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Every exposed gap of skin is a raw, stripped nerve. Vein’s curious thumb presses into his jugular like the searing of a propane lighter pressed into a vulnerability; rubs small, slow circles into skin and waits out the aftershocks moving through him. Liu Xiao thinks he can feel each groove and swirl of Vein’s thumbprint against the trembling line of his throat. Liu Xiao doesn’t think: sensation raw and white-hot, too much, everything gutted to animal instinct.
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Desperation eased into Liu Xiao like an altar knife. Humiliation sits in the flushing of his skin to blood-hot and profane, body its own kind of betrayal, the inside of his pants sticky with evidence of a careening towards humanity. It feels wrong to be something that can be touched. It feels as though he’s starving and emptied-out: cathedral hollowed, struck to base stone; idol shattered to headless white marble; deity defiled down into the flesh and blood of faceless meat