The Mist and the Lightning. Part 15
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“Everything will pass,” whispered Kors, gently running his fingers along his back, stroking the painted black wings, gently running his fingernail between the shoulder blades, noticing how Arel involuntarily arched a little in pleasure, apparently without even realizing it. But Kors saw that the prince reacted to his touches, and they were pleasant to him.
“I think that in a couple of days, vision will be restored,” said Kors, continuing to gently stroke Arel.
With a black face, a deformed mouth and nose, blinded by the dye, Arel was silent. Accustomed to being mute, he only breathed, opening his mouth, and Kors involuntarily touched the ring in his nose, feeling how deeply and tightly it was thrust in, blocking the air and slightly widening his nostrils. Still holding his jewelry with his hand, Kors continued to gently touch the prince’s face with his mouth. Arel tried to respond to his light and gentle touches, he didn’t succeed either. Kors pulled away in frustration.
“Arel, do you love me?” He asked quietly. “Answer, you can speak now, don’t be silent.”
“Yes,” Arel answered simply.
And Kors gladly hugged him:
“Forgive me for throwing you away. Forgive me for not appreciating your love,” Kors squeezed him more and more in his arms, “forgive me…”
Arel pulled back and lay on his side on the bed:
“It's all in the past,” he said slightly nasally, from behind the ring. “Don't ask for forgiveness, words don't matter, nothing else matters, and I'm not human anymore.”
“No! You are human! And now I understand what it is like to be rejected, to wear shameful makeup on your face. How did you manage to withstand it all these years? I can't imagine.”
Arel was silent.
“And still you were a handsome prince. Always. Everyone called you that.”
Arel smiled slightly, his spoiled lip getting in his way:
“Stupid handsome prince,” he said, “that's what they used to call me.
Kors sadly walked away from him, looked at himself in a large mirror: Nikto strongly blackened the skin around his eyes, on his cheekbones and chin, seemingly carelessly smeared light gray and dark gray dyes on his face, roughly, as if he was not painting with a brush, but with fingers, but Kors couldn't help but agree that at the same time it suited him. It didn’t spoil him, and in spite of everything, he looked albeit creepy, but at the same time impudent, very brutal, a gloomy dangerous warrior, and… still noble. The ideal features of a born sir couldn’t be distorted by any paint. He was an outcast warrior, mysterious, dark, dangerous. No, nevertheless, Nikto really had the talent of an artist, however, his canvases were human bodies, but Kors almost resigned himself and didn’t fall into such a panic about his spoiled body as before. He undressed slowly, examining the bruises. Lis beat him quite harshly, and it looked like Kors dislocated his arm. His back and scapula ached unbearably, radiating into the sternum, and this made Kors feel as if his heart ached: “I need peace, just a little peace,” he thought. “Too often I have been experiencing physical pain and discomfort lately. My body is constantly being rudely used, I began to live on wear and tear. I was recently beaten by the Demon, and here it is again… if it continues like this, I won't be all right until the age of eighty as I planned. From all this beatings and fights, drugs and strong stimulants, I will become weak and turn into a wreck. Such a life is not for me.” Kors felt uncomfortable, at the same time offended and ashamed for succumbing to Lis’ provocation, acting like a stupid boy. Lis was simply toiled with boredom and wanted to let off some steam, and Kors took everything seriously, pounced on him like a madman. After all, Lis could kill him, on his belt, as usual, knives and weapons of the reds hung. If only he wanted to! But Lis didn’t even think to do this, he just wanted to fight, not seriously, and Kors almost killed him! And if he killed Lis?! What would he tell the Demon? After all, they are one whole. As Lis says, fingers of a fist. And Kors was such an idiot! He just had to leave, and not butt with an inadequate half-blood. Who, by the way, perfectly controlled himself and didn’t inflict serious injuries on Kors, and Kors… at that moment he forgot about everything – about the Demon, and about the Mission, and about the fist. He wanted to tear Lis to pieces for real, and now he was ashamed of it. He just joked about him, teased him, and he threw himself into a fight like a fool, and now burgundy bruises were again filling his body and his arm hurt unbearably. How to fix it?
Kors went into the adjoining room, there was a small stone pool. Knowing Kors’ love for cleanliness, Nikto put him in rooms with a beautiful bathroom, and Kors was pleased. Karina had a balcony in her rooms, and he had a pool, and this was more desirable for him, one can do without a balcony and windows, especially in a world where there was not a hint of heaven. He turned on a tap of warm water, took a few bottles from his first aid kit, and poured the contents directly into the water.
He returned for the prince. He was still lying on the bed without moving, his face with his eyes glued to the pillow. But Kors no longer felt his pain. He touched him gently:
“Come on, it won't hurt you to take a medicinal bath either,” he said, and taking Arel by the hand, he carefully lifted him out of bed and led him away. Arel didn’t object, and Kors noted to himself that he followed him quite confidently and calmly. Had he accustomed to being blind?
“Be careful, there is a stone side,” warned Kors, “come down.”
He took him by the braid, holding it. When Arel plunged into the water, leaning his back against the wall in the corner of the pool, Kors put his braid on the slabs near the edge, so that it would not end up in the water, thinking that if Arel got it wet, it would be difficult to dry his hair, and it would take a lot of time.
Kors went down to the pool and, approaching Arel, gently ran his hands over his chest and shoulders. He felt now a light, but pleasant tingling in those places where his body was injured – this was the effect of drugs dissolved in water. The water was warm and soothing. Kors tried to kiss Arel again:
“To hell!” He pulled back and twisted the piercing that was blocking him. All the same, the Demon would surely punish him, and for the fact that he attacked Lis, and for the fact that he smashed his head with a candlestick, Verniy would definitely complain to him, he would tell in paints how Lis was bleeding. So one more, one less. And finally freed from the iron that he hated, Kors with some animal lust dug into Arel’s disfigured lip, taking it completely into his mouth, feeling this cork and stroking it with his tongue. Arel answered him, Kors heard his heavy breathing, and let him go for a moment so that Arel could take a breath of air, his nose plugged with a ring now also excited Kors. He didn't care that Arel was no longer handsome, smeared with black dye, which is why the thin rings in his nostrils and the corners of his lips, which were not so noticeable before, now shone in contrast and were striking. Only now Kors realized how much shit was on the face of unfortunate Arel. Along the edges, in two places, Arel had each eyebrow pierced and small rods were inserted into them. In three places, the nose was pierced, both nostrils and the nasal septum. The corners of the lips and tongue were pierced. There was a tunnel in his cheek, and the gums were visible through the hole. There was a cork in his lower lip. His earlobes were stretched. Kors couldn’t understand how, at the same time, Arel still managed to look good and, until recently, remained beautiful. But it seemed that there was a limit to everything, and that day Lis crossed it, disfiguring Arel completely.
Kors, clinging to his prince with his whole body, with one hand, leading it back, behind Arel's back, took him by the braid, which was still lying on the side and floor slabs. Kors felt that he couldn’t completely grasp it, grip it in his hand, it was so thick. He lowered his other hand down, stroking Arel's cock, the scrotum, lifting it, moving lower, and it was still unusual for him that now Arel had a ring threaded through the head of his penis, and two rings were inserted along the edges of the anus. He stroked them and gently pushed his fingers further and deeper, pressing, feeling the tight walls and some resistance. Arel arched under him, and Kors pulled his braid, forcing him to throw his head back, and biting his lips into his neck, chained in a wide iron collar, kissing just above its edge. It was an incomparable sensation, and Kors pulled out his fingers, clenched his hand into a fist and, putting it against the hole, pressed, pushing inward. He didn’t want to carefully insert his fingers one by one any more, slowly, he wanted to do it immediately.
Arel wheezed, but made no attempt to interfere with Kors, and he realized that he had received what he had long wanted and that had long haunted him in his fantasies. How deep was it possible to go? Kors was still afraid of crippling the prince. He made a few thrusts with his fist inside, experiencing an indescribable sensation, it was even better than his beloved “push hard on dry”. Kors breathed intermittently, choking in orgasm, losing control a little, forcing Arel to grab his shoulders with fingers twisted from tension. Now Arel tried to push him away, but Kors did not let go of him, pulling him out a little, he pushed his fist back sharply, literally hitting his fist several times, realizing how cruel it was, but unable to cope with his nature. He growled like an animal, shuddering from the buzz that covered him, it seemed to him that now he would tear not only Arel, but himself. His cock throbbed in jerks, his heart pounding, popping out of his chest. Breathing heavily, Kors pulled out his fist and looked down, expecting a cloud of blood to swirl in the pool water, but nothing happened. Arel let go of his shoulders, he only breathed noisily, opening his mouth with an absurdly protruding lip forward.
“Damn usual slut,” whispered Kors, even somehow disappointed.
And Arel tried to smile.
“Damn noble slut!” Kors pounced on him, squeezing, hugging, again looking for his mouth and sucking in so that the cork suddenly gave way and jumped out of his lip. Kors froze, recoiling, pulling it out of his mouth. Arel clutched his lip, feeling how it was. And Kors only now heard some vague snatches of his thoughts: “No, no, he will kill me”. Arel was afraid of the Demon, and this was the first time Kors heard it so clearly. Arel was afraid of Nikto, he was afraid of him for a long time and more than Kors, somehow differently, because he knew much more about Nikto.
“Nothing will happen,” Kors quickly tried to calm him down, “I'll put it back. Say something, why are you keeping quiet all the time?”
“Return everything as it was,” Arel whispered, “we can't…”
“I will put it back.”
Kors pulled Arel up:
“Get out!”
They lay down on a soft carpet. Kors leaned on Arel, pressing his erect cock to the perfect dark-skinned torso with smooth silky skin. The prince’s face was a disfigured mask, but the body remained the same. Firm, young, strong body with prominent muscles. Perfect proportions. Kors was amazed at its safety, despite constant use, unlike the face, the prince’s body was not damaged so catastrophically, and the tattoos didn’t spoil it. Kors stroked the thin, light stripes of scars on the hard stomach, he remembered them, and Arel almost died then, stroked a small curved burn on his chest.