#androtaxis

No matter how many times he nudges you onto the bed and follows directly suit, there is always something different in the placement of his hands, something new in the colors whirring in his eyes, something exciting in the pressure his skin applies to yours, under the washed out light of the moon spilling from outside.

Tonight is no different.

And at the same time, tonight is completely different from all others.

You figure he is stressed, or hungry, and that this is as much of an outlet for his energy as it is an outlet for your affection for him. Under a push of his hands to your chest, you allow yourself to fall on the soft mattress with a thud, only to inch towards the bedpost without missing a beat, giving him enough room to crawl on you.

As you cover his face with kisses, like mapping constellations onto his skin, you feel him align with you, heartbeat thrumming on yours, warm and tender and passionate. His hands slip under your shirt onto your back, and he pulls you to him, and there's no space between you anymore.

The touch of his fingertips to your skin makes you shudder, but not unpleasantly, and as he presses your foreheads together, you squirm closer to him, both your hands coming to thread across his hair.

You kiss him more.

Dea is one of your favorite people to kiss, for the ways he melts in tandem with you, turning more and more into mush with each brush and press and linger of your lips on him.

You could take whole days out of your life just to dedicate yourself to this, and feel like you've conquered some major milestone, like climbing the Everest, achieve world peace, end world hunger. Your teeth are almost cute as they drag along his jawline, especially when compared to the touch of sharp fangs to your neck, but they still wind him down.

You shake from how much you love him, and yet every new second reminds you of that so much.

You're breathless by the time you're timing his fast-paced heartbeat, with kisses to his neck, but you don't stop until you're completely exhausted, and he's nothing but peace and goop and warmth on top of you.

He asks for more while you regain your breath, and you giggle while raining a new flurry of pecks on his cheeks, before you too collapse at last.

The only time he leans away is to sit up and look at you, and as you look up to meet his eyes, the moon paints him in ways that revive you much faster than your breath ever could.

Your heart gives a pang against your ribcage, and you want him all over again.

Your hand seeks his, lacing your fingers together, but the other one is back on his hair, tugging him down.

"One more round," you concede, lips brushing along his cheek, but the way your voice falters makes it sound more like you're begging.