a kiss to make each other feel alive
He’d been doing this for a few moments, taking advantage of their time alone, unable to explain the strong pull to be close but not fighting it either.
“Denning.” Another kiss to their neck, Zelkov alternating kisses and his words to them, embraced close. “Denning, *Denning*, Denning,” like a chant, reaffirming them as Denning, kissing up their neck to their ear where his voice went straight into their mind,
Zelkov’s words failed to express the deep, nurturing, swell of affection for him, gently guiding him back against the wall in his quarters, hands on Denning’s chest as he went in for another kiss, head tilted, kissing deeply, making sure by body language that Denning felt comforted and not trapped or overwhelmed. Zelkov avoided the bed entirely, not wanting to give them a wrong impression or do anything that might make them uncomfortable, kiss ending so he could murmur into their ear again,
“Tell, or *show* me how you feel. I know you feel.”
➵ kiss meme.
They would tear out their name for him, give it to him freely, take his hands to close his fingers around it, have him do with it as he sees fit — Instead, Zelkov lays it out, maps the letters of it along his lungs, his throat, his teeth, tongue and lips, prints it upon their skin as gifts anew, over and over and over. Again choosing to mend, to create rather than lay waste or discard, their flesh and self labeled not with numbers, not with function, not with purpose, but with...
They cannot reciprocate like this, not with the way he noses at their throat, at their ear, makes sure that their name is securely tethered to them for good; Denning can do little more than continue to offer, bare their throat, rumbling softly at the contact of bright life with it, sharpen their focus so that they would never even dare to forget his cadence.
zelkov, they want to respond, even though every human seems to have a name, even if only to return even a fraction of that which wells in them at the sound of their own. zelkov. They mouth it into the room as his lips touch the shell of their ear, the k that slips softened into a khhr, a strange chirrup.
Even being crowded against a wall holds no threat, and they let themself be led, surrendering to his guidance. They lean against the wall for purchase, but still lean towards the other like a moth to light. Honed archer's instinct remains silent, a silence they find amenable in exchange for this, pale hands slipping from where they grasped at his shoulders down to rest at his waist, lips parting in invitation as their head tilts counterclock for they cannot help but give and give and give,
The morph does not need to breathe, but he does, but this parting is not from a shortness of breath. Golden eyes stare wide past him, glimmering in the low light as they take pause.
he knows? do i?
(he holds my name, my arms, my eyes. of course he does.)
Another soft chitter, khrr, another attempt to speak his name. Denning will have to practice that. In lieu of words, their arms pull him closer, insistent, pushing their face into the side of his neck to bask in his spark, the boundary between them and how thin it seems. Gratitude runs hot under their skin, threatening to breach, to douse them both in pitch-night. Lips meet Zelkov's jugular, softly, mouth his name against the skin, over and over, trailing up to his jaw.
By his ear, in turn, softly, affectionate: "Thank you,"
And claim his lips, eager to continue, to prove the veracity of spoken word.
5 notes
·
View notes