Work Text:
The thing is. This is difficult to explain, it's just- there's context, and complexity, and-
The thing is, you like to walk on the knife’s edge with Kurloz. You’ve always been a reckless little shit - a near-brush with terminal brain cancer’ll do that to a guy - and it’s no different when it comes to your bestest of bros. KZ’s a little dangerous, has this underlying menace simmering inside him, and you think people can sense it even if they don’t understand it. You see it, sometimes, in how they look at the two of you at parties or some shit: you and him, short and tall, you grinning, him blank-faced. They look at you like you’re some kind of snake-whisperer, at him like he’s a venomous python.
When that happens, you like to trail your hand up his chest, all ironic homos and shit, then tug on his hair hard enough to hurt. You can always feel the horrified tension tighten like a bloody fist, squeezing-squeezing as breaths are held and eyes are widened, and then the cathartic non-climax when KZ just tilts his brow at you. It's his non-emotive version of a scowl. He doesn’t totally get it, this game you’re playing, but that’s fine. You’re not ashamed to be a cheater, and you like the head start. You’re new to it, but you’re starting to get the feeling that you fucking kick ass at this game.
You’re certainly kicking his ass. It’s like gay chicken and it’s like some weird staring contest: your hand on his knee under the table, slowly inching up his thigh, millimetre by creeping millimetre. Taking your shirt off when you’re playing video games - you’re both dudes and it’s hot, Kurloz, Jesus, don’t be such a fucking pussy. Fighting him for the remote, holding it far back until he’s stretched out over you. You like that one, the way his eyes will snap to yours suddenly when he realises he’s the one laid for inspection like a butterfly in forceps. You like how he’s got all the power - god knows he could fuck you up with his hands tied behind his back - except he doesn’t, he really fucking doesn’t, because you can sidle all over his boundaries and he won’t do shit.
Kurloz doesn’t react whenever possible. Probably ‘cause of his shithead dad - who hasn’t been around in a couple months, so he’s dead or just extra high, you guess, who knows with that guy - he doesn’t like to feel out of control. He’s scary as fuck when he wants to be, but he never loses his temper.
You make it your fucking goal in life, your Mount Everest, to make Kurloz Makara lose his temper.
Never let it be said that you don't kick shit at mountainclimbing. Once you try, it’s already over, KZ’s never able to hold out against you; he lasts maybe two days of constant jibes and blatant personal space violations before he snaps, fingers wrapping tight enough to grind bone against your wrist.
It’s the ideal setting - cafeteria at noon, crowded. His painfully strong grip on your wrist is hidden by the table, just like the mocking drag of your foot up and down his inner thigh. This is a game with ignorant spectators, now, and you lean in close, grinning like your face’ll split.
“Sup, bro?”
KZ sends you an almost-blank look, signing with one hand. The fuck are you up to?
“I’m justh drinking my soda, man, chill,” you say, and slide your ankle past his knee. His grip crushes down - oh no, god forbid you get a bruise - and you only smile harder, deeper, maybe kinda manic. “What’s up?”
Brother ought to watch his fucking hands, motherfucker.
A spike of thrilled adrenalin pulses through you, so hard you swear you see black spots. “Or what?”
“Or what what?” Kankri intervenes, and KZ’s impassive frown slips lower. “It’s not very acceptable to be having secret conversations, as it can be seen as exclusionist and-“
You flex your toes against Kurloz’s leg, feel the cold lean muscle of him, and snicker to yourself at the thought of what Kankri might do if he only knew. “What kinda world isthit that says a vegetable an’ a freak can’t be vibing peacefully, K-bro?”
Predictably, he flushes red with indignation. Your fingers are starting to go numb. “Mituna-“
“Fuck off,” Kurloz rasps, a rare public sentence, and you watch with a kind of amused fascination as Kankri pauses, considers, and then flees. “Tuna-“
You rub your shin dangerously close to his crotch, and his words cut off like a fucking tap. Top notch plumbing shit. “Feeling wordy, huh, babe?”
His eye twitches, and you're the only one who knows, the only one who has a fucking clue in this whole room, that he's so twisted up with irritation that he's not far from breaking your wrist right now. Don’t call me that.
“Why?” You grin harder, probably showing every gogdamn tooth in your mouth at this point. “You scared you might like it?”
You won’t like me when I’m motherfucking mad, brother.
You just keep smiling, tilting your head. He’s wrong. The wrongest. Your whole wrist is burning like you crushed it under an anvil, and he’s staring at you like he wants to run you over with a car, and you’ve got this sick sticky pull behind your navel that tastes like excitement.
You get bored a lot. You’re pretty sure KZ won’t bore you.
Word gets around, hilariously, that you’re fucking him. You’re not, but you wouldn’t expect these dicklords to understand the finer intricacies of gay chicken. Plus, it makes KZ unexpectedly twitchy and off-kilter, which is an advantage you’re more than willing to press.
Occasionally, he sells weed when he’s got too much left over and his brother’s on the other shit. You don’t know why, KZ’s dad is richer than Satan and twice as evil, but you guess Kurloz hates wasting his stuff. He’s meticulous, under the makeup - you like rearranging his shit when he isn’t looking, it never fails to have him grinding his teeth.
When he sells weed, you tend to hang around with him behind the school while he waits for the guy to show up, your backs pressed to the chain-link fence and fingers all stained up with nicotine. You only smoke when you’re with him, and it makes you kinda fucking insane - his eyes are so fucking cool, you know? All grey like a damn stormcloud, and they go wild when he’s high. You grab his face in your hands and hold it down to eye level, half to study him, half to see how long it takes before he breaks and pulls back.
Two dudes, noses almost touching, sharing a cigarette in the isolated back-alley area. Yeah, you get why people think you’re boning. It’s honestly fucking delightful, the way that passing freshman just froze.
KZ glares at you when you release him, his eyes tracking you all the way to the fence as you lean back against it and drag on the cig. You smirk at him, deliberately obnoxious - come fight me come on come on touch me motherfucker you know you want to - and he’s actually pacing towards you - yes yes yes - when the guy finally appears.
Said guy seems like a douchecanoe, but it’s not like you can judge. You’re the patron saint of douchecanoes. Whatever higher power let the chemo work consigned everyone you know to a lifetime of bullshit. You’re just here to have fun, at this point, and guess what’s fun? Making snake eyes at douchecanoe while he hands over the money.
“’S that your boyfriend?” Oh shit, douchecanoe has balls. You perk up, straighten, ready for entertainment.
The fuck did a brother get to speaking? KZ signs in short, jerky bursts, brows set low over his eyes. Unshakeable, he is not. Not when you can help it.
“Is that a problem?” You grin. “He says he’s gonna shove your fingernails up your ureta- urethra, by the way.”
Someone has to feed the gossip mill.
“So it’s true?”
You waggle your hand, all smug bullshit. Douchecanoe is looking sorta like he might piss his pants, but his manly pride won’t let him flee. You don’t blame him: KZ’s like six five, or something, and he’s got the kind of spindly build that makes him look like a possessed skeleton. He’s strong, too. Your wrist, circled by dark smudgy bruises, can attest to that.
“What do you think, babe, ’s it true?”
Kurloz’s head snaps towards you, a laughable attempt to retain his poker face slipping off like so much water. I told you not to be motherfucking call me that, Tuna. What's a brother-
You shrug, turning back to douchecanoe. “Yeah, sure. I’m totally his bitch, man, you should tell everyone ‘bout it.”
“Tuna.”
“You can speak?” The guy blurts, quailing. You burst out laughing, you can’t fucking help it, he looks so goddamn terrified and he’s so so right to be.
Kurloz takes a deep breath.
Half an hour later, you’re both outside the principal’s office, and she’s sending you the filthiest look known to man. You sit back in your chair, watch the frustration flame in KZ’s eyes as he cracks out his scraped knuckles - otherwise untouched, obviously - and grin like a fucking jackal.
You motherfucking happy now?
“I’m fucking swooning like a rompcon heroine, sugarlump.”
He just shakes his head.
You’re not sure why he lets you in his house. You mean, you get it, you’re best friends and shit, and he probably wants someone around that isn’t his weirdass little bro, but you’d think he’d have some fucking common sense. You’re pretty sure his father’s high up in the mob, hasn’t Makara Sr told his oldest not to sleep around the enemy, yet?
You don’t think you’re the enemy, but you’re at least an opponent in this game. You certainly have less than pure motivations for sleeping over at KZ’s - it’s just another little step in the plan. Maybe you’ll move all his furniture an inch to the left. Maybe you’ll switch the labels in his pill drawer. Oh, fuck yeah, maybe you’ll pretend to fall asleep on him. Shit’s hilarious.
Lucky for you, Kurloz is in the mood to smoke up and then watch one his gory horror flicks, the ones where a ton of hot teenagers get eviscerated on screen. You’re not entirely sure why he likes the slasher stuff so much - the acting is shit and the blood is so fucking fake, and it’s not like he seems interested in the sexy shower scenes or anything. Maybe it’s the hacking that gets him going.
You kinda get it. When the gimmicky villain slides past the shower curtain and it zooms in, shaky footage-style, on his gloved hand constricting around her unprotected neck, it snags something in you. It’s not, like, it’s not something you could get off to on its own, but it has your attention. Maybe KZ’s the same way - then again, he makes you watch this bullshit with him constantly, so that’d be pretty weird.
Not that weird, though. You’ve slept over at his house before, you’ve jacked off in his room, surrounded by the smell of him, and he’s probably done the same. The window of acceptable no-homos expands with the consumption of weed, jerking off is nothing - you watched porn together once, super ironic bro shit, and he got a boner when the hardcore bdsm guy started slapping the chick around, and you laughed so hard you started choking. You ended up grappling until he poked you, like, right in the gut with his dick, and then he skulked off to the bathroom in shame. It’s still one of the crowning moments in the game, you think. That considered, him getting off on this film right next to you wouldn’t be that weird.
He hasn't looked away from the screen in ages. He looks at you the same way, sometimes, like there's no force in the universe that could tear his eyes away, like he's something beyond intrigued. Hungry, maybe, a dark and pulling kind of want.
Still. It’s good for you, because a horny, high Kurloz is not a calm and controlled Kurloz, and out-of-control Kurloz is fucking amazing to play with. You might get him to tackle you at some point, instead of slowly building up to a stupid play wrestle. Maybe he’ll hurt you, or something.
The thing is, KZ is probably actually dangerous, like, dangerous dangerous. Like you said, he’s strong as hell, and he gets these weird sicknasty bursts of rage, and your friendship is a strange and alarmingly intense thing. He’s got connections, too - knowing his family, you wouldn’t be the first body buried under the patio. But you were twelve when you first got told you were almost certainly going to die, and even if your death sentence was vanquished by modern medicine, your concept of mortality never really grew back. Life without Kurloz is boring, like off-white wallpaper, and you’d honestly rather die than be bored.
When he gets super pissed off, when he puts his hands on you and uses all the control in the universe to hold you tight but not break anything, you feel like you’re on the ride of your life. When you up the ante, and he raises, you both know that the ceiling’s gonna hit someday - when will it come? When’s it going to be too much? Who breaks first?
You really, really want to know what he’ll do when you finally shatter that restraint. Sometimes it’s the only thing you can think about, and your dreams are all black fire and smoke-coloured eyes. You’re a man possessed, and you’re possessed by the embodiment of fuck around and find out, you guess.
So fuck around you do. KZ’s house is huge and empty, his brother off doing god-knows-what, so it’s just you and him on this fucking hilariously tiny couch. More of a loveseat. Ha. There’s more than one sofa with view of the TV, but Kurloz probably knew what he was doing when he chose that loveseat to sit in. Who could blame you for squishing in next to him, all hips-bumping and scrabbling hands?
Your hands don’t stop scrabbling once you’re settled. Why would they? You’ve got prime real estate for clown harassment, and KZ’s still transfixed by that girl being choked to death, and this is going to be fucking great, you can just tell.
"Dude, isn't this like the third chick?"
"Mhm."
You press closer, tuck your chin over his shoulder. "I'd probably try to kill the smart one first, wouldn't you?"
Make a bitchy comment about that girl who has a thing for you, KZ. Do it do it do it. KZ gets this weird kind of bitterness around her, and it's so fucking- it's a rush, like nothing you can pin down, and you need to stay on topic.
He just nods, unblinking.
“Why’s he choking her? I taut- thought this guy whacked them with that claymore shit.”
KZ signs without looking away. Motherfucker probably has a personal grudge. Money’s on her being the unattainable crush.
“Oh yeah? You think he just thpent so much time staring at that pretty neck, he just couldn’t waste it?” You continue.
That's not what I was up and saying.
"Don't tell me you didn't think it, man. I'm in your head."
Next to you, Kurloz shifts uncomfortably. You take him in for a minute, let him think he’s gotten away with it, and then lean in closer, grinning menacingly.
“Dude. Did you actually get turned on by that neck comment?”
What’s a sick brother talking about? He tilts his head towards you, brows creased as he tries to look confused. You smirk back and stare fairly obviously at the awkward swell in his trousers. Busted.
“Holy shit, you totally did.”
His ears go red, even as he shakes his head. Motherfucker’s losing his shit.
Your hand moves to the very edge of his hip, watching as he squirms with increasing discomfort. “Bullshit, bro. You got some kinda freaky snuff kink?”
KZ glares. Motherfucker insinuating he’s never gotten turned on by a naked chick before?
“Not one being choked to death, dude.” You note with glee the stiffening set of his shoulders, the way his eyes dart like a caged animal. You’re closer to winning than you’ve ever been, you can taste it. “What kind of freak even are you?”
I’m not a motherfucking freak, Tuna.
“Yeah? Freaks are the ones popping boners for slasher films next to normal people.” You let your lips almost brush his skin as you edge ever-closer, fingers gradually moving towards his crotch. “And let me tell you, man-“
Kurloz honest-to-god jolts when you press down, hard, on his dick and smile. “That’s a boner.”
He tightens his jaw, eyes drilling into you as you await his response, and you really think he’s going to punch you. KZ’s going to beat the shit out of you, and he’ll be fucking mad with it, and you’ll be laughing the whole time.
Instead, he looks away. The fuck’s wrong with you, brother?
You laugh. “What’s wrong with me? I’d asp- ask you the same thing, but I’m pretty sure I know. Are you thinking about strangling that chick, man? You imagining what her last sounds are like?” Your lips touch the shell of his ear, your fingers filigree-delicate on his jumping-tendon neck. “Does that get you off?”
And this is when the boss music cuts in. You fucking win.
One second, Kurloz is staring away from you, fists balled and entire body locked into one crackling wire, and the next second, he’s twisted over and his long slender hands are wrapped hard around your neck.
Heat cracks like an egg inside you, and when he squeezes, you pulse like a bloody heart. His fingers cover every inch of your skin, thumbs pressing into your larynx, just tight enough that you can feel the blood throbbing through your veins.
You meet his eyes. Kurloz’s face is serene, but his eyes are those of a madman - his eyes say there’s a bomb in this bag, or, I have a gun. Almost freedom, to toss your cards to the wind and let fate decide. He thinks he’s surprised you.
But he doesn’t know the game yet.
“Shit, man,” you grin through the fuzzy thrum and ache of his grip, watching him flounder for that control again. “You gonna choke me out, big boy? You can do it. C’mon, don’t pussy out.”
“Shut up,” he whispers, hoarse and gravelly. You send him your most insufferable grin.
“I said don’t pussy out. Tighter. Come on, KZ, gift- give me the business,” his hands are shaking. Your eyes feel like ripe grapes. “Fucking harder! Come on! Stop acting like a bitch!”
His hand grips down, but it’s still weak sauce. You grin at him until he pushes harder against your voice box, and your words come out in a distorted wheeze.
“You gonna ki- kill me, dude? Make your farmer- father proud?” Kurloz flinches, tiny little movement, and you egg him on harder. “You want to choke me dead? Is that what gets you off, KZ?”
He freezes, letting out a ragged breath.
“Is that it?” You press, voice croaky. “I bet you’re turned on. I bet you’re fucking- fucking hard as shit, you freak-“
“I’m not-“
You reach out and squeeze his dick again. “You’re a shirt- shitty liar, KZ.”
“Tu-“
“You think I can’t- ack- can’t fucking hear how fast your pulse is?” His hands clench down as he tenses, and you snort at him through watering eyes. “You’re so fuck- you’re so hard for me, it’s all over you.”
“You don’t know what you’re motherfucking talking about,” Kurloz mutters, shallow quick breaths rocking him like a model ship.
You ignore that last comment and move closer, into the binding crush of his fingers. He falters, and you can see the confusion, the fury at his own helplessness, melt into something hot and fatal in his eyes. “I- I think you know. I think we both know this is- is close. But not per- perfect. Right?”
“What are you-“
KZ gasps - actually fucking gasps - when you hands close around his neck, so you’re attached to eachother in this wicked sick parody of an embrace. He’s not playing for keeps, though, the second you stop psyching him up, his grip weakens, and you let it fall.
This is much more interesting.
“Yeah?” You ask, watching how his cheeks darken as you massage the laughably fragile structure of his throat. His eyes droop for a just a second, mouth opening, before he reaches up to touch you and you squeeze down so hard he chokes. “No.”
“Tuna-“
“I thought you’d like this better,” you say, interlacing your fingers around his neck just right. He’ll be able to breathe, but every fucking shred of oxygen you allow him is going to feel like gulping fire. You can practically see your own finger marks forming all over him already.
KZ just stares at you, maybe speechless, maybe just thinking hard. You manoeuvre your way over his legs, straddle his hips on your knees as you push him down against the sofa back, and keep your fingers constricting and releasing in time to his thudding heartbeat.
“You like that?”
He shakes his head, but his hands are still twisted together in his lap. You wedge your knee between his legs, and then pause, victorious.
“Feels like you like it.”
He trembles.
“Feels like if I kept thith up I could have you coming untouched, like a fucking slut.”
“Tuna-“
You can feel him throb with that last comment, pleading you with those gorgeous, dark-lashed eyes. You settle closer on his lap, feel his boner inches from yours, and scrape your nails against his jaw. He lets out a tiny, helpless sound.
“What was that?”
“Tuna…”
“What?” You press down hard enough for him to wheeze and hack. “You want me to kill you, KZ? Want me to squeethze down until I get my fingers all up in your insides?”
He lets out the tiniest, lowest noise. “Please-“
“Please what?”
“Tuna-“ KZ coughs, fingers twitching in the air, and you grin down at him - toothy and smug, the face of a winner. He’s flushed and his eyes are kaleidoscopic, dizzy swirls of purpling grey, like the raw bruises you’re carving into his neck. “I-“
You smile sharper and flex your grip, cutting off his words. “Come on, bitch.”
And then- and then-
And then Kurloz lets out this choked hiss and goes stiff, eyes fluttering shut as he shakes and goes limp and yes, yes, fuck yes, you just made Kurloz Makara cream his fucking pants. You’re so fucking good at this, you’re a legend, you’re a champion. You’re winning so hard, you can barely even imagine him being able to catch up - but that’s the thing about KZ. The chance is always there that he’ll surprise you. You like it.
Dazed from weed and a sudden come-down from the adrenalin high - probably also the giddying sensation of getting choked out and then choking someone else out - you feel a wave of exhaustion hit you hard. Kurloz’s no different; lying there pressed chest to chest, with your hands still splayed loosely around his neck, you manage to pass out together.
You wake up a few hours later, and check your phone to see 1:03, the blue light piercing your eyeballs. The two of you have contorted and twisted in sleep, into something closer to a hug. Ha. You don’t even have your hands around his neck anymore, which is a shame. On the funnier side, KZ’s definitely not changed yet, which means when he wakes up in the morning, it’ll be to hideous shame in his pants, not to mention memories. Oh, the memories. You’ll probably cry with laughter when he stirs.
Before that, though, you have business to attend to. Namely, the victory-boner ground you have ground straight into KZ’s lean thigh. You creep your way to the bathroom and slide down to the floor, unzipping your trousers real fast because you’re not an idiot who wants to ruin your underwear, and get a hand around yourself. It’s so fucking good from the first touch, like lightning - you’re giddy and playful with the glory of it all, the same itch-scratched feeling you get when you finally beat an impossible level or record. The war isn’t over, but a battle won feels great, like gold rushing through your veins and heat in your core.
Fuck, but the look on his face. Like he was helpless.
That combined with the viscerally satisfying throb of the bruises around your own neck is enough to have you on the peak before you even really know it - you can’t stop thinking about the slight slack in his mouth, the way it gleamed shiny and red with spit, fucking degrading, and it’s gorgeous. Not in a gay way, just, the roaring thrill of a win makes everyone feel insane and manic. There’s a small part of you right now that wants to go jack off onto KZ’s face, just to see what he’ll do, whether you’ll get him to beg you again. Just the look on his face when he’d realise what you’d done would be-
You come like a train, catch it neatly in a tissue, and genuinely contemplate saving it to go do twisted creepy shit to KZ so you can fuck with his head. Ultimately, though, you decide to play the long game. Until you come back for round two, you’ll let him simmer with bemusement.
You make your way back to where he’s sprawled on the couch, all long starfished limbs, and arrange yourself back on top of him. You earned it, after all.
KZ doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but out of the corner of your vision, you think you see the liquid gleam of his eyes open. Then you slip triumphantly into sleep, and all you can see is dark, twisted curls and the gasping circle of his mouth.
By the time you wake up, Kurloz’s already awake, showered (damp hair straggling elegantly around his face), and changed. He’s wearing a turtleneck and an expression of perfect blankness, and you can’t hold back a hint of a whisper of smirk at the sight.
He sends you a look that could freeze lava. It’s a lot less effective when you’ve known him for years, and now, you realise, that you know what he looks like when he’s getting off on being called a bitch. Jesus Christ, you were both so high last night. You probably shouldn’t know this much about your friends’ kinks.
Actually, you don’t know exactly which aspect had him shuddering. It could've been the bitch thing, or the choking, or maybe he's just been gagging for your dick the whole time. You're kidding, but you’ll have to press down on that figurative bruise, really get your fingers all up in it to refine your tools. One victory can't make you lazy. Either way, you can imagine all too vividly the real bruises he has, oil-slicks marbling his skin, and it sends another giddy rush of satisfaction coursing through you. Your gold medal, worn on his neck.
There’s something fucking visceral, something carnal, about staining your fingers into someone’s skin. Almost like ownership.
In an act of rare mercy, you choose a sweatshirt that covers your neck. Your bruises aren’t as bad as his probably are, but that’s a low bar - you’ve got a jaundiced collar of smudgy fingerprints, but you know KZ’s probably got those deep rich wine-purple ones, blossoming out like a fruit ripening before they inevitably shrivel. Maybe he even has petichae, a blood-spatter marked into living skin like a fucking testament to the things he'll let you do to him.
The point is, you don’t have that level of injury, but you’ve got enough bruising for it to be worth covering. While it would be hilarious to see how your dumbass peers responded to the two of you showing up with matching necklaces, you’d like to play a subtler game this time.
Subtle isn’t really your specialty, but let’s be real. KZ’s worth it.
You can’t let him think you’re getting soft, though, so before you head out the door together, you let him get a step ahead of you and then push him into the corner of the doorframe.
Tuna?
You fingers tease at the hem of his collar, and his eyes flutter as he looks away.
Motherfucker-
“I want to see,” you tell him avidly, sending him a smug little smile guaranteed to rankle.
Kurloz’s hand flies up and wraps around your wrist, but you stay in place, grinning up at him so close you can feel his breath on your face. KZ doesn’t like causing scenes - the two of you standing in the street like this, faces too close and a strange frantic energy between you, is probably making him deeply uncomfortable. Good. You want him uncomfortable. You want him on a perpetual back foot until he tumbles off balance, and then maybe you’ll catch him.
(You'll catch him. It's not a question for you, but you can at least try to keep it a question for him).
After a second, he relaxes his grip, letting you pull back the collar of his sweatshirt until the skin is revealed. It’s obscenely gorgeous, this slow gradient of bruising eventuating in a dark smudgy fingerprints, spelling out your name just as much as fucking initials would - and there’s an idea. There’s a thought for the next time KZ’s high enough to fall asleep before you do. A biro with your name on it.
You brush your fingers over the purpling skin, and he flinches. Not a bad flinch, just a soft little hiss; kinda like you’ve ripped open a stitch, but he’s such a freak - you love it - that you can tell its not a bad kind of hurt. You can see it in the way he stiffens, like he has something to hide. So sensitive, sometimes. If you had any speck of decency left in you, you’d let him recover without acknowledgement.
Instead, you grin up at him sharper and yank harshly on a curl of his hair. Kurloz yelps - a satisfying break in his calm facade, just for you - and flushes, hunching further down into his gothy layers to hide the way he’s surely reacting. Motherfucker likes it when you pull his hair. God, he’s so- you don’t know.
There’s a kind of weird affection welling up in you now, but you’ve never really been one for words. You bump your shoulder into his as you walk, instead, send him a smile that’s a hint softer than your usual fare.
“You look good in my fingerprints, KZ.”
Motherfucker, he signs again, face blank but eyes warm, and his elbow presses against yours.