Two Eyes Cenote tiburon

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in the dull light of the cell soto had hissed out a promise to safiya. 'voy a follarle los sesos a tu padre mientras miras.' 

soto coils that promise around khusobek's throat, an abhorrent garrote poised for its moment to slice through rigid skin. he thinks of safiya as he holds a far less lovely image: the remnants of her fading father.

it was khusobek's mistake to bring soto here. his mistake to trust that the serpent would not strike his heart, thin fangs dripping out waxy venom between pumps of gristly muscle. his mistake, and it would cost him everything.

a spume of blood wreathes them both as soto tightens his grip, sensing the captain's raw muscular power wane. khusobek's blows send a mosaic of pain etching white against his skull, but pain is soto's provenance, and he drinks hungrily from the burst of eruptive erotica delivered by khusobek's pounding fists. each time the crocodile pulls back a limb soto slithers into that empty space -- each time he exhales soto's rough coils mold around him, constricting the lifeblood from a man who seconds before tangoed atop of him.

a dance of both ritualistic violence and terrible beauty.

soto has always seen beauty in violence: it is the redemptive color red. pure. unadulterated. it is the spray of blood from khusobek's arm as it splatters the black walls, gravity scything patterns of merlot welting. it is the frothing dirt beneath their claws and under their fur. it is the muffled sound of masculine hate, poured out like scalding poison from a cauldron so vile the contents corrode all it touches.

and it is the sound of fading consciousness, the sweet warmth of slick blood hot against his throbbing belly. were it not for adrenaline's hellfire tonic scouring his blood-stream, he might have joined khusobek in restless sleep. even now, his own blood's run away from him in a river that informs him he's dangerously close to death.

but no. he'd made a promise. he ekes out another routing of strength.

voy a follarle los sesos a tu padre mientras miras.

he smacks roughly at khusobek's listless head; you are not allowed to be asleep for this.

the python wedges his knife deep with a satisfied groan. his muscles grit, his tiring arms protest the burden of their new motion, his eye seeps visceral fluid -- but it is he that has won.

he's won and he knows that victory is that electrical taste of power, blood, and fear. khusobek promised stripping soto's flesh from him in such a way that he would beg for death  -- soto has so much worse in store. he is filth come to make a mockery of khusobek’s pristine temple. he is the black mark that cannot be erased  -- he will leave indelible stains on khusobek's soul with every forceful motion.

first, he would show his captor what a man truly felt like at his most raw, his most savagely androgenic -- and then bit by bit, he would strip away the things this man loved.

it is then that something behind him strikes the back of his skull. soto's vision swims in ghastly white, and he sinks to the floor alongside his envenomed enemy.