（ his fingers encircle sasuke's wrist as the boy traces fine leather, thumb stroking along the vein. and when sasuke speaks, the motion stills very briefly, like the stutter of a skipped heartbeat and then resumes again. the boy looks so grave, like this. cy can't tell if it's hard to say for saying's sake or if sasuke expects rejection after everything, after this having been discussed in the past and all but agreed to then — but ultimately the why doesn't matter.
he tugs sasuke's hand up, and presses a kiss to his knuckles. his gaze is on sasuke's, attentive to the tears that make his dual-coloured eyes bright in the low light. there are a thousand things he could say, effusive and warm. it would be easy to fill the space between them with syllables — cy comes easily to conversation, communication, connection. but here, sasuke does not need an essay. he does not need a glut of honeyed words spilled into open air. he just needs an answer, and there is only one he would ever give. ）
Yes.
（ his expression is soft, brows lifted faintly upwards. love is a golden splendour that rests easy in him, and it's easily reached for — not overwhelming, but filling. love is the only reason he's any sort of sane. it's the only anchor he's ever had to a life he'd as soon seen ended on aikelyk. he's laid more of it to rest than most people could imagine in instant or eon, but there is something singular about sasuke that stands out to him in the murk of memory. like tak, like kaiaxia, like satya, he'll try. he'll hold on. some stars, after all, shine more brightly than the rest.
his free hand falls to sasuke's hip and urges him up, steadies his cock. he does not need to tell sasuke to seat himself on it, it's something done with immediacy and instinct, sasuke settling in his lap with a roll of his hips. cy can feel the pressure, the heat and warmth and nearness of his body, the clench as he flexes — but cy doesn't immediately turn the act frictive, there's no upwards lift of his hips. it's just... like the collar, like his touch on sasuke's wrist, like the question, like the tears on the boy's face. a constellation of connection, drawn along livewire nerves.
the only thing he does is let his hand settle at sasuke's thigh, pushing him down to take him just that much more deeply into the hallowed ground of his battleworn body. ）
Ask me again. （ not because it was wrong, not because the moment needed to be different. he wants to make that clear, which is why he adds: ） I want to hear it again.
（ sasuke might recognize how cy defaults to repetition sometimes. an attempt to hold onto things he's worried might otherwise slip away. it's why he takes photographs of sasuke at his most debauched. it's why, so often, he's instructed sasuke to pay attention, to capture something with the sharingan — preserving moments like unfading amber. ）
no subject
he tugs sasuke's hand up, and presses a kiss to his knuckles. his gaze is on sasuke's, attentive to the tears that make his dual-coloured eyes bright in the low light. there are a thousand things he could say, effusive and warm. it would be easy to fill the space between them with syllables — cy comes easily to conversation, communication, connection. but here, sasuke does not need an essay. he does not need a glut of honeyed words spilled into open air. he just needs an answer, and there is only one he would ever give. ）
Yes.
（ his expression is soft, brows lifted faintly upwards. love is a golden splendour that rests easy in him, and it's easily reached for — not overwhelming, but filling. love is the only reason he's any sort of sane. it's the only anchor he's ever had to a life he'd as soon seen ended on aikelyk. he's laid more of it to rest than most people could imagine in instant or eon, but there is something singular about sasuke that stands out to him in the murk of memory. like tak, like kaiaxia, like satya, he'll try. he'll hold on. some stars, after all, shine more brightly than the rest.
his free hand falls to sasuke's hip and urges him up, steadies his cock. he does not need to tell sasuke to seat himself on it, it's something done with immediacy and instinct, sasuke settling in his lap with a roll of his hips. cy can feel the pressure, the heat and warmth and nearness of his body, the clench as he flexes — but cy doesn't immediately turn the act frictive, there's no upwards lift of his hips. it's just... like the collar, like his touch on sasuke's wrist, like the question, like the tears on the boy's face. a constellation of connection, drawn along livewire nerves.
the only thing he does is let his hand settle at sasuke's thigh, pushing him down to take him just that much more deeply into the hallowed ground of his battleworn body. ）
Ask me again. （ not because it was wrong, not because the moment needed to be different. he wants to make that clear, which is why he adds: ） I want to hear it again.
（ sasuke might recognize how cy defaults to repetition sometimes. an attempt to hold onto things he's worried might otherwise slip away. it's why he takes photographs of sasuke at his most debauched. it's why, so often, he's instructed sasuke to pay attention, to capture something with the sharingan — preserving moments like unfading amber. ）