[ He's had to fight for so much. Kizuna typically doesn't feel it so sharply, the undercurrent of grief for the things he's never been allowed to experience — not from beneath the warm cloak of his good nature, his propensity for doing right by others. But he feels it now and he welcomes it, even if only to allay it in his captivation; the crash of Wriothesley's body back into his own makes him cry out, nails digging harsh crescents into skin. Kizuna curls into him, mouth trembling at the divot of his shoulder before he rakes his face downwards, bangs mussing against skin as his brow presses there for support. ]
I can't help myself — remember? [ With a long roll of his body, he grinds his hips, needy. ] Closer...
no subject
I can't help myself — remember? [ With a long roll of his body, he grinds his hips, needy. ] Closer...
[ A plea, ardent and soft. ]
Get closer to me.