The Passion Of Love Is A Pleasure Told In Secret Amongst Lovers
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Faster. Harder. Deeper.
The sweated skin clashing vulgarly with each thrust gets clawed with the force used to hold each other. They are breathless, bare, melting into one another. Voices hardly contained, threatening to spill over bruised lips, begging more. The clothes badly ripped that hang carelessly from their limbs were getting dampened. Edging closer to their end, frantically holding shoulders and hips with so much force, it bleeds. Feverish, raw lust draining all energy from them. Exhausted they fall, foreheads together, one sitting on top, back touching the wall. Both try to regain their breath after reaching climax. They kiss, sloppy, with too much tongue, but that's normal; it's okay.
The eldest kisses the yato's exposed neck; small sighs leave the redhead's throat, too tired to articulate anything else. The pair stays like that, allowing the sweat to dry out, blinking tiredly, staring into blue/green eye(s). The words almost slip softly, by accident, they are meant to be kept inside: "I love you" wishes to say Kamui. But there are no words coming out, just butterfly kisses delivered on exposed skin. A single tear drops, then another, and another; soon it's a waterfall. Shinsuke almost breaks, almost gives in, and says what he's been dying to say: "I love you". But he can't. Not yet. Not here, nor like this. And their voices are shut down, jealously guarded inside their hearts.
The room smells of passion, of sweat. The residents sit on the floor, holding tight, wiping salty tears from their eyes, kissing the wounds softly.
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The futon has been taken out, dirty clothes replaced with clean pajamas after taking a bath. The long vermillion hair is still wet, a hand smoothes it out of the young man's face. Kamui feels tired, so tired he feels like he is sinking into the floor; Shinsuke is no better tale. They fall asleep soon, lulled by steady breathing and the faint sound of engines.
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Dreamland is always odd. Always has its own working, often incomprehensible. But it is a good way of telling, of knowing the things that can't be said, can't be heard.
A samurai and a yato stand facing the other with small smirks on their lips. They inch closer to the other's ear and whisper a secret they can only be told in dreams.
"I love you" they say.
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