Page 57 of Feast of Sparks (Thornchapel 2)
St. Sebastian groaned. “Please, Auden. Please.”
“Please. Such a good word coming from those lips,” Auden said, touching the tiny bite wound on St. Sebastian’s lower lip and then grinning crookedly at the shudder the touch provoked. “For that, maybe a little mercy.”
And then he bent and kissed St. Sebastian for real—a deep, hot kiss—stroking his tongue against St. Sebastian’s like all of St. Sebastian’s mouth already belonged to him.
Which it did. Maybe it had since that day in the thorn chapel.
St. Sebastian arched up against him, cock seeking friction, skin seeking Auden’s hands, and Auden broke the kiss with another wicked smile, smiling even broader when he looked down and saw the helpless throb of St. Sebastian’s neglected hard-on. “God,” Auden said, “I can’t wait to do everything to you.”
“Tell me,” St. Sebastian begged, and then at Auden’s lifted eyebrow, he added, “Please. Please tell me what you’re going to do to me.”
Auden considered this a moment, looking at St. Sebastian’s flushed cheeks and heaving sides, running the top of his marker over St. Sebastian’s denim-covered cock and smiling to himself at St. Sebastian’s ensuing whines. “Okay,” Auden decided. “I’ll tell you, so long as you remain perfectly still while I finish my drawing.”
And there was never a more immobile canvas than St. Sebastian Martinez that afternoon. He kept completely still as Auden drew along his ribs and hip, and then continued onto the tight lines of his stomach and chest. And as the marker worked, Auden spoke.
He spoke of how he’d make a new rule that St. Sebastian could never wear cheap gingham boxers again—no underpants at all, actually—because he’d want to reach into St. Sebastian’s jeans any time he wanted and feel St. Sebastian for himself. They’d start today, back at Thornchapel, and once St. Sebastian was in jeans and nothing else, Auden wanted to see what he looked like kneeling, crawling, tied to his bed. Auden wanted to push the tip of his cock around St. Sebastian’s bruised mouth, and then he wanted to come down St. Sebastian’s throat. He wanted to climb all over St. Sebastian’s body and rub his cock everywhere on it, he wanted to jerk off over St. Sebastian’s belly and hips and thighs and he wanted to splatter his markered creation with his cum. He wanted to make St. Sebastian masturbate for him; in fact, he had a whole list of filthy, depraved acts he wanted St. Sebastian to perform while he watched, like a lazy, bored king.
Just the idea of that last one had St. Sebastian trembling and rolling his hips against nothing.
“How much fan fiction have you been reading?” he asked weakly when Auden paused to survey his work.
“I’ve read enough,” Auden said absentmindedly, eyes narrowed down at St. Sebastian’s chest, which was now covered in a sprawling landscape of trees and stones and roses, a very familiar landscape—
“Auden, is this the thorn chapel?” St. Sebastian asked, realizing the truth as he propped himself up on his elbows to stare at his stomach.
It was beautiful how Auden drew it, all lines and geometry married with elegance. Married with vision. There was a sparsity to his composition that was the opposite of stark, that invited the mind to fill in the empty spaces with depth and color and shade. There was this sense of Auden behind each and every stroke, this poignancy and ache that could only come from a pretty boy who wanted to hurt someone he liked and hated himself for it.
The thorn chapel seemed more alive in marker on his skin than it ever could in a photograph or a painting, and it distressed St. Sebastian, deeply and forlornly, that this magnificent rend
ering would disappear and fade away in a matter of days.
Auden, however, looked suddenly alight with inspiration, and straddled St. Sebastian’s hips with a fresh marker in hand. “One last thing,” he said, already pressing St. Sebastian flat and beginning to draw. “One last thing.”
Right over the skin of St. Sebastian’s heart, where Auden’s mouth had been earlier, Auden swirled a big letter M, so flawless and ornate that it would have made professional calligraphers weep. And with a few more strokes, the thorns and branches of the thorn chapel scene began to crawl over the M, claiming it, twining and twisting around it so that the M was as much a part of the thorn chapel as anything else.
“What’s the M for?” St. Sebastian asked, curious.
“Martinez,” Auden answered promptly.
“That seems a little prosaic,” St. Sebastian said, looking up at Auden, who suddenly wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“Perhaps that’s what makes it unexpected.”
“I think you’re lying.”
Auden sighed, capping the marker and tossing it on the grass, but he didn’t move from off St. Sebastian’s hips. “Fine, it stands for more. Since you begged me for more earlier.”
“Really?” St. Sebastian asked.
Auden still wouldn’t look at him.
“I think you’re lying again.”
“I think you’re overestimating my artistic depth,” Auden said, finally moving off St. Sebastian to get to his knees and stretch, both his tone and his body language telling St. Sebastian that the subject was closed for now. “And now that my depthless work is completed, I think I’m ready to go back to the house. My parents will be gone until this evening, and it’ll be some time before Rebecca’s car gets here, and I know exactly what I’m going to do with you until then.”
It should have been embarrassing how fast St. Sebastian sat up—it certainly made Auden laugh harder than St. Sebastian had ever heard—but St. Sebastian was too horny to care. Only a couple weeks ago, he’d been a poor, lonely, fantasy-novel-reading, bondage-porn-watching bi kid with more flawless grades than times he’d kissed someone. And now . . .
Well, now he was a fantasy-novel-reading, bondage-porn-watching bi kid who was about to have more kisses than good grades. And he may have still been poor, but lonely? With Auden staring down at him with green-brown eyes full of cruelty and lust?
