Gavin is pliant beneath the kiss, mouth open and breath quickened, but the spell is broken when Temp draws back. A honeyed glare is layered with accusation — where do you think you're going? — that's trapped between petulant and exasperated when he realizes the problem.

He isn't left wanting for long. Breath hitches as the collar of his shirt twists painful around his neck, lips meeting in a clash of teeth and tongue. He groans against rough ministrations, back arching and fingers trembling with adrenaline as they fumble at the buttons of his lover's shirt.

He hesitates, eyes wide and dark with hunger. Stills his hands, bares his throat.

"Yours," but it means something different, now, pitch shifted up with pain. His voice quivers as much as his fingers. He leans up to whisper in his husband's ear. "Make me yours."

Though vulnerable in his surrender, he is entirely willing.

Gavin stops breathing when the knife comes out. Afraid but also excited, holding so very still as the blade slides effortlessly through expensive fabric.

"Yours," is a reverent whisper that escalates to a moan as claws claim tender flesh.


Adrenaline and ecstasy fade to leave an ache in their aftermath, goosebumps raised along his skin in spite of Hoenn's heat. He can feel Temp despite his absence in the bruises and bitemarks his husband has gifted him with.

He melts into his lover's arms, wincing at the sting of the alcohol but submitting easily to the tenderness of being cared for. He is almost bashful beneath the question, cheeks flushed as he curls against his partner and listens to the steady, reassuring thump of his heartbeat.

"Never better," he admits. "That was..." He is feeling honest and soft in the aftermath. "You make me feel safe."

For all of his marks had been made with consent.

Do you want to talk about it?

It's something he's always struggled with. Talking. He wants to express all the things that he feels, but his upbringing had lent him none of the tools with which to communicate effectively. He's had to figure it all out on his own, a tattered quilt of lessons learned.

Still he nods, mute, head burrowed against the crook of Temp's neck. He shivers as a nail traces the indents of teeth.

"Could you..." It's hard for him to ask, but Temp has earned his trust in a way no one else could. "Help," he pleads, feeling pathetic. "Ask. Anything you want."

It feels easier when the agency is not his own.

He had been angry, hadn't he? Gavin doesn't feel the anger, now, feels nothing but warm and weightless and comforted by the fingers that scratch against his scalp. He's tired, emotionally and physically, stifling a yawn against Temp's collarbone and closing his eyes under the affection.

"Theo," he grumbles, at last. "I can't believe he wants to go back."

To the way things were. To Kanto. To the way he'd hurt Gavin, long before the emotional pain that had come after.

"Bryan, talking Kanto up like some utopia." Bitterness sours his words, though there's little heat behind them. A breeze blows from across the bay, briny and pleasant, ruffling his hair. "He wasn't there. He doesn't know."

So few of them did.

Gavin is practically purring beneath his husband's affections, nuzzling his neck not unlike a cat. He lays soft kisses along Temp's collarbone in silent appreciation of the other's comforting presence.

A low hum in his throat acknowledges the caution against anger, but he knows Temp deserves better than wordless affirmations.

"Can be hard to rein it in." Lugia's corruption has seeped into his very essence, changing him from within. Breath whispers against Temp's neck, gentle in want of sleep. "I'll try."

In his exhaustion, it takes him longer than usual to adapt to the change in topic. That's all right. Temp is infinitely patient with him, and Gavin appreciates the cocoon of their closeness as he sorts through scattered thoughts.

"I love you," he says, after a stretch of silence. "You shouldn't have to go through this." Because of me.

Oh.

Clarification tingles in his spine, heat pooling low.

"Mn. You're lucky you savaged me, first." He couldn't do anything about that thrill if he wanted to. He does stretch up to kiss the grin from his lover's lips, tasting the copper of blood.

He finds he doesn't have that need; it's nice, he thinks, to let someone else be in control for once. On his terms. He settles back against Temp's chest, lets strong arms encircle him and keep him close. His husbands words are as comforting as the embrace, their meaning sinking into the cracks of his composure and sealing them shut.

He can't find proper words, eyes watering. "Okay."

Doubtless Temp will feel the damp of tears against his chest, but this time Gavin does not bother to stem their flow. This, more than anything, is a sign of his trust: I feel safe, being vulnerable with you.

Shame burns reflexively through him as attention is called to the tears, but Gavin fixates on the subtle nuances of Temp's tone. It is not mockery but pride. How strange it is, to feel rewarded for something that had once been met with punishment.

He feels confused, a little anxious, but still comforted.

"You make me feel safe." A repeat of his earlier words, but with a different weight. They come out slow, as if he's trying to understand himself as much as he's trying to explain. "Even... like this."

It's freeing, not trying to force an end to his tears. They slide warm down his cheeks, occasionally brushed away by his partner's gentle touch.

"You don't make me feel weak. I just feel..." He sniffs, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "Wanted."