It was pretty bad this time. Not the worst Ghoul had ever seen, not that by a long shot, but it was far from good.
He twisted around in the back seat of the Trans Am. His hurt leg had started to seize up, and he wrapped both hands around his thigh and wrenched viciously, vengefully. The quarter-sized hole in his thigh spat blood, and Ghoul sucked in a sharp breath. Dark spots, like inverted stars, danced before his eyes.
Don’t faint, he told himself without mercy. Don’t you dare fucking faint.
Ghoul bit down on the sleeve of his leather jacket until his head had cleared. His leg was filled with torment. The bullet had gone in, but it had not come out. Even through the pain, he could feel the wrongness of the way his muscles now lay.
Fucking hicks, he thought savagely as he clawed at the buckle of his cartridge belt. Who the hell still used real guns in this day and age?
The answer to that was, it turned out, Right Wing separatists who had been stockpiling weapons since the Cold War. Poison had come up with a plan to hit their desert compound earlier that day and steal some gasoline, and Ghoul had been dumb enough to volunteer to come along. I had been on the way back, both his hands occupied with five-gallon drums, that he’d taken a single round, right in the fleshy part of his thigh. It had been a lucky shot, that was all, but Ghoul’s head was still ringing. He’d forgotten what a lot of goddamn noise automatic weapons kicked up.
Ghoul yanked the belt out from under his hips, and then wrenched it around his thigh to make a tourniquet. A final gout of blood leapt from the bullet hole, splattering the rear window of the Trans Am with a red film, and then it finally slowed. Ghoul’s jeans were soaked from waistband to knees, and the blood was rapidly drying to a stiff crust. A lot had run down into his boots, and he could feel his feet squishing wetly inside them.
At that moment, he wanted Poison with him very badly.
He turned a little so he could look into the front seat, but from where he lay Ghoul couldn’t see much more than a shock of red hair and the corner of a yellow harlequin mask. Poison was driving, straddling the center line, occasionally giving the wheel a little tap to the right or the left to avoid a pothole.
Goddamn Poison. Goddamn his hands, and his mouth, and his fucking cock. His dry, bloodless lips. Now making him empty promises. Now enfolding him; wrapping him up so that nothing, not even the emptiness, mattered anymore.
Ghoul moaned, his head falling back. He could still feel his pulse thudding at his temples, his throat, all down and through him. His tongue was slick with the coppery taste of adrenalin. His cock twitched inside his bloody jeans, and Ghoul shuddered.
Alive, somehow. Against all probability, he was still alive. His body knew, and it knew, also, what he wanted.
Keeping the tourniquet tight with one hand, Ghoul plunged the other between his thighs, wrapping it around the stiffening bulge of his erection. He squeezed, and felt his cock push up into the hollow of his palm, straining against his zipper. Disgusted by himself, not caring that he was disgusted, he began to work open the button on his jeans.
Poison hit the brakes. Ghoul put out a hand to steady himself, but he was a split-second too late. His injured leg knocked against the seat and Ghoul’s vision ran to red. He must have lost consciousness for a moment, because the next thing he saw was Poison, leaning over him and delivering a slap to his mouth.
“Get up,” he said, as Ghoul blinked him into focus. “Let me look at it.”
Before Ghoul could react, one of Poison’s arms was around his waist, catching hold of his belt loop, and the other was behind his head, cradling tenderly. Poison lifted him, digging in his heels and hauling Ghoul out of the backseat. He was deceptively strong, and Ghoul had known this about him, but still it made him catch his breath.
Poison had pulled the Trans Am off the highway and onto a dusty state road. He walked Ghoul around to the front of the car and sat him on the hood. He’d already pulled out their little med kit: a tin Superman lunchbox stuffed full of bandages, antiseptic, and iodine capsules in case they used when they needed to purify water in a pinch. Inside the thermos were two dozen pre-measured ampoules of heroin, which was the closest thing to painkillers they had.
“Poison… Poison…” Ghoul gasped. The sun beat down on him, drying the cold sheen of sweat on his brow. His eyes rolled senselessly until at last they settled on Poison’s fine-drawn face. He’d taken off his mask, which was good. “Let me have one of those party favors, okay?”
Keeping one arm firmly around Ghoul’s waist, never letting his eyes leave him for a moment, Poison unclasped the med kit, spun open the lid of the thermos, and fished out one of the small hypodermics, no longer than two joints of one of his fingers. He pulled the cap off with his teeth, and prepped the needle one-handed. He didn’t have any trouble finding a vein; Ghoul’s skin was bleached translucent white.
The smack burned going in, but as it moved up his arm the pain diffused into a golden lightness. Ghoul’s head went back, and he watched the sky revolve above him. Poison touched his cheek, bringing him down once more.
“It has to come out.”
Ghoul felt his stomach clench, and he shook his head mutely.
“You know I’m right.”
Poison’s hand was already working at the button of Ghoul’s jeans, jerking down the zipper and pulling them over his ass. His touch was clinical now, medically precise, but it made Ghoul shudder all the same.
Once the jeans were out of the way, Poison set his hand on Ghoul’s naked thigh and began to move it up, slowly, to the round hole where the bullet had gone in. It didn’t hurt, not that light contact, but Ghoul felt his muscles jumping and twitching. With his free hand, Poison grabbed a fistful of Ghoul’s hair and jerked him forward into a savage kiss.
Ghoul moaned between their pressed lips, his body twisting mindlessly in Poison’s grip, straining closer and pulling away at the same time.
“Shh,” Poison cooed. He traced the perimeter of the bullet wound with his fingertips, and then, tenderly, pushed two of them inside.
Ghoul screamed. Poison pulled him closer, clamping his mouth over Ghoul’s and swallowing his cries. His eyes were closed, Ghoul realized with frantic horror. The fringes of Poison’s lush dark lashes lay still upon his cheeks, casting long shadows. His fingers probed the wound without pity or respite, and Ghoul struggled against him in short fitful bursts, but he could no more pull away from the hand that violated him than he could the sweet mouth that enveloped his own.
He was crying now, the tears streaming down his face. They were on his lips, and he knew that Poison must have been able to taste them. Poison, who had never wasted time on tears, who disdained even sparing the water.
They broke apart at last. When Poison let him go, Ghoul fell back onto the hood of the Trans Am, gripping the sides of it with ragged and filthy nails. Above him, the clouds whirled by very fast, and Poison held up two bloodstained fingers, between which he pinched the spent bullet. He wiped it on his jacket, and then slipped it into his pocket.
Ghoul felt hot all over, consumed. The blood was rushing through his body, and he could feel its currents moving within him. It throbbed in his throat, knocked against his ribs, and collected in a burning knot at his crotch.
He swallowed dryly as Poison moved over him, wrapping the hole in Ghoul’s thigh in white gauze. After he had tied it off and before the blood soaked through, he pressed a kiss to the clean folds. He produced a Spongebob band aid from inside the med kit and pasted it gently over a small scratch on Ghoul’s cheek.
Ghoul trembled. When Poison started to straighten up, Ghoul seized him by the collar and jerked him forward. There wasn’t much strength behind it. If Poison had wanted to, he could have dug his heels in and stayed on his feet. But instead he folded, bracing himself with one arm on either side of Ghoul’s body, settling his hips between his spread thighs.
The hard ridge of his hipbone dug into Ghoul’s groin, sending a jolt of pain through his body, making his cock spring to full and rigid life.
“Oh god,” Ghoul groaned. “Oh god, it hurts…”
“You’re still alive,” said Poison, without much feeling behind it.
“Oh god… oh god…”
Briskly, impersonally, Poison raked Ghoul’s tee-shirt up past his stomach. He paused to kiss the tattoos that snaked across his navel. The sun beating down on them was hot as hell, but Poison’s mouth was hotter still. He wadded the shirt up around Ghoul’s neck, and descended upon him, swirling his tongue around a nipple.
Ghoul plunged his fingers into Poison’s hair, and Poison let out a sigh, breathing over the skin he had just dampened. Ghoul was taking great sobbing breaths, and each inhale seemed to scorch his lungs raw. He tried to speak, his chapped lips forming the words three times before he finally got enough wind behind them to make his voice work.
“More,” he panted. “Please…”
At some point, Poison had removed his gloves. He wore them most of the time, sometimes even sleeping in them, but he always took them off for this. The hand that he slipped inside Ghoul’s briefs was soft, dry, protected, like the hand of a man who had never had to work a day in his life. But the fingers that closed around his cock betrayed a hidden surety and desperation.
Ghoul moaned, arching up into Poison’s touch, twisting on the hood of the Trans Am senselessly. Poison raked Ghoul’s briefs down and out of the way as if they offended him, and then he began to claw at his own belt, the straps of his holster, his jeans. He freed his erection, and it curved out in front of him, thick and hard. The tip was already slick with pre-come, and he was ready, without Ghoul ever having so much as touched him.
Working a coat of fresh blood over his cock with one hand to make it slick, Poison seized Ghoul by the hips with the other, and maneuvered him to the edge of the hood.
“Say it,” he breathed, leaning over Ghoul, trailing his dick up the inside of his thigh.
Ghoul squeezed his eyes shut.
“I want it,” he gasped. “Fuck you. I want you.” Wanted him, yes. The way he could only want at the moment of death. But Poison understood. Yes, yes, he too had passed through this night.
Not gently, but not without tenderness, Poison guided his cock inside him. Ghoul cried out at the first stroke, half-lifting himself off the hood of the Trans Am and then letting his head fall back with a solid crack. Later, there would be a bruise, but right now he didn’t even feel it. He could feel nothing at all, save the burning pillar of Poison’s cock as it moved within him.
Ghoul clutched at Poison’s back, his fingers finding no grip on the slippery leather, and so he wrapped his good leg around Poison’s waist, spurring him with his boot heel. With each thrust, he drove it into the tender skin on the back of his thigh, carving a red half moon into his flesh.
Poison moved above him steadily, his head bent so that his hair hung in Ghoul’s face. Sweat dripped from the ends of it, splattering on Ghoul’s lips, and his tongue flicked out, frantically searching so as not to miss a single drop.
He screamed when he came, the sound tearing from his raw and aching throat in a series of rasps, like the call of a crow. Poison was still inside him, still taking him with those short cruel strokes, so uniquely his own. Ghoul writhed under him, feeling too sensitive in the aftermath of his orgasm, too raw and exposed and laid-open to be touched.
When Poison came a moment later, his seed felt molten inside of him.
Slowly, Poison lowered himself, pressing his forehead to Ghoul’s chest as he caught his breath. His sides rose and fell frantically, taking in scalding desert air.
Ghoul forced his clenched fist to uncurl. Hesitant, unsure if he would actually be able to manage it with any sort of tenderness, he stroked his fingers through Poison’s tangled hair. Poison looked up at him curiously, and Ghoul could not think of a single thing to say. He didn’t turn away, though. It was as if he had lost something in Poison’s wintery gray eyes, something that might yet be recovered if he looked hard enough.
Poison’s eyebrows drew together in mute confusion. He leaned forward a little and tested a dry kiss against Ghoul’s dry lips. It was not painful for either of them. No, in fact, it had not hurt in the slightest.
“We need to keep moving,” Poison said softly. “They’ll worry if we’re not back by dark.”
He started to pull away, and then hesitated. “How’s your leg?”
“I’ll live,” Ghoul said. He wondered if the matter had ever been in doubt. “You’re not getting rid of me yet.”
~ The End