The devastation of his kiss is a force greater than any clashing of swords he has ever withstood; he can feel the blood rushing to his cheek, unbidden as his tears mix with the blood on his face; and the heat that climbs up by his body, up his chest, as his mouth clashes against his, red hot and angry, as violent as the tide against a steep rock—he is paralyzed for a moment, in the wake of all of its rage and all of its love, all blended into a single, killing blow where his pride collapses upon itself.
Those honed blue eyes widen, suddenly; unwitting, looking into its mismatched pair with utter and sheer confusion. Must his mouth always be so at odds with everything he does? "Hate you..." it sounds so foolish to hear it out loud—he almost laughs; can't grasp the feeling, think of i at all, when he has his weight pressing him covering him like a blanket. How ridiculous it sounds, can he not hear it? "You truly are helpless, you know that? Helpless—" he will not allow him to dry the blood, it will stay—just as the taste of him will stay. He pulls him, into himself, greedy and unrelenting, using all of his force to hold him hostage, giving into every impulse he's ever had—he bites down into his throat, mindful that his flesh is much too tender still, and there is nothing in him that wishes to harm Cian, no impulse, no hidden frustration or residual anger could ever make him resort to such a thing. Nothing. He just wants to bruise him all over, in such a shameless way he cannot move without seeing the shape of his mouth everywhere his eyes turn to. Is this what he must do? Remind him—her, by force, of whom he truly belongs to?
"Cian," he breathes against his skin, unlatching himself grudgingly—a trail of spit clinging to his mouth, all the sorrow that name evokes lodged in his throat. "I cannot. I cannot hate you. I could never hate you..." He says it in defeat, like a creature battered and bruised. Is that what he thought? That he hated him? That he was capable of it at all? He does laugh now, in a short, sharp exhale. "Don't you understand? Must I spell it out for you?" he sounds annoyed, his hand having forgotten entirely of the sword—why cling to it, when he had him to cling to now? How could he not forget everything else, every grievance, every wound he had made in him, with this weeping boy on his lap, all flushed and teary eyed. "You are a mess—" selfishly, he adores every second of it, every moment. He adjusts himself against the headboard, hands gripping at his waist, sitting him proper, carding his fingers through his locks as if to soothe him. "Listen to me..." he dismisses his apologies, wiping the tears from those beautiful, swollen eyes, capable of so easily bring him to his knees; he pushes his knees between his legs, anchoring him, bringing him impossibly closer, where his fingertips sweep against those long, red lashes. "I am yours, and only yours... I cannot part from you. If you wish to sit in that accursed throne and place yourself in danger, I will throw myself at every blade that comes your way—and nothing will touch you, because I will not allow it." he covers the boy's mouth—he does not want to hear it. "No—I said listen," he will not hear of being saved, of being rescued; he has. He is. He will bite that stubborn mouth if it dares speak such nonsense in his presence again. "I will sit and watch you make the whole world a victim of your sorrow, because I'm powerless against you—if you want me on my knees, you will have it. If you want me to be your sword, and only that... you will have it. All I ask of you is do not to be cruel to yourself," he releases his mouth, then, cautiously, carefully, his thumb brushing against the softness of it—coveting it. "Please, be kind to you... please, I beg of you... please, be gentle," he begs shamelessly, openly now, the arch of his nose pressing into line of the boy's jaw in quiet supplication. "You are my heart, Cian... will you spare my heart?" his eyes close, for a moment of respite—he inhales him, and his hand tremble with a different kind of weakness. Restraint, he finds, is a delicate rope, carefully unwinding.
What is he to do with him now?
"I want—" he bites his tongue; he is a weapon, and weapons are not allowed to want. Still, he wants him, he wants him desperately, terribly, unconditionally. What is he to do with himself? "I want you. Not... the masks you put on for others... not whomever it is you think you have to become to be loved... to be worthy. You are loved... you are worthy. There is nothing you want you do not deserve... a thousand times over. And noise in your ear... this noise—it just that. It is just noise." for a moment he things his jaw will unhinge, and he will swallow him whole. Why has he come? How could he let him hold him like this, taste him like this, and then ask to be let go? He was so very unreasonable, his Cian. Always had been. It makes him smile, to think of him, and all of his cruel demands. And all of the promises he had scattered to the wind. Does it matter? Does he love him any less now? Would he love him any less with a knife to his throat? "I love you... so much," the words bob in his throat, thick, hard to swallow. "...all of you—every piece, every inch, every flaw you think you have to hide..." That face, that weeping face—he kisses it, kisses his ruddy cheeks and his tears, with a desperate hunger to soothe him. "You need not say sorry... not to me. Not ever." He is forgiven, he is absolved—there is never too great of a crime, because he can do no wrong in his eyes, can he? He would come to him, over and over, and he would have nothing but love to offer back. Where is all of his rage, all of his resentment, when he comes for him?
"Oh, Cian... I know. I know you're so hurt... and you're so angry... it's okay to be angry," he cups that wet face like something delicate, fragile; as though he had now bitten into him like a rabid dog, he soothes him, and his heart melts anew. "I was cruel... I was mean, I deserve it. You can be angry with me, all you want... I'll keep your anger as well as your love, there's enough room in me for all of you," and if there wasn't, hed empty himself, and he'd make room. There is no piece of him he would not give him if asked, can he not see that? His loyalties were not split, they had never been—everything he does, he does for him. Even his distance. Even when it was cruel. Clasping that bruised wrist tight, he brings his hand to his sternum, pressing it against the faded scars there. "This right here—it's yours—take it, fill it with whatever it is you need to bear this... but don't you dare leave my side again, you hear me? Don't you dare harm yourself and use my name as an excuse, don't you dare give yourself to another when I have not given you permission," the hand tightens, tugging him, demanding to be heard—and loosens, subservient as his mouth finds the bruise it had made in his throat, placated by the urge to soothe him, to empty the vows of his mouth in a kiss, and then another. "You are mine, always mine... I will not let you go again, do you understand?"