Andres pulls back from him just long enough to shed his shirt. In the two seconds where they’re not touching, Onyx’s hands claws at the empty air, and a small whine escapes him; at any other time it would be mortifying.

But then Andres is kissing him again. Onyx drags his hands down over his shoulderblades, his collarbones. They pause for a second, Andres’ palms warm on his cheeks.

“Me too.”

Onyx drops his hands to the couch to lift himself up, scooting forward, one hand assisting with undoing his pants. Thumb inside the waistband of his jeans, he’s tugging them down over his hip, then he swaps sides, doing his best to not stop kissing Andres the entire time.

He manages to get his jeans down over his knees and then he shifts backwards, span of his shoulders taking the brunt of the blow against the back of the couch. He draws Andres forward with a hand gently fisted in his hair, the other on the top of his stomach, pulling him up and back so Onyx can finally, finally get at his chest.

[attr="class","mintag"] andres buenaventura

Onyx almost freezes, midstep, as Andres’ words sink in.

So you stay.

“Oh.”

That hurts in a weird way he doesn't want to unpack, right now.

He maneuvers them through the doorway, taking great pains to not bump Andres’ head or legs; sets the bundle of man and blankets gently down on the bed.

“You weren’t responding to my texts.” He holds Andres up with one arm as he arranges the pillows-- sitting up high will help him breathe, help reduce his coughing, he recalls from some distant memory-- into what he hopes is a comfortable pile. Then he helps him lay back.

“Amplexus says you have the flu.”

[attr="class","mintag"] andres buenaventura

He doesn’t want to relent. Doesn’t want to relax his legs and let go; wants to cling to Andres until the last moment, possibly until the world ends. He does, though, because he realizes this-- whatever this is-- will be much easier with one and/or both of them on a solid surface.

Andres kneels between his legs and Onyx feels so powerful in that moment. He tilts his head back, baring his neck, every instinct in him screaming at him for leaving such a vulnerable spot open, but it just makes his nerves sing.

“I’ll be fine.” He’ll make himself be fine. He’ll break himself apart and put the pieces back together later, all by his damn self if he has to, for this. He is ready and raring to go, apocalypse be damned… but a second later his chest deflates with a little sigh.

It would be very unsexy to pop his sutures and bleed all over Andres’ couch.

“We just have to be gentle,” he says, absently drawing his fingers through Andres’ hair.

We.

[attr="class","mintag"] andres buenaventura

It’s comical, really, the little hump of earth that Mord’s shark-like dorsal fin draws as he skitters beneath the earth, before he can really get deep enough to disappear.

Onyx’s own mouth twitches upwards in a smirk as the Zoroark looks around, frantic, for a moment. The shadow ball at the ground is a valid technique, except for it being made of shadows. It’s nowhere near heavy enough to emulate a real, physical body.

The ground erupts upwards as Mord launches himself into the sky, teeth gnashing, claws slashing and rending, to try to tear into the Zoroark, or snap her in his jaws and drag her downward.

Alexandra Briarwood
attack turn of dig

☉

“It’s fine,” he says, content to-- to stand there, like a fucking cow, pre-drugged and ready for slaughter, “it’s fine.”

He doesn’t understand ’couch’, as though the concept is foreign, both the word and the way it has been used. He sits up and blinks just as Andres bodily picks him up, hands on his ass, palms along the span of it, like he’s a fucking toddler-- like he weighs no more than a child--

“Oh, fuck,” Onyx says, dumbly and with passion, because, yes couch, now it makes sense; there’s a twinge in the small of his back where the remnants of his spleen doth protesteth the handling, even as gentle as it is; and lifted like this gives Onyx a better angle. His legs wrap around Andres’ waist and he kisses him again, hard, fervent, the hands once concerned with holding him down in case he tried to escape now freed to slide through his hair, one thumb over the curve of his cheekbone.

He’s not like this, usually. Not this pliant. Not this content. Certainly not the type to allow himself to be fucking carried. But by now we have firmly laid down the groundwork for how Andres fucks with his brain at the worst of times.

Most of all, though, Onyx trusts. He trusts Andres to be gentle with the sad, damaged little meat-sack that was his injured body. He trusts Andres to know what the fuck they’re doing-- they, the both of them-- in this moment, right here, right now.

If they die tomorrow, Onyx trusts Andres to not fuck this up. So he kisses him and lets himself be carried.

[attr="class","mintag"] andres buenaventura