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sixthiterationlogs2017-08-11 12:31 pm
3ofswords) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-08-11 12:31 pm
[closed] i'll hold in these hands, all that remains
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: House 39, the Spring, House 52
WHEN: August 21
OPEN TO: Credence, comment starter for Tim
WARNINGS: Grief, blood, interpersonal conflict; NSFW content with Tim
intro; the house
Kira wakes up alone.
It happens a little more often this month, than previous. After the earthquake he’d spent a great deal of time with Tim, pushed through a barrier, added a kind of casual sleeping and breakfast to the casual sex. It had been a safe thing, no expectations, built in safeguards against taking it too far. They didn’t have to talk. They’d never have to argue and compromise over jobs, living spaces. His parents were never going to crawl out of the fountain for introductions. It couldn’t be anything, so they could let it be whatever it was.
And he’d been normal, for so much of it.
He’s not avoiding Tim now, not after the long walk they took, day-drinking and almost talking. Talking around things, couching things in practicality. He’d asked who to look for, if he gets back, Margaery’s prediction still looming over him. Someone to check on, someone to tell that their son or husband or boyfriend was alright. Of course he’d just been asking, really, about Tim’s home. How to find his people, who they were, if there was a glaring reason not to try.
Not much to do with something casual.
He’s not avoiding him. He’s just taking time for himself, days in between, not inserting himself into Tim’s day as frequently, for as long. He’s still here, and he always comes back, and he always slips right back into it all, and--and that low murmur of everything that is Tim wrapping around him. It’s too dangerous, when he already gave as much of a shit without it.
It’s easier to wake up on his own a few times a week, acclimate to the world nice and slow, in his remote house on the edge of everything. Kira lays in the bed, feeling out the space. Aurora at his back, Hoshi peeping from under the rag that keeps him quiet after sunrise. No Bodhi, but Kira isn’t really sure what time it is, and he might have found somewhere else to sleep off his late night puttering. There’s no one around at all, something to luxuriate in for a moment. He takes his time, rolling one way to scratch up Aurora’s face and ears, endure her tongue on his cheek. She isn’t so bad to wake up with, about as big as she’s probably going to get and her fur starting to lengthen as the temperatures wane. Rolling over the other way, he peels the rag up from Hoshi’s head, sets it aside, reaches past the ruffling ball of feathers to run his fingers through the contents of the drawer. A couple of condoms, dice, the old casings, the crystal necklaces. Reminders, but only of people here.
Not that he needs a piece of home other than himself.
Sighing, he rolls out of the bed, pulling on his cutoff shorts. Maybe no one is around, but the way disaster strikes in this place, he doesn’t want to be caught out in his underwear. His scrapes and scratches have healed from the last round, and he’s held Tim enough at arm’s length this week that any bruises are well-faded. He pads barefoot through the empty house, the animals used to his lazy routine enough that they don’t bother to follow, and he heads for the back door to rekindle the stove.
credence; the spring
The coat is slung over the rail of the back steps. Kira stands, framed in the doorway, staring at the familiar folds. He takes a step back and goes into the kitchen, blinking too quickly, taking a moment to drink a glass of water from the sink. It’s not there. He’s not awake yet, he’s still dreaming, it’s just the stress of everything getting him stuck in it.
The coat is slung over the rail of the back steps.
Kira sucks in a breath, louder and deeper than the last. It isn’t a box with his name on it. It isn’t new, tags still on it, a kind of--a kind of reminder of a coat, cruelly left for the coming winter. It’s slung out in the open, the fur matted and dirty, stains on the faded green fabric. It’s his coat, the one that had gone missing with Ty, the morning after their half-dreamed argument. The one Ty had been carried back in. The one Kira had been wearing before he woke up here.
Stepping gingerly out of the house, he picks up a sleeve. His throat closes for the chill lingering in the fabric, like it had just been picked up from the alley. Like nine months haven’t passed at all.
When he turns the side out, opening the coat over the rail, he recoils and cries out. Both hands lift to his face, covering his mouth and nose, squeezing his cheeks and jaw until the bone pushes back against his hands. The fur inside is still matted with blood, dried to the fibers, hideously dark on the white and brown lining. His hands press harder, holding back bile as it rises in his throat. His eyes scan out over his fingers, seeking anything in the trees, even knowing that isn’t how these things work.
Like he knows anything, about how this works.
Still gagging, he fists a grip to the shoulder seam and sets down the steps, barefoot and barely dressed, scrambling into the woods. The blood isn’t fresh, but it hadn’t been when Kira left: he’d waited a day at Ty’s bedside, hoping someone would find the right pills, praying Nicky would send someone out to get them. It had been the next night when he pulled the dirty coat back on, his cards and Ty’s pistol in the pocket. The coat feels lighter than that, and he doesn’t stop to check them: he keeps running into the trees, picking up speed, knocking through ferns and hopping rotted logs like he can catch up to something none of them have ever seen.
“Who’s there,” he calls out, panting with terror as much as the exertion. “Is he alive?” Has time moved a moment since he arrived, can he send the bottle of pills in Tim’s bathroom back somehow, is there any kind of hideous bargain to be struck—
The trees are silent, when he shuffles to a stop. All of his senses know: he’s alone, and it’s only as he looks and listens that he notices how ugly the light is, how dim it seems for mid-morning. How late did he sleep? The sky isn’t visible through the canopy, and he hunts a moment for some kind of landmark: was it all just a trick, just a lure to lose him among the trees? No, there’s the marker he carved, the upward, forward pointing arrow to the spring. He follows it, bare feet picking over increasingly lush, mossy ground and stones, until he comes out on the loamy clearing.
His legs are shaky, weak as he picks over the green moss, porous rock around the spring, until he sinks down at its edge and clutches the coat up in his lap. “Where is he,” he asks the empty trees, his voice gone soft enough to break, until he’s sobbing I’m sorry into the dirty lining.
It isn’t some double-edged gift. It hits as deep as a bolt of lightning, burning symbols on rooftops. It smells like cigarettes and gunpowder and dirty snow. It smells like old and new sweat. Kira doubles over with it, sitting on his legs in the moss, suffocating himself in it as he cries.
WHERE: House 39, the Spring, House 52
WHEN: August 21
OPEN TO: Credence, comment starter for Tim
WARNINGS: Grief, blood, interpersonal conflict; NSFW content with Tim
intro; the house
Kira wakes up alone.
It happens a little more often this month, than previous. After the earthquake he’d spent a great deal of time with Tim, pushed through a barrier, added a kind of casual sleeping and breakfast to the casual sex. It had been a safe thing, no expectations, built in safeguards against taking it too far. They didn’t have to talk. They’d never have to argue and compromise over jobs, living spaces. His parents were never going to crawl out of the fountain for introductions. It couldn’t be anything, so they could let it be whatever it was.
And he’d been normal, for so much of it.
He’s not avoiding Tim now, not after the long walk they took, day-drinking and almost talking. Talking around things, couching things in practicality. He’d asked who to look for, if he gets back, Margaery’s prediction still looming over him. Someone to check on, someone to tell that their son or husband or boyfriend was alright. Of course he’d just been asking, really, about Tim’s home. How to find his people, who they were, if there was a glaring reason not to try.
Not much to do with something casual.
He’s not avoiding him. He’s just taking time for himself, days in between, not inserting himself into Tim’s day as frequently, for as long. He’s still here, and he always comes back, and he always slips right back into it all, and--and that low murmur of everything that is Tim wrapping around him. It’s too dangerous, when he already gave as much of a shit without it.
It’s easier to wake up on his own a few times a week, acclimate to the world nice and slow, in his remote house on the edge of everything. Kira lays in the bed, feeling out the space. Aurora at his back, Hoshi peeping from under the rag that keeps him quiet after sunrise. No Bodhi, but Kira isn’t really sure what time it is, and he might have found somewhere else to sleep off his late night puttering. There’s no one around at all, something to luxuriate in for a moment. He takes his time, rolling one way to scratch up Aurora’s face and ears, endure her tongue on his cheek. She isn’t so bad to wake up with, about as big as she’s probably going to get and her fur starting to lengthen as the temperatures wane. Rolling over the other way, he peels the rag up from Hoshi’s head, sets it aside, reaches past the ruffling ball of feathers to run his fingers through the contents of the drawer. A couple of condoms, dice, the old casings, the crystal necklaces. Reminders, but only of people here.
Not that he needs a piece of home other than himself.
Sighing, he rolls out of the bed, pulling on his cutoff shorts. Maybe no one is around, but the way disaster strikes in this place, he doesn’t want to be caught out in his underwear. His scrapes and scratches have healed from the last round, and he’s held Tim enough at arm’s length this week that any bruises are well-faded. He pads barefoot through the empty house, the animals used to his lazy routine enough that they don’t bother to follow, and he heads for the back door to rekindle the stove.
credence; the spring
The coat is slung over the rail of the back steps. Kira stands, framed in the doorway, staring at the familiar folds. He takes a step back and goes into the kitchen, blinking too quickly, taking a moment to drink a glass of water from the sink. It’s not there. He’s not awake yet, he’s still dreaming, it’s just the stress of everything getting him stuck in it.
The coat is slung over the rail of the back steps.
Kira sucks in a breath, louder and deeper than the last. It isn’t a box with his name on it. It isn’t new, tags still on it, a kind of--a kind of reminder of a coat, cruelly left for the coming winter. It’s slung out in the open, the fur matted and dirty, stains on the faded green fabric. It’s his coat, the one that had gone missing with Ty, the morning after their half-dreamed argument. The one Ty had been carried back in. The one Kira had been wearing before he woke up here.
Stepping gingerly out of the house, he picks up a sleeve. His throat closes for the chill lingering in the fabric, like it had just been picked up from the alley. Like nine months haven’t passed at all.
When he turns the side out, opening the coat over the rail, he recoils and cries out. Both hands lift to his face, covering his mouth and nose, squeezing his cheeks and jaw until the bone pushes back against his hands. The fur inside is still matted with blood, dried to the fibers, hideously dark on the white and brown lining. His hands press harder, holding back bile as it rises in his throat. His eyes scan out over his fingers, seeking anything in the trees, even knowing that isn’t how these things work.
Like he knows anything, about how this works.
Still gagging, he fists a grip to the shoulder seam and sets down the steps, barefoot and barely dressed, scrambling into the woods. The blood isn’t fresh, but it hadn’t been when Kira left: he’d waited a day at Ty’s bedside, hoping someone would find the right pills, praying Nicky would send someone out to get them. It had been the next night when he pulled the dirty coat back on, his cards and Ty’s pistol in the pocket. The coat feels lighter than that, and he doesn’t stop to check them: he keeps running into the trees, picking up speed, knocking through ferns and hopping rotted logs like he can catch up to something none of them have ever seen.
“Who’s there,” he calls out, panting with terror as much as the exertion. “Is he alive?” Has time moved a moment since he arrived, can he send the bottle of pills in Tim’s bathroom back somehow, is there any kind of hideous bargain to be struck—
The trees are silent, when he shuffles to a stop. All of his senses know: he’s alone, and it’s only as he looks and listens that he notices how ugly the light is, how dim it seems for mid-morning. How late did he sleep? The sky isn’t visible through the canopy, and he hunts a moment for some kind of landmark: was it all just a trick, just a lure to lose him among the trees? No, there’s the marker he carved, the upward, forward pointing arrow to the spring. He follows it, bare feet picking over increasingly lush, mossy ground and stones, until he comes out on the loamy clearing.
His legs are shaky, weak as he picks over the green moss, porous rock around the spring, until he sinks down at its edge and clutches the coat up in his lap. “Where is he,” he asks the empty trees, his voice gone soft enough to break, until he’s sobbing I’m sorry into the dirty lining.
It isn’t some double-edged gift. It hits as deep as a bolt of lightning, burning symbols on rooftops. It smells like cigarettes and gunpowder and dirty snow. It smells like old and new sweat. Kira doubles over with it, sitting on his legs in the moss, suffocating himself in it as he cries.
spring;
He wants this whole thing to be over and for all of them to stop living in fear over what's going to happen next, too, but focusing on going to the spring to collect its water is a much easier way of ignoring that. He's on his way, keeping his footsteps as quiet as he can out of habit, an empty bucket in his hand when he hears it.
That's definitely, definitely Kira's voice he hears, through the thin veil of the trees. His pace picks up, just a bit, and by the time he's at the spring proper he swears he hears Kira's voice break.
Kira doesn't break. Kira gets upset and talks about other things, like stars. Kira smokes strange cigarettes and laughs to become numb. Kira doesn't cry.
Credence finally steps forward, steps near, and assesses the situation as quickly as he can. Kira most likely doesn't want anyone commenting on it, like last time. He has to keep his voice calm and careful, to not upset him further.
He squats down next to him, arms wrapping around knees.
"You got another present."
no subject
When Credence speaks, knelt at his side, all Kira can do is whine from deep in his throat, burying the sound in the dirty material.
Answer him: if he can speak, he can come out of this. It's Credence, there are standards, there are--fuck the standards. Exhaling a long, growl of a sound into the coat, there's as much anger as sadness welling up. Why did Ty have to go anyway, why does he have to be stuck here, why does it have to be Credence to find him like this? "It's not a present," he bites out, starting to lift his head, really look at the mess he's been holding so close. The side of his face is pink and runny, where his tears mixed with the blood. "I was wearing this before I arrived."
no subject
Truthfully, he just wants to help. He's not sure how to approach the situation, so he settles on what he tries his best to do: cling to the bright side. The optimistic side. Even if his hand is grabbing at that triangle charm in his pocket he always keeps near him.
"That's good, isn't it? Someone's looking out for you. Why...Why is there blood? Are you hurt?"
no subject
Kira's only told Credence so much: about Manhattan, about the epidemic. Maybe he deserves to know more, the things he's shared in the time they've been here together--but it's never felt relevant to the moment. It's never felt like Credence would need to know--that anyone should--to understand Kira. Unlike Credence, Kira doesn't button his collar to the throat in defiance of the sun, because of his past.
He just buttons up all of himself, until he's sitting on his knees in a bed of moss, blood on his face, a coat that smells like a war zone in his lap, wondering how Credence can be so fucking obtuse.
Because he lets him. Because he buttons it up.
Exhaling shakily, Kira folds the coat up in his hands, holding it part of the way up to his chest. He stares at the faintly steaming surface of the spring, wondering: should he wash it? Should he hide what it is, make it something like new? Should he bury it under the same tree that he buried Ren?
His fingers claw into the folds, resisting both ideas, with no concrete thought behind it. "It's not," he says, hushed but not quite softer than before. "It's not my blood. It's not--"
New tears coat his eyes before he blinks them away: "It's not my coat."
no subject
He can fix this, just like Kira's helped fix him. He can do this, he can return the favour, he has to--he needs to--Kira's upset and Kira's not allowed to be upset, and so Credence pushes past the stab of initial, knee-jerk fear when Looking out for me is thrown back in his face.
It's not his coat. That's a start. It's someone else's, which means the blood is probably someone else's. Someone Kira cares about.
"Maybe--maybe it's a sign they'll come," Credence tries, and takes a few steps forward. "This is--this is a good thing, isn't it? I don't think anyone's ever gotten something exactly from home, only things that look like it."
no subject
"It's been nine months. He's dead, this can't be here--"
Sucking back tears and snot, he balls the coat up against his chest. It's an old wound, because he's let it, because he's accepted the facts. How can this be something good, when it just rips the scab off and makes it bleed? Why send him a bloody coat now?
Kira sniffs again, not noticing, not reacting to Credence's approach. He can feel him again: the concern, the fear, but he pushes it out of his mind. Looks up at the unnaturally dark sky between the trees and tries to understand. The sky, the coat, the recent discoveries. Nothing to do with each other, or inherently connected. "Maybe if I take it to that room," he says, trying to offer--something. Some agreement or understanding of what Credence is trying to do. "Margaery said it has a door, maybe--" but the idea chokes him again, clutching the bloody coat close. "Maybe they'll bring him back."
no subject
It's hard, though.
Especially since now he can see it. He can hear it in Kira's voice, too. Desperation, sadness. It makes Credence feel a pang of something, but what he's not sure. He squirms.
"Kira... I'm not sure if bargaining with the observers is a good idea. Maybe it's best to just wait naturally?" it's a question because he's not sure himself. He clears his throat, still nervous.
"Let's head inside, okay? I think I can fetch some tea from the inn, maybe that'll help."
no subject
Fuck that part of him. Fuck Credence.
The anger, the desperation--that's him. That's how he's going to hold out and know himself, that's how he's going to make Credence go away and leave it alone. "I don't need tea," he says, his hoarse voice going thick in his throat. "I don't need to keep waiting around."
When he stands, it's slow, one limb pushing up at a time. Hands before legs, a terrible crane of his spine, hugging the coat to his chest. He accuses Credence over the fallen hood, fur matted down with his own old sweat. "What would you know about it," he demands, everything he's shoved down for months clawing it's way out: "How many people are here from your home? How many people take fucking care of you?"
no subject
But what if they aren't? What if Credence is too blind? What if he's relied on Kira, and now he's sick of him? That's exactly what it sounds like is happening, and he opens his mouth to say something, anything, before he closes it. Kira's standing, now, hugging the coat. Bad memories. It's full of bad memories, Credence can see.
Kira keeps speaking, and every word is like a dart, pricking his skin, stinging, the other's tone accusatory. Credence's gaze drops down, hands balling awkwardly at his sides.
"Mr. Kira, please don't yell at me." Is Kira even actually yelling? Credence can't tell, but it sounds like it in his ears. "I'm trying to take care of you, like you've helped me."
no subject
He'll just have to make that realization for himself, today.
"I don't need you to take care of me, Credence." His voice lowers, but his resolve holds. He can't cope while he's coddling someone else, and he can't imagine Credence being around him right now without needing it. "I don't need your help. If I need anything, it's for this place to stop fucking me every chance it gets, and I need you to leave me alone."
no subject
This is what he does. He relies on people and then they get tired, or annoyed, and push him away. Or they leave, like Tina, or they betray him. Credence, it seems, is incapable of having an actual friendship. This is what's going to happen.
And Kira--oh, Credence had thought Kira would like help, for once, instead of relying only on himself. He thought that Kira wouldn't mind a pair of hands to hold him up, to keep him from drowning in the emotions he suppresses so often. He was wrong.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I was just trying to--I thought maybe.."
He can't finish his sentence. Not when his vision is blurring, not when his heart is hammering in his chest. He's upset Kira. He's made things worse.
"I'm sorry," he repeats, and takes a few steps back.
no subject
He can't shove Credence any harder away than he could throw Hoshi against a wall, even when all he wants is to burn down this canyon and every ugly thing within it.
Himself most of all.
All of his anger stays in his fist, balled up in the folds of the coat. He holds it at his side, digging the fingers ever deeper, feeling the pressure against his palm. That's his own heart, beating in his thumb. That's his own pulse racing, just as hard as Credence. Shoulders slumping in, he makes himself smaller, his other hand loose at his side, as he crosses the distance between. After a false start, he sets a hand to Credence's shoulder, and waits for the moment where Credence--doesn't look at him. "I'm not angry with you," he says. The rest of his body, where he's stopped holding onto it, is just tired. "I just--I came out here to be alone. I'm upset, and there's nobody I'd want to stay. Not in the whole world. You didn't do anything wrong."
Tears burn across his eyes again. In sympathy, in a different kind of anger. This is how it always goes. This is what he always has to do.
no subject
Good, they're both crying. He's not sure why that makes him happy, like he's somehow vindicated.
"It's okay," Credence says, even though it's very evident it is not. "I understand." Of course no one wants him around. He's useless, and miserable, and even if he's not dangerous, he's just a waste of space. Someone to feel sorry for.
Isn't that essentially what Kira said? He sniffs again, a little louder, and then shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he repeats, "I shouldn't have bothered you." Credence turns away and starts running. His aim is to go anywhere--anywhere but be near Kira.
It's Credence's turn to want to be alone. As selfish as ever.
tim; house 52; nsfw
There’s no undoing snapping at Credence. There’s no taking back why he did it, either. Some people are better off, here. Some people have enough of home with them to make new lives, carry on—but Kira can’t even start that from scratch.
Not without losing everyone.
Not without what he’s lost slapping him in the face.
He’d finally searched the pockets, folding the coat up at the house. There was the note: Kira Akiyama on one side, the twist of the knife on the other. Don’t forget what you came from.
Not where: what.
He doesn’t get friends and mentors out of the fountain. He doesn’t get his family, and the longer he walks, the more he realizes: he doesn’t get Ty. Maybe he could walk all the way up to the glass wall. Maybe he could leave the folded coat outside it, a request of all the vials and hair within. Who cares what it’s for, who cares if any of them are the first them, as long as he isn’t here alone. Even if it’s wrong, even if it’s pointless—
At the crossing path to the fountain park, Kira takes one last look into the trees, knowing the room is beyond them, and turns right instead. It’s almost a straight cut to Tim’s house, and he’s standing on the porch without conscious decision. Everything from the moment he walked out the back door has been a matter of momentum. Run into the trees, follow the path to the spring, yell at Credence, run from Credence, walk north, walk here. It doesn’t stop on the back porch; he spares a glance at the unnaturally dim sky and keeps walking. Maybe the sun is about to disappear for a month: who fucking cares anymore. He toes off his boots at the last step and leaves the coat between them, pushing past the door without knocking.
Once he’s inside, he’s a lost thing, looking around the kitchen like he’s never stood in it before. Like the space doesn’t make any sense without Tim in it.
Tim, right.
He’s here for Tim. The momentum starts again, building in a new direction. Fuck the coat, fuck anything that happened before this place. What’s the point in remembering that if it’s only ever going to be a wound, and not a person? Kira follows the sense of Tim tensing for the fact of someone in the house toward the bedroom, feet steady, only a glance at Tim at all when he catches him readied at a corner by the door. “There you are,” he says, like it explains or settles anything, and momentum carries him into Tim entirely, lifts his hands to Tim’s jaw, pushing past space and fluttering confusion to kiss him. There are so many pulses in his hands, beating in each other’s pauses, a litany of forget, forget.
no subject
Well. He hasn't had any bad nightmares yet. Normal ones, sure. But not any of the ones that leave him sweating and shaking and trying to catch his breath. Not ones that have him tasting sand in his mouth for hours, unable to shake the scent of gunpowder or get the sun off the back of his neck. Kira hasn't seen that ugly, damaged side of him yet, and that's good. But it's only a matter of time.
Then, Kira will decide he has enough shit to deal with already that doesn't involve pitying Tim's wrecked mental state. And that's fine, because Tim doesn't want to be that vulnerable in front of anybody anyway. Ultimately, this thing they're doing will crash and burn, and the longer he lets it continue, the more it's going to suck in the end.
But he keeps doing it anyway. He's always been a little bit self-destructive, so maybe it shouldn't come as that big of a surprise.
He's in the back bedroom when the front door opens, almost as far away from the front of the house as he can be. Normally, there would be blankets nailed over the windows, but they've been pushed aside to let in what little light is outside. It's too dim outside for the time of day it is, but who the fuck knows if it's a normal weather thing or something weird. He's just gotten in from going down to the stables to check on Kid, wearing one of the new flannels with a pair of Kira's jeans. That same kitchen knife from before is in his hand, and he doesn't set it down on the dresser until it's Kira who walks around the corner, and not some stranger about to be suffering from serious blood loss.
"Here I am," Tim says, toeing out of his boots. It's a good thing he didn't plan on following that up with anything, because Kira's around closing the space between them and kissing him, hands on his jaw, mouth demanding. Kira's usually more chatty, likely to tease and taunt and push Tim's buttons before making his move. This is fast, and well-- he could stop it and ask if everything's okay. But that complicates things, so Tim only kisses back, hands dropping to Kira's waist.
no subject
It's going to work, if he can just keep the pace. He kisses a little harder, makes Tim's next breath a little harder to pull through his throat before seeking out his pulse instead.
Whatever else it does, he can feel the way Tim responds, almost as much as he can feel the hands on his waist. It's right there to lose himself in, just like old times. The last of the vodka is at home, not enough to keep him from giving a shit, but maybe if he replaces the coat with enough raw feeling, it won't matter. Maybe if he sinks deep enough into Tim, he can stay in the present. There's no flirting, no teasing this time: he bites a kiss to the side of Tim's neck and works his hands down to--a belt, not even sparing it a glance before he wrestles the buckle open and starts tugging it away from Tim's waist.
Instead of dropping it to the floor, he loops it up over Tim's neck and shoulders, using it to tug him into another kiss and lead him bodily into another wall. The shock goes through them both, dropping a sound from Kira's lips.
no subject
Or Kira's mouth zeroing in on his throat, attacking Tim where he's most vulnerable.
"Jesus." His breath hitches, chin tilted up so Kira has room. Hard teeth move to where his pulse thumps unevenly in his neck, only softened by the slick slide of lips and tongue. His knees feel weak, like he might actually slide to the floor if it weren't for Kira's body against his, or those hands at his hips, pulling one of the new (and, bizarrely, many) belts free from his jeans.
He's tugged forward, the belt looped over his neck, and it's probably a miracle that he doesn't stumble. They land against another wall, and Tim hungrily swallows the noise that drops from Kira's lips with another kiss, pressing him bodily against the wall. It's clear that Kira isn't looking for something slow and gentle right now, so Tim doesn't hesitate to bite his lower lip or roll his hips forward, groaning low in his throat at the friction it provides.
no subject
So many options, stretching out from this moment. Kira can feel Tim hard through the jeans, and his pulse is an echo of Kira's own, and his want is Kira's want--but that's all it is. The rest of the world is still silent, no warnings, no previews.
He can feel Tim, but if he can predict him, it's only from what he already knows. If he could predict him, he'd slip away and find the coat on the steps, take it into the woods and bury it. Toss it into the fucking sea, miles across their prison grounds. Sometimes they ask each other what they want, sometimes they wrestle, and Kira only wins by getting at Tim's throat. He has the advantage of surprise, this time, and it doesn't feel like Tim is trying to take anything, pressing him into a wall. That's just what Tim does. That's just what Kira came for, his shorts rucked up his thigh by Tim's pressing hips, his lips chewed red, looking at Tim like he's the only thing worth the attention.
"I want to suck you off," Kira announces, decides, warns. Without even reversing their positions, he slides down the wall, onto his knees, the belt keeping its pressure as it slides down over Tim's ass and thighs. Tim does this a lot more often, and Kira's had his powers back long enough to feel how much he loves it--and he wants that. He wants Tim to drive everything out of his head with his dick, dropping the belt to dig his fingers into the hems of his own jeans and drag them down, looking up at Tim with that same focus as he kisses the curve of his dick through his briefs.
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Even though he has a hunch that there's some motivation behind this, and it could be good or bad. It's out of his mind. He can't focus on anything but this.
Tim's hips rock forward, bumping Kira back against the wall as he ruts against the thigh between his legs, groaning openly and needily against Kira's mouth. There's no shame in it. He knows he can never get enough of Kira, proving it by being incapable of keeping his hands off of him. Sometimes he wonders if Kira can never get enough of him, too. But times like these, he doesn't have to wonder. He knows, he drives Kira wild, too.
He laughs, a little breathless, as Kira drops right to his knees, without bothering to back Tim up against something else or regain anymore control. Tim generally prefers to be on the giving end rather than the receiving, but he's certainly not going to turn down a mouth on his cock. One hand presses flat against the wall in front of him, but the other drops to Kira's head, pushing hair back from his face.
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Looking up from under Tim's hand, he sees him braced overhead, feels him settling into the thrum of his body and what Kira wants to do with it.
This isn't going to hurt, except for how it's supposed to. This is going to be what he needs. He has to believe that, rolling the hem of Tim's briefs down until his dick lifts free. No teasing today, no looking up through his eyelashes, batting them, making sure Tim gets a view from the right angle. This is for him, and he works the shaft with his hand just long enough to get Tim fully hard, sucking on the head, before he moves his hands to Tim's hips and drags him in, trying to make him understand the punishing pace he wants.
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His exhale is shaky, Kira's hand firm and steady on his cock. It doesn't take him long at all to realize what it is Kira wants. Not control, not really — he wants to be thoroughly fucked, just like this, on his knees with his back to the wall. Tim's more than happy to oblige, his fingers tightening in Kira's hair to hold him in place as he rocks his hips. It's slow at first, his cock slipping between Kira's lips as he begins to pick up the pace, breathing heavily through his nose.
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This has nothing to do with either.
Minutes at a time, the world narrows to the floor under his knees, the wall at his feet. He leans into Tim and Tim leans into the wall, driving the weight of his cock over Kira's rolled lip, his tongue. Minutes at a time, he can only sneak glances to the curve of Tim's body over him, too close to really see, eyes driven shut as he concentrates on keeping Tim aimed down his throat and catching enough breath through his nose to stay conscious. There's nothing else, until the grip on Tim's hips and the lack of oxygen is shaking his hands, and even then he holds a moment more, tempted to see how long he can hold out.
It feels like a moment from another time: early twenties, high as a kite, living in the loop of someone else's pleasure and pretending he didn't have a body at all. A moment from a time where Ty was gone and that was fine, and there were a hundred boys on the island to ignore that with.
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It's good. He likes the control as much as he likes feeling comfortable enough to relent it, as infrequently as it happens. This is what he's more prone to default to, ramming his cock down someone's throat as long as they let him.
But this isn't a stranger in a bathroom of some bar. This isn't some no-name hookup in the back of his car. This is Kira, who stays the night sometimes, who's there in the morning. Or who was, before he started being avoidant. Still, this is someone he cares about, whose fingers are shaking against his hips.
Tim lets up, slows down. His fingers loosen in Kira's hair, and while he doesn't stop entirely, his hips change angle, giving Kira room to breathe.
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He pulls off slowly, letting Tim pull out more and sink more shallowly into his mouth as he rolls his hips, until he's sucking the head, kissing the shaft. Catching his breath as they both pull away from an edge, even if he plans to go back to it. When his hands steady, he tugs Tim back in, pressing open-mouthed and spit-slick against sensitive skin.
When he takes Tim back into his mouth, he aims him true, slipping a hand up through the mess on his throat and chin to smooth over Tim's balls and back between his legs, a different kind of prompt forward.