rusted-shut & faolancrowe
    “ For me, kitten? You shouldn't have. ” He smiles, icepick sharp and just for him and Ferdinand cannot breathe for the momentary flash of warmth that suffocates him.
    Fingers twine and tug in hair a shade lighter than the ADAM staining the corner of his mouth, nose slotting sharp against Faolan's own. They fit as if carved from each other, halves of a whole seeking and searching as lips bruise against each other. They kiss as if wolves would fight to tear them apart, violence and the nip of teeth sharp and bloody. There is a war in Ferdinand's veins, a screaming that grows increasingly hard to silence but here in the moment, in the warmth of Faolan's coat and the press of chapped lips against his own, the noise grows quiet.
    Is that what love is, he wonders, and the corner of his mouth curves like a knife beneath the Irishman's thumb. It must be.
