His commander asked him a question. Ayel cannot say what is on his heart--that he feels nothing much anymore but pain. It would be cruel, and against protocol, and it might set Nero off again.
Ayel straightens with a cough. "Sir, if--we should--"
"I don't bite, Ayel," says Nero, and his tone of voice says Anyway, I haven't yet as his smile flashes white above the deep crosshatch on his chin. "Come closer."
This is one of those moods, something else the tattoos have brought out in him, and unlike the anger and reticence--well. His admiration for the captain is no secret. It's only a little more secret how very deep it runs.
"Sir." He steps forward, half-knowing already what will happen when he does.
And then Nero's hand is on his chin, under it, pulling him in, and before Ayel can quite part his lips Nero's tongue presses, hot and wet, on his forehead. It's such a surprise Ayel jerks back, then flinches, fully expecting to be struck, but Nero only shifts his hand and follows the pattern on Ayel's jaw with his thumb. He presses in with the nail, and the skin there tingles like a pulled scar, too alive. Ayel sucks in a breath and leans into it, both hands clenched on the collar of Nero's jacket.
Nero won't stop touching him, just his face, as if he could trace over the sorrow there and replace it, change the design with his fingers. As if art, seen or unseen, could change what happened. He's scraping, now, nearly drawing blood, clawing outside the lines with sudden hard resolve. Ayel's nerves burn and sing with it. His eyes water, but he doesn't pull away; Nero is dangerous, in this mood.
And--and it is good to feel something, anything, other than grief.
He hadn't known he wanted that until it stops, until Nero pauses, smirking up at him, and then he realizes he's hot and hard and his heart is thundering in his ears.
"They suit you." And Nero licks him again.
He hasn't shaved, and the sharp difference between hard scruff and soft slick tongue on Ayel's face, on bare new skin, hot cold slippery rough against the ink--it makes him gasp and press closer, angled for a swift and breathless kiss. Nero lets it happen, then pulls back, and Ayel tugs his coat open, smiling at the sight of sleek barbed curves coiling down Nero's neck, down his chest, writhing when he breathes, rippling under Ayel's hand.
Nero found the one on the back of his neck. Ayel squirms, a ragged noise of pure want leaking out between his teeth. It's never been like this. He's never told anyone about that spot, and when Nero's lips close on it, when he breathes out against it, hot and slow and when that breath becomes his name it's all Ayel can do to stand still.
He can't let his commander have the upper hand, not now, not with those just in his reach, beautiful and dark, and Nero isn't the only one who can trace ink.
Ayel uses his lips and tongue and Nero bites him with a low rough sound, clutching him tight, relenting only when Ayel adds his hands, his fingers, hooking in where sleek coils of ink show him to touch. Ayel finds Nero's waistband almost by accident, still clawing out the jagged crest of another spiral wave. He traces it with both hands, rewarded with a gasp, with hot hands on his shoulders pushing him lower, nudging him to look, to follow the design further. Ayel can feel his eyes widen, feel his mouth parting in surprise and desire, and Nero sneers out a laugh.
Ayel moans, kneeling, hungry.
They really do go all the way down.