Work Text:
His hands were soft in the night here; gentle. Their intent was tender, made to unwind not to undo. They sought to please and to tease, as they eased over smooth flesh to rough, roaming over in simple touches and brushes. He was not the man known to take without mercy here, but the man to ask before he gave. His purpose was no longer a matter, left behind in red roads and red skies, to make anew in a world that did not demand for his practice.
Here, when he took, it was given in permission, and he was desperate. He was not cool here, but calm, and so desperate to keep that peace. His being was made of pride, one who could not beg, asking carefully, taking slowly, always reaching for more, pulling for more. How close he’d pull, how tightly he’d hold, yet never suffocating, always lingering on the edge of careful and fearful. His hands were made to destroy after all.
Here, when the blood burned beneath his veins, it was warm and enlightening. It did not sear through him to leave a burn, nor did it scar with his regret. He filled with content and, dare he admit, happiness. He craved the feeling, knowing it was here, and here alone. He could not succeed to duplicate such a feeling anywhere else, knew if he had the heart to, he’d no matter be unable.
This was not home, but a haven, for he did not belong, but he’d pretend he did for the time he was allowed. And he’d take and give to his haven with soft hands, calluses and scars bared for it to witness without judgement nor repulse.
The air was fresher here. It was easy to inhale, mingled with incense and shared breaths escaped from small gasps and huffs. He pushed further to take in those shared exhales, to bring them into something deeper and louder, to resonate into his bones and shake through his core. What he tasted here was not metallic, but natural, and he delved for more with intent to never lose it. It left tingles and a deep urge underneath his skin as he chased after it, pressing and lingering.
The admiration that tumbled from his lips was inevitable the longer he’d revisit and discover, and they were numerous, yet nearly none at all, mere whispers and mutters stuttered through a closed throat. He wished to speak more of the beauty in front of him, to see more of what he longed to touch. It was fleeting and then overwhelming all at once, rushing him over into its steady drift.
He was never finished, never quenched, always reaching for more, to savor every last piece of what he could share. He refused to let go of the warmth he found that somehow wanted him in return, holding onto it for hours and days if possible, though he knew it’d still stain on his skin, his clothes, his lips, long after he’d let go. He’d rise slowly, yet willingly, tugged away by a cry that pierced through the sky, that echoed in his ears. He’d leave with silent footsteps, the chill of death resting upon his once soft hand.