[ it's strange how memories or the course of predestination worked. despite his extended existence in the world, it doesn't become anymore comprehensible to him. the dull sensation of warmth he may have shared with his bride, the intense longing that's been seared into his flames, and moments like these where despite how dissimilar his physical form is, the rhythm of their mutual heartbeats feel one and the same. except, is his rising too quickly?
he feels like it is, and as usual, he does his best to circumvent making this fact too obvious. which means, he turns the attention back to wriothesley, which isn't too hard when he's just a touch away. there's a playful glint in his eyes, as if masking his desire as he tilts his head, just ever so slightly as his hands move a bit lower, finger getting "caught" on the first button, which has it undone in a snap.
he mouths a quiet sort of "oops" as he then looks back up to his last sentence. why was he here, indeed. ] I don't know. Maybe I just thought I should do more house calls. Especially when your gaze seems to be wandering towards other artworks.
"A time with Terry," for example. [ he says as if he were reciting a name of a piece in a gallery. but, there's something a bit more serious to his gaze that suggests, there's far more to it. ] I might have felt if your eyes wandered too far, they'd never come back.
[ the minute shift of an undone button doesn't go unnoticed. he allows it, exposing the brutal scars left behind in a life he'd rather forget. they stretch over his throat, evidence of a rough life. the duke is a murderer made good in many ways, but his roguish charm lingers, shrewdly picking up on all the things he doesn't say.
rafayel's missed him. that, and he can't quite stay away no matter what he says. the man before him is a living mystery, as flowing and mercurial as the seas. a time with terry, he says, the words loaded with meaning that he understands even if his intentions are beyond him. something in his soul stirs, long buried and forgotten.
he thinks of the aching, yawning chasm of loss, and can't remember why. his hand comes to curl around his wrist, then shifting to thread them along rafayel's in a gesture that is familiar. intimate. his other hand comes to gently cup his cheek. ]
[ the action alone mirrors a certain individual of his past. perhaps, the methodology of it is different, but the minute curl of fingers, the emotions that he feels like he can read off of the movements... feel all too familiar. enough where it seems to overtake his perceptions in the moment. whatever petty emotions he may have had to a name wriothesley uses that isn't his own... seems to dissipate akin to sea foam; as if they never existed to begin with.
but, unlike those false tales humans craft about sea creatures and those who lurk within its depths, rafayel knows the reality could be no crueler, and yet his desire to see it through to a different end takes the reins. much like how despite his own way of pushing and pulling seems to stop at this. his resolve found, he leans into the touch, his own hand touching the back of wriothesley's as his cheek presses further into his palm.
he rubs against him, almost as if it natural and involuntary on his part. as if he were simply lulled by everything that wriothesley stood for. ] You need to be careful what you wish for. You might just get it. [ he says, but his voice is almost a pant as he pulls back from the touch to press a kiss on the man's palm. then his wrist.
then, his eyes seem to settle on his lips, and rafayel gets the distinct feeling like he's no longer in control of himself. ]
( rafayel rubs up against him just like that, sparking desire and a low, intense desire that coils in the pit of stomach, as if answering an invisible call. he can't avoid the heat of him, or the way he seeks him out. the kisses on his palm and wrist, while chaste, is intoxicating.
oh, how does something so simple manage to be so sensuous? wriothesley meets his gaze, darkening with a yearning he can't quite put a name to. but he doesn't wait; no, because he's darting forward, grasping rafayel's chin so he can kiss him deeply, fiercely, exploring his mouth and tasting him for himself.
the duke presses up even more firmly against him, registering the promise and threat for what it is, and he smiles. )
I wish for you. ( a low, throaty murmur against his lips. ) And everything that comes with it.
[ it’d be a lie to say that rafayel hasn’t envisioned similar scenarios time and time again. the wispy vision of the silky fabric of a faux fish tail, and even the cold feel of a blade beneath his fingers. touching wriothesley’s skin and tasting the inside of his mouth was both a reminder of the past, as well as a promise for their collective futures. he isn’t sure if the heat itself is more dizzying or all its underlying implications.
while they’re facts rafayel would never allow himself to put into spoken words, they’re burdens he carries, and carries alone. the weight of these memories only made a little lighter by their connection of their lips and body. he finds a soft moan escape from his throat as he leans in, as he struggles to string a response back. the hand that he once laid kisses on, all he does is desperately grip it, let his fingers intimately lace with wriothesley’s for a moment before he moves back to trying to undo each of the man’s buttons. ] You know, fish can’t resist trying to grant the wishes of those closest to them. Especially, if…
[ it’s a request from their bride, the words get cut short as he tilts his head, giving into another heated kiss.
with wriothesley’s chest now exposed, he clumsily, presses his own body back up against them, skin against skin. the sensation of scarred skin leaves his head swimming with infinite thoughts (of desire, revenge, or any number of considerations)— but, in equal reverence, he pulls his lips away, letting them fall back on each scar, as if to display the depth of his devotion. his own fingers tremble for a moment, and he wonders if this mix of fear and want will ever change. ]
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no subject
he feels like it is, and as usual, he does his best to circumvent making this fact too obvious. which means, he turns the attention back to wriothesley, which isn't too hard when he's just a touch away. there's a playful glint in his eyes, as if masking his desire as he tilts his head, just ever so slightly as his hands move a bit lower, finger getting "caught" on the first button, which has it undone in a snap.
he mouths a quiet sort of "oops" as he then looks back up to his last sentence. why was he here, indeed. ] I don't know. Maybe I just thought I should do more house calls. Especially when your gaze seems to be wandering towards other artworks.
"A time with Terry," for example. [ he says as if he were reciting a name of a piece in a gallery. but, there's something a bit more serious to his gaze that suggests, there's far more to it. ] I might have felt if your eyes wandered too far, they'd never come back.
no subject
rafayel's missed him. that, and he can't quite stay away no matter what he says. the man before him is a living mystery, as flowing and mercurial as the seas. a time with terry, he says, the words loaded with meaning that he understands even if his intentions are beyond him. something in his soul stirs, long buried and forgotten.
he thinks of the aching, yawning chasm of loss, and can't remember why. his hand comes to curl around his wrist, then shifting to thread them along rafayel's in a gesture that is familiar. intimate. his other hand comes to gently cup his cheek. ]
Show me the way back to you.
no subject
but, unlike those false tales humans craft about sea creatures and those who lurk within its depths, rafayel knows the reality could be no crueler, and yet his desire to see it through to a different end takes the reins. much like how despite his own way of pushing and pulling seems to stop at this. his resolve found, he leans into the touch, his own hand touching the back of wriothesley's as his cheek presses further into his palm.
he rubs against him, almost as if it natural and involuntary on his part. as if he were simply lulled by everything that wriothesley stood for. ] You need to be careful what you wish for. You might just get it. [ he says, but his voice is almost a pant as he pulls back from the touch to press a kiss on the man's palm. then his wrist.
then, his eyes seem to settle on his lips, and rafayel gets the distinct feeling like he's no longer in control of himself. ]
no subject
oh, how does something so simple manage to be so sensuous? wriothesley meets his gaze, darkening with a yearning he can't quite put a name to. but he doesn't wait; no, because he's darting forward, grasping rafayel's chin so he can kiss him deeply, fiercely, exploring his mouth and tasting him for himself.
the duke presses up even more firmly against him, registering the promise and threat for what it is, and he smiles. )
I wish for you. ( a low, throaty murmur against his lips. ) And everything that comes with it.
no subject
while they’re facts rafayel would never allow himself to put into spoken words, they’re burdens he carries, and carries alone. the weight of these memories only made a little lighter by their connection of their lips and body. he finds a soft moan escape from his throat as he leans in, as he struggles to string a response back. the hand that he once laid kisses on, all he does is desperately grip it, let his fingers intimately lace with wriothesley’s for a moment before he moves back to trying to undo each of the man’s buttons. ] You know, fish can’t resist trying to grant the wishes of those closest to them. Especially, if…
[ it’s a request from their bride, the words get cut short as he tilts his head, giving into another heated kiss.
with wriothesley’s chest now exposed, he clumsily, presses his own body back up against them, skin against skin. the sensation of scarred skin leaves his head swimming with infinite thoughts (of desire, revenge, or any number of considerations)— but, in equal reverence, he pulls his lips away, letting them fall back on each scar, as if to display the depth of his devotion. his own fingers tremble for a moment, and he wonders if this mix of fear and want will ever change. ]