and a crooked finger beckoning you forward.
“That day might be tomorrow.” He tells you gently, eyes drilling into you with alien severity. You’ve never had someone look at you like this before; it feels as though it’s slipping through the frequencies of every look your mind seems tuned to read. “But it really depends.”
“On what?” you approach him so the two of you are face to face, you still grinning happily, him regarding you with that odd expression, “You will still um, do my piercings for me won’t you? Even if you run away?”
“Sure.”
“Then go for it. If that’s what you uh, want to do…”
His turn to smile now, returning yours with a fence of sharp white teeth and a slight tilt of the head. His hand lifts to brush your hair off your brow.
“You are just too fucking beautiful.” He tells you carefully. “In pretty much every way.”
You chortle and tug one of his corkscrews playfully.
“How stoned are you? Stop clowning okay. Are we done though? I have to um, call my mother now…”
“No.” he stops you, grabbing your waist and dragging you forward. “I’m not motherfucking done.”
And before you can even be startled, he kisses you, and his mouth tastes like Faygo and spit, his lips are warm and metallic from the fissures he has chewed in them, and the scent of him rolls over you once more in a thick, invigorating wave.
You shout and try to pull away, as anyone in this situation would do.
“Gamzee what the… what?! Stop!”
“What’s wrong brother? Scared of me?” he presses his forehead to yours and clutches tighter at your waist. You feel weak, for the first time in an age, you feel weak and helpless, stepping into this new and unexplored realm. Your knees threaten to give way beneath you. “Scared of me all motherfucking over again?”
He steps forward and you move backwards in accordance, maybe against your will you don’t know, because you cant tell if this is something you want or not. The back of your legs knock his bed, and you sway, but he catches you by the small of your back, hand pressing into the piercings which sentry your spine.
“…What do you mean… um, again?”
“Vibes brother, I could feel it on the vibes. I know every single thought you’ve had about me, like a motherfucking book or some shit. You ain’t exactly the Da Vinci code. More… the Magic Schoolbus.”
“Um…” what am I thinking now, you go to ask, but the words get caught in your throat. Not even you know what you are thinking now. How could he.
“You’re thinking that you want me.” His lips brush yours again, and your knees knock. “That you want me to unlace you and fucking throw you down, like everyone else who’s ever walked into your life. You want me to pull you apart, cut you raw and leave you to pull the strings of your skin back together, so that you can motherfucking pretend like that shit ain’t hurting. You want me to rip you, to punch holes in you, so that you can hook them up with silver and pretend like its not gonna leave a fucking scar. Motherfucker that’s what you want from me. It’s all you fucking want from anyone. But this time you aren’t motherfucking going to get it.”
He shoves you down, and you land on the bed, winded.
“Tonight, I’m going to give you exactly what you don’t want. And then you’re going to motherfucking tell me that you like it.”
You don’t understand what this means, but you are helpless to respond, writhing when he straddles your hips and pins your shoulders down, mouth sweeping toward yours again.
Gamzee’s weight is not as much as you would have guessed, he is elegant and seems very capable of supporting himself against you as he presses himself against your bare chest and kisses you like the world may just be ending. His jumper rides up his stomach, and you feel his cool skin press against your own. The sharply chilled beads of silver, his hip piercings, grate against your tummy and make the hair on the nape of your neck prickle. You gasp, and he moves to your neck, but not before stopping by your ear to give one of your piercings a tug.
This is weird. This is really weird. Sure, you like Gamzee a lot, and you definitely think he’s attractive, but he’s more the sort of attractive you want to be, you know? And he’s a guy! Which means that he’s going to want to…
Oh no. oh no way in hell are you letting that happen. You make a stupid, uncharacteristically alpha sort of a noise and shove him aside, and he bounces onto the bed beside you, hair flaying across the pillow.
“Whoa!” he seems amazed. “Where did THAT come from?!”
“You didn’t stop!” you tell him, whining nervously. “I’m sorry I panicked, I realised what you were doing and-“
“Fucking kiss me motherfucker.” Before you can finish, he has dragged you onto him again, and locked his lips against yours, and you have to admit that now you are on top, things are beginning to feel… different. Nice different. But no. no this wasn’t happening you weren’t going to let it!
And then he tugs on your corset ribbons, it hurts but also it feels so good, and you cry out and he grins triumphantly and he has you. There’s nothing for it more than to just grab him, to crush his cheeks between your hands and kiss him like you want to hurt him, driven by the throbbing in your back from where he pulled. A sane part of you tells you to stop, to be angry, and to check to make sure he hadn’t damaged anything, but the rest of you knows that he would never have done it, if he didn’t think that it was safe. You trust Gamzee, right?
You think.
It’s too late now though, anyway.
Breath short you let your instinct sway you, and suddenly you are very aware of how he kisses, and how his body feels, and how wonderfully shaped he is beneath your chest. You feel how his heart beats, in his breast, and how his hands hang to you desperately, finger pads raking on your hips. You smell his hair, feel the silk of his curls against your face as you kiss his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, and you let him run his hands across your back, down the zig-zag of your laces and then beneath the waistband of your jeans. He pants hotly against your ear, kissing and sucking the shell, his breath rattling loudly and providing a diegetic soundtrack for your train of thought. Where was this going? What was happening? Why?
But then you stop yourself, knowing that this was the sort of thought that was going to trip you up, and then you would be lying here uselessly after having thrown away what may be your only chance in life to be brave and kiss the boy.
“C-can we do this?” you manage, pulling back and pressing your forehead against his. “Really?”
“I know a brother wants to.”
“Do you want to?” it slips out before you can help it, because you have never once thought that anyone, especially not someone like Gamzee, who always seemed so chilled and talented and distanced, would want you. He laughs at this and drags your mouth down again.
“yes.” He tells you forcibly. “Motherfucking yes.”
Well. Um. Okay then.
You let him roll you over again, onto your back, and the tangled sheets whisper over the bed calmly, the cool cotton pressing beneath your bare shoulders. He shimmies off and runs his hand through his hair, looking a little flushed beneath the shining scars on his nose and cheeks. Light, slim fingers make quick work of his jumper, and so you are both shirtless, kissing again bare skin to bare skin, and beneath his clothes you realise that Gamzee is much more delicate than he looks, his bones finely strung like spun glass, his skin soft and yielding beneath your palms. Instantly your hands drive to his hips, and you run your thumbs reverently over the studs there. It’s the first time you’ve ever thought of piercings in a primarily sexual way, and it thrills you very deeply. It tingles, it tickles, it’s like that feeling when you crown the very top drop on a roller caster, and you leave your stomach behind when you plummet all the way down.
You part your lips for him, he moans breathlessly and slips, descending on your chest down your stomach, his kisses pouring over your collar. He pauses for a moment to kiss your right nipple, and the captive bead ring which spears through it, flicks his tongue around the darkened seam and moves further, directing his affections down the cleave of your chest and over your stomach, which is canted down with nerves and tension. You curl your fingers into his pillow, which sits just above your head and as it turns out, is very soft. Your toes point, and your whole body quivers tersely when he teases his nails over your jeans-waist, lips purring calmly over the dark happy trail which ambles from your stomach button down.
Gamzee hesitates over your crotch, and lets a few of his tresses tumble forward onto your stomach. Looking for permission, he glances up. You nod quickly, and before you can flop backwards again he has it done, your trousers removed and his head bowed and oh dear god that feels good. So good you groan and tremble, almost shoving him off as he works you, kisses you, licks you and sucks, trying to win the game you had conceded to him when he first pulled your strings.
You bite your lip and open your legs a little more, to allow him room. Your hands move to strike through his hair, guiding him gently as he did his thing, and you felt the effects of this in the way he moved, his enthusiasm spiking significantly.
He feels so nice on your cock. His lips are just the right amount of wet and he licks with some expertise, but not enough to call him a slut. His hands work your inner thighs, and you curve your back up a little as he shifts them down to rub the base of your erection, what he cannot fit into his mouth. He pulls gently on the tip with his lips and pumps the bottom smoothly, and the warmth moves up your body in waves. You wriggle a little on his bed, helpless, and try not to make any stupid noises. Which much to your surprise, you manage.
Just.
He hops off after a while, having hoisted you up full and proper, and bounces smoothly over his bed to his side table, where he pulls out a jumble of things (death rap magazines, make-up, a box of crackers, and condoms) and dumps them on the bed unceremoniously, hunting through it for something and-
“This?” you spot the KY before he does, and reach for it, but hesitate half way because this is still his house and his things. He grunts, grabs the tube, and unscrews it, tossing it to you and then turning around to sit on the edge of the bed, to see to his pants. Taking the hint, your face warming to even think about it, you squeeze an amount into your palm and rub it with your fingers. Then you think about what’s going to happen for a moment, and blushing feverishly, squeeze on a little more.
“How…” you ask him hopelessly, not sure you can put your hand… down there. He glances at you as he turns back around, folding long, naked legs underneath him and scooting back to you, and frowns.
“Ah naw brother you got it wrong. Here.” he guides your lubed hand to your dick and gestures that you should rub, taking the bottle from you himself and emptying a generous amount on his three main fingers. “This motherfucker likes being the bitch.”
You are somewhat startled by the way he states this so simply, you pause slicking your dick, watching him in astonishment as he shifts around, dropping the tube of jelly so that it falls against your thigh, and straddles your waist again. You try not to look between his legs, but you can see the jet black hair there in your peripheral, rich against his Mediterranean skin. Instead, you limit your looking to his hips and above. But then you remember his tailbone piercing, and a small noise escapes you, and he smiles that distant, mystical smile.
“Watch your thoughts brother, I can’t ride that.” He takes your cock in his not-lubricated hand and begins to massage it again, smearing the stuff you had smoothed on a bit, and making you break out in shivers. “Make sure you motherfucking keep it all up and happy looking. Kay?” he bends forward at the hips and kisses you lightly, lingering for the briefest of moments before moving back. “and hey can I get a brother to up and do me a little motherfucking favour?”
His brow tugged in sudden pain and he pulled a little face, and your heart jumps when you realise what his hand not touching you must be doing.
“Could I get a brother to just open his motherfucking mind? Just for a little? Can I get a brother to undo himself, and fall to pieces just for me? That would be motherfucking incredible, you know. A little motherfucking-“
“miracle.” you finish for him, breathlessly. His hand is beginning to make it very hard to concentrate on anything besides sex, let alone ‘undoing’ anything. He smiles and kisses you some more.
“Or you could motherfucking let yourself go and hammer me like a fucking board. Wicked good and all that shit, be a man for once in your life and make me beg for mercy.”
“I can’t do that…”
“Scared to hurt me?” he sniggers and lets his forehead fall against your shoulder. “Scared to scar me a little more.”
And so what if you were? That wasn’t a bad thing, right?
He moves back with a rustle, shifting his hand from your erection (which bums you out a little) and returning it to his own. You can’t see what he is doing behind him, and you try not to think about it because such thoughts are too inappropriate. Too private. Even at a time like this…
Oh who were you fooling, it was too sexy and you didn’t think you could take it. No way were you going to act like some sort of virgin about this. You had to draw together every scrap of dignity and pride you had for this one, and pretend like you have gotten laid at least once in your life.
Because ain’t that just how it goes.
Gamzee takes a shallow breath when he props himself up, and lifts his eyes for a split moment before he grabs your cock and situates himself over it, pressing the head teasingly over the surface piercing which has been lingering on the borders of your memory for a little while. It is cold, at the small of his back, and then as soon as you feel the chill its gone, and things are much warmer, and much tighter, and oh fuuuuuuck.
The micro-expressions that flicker on his face are both beautiful and upsetting, they make your cheeks burn, for the pure eroticism and pain that passes by in the briefest twitch of his lips or flutter of eyelashes. When he is settled, lowered over you entirely, you think that it feels wonderful, a bit crushing, but wonderful, and you reach for his face and pull him forward to taste his lips, and let him coarse his hands through your Mohawk. You have the briefest moment to think that this is happening some one is having sex with you before he starts moving and your train of thought unravels entirely. You moan, breathless, and pull him tight against you, disliking how far he has to pull back to slide you in and out, wanting to just stay here, this close, forever…
And so he slips sideways, pulling you onto him, and you both tumble for a moment until you find a comfortable position, his one leg hitched so high over your hip it curls around your waist. From here, you can be close to him, but still find some leverage, and it all works so naturally, so smoothly, you don’t even realise it is happening and you are doing it, and he’s not just lying there receptive either he’s doing it too, and the airy sighs and light noises of pleasure he makes are wonderful, igniting a thread of lights up your spine.
His hands rub your corset, his lips hunt uselessly for your lips but find only neck, and jaw. You try to think straight but you can’t because your entire mind is unravelling, you are falling to pieces in his arms and you find your hips are slowing because you don’t have the power inside of you to go on. You whine miserably, and try to pull him back over but he makes an aching, keening noise and you loose heart. Between the two of you, you think that he probably needs this more. It’s shocking to see, and it strikes a very raw, very tender nerve in you. His fingers dig harder and you roll over him completely, letting his leg slip down and yourself slip out, so that you can lie comfortably, chest to chest. Beneath you, he shakes, heavy panting illustrating the dislike of exercise he had mentioned to you many a time before. But you think blearily that he doesn’t appear to be disliking this.
Your lips are snatched into another mouthful of kissing, and you press your hands down on his hips as though you are trying to flatten the curve out, your thumbs stroking the cool beads of his hip studs with decadent relish. He sinks beneath you, trying to press up, and you grind against him harder having forgotten all notion of being inside. His fingers in your hair feel delicious, the lush smoothness of his skin is dreamlike. He makes a deep, gutting noise and rakes his nails down your back and you think you have never felt like more of a human being. You feel your self-esteem skyrocket, your grip on his hips tightens. Messily he drags your head down and presses his lips against your ear.
“Nothin’ better than when a brother all up and knows how to fuck.”
And for a moment you go crazy, he rolls his head back and groans, letting you drag him down the bed and secure your hand on his spry cock, which you realise with a start has a fraenulum bar and this almost knocks you backwards.
“Oh fuck brother.” It slides out of him on a blissful cry, your nape crawls with passion and satisfaction. “Don’t leave a motherfucker waiting…”
You smile a little, through the haze, and elect not to do precisely that. He makes an idyllic little noise and kisses your cheek, murmuring indecipherable and most likely filthy things into your ear as he goes. His thigh rubs against your cock, and you are glad for the relief, driving against it evenly and firmly, so the bed begins to creak, and the soft noises he makes become cries of satisfaction before you even notice that he’s come in your palm, his body breaking into fierce shakes and then falling limply against the mattress as he unstitches in your arms. You shift your hand, pressing it against his hip and rubbing only one of his piercings now, the other arm winding around the small of his back and holding him close as you rut, kissing and gasping and drowning in the way his lips taste…
When you come, it hits you like a brick wall in the face, and you kiss him so goddamned hard that he complains, grunting and trying to push you away just enough for him to breathe. It drags over you, pulling you down and tossing you mercilessly, your pelvic region throbbing, heat seeping under your skin from your spine all the way to the ends of your toes. It’s over, after an unknown extension of time, but it’s not over in the sense that you can still feel the chemicals surging through your mind, and the closeness of him, and the wetness of your cum on his leg.
He is limp, your breathing synchronises and it’s heavy.
And there’s silence. There’s silence…
The electric fence boundaries have stopped humming, your reception, momentarily, is disengaged.

…