wrong way home

james

smoking kills

Blood gurgles in the thief's mouth, his veins bursting in his neck as an unhuman amount of pressure is placed upon them. The world swims and dances and fuck it if his feet aren't suddenly really cold. Though James still has one hand around his cock, he can't be sure if his wrist is moving anymore. His brain is telling it to of course, he just..can't really feel it. It's a bit like when you go to fast and want it too much and almost...overshoot an orgasm, only...when you do that, at least you do actually cum. This just feels like the whole ordeal has been cancelled.

Why was that though?

"...s..." The thief tries, face incredibly pale. The hand pawing at the ascended falls away entirely as the body of the attuned teeters on the rock, held there now only by gravity. The thief's muscles have entirely given up, his heart an erratic but tired thing. James had never really taken care of his body, and now his body couldn't really take care of him.

Slowly and perhaps much more satisfyingly an end for Sam than it would have been for James, the rush of blood will teeter out gradually, letting Sam get his final fill.

So it goes that the thief, teller of lies and fucker of a great many things, dies naked upon some rocks, drained dry before he can cum one last time.

but so does love.