Chapter 127: Chapter 127
Jonah’s climax tore through him with a force that felt seismic. His hips slammed forward, burying himself to the hilt, and he emptied himself in hot, pulsing jets deep inside Tom. It was an act of repossession, a biological scorching of the territory a stranger had claimed. Tom shuddered beneath him, his own release spilling warm and slick between their bellies, a broken cry escaping his lips that was half-sob, half-triumph.
They collapsed, a tangled mess of sweat and come and spent limbs. The smell was primal: sex, their own sick, the damp night air from the open window. Jonah, softening inside him, didn’t pull out. He kept his weight on Tom, their hearts hammering against each other’s ribs in a frantic, slowing syncopation.
Tom’s fingers traced a weak, sticky path up Jonah’s spine. “That was…”
“Scheiße, ich weiß.” Shit, I know.
They slept that way, welded together, and woke past noon to a punishing headache and a bed that smelled like a crime scene. Sunlight cut through the blinds in aggressive stripes. Tom stirred first, groaning, his hand flying to his forehead. “Mein Kopf. Als ob jemand mit einem Vorschlaghammer darin getanzt hätte.” My head. Like someone danced in there with a sledgehammer.
Jonah pried himself free, the movement making his stomach lurch. The dried come on his belly pulled at his skin. “Wasser.” Water.
He brought back two large glasses. They drank in silence, sitting naked on the ruined sheets. The previous night was a series of vivid, jagged flashbacks: the lights, the shots, Ben’s
“Komm in mir.”
The permission snapped the last thread of Jonah’s control. He drove into Tom one final, brutal time, his hips slamming flush against Tom’s ass, and came. It was a raw, pulsing eruption deep inside him, wave after wave of hot release that felt less like pleasure and more like an exorcism. He shuddered violently, collapsed forward, his face buried in the sweaty hollow of Tom’s neck.
For a long minute, the only sounds were their ragged, synchronizing breaths and the drip of the shower from the other room. Jonah felt Tom’s inner muscles still fluttering weakly around his softening cock. He didn’t pull out. The feeling of being joined, of spilling himself into that raw, vulnerable heat, felt more significant than any orgasm they’d ever filmed.
Tom’s hand came up, his fingers tracing the damp, tense line of Jonah’s spine. “Du bist so schwer,” he whispered. You are so heavy.
Jonah didn’t move. He could feel his own spend beginning to leak out, a warm, intimate trickle between Tom’s thighs. The filth of the alley was gone. This new filth, theirs, was clean. He finally shifted, pulling out with a soft, wet sound. He rolled onto his side, facing Tom.
In the grey light, he saw Tom’s own release, a pale, drying streak across his stomach. Neither made a move to clean it. Tom’s eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, but the emptiness from before was filled with a stunned, exhausted peace.
“Der Typ im Lagerhaus,” Tom said, his voice quiet but clear. “Er hat gesagt, ich sei ein leeres Gefäß. Dass er mir eine Form geben müsse.” That guy in the warehouse. He said I was an empty vessel. That he had to give me a shape.
Jonah waited. He touched Tom’s wrist, feeling the steady pulse under the skin.
“Er hatte Unrecht,” Tom continued, turning his head on the pillow. “Ich war kein Gefäß. Ich war eine Wunde. Und du… du warst die andere Hälfte der Wunde. Wir haben nur darauf gewartet, dass jemand Salz reintut.” He was wrong. I wasn’t a vessel. I was a wound. And you… you were the other half of the wound. We were just waiting for someone to pour salt in it.
The analogy was so precise it hurt.
Jonah stieß ein letztes Mal hinein, ein tiefer, zitternder Stoß, und kam in ihm. Die Hitze breitete sich aus, eine sengende Verflüssigung tief in seinem Inneren. Sein eigener Samen folgte einen Augenblick später, eine schwach pulsierende, erschöpfte Antwort, die ihren Bauch zusammenklebte.
Sie lagen so, atemlos, ein formloses Durcheinander aus Gliedmaßen. Das Gewicht von Jonah, die körperliche Bürde, fühlte sich nicht mehr wie ein eindringendes Ding an, sondern wie ein Lehm, der die zerbrochenen Felder ihrer Verbindung zusiegelte.
Der Gestank von Kotze hing ihnen noch in den Haaren, in den Hautfalten. Tom roch auch nach ihm, nach ihnen, nach dem fremden Fusel und dem eigenen schwitzenden Eingeweide. Es war ekelhaft. Es war wahr. Jonah schob seinen Kopf unter Toms Kinn, die Schläfe an dessen Hals gepresst. Die Dunkelheit schien zu verdichten.
“Wir können nicht so bleiben,” sagte Jonah gegen die feuchte Haut.
“Ich weiß.”
“Was wollen wir?” Jonah löste sich, sah hinab auf das Gesicht Toms, von Schatten verformt.
Tom blinzelte langsam. “Schlafen.”
Sie schliefen zwölf Stunden, ein torpores Eintauchen in einen schwarzen See ohne Träume.
Am Morgen hatten sie beide die Kopfschmerzen. Sie waren keine klassische Übelkeit, sondern ein stumpfes Hämmern in den Schläfen, ein metallischer Nachgeschmack der Zerstörung. Tom machte Kaffee. Sie tranken ihn am Küchentisch in Unterhosen, wie Verwundete nach einer Schlacht.
“Die Garage,” sagte Tom plötzlich, die Hände um die Tasse geklammert. Er sprach in die Dämpfe. “Er nannte es ‘Menschen bleichen’.” Er sah auf. “Er hatte eine Kamera. Ein Stativ. Es war aufgezeichnet. So wie wir es taten. Nur als Teil… seines Prozesses.”
Jonah ließ die Worte eindringen. Das letzte Fetzen Beweisstück. “Wo ist die Aufnahme?”
“Ich weiß es nicht. Vielleicht hat er sie gelöscht. Vielleicht sammelt er sie. Vielleicht zeigen zeigt er sie anderen, als Beweis seiner Theorie.” Toms Stimme blieb merkwürdig flach, als beschreibe er das Wetter.
Ein neuer, kalter Zorn breitete sich in Jonahs Magen aus. Der Jäger hatte sie nicht nur benutzt und verworfen; er hatte es dokumentiert, aufgenommen in seinen persönlichen Kult der Menschenbleiche. Ihr tiefstes, verstörendstes Ritual war zum Artefakt eines anderen geworden.
“Wir müssen raus,” murmelte Jonah.
“Aus Düsseldorf?”
“Aus dem, was wir hier geworden sind.”
Die Antwort kam nicht als Flucht, sondern als selbst auferlegte Buße. Sie entschieden, heute zu arbeiten, die normale Maschinerie des Lebens wieder zu starten, im Angesicht des katastrophalen Katers. Tom ging zu Kännchen, um Gäste zu bedienen. Johah saß vor seinem grafischen Interface im Home-Office. Die lauten Farben der Arbeitsschirme schienen seine Augen zu schneiden.
Gegen Mittag erschien Leo zur Mittagspause im Cafè.
”Noch am Leben?” sagte er, während er Platz nahm. Sein Gesicht war von Mitleid und Angst bemalt.
Tom lächelte dünn. “Baaareee. Dank deiner ausgezeichneten Planung.”
“Wie läuft’s... danach?” Leo stockte vorsichtig.
Jonah beobachtete von zu Hause aus über die Stadt, während Tom sich in den haarigen Männern verloren sah. Sie schliefen kaum. Sie warfen friedliche Mahlzeiten zusammen. Sie polierten bessereres Schmuckzeug und bemalte ihre Wolle. Schimüren niederdrückende kleinen Farbflecken auf Kunststoffschachteln und sprachen von der Schlägerei.
Das dauerte Wochen.
Die Sonntage aber brechen auf einem gewönüm Speerforderlodenwelsen fremd aus. Sie kamen langsamen sich zum Rhyn gelender, die sanfteste Steppenard abruptvor Tod Jahrschlu genärm.
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“vöruch painful its hang-party".
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Der Stoß, der ihn über den Rand trieb, war archaisch und gewaltsam, als wäre etwas in seinem Kern zerrissen. Er rief Tom nicht noch einmal beim Namen. Er stieß einen einzigen, kehligen Laut aus, ein ersticktes Knurren der völligen Hingabe, und füllte ihn mit pulsierenden Stößen seines Krams. Er war so tief in ihm, dass jedes Zucken tief in Toms Körper verwitterte. Es fühlte sich an, als würde er etwas Lebendiges in die leere Kammer in ihm hineingießen.
Toms eigene Spitze entlud sich sofort, als könnte er die Intensität von Jonahs Vergötterung in seinem Darm nicht ertragen. Eine heiße, dünnere Welle schoss über ihren Bauch und auf ihre eigene Verschmelzung, sodass die noch eingehaltenen Überreste vertrieben wurden. Er bäumte sich auf, seine gesamte schlanke Figur spannte sich zu einem Bogen und klammerte sich an sie fest. Dann kollabierte er und zog mit letzter Kraft Jonah hinunter, um ihn in die Pfütze ihrer Körpersäfte sinken zu lassen.
Die Schweigsamkeit danach war erfüllt von lautlosem, diskordantem Herzrasen und dem dramatischen Versagen ihrer Lungen. Ihr Zusammenleben schien die Art von lockerer Trance, als hätten sie zertreten und einige Grundnahrungsmittel wiedergewonnen. Jonah spürte, wie die Zuckerqualität ihrer Fiebertatkehrheit im Raum nachließ und körperliche Erschöpfung, stumpfe Verwunderung und die erste grausame Vorahnung eines Megamagenkater - der
nachfolgende Morgen hervorgehen würde.
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Leo hatte den Vorschlag zwei Tage später gemacht, nachdem eine Woche trübe Genesung seit Portland ihnen klar gemacht hatte, dass eine nebulöse Milchigkeit von sie überkam. „In Düsseldorf gehe BENN",
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Komm in mir.
The permission shattered his last restraint. Jonah drove into him one final, brutal time, his hips grinding deep as he came. It was a convulsive, silent release, a hot flood that seemed to pull his spine out through his cock. He pulsed inside Tom, a visceral, claiming rhythm that left him breathless and hollow. Tom arched beneath him, a choked gasp escaping his lips as his own release streaked hot and sudden between their pressed stomachs, a secondary surrender.
They collapsed, a tangled heap of damp limbs and pounding hearts. The stink of sex and dried puke and clean sweat mingled in the air. Jonah didn't pull out. He lay buried inside Tom's warmth, the softening connection a last, thin tether to the real. Tom's fingers traced the notches of his spine. Outside, a tram squealed on its tracks, a sound so mundanely Düsseldorf it anchored them to the room, to the bed, to now.
"Das," Tom whispered, his voice sandpaper-raw. "Das war kein Archiv."
Jonah shook his head against Tom's shoulder."Nein."
They slept like the dead. The morning was a grey fist of pain. Sunlight was a weapon. Every movement prompted a groan. They drank water in the kitchen, shirtless and shivering, avoiding each other's eyes. The memory of the night was a fresh, tender bruise. They had stripped something bare. The silence between them wasn't empty; it was processing.
Leo messaged just after noon."Lebt ihr? Was eine Nacht. Ben sagt, ihr habt den Kotz-Weltrekord gebrochen. Legendär."
Tom showed Jonah the screen, a faint, pained smile touching his lips."Legenden."
"Ja," Jonah croaked, pouring more water. His throat felt flayed. "Kaffeemaschine. Jetzt."
The routine of grinding beans, the gurgle of the machine, was a small salvation. They sat at their table, the cat winding between their legs, sipping bitter espresso. The normalcy of it was surreal. Tom finally spoke, staring into his tiny cup. "Die anderen.Die Ficker. Die Chats." The other fuckers.The chats.
Jonah waited. He knew what was coming. A deeper delete. Not just an app uninstall.
"Ich will ein neues Handy," Tom said, looking up. "Eine neue Nummer. Nur für dich. Für Leo vielleicht. Für Arbeit." I want a new phone. A new number. Just for you.For Leo maybe. For work.
Jonah felt a chill that had nothing to do with his hangover. It was the final erasure. "Und die alten Geräte?" And the old devices?
Tom met his gaze. The ghost was gone from his eyes. In its place was a cold, clear determination. "Wir übertragen die Fotos der Katze. Und dann schlagen wir sie mit einem Hammer. In den Müll damit." We transfer the cat photos. And then we smash them with a hammer. Into the trash with them.
They did it that afternoon. The act felt ceremonial, and violently final. They backed up a handful of mundane files onto Jonah's laptop. Then they took the two smartphones and the old tablet from the closet to the concrete courtyard behind their building. Tom produced a small toolbox hammer. He handed it to Jonah.
"You first," Tom said, his voice flat.
Jonah held his phone, the sleek object that had been a portal to a thousand strangers. He placed it on the cobblestones. He brought the hammer down. The screen exploded into a spiderweb of black and white, a satisfying, crunching pop. He hit it again, and again, until it was a lump of crumpled plastic and shredded circuitry.
Tom took the hammer. He smashed his own, then the tablet, with a quiet, focused fury. When he was done, his breath was coming fast. They swept the glittering fragments into a dustpan and dumped them into the brown bio bin. It was mundane, almost comical. Their entire archive ended in composting garbage.
Walking back upstairs, the absence was a physical weight lifted. Tom stopped on the landing. "Ich fühle mich nackt." I feel naked.
"Du bist nackt," Jonah said, gesturing to his bare chest. You are naked.
Tom snorted, a real laugh. It was a small, broken sound, but it hung in the stairwell like a promise.
Two days later, with new, barren phones in their pockets, Leo invited them for a "recovery dinner" at his temporary apartment. He cooked a massive, spicy pasta, the kind designed to scour a system clean. Ben was there, his kind face still apologetic about the shots. They ate, they drank mineral water, they talked about books, about Düsseldorf's awful city planning, about anything but the alley, the vomiting, the hammer in the courtyard. It was easy.
Later, as they were putting on their coats to leave, Leo pulled Jonah aside by the door. "The smashing. Good. That was the right kind of violence."
"How did you know?"
"Tom texted me. A photo of the hammer. It was...poignant."
Jonah nodded. They said their goodbyes. On the walk home along the Rhine, the evening was cool and clear. Tom walked close, their shoulders occasionally brushing. The river flowed, indifferent and constant.
"Ich will nicht mehr drüber reden," Tom said suddenly, watching the dark water. "Nie wieder. Es ist weg. Es ist vorbei." I don't want to talk about it anymore.Never again. It's gone. It's over.
"Einverstanden," Jonah said. Agreed.
"But," Tom continued, stopping. He turned to Jonah. The city lights reflected in his eyes. "Was wir in der Nacht danach gemacht haben. Das war nicht vorbei. Das war ein Anfang." What we did the night after. That wasn't over. That was a beginning.
He reached out and took Jonah's hand. The gesture was simple, shocking in its public normalcy. They walked the rest of the way hand in hand, two skinny men in a German city, their past a pulverized thing in a compost bin, their future nothing more than the warm, steady pressure of linked palms.
Weeks hardened into a new shape. The silence around their history was not a void but a settled fact, like the pattern of cracks in their bedroom ceiling they no longer noticed. They worked. They bickered over groceries. They made love on Tuesday nights and lazy Sunday mornings, a sex that was now startlingly direct, unmediated by fantasy or performance. It was hungry, sometimes clumsy, and profoundly theirs. Jonah would fuck Tom slow and deep until Tom came without a hand on himself, just the relentless internal friction. Tom would ride Jonah, his head thrown back, swearing in a slurred mix of German and English, "right there, fuck, genau da, don't stop."
One Thursday, Tom came home with a flyer."Hier. Samstag. Ein neuer Club. Techno. Leo sagt, die Musik ist gut und die Leute sind normal."
Jonah took the glossy paper. It advertised "unter.grund" in a converted factory space. "Wir sind nicht mehr die Club-Typen," he said. We're not club guys anymore.
"Wir waren nie normale Club-Typen," Tom corrected, a sly grin playing on his lips. "Wir waren Archiv-Typen. Jetzt sind wir einfach nur Typen. Und ich will tanzen." We were never normal club guys. We were archive guys. Now we're just guys. And I want to dance.
So they went. They dressed in simple black. They took the U-Bahn to the industrial edge of Flingern. The club was a cavern of exposed brick and pounding, minimalist bass. It was crowded, hot, a sea of moving bodies under shifting colored lights. They bought beers at the bar and let the sound wash over them. It was different. There was no hunt in their eyes, no assessment. They were just two bodies in a crowd.
They drank. Not to annihilate, but to join. The rhythm got into their bones. Tom started moving, a shy, subtle sway of his hips. Jonah watched him, the way his hair stuck to his damp forehead. He finished his beer and set it down. He moved closer, into Tom's space, and placed a hand on his waist. Tom's eyes opened, meeting his. He nodded.They danced. Not a performance, but a conversation in movement. The bass thumped through the floor, up their legs. They shed their jackets. Sweat bloomed on their skin. They danced for an hour, two, losing themselves in the pure, physical syntax of the music. The crowd was young, beautiful, pulsing with a shared, uncomplicated energy. They were older, but they weren't outsiders. They were just there.
It felt good. Too good. The freedom, the lack of agenda, was intoxicating in a new way. They drank more. Celebration became excess. The careful lines blurred. They moved from beer to shots bought by a friendly group next to them. "Für die eleganten Herren!" Tom laughed, a bright, loose sound Jonah hadn't heard in years, and threw back the clear liquid. It was vodka, cheap and burning.
The careful control of the last month dissolved. They were just two drunk guys in a club, chasing a feeling. Jonah lost count. The world became a warm, vibrant smear. Tom's face was flushed, his smile unguarded and wide. He was shouting something in Jonah's ear, his breath hot and boozy. The music was a physical wall. They danced harder, grinding against each other now, hands roaming, a public claim that felt daring and innocent. They kissed, deep and wet, tasting of vodka and sweat, right there on the dance floor.
It was a different kind of high. Unplanned. Unrecorded.Real.
But the body has its limits. The mix of spirits, the heat, the relentless noise became a trap. Jonah felt the first warning lurch in his gut during a sudden, dizzying spin. The colored lights streaked. He grabbed Tom's arm to steady himself.
"Mir ist heiß," Tom shouted, but his voice was thin, strained. I'm hot.
"Luft," Jonah managed. Air.
They pushed through the sweat-slick crowd toward a corridor marked "Feuerausgang." The cold night air in the loading dock was a shock, a sledgehammer. It didn't sober them. It broke them.
Jonah's knees buckled. He stumbled to the rough concrete wall, bracing himself as his stomach convulsed. He tasted acid, sharp and metallic. He tried to swallow it down. He failed. With a guttural, helpless retch, he vomited a torrent of beer and undigested vodka onto the asphalt. It splashed over his shoes. He gasped, spitting, tears forced from his eyes.
Beside him, Tom was making a low, desperate moaning sound. "Oh Gott. Oh nein." He bent over, hands on his knees, and his body clenched. What came out was clearer, sharper, the pure, brutal vodka leaving him in a burning stream. He heaved violently, his whole frame shaking with the effort. It sounded painful, tearing. He dry-heaved, over and over, long after there was nothing left.
When it was over, they were both on their hands and knees in the dirt and oil stains of the loading dock, panting like animals. The stench was immediate and overwhelming. Bile and alcohol. Jonah spat, a long string of saliva swinging from his lip. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, which was already damp with sweat and now smeared with puke. He looked at Tom. Tom's face was chalk-white, his eyes hollow pits in the security light's glare. He was trembling uncontrollably.
"So viel Kotzen," Tom whispered, his voice a wreck. "Immer das gleiche verdammte Kotzen." So much puking. Always the same fucking puking.
It was a bone-deep deja vu. The alley in Portland. The alley behind The Tipsy Otter.Now this dock. A trilogy of humiliations. But something was different. There was no audience. No Leo to shepherd them. Just the two of them, alone in their filth.
Jonah crawled over to him. Not to help, because he couldn't stand either. He crawled on scraped hands and knees through the wet patch of his own sick. He stopped in front of Tom. He didn't say anything. He took Tom's filthy, trembling face in his equally filthy hands. He kissed him. He kissed the sour, vomit-tasting mouth. He licked the salt and tears from his cheeks. It was disgusting. It was the most honest kiss of his life.
Tom shuddered, then kissed him back, a desperate, clutching thing. They knelt there in the garbage and vomit, kissing like drowning men. The taste was their own failure, their own limit, shared completely.
"We mussen nach Hause," Jonah said against his lips. We have to go home.
Somehow, they stood. They supported each other, a four-legged creature of staggering shame. They found a taxi. The driver rolled his eyes at their state but took their money. The ride was a silent, spinning hell. They spilled out onto their street, a pathetic, stumbling unit. Up the stairs, fumbling with keys, falling into the hallway. They left a trail of filth and stink.
In the bathroom, they didn't shower. They collapsed onto the tiled floor, too wrecked to stand. They peeled off their soiled clothes, throwing them into a corner. They used wipes, cold and rough, to clean the worst from their faces and hands. The bathroom light was a clinical, unforgiving interrogation.
Naked, they crawled to the bedroom and onto the bed. The cool sheets were a shock. They lay on their backs, staring up. The room spun slowly.
"Ich hasse mich," Tom said to the ceiling, his voice empty. I hate myself.
Jonah turned his head. "Ich hasse uns auch." I hate us too.
It was quiet for a long time. Then Tom spoke again, the words measured and quiet. "Letzte Wahl. Wir hören komplett auf zu trinken. Oder wir akzeptieren, dass wir das sind: zwei Säufer, die sich in fremden Gassen übergeben."Last choice. We stop drinking completely. Or we accept that this is what we are: two drunks who vomit in strange alleys.
"Klingt einfach," Jonah mumbled.Sounds simple.
"Nichts ist einfach." Tom turned onto his side, facing Jonah. His eyes were bleak. "Aber ich bin müde von dieser besonderen Art von Scheiße." But I'm tired of this particular kind of shit.
Jonah looked at him. The handsome, sharp lines of his face were slack with exhaustion and self-loathing. This was the raw material. This was all that was left after the archives were smashed and the ghosts were banished. Just two broken men who couldn't hold their liquor. The truth was ugly. And it was theirs.
"Okay," Jonah said.
"Okay, was?" Okay what?
"Okay, wir hören auf." Okay, we stop.
Tom searched his face. "Ganz?"Completely?
"Ganz," Jonah affirmed. "Kein Tropfen." Completely. Not a drop.
A flicker of something passed over Tom's face. Not relief.Challenge. "Und was machen wir jetzt?" And what do we do now?
Jonah knew what he was asking. The circuit was dead. The alcohol was to be killed. What was left to define them? What friction would prove they were alive?
He reached out. His hand found Tom's hip, pulled him closer. Their bodies were cold. He slid his hand down, over the flat plane of Tom's stomach, through the coarse hair. He took Tom's soft cock in his hand. It was cold. He began to stroke, slowly, without lubricant, just the dry, rough friction of skin on skin.
Tom hissed, but his eyes stayed locked on Jonah's. "Das tut weh." That hurts.
"Du willst was fühlen," Jonah said, his voice low. His own cock began to stir, a reluctant, painful thickening. "Dann fühl das." You want to feel something. Then feel this.
He increased the pace, his grip tight, almost punishing. Tom's breath hitched. He was getting hard under the abrasive touch, a testament to a body's dumb, relentless will. Jonah shifted, pushing Tom onto his back. He moved between his legs, still stroking him. He spat into his own hand, a meager wetness, and continued. The sound was rough, crude.
"Fick mich," Tom whispered, not a plea but an order. His legs fell open. "So wie jetzt. Einfach so." Fuck me. Like this. Just like this.
Jonah spat again, this time aiming for his own cock. He smeared it, a pathetic excuse for lube. He positioned himself, the head pushing against Tom's tight entrance. He pushed. The resistance was immense, a burning, tearing pressure. Tom cried out, a sharp, pained sound. His hands clawed at Jonah's back.
Jonah pushed harder, forcing his way in, an inch, then another. It was brutally dry, an invasion that felt more like surgery than sex. He bottomed out, buried in a heat that was edged with a raw, searing pain. They were both panting, their breath fogging in the cool room. Tom's face was a rictus of hurt.
"Beweg dich," Tom gritted out, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Move.
Jonah withdrew slowly, the drag exquisite in its agony. He thrust back in. It was slightly easier, the body's horrible, miraculous willingness to adapt. He set a pace that was hard, deep, and unadorned. There was no pleasure in it, not in the traditional sense. It was a grinding, painful communion. A shared, self-inflicted wound. Proof of existence through mutual hurt.
"Du füllst mich so aus," Tom gasped, his hips lifting to meet each punishing thrust. "Richtig voll. Scheiße." You fill me up so much. Really full.Fuck.
Jonah fucked him with a focused, clinical intensity. The bed rocked against the wall. The sound of their bodies was a wet, meaty slap. He felt his orgasm building, not from pleasure, but from sheer physical exertion and emotional exhaustion. It was a wave of darkness rising from his gut.
"Ich komme," he warned, his voice a stranger's.
"In mir