u n d e r
The last tug is the hardest, just as some dim and presumably dead teacher of his had told him. The boy's arms and left leg had slid out easily with the small layer of baby fat melting gently between flesh and muscle. The right leg...
Well, the night is waning, and much of the fat has evaporated or re-solidified itself. If he sets it to burn again, the whole body could go up in the stink of grease and his own failure. The boy -- Oz, he must remember to let the name become as natural and innocuous to him as Ethan must never be again -- remains still within the binding spell.
Not even the redslick mouth struggles against it, which makes Ethan feel as though there is a need for... something else. Something to mark this --
Ah, there it is. The slow, careful tug on Oz's great toe has finally paid off. The last of the skin slips off with all the slithery gracelessness of worn stocking. Ethan slips the skin on quick as he can, eager to make the most of the waning elasticity. The words come as easy as breath, the final sealing reminding him hungrily of those other times with Ripper, when the only thing binding Ethan had been a corset, or some other bit of small torture.
The first feeling of being bound, wrapped is something like a fuck for the whole body, a sense of being pleasantly surrounded in something that longs to cling to every part of you. This feeling will not fade into pain, however. Not if he has anything to say about it.
He tests a smile on his newer, fuller lips. Impulsively blows a kiss at nothing, at chaos, at the boy-shaped bit of meat still lying at his feet.
"Darling boy, you're going to die here."
Steady gaze, though marred a bit by the bright spark of anger and pain in his eyes. Ethan kneels down beside him and runs one gentle finger down the center of the boy's chest. Watches the sensation run through him as he makes the very hex itself shudder. Of course, all of the boy's less sensitive nerve endings are busily connecting themselves to Ethan's own. What's left is purely... raw.
Ethan almost giggles at that, pretends he has stolen some of Oz's wildness with his skin. Breathes deep the old iron scent of blood, the very same since the first time some old wizard had decided he'd had enough of age. Oh yes, Ethan had been ready for just this moment since the first time he'd seen how deeply the lines cut on Ripper's face -- a perfect enough mirror for his own.
He feels himself stir, cock and balls surrounded by the unfamiliar hairs of the boy, of Oz. It's a maddening tickle, now that he notices it.
Ethan hopes it won't fade for many months, yet.
Soon, he promises his cock.
As always, though, his cock responds with a simple, curt now.
And there are many possibilities here, including what would be the still-not-familiar touch of his brand new palm, and the simple lick and flash of chaos over his body... This act, this purposeful atrocity has already set in motion any number of events that will please Janus. Ethan knows he has done well, and knows he may have any boon he wishes at just this moment.
And yet there is something terribly compelling about the boy as he is now, a Christ of perpetual torment, bleeding with every beat of his weakening heart. So beautiful.
Ethan cups the exposed white caps of Oz's knees and murmurs. They lift under his touch, bend up to the boy's chest. The motion itself is fascinating, the pull of muscle to muscle fundamentally machined, the spell making the movements mechanistic, the boy a terribly naked automaton.
And what's revealed is pebbled and gritted with desert, but still shockingly wet and red against everything else. Ethan starts to brush the the grit away, but quickly gets lost in the sensation. Springy, resilient muscle of the sort that would be far too tough to eat. Of course -- he has left Oz only the minimum of himself.
Still, no market he's actually been to in person has ever sold anything quite like this. He's nearly tempted to take a bite, just to see, but Ethan's taste in meat has always been for the figurative... which thought brings him to the too-smooth bud of the boy's ass. Without the skin, the pucker is rudimentary at best, and what's left...
Once he had known a woman with no inner labia at all. When she spread her thighs there was nothing there but an average clitoris arching above a simple rounded hole, purple-pink and bare of all protection. Here is something in the same family, though rounder and more... Inevitable is the word that comes to mind, but Ethan isn't sure precisely what he means by that.
It doesn't matter.
Several wipes over the body and his hands are as slick as they need to be, and while the courtesy is the next thing to meaningless at this point, Ethan feels no need to be crass. And, of course, it isn't especially often that he has the opportunity to slick himself with the blood of the innocent. His cock tries to move beyond full erection, but the only response is the ache he's learned to appreciate over the years.
And the skin... his skin, now, swallows the boy's blood as though it recognizes it. Greedy, greedy self and Ethan approves wholeheartedly yes right to the very heart of things, the beat and pulse far more relevant here -- inside -- than it could ever be anywhere else.
The boy's eyes stare fixedly somewhere over Ethan's shoulder until he forces them to stare. He wants to see what pain looks like in the work of these muscles, rage and fear and fatalism and whatever else he can get. He wants it all, and has no time to get it beyond anything but these last few moments of closeness.
I have you, I am you, I I I feel so good and Ethan lets his hips snap and roll, buries himself in the wet softness again and again, body slapping, near splashing as muscles tear and vessels break and yes ripe fruit leaving him sticky with its juices. Messy sweet tack and gore and Ethan isn't lost to this.
Ethan is here, having. Ethan throws his head back and laughs to the stars and clenches his fists in protesting muscle and slams himself in.
And shoots, laughter crumbling into breathy yells of triumph.
Soon, he promises himself. Soon.
Spit-shiny grin: Now.