#ask;kimblee

[grotesque-puppet]

casually does he roll onto the sleeping form of his beloved, giving a gentle kiss onto their chest while they laid in bed. hands automatically starting to play with undertaker's hair softly - solf is half asleep but of course , he acts on impulse to show his lover some tender moments. a tired yawn leaving him before he would speak. " i love you."

@bloodlicked

          Not quite asleep [ not even remotely ], in smiling the slightest bit when he’s perceiving said movements. Beginning with the stir, going over the settling of larger form, down to the kiss, he’s quite perceptive for it, quite attentive like that [ nothing missed, nothing forlorn ], in moments that would merely have him chuckle. Why was he awake? No reason to be really disclosed as it came, just the time of the day, just a stray thought after a dream chased for a few relaxed heartbeats exhaled in the quiet around them, before attention truly settles onto his beloved’s benign affections. 

          It’s an even softer movement in an answer than all the ones placed on him in that small blink in time [ it’s so insignificant for the likes of theirs ]. An even more tender embrace he’s following out of some subconscious yearning and wanting. With how his hands begun to trace along bare back and shoulders, one to climb ever higher and higher, map out the path and follow the trail, along the column of neck and it’s steady march of blood hidden inside of it. Tender, ever so tender, could they touch one another—

          —while the world around them may just burn.

          Surprising still to think that this one was his - his mate, his lover, his soulmate above all else, a man adored and cherished, now taken in with eyes sure smiling while mouth to breath the softest of sighs. Those confessions of theirs, in the same tick of time, to be repeated between in embellished air [ only their breaths, only their smells - such a wonderful symphony ] and inhale like the freshness of a rising morning. He’s easy to respond, without words for a thought trailing along, with the way fingertips would surely catch that finely chiselled jaw, would have thumb to trace along bottom lip, catch that picture the mortician had drawn [ such countless times ] back into his mind. 

          As if it would disappear if he did not hold him quite so close. As if a ghost was beneath his gentle grasp, dissipating into thin air if hold became a margin just too harsh. It wouldn’t happen, they know just well. All appeared for them to control, for them to shape the world around them anew, to make them theirs in every stream, shape and frame. Enough to smile before he’s twisting slightly beneath body to beautifully cover his own, twists beneath that warmth in everlasting chase for more. 

                                                               “ I love you too. ”

[grotesque-puppet]

There is not much words to his actions, mostly a soft humming as he moves back hair from his neck and lightly places his lips on the pulse. A sign of love and devotion before he sighed and held the man closer to him. "I am home."

Days of absense ( who would have just thought for the Death God to be in longing for someone ? ) had not been that long, yet enough to make him recognize such actions all the more without turning around and even acknowledging presence with words of his own before the ones directed towards his person were to leave just all too tenderly like this. 

He had, indeed, an answer of his own. One that were to leave with a breath to take, yet would need just seconds ( make them feel like minutes, even hours to pass ) and turn into accolade of own worth and gestures to speak more than thousands of words could ever weight it up to have. 

A tilt of his head when those hands reached out for long and silver hair, and movement alone would offer enough of a grace, to leave free what was there to be desired with taste and kiss to savour in hunger that was to be called ravishing yet was soft and mild, would devour his mind far sooner and still with softened ways, than to be accounted with harsh and brash behavior in taking him whole and assigning dominance and presence in desire to have. No, for once it was soft and kind ( that they were able to do so at all - such monsters as them ? ), would serve for breath to intake, when lips to travel up the spot, and leave him the same low and deep again, once pulse was found and pressure offered, a hitch to it, albeit the rise of chest was slow. 

And more to offer as an answer, as a form of approval all too needed, when the Death God just knew the hand of his lover to come up, to feel the changes and tensions in his body ( as not his face would be revealed before him in this movement ), and waist to catch and arm to hold - to offer purchase and holding ( reassurance of presence alone ) - the slight feel and presence of warmth, it made him raise a hand, place it ( carefully lightly, as if to not disperse with accidental brashness ) on clothed skin of arm to offer home.

Eyes to open - when did he close them in the first place? It mattered not - to stare in front of him with exhaling same deep breath of air as taken in before in seconds passed. It were seconds ( yet cherished all the more ). 

One last movement to conclude, free hand he had - itching to grace more skin that he called only his and his alone to hold - in reaching behind and for once before, caressing long and fine black hair, catching the contours of his lover’s head, gracing along and imprinting in mind ( refreshing for the thousandth time ) what eyes were not to see - and mind were just to discover anew. Temple, cheek, jaw, the junction of the end of it, with neck to flow just over. 

Another breath, his head to tilt a mere bit more ( the taste left hunger - but not for now ), and finally an answer to be uttered in slight whisper of breath, but loud enough for the Alchemist to bask inside. 

                                               “Welcome home.”

[grotesque-puppet]

He isn't sure what his doing, merely looking down at his lover with tender eyes. He's tracing those scars, allowing him to relax under his touch before he plants his lips on the scars on his left leg, steadily going up his body and planting kisses on each scar as he mumbles about how beautiful his beloved was. "You are a piece of art..."

How tender a touch and movement to have, when body relaxed and breath to be exhaled slowly. The mortician was not aware what would unravel his lover’s mind, but would not mention any sound of confusion or bewilderment either, as such moments ( despite how tender they both gave themselves ) were rare and to be enjoyed. 

No qualms in being exposed like this ( he long lost any thought towards scars to litter pale skin ), and for his husband himself, yes of course, all there was to be seen - it was his to grace and touch, as paying attention to and offering caress and embrace. And while the thought was all too endearing, he would simply smile and move a hand, to have long and lithe fingers thread through fine black hair ( as per his own wish, to be let loose and for own person to play with ). “So absorbed today, my darling~?”

Perhaps to catch the wandering mind, such words breathed and whispered against each piece of skin to reach with lips. Albeit, he would not want to halt nor stop him, when form to relax - like a cat with silvery fur - and stretch out tamely for beloved owner to reach, the hands to paw for just a bit more attention, would not strike him and claw.

Remaining calm and too relaxed. 

And with just a bit of time to pass, skin to move and stretch underneath the affection, impressions to be left and taste in need of personal relish. Was there not the knowledge that, yes, whatever praise to be uttered, it followed train of thoughts just all too obvious? That, no matter what had happened in past still shrouded in mystery ( for even his darling dear, he would not know each and every page that turned ), would need to find caress and ‘apology’, if not from hand or fate to strike just down—

—then from possibility of own to idealize the concept to utmost degree.

“I’m fine~”

To find such reassurance for the unspoken, to draw up such loving mind, in ability to stare into eyes haunted with record not even there to blame for. He would just smile, once again, to disperse whatever nestled in such twisted mind all too adored. For the Alchemist shouldn’t need to be so clouded up in notions he was all too guiltless to. 

Touch, pressure of body, such wonderful warmth, to reassure of presence for now to be the only important and necessary one, a significance of the other, a quiet hum to underline it all. They were fine.

[grotesque-puppet]

"You know, you are the amazingly beautiful when you speak of your passions, dear. I love how your eyes shine and the grin you get at the mere thought of tearing someone to shreds or eager to read a good book. I love how alive you seem despite being /dead/. I love your all, I am surely an addictive fool in the end."

How lovestruck can a person be?

How utterly delightful in talking about what they desire and hold for their passion, just like his partner would mention about the Death God himself, just the same way would he turn in regards to praise what he could - and always should - consider his alone to touch and hold. A passion, a possession, utterly and sweetly sunken into beliefs of addiction, to have eyes shine, just like described, whenever word would fall from lips in ( near to ! ) glorification of the Alchemist’s desire towards the Death God’s person.

Darling. 

Immersed in words of encouragement and lullaby sung lovingly by such a - ‘fool’ - how Solf spoke like this, as love ( could they call it pure ? ) between them was of a different level. One not expected or even anticipated, not to be traded for anything at all. And all that had been spoken in such drowned affection ( as he would throw himself into his eyes and soul ! ) the mortician could just give it back with a smile just as tender as such sweet nothing offered to him like praising worship for a God. 

“You are just as beautiful, speaking about your passion~”

And said passion, it was easy to figure out, the one to light up eyes and make tongue speak in beautiful verses, to, time and time again, string it out like a poem for the other to hear and relish in fact that ( not only because of the muse ) himself was the content enamored lecturer would not tire to recite for any bypasser to hear. “Praising such being just as myself, creating passion, burning like inferno, to scathe my skin and mark me as yours~”

And if not spoken by the Shinigami himself, such words, they might appear as if to be pained in leaving his lips, smiling, like only a devil ( a sinner ! ) could do; yet from himself, they were such a wish, such a delight! As if his - passion - would only draw him even closer to the searing madness, devouring hot and fiery such infatuated passion he would want to throw himself inside. 

“If one to be praised as beautiful, in speaking words just like this, then it is you—~”

Such scorching fingertips to be drawn along one’s skin, in catching - yes! - passion and being lovestruck like them. Keeping it between each other, and with said praise, he would smile and brush it all off himself. Words meant nothing, when body and skin would offer such touch as hot as fire. 

“—~my love.”

[grotesque-puppet]

The alchemist would remain close to the shinigami, hugging him from behind and placing his head upon the others shoulder. He had been overthinking things again, his death and how it would affect the shinigami, how he was breakable compared to him. Closing his eyes, Kimblee would take a breath before he asked the question on his mind. "Do you regret falling inlove with a mortal like me, dear?"

It occurred pretty often lately that Kimblee would wallow on such thoughts more than the Death God would like for him to do, yet the question uttered so softly also caught him off-guard, if only for a bit. 

The whole scene had happened in not even a few seconds ( everything pulled together ), every movement, every breath, every touch, every word. It felt too long until he could answer, yet it was in the blink of an eye that it appeared. Just the same way as the Alchemist’s touch and warmth would envelope him, would make him lean against the taller frame, and exhale a sigh that probably went on the same second as the head on his shoulder made itself known with familiar and cherished weight. 

His hands had moved just the same way known, placing themselves above Solf’s arms, caressing slowly, for he wanted to soothe him nearly absentmindedly, since the very moment he had expressed for the first time words of uncertainty upon status for them both. Words that would not manage to change any thoughts in the mortician’s mind - still, as he was the one stronger ( the one keeping concepts and beliefs more organized ) - his own ‘answers’ were gentle and light. 

He knew so well what the Alchemist needed. 

He could feel him relaxing, outwardly so, while tension inside was like a contradiction, made him open his eyes the moment Kimblee’s would be closed, turning his head the second as if to ask after feel and state of mind, just to be cut off and short by words exhaled with a mixture of tenderness and obvious pain. 

Feeling like stopping much too long, prolonging distress and aggrieve maybe accidentally so ( unknown to him, the time was hardly something to grasp! ), his eyes widened, then narrowed, lips parted to speak some reassurance that felt like not wanting to leave, hands just going to wrap around his lover’s wrist what felt so tightly ( but was truthfully not even worth the touch! ). 

Catching himself just as fast as he felt like falling so freely without anything to hold onto, finally would words leave his lips in such a whisper, it might get lost in breathing, if for him not having already turned his head around and reach his fiancé’s ear ( the man he wanted to stay with, finally and forever ).

                                                           “No, never. And I never will.”

From the question so sincerely and desperately asked by Solf in this moment, to the Shinigami’s genuine answer - truly - what felt like an eternity—

                                                                                    —he spoke it not even in the blink of an eye. 

[grotesque-puppet]

Leans in to whisper into his ear. "Would /my lovely pet/ like to bite me~? Come on now, show me your teeth~."

Such a tease.

And he was close as well. Not touching him at all, but the breath along his ear, along the side of his neck when the Alchemist leaned in to only pronounce words for him to hear and only him, administering a claim just with the spoken provocation - hm~ - it served for a shiver of anticipation to run down his spine. Could Solf feel it? Was he trying to make the Shinigami’s head spin just with words only him was allowed to utter?

Who could have believed that a human might intoxicate a Death God like him? That he allowed himself to fall for a being that could perish by his own hands, yet - ah! - he would permit this man to devour him whole and twist him even further. Let chaos reign! Insanity flourish! All this, just with the words, just with the tease brought forth so tenderly to be shared, a little offer he greedily accepted, like a vampire that would get drunken on such a treat that might come with teeth tearing into tender flesh!

But all this was merely in the mortician’s mind. Appearing like minutes that passed to have it processed all so slowly that, instead of words, he would breath in so slightly - as if savoring the taste and furthermore - the flavour - of divine offering. 

His hand lifted within a mere blink of an eye, laying itself on the Alchemist’s neck that was so close to his lips, while drawing light circles as if to soothe him from the moment of pain that would come, yet they both knew: enjoyment would be the reaction to his little antic fulfilled, just when he chuckled and breath might taunt soft skin lightly.

Should he play the vampire after known clichés for him ( but oh he knew them, and it was true )? Or should he do something else when lips brushed along the place vein was hidden and pulsed against sensitive tissue so as he placed not a kiss, but a tender stroke the same way on it, still uttering no word in response as it was neither needed nor would be appreciated this moment.

Maybe Kimblee would close his eyes? 

Holding his hands back to not destroy this - present?

Lips just reached the end of his fiancé’s jaw, while hand holding him close would press just as lightly as teeth would bite down in the same way that strength was applied. Lightly, nearly too softly, would he feel the whole pressure like this. Then it stopped - and repeated - along the defined bone of jaw until he reached his lips and there bit down—

                                                                            —h a r d. 

To share this fluid of life he would have been able to wring out of his throat where hand was just placed on the side and grip tightened for a mere tad as if to show him that a kiss that could kill. A taste they would be able to get intoxicated from, like the finest wine presented and getting drunk in dusky evening shared between two. 

‘Show me your teeth’ - but making him feel them was much more delightful.