[ the heat kaeya holds in his skin is fleeting, as much as fire itself is. diluc knows he toes the precipice of tolerance, peers over the edge - he knows it, because he knows himself. he knows it, because fire always starves itself. and yet, he thinks he should like to wield as though a warm slant of sunlight or the sliver of some dawn. he thinks he would like to make bloom in kaeya the recognition of what he is, as much as he must think - ]
It's nothing new, [ he retorts, disturbed as a smoldering bonfire is. disgruntled, to be risen from the place he's burrowed himself against. the hand that parts them is rude, but he obeys it. he sniffs. ] You take from my cellars whenever it pleases you.
[ tit-for-tat. he sees the wound in his defense and leaves it to bleed against the separation, reluctant as diluc is to be parted from the grey shadows that lap at the boundary of his skin. that feeling rides in the cut of his shoulders, in the downward curve of his mouth, but his eyes - they follow kaeya as an ember follows kindling. they burn a searching line from the familiar round of kaeya's hips up to the bright catch of amusement that banks itself against the lone star of his eye, in the parting of his lips.
comprehension of what kaeya tells him comes against the impulse to know what it is to wrap the dark of his thick braid about his closed fist. it comes, too, against the want so deep it aches in his teeth: what would it be to pull? to harness?
the weight of it settles him against the bed, body permissive as much as his mouth and mind put up resistance.
it's a game. play the game.
be good. ]
Maybe, [ diluc ekes out. at least, that would be his perception. instead, the pause of it is weighted like a sword in the hand - a bundle of fresh calla lilies, dredged from vernal shores. for all that he is dressed in modest nightclothes, he knows better than to think it hides him the quick of kaeya's insight anymore.
how quick he's always been, to be flayed against kaeya's whims. even now, his hands rest against the rumpled sheets. he lifts his chin.
and still, as always and ever, he worries the inside of his own mouth. ]
no subject
It's nothing new, [ he retorts, disturbed as a smoldering bonfire is. disgruntled, to be risen from the place he's burrowed himself against. the hand that parts them is rude, but he obeys it. he sniffs. ] You take from my cellars whenever it pleases you.
[ tit-for-tat. he sees the wound in his defense and leaves it to bleed against the separation, reluctant as diluc is to be parted from the grey shadows that lap at the boundary of his skin. that feeling rides in the cut of his shoulders, in the downward curve of his mouth, but his eyes - they follow kaeya as an ember follows kindling. they burn a searching line from the familiar round of kaeya's hips up to the bright catch of amusement that banks itself against the lone star of his eye, in the parting of his lips.
comprehension of what kaeya tells him comes against the impulse to know what it is to wrap the dark of his thick braid about his closed fist. it comes, too, against the want so deep it aches in his teeth: what would it be to pull? to harness?
the weight of it settles him against the bed, body permissive as much as his mouth and mind put up resistance.
it's a game. play the game.
be good. ]
Maybe, [ diluc ekes out. at least, that would be his perception. instead, the pause of it is weighted like a sword in the hand - a bundle of fresh calla lilies, dredged from vernal shores. for all that he is dressed in modest nightclothes, he knows better than to think it hides him the quick of kaeya's insight anymore.
how quick he's always been, to be flayed against kaeya's whims. even now, his hands rest against the rumpled sheets. he lifts his chin.
and still, as always and ever, he worries the inside of his own mouth. ]