Alt Title: I have to get this shit out of my system or i might die of dorkis
Warnings: NSFW. this in no way conforms to canon timelines and i Do Not Care, but it would be after reim does his fake death thing. disgustingly fluffy but there is angst in here because xerxes is angsty and i cannot just fluff.
I haven't written shipping or smut in ages—with that in mind, this became completely stupidly long, but also awful? I'm sort of embarrassed by the entire thing. A certain post by Button and a certain prompt suggestion from Fluffy (along with her constant enabling) are to blame, yep.
Delicate fingers knit tightly into the undershirt of the man he can no longer see, knees burrowing into the mattress around his hips; feeling him is more than enough, so it doesn't matter at all that his eye is failing him anymore. It doesn't matter what he looks like as he's clinging and burying his face into soft silk like he's desperate to fill his remaining senses with this person's presence (his smell, his warmth, his heartbeat) because maybe he is desperate, maybe his decaying body is so cold and all he wants is to pull just a hint of warmth from Reim's chest to keep his own life burning.
The silence is thick, yet it's sacred; Xerxes has a feeling that the other wishes to break it, but neither of them can bring their throats to produce any real sound. He inhales and pulls himself closer still as one hand, then two, curl around his back, strong yet dreadfully gentle supports (is he really such a breakable thing? perhaps he does look the part) returning his hold. How dare he receive anything like reciprocation—how dare this precious, living person allow him to indulge so? Something must be wrong in the world that allows this, he thinks—but he's always preferred his own agenda to distant things like right and wrong.
"Xerx—" the single syllable of his name cracks the quiet, soft and sure. He shifts, barely, turning his chin up as though to see—it's a habit left unbroken—and one of those strong hands guides it along. He can't say he's used to the feeling of letting someone touch his jaw, even moreso with such a feather-light caress. Dwelling on that is pointless; the elder instead takes his own action, threading digits into coarse, cropped locks with surprising precision to steady his trajectory as he angles their lips together with a small "shh". It's a light kiss, barely a brush; he doesn't trust himself to initiate anything greater, but he does trust the brunet to handle that. There's more trust between them than he's ever known how to give someone else, and it's terrifying how freeing that is.
A million times over, Reim has proved that any amount of trust placed in him was not an error, and now, too, the albino only feels those smooth lips curl into a smile against his own (and was that a chuckle which passed between them? what kind of look is in those eyes? should he be angry?) before they close the embrace. Safe—he feels so awfully safe, held like this, but he can let himself indulge in that just this once (though, he's said that to himself before); there is a deep-seated, bitter contentment inside him at the mere fact that he can still touch this man, feel his warmth and even taste him as pale lips part to let their tongues touch.
Every bit of it is proof that they are both alive.
The throat he thought too dry to emit any sound vibrates with a gentle hum that cracks in its softness as they kiss; he can feel steady fingers undoing his own shirt and there's a natural apprehensiveness at the sensation, but Xerxes allows it nonetheless (it's alright, he's seen it already, he says he doesn't care). His own digits shift and tap against the frame of spectacles, reminding him where exactly he's holding, and brush over the unwelcome uniformity of bandages. Such awful things he is far too familiar with—he wants so much to become more familiar with the peculiar softness of Reim's hair than with that texture.
The kiss is slow and open, leaving room to breathe; it's easy and natural, yet contemplative and fascinated and he really doesn't want it to ever end even as he shifts up a bit to let their hands wander downward. He's really only supporting himself off that broad chest; undoing the other's shirt isn't his priority now, for much as he wants to move closer, isn't not as though he can see any exposure he creates. The silhouettes in his vision make it easier not to think about his own exposed form, and he can't help but feel at ease for it. Nonetheless, Xerxes invites his partner (what is the right word, there?) to continue as he pleases—anything at all to prove this isn't a dream.
Perhaps he's hard to satisfy, a glutton for reassurance, but that's just another factor of this weakness he's having to get used to. Reluctantly he separates his lips from Reim's, keeping his eye shut as he focuses on the steady rise and fall of his breast. A puff of air across his face tells him that the other sighed, but the chuckle that comes with it tells him that it wasn't intended unhappily. "You're still healing—let me do the work, here," Xerxes breathes the words as he grinds his hips forward again, fingers following the curves of fit musculature (for a paper-pusher, doesn't he seem to have worked out quite a bit?) down his neck and to his shirt buttons.
"You say that like you're in good shape, yourself," the younger quips, not putting enough effort into the words to make them a real refute; maybe he just knows that arguing a point like that with the elder is completely pointless. It's not as though he has no point—his body is falling apart at the seams—but Reim knows that he's too stubborn, and that's just as well, perhaps. Xerxes only gives a puff of air through his nose before planting another light kiss on his lips as if to seal them shut; his delicate hands continue undoing buttons, unwavering.
The brunet, as well, elects to speak his refusal in silence—true, he is still too bruised and near-broken to run the full gamut of actions he could, but it doesn't hurt to simply move his hands, and he won't allow the albino to take all the fun for himself purely out of his stubbornness. That's a trait they both have, after all, and Reim gives a satisfied hum as the other's breath hitches slightly as a broad hand slides his pants down, carefully brushing his inner hip as pale skin is revealed. Xerxes is sensitive, perhaps because he never much let someone touch him; but because it's Reim, he's not only allowed but invited to do such delicate things, and to produce such rare reactions.
Already they seem to be falling into a slow rhythm; Xerxes finishes with the shirt and slips spindly fingers over a bare chest, mapping out where there's skin versus tight-wrapped gauze. In how many places was he injured? Each wound and winding of bandages seems another failure, and for each failure he peppers more kisses onto Reim's neck like tiny, fae apologies. His hands take up momentary residence on the other's hipbones as his attention turns to ginger nips and sucks at tan skin—his partner isn't the only one who can take joy in the smallest of reactions, after all. Reim, too, is such an upright person that merely hearing his breathing grow unsteady brings a sly, yet warm amusement up from the albino's core—and he's reminded, again, that he should simply be glad the other is breathing at all.
Seeking to crush those reminders, his hands trail south to ease away the other's silken waistband, but it's the brunet's hands which are evidently determined to do so as long fingers gently fondle his burgeoning erection. Xerxes tenses, gasps all but silently; his nerves are pulled so taught from worry and spiraling thoughts, but soon enough he eases into the sensation with an unsteady sigh. Fragile fingertips return the favor, tracing along Reim's angular hip-bones to gently curl around his member; the action is met with a sharp inhale, hips pressing forward slightly, and it's more than enough encouragement for Xerxes to latch onto, forcing his attentions to the moment.
There's impatience pricking in him—much as he wants to be able to savor the moment, savor this man's breath and warmth, there's a certain irritation remaining. He doesn't want to dwell here, doesn't want to feel this worry and care; that red eye is still closed as he takes in the moment, a thin and wry grin on his lips. Reim pulls his body forward with some difficulty, brushing his lips against Xerxes's forehead, making his useless eye open in mild surprise. "Lay still," he nigh-growls, pushing his own weight forward to press the broad other back down into the pillows with a grunt of discomfort, followed shortly by a small laugh.
In no mood for a retort, Xerxes steals any words right off of his partner's lips with his own, fingers continuing their steady work. He doesn't want to have to be forceful to an injured man, but he's going and straining himself and it's annoying! He can think of worse things to be than irritated, though, so he carries on; he can feel the smile on Reim's lips. Is he really happy, being together with Xerxes like this? He has no choice but to believe that, he thinks, as he lifts away from the kiss to send one hand gently probing for the nightstand.
His fingers manage their way to a bottle and he can detect impatience in Reim's sigh when he has to put both hands to opening the thing—in a few seconds his palm is slick with cool liquid and he raises his hips, sliding delicate digits down. The coolness makes him shiver a bit, together with his near-nakedness, and somehow he can feel those bright eyes on him—it's encouraging and shameful all at once and he turns away, hiding some part of his expression. He's never liked the sensation of being looked at; not being able to see the other's gaze is a small, if ill-gotten, blessing. But, if it makes Reim happy, then he hasn't any right to be ashamed.
One slender finger prods, then slips inside his entrance and he lets out a hissing breath at the pressure—he'll be patient enough, slow enough, but Xerxes also has no issue pushing himself. Gently he rocks it, working himself loose; as he grows accustomed to the unusual bits of the sensation he closes up his eye again and reaches his free hand around Reim's erection, earning a soft hitch of breath as slick fingertips stroke sensitive skin. Soon, another finger, and another, and Xerxes is breathing ragged through his mouth, intent on getting to the point that they can connect sooner; the Hare's unsteady rate of breath is music to his ears, but his hands are tied like this and he wants to feel more of him, he's selfish and needy and weak if that's what he need be to want such a thing.
Deciding he's ready he lifts his hips, removes the digits from inside himself with a moan no louder than a breath. His hands act as guides and he lowers himself, knees digging into the bed; forcefully he comes down, pushing Reim inside with a breathless, pain-laced gasp. The man below him lets out a sharp moan of his own, hands lightly gripping at pale thighs. "Don't… hurt yourself." Xerxes realizes he must be grimacing on hearing those words, but he only releases the arch in his back suddenly, palms falling onto the other's bandaged chest as he recovers his breath.
"It's nothing," he hisses through a smile, biting back a sound between discomfort and pleasure—it's nothing, because he's used to pain to some absurd extent, because he's impatient and reckless; it's not near bad enough to give pause for, and somehow, though he doesn't enjoy pain, the fact that it hurts helps clear his head just a little. After a heavy moment of adjustment, Xerxes begins to grind his hips steadily; he tries not to place his weight on the other's chest, too afraid to cause any damage, only stabilizing his motion gingerly. Still, he can feel Reim breathing now, the rhythm of it much closer than before. He can focus on the mismatched tempos of his motion and his partner's breathing and his own breathing, and indeed, the albino's breaths are becoming voiceless moans, the sort of half-sounds that the brunet is surely familiar with by now.
Reim's fingers are pressing harder into his thighs, as though he's started to believe that the man on top of him really is alright now; it has gotten easier, with Xerxes's motions growing smoother as the pressing pain fades. He's settling into a groove, finding the angle where it strikes just right, up and down and back and forth—he leans down, needing to anchor himself more as his motions grow in magnitude; the younger is his baseline, stable and unmoving, comfortable.
"Xerx—!" the syllable comes breathless through gasps, not quite a whole fraction of the name, but it's affirmation enough. The elder falls forward on a heavy roll of his hips, palms falling on either side of Reim's chest as full supports now. A louder sound catches in Xerxes's throat as the angle of his grinding shifts; he shivers as he feels a hand brush up the side of his body and thread into his hair. He's pulled into a short kiss—he doesn't want to stop moving long—which breaks with his gasps, breathless snatches of almost-words. The sensation has grown deep enough that it's indistinguishable from its meaning—it feels good because they're alive, because they're together and touching, and it's simple enough that the guilt's been brushed from his mind for the moment.
He continues like that, accelerating rolls of his hips letting thin hair flutter around his head—he doesn't have to worry about what's seen. His fingers shift up, latching onto Reim's arms just so that he can be touching him a little bit more, because any amount of touching him isn't enough in such a mindless moment. His smell is reassuring but it's also musky now; without his eyesight, Xerxes has found himself more keen to things like smells, and his partner's is pleasant in more ways than one. It's his heat that's inside the elder, creating such jolts of pleasure with each downward thrust, his warmth that's seeping through his whole body, keeping the cold at bay if only for the moment.
The sounds coming from his throat grow louder, though he hardly notices; he more notices that Reim's breath is stopping short more often now. They're climbing, nearing their peak, and he pushes aside the worry that comes with the idea of it ending for just a moment more; for just the rest of this passionate instant, he wants to be forgetful of everything but the fact that they are both here. Erratic gasps and deep thrusts bring them closer; Reim's hands are gripping his hips firmly, hoping maybe to gain some control on the wild motion. It only lasts a moment more before those grips bear down tight, holding him nearly still for a split-second as his partner spills out—he takes a hand to his own member, twitching and hardly-touched, and finds his own release only a short few strokes behind.
Like a ragdoll he collapses, barely catching himself by the arms to avoid falling completely onto the other's chest, but as Reim wraps his arms around Xerxes's slender back he can only sigh and slide down the rest of the way, settling atop bandaged skin as he breathes, lets his heart rate level out against his partner's. It seems ridiculous that he'd be small enough to rest so completely on this person's body; he can still remember the image of him as a child, small and wiry, and it's borderline absurd how much he's grown as Xerxes has stayed the same. That's alright, though, it doesn't bother him; he grumbles a little into Reim's embrace, no words even lost into the sound for none were intended.
He's awful with words; he knows that. But maybe he's good enough with this; he can feel a smile tight on the lips that nuzzle into the crown of his head, and he knows he's safe here.