[ sometimes you have to make your own opportunities. wolfwood's been dealt shitty hand after shitty hand for most of his life — getting whisked away to a luxury hotel that runs on hedonism alone is honestly par for the course at this point. of course he wouldn't catch a break. did you find a reason to put down your cross? conrad had asked him, and he still isn't sure what's worse — not finding a reason to, or finding one. and now, he gets to start all over again.
but anyway. ]
Where I'm from, one night's plenty.
[ but there's a flicker of something warm somewhere in the blackened cavity of his chest that he'd thought was incapable of feeling, something... pleased, almost. a little bittersweet. he lets himself fall back onto the mattress, tucking one arm behind his head as the other dangles off the side, looking like he could fall right asleep if he wanted to. the lazy smile still on his face says otherwise as he flicks ash from his cigarette off the side of the bed. they're close enough to touch, and while normally he'd be more intent about keeping his space, he finds he doesn't mind it so much now. ]
Hey, I got an expensive habit to fund. And my self-control's worth shit.
[ A short breath leaves his nose as if he could have laughed, soft and quiet, calm irreverence glimmering against the backdrop of his understanding. By being next to this man, he feels a heaviness on his shoulders, a dedication that trudges on, one that can be leveled and wielded. ]
Nothing's forever, hm?
[ It sounds rhetorical, but for Kizuna, it's always been a genuine wonder, so personal that he doesn't really expect an answer. With his free arm, Kizuna gestures for him to bring that hand with the cigarette up from where it dangles off the side of the bed, dripping flecks of ash onto nice carpet. There is a sort of char to it, this presence filling up between them that Kizuna can feel because he's always been able to feel it: the scrape of the embers, the glow beneath. He likes it, that kind of thing. ]
I wonder how many around here are treating it like their last night, addictions and all.
[ the sound is echoed, one corner of wolfwood's lips tugging up into something wry. accepting and commiserating all at once. ]
Nah. [ smoke softens his tone as he opens his eyes and turns his head to look at kizuna, brown on gold, veiled behind his sunglasses. ] But you keep wishin' they are anyway.
[ at his core, this has never changed: a haunted man who paid the price of a bargain made for the safety of the only place he'd been able to call home. no price is too steep, even if he continues to pay it now and likely will for as long as he'll live. if he's lucky, maybe it won't be much longer. but again, luck was never on his side since the day he was born on that godforsaken desert of a planet.
he lifts the cigarette from where it dangles off the side of the bed, taking one last drag before passing it over to kizuna. he doesn't know if the guy smokes, but a little sharing didn't hurt anyone. ]
What about you? [ he takes in the angles of kizuna's face, the roundness of his eyes. there's something alluring about him that wolfwood can't really put his finger on. he may be a (shitty) priest, but he's not blind. ] I get the feeling one night's not enough.
[ if he means for kizuna himself or whoever is fortunate enough to spend the night with him, wolfwood doesn't specify. ]
Edited (forgive my grammar mistakes istg this is the last one lmfbdvs) 2024-04-16 08:52 (UTC)
[ He's never made it a habit, but one would never know that, looking at him. Kizuna shakes his head by way of an answer, long fingers easing against Wolfwood's to accept the cigarette. It could be idealism, it could simply be greed — there's a compassion in the lay of his expression, even if it's a little unreadable in the moment. ]
You're right. Once isn't enough of anything to satisfy me.
[ Even if his secret is that once is often enough for him to feel the entire breadth of someone's emotions from even the simplest encounter. He's just always left wanting for more.
Bringing the cigarette up to his lips, he takes a long inhale, the sound of it hushed like its flash in the calm of the wedding suite. He feels its heat in the back of his throat, the prickle of its saturation. Leaning over, Kizuna cranes his neck with a sort of idle curiosity and slowness; his lips brush against the other man's in something that's not quite a kiss, not yet. Smoke pools in the cup of his tongue and he holds it in the backs of his teeth, waiting to be let in.
Misfortune is a bad addiction for him to have, but the ability to change its course is an even sweeter high. ]
[ it's something he recognizes: the softness of his expression, the openness of it that hides something just out of reach. wolfwood isn't a betting man, but he thinks he might have a shot at this one — selflessness that borders on selfishness; guilt, perhaps, masquerading as idealism. he doesn't presume to know anything, but there's shades of this that is familiar, tugging something in his chest that he's always been too weak to ignore. even if, by all rights and purposes, he really should. ]
Pretty face like yours? [ he pushes his glasses up and off, lets his eyes take in a long, unobstructed view of kizuna's face. ] Didn't think so.
[ he watches kizuna take a long drag, the flash of ember at the end illuminating his face briefly to highlight the gold of his eyes, the gentle slope of his nose and curve of his lips as they wrap around the cigarette. but wolfwood doesn't expect him to lean over, closer; to bring his lips right up against wolfwood's in a precursor to a kiss. gold floods his vision momentarily and wolfwood acts before he can think, bringing his hand up to frame his fingers along kizuna's jaw, thumb pressed lightly against his chin to coax his lips open.
the smoke here is sweet, nothing like the bitter acidity of the ones back home. it goes down smooth and easy, but in this moment, he isn't entirely sure whether it's the smoke alone or partly because of kizuna. ]
[ Smooth-talker... compliments work. A curious light plays in his eyes at the brush of fingertips over his jaw, how he can feel their flame concealed beneath rough skin. They're hands that have seen too much for far too long, but there can be fragility in a decisive moment and this is proof of it — hands made ungentle still choosing gentleness.
Gaze low, Kizuna obliges the pull of Wolfwood's thumb, lips parting to breathe out against him. An inhale for an exhale, warmth plumes as smoke travels, cloudy and slow. He doesn't bother playing fast with it because there's no where to go here but towards one another, whether by fate or gravity or fire. One night is never enough, but one night can change so much. On the end of his exhale he smiles, the rest of the smoke pluming shortly from his nose. Kizuna chases the taste of it with a real press of lips just so, loose enough to dip the tip of his tongue against the seam of the man's mouth. It's there and gone again, leaving him to nose softly into his cheek. ]
See, I knew that'd taste good.
[ He brings the cigarette up and offers it back to him. ]
[ they weren't always so rough. once upon a time, they'd known gentleness, learned tenderness, warm feathers cupped between careful fingers. it feels like from another life now, but what the mind forgets the body still remembers, even one that has changed so much.
kizuna breathes out and wolfwood takes it like he does everything else, an ever present hunger that has only gotten worse since they pulled him off the operating table—to take before being taken from, to hurt before getting hurt. this is not the same, no, but this gentle sort of intimacy that couldn't survive back home being offered so freely here makes him greedy for it, leaning in the scant few inches further as his nose nudges against kizuna's, sipping smoke from his parted lips. wolfwood almost misses his smile, preoccupied with the sudden warm press of lips against his own, lashes fluttering briefly at the wet brush of tongue. it's soft and fleeting, a tease that makes him want to immediately chase after it for more, but he takes the cigarette back instead, takes one last drag before leaning up to stub it out on the headboard. ]
Did you. [ there's amusement in his tone when he settles back down, finding himself studying kizuna's face again. he's certain kizuna could have anyone he wanted, yet he's still here, giving him his time and attention. wolfwood had spent so long running and chasing after people that the idea of anyone choosing to stay in his space is almost difficult to wrap his mind around. he chooses not to analyze it; one night doesn't have to mean anything. it could be just this: broad fingers slipping briefly into kizuna's hair, brushing the backs of them along the smooth curve of his cheek. ] Call me Nick.
[ they've dropped all pretenses at this point, but wolfwood figures he may as well make their intentions clear, using his hold on kizuna's hair to tug him close into a proper kiss. ]
[ There's a telling look in his eye: he can't chase what's freely given. ]
Okay, Nick.
[ Lashes lower, crescents pressed to his cheek as he leans his head into the lure of his grasp. It's the second time Kizuna has obliged the draw of Wolfwood's fingertips as if he could lead him anywhere and he'd be content with that — and for the most part, that's true. Reverence still suits the shape of his hands, leaving Kizuna undaunted by their touch. And silent as it is, this is a hunger shared now, that same aching pit of desire mirrored in the lay of an empath's blood, the hollow of his stomach.
In implication of it, a smile flicks the corners of his lips as mouths meet a second time. The tilt of his jaw is intimate, measuring a slow release of eagerness; if he can, Kizuna wants to temper his desperation so well-worn, the need to take before being taken from. He doesn't give it away, the depths at which he can sense, but he hopes what he feels because of it carries. Why shouldn't it be you? ]
Lucky me...
[ A little cheeky for someone who's parting his lips for a deeper kiss as he speaks. He can still taste the smoke on him, the burnt starlight of a home no longer within reach, the comforting humanness of skin and tongue. Kizuna lifts his hand to trace smooth fingertips down Wolfwood's jawline, over his throat and towards his collarbones. ]
[ it's a curious feeling, sinking into the kiss like he has all the time in the world, like this is where he's meant to be right at this moment — kissing a beautiful man on an unfamiliar bed, nothing but smoke and warm skin. there's no pretense to it, no transaction; wolfwood's next inhale is just this side of shaky, feeling a little unmoored even as his fingers curl carefully to cup the back of kizuna's head. he keeps expecting kizuna to pull away, to put more distance between them, but every attempt wolfwood makes at pushing the boundaries like some sort of physical litmus test, kizuna meets him. he presses a smile against his lips, parts his lips to get even closer, and there is not a single thought in wolfwood's head aside from the vague feeling of being seen in some way; as if kizuna can see the blood on his hands, the sins he carries. as if he could see through him to his very bones, and isn't repulsed by it.
wolfwood has not known touch without pain in a long time. every meager scrap of intimacy after the eye was hurried, faceless and forgettable. here, kizuna is in every one of his senses, trailing his fingers down his skin like a lover would, and for a moment wolfwood can't decide whether he should be the one to pull away or draw him closer. ]
You got an interestin' idea of luck.
[ he latches on to the plush curve of kizuna's lip, lets his teeth dig in just enough to feel the give of it. he soothes it with his tongue afterwards, licking into his mouth now that it seems kizuna is content to continue giving him these allowances, to let him continue to touch and learn his taste. wolfwood runs hot; kizuna's fingers are blessedly cool against his throat, his collarbones, and the hand that had landed on kizuna's waist tightens its grasp, fingers digging into his skin.
wolfwood had never considered himself to be a possessive man, but he feels it in this moment. desire and hunger run parallel to each other, and wolfwood has yet to learn how to completely distinguish them. ]
[ The round of his lip sears pink under the attention of teeth; Kizuna huffs a laugh, as if supplementing the stutter in Wolfwood's breath with his own. It's tender and kind, full of irreverence, as if it's not also between strangers. Stranger is a nebulous and indistinct concept for him anyway, the delineation between his nature and the nature of others all hazed at the edges. Why should it be so different between bodies, especially with one so gun-shy to a compassionate touch — the drag of his tongue against the contours of his mouth is deep and soft. He's seeking a pulse, the height of this man's temperature, the rhythm that the two intersect at. ]
There's a reason luck is also an addiction. [ A bad habit. ] This place is proof of it.
[ He knows which way those lines run and he has no problem plunging his hands in, changing the topography, running them together. His back bows slightly, inviting a stronger grip. Breaking the kiss, Kizuna moves his attentions aside, lips trailing loosely over the plane of Wolfwood's cheek, down against a stubble-etched jawline. ]
But sometimes all we have to wager is flesh and blood.
[ Spoken into his ear, his timbre making it sound like a question as his palm settles over his chest, pressing down on the thud of his heart. ]
[ kizuna's mouth is soft, just like every other part of him, inviting and enticing. there's a lushness to him that sets off something in wolfwood's brain that doesn't have any room left for higher thought, the desire to consume that softness warring with his primary instinct to safeguard it.
kissing him is almost lethal. cigarettes, alcohol, the promise of salvation—nothing compares. the wet, sweet heat is like nothing wolfwood has ever known, the slide of kizuna's fingers working in tandem to play a rhythm designed specifically to undo him; a tide dragging him down until everything is dark and crushing. he’s never seen an ocean, hard-pressed to believe they even existed back on earth, but he thinks he understands them in the flow of kizuna's body and the shine of his eyes, the salty-sweet tang he tastes on the man’s skin when he nudges parted lips against kizuna's temple. kizuna claims luck is an addiction, yet wolfwood wonders if he's bothered to include himself in there as well. ]
Might get a better deal looking somewhere else, sweetheart.
[ it's a low rumble, voice husked with desire; it doesn't take much, these days. but wolfwood knows what he is—a body broken and stitched together again, battered and bloodied. the serum did its job in getting rid of most of his scars, but he knows exactly where they would be, where they should be. is it even his to wager anymore, when it longer feels like his own?
yet, his heart beats steadily beneath kizuna's palm, a staccato tempo that betrays the grin on his face, crooked and toothy. ]
But if you feel like takin' a gamble anyway, I'll treat you right.
I might. [ Kizuna agrees, all ceaseless low-light, the same as those tides in him. ] But that's the pleasure of it, you know?
[ A strong heartbeat and a sore soul are enough of an outline for Kizuna to see the broad strokes, the splatterings of desire that transcend the boundaries of his own body. It could be anything, he realizes: the gnaw or hunger or the scratch of thirst, the ill-fit of an unbreakable body never knowing what it's like to cleave to gentleness. He wants to rend the outline, to send it spilling out. Breath coming slow and hot, Kizuna presses a kiss to his ear before pulling himself upwards out of the crook of Wolfwood's neck. His eyes glow beneath velvety lashes, auric and forthright. ]
Besides, I know you would.
[ Implying he wouldn't be here otherwise had Wolfwood acted any other way, the sensation of his wanting to possess something in order to protect it pulsing through the cadence of his smile. It's so much and also just enough — Kizuna slips out from beside him, using the palm he has cupped to his chest as balance as he pulls upright and swings his leg over the other man's middle. He anchors his weight, straddling him, and offers a sterling smile in return. ]
But if you don't mind... [ His grip pulls away briefly so he can shrug out of his suit jacket and toss it off the side of the bed. ] I'll be doing the treating tonight.
[ it's like staring directly into the suns back home. even behind the shade of his glasses, it still stings and burns, the heat flaying everything open and raw. the gold of kizuna's eyes are just as bright, but gentler in their focus; kinder, even if wolfwood still feels just as raw beneath his gaze. it does something funny to his chest, the stutter of his heartbeat incriminating beneath the breadth of kizuna's palm, and as he watches him straddle his waist, wolfwood feels a little like he's been brought to heel, cowed with just a soft glance and softer touch.
but there's a firmness beneath it, a glint of something beneath the delicate fan of kizuna's lashes and the tender curve smile. determination, maybe — the less generous would call it stubbornness, likely. he'd be more annoyed by it if he wasn't so distracted with the lilt of his voice dripping along his spine like melting honey, sticky slow and warm. i know you would, kizuna says, as if he knows there's secretly (but not really) a part of wolfwood that would struggle not not to lay himself at his feet, tripping over himself in his haste to rip his own heart out to offer him if he desired it; the part of him that cares too much, the part of him that only wanted the people he cares about to be happy and safe. he thought that part of him had died with the rest on the table, but like everything else that has occurred so far, he's proven wrong once again. ]
I don't mind. [ he swallows thickly, mouth dry, as he slips off his own jacket and shirt, bare from the waist up aside from the rosary that still hangs around his neck. a reminder and a noose. ] If you don't.
[ To have a heart pressed into his hands is no small thing, much less one that's undergone such a resurrection, abraded and dressed up and sent back out into the world, bereft of belonging. Kizuna senses that great loss, the internal architecture broken down piecemeal by exposure to the elements — desolate light, yawning betrayal, a thousand horizons that never draw any closer. On his knees, Kizuna watches as fabric shears away over tanned muscle, tracing the weight of his body with his gaze. His hands follow suit, palms coming to rest over the height of Wolfwood's chest and drawing downwards, from heartbeat to the swell of lungs beneath the steeple of his ribs.
His smile shifts for a moment, unreadable. Why does he feel as though he should have so many more scars than he does? Thumbs circle, plying and contemplative. As if the answers will rise to the surface of over-hot skin, dredged up by nerves more sensitive than they seem. Lucky again, he thinks, that closeness is a language that's so easy to teach... for once, it's Kizuna who's feeling mirrored. ]
Should I mind?
[ Succinct, significant. Kizuna relinquishes his touch to undo the first few buttons on his shirt, loosening it enough to pull it off in a shake of slightly-curled locks. There's always a slight buzz to it, the magnetism of touch between bare skin; he leans in again, brushing an inquisitive kiss to Wolfwood's mouth. ]
[ wolfwood's skin prickles beneath kizuna's hands, muscles twitching under that exploratory touch as he makes a conscious effort to hold himself still. it's both cool and scalding, and he can't shake the initial indecision of whether to pull away or tug kizuna closer — whether to feel his hands all over the rest of his body, or spare him the ugliness of laying hands on his blood soaked skin, both his and not. wolfwood doesn't deserve this gentleness, this tenderness; it makes him ache in ways he doesn't understand. he had always known he was a doomed man, but not like this — felled by the slightest touch of kizuna's fingertips and the honeyed heat of his mouth. ]
You should, if you know what's good for you. [ it's not the threat the words mean, merely a statement of fact: kizuna can't know what it means to offer kindness to a man like him. can he? wolfwood isn't as good as kizuna may think he is, even if he wants to be. ] But you're the type that runs into trouble, aren't you?
[ wolfwood is greedy and just as touch-starved, and since kizuna has yet to stop offering himself, he takes the opportunity when it presents itself: smoothing his own palms up kizuna's sides and his back, fingers following the dip in his spine. he's all smooth, supple skin, blessedly cool beneath his hands, and something surges in him — the urge to mark it up, to replace it with his wamrth; the urge to hold him close, protective and possessive. fingers slide into kizuna's hair as he leans up to deepen the kiss, giving into the instinct to devour, to claim and consume. ]
[ His eyes flutter shut, sealing in the sensation of fingers carving through his hair, the sweltering wasteland of this man's desires so closely seated to his surface by time and cruelty. Brushing against that feeling is his motivation — he has no idea what's good for him, actually. Only what's good for others. There's a tilt to Kizuna's smile as he presses it deep into Wolfwood's mouth just like he does with his body into his hands, a curvature of teeth and tongue that hold his answer: ]
Every time. [ Breath plumes strained and slow between them, cool in comparison to the fascinating heat of kissing him. It's enough for another observation, flickered low into the restless seal of lips. ] Aren't you the type to follow?
[ To see it through, even at a cost. Kizuna hopes, perhaps naively, that this encounter won't be so costly to these yawning instincts opening up like the maw of some beast, but there's no guaranteeing it. Not in this place full of strangers in a room that isn't his, with only this one night promised. Kizuna's back bows to Wolfwood's grip, all tactile energy in the drag of his thighs over the other man's hips. His hands smooth upwards, thumbs caressing nipples as they travel the breadth of his chest. They join again at the hollow of Wolfwood's throat, fingers blooming against the column of his neck to cradle it, to press his jaw upwards for a more searing kiss. He sucks softly at his tongue, the strokes of it shameless and pliant; at his throat, he feels the skin-warmed beads of his rosary. ]
[ it's uncanny, the way kizuna reads him; how everything he says strikes a chord within wolfwood that he'd long since buried. the eye had instilled in him vigilance, observation — you always remember the ones that are bigger than you, the ones that are stronger than you; you never know when they'll turn around and devour you next. but they didn't warn him about the smaller ones; the ones with the tender smiles and bright eyes, an electric stare that could bring any man to his knees. wolfwood's never prayed to god, has gotten on his knees for much less. but here, pinned beneath slim thighs and an equally slim body, he thinks he would.
what is he if not pulled along by the whims and wants of everyone else? when was the last time he had any agency of his own? he's suddenly back in the belly of the worm again, staring into endless blue eyes crinkled at the corners; i can see it in his eyes rattling around his head like a curse. kizuna clocks him from a mile away and wolfwood's left dumbstruck all over again, unable to even argue with it because, yeah. yeah — ]
You got me. [ he laughs, low and brief, surprising himself with it as he arches up into the glide of kizuna's hands. his cock twitches in his trousers untouched, and wolfwood can't even bring himself to be embarrassed by it, still processing the mortifying ordeal of being known without being able to do anything about it. ] Ain't gettin' rid of me now.
[ it's weak and they both know it, but kizuna's fingers against his neck effectively wipe everything else from his mind, feeling the gentle press of them against his skin when he takes another breath. he loses time as kizuna latches onto his tongue, lashes fluttering low and then shut, the grip he had on kizuna's waist sliding down to dig into his hip instead, pulling him down to meet the upward rock of his own. ]
Too much? [ he breathes against his mouth, trailing lips over kizuna's jawline to mouth at the point of it beneath his ear, tugging on the soft lobe. ] I could get hotter for you, baby.
[ last chance to kick him out of the room for being embarrassing. ]
Hah. [ His sensitive ears glow under the attention of teeth, blushed to the tips. ] How much hotter?
[ Unfortunately, he is not immune to someone making a complete embarrassment out of themselves. In fact, he likes it. It is — human. So much so that it alters the lay of Kizuna's expression, curbing lust with an easy affection. So Wolfwood won't be going anywhere, not with the way his laughter sticks in his awareness, reverberating in the hollow of his chest. His thumbs rub lightly at the hinges of his jaw, pressing against the strength of his pulse points as if in search of something precious beneath the flex of them. He's wise to it, the juxtaposition of his empathy with something closer to him, like being tapped into a familiar well and the sweet relief it provides.
He wonders, briefly, between the rising heat in the press of thighs and the friction of that rhythm, if the memory is a good one. He hopes so, if hoping is all he can do besides this. Arousal scents the air, feverish skin-salt against crushed rose petals so potent he can nearly taste it in the back of his throat when he inhales, cheek to cheek with him. ]
If I were to guess... [ A draw of kiss-damp lips over his cheek. ] I'd start, mmn — here?
[ Kizuna slides back on Wolfwood's hips, pivoting the warm junction of his thighs into a shameless roll against the swell of his cock beneath his zipper. ]
[ that's a sweet expression. wolfwood can't remember the last time someone looked at him like that, with warmth and easy affection, as if it's something he deserved. it's dangerous to know how much he'd craved it now, just as it's dangerous to know how it feels, the taste and texture of it given so freely. you can't long for something you've never had; can't crave for things you've never experienced. a dog doesn't crave blood until it has its first taste. a bird doesn't long for freedom if a cage is all it has known. but wolfwood knows now what it's like — to be seen, to be cared for. the prospect of feeling whole again. ]
As hot as you want, sugar.
[ wolfwood would never consider himself smooth; he's a master in the art of bullshitting and faking it 'til he makes it. how many cringey nicknames can he throw out before kizuna's had enough? by the looks of it, that doesn't seem likely. the ache from before grows, swelling gradually with each press of kizuna's fingers along his skin, and a part of him hopes, wildly and selfishly, that kizuna will continue touching him. that he would still grant him his grace and affection even after this one night.
he almost misses what kizuna says next, a low moan ripped from his throat as both hands find their way to kizuna's hips. he's dizzy with want, planting both feet on the bed to meet that sinful roll, closing his eyes at how good something as simple as that feels. ]
... Yeah. [ he has no idea what he actually said. wolfwood swallows, blinking eyes back open to seek out gold again. ] That sounds good.
You sound good too. [ Kizuna smiles down at him, sterling and heated. ] So keep your hands right there, okay?
[ Because he's going to spend a while like this, never one to do anything halfheartedly. His soul is sensitive to grit and scars, to the tender flesh beneath that still aches when touched. Kizuna won't tear them open, but he will trace their human topology, turning this exposition into a love letter. If he has to feel the way he does, the ravening touch of his empathy laying bare his desires and the desires of others, pouring his heart out over them is the least he can do.
Kizuna could cut to the chase but finds that he likes the pace: the low, fiery glow, flickers of desire having life breathed into them. Palms sliding downwards, cupping over the muscle of Wolfwood's chest until his thumbs tease over nipples, Kizuna rocks forward again into his hands. ]
Move me how you want. [ Leaning in to allow the fervent caress of skin on skin, Kizuna presses a kiss to his mouth. ] Show me what feels best for you.
[ He can sense. He can intuit. But he also wants to know. ]
[ there's something about it that arrests him — his voice, maybe, or his expression; molten gold holding him in place as the words sink into him, just as slow and sweet as the pleasure that thrums through his veins. yeah, he thinks. okay. he opens the breadth of his palms over kizuna's hips, spanning his fingers as if he could get them to meet around the circumference of his body. they can't, of course, but the prospect makes desire spike in wolfwood's belly, makes him tighten his grip to hold kizuna closer, the warm shape of him settled against his own arousal a teasing hot brand that lances through him.
he's embarrassingly close. kizuna must know; he seems to know everything already. wolfwood may as well be laid completely bare beneath him, open to his gaze and his touch, his past that he could never hide etched into his unguarded expression: something like awe, maybe; longing, perhaps. he twitches up into the teasing press of his thumbs, a shudder racing down his spine as he meets that forward rock of his hips, chasing his pleasure for a blindingly hot minute.
what kizuna may or may not know is that everything feels good, feels best; he's never felt better in his life, he thinks. he looses another sound into the kiss, low and desperate, all teeth and tongue. he wants to roll kizuna over and sink his teeth into him, wants to press his lips to every part of him he can reach. idolatry has already been tacked onto his long list of damning offenses, but if his soul could ever be redeemed, he thinks maybe kizuna might be the one to lead him there. ]
Let me touch you. [ he breathes between kisses, one hand relinquishing its grip on kizuna's hip to palm over his crotch. ] Please.
[ Salvation is the only thing he's ever wanted to give. Away from God and between people, it's complicated without the gift of understanding, the benevolence of its light. Kizuna has never been without it, the sharp shadows it casts looming long at his feet. But as broad fingertips spread fever-fast over the skin of his belly, seizing him by the hips and anchoring him to implicit hunger and an adoration full of teeth — he can think only of meeting those desires, the shape of them coalescing in deep brown eyes, the heartrending lack of severity or apprehension in them.
It makes the back of his neck grow hot to feel those carnal thoughts leveled at him, their closeness threatening to bring that to reality at any moment. Pressure against his groin makes him breathe a noise, the flute of it in his throat soft and hungry. ]
You can.
[ Using the sturdiness of Wolfwood's body as leverage, he pushes himself up again, leaning back against his knees. With the way he looks at him, Kizuna can't help himself in making a sight worth beholding, hips at a provocative jut as one hand poises itself at the lowermost point of his belly. Licking his lips, his fingers splay, index and middle parting across muscle as if to highlight the hard press of his erection trapped against his zipper. ]
You can see what you're doing to me. Or... [ A wicked press downward on his knees, grinding his ass against his clothed cock. ] You can come first.
[ He does know, and a guiding hand takes many forms. ]
[ wolfwood has always known that salvation is out of his reach, that a sinner like him doesn't deserve it. it was a price he'd gladly paid if it meant the orphanage was safe, if livio could thrive. but here, laid between kizuna's thighs and bearing the weight of his gaze and his touch, wolfwood yearns for it — that sweet relief, forbidden and tantalizing in equal measure. it claws at him, the mix of hunger and desire and adoration a searing cocktail that shears him down to mere sensation and instinct, a flood of emotions he can't and won't identify.
how pathetic can he get, he wonders. that kizuna is still looking at him like he is something to be desired nearly beggars belief, but wolfwood looks anyway: his unwavering focus tracking the movement of his hands and fingers, the peek of his tongue over kiss-swollen lips; the tempting swell of his arousal through metal and fabric. he calls upon all the self-discipline he's had flayed into his body over the years and just barely wrangles himself back into some approximation of normalcy, a futile attempt as he bites back another noise — a wounded sound at the press over his own cock, the teasing pressure only adding another layer of sensation, winding everything up in him with no where to go. ]
God— [ the remaining hand on kizuna's hip tightens, a startled bark of laughter bubbling up despite the way his heart stutters in his chest. ] Fuck you.
[ there's no heat to it, too weak to be a protest — not that it was meant to be one, not with the way his face grows hot in the wake of it. he reaches down to free himself from the confines of his trousers, does the same for kizuna, fingers surprisingly more steady than he really feels. but the second he gets his hand around them both, barely registering the mortifying knowledge that he's been dripping precome likely since kizuna first kissed him, he manages one full stroke before he's coming against kizuna and into his fist, a low growl that could almost be passed off as a snarl hissing through clenched teeth. ]
Edited (i know it's five hrs later but don't judge me) 2024-04-27 03:57 (UTC)
[ There's so much to love about the sound of laughter, the way it begets itself even in the most intense moments — and it is intense, even if it's also short-lived. Kizuna responds similarly, stuttering out an undaunted, breathless laugh. He's freed in just enough time to partake in his orgasm as it comes desperately between them, messy and honest.
All the prettiness in the world can't compare to the effect of touch on someone deprived of it, affection given without restraint like rain on dry land. On his knees and still hard in Wolfwood's wet fist, Kizuna smiles at him, the mirth creased at the corners of his eyes nothing short of adoring. There's a sort of rawness Kizuna knows well, the sweltering chafe of kindness against wounds not old enough to scar; perhaps for men like Wolfwood, they would never scar, not with the way he selflessly carries them open and bloody, bullshitting the only levity he can afford. His insult lacks teeth, the noise of it prompting the shine he's taken to him to glow all the brighter. ]
Oh, good boy. [ It's near delicate, the way he reaches down to smear the flats of his fingers through his cum. What he does next is less so: he laves the taste of him off his skin with his tongue. Filthy and flirtatious all in one. ] I bet that felt incredible.
[ A flex of his hips highlights the firm length of his cock still held in his hand, velvet skin receptive to the full grip of him, his callused skin. Kizuna purrs a contented noise, unhurried. To be starved of touch means to be sensitive to it, after all. He thinks he can have him ready to go again in no time. ]
I like your touch on me too. [ A lean back, one hand sneaking below his waistband to tug provocatively at his pants. Hello, he is overdressed. And so is Wolfwood. ] If I lay back, will you keep going?
[ coming down from the high of coming harder than he ever has in a long, long time means he's vulnerable to the devastating one-two punch of kizuna's voice, of his fingers dragging through his spend to lick them off. wolfwood's head spins, his spent cock making a valiant attempt as it hardens again, made easier where it's still nestled against kizuna's. the good boy sinks into his brain, hooks him in his gut as he swallows hard, dryness clicking in his throat.
he wants to be good; he's always wanted to be. everything the eye took from him he can never reclaim, but they couldn't beat those instincts out of him. he feels — exposed, raw, and beneath all of that, relief. in his post-nut clarity, he wonders briefly how kizuna is even real as he watches the smooth flex of his abdomen when he leans back. ]
You're incredible, [ he says, aiming for his usual levity and landing a little too close to the glaring bullseye he only just tossed a blanket over. ] I can go all night, babe. [ he tacks on, as if that makes it any better.
but before he can make any more of an ass out of himself (again), he wipes his hand on the sheets below him and slips his hands beneath kizuna's waistband, tugging them down over his hips and thighs. it feels a little bit like he's been given a gift, undressing this beautiful man that really has no business being on his knees for wolfwood. it wars within him, the knowledge that he doesn't deserve this against the bigger part of him that wants to make him feel good, that wants to be good; that wants to selfishly keep that adoring gaze on him and be worthy of it. ]
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@relater
[ sometimes you have to make your own opportunities. wolfwood's been dealt shitty hand after shitty hand for most of his life — getting whisked away to a luxury hotel that runs on hedonism alone is honestly par for the course at this point. of course he wouldn't catch a break. did you find a reason to put down your cross? conrad had asked him, and he still isn't sure what's worse — not finding a reason to, or finding one. and now, he gets to start all over again.
but anyway. ]
Where I'm from, one night's plenty.
[ but there's a flicker of something warm somewhere in the blackened cavity of his chest that he'd thought was incapable of feeling, something... pleased, almost. a little bittersweet. he lets himself fall back onto the mattress, tucking one arm behind his head as the other dangles off the side, looking like he could fall right asleep if he wanted to. the lazy smile still on his face says otherwise as he flicks ash from his cigarette off the side of the bed. they're close enough to touch, and while normally he'd be more intent about keeping his space, he finds he doesn't mind it so much now. ]
Hey, I got an expensive habit to fund. And my self-control's worth shit.
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Nothing's forever, hm?
[ It sounds rhetorical, but for Kizuna, it's always been a genuine wonder, so personal that he doesn't really expect an answer. With his free arm, Kizuna gestures for him to bring that hand with the cigarette up from where it dangles off the side of the bed, dripping flecks of ash onto nice carpet. There is a sort of char to it, this presence filling up between them that Kizuna can feel because he's always been able to feel it: the scrape of the embers, the glow beneath. He likes it, that kind of thing. ]
I wonder how many around here are treating it like their last night, addictions and all.
cw: (mild) suicidal ideation
Nah. [ smoke softens his tone as he opens his eyes and turns his head to look at kizuna, brown on gold, veiled behind his sunglasses. ] But you keep wishin' they are anyway.
[ at his core, this has never changed: a haunted man who paid the price of a bargain made for the safety of the only place he'd been able to call home. no price is too steep, even if he continues to pay it now and likely will for as long as he'll live. if he's lucky, maybe it won't be much longer. but again, luck was never on his side since the day he was born on that godforsaken desert of a planet.
he lifts the cigarette from where it dangles off the side of the bed, taking one last drag before passing it over to kizuna. he doesn't know if the guy smokes, but a little sharing didn't hurt anyone. ]
What about you? [ he takes in the angles of kizuna's face, the roundness of his eyes. there's something alluring about him that wolfwood can't really put his finger on. he may be a (shitty) priest, but he's not blind. ] I get the feeling one night's not enough.
[ if he means for kizuna himself or whoever is fortunate enough to spend the night with him, wolfwood doesn't specify. ]
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You're right. Once isn't enough of anything to satisfy me.
[ Even if his secret is that once is often enough for him to feel the entire breadth of someone's emotions from even the simplest encounter. He's just always left wanting for more.
Bringing the cigarette up to his lips, he takes a long inhale, the sound of it hushed like its flash in the calm of the wedding suite. He feels its heat in the back of his throat, the prickle of its saturation. Leaning over, Kizuna cranes his neck with a sort of idle curiosity and slowness; his lips brush against the other man's in something that's not quite a kiss, not yet. Smoke pools in the cup of his tongue and he holds it in the backs of his teeth, waiting to be let in.
Misfortune is a bad addiction for him to have, but the ability to change its course is an even sweeter high. ]
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Pretty face like yours? [ he pushes his glasses up and off, lets his eyes take in a long, unobstructed view of kizuna's face. ] Didn't think so.
[ he watches kizuna take a long drag, the flash of ember at the end illuminating his face briefly to highlight the gold of his eyes, the gentle slope of his nose and curve of his lips as they wrap around the cigarette. but wolfwood doesn't expect him to lean over, closer; to bring his lips right up against wolfwood's in a precursor to a kiss. gold floods his vision momentarily and wolfwood acts before he can think, bringing his hand up to frame his fingers along kizuna's jaw, thumb pressed lightly against his chin to coax his lips open.
the smoke here is sweet, nothing like the bitter acidity of the ones back home. it goes down smooth and easy, but in this moment, he isn't entirely sure whether it's the smoke alone or partly because of kizuna. ]
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Gaze low, Kizuna obliges the pull of Wolfwood's thumb, lips parting to breathe out against him. An inhale for an exhale, warmth plumes as smoke travels, cloudy and slow. He doesn't bother playing fast with it because there's no where to go here but towards one another, whether by fate or gravity or fire. One night is never enough, but one night can change so much. On the end of his exhale he smiles, the rest of the smoke pluming shortly from his nose. Kizuna chases the taste of it with a real press of lips just so, loose enough to dip the tip of his tongue against the seam of the man's mouth. It's there and gone again, leaving him to nose softly into his cheek. ]
See, I knew that'd taste good.
[ He brings the cigarette up and offers it back to him. ]
Kizuna, by the way.
[ An introduction, however belated. ]
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kizuna breathes out and wolfwood takes it like he does everything else, an ever present hunger that has only gotten worse since they pulled him off the operating table—to take before being taken from, to hurt before getting hurt. this is not the same, no, but this gentle sort of intimacy that couldn't survive back home being offered so freely here makes him greedy for it, leaning in the scant few inches further as his nose nudges against kizuna's, sipping smoke from his parted lips. wolfwood almost misses his smile, preoccupied with the sudden warm press of lips against his own, lashes fluttering briefly at the wet brush of tongue. it's soft and fleeting, a tease that makes him want to immediately chase after it for more, but he takes the cigarette back instead, takes one last drag before leaning up to stub it out on the headboard. ]
Did you. [ there's amusement in his tone when he settles back down, finding himself studying kizuna's face again. he's certain kizuna could have anyone he wanted, yet he's still here, giving him his time and attention. wolfwood had spent so long running and chasing after people that the idea of anyone choosing to stay in his space is almost difficult to wrap his mind around. he chooses not to analyze it; one night doesn't have to mean anything. it could be just this: broad fingers slipping briefly into kizuna's hair, brushing the backs of them along the smooth curve of his cheek. ] Call me Nick.
[ they've dropped all pretenses at this point, but wolfwood figures he may as well make their intentions clear, using his hold on kizuna's hair to tug him close into a proper kiss. ]
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Okay, Nick.
[ Lashes lower, crescents pressed to his cheek as he leans his head into the lure of his grasp. It's the second time Kizuna has obliged the draw of Wolfwood's fingertips as if he could lead him anywhere and he'd be content with that — and for the most part, that's true. Reverence still suits the shape of his hands, leaving Kizuna undaunted by their touch. And silent as it is, this is a hunger shared now, that same aching pit of desire mirrored in the lay of an empath's blood, the hollow of his stomach.
In implication of it, a smile flicks the corners of his lips as mouths meet a second time. The tilt of his jaw is intimate, measuring a slow release of eagerness; if he can, Kizuna wants to temper his desperation so well-worn, the need to take before being taken from. He doesn't give it away, the depths at which he can sense, but he hopes what he feels because of it carries. Why shouldn't it be you? ]
Lucky me...
[ A little cheeky for someone who's parting his lips for a deeper kiss as he speaks. He can still taste the smoke on him, the burnt starlight of a home no longer within reach, the comforting humanness of skin and tongue. Kizuna lifts his hand to trace smooth fingertips down Wolfwood's jawline, over his throat and towards his collarbones. ]
Having the man of the hour all to myself.
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wolfwood has not known touch without pain in a long time. every meager scrap of intimacy after the eye was hurried, faceless and forgettable. here, kizuna is in every one of his senses, trailing his fingers down his skin like a lover would, and for a moment wolfwood can't decide whether he should be the one to pull away or draw him closer. ]
You got an interestin' idea of luck.
[ he latches on to the plush curve of kizuna's lip, lets his teeth dig in just enough to feel the give of it. he soothes it with his tongue afterwards, licking into his mouth now that it seems kizuna is content to continue giving him these allowances, to let him continue to touch and learn his taste. wolfwood runs hot; kizuna's fingers are blessedly cool against his throat, his collarbones, and the hand that had landed on kizuna's waist tightens its grasp, fingers digging into his skin.
wolfwood had never considered himself to be a possessive man, but he feels it in this moment. desire and hunger run parallel to each other, and wolfwood has yet to learn how to completely distinguish them. ]
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There's a reason luck is also an addiction. [ A bad habit. ] This place is proof of it.
[ He knows which way those lines run and he has no problem plunging his hands in, changing the topography, running them together. His back bows slightly, inviting a stronger grip. Breaking the kiss, Kizuna moves his attentions aside, lips trailing loosely over the plane of Wolfwood's cheek, down against a stubble-etched jawline. ]
But sometimes all we have to wager is flesh and blood.
[ Spoken into his ear, his timbre making it sound like a question as his palm settles over his chest, pressing down on the thud of his heart. ]
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kissing him is almost lethal. cigarettes, alcohol, the promise of salvation—nothing compares. the wet, sweet heat is like nothing wolfwood has ever known, the slide of kizuna's fingers working in tandem to play a rhythm designed specifically to undo him; a tide dragging him down until everything is dark and crushing. he’s never seen an ocean, hard-pressed to believe they even existed back on earth, but he thinks he understands them in the flow of kizuna's body and the shine of his eyes, the salty-sweet tang he tastes on the man’s skin when he nudges parted lips against kizuna's temple. kizuna claims luck is an addiction, yet wolfwood wonders if he's bothered to include himself in there as well. ]
Might get a better deal looking somewhere else, sweetheart.
[ it's a low rumble, voice husked with desire; it doesn't take much, these days. but wolfwood knows what he is—a body broken and stitched together again, battered and bloodied. the serum did its job in getting rid of most of his scars, but he knows exactly where they would be, where they should be. is it even his to wager anymore, when it longer feels like his own?
yet, his heart beats steadily beneath kizuna's palm, a staccato tempo that betrays the grin on his face, crooked and toothy. ]
But if you feel like takin' a gamble anyway, I'll treat you right.
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[ A strong heartbeat and a sore soul are enough of an outline for Kizuna to see the broad strokes, the splatterings of desire that transcend the boundaries of his own body. It could be anything, he realizes: the gnaw or hunger or the scratch of thirst, the ill-fit of an unbreakable body never knowing what it's like to cleave to gentleness. He wants to rend the outline, to send it spilling out. Breath coming slow and hot, Kizuna presses a kiss to his ear before pulling himself upwards out of the crook of Wolfwood's neck. His eyes glow beneath velvety lashes, auric and forthright. ]
Besides, I know you would.
[ Implying he wouldn't be here otherwise had Wolfwood acted any other way, the sensation of his wanting to possess something in order to protect it pulsing through the cadence of his smile. It's so much and also just enough — Kizuna slips out from beside him, using the palm he has cupped to his chest as balance as he pulls upright and swings his leg over the other man's middle. He anchors his weight, straddling him, and offers a sterling smile in return. ]
But if you don't mind... [ His grip pulls away briefly so he can shrug out of his suit jacket and toss it off the side of the bed. ] I'll be doing the treating tonight.
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but there's a firmness beneath it, a glint of something beneath the delicate fan of kizuna's lashes and the tender curve smile. determination, maybe — the less generous would call it stubbornness, likely. he'd be more annoyed by it if he wasn't so distracted with the lilt of his voice dripping along his spine like melting honey, sticky slow and warm. i know you would, kizuna says, as if he knows there's secretly (but not really) a part of wolfwood that would struggle not not to lay himself at his feet, tripping over himself in his haste to rip his own heart out to offer him if he desired it; the part of him that cares too much, the part of him that only wanted the people he cares about to be happy and safe. he thought that part of him had died with the rest on the table, but like everything else that has occurred so far, he's proven wrong once again. ]
I don't mind. [ he swallows thickly, mouth dry, as he slips off his own jacket and shirt, bare from the waist up aside from the rosary that still hangs around his neck. a reminder and a noose. ] If you don't.
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His smile shifts for a moment, unreadable. Why does he feel as though he should have so many more scars than he does? Thumbs circle, plying and contemplative. As if the answers will rise to the surface of over-hot skin, dredged up by nerves more sensitive than they seem. Lucky again, he thinks, that closeness is a language that's so easy to teach... for once, it's Kizuna who's feeling mirrored. ]
Should I mind?
[ Succinct, significant. Kizuna relinquishes his touch to undo the first few buttons on his shirt, loosening it enough to pull it off in a shake of slightly-curled locks. There's always a slight buzz to it, the magnetism of touch between bare skin; he leans in again, brushing an inquisitive kiss to Wolfwood's mouth. ]
If so, I might be in trouble already.
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You should, if you know what's good for you. [ it's not the threat the words mean, merely a statement of fact: kizuna can't know what it means to offer kindness to a man like him. can he? wolfwood isn't as good as kizuna may think he is, even if he wants to be. ] But you're the type that runs into trouble, aren't you?
[ wolfwood is greedy and just as touch-starved, and since kizuna has yet to stop offering himself, he takes the opportunity when it presents itself: smoothing his own palms up kizuna's sides and his back, fingers following the dip in his spine. he's all smooth, supple skin, blessedly cool beneath his hands, and something surges in him — the urge to mark it up, to replace it with his wamrth; the urge to hold him close, protective and possessive. fingers slide into kizuna's hair as he leans up to deepen the kiss, giving into the instinct to devour, to claim and consume. ]
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Every time. [ Breath plumes strained and slow between them, cool in comparison to the fascinating heat of kissing him. It's enough for another observation, flickered low into the restless seal of lips. ] Aren't you the type to follow?
[ To see it through, even at a cost. Kizuna hopes, perhaps naively, that this encounter won't be so costly to these yawning instincts opening up like the maw of some beast, but there's no guaranteeing it. Not in this place full of strangers in a room that isn't his, with only this one night promised. Kizuna's back bows to Wolfwood's grip, all tactile energy in the drag of his thighs over the other man's hips. His hands smooth upwards, thumbs caressing nipples as they travel the breadth of his chest. They join again at the hollow of Wolfwood's throat, fingers blooming against the column of his neck to cradle it, to press his jaw upwards for a more searing kiss. He sucks softly at his tongue, the strokes of it shameless and pliant; at his throat, he feels the skin-warmed beads of his rosary. ]
You're so warm already...
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what is he if not pulled along by the whims and wants of everyone else? when was the last time he had any agency of his own? he's suddenly back in the belly of the worm again, staring into endless blue eyes crinkled at the corners; i can see it in his eyes rattling around his head like a curse. kizuna clocks him from a mile away and wolfwood's left dumbstruck all over again, unable to even argue with it because, yeah. yeah — ]
You got me. [ he laughs, low and brief, surprising himself with it as he arches up into the glide of kizuna's hands. his cock twitches in his trousers untouched, and wolfwood can't even bring himself to be embarrassed by it, still processing the mortifying ordeal of being known without being able to do anything about it. ] Ain't gettin' rid of me now.
[ it's weak and they both know it, but kizuna's fingers against his neck effectively wipe everything else from his mind, feeling the gentle press of them against his skin when he takes another breath. he loses time as kizuna latches onto his tongue, lashes fluttering low and then shut, the grip he had on kizuna's waist sliding down to dig into his hip instead, pulling him down to meet the upward rock of his own. ]
Too much? [ he breathes against his mouth, trailing lips over kizuna's jawline to mouth at the point of it beneath his ear, tugging on the soft lobe. ] I could get hotter for you, baby.
[ last chance to kick him out of the room for being embarrassing. ]
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[ Unfortunately, he is not immune to someone making a complete embarrassment out of themselves. In fact, he likes it. It is — human. So much so that it alters the lay of Kizuna's expression, curbing lust with an easy affection. So Wolfwood won't be going anywhere, not with the way his laughter sticks in his awareness, reverberating in the hollow of his chest. His thumbs rub lightly at the hinges of his jaw, pressing against the strength of his pulse points as if in search of something precious beneath the flex of them. He's wise to it, the juxtaposition of his empathy with something closer to him, like being tapped into a familiar well and the sweet relief it provides.
He wonders, briefly, between the rising heat in the press of thighs and the friction of that rhythm, if the memory is a good one. He hopes so, if hoping is all he can do besides this. Arousal scents the air, feverish skin-salt against crushed rose petals so potent he can nearly taste it in the back of his throat when he inhales, cheek to cheek with him. ]
If I were to guess... [ A draw of kiss-damp lips over his cheek. ] I'd start, mmn — here?
[ Kizuna slides back on Wolfwood's hips, pivoting the warm junction of his thighs into a shameless roll against the swell of his cock beneath his zipper. ]
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As hot as you want, sugar.
[ wolfwood would never consider himself smooth; he's a master in the art of bullshitting and faking it 'til he makes it. how many cringey nicknames can he throw out before kizuna's had enough? by the looks of it, that doesn't seem likely. the ache from before grows, swelling gradually with each press of kizuna's fingers along his skin, and a part of him hopes, wildly and selfishly, that kizuna will continue touching him. that he would still grant him his grace and affection even after this one night.
he almost misses what kizuna says next, a low moan ripped from his throat as both hands find their way to kizuna's hips. he's dizzy with want, planting both feet on the bed to meet that sinful roll, closing his eyes at how good something as simple as that feels. ]
... Yeah. [ he has no idea what he actually said. wolfwood swallows, blinking eyes back open to seek out gold again. ] That sounds good.
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[ Because he's going to spend a while like this, never one to do anything halfheartedly. His soul is sensitive to grit and scars, to the tender flesh beneath that still aches when touched. Kizuna won't tear them open, but he will trace their human topology, turning this exposition into a love letter. If he has to feel the way he does, the ravening touch of his empathy laying bare his desires and the desires of others, pouring his heart out over them is the least he can do.
Kizuna could cut to the chase but finds that he likes the pace: the low, fiery glow, flickers of desire having life breathed into them. Palms sliding downwards, cupping over the muscle of Wolfwood's chest until his thumbs tease over nipples, Kizuna rocks forward again into his hands. ]
Move me how you want. [ Leaning in to allow the fervent caress of skin on skin, Kizuna presses a kiss to his mouth. ] Show me what feels best for you.
[ He can sense. He can intuit. But he also wants to know. ]
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he's embarrassingly close. kizuna must know; he seems to know everything already. wolfwood may as well be laid completely bare beneath him, open to his gaze and his touch, his past that he could never hide etched into his unguarded expression: something like awe, maybe; longing, perhaps. he twitches up into the teasing press of his thumbs, a shudder racing down his spine as he meets that forward rock of his hips, chasing his pleasure for a blindingly hot minute.
what kizuna may or may not know is that everything feels good, feels best; he's never felt better in his life, he thinks. he looses another sound into the kiss, low and desperate, all teeth and tongue. he wants to roll kizuna over and sink his teeth into him, wants to press his lips to every part of him he can reach. idolatry has already been tacked onto his long list of damning offenses, but if his soul could ever be redeemed, he thinks maybe kizuna might be the one to lead him there. ]
Let me touch you. [ he breathes between kisses, one hand relinquishing its grip on kizuna's hip to palm over his crotch. ] Please.
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It makes the back of his neck grow hot to feel those carnal thoughts leveled at him, their closeness threatening to bring that to reality at any moment. Pressure against his groin makes him breathe a noise, the flute of it in his throat soft and hungry. ]
You can.
[ Using the sturdiness of Wolfwood's body as leverage, he pushes himself up again, leaning back against his knees. With the way he looks at him, Kizuna can't help himself in making a sight worth beholding, hips at a provocative jut as one hand poises itself at the lowermost point of his belly. Licking his lips, his fingers splay, index and middle parting across muscle as if to highlight the hard press of his erection trapped against his zipper. ]
You can see what you're doing to me. Or... [ A wicked press downward on his knees, grinding his ass against his clothed cock. ] You can come first.
[ He does know, and a guiding hand takes many forms. ]
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how pathetic can he get, he wonders. that kizuna is still looking at him like he is something to be desired nearly beggars belief, but wolfwood looks anyway: his unwavering focus tracking the movement of his hands and fingers, the peek of his tongue over kiss-swollen lips; the tempting swell of his arousal through metal and fabric. he calls upon all the self-discipline he's had flayed into his body over the years and just barely wrangles himself back into some approximation of normalcy, a futile attempt as he bites back another noise — a wounded sound at the press over his own cock, the teasing pressure only adding another layer of sensation, winding everything up in him with no where to go. ]
God— [ the remaining hand on kizuna's hip tightens, a startled bark of laughter bubbling up despite the way his heart stutters in his chest. ] Fuck you.
[ there's no heat to it, too weak to be a protest — not that it was meant to be one, not with the way his face grows hot in the wake of it. he reaches down to free himself from the confines of his trousers, does the same for kizuna, fingers surprisingly more steady than he really feels. but the second he gets his hand around them both, barely registering the mortifying knowledge that he's been dripping precome likely since kizuna first kissed him, he manages one full stroke before he's coming against kizuna and into his fist, a low growl that could almost be passed off as a snarl hissing through clenched teeth. ]
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All the prettiness in the world can't compare to the effect of touch on someone deprived of it, affection given without restraint like rain on dry land. On his knees and still hard in Wolfwood's wet fist, Kizuna smiles at him, the mirth creased at the corners of his eyes nothing short of adoring. There's a sort of rawness Kizuna knows well, the sweltering chafe of kindness against wounds not old enough to scar; perhaps for men like Wolfwood, they would never scar, not with the way he selflessly carries them open and bloody, bullshitting the only levity he can afford. His insult lacks teeth, the noise of it prompting the shine he's taken to him to glow all the brighter. ]
Oh, good boy. [ It's near delicate, the way he reaches down to smear the flats of his fingers through his cum. What he does next is less so: he laves the taste of him off his skin with his tongue. Filthy and flirtatious all in one. ] I bet that felt incredible.
[ A flex of his hips highlights the firm length of his cock still held in his hand, velvet skin receptive to the full grip of him, his callused skin. Kizuna purrs a contented noise, unhurried. To be starved of touch means to be sensitive to it, after all. He thinks he can have him ready to go again in no time. ]
I like your touch on me too. [ A lean back, one hand sneaking below his waistband to tug provocatively at his pants. Hello, he is overdressed. And so is Wolfwood. ] If I lay back, will you keep going?
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he wants to be good; he's always wanted to be. everything the eye took from him he can never reclaim, but they couldn't beat those instincts out of him. he feels — exposed, raw, and beneath all of that, relief. in his post-nut clarity, he wonders briefly how kizuna is even real as he watches the smooth flex of his abdomen when he leans back. ]
You're incredible, [ he says, aiming for his usual levity and landing a little too close to the glaring bullseye he only just tossed a blanket over. ] I can go all night, babe. [ he tacks on, as if that makes it any better.
but before he can make any more of an ass out of himself (again), he wipes his hand on the sheets below him and slips his hands beneath kizuna's waistband, tugging them down over his hips and thighs. it feels a little bit like he's been given a gift, undressing this beautiful man that really has no business being on his knees for wolfwood. it wars within him, the knowledge that he doesn't deserve this against the bigger part of him that wants to make him feel good, that wants to be good; that wants to selfishly keep that adoring gaze on him and be worthy of it. ]
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