Kravitz’s suit is bespoke in every sense. Taako learns what that means, exactly, and tries a few things on for size, some of them more comfortable than others.
Taako/Kravitz
4000 words, mature
Written for @2impostors
The bed is an absolute wreck. As is Taako, draped across the mattress at a haphazard diagonal, one leg dangling over the edge. Waiting for Kravitz to get out of the shower. Staring at the tidy stack of Kravitz’s work clothes – suit and shirt and all the rest – draped over the back of the chair at his desk.
Things are still a little strange between them. Taako’s world is strange, now, remade and revealed, and not entirely reassembled. Not properly, comfortably put back together, and maybe never will be.
But it’s better than it was at first. Easier. And Taako can spend an afternoon reading in Kravitz’s bed – a bed that not been there to begin with, a bed for them – without it feeling like he’s hiding from someplace else.
It’s pleasant to wake up somewhere newly familiar, to kiss someone goodbye and know they’ll come back to him at the end of the day. He likes that it keeps happening, over and over; likes to be reassured without having to ask at all, to let this pattern of predictable affection settle on his shoulders. He’s trying domesticity on for size, just to see how it fits. It’s nice.
Kravitz is nice. Kravitz called to say he was running late due to an unscheduled exorcism, and stepped through his portal an hour or so later smelling of ozone and iron, carrying two pork pies and a dusty bottle of wine. Kravitz smiled as Taako tore into his dinner, and kept their glasses full, and talked about the day and all he’d done with it. Kravitz tasted blackberry red when Taako leaned across the table to kiss him, fingers already plucking at the buttons of his cream-colored shirt.
Kravitz can melt this particular suit into smoke, but Taako prefers to do the unwrapping himself. He enjoys the feel of cool cotton and wool under his palms, likes to decide on the pace of how placket and hem and waist all slide along the planes of Kravitz’s chest, down his arms and his thighs, over the knobs of wrists and ankles. Handfuls of fine cloth all dropped to the floor, a disordered heap discarded and forgotten as he presses his mouth and his fingers to Kravitz’s spell-warmed skin. As he’s done many times, now. As he did tonight.
He dragged Kravitz down onto the unmade bed, rucked up his skirt and pushed Kravitz’s head down between bare thighs. Keeps him there greedy for his hands and his mouth, for the unflinching slide of his throat, for his obvious pleasure in being wanted. In being used, and not gently.
Kravitz never complains about Taako’s gleeful disrespecting of his uniform, such as it is, but once Taako released him from service that night he discreetly collected it from the floor, folded it along its careful creases, and hung it over the back of his chair. Then he slipped away to the bathroom to clean up the aftermath of Taako’s deliberately poor aim, and of a day spent elbows-deep in necromancy. Kravitz insists he can feel the latter on his skin, itchy with an idle malevolence that only a hot shower can pound away. Taako supposes it’s a reaper thing. Or a Kravitz thing, maybe – even with his own sister drawn into the Raven Queen’s service, it’s hard to pin down the boundary between one and the other.
Now, Taako rolls off the bed and onto his feet. Stretches loudly and pads across the well-worn rug to the desk, the chair and the folded clothes.
Lounging around in Kravitz’s shirts is a fond pastime of Taako’s, often indulged, but he’s only ever borrowed the personal time variety. It’s not that Kravitz’s work clothes are off limits, exactly, but there’s a vague sense of their being somehow different. And so he feels a little daring, a little like a trespasser, when he lifts the shirt off the chair, and unfolds it, and holds it up by the shoulders.
The cotton is soft and smells pleasantly of Kravitz. It feels unexpectedly weighty, somehow too cool, as he slides his arms into the sleeves.
His head snaps up. The collar of the shirt hangs between his shoulder blades. Kravitz stands in the doorway of the bathroom, a hasty towel around his middle, dripping a puddle onto the floor.
(you can read the rest over on AO3)
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