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Indulgence, temptation: it only deigns to come in the veil given by night⸻when nothing dare to stand between him and the implications of the after; and it’s always after: when the weight of how it feels, how he feels, threatens to overtake him—but for now, in the before, it is the after: after he drifts into tatters of REM; after, when the void swallows him, when the guilt resting inside of his chest morphs, solidifies, opening up the gate for him to pull him free from oblivion and:
Hello again, little mouse: murmurings, whisperings: a voice that dares to be nothing more than tendrils of smoke that slip inside of his head and inside of his mouth and into his soul to devour him in his entirety.
All that he knows of Raphael has been offered to him freely, voiceless, even now—echoes of that deep tenor and hellish presence that haunts him all throughout his waking day. Would that he could speak, he would beg, scream, lash out in frustrated rage at being reduced to such base instincts; but perhaps... it is easiest like this: this, blameless surrender to a force that lingers well beyond his comprehension, helpless when faced with the nightmarish vision that Raphael makes atop him, straddling him, touching him, and,
(softwethotsilken⸻
far unlike any he’s been with before:
woman, man: Raphael,
⸻the embodiment of desire,)
Blameless: yes, but oh,
the pleasure,
the rush of temptation;
—it is sweeter than sin.