more importantly, he doesn't ask; there's the faintest scent of sulfur cutting through the air like the bitter aftertaste of a stale cigarette, but june keeps his eyes closed against it until saiph's touch drags him back to himself, and—
this isn't kansas. this isn't the line 6. this is the immaculate marbled tile of saiph's bathroom, and the cooled air nips at the back of june's neck in warning: no sudden movements, little thing. june can't help it; a dawning realisation cuts through him, sharp and swift as it races down his back and to his fingertips. for a single, glorious second, june can't breathe.
he can't put to words the one question he wants to ask. his mind refuses to.
he's still reeling from the truth that's laid bare in front of him that he's gone pliant to saiph's ministrations. june's hands hover, stutter, pull back — he wants to touch him, he wants to feel the warmth of his skin and hope to be grounded by it, but june's caught in the throes of such a dark, consuming awe that he's worried of what he might do if he reached out and found purchase.
the water hits his bare skin and it's a shock. it's a slap to his senses, his ability spiking and turning inward. his blood is roaring in his ears; his breathing is caught painfully between his throat and his lungs. he sees everything and nothing and he wonders if this is what it's like to be blinded by light.
the kiss, when he realises it happening, feels like a benediction. june kisses back with all the finesse of a young lover, unraveling from saiph's simple touches, and fast.
in his reverence and desperation, june understands the one thing. what he's feeling isn't fear. it's something much worse. ]
[ what saiph wants from june isn't fair or right or natural. it's a black and violent current rolling unbreachable over everything it touches, uprooting foundation as it goes, endlessly reaching out across the empty vastness of the universe to a place where saiph's no longer welcome or can even remember. he wants june's lips, the slip of his tongue across the roof of his mouth and his hands in his hair. he wants the hot clench of his body under him or on top of him, and his throat bared for his teeth, heartbeat fluttering inside his mouth. he wants the filthy mortal rawness of a good fuck, and all the quieter moments that come after. he wants to peel him open, layer by layer, to the white bones of his ribcage, and swallow around the humanness of his insides. he wants loyalty. he wants unfaltering, unconditional love.
his selfishness is a defect in his personality, a part of his blanketed history that undoubtedly led to his fall to earth. he wants too much, all the time, and when june opens up against him, kisses him back so eagerly and so sweetly, it is his primordial nature that leads him to take what he gives him without hesitation. it's wrong; it's not fair. he deserves to be twenty-four and vulnerable, but not with him.
( because saiph's loneliness is self-inflicted. he has never learned how to love anything without destroying it down to the marrow, too heavy-handed for tender things. )
but even as he thinks it, he's pressing into him, tracing the delicate heat of his mouth with his tongue and tracking his fingers down his shoulders, over his biceps, loosely grasping one wrist to pin it to the tile by his side and squeeze his free hand over his waist. june is tired and injured, bruised and bleeding in multiple places, and saiph should clean him off, wash his hair and scrub his back, tuck him into his bed for the night and curl up around him. he will, he will, just not right now.
he ducks his head, teeth roughly scraping his pulse and then further down to his shoulder and collar bone. the hand at his waist moves between his thighs, skimming the underside of his cock before saiph grips him loosely, stroking him once. ]
[ love is a red-hot brand against the skin. it's a sharp blade against the soft parts of the throat, against the pale curve of an exposed belly. for june, it's a well-honed knife, unerring in its mark every time it cuts into meat of his mortal frame. june always bleeds, the pain a benediction and a balm to the cut-up remains of his heart. his poor, fragile heart — it's an twisted, shriveled drupe that no one could possibly want. how many people have left him behind? how many have said the words, never meaning them in all the times the words have passed their lips?
june knows better than to believe. he knows better than to pretend.
and yet, with saiph's hand finding him and drawing him to attention, june buys into the illusion once more.
his free hand moves to press against the soaked folds of saiph's clothes, chasing after the man even when his attentions move away from his mouth and down to the cradle of his shoulder. he leaves a kiss against saiph's temple, gets a mouthful of hair through the sheets of water cascading down around them. what little air that's been left in him has lodged itself high in chest, choking him with the fondness of an old friend, and june wants to much to touch that the ache in his ribs does nothing to keep him from pushing against saiph's grip.
june's free hand finds its place at the back of saiph's neck, and it stays there, firm and insistent. let me reach you, he wants to say. let me feel your skin against mine. he gasps against the combined pressure of forming bruises and saiph's hand on him, his gift coming awake spreading out of him without his permission. it turns the liquid heat pooling low in his belly into gasoline, igniting with every pass of saiph's hand on him and lighting him up like a housefire.
in the end, he fumbles with the buttons of saiph's shirt. the water cools his fingers, makes them shake, and he manages to tear the fabric by accident when he pulls too hard. it's worth it when june manages to peel the cloth back enough to be able to lay his hand against the other's sternum, to finally come in contact with the other's bare skin. he wants—
he wants so much more than this. june doesn't know where to start. he doesn't know how to ask. ]
[ sometimes, in the quiet dark of his apartment, saiph curves around june's back like the slotting pieces of a well-worn puzzle and fucks him sweet and slow. it's in those particular moments where he doesn't touch him and instead leaves june to squirm against the mattress, thrusting helplessly into tangled sheets 'til he's choking on dry, shuddering sobs. then later: june's knees bracketing his shoulders and saiph's teeth high on his thigh, his tongue curling past tight, fluttering muscle, tasting himself on june's skin.
other times june is gone for weeks or months, and saiph fucks him to bruise him, scatters him across the walls of his kitchen or over an empty bar in his casino after everyone's left for the night. june's orgasms are wrenched from him then, with saiph's hand wringing tight around his cock, asking him if he missed him, if he thought of him at all, did you let anyone else fuck you like how i fuck you, did you taste me in everyone you kissed.
this time is different.
this isn't saiph choking on petty bitterness, swallowing around the bile of every terrible bit of humanity that's been forced on him in punishment, nor is it the touch of a lover looking to rechart familiar territory. june fumbles with his shirt, his hand warm on saiph's skin, and saiph stops him with fingers around his wrist, lifting his arm to press an open-mouthed kiss to the center of his palm, chasing the droplets of water between his fingers with his tongue. ]
Let me.
[ let me take care of you, let me be good for you for once, as he turns him to face the wall and press him flush against the cold tile. his hand returns to its place between his thighs, thumb dragging a firm circle around the head of his cock, touching him in steady strokes; his mouth drops to the nape of his neck, nose in june's damp hair.
if he asks, he'll fuck him — because when has saiph ever denied him anything — but for now he focuses on the shivering warmth of june's body and the matching of their heartbeats. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
for ( devilish )
[ he doesn't open his eyes.
more importantly, he doesn't ask; there's the faintest scent of sulfur cutting through the air like the bitter aftertaste of a stale cigarette, but june keeps his eyes closed against it until saiph's touch drags him back to himself, and—
this isn't kansas. this isn't the line 6. this is the immaculate marbled tile of saiph's bathroom, and the cooled air nips at the back of june's neck in warning: no sudden movements, little thing. june can't help it; a dawning realisation cuts through him, sharp and swift as it races down his back and to his fingertips. for a single, glorious second, june can't breathe.
he can't put to words the one question he wants to ask. his mind refuses to.
he's still reeling from the truth that's laid bare in front of him that he's gone pliant to saiph's ministrations. june's hands hover, stutter, pull back — he wants to touch him, he wants to feel the warmth of his skin and hope to be grounded by it, but june's caught in the throes of such a dark, consuming awe that he's worried of what he might do if he reached out and found purchase.
the water hits his bare skin and it's a shock. it's a slap to his senses, his ability spiking and turning inward. his blood is roaring in his ears; his breathing is caught painfully between his throat and his lungs. he sees everything and nothing and he wonders if this is what it's like to be blinded by light.
the kiss, when he realises it happening, feels like a benediction. june kisses back with all the finesse of a young lover, unraveling from saiph's simple touches, and fast.
in his reverence and desperation, june understands the one thing. what he's feeling isn't fear. it's something much worse. ]
no subject
his selfishness is a defect in his personality, a part of his blanketed history that undoubtedly led to his fall to earth. he wants too much, all the time, and when june opens up against him, kisses him back so eagerly and so sweetly, it is his primordial nature that leads him to take what he gives him without hesitation. it's wrong; it's not fair. he deserves to be twenty-four and vulnerable, but not with him.
( because saiph's loneliness is self-inflicted. he has never learned how to love anything without destroying it down to the marrow, too heavy-handed for tender things. )
but even as he thinks it, he's pressing into him, tracing the delicate heat of his mouth with his tongue and tracking his fingers down his shoulders, over his biceps, loosely grasping one wrist to pin it to the tile by his side and squeeze his free hand over his waist. june is tired and injured, bruised and bleeding in multiple places, and saiph should clean him off, wash his hair and scrub his back, tuck him into his bed for the night and curl up around him. he will, he will, just not right now.
he ducks his head, teeth roughly scraping his pulse and then further down to his shoulder and collar bone. the hand at his waist moves between his thighs, skimming the underside of his cock before saiph grips him loosely, stroking him once. ]
no subject
june knows better than to believe. he knows better than to pretend.
and yet, with saiph's hand finding him and drawing him to attention, june buys into the illusion once more.
his free hand moves to press against the soaked folds of saiph's clothes, chasing after the man even when his attentions move away from his mouth and down to the cradle of his shoulder. he leaves a kiss against saiph's temple, gets a mouthful of hair through the sheets of water cascading down around them. what little air that's been left in him has lodged itself high in chest, choking him with the fondness of an old friend, and june wants to much to touch that the ache in his ribs does nothing to keep him from pushing against saiph's grip.
june's free hand finds its place at the back of saiph's neck, and it stays there, firm and insistent. let me reach you, he wants to say. let me feel your skin against mine. he gasps against the combined pressure of forming bruises and saiph's hand on him, his gift coming awake spreading out of him without his permission. it turns the liquid heat pooling low in his belly into gasoline, igniting with every pass of saiph's hand on him and lighting him up like a housefire.
in the end, he fumbles with the buttons of saiph's shirt. the water cools his fingers, makes them shake, and he manages to tear the fabric by accident when he pulls too hard. it's worth it when june manages to peel the cloth back enough to be able to lay his hand against the other's sternum, to finally come in contact with the other's bare skin. he wants—
he wants so much more than this. june doesn't know where to start. he doesn't know how to ask. ]
no subject
other times june is gone for weeks or months, and saiph fucks him to bruise him, scatters him across the walls of his kitchen or over an empty bar in his casino after everyone's left for the night. june's orgasms are wrenched from him then, with saiph's hand wringing tight around his cock, asking him if he missed him, if he thought of him at all, did you let anyone else fuck you like how i fuck you, did you taste me in everyone you kissed.
this time is different.
this isn't saiph choking on petty bitterness, swallowing around the bile of every terrible bit of humanity that's been forced on him in punishment, nor is it the touch of a lover looking to rechart familiar territory. june fumbles with his shirt, his hand warm on saiph's skin, and saiph stops him with fingers around his wrist, lifting his arm to press an open-mouthed kiss to the center of his palm, chasing the droplets of water between his fingers with his tongue. ]
Let me.
[ let me take care of you, let me be good for you for once, as he turns him to face the wall and press him flush against the cold tile. his hand returns to its place between his thighs, thumb dragging a firm circle around the head of his cock, touching him in steady strokes; his mouth drops to the nape of his neck, nose in june's damp hair.
if he asks, he'll fuck him — because when has saiph ever denied him anything — but for now he focuses on the shivering warmth of june's body and the matching of their heartbeats. ]