Work Text:
“Kurloz.”
“…”
“Kurloz.”
The dark head resting on your legs doesn’t move; the dark eyes stay fixed on the shitty bloodbath flick in front of you.
“Kurloz,” you say, all afizz with tension, radiating out from the impact point of his sharp chin into your thigh. When all that yields is a muscle ticking in KZ’s jaw, you reach over and poke his shoulder. “Kurloz.”
Finally - fucking finally - your friend deigns to look up at you. There’s a crease between his brows, wariness, but his face is softer than normal. He’d usually have his studs in by now, gothy little shit, but neither of you bothered changing this morning before you got high. Without the gleam of metal, he’s less austere than usual. Something closer to pretty than striking - in a purely objective sense, obviously.
KZ thrusts a spidery hand up at you and signs fast. What.
You wait for a few moments, really draw out the tension, fucking luxuriate in it for a while as his eyes go narrower and narrower with irritation. Finally, you grace him with an obnoxious grin.
“Suck my dick.”
KZ’s eyes go flat for one second, two seconds, before he melts into fond exasperation. Fuckface.
That’s the reaction you’re expecting - it’s all part of the joke, his amused dismissal, the loose comfortable slump of his posture as he sprawls along your legs. It’s not the first time you’ve said that to him, after all. Actually, all things considered, it’s something you say a lot.
It’s one of those things straight guys do: when you bail out on a skateboard trick, he snickers surreptitiously, and you bounce up grinning and flipping him off. “Blow me, asshole.” You can’t count how many times you’ve had this exact conversation, all casual and shit.
It’s different now.
“Ooooo, my feelings.”
It’s different because now when you say it, you know what he sounds like when he’s coming. You know how he looks with his head tilted back and his hands clenched and you know- you just know, now. It’s not like it’s necessary information, or anything, but it’s information that sticks around.
And now, when you say it to him, there’s an awkward half-beat where the understanding stretches out between you that you already know more about him than you should. That he exists in that context, that it’s not outside the realm of possibility.
He laughs it off, fast. You play along, but you keep at it - you say it more and more often, watching how he reacts. He laughs just a second too long, sometimes.
Little mofo’s asking for trouble, now? KZ signs easily, grinning as he looks away.
You snap finger guns at him, toss a glossy curl of hair into his eyes.
Watch the film, heathen. Heretical little bastard as yourself needs to be all up and edified by this shit.
“What, you don’t want to get mad heretical with me, K-Loz?”
He rolls his eyes and tips his head to go back to the film. You’re not letting that happen.
You yank on a curl of his hair, watch the minute jerk in his breath. “KZ.”
Kurloz’s head is heavy in your lap when he turns to look at you again, and his eyes are very sharp even through the high, analysing every facet of your expression. Beginning to realise you might not be kidding.
“…Tuna?” He starts, hesitantly.
You keep grinning down at him, sharp and deliberately casual. You’re walking the knife’s edge here, precarious as shit, gotta keep your balance. More importantly, you’ve got to keep the upper hand.
“What, thcared you might like it?”
His eyes slide off your face, expression going blank. You can see the slight twitch of his fingers, though, feel the way his shoulders tighten. He has no fucking secrets from you.
“Ha,” he rasps out, breath hot against your leg. His lips are pressed together in a thin, tense line - you know, you do, that he desperately wants to ask if you’re serious. He won’t, though; he’s better at the game by now, enough that he knows it would fuck him over hard. You’re the reigning champion, after all, and this is your rule: you’re always kidding until you’re not. By the time you’re not, you’ve already won.
KZ looks alarmed by whatever’s in your eyes. “Why?” He asks instead, light enough to be played off as a joke. It’s only a fraction better than the earlier option, though, and you pounce on the opportunity eagerly.
“Why not?” You leer, and shift your hips just enough to remind him where he is. “Everyone think we’re boning anyway, figure I might as well reap the benefits.”
KZ clearly still doesn’t know if you’re fucking with him. What’s that got to do with this motherfucking-
“They think I’m your boyfriend or whatever. Add some authenticity, thith is what gay guys do.”
He twists his mouth up. Pretty sure most motherfucker’s are assuming it’s the other way around, brother.
Ha. You can tell he knows he’s messed up by the slight panic in his stare, and he must know it by the way your grin widens in response.
“You saying you want me to suck your dick?”
Kurloz jerks, staring at you with big appalled eyes. No-
“Exactly. So you suck my dick instead.”
He opens his mouth like he’s about to point out the lack of logic in your plan, and you take the opportunity to embarrass him further.
“You’re halfway there already, pussy, don’t chicken out now.” You flex your hips again and KZ flushes, shifts like he’s going to sit up, and you can’t have that. It’s not a calculated decision for your hand to come up and grip his face, but you’ve always tended to operate on instinct.
Oh, his chin fits in your hand just right.
KZ makes a half-hearted attempt to pull away, but you hold firm, curving your fingers into the fine bones of his jaw until he stills. You take a second to look at him there, pinned by his own volition pretty damn close to your dick - you couldn’t hold him down if he didn’t let you, anyway. He’s choosing to stay here, like it or not, pretty much rubbing his face all over your crotch while he pretends to resist it. Slut, you think affectionately.
Onscreen, another blood-spattered hot girl is undressing. Plausible deniability for the tightness of your jeans.
“Tuna-“
You increase the pressure on his neck, and he tenses but doesn’t move as your hips roll up. “Tuna-“
Could still be a joke. Cosmic levels of sick fratbro irony. You can see his pupils dilate, though. Maybe it’s the hand on his neck, or maybe…
“No one likes a tease, KZ,” you tell him lightly, and grind against his jaw. He flushes crimson and ducks his head, choking back a noise when his hair snags on your fingers; your knuckles go white with how hard you’re holding him. “Man the fuck up.”
KZ finally stops pretending to push against your grip (performative little shit) to scan your face, eyes dark and wide and jaw tight. Not funny, Tuna.
You don’t bother breaking eye contact as you run your hand down his side, stretching until you slap his hip, inches away from his hard-on. He jolts and twists, arranging his limbs strategically, but it’s too late; you turn back to him and grin.
“Looks like you’re laughing to me.”
Hot girl on screen has been joined by hot girl 2, also half-naked. You’re pretty sure this is the part of the movie you’re meant to get off to. You’re just getting creative with it.
KZ eyelashes flicker as he stares at you, looking up and down and back again. You kinda really enjoy the rush of victory you feel whenever you see him like this, laid out entirely defenceless with your dick prodding at his cheekbone. He shouldn’t tolerate this, he’d usually never tolerate this, but because it’s just you and him in this elaborate house of cards you’ve built, here he is. And even though he could leave, he’s barely trying to. In most games of gay chicken, you wouldn’t even need to continue, this is such a clear win.
But it’s your game, and you’re having way too much fun to stop. Plus, there’s this current of liquid silver running through your veins when you play with KZ, this feeling like you’re not done yet. This is just another step in the level, your blood singing all the while for more, more, more.
Slowly, you reach down with the hand not pinning his neck, and run a finger down the knife-cut of his jaw, all ironic homos again. You keep pushing at him, inch by inch, stretching a rubber band out so slowly you can feel the phantom sting of the future snap like a physical itch. He won’t stretch forever, but how far can you bend him before he breaks?
Over the lines?
(Over a desk?)
KZ’s so still he could be dead, but you can feel his pulse, hammering away, as your thumb inches up and slides over his thin mouth.
His breathing shallows. Tiny, quick little rasps, but they sound deafening, drowning out the horror-movie screams. You send him the most patronising look you can, then drag your thumb across his lips - he’s gritting his teeth, consciously or unconsciously, so you scrape your finger obnoxiously over them until he winces, unclenching.
You keep inching closer, and the band keeps stretching.
The tip of your finger goes sliding into the tight, wet heat of his mouth, and Kurloz lets out this noise - this noise, a panicky white flag of surrender, because this is really starting to push it, joke-wise. It’s safer if he acts confused, if you just drop it. But you’re onto something now; you rub your thumb over the white gravestone rows of his teeth, flick the stud in his tongue. KZ just stares at you the whole time, like it’d kill him to look away. You’re winning. You’re winning so hard.
Speaking of hard.
You rock your hips against KZ’s jaw, and this time, instead of panicking, his face goes blank. You think his eyes have to be more dilated than usual - you wish you could see the pupils properly, but his irises are dark enough that it’s hard to tell. You can see the way he swallows, though, whether it’s nerves or something else.
You grin, then slip another finger into his mouth, watch his lips part around them, the glossy drip of spit down his skin. You’ve bitten him before, when you felt like seeing his exasperated expression. Spit isn’t as sexual as people make it out to be. Or maybe everything is sexual, when it’s your teeth sinking into his flesh like ripe fruit.
A thin gossamer strand stretches out between your fingers, and his tongue is hot and smooth. You could crawl in and curl up there, make yourself a home in him.
For a second, you think this is it - you reach down with your other hand to the fly of your jeans, start tugging the zip slowly down - tooth by lingering tooth - not looking away. He’s staring back, breathing fast and unblinking and frozen, and a shivery, hypnotic tension draws tight between you.
He wouldn’t actually do it. There’s a point where pseudo-gay is just gay, and neither of you are that. There’s acceptable limits for gay chicken, and this isn’t one of them. The idea is hard to even visualise.
You tell yourself this, even as your hard-on presses dangerously at the hollow curve of his cheek. You’ll stop any second, now. Any second, he’ll stop you. He’s not actually going to do it, and in a moment, you’ll hit that limit.
His eyelashes are so fucking long, it’s ridiculous.
Kurloz won’t do it, but he’s looking at you like he might. He won’t do it, but he maybe he will, holy shit. He won’t, but he’s letting you get this far. Impossibilities are paper-thin when you’re all wrapped up in eachother like this. You’re a goddamn Machiavelli.
He won’t do it, but he might. And you’ll definitely have won then.
Fuck.
It’s normal to feel a shock of dismay at the thought. You like a good game, ending the best one you’ve ever played is bound to be disappointing.
What’s less normal is the noise you make when the door opens, and KZ’s criminally insane younger brother walks in.
(You’re kidding about the criminally insane thing. Mostly.)
Luckily enough, you were pretty much born without the concept of shame, and that hasn’t changed since. On the other hand, going from thrilling mental warfare one second to making eye contact with Gamzee fucking Makara the next would get a yelp out of anyone. Comfortingly, your reaction is entirely obscured by KZ’s - he pulls back so fast he almost topples off the couch, and he’s so graceful usually that it’s fucking hilarious. Then you’re laughing and he’s glaring, and all the while, Gamzee is just staring at both of you with the most oblivious look on his face.
“Buzzbro,” he says, not even slightly fazed by Kurloz’s panicky fidgeting or your half-undone jeans. “Could a motherfucker be all explainin’ algebra to me?”
You pause. The moment is gone either way, and at this point it’d be kinder to just pull back and plan for another day. That being said…
…there’s a petty fizz of frustration in you (you were so close to fucking winning forever, maybe) and you’re directing it straight at Kurloz.
“Sure,” you tell Gamzee, as casually as possible. “Siddown, chuckles.”
KZ glares at you so hard it almost burns. You grin back.
You explain algebra in torturous detail for twenty minutes, keeping KZ on your other side the whole time with your hand resting heavy on his thigh. By the time you leave, Kurloz looks ready to chew your fucking fingers off - it’s not a gay chicken victory, but it’s something.
You go home and strategise, figuring out how to plan your next move, and then you lie back and think about his mouth, the slide of your fingers inside it.
You kick ass at this game, but it’s not enough until he does something. What, you’re not sure.
You get off so fast on the proximity to victory that it’s almost embarrassing.
The thing is, you and KZ haven’t talked about it. That makes ‘it’ sound sketchy as fuck - it’s not like you killed someone, or even like you really boned. You just got high as shit together, and KZ came in his pants like a fucking virgin. Not a big deal, not really worth talking about.
Except. Most people would probably think gay chicken’s over when someone comes. That’s dumb as shit, though, because you know KZ - you know him like you know a vintage motherboard - and you recognise the tension radiating between you, and gay chicken isn’t over yet. Again, you don’t know when it will be, but you’re not a fucking wimp. You know you’re going to wreck him.
You want to wreck him. This isn’t enough, not yet.
KZ knows to be on the lookout. He’s been all turtlenecks since that night, carefully blank expression and precise movements. Hanging out with that kitty girl who wants his dick, in the hope that since she annoys the shit out of you, you’ll focus less on tormenting him. It doesn’t work. You can multitask. Either way, an opportunity hasn’t really presented itself since the Couch Incident (you know he wasn’t going to, but he still-) and you’ve been itching all the way to your bones for one. You get addicted to the feeling of winning real fast; the anticipation fizzles like candy in your mouth, sweet and sour by turn.
This party, as it happens, is the very opportunity you’ve been waiting for.
Porrim throws a pretty decent gathering, and by the time you’re ready to make your move, everyone’s kinda buzzed. Somehow, you ended up in a small room mostly full of kittybitch’s friends - KZ’s sat in the corner, spindly as a dead spider, and the rest of you are all sprawled in a ring like you’re about to play spin the bottle.
Cronus, because he’s the world biggest and most predictable asshole, is trying to convince Porrim you should do just that: empty bottle in one hand, no concept of shame to be seen. She’s been flatly refusing for the past five minutes, on the grounds that he just wants to watch hot girls make out.
“Wvhat’s wvrong wvith that? I thought you liked tail?”
Porrim pinches her long, manicured fingernails over her temples and grits her teeth. “None of us are interested in making out for your sexual gratification, Cronus.”
“Wvhy not?” He pushes.
“Because it is a disgustingly sexist double standard,” she explains curtly, “And I only kiss people when I want to.”
Cronus furrows his brows up, because he’s never been able to recognise an absolute loss. “C’mon, Porri, don’t be like that. Howv’s it sexist?”
“None of us expect you to kiss a man,” Porrim snaps.
Ampora, entertainingly enough, looks vaguely horrified. “Wvell, yeah, but that’s different, doll-“
“It’s not. Straight women shouldn’t be expected to kiss, especially since straight men aren’t- ”
“But you’re not straight-“
“That’s not the point,” she jabs her finger at him. “Make no mistake, Ampora, I will tell Kanny about last week-“
He flaps his hands up in the air, back-pedalling. “Jeez, sugar, no need to get serious, nowv. I’m just sayin’, it’s not that wveird-“
“You’re gross,” you cut in cheerfully. “But Porrim’s also kinda wrong, it’s just funny to make out with your friendth. It’s not gay if you're doing it as a joke.”
Porrim blinks at you. “…what?”
“Chicks dig it,” you say, all casual like you can’t see Kurloz’s shoulders slowly tensing. “Right, Tula?”
Latula grins and waggles her drink at you.
“Right,” you turn back to them, totally guileless. “It’s funny.”
Porrim’s eyes narrow, like she knows you’re up to something. Cronus just sneers.
“No fucking wvay you wvould, that’s-“
Ha. He’s so reliably stupid.
“Well, since you insist.” You interrupt seamlessly. “I guess I’ll have to demonts- demonstrate.”
The little cluster of your friends watching, avid-eyed and tipsy, hushes. You’re you and they know that, and so they know exactly what you’re going to do. The same tension always rises - they know you, but they still don’t really think you’re going to go through with it. They keep waiting for your self preservation instinct to kick in, because they’re idiots. And they don’t really know you that well.
You can almost hear the held breaths as you get up on your knees and scrabble towards KZ, seeing him loom into sight from a dark blot in your peripherals. He stares down at you blackly, eyes flat and unreadable, but he still starts when your hand lands on his thigh.
“Hey, KZ.”
Tuna, he signs, quick restricted movements so no one else sees. What in the mother fuck does a brother think he’s-
“Wanna make out for the thexual gratification of tipsy girls?” You ask, like you’re giving him a choice. He stays stock-still, but you can see a muscle twitch in his jaw. His heart is racing.
Tuna!
You don’t give him time to wimp out - either he puts up or he shuts up, and now is the time. You lean in, get one hand up to grip the back of his neck and send the other down to grab at his bony hip.
Your lips slide together - you’ve managed to pull his head down enough to reach, the lanky fuck - and KZ is stone-still, unresponsive. This isn’t your first rodeo, though; you turn your head to slot your jaw against his more comfortably, and gently lick along the sharp line of his teeth. When he sucks in a gasp of air, you part his lips with your own.
Then you shove your tongue in his mouth, and he chokes.
You shouldn’t laugh, you definitely shouldn’t. It’s just- it’s just that he freezes, like he’s never been fucking touched before, and his mouth slips open further, and then your tongue is pressing into his and he’s letting you lead. Your hand grazes over the vulnerable hollow of his throat, his breathing gone trembly and wild, and you tease his lower lip between your teeth to steal another helpless noise from him. You’ve still got it, turns out. You guess the principle isn’t that different with dudes.
A wolf-whistle echoes around the room - Meenah, probably.
You don’t give KZ time to recover. By the time his breathing steadies, you’re kissing him deep and sloppy and theatrical - he tastes of shitty vodka and something dark and sweet, like liquorice. You tongue-fuck the hell out of his mouth for way longer than you would, normally, partially because you’re kind of desperate to see how far he’ll let you go, and partially because it feels fucking amazing. Gay or not, a good kiss is a good kiss.
KZ lets you devour him, stone-still like a gargoyle, and you can feel his eyelashes flick down against your cheeks. Nice.
You grab his dick when you pull away, and he jolts, choking. He’s got a semi, fuck yeah, you’re hot shit. His trousers are dark and baggy, so it’s probably just the two of you in the know - maybe that’s worse for him, actually. He's the kinda guy who finds sharing secrets as intimate as sharing a bed.
You do like him. You wouldn't fuck with him if you didn't care how he reacted. Now, you grin at him - affectionate, if slightly malicious - and pull a twist of his hair as you move back, breathing hard, to take in the sight of him with slick lips and an expression of complete disorientation.
Meulin squeaks, starry-eyed.
A moment later, KZ’s face clears and sharpens like a storm rolling in - vague, wispy clouds turned dark and defined. He looks pretty fucking thunderous, the kinda mad that raises hairs all the way up your arms. Mad enough that it breaks through his iron-grip control, and the people surrounding you notice, despite his blank expression. The room grows still.
Stiffly, he shifts away from you, leaning his arm up on his knees and sending his glare to the floor. You’re pretty sure the others must be glad it’s not targeted at them; there’s something searingly evil about the way he’s scowling right now, like he’s ready to bite out someone’s throat. You wait for him to look at you, giddy with the thrill of it, but he doesn’t look up.
Your grin becomes something forced.
Porrim coughs, affecting normalcy through the tension at the corner of her eyes. “…Well, I think that proves my point. Any further questions, Cronus?”
For once in his long, obnoxious life, Cronus wisely keeps his mouth shut.
You’re ready to shrug it off as an imperfect attempt and move on - you’re excellent at breaking awkward silences, because you’ve never once given a shit about these people’s opinions of you - but as you turn around, feigning lazy indifference, your eyes catch on something.
KZ’s hands are long and elegant, black-painted nails just a fraction too long, and they lead into equally long, elegant forearms. His ever-present baggy black sweatshirt is covering almost all of that, but through the harsh cross of his wiry arms, you see a flash of red - his skin is scored deeply, you notice, with curved indents.
Fingernails. Too long fingernails. Sharp enough to cleave into his skin, probably sharp enough to break it easily.
And here’s the thing: the negative reaction, in itself, is not upsetting. It’s unideal, sure, but what about life is? What’s upsetting is your realisation that you didn’t expect this - Kurloz is reacting wrong, not in tiny details but in emotion, and suddenly the solid ground under your feet is shaky and friable. If you didn’t get this right, then what else are you getting wrong? Kurloz is your best friend - he’s yours - and you know his mind like your own, and the way he’s acting is so wrong that it curdles the blood in your veins to tar. If you don’t know him like your own mind - if he’s not yours - then do you know anything?
You live your life is flashes of manic emotion and passion. KZ is one of your only constants: dark and steady and cool, shading you from the constant flaring sun of your own brain.
You blink, and suddenly you’re so furious you could spit blood. It rips through you like fucking magma, like a heated knife through butter, and you smile tightly. No one notices. KZ would, if he was fucking looking at you, but he’s not.
It’s cruel, sure. But you’re pissed off and panicking and you want to be cruel, cruel as a cornered animal lashing out in a sudden burst, so when you sit back, you sling an arm around Tula.
“Guess I should stick to kiththing chicks, huh?”
“Oh- yeah, guess so,” She grins back at you, already flushed from drinking and only getting pinker. Latula has a thing for you, and she’s cool enough that you’d usually be willing to take her out sometime - but the game is afoot, and you can’t think about anyone else when KZ’s right there. You can barely even hear her, you’re so focused on not-looking at his brooding corner. “You thinking of any chick in particular, M-Tunes?”
Kurloz doesn’t move, but you can sense how his posture tenses and creaks. His silence is deafening.
You send her the cocky grin that never fails to get results. “Sure am, Tulips.”
You don’t hesitate, although maybe a better person would’ve; you just lean in and press your lips to hers.
Something snaps in the distance. Latula tastes slightly sweet, like cherry lipgloss, and she’s a good kisser, and both of those facts register as nothing more than background noise. There’s nothing behind the kiss, just mechanics and experience, twining her tongue against yours, sliding your arm up her side; It’s not the same without an element of competition. There’s no tension. If you were kissing KZ again, you know you’d be more focused than you’d ever been in your life - cataloguing every noise he made, every move of his lips.
Still, though. You can feel his eyes, hot and dark on your back. Ashy. You send a hand carding through Tula’s long black hair, straining your ears all the while for a reaction-
Her hand curls over your jaw, and from behind you, you hear sudden movement. A moment later, KZ’s stomping past you and out of the room, heavy boots ringing out against the floor.
Oh.
Oh, that motherfucker.
It takes genuine effort to stop your amiable smile twisting furiously when you lean back. That fucking asshole - he’s not allowed to leave, he doesn’t get to just fucking- to run away rather than confronting you. He’s cheating, that’s not fair, and you know him so well, you know his stupid stupid pride, he shouldn’t have run away, he’s acting wrong-
He was supposed to react. To haul off and punch you, or to say something stupid - to make a scene, do something he never would if you weren’t goading him. He was supposed to lose control. Instead, what do you get? A fucking exit, and he’s left you stranded here like a goddamn actor after the curtains shut. You’re going to kill him, you swear to God.
It takes you a second to notice the atmosphere of the room lightening, shoulder lifting and breaths being released. Everyone’s either looking at you, or pretending not to.
You school your expression, tip your head back and try to sound innocent. “What?”
“…You’re playing with fire with that one, Mituna,” Porrim tells you warily, tossing a long tendril of hair over her shoulder. “What were you thinking?”
“You’re kidding.”
“I would not be remotely surprised if that freak showed up to class with a gun in his bag.” She says, and her tone tells you she’s only half-joking.
“That’s stupid,” you say, and shake your head. “If KZ was going to do a terrorism, he wouldn’t use a gun, he’d rig up a bomb or thomething. More effective.”
Porrim’s face goes from mild relief to alarm in a laughably short time. “That’s not reassuring.”
“Guys. Relax,” you assure them, all calm and shit like your head isn’t one throbbing pit of rage. “He’s just tired. You think he wouldn’t make it odious- obvious if he was mad?”
This satisfies most onlookers enough to go about their business. No one wants to get involved with a Makara problem. Maryam stays firm, though, because she’s entertainingly convinced that you need to be protected from yourself.
“He made it obvious enough,” Porrim says. “Mituna…”
You laugh airily, chomping back acidic words. “KZ’th my best friend, I think I can tell the difference between arrested- a resting bitch face and actual anger.”
She thins her lips. “Is he… you know you could talk to me about anything, right?”
Jesus shit, you hope no actual victim of domestic abuse ever tries to talk to Porrim. The awkwardly sincere way she’s speaking at you is sending embarrassed shivers down your spine.
“Sure?” You could muster up the effort to laugh at her, but you’re so full of concentrated fury that it might go maniacal. Instead, you blink at her guilelessly, feigning obliviousness until she sighs.
“Anyway,” you chirp, “I’ll go check on our good pal, why don’t I?”
If your eye twitches, you blame it on alcohol.
Kurloz is smoking on the balcony, probably breaking a few laws in the process. It’s almost artistic, the silhouette of him inked out against dark steel, grey eyes and a grey sky behind him. You’d probably appreciate the sight a lot more if you weren’t pissed off enough to be trembling, half-expecting cracks of burning lights to open in your skin and reveal the nuclear core of the sun burning out of you.
KZ doesn’t look over as you storm towards him, but he does tilt to the side to make room for you; exhaling a long silvery breath, melancholy and fucking tragic, and you’re going to knock his fucking teeth out, you hate him, you hate him.
He's positioned like he knew you’d be coming after him. He probably did. This thing between you, a friendship like a neural link, goes both ways. You fucking thought it did, at least, and isn’t that typical - the braindead freak convincing himself he knows what’s going on.
Your teeth scrape as they grind together, and you shoulder in next to KZ, his usual coldness becoming warmth in the freezing night air. You always seek heat, seek energy, like a dying star, and it’s worse now you’re shaking apart. You kinda blame him for manipulating you closer, even if he didn’t mean to-
-bur maybe he did. Maybe that’s what’s happening. It's never wise to underestimate Makaras.
You don’t like being on the back foot. You don’t like it when it’s him, especially. Feels a little bit too much like distance. You’ve swung wildly past pleasantly tipsy and straight into maudlin drunk. Fuck.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” you spit, and to anyone else, it would seem shockingly out of the blue. Kurloz just nods, though, cigarette between his lips, and you want to get a reaction out of that blank slate more than you’ve ever wanted anything. You want to twist and warp him under your hands until he can never fuck with you like this again.
Instead, you snatch the cigarette from his hand and inhale - he’s never had a fucking problem with that kind of indirect kiss, public or not. But KZ, as ever, is a fucking pussy and he doesn’t get that it’s a game and you-
You’re genuinely convinced, for a second, that when you speak, flames will billow out of your mouth instead. You manage words, at least.
“Fucking- fucking puththy-ass coward shit bullshit weak fuck dipshit fucking-“ words don’t work as well when you’re angry. KZ stares at the horizon, carefully expressionless.
You lean into his heat and stub out the cigarette on your wrist, the same way you’ve seen him do a thousand times. That gets his attention; he jolts, turns to you, grabs your hand with careful fingers-
And you grab him right back, one hand in his collar, one yanking his arm towards you. Walk him back, one step, two steps, until his back hits the railing and his balance is gone, reliant on yours. You hold him steady, pressed all the way against you from the torso to hips, and arrange your expression to betray nothing.
He hisses in surprise, red crawling up his neck. “Brother, I-“
“Shut the fuck up,” you say pleasantly. “Asshat.”
He squirms. You examine him, eyes snagging on the half-moon tears of his nails in the skin of his forearm, deep enough to still be welling startling crimson.
You stare at them for a long second, his wrist in your hand, his posture awkwardly tilted along yours, like you’re some kind of lovers.
“I could choke you out right here,” you tell him flatly, and he flushes. Maybe just from shock.
Maybe.
“Tuna-“
“No one’d hear you scream. No camerath. No hockey masks. The worst part is, you’re not scared I’m going to fucking kill you-“ you press on mercilessly, and he stares back at you, locked in place with his back pressed into the corroded railing.
“Br-“
The bones in your face ache from how hard you’re holding your expression calm.
“You’re scared you’ll enjoy it a little too fucking much.”
The words fall down between you like grenades, ticking just out of sight. Acknowledgement; you can tell from the wide circles of his eyes he wasn’t expecting that, at least.
“Tuna,” Kurloz manages, like you’ve stolen the air from his lungs. “Tuna, I don’t-“
You release his wrist and press even closer, your hissing fury only deepening when the proximity falls over you like a warm blanket. You want to press your face into the bony point of his clavicle and inhale; you want to sink your teeth into the burst-berry stain of those scratches on his arm, rip through the flesh until you hit bone. He’s so fucking confusing, sometimes. So good you want to eat him and curl up in the picked-clean remains.
“I could make you,” you tell him, feeling his pulse shiver faster and faster. You don’t need to elaborate, you can tell by the look in his dark, gleaming eyes that he knows what you mean. No one knows him like you do, and he knows you know just what you’re doing. “Just you and me here, KZ, and I could get you down on your knees in seconds.”
“Motherfucker, I…”
He shuts his mouth when you tighten your grip on his collar, restricting his air slightly. You let him wheeze for a moment before you carry on, dark and low and intent.
“I wouldn’t have to force you, though, would I?”
He shivers, and your teeth scrape his ear.
“Would I?”
Kurloz just stares, pupils swallowing his eyes like black holes.
“Let’s be real, here, KZ,” you murmur, and just so happen to slot your hip right where friction needs to happen. “You’d be on the floor asp - as - soon as I asked, wouldn’t you?”
“I-“
“You can blame the alcohol, or the setting, but I know you, motherfucker.” You push on, injecting a confidence you don’t completely feel into the words - but fuck that, fuck if it’s true, you’ll make it true. This is your game.
Kurloz’s lips part, and you watch the secret silver of his piercing wink out at you.
“Always so fucking eager to please me,” you tell him, and he lets out a low, creaky sound. “I really should’ve expected you wanted my dick all along.”
Kurloz flushes again, harder, a brash red tint crawling up his collar. “Brother, I don’t…”
You stay there a second longer, breathing in the confusing-infuriating-perfect smell of him, cloves and wet stone. He’s shaking slightly, and you think you can feel him, hard against your hip. He’s trapped, nowhere to run.
Especially nowhere to hide how he’s reacting to your words (just a joke, or at least you can still play it off as one. It’s Schrödinger’s boner).
You inhale one more time, ignore the hot slick swoop of your guts when he seems to do the same, and steel yourself.
“Mituna-“
Then you move back, shoving Kurloz away as you do, and dust yourself down with exaggerated care. You send him one of the smiles that never fools him; to anyone else, you might look giddy. To him, you probably look like murderous. He’s always been good at reading you.
“But since you’re busy running away like a fucking pussy,” you continue brightly, and his usually-guarded face goes through several different permutations of startled, confused, and paranoid.
“Motherfucker ain’t-“
“I guess I’ll go find someone else to play homo with,” you finish, smiling sweet as acid, and spin around to leave.
A hand reaches out to grab you, scraping against the cigarette burn. It throbs, hot and intoxicating - stings like a bitch, though.
You turn and glance at him over your shoulder, looking pointedly at the way his fingers eclipse your wrist.
“Yes?”
Kurloz just stares, eyes burning and intense. His face is a mask of apathy, a good indicator that he’s feeling anything but. “Tuna…”
“Aw, K-Loz,” you twist your hand and laugh - slightly maniacally, if you’re being honest - when his grip tightens. “I didn’t know you cared.”
His expression right after is beautiful: for one glorious moment, the careful neutrality of his paper-blank composure crumples like origami in the rain.
Uh oh. Guilty.
KZ freezes in knee-jerk panic, and so does his grip on you. You wrench your arm free and walk back inside - he can stand there and fucking brood, pretending he’s not losing, but you’ve got a new strategy.
Somewhere deep and logical in your mind, you can admit that it’s less a strategy right now, and more the desire to provoke KZ into proving he’s not some kind of emotionless creature. He’s pulled feelings out of you that you’d rather not think about, tonight, and in response, you intend to make him play his hand so obviously that you end the night with him as your fucking bitch.
You bet the glistening ropes of his guts’ll look gorgeous when you make him spill them.
You’re the king of this game for a reason, and it’s not honour or luck or genius or even your hot bod, honestly. Those things help - some more than others, honour does jack shit - but what makes you so fucking good at the game is that you’re willing to play dirty if you need to.
There are other ways to win, sure, but right now you’re feeling dark and manic and you’re going to do what’s necessary. Follow your gut.
Your gut leads you to Rufioh Nitram, he of the wandering eyes and perpetual half-smirk. Not your usual favourite person to run into; Rufioh pretty much annoys the shit out of you, not least because of how depressingly boring and predicable he is. If you had to play chicken with him, you think you’d actually concede, which is no small declaration.
Nitram lights up when you return his gaze, because of course he does. He seems to exist in a perpetual low level of flirtation, but you’ve never flirted back before. He probably thinks your disinterest is some kind of braindead seduction tactic. Fucking clown.
It’s almost too easy. A few minutes of pretending you can tolerate Nitram’s presence, one or two lingering glances, and suddenly you’re alone with the dumbass in a side room.
“Aw, doll, what’re you thinking about…?” He asks, and his breath smells like frat boy cocktails. Wow. Too close. You stare at him for a moment, reconsidering how far you’re willing to go to get this plan done.
Yeah, you’ll do this. Never let it be said that spite came knocking and you never answered the door.
“Your shirt,” you tell him lowly, and grin like you have any interest in getting into his pants. “Good band, bro.”
Rufioh smiles back and shifts closer, your chests brushing. “You’ve heard of them? …shit, doll, that’s awesome… not enough people with decent taste around here.”
Jesus, he’s boring. You let him act like he’s got you figured out, try to look intense rather than irritated, and take great pains not to sneer when he finally lifts his face up to yours.
The things you do for Kurloz, seriously.
Just before Rufioh manages to get his obnoxious mouth pressed to your skin, the door behind him flies open. You startle, jerking back; Rufioh stumbles, and then a hand closes over his shoulder and he’s being yanked viciously backwards.
“Hey man, what the fu-“
Sunlight flares within you. There he is, the glorious asshole himself, standing silhouetted in the brightly-lit hallway in a smear of black - he’s here. He broke, you broke him. You watch giddily as KZ exercises a truly Herculean amount of effort unclenching his fingers from Nitram’s shoulder without hurting him, and then your best friend is marching towards you with death in his eyes.
You can’t help it. You start grinning like you’ll never stop, enough that it hurts your face. He’s here, and he fell straight into your trap, and he knows it - he’s here because he couldn’t fucking control himself enough to be rational. There’s no excuse except possessiveness - emotion, his less favourite word - for why he’d tear in here and toss Nitram across the small space. He’s lost face. Point to you.
And you didn’t even have to kiss that dickhead.
“What gives, Makara?” Rufioh’s demanding, and you raise an eyebrow in silent agreement. Kurloz doesn’t look as fazed as he should, though - he looks almost shifty, like he’s waiting.
You frown. “Yeah, what gi-“
A moment later, someone else comes bursting into the room. Two people, actually: a tall guy with a ponytail and weird glasses, and Porrim trying to pull him away.
“I really don’t think Rufioh’d be this way-“
They both stop to look at you: KZ with his typical blank disdain, Rufioh rubbing his neck, and you caught between them.
Porrim mutters something under her breath. It sounds profane.
“Rufioh!” The guy exclaims, and Nitram stiffens slightly. Oh shit, that’s right, he has a boyfriend - this must be the guy in question. Oops. “I was just looking for… what’s going on?”
No one says anything.
KZ tilts his head slowly and extends his hands. Talking.
“…talking?”
My main motherfucker and I were all up and trying to partake in a little motherfucking conversation here, and seems to a brother that a group of interlopers have gotten all into disturbing it.
His fingers tighten on the curve of your shoulder, like he’s trying to remind you to stay quiet. You’re not planning on saying anything, though; you’ve noticed the boyfriend’s slight distress and Porrim’s awkward expression, and now you’re beginning to process something you don’t like at all.
Oh, you hate him. You respect him, but you’re going to knock KZ’s teeth out one of these days, and you’re going to eat them.
“You- oh!” Rufioh’s boyfriend says, and relaxes a fraction. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to charger- charge in, that is. I just lost track of Rufioh, and I heard he was this way.”
Rufioh grimaces.
Why don’t you two brothers up and get to departing our discussion, now. KZ signs, all sharp, jerky movements, and Rufioh is gone - boyfriend before him - in a matter of moments.
That sly fucking dipshit. He’s played you.
Porrim lets out a deep breath from her position in the corner, and tosses her hair back. “…fuck.”
You and KZ turn to look at her, almost in unison. She waves a hand at the two of you, dismissive.
“Thank you for keeping the peace, Makara. I’m not handling a breakup right now. As for you, Captor-“
You roll your eyes. “I forgot.”
“You forgot?”
“Why would I give enough of a shit about wheat- weeb mcfuckboy to remember his love life?” You ask, trying not to let your simmering anger flare.
“…whatever,” Porrim says finally, folding her arms. “Just don’t hook up with him in my house, god, I don’t need this shit. You’re lucky Makara’s fast, I was trying to stall Horuss but he’s persistent.”
You smile tightly enough that it feels painful. “Yeah, KZ. Real fucking lucky.”
He returns your apoplectic stare with cool apathy. You stomp on his foot, and Porrim shakes her head as she leaves.
...We should vacate gothsister’s closet, KZ starts. You glare at him.
“So how’d Horuss get the idea we’d be in here?”
Kurloz’s eyes slide over to your ear. He shrugs. Sorry, brother. This motherfucker was focused on up and freeing you from that fucking drama shit what drains the soul.
“Convenient,” you spit. “Asshole.”
He presses his lips together. Can we be all kicking this party, yet?
“Oh, I dunno,” you say, anger making your words spike and dip unevenly. “Is there anyone left for you to fuck over first?”
Yeah, let’s get to going. KZ grabs your arm and starts walking you out, and you only keep up because the strength he’s using implies your other option is getting hauled out, slung over his shoulder like a wet blanket. You have your pride.
It’s usually pretty fun, the rare occasions KZ just fucking totes you about. Usually when you’re so drunk you can’t walk right - your motor functions are screwed on a good day, when you drink too much they go to zero. Right now, you’re just about able to put one foot in front of the other, thank fuck; you normally don’t mind the rustle of his hair against your side, leant down into his body heat as you pester him with crude comments, but you’re way too pissed off currently to let him.
Instead, you scuttle alongside him, glaring. “Look, man, just ‘cause you’re an antisocial freak doesn’t mean I have to go with you-“
I’m your ride, Kurloz signs briskly.
“I can get another ride!”
“No.”
It’s just one word, but something about it freezes your brain. It’s as monotone as his comments usually are, in his regular hoarse, husky voice, but you’re suddenly aware that Kurloz is fucking pissed. Like. Livid. He’s barely holding it together.
A stab of heat goes through you, so strong and so intense that your knees tremble.
You let him walk you to his car.
By the time you’re strapped into the seat (you get in one car crash and no one ever lets you forget it), your brain’s thawed and your momentary madness is gone. KZ’s coiled up like a spring next to you, all long legs and broody stare, and you know what? Fuck him, the cheater, if he wants to be mad then he’d better be prepared for a fight.
That’s pretty much how it goes with you two. When you fight, it’s rare but it’s fucking havoc. Last time, Sollux slept over at a friend’s house for days to avoid you - he thinks you emanate electromagnetic doom waves when you’re mad, or some shit. The alcohol sure isn’t helping.
You sit back in your seat and tap out a rhythm on the window as loudly as possible, letting KZ wind ever tenser until finally the knot pulls tight.
“Tuna.”
You turn, grinning obnoxiously, feeling your eye twitch. “Yeah, baby?”
The long cords of his neck are taut, straining faintly through his skin with how hard he’s got his jaw clenched. “Don’t be calling a motherfucker that shit.”
“Yeah?” You clink your fingers along glass as loudly as possible, lick your teeth. “Or what?”
He doesn’t reply, just stares at the road ahead and grits his teeth. He’s not usually very chatty during car rides, because he can’t sign when he’s driving; now, though, you’re drunk and manic and you don’t really give a shit whether he wants to talk or not.
Snickering, you knock his thigh with your knee. “You’re so fucking pissed.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, brother.”
“Yeah you do.” You’re trying to sound amused, but it comes out shaky with rage. “Watcher gonna do, edgelord? Thay something? Oh wait-“
“Motherfucker don’t need to raise my fucking voice to shut you up.” Kurloz hisses, and he really is unusually verbose today.
You’re too mad to enjoy it.
“Oh yeah?” You wiggle your brows at him, too fast and too mean. “What’sat mean, big guy? You gonna kiss me or something?”
KZ directs a stare of fathomless rage at the steering wheel. You spend the rest of the drive in simmering silence.
Your attempts to gloweringly ignore KZ are slightly undercut by physical anger being, in practicality, mostly awkward and a little childish. You clash elbows at the door, cross ankles stepping in, and while you’re so angry you can’t look away from him, he’s so pissed he can’t even look at you.
“God,” you say finally, fighting a losing battle to keep your smile up. “You’re acting like Porrim.”
He pauses in unlacing his boots to sign at you. The fuck does that mean? Slow, methodical gestures, like he’s rubbing it in your face just how unaffected he is. Like he thinks you’re the one losing.
“Staring at me like itch- it’s a fucking crime to make out in a closet.”
KZ rolls his eyes and returns to his shoes. You watch the laces cross and uncross, picking at the scab of his ire.
“At least Porrim has the decency to have cleavage when she getth all fucking moral police.”
You watch the smooth lines of his shoulders go spiky and tense with a petty satisfaction.
Well, gothsis all up and was having a motherfucking point, Mituna.
Ooooo, Mituna. Pointedly using your full name, like you give a shit.
“With how often thhe gets laid, I really don’t think sheet- she fucking did.” You tell him, voice heavy with faux-laziness.
Gothsis ain’t running around all fucking grabbing brothers like a demented lunatic, KZ jabs out.
You cackle as maliciously as possible. “You know, for someone so fucking horny for clowns, you really can’t handle a fucking joke, Kurlothz.”
His knuckles go white with tension. Don’t be fucking pulling that shit again, Tuna.
“What shit?” You ask, wondering if he’s finally gotten the guts to say it.
Apparently not. Kurloz fixes his stare back on the floor, yanking angrily at his laces. Fuck off, a crow-eyed motherfucker knows what I’m talking about. In public. Don’t ever fucking do that again.
Swing and a miss. The rubber band stretches ever thinner. “Or what?”
He doesn’t answer. Not good enough. You’re scratching the itch, and it’s not enough.
“It’s not my fault you lick- fuck, liked it too much.”
Kurloz’s face whips towards you, eyes narrowed. You don’t know what you’re motherfucking talking about.
“Oh, I don’t?” You shrug lazily. “Hey, man, hate to break it to you but you’re not thubtle-“
A motherfucker didn’t up and like it too much, he cuts in, signing so fast and sloppy you almost can’t decipher it. He’s drunk too, you realise, just better at hiding it. Didn’t like it at all, fuck you, you're ignorant to- you don’t know shit.
“Sure, you ran out of there all fluck- fucking flustered cauthe you hated it,” you suggest, and get another one of those half-second simmering moments where you swear to god he’s going to attack you.
Just don’t be fucking pulling that motherfucking sacrilege again, he tells you. Fucking stay to kissing a motherfucker who’s all wanting that shit, dickhead.
You lean in a fraction, rage running hot in your blood. “Yeah, funny thing, I was and you orchestra- orchetraste- planned a stupid fucking interruption to stop me.”
KZ glares. You glare back.
A perspicacious brother might be all given to noting that a vampsis, concupiscent two-wheel or not, keeps her fucking fingers off brothers what’re taken, he finally spells out with painstaking slowness.
Your smirk drops and shatters at your feet. That’s- wow. Fuck him, he's going there?
Yeah, so Rufioh has a boyfriend. You didn’t know, but to be fair, you wouldn’t have given a shit if you did. He’s a grown ass person, he can make his own shitty decisions, and even if you’re expected to care about the moral implications or whatever, you don’t give a shit about Nitram or his boyfriend, whose name you can’t even fucking remember. You especially don’t give a shit about them now, with KZ’s eyes eating you up like hot coals and the air between you singing with tension. So, no, you don’t care if Nitram’s taken, and maybe that makes you a shitty person.
The thing is, though, you’ve always been a shitty person. KZ’s just never cared about that before. You’re self-aware enough to know you can be unusually amoral and cutthroat, sometimes, but so can he - it’s the reason you get along so well, the similarities and differences binding you together - and the friendship you have with him has nothing to do with morals. Him bringing this up now is-
Well, it’s shithead behaviour and you’re going to retaliate. If you weren’t so drunk, you’d probably be able to do something with how hollow his words sound, like even he knows there’s something else going on below the surface.
But you are drunk, and you’re bloodthirsty, and he’s such a dickbag. Analysis isn’t really on the table, right now.
“Oh, like you give a thhit.” You hiss, hot and furious. “You’re just pissed because you’re j-“
Don’t fucking say it, KZ signs - or maybe murmurs, you can’t tell - and suddenly there’s a cool hand pressed over your mouth.
You bite. You’re not a pet dog, you’re a rabid stray at best, and KZ’s blood is the only thing you like about him right now.
A second later, he pulls back, eyes wide and pupils dilated. Tuna-
“You’re just mad you didn’t get to punk- fuck, punch Nitram,” you barrel on. “What, are you scared I’m going to say he’th a better kisser than you?”
Kurloz’s whole body goes tense. Tuna, I don’t-
“At least he didn’t fucking runaway, so I guess he’s doing pretty fucking well, and he-“
You don’t see KZ stand until he’s already an inch away, his whole face carved with rage. He’s so tall, you have to tip your head up to meet his eyes, and you can feel the tension about to spill out of him. Ozone crackling in the air before lightning strikes. Your breath catches in your throat.
“Thought I told a brother to shut the fuck up,” he spits, words jagged and raspy and bristling with threatened violence.
“Yeah? Why don’t you fucking thhut me up then, you fucking coward?” You demand back, right up in his face. The smoky smell of him, usually calming, is enraging you into incoherency. “Why don’t you do something about it?”
His brows draw down as he presses closer, and then-
-the rubber band snaps. The scab rips.
“Know what, brother? You want to play motherfucking chicken?” Kurloz bares his teeth, hands lurching up to grab you by the face. “Let’s fucking play.”
Then, with beautiful inevitability, he yanks you forward into a kiss. KZ’s mouth is slick and hot and biting, and he kisses like he’s trying to hurt you - his hands are fucking huge, and he’s gripping your jaw so hard the bones grind, crushing you into him. It throbs, the hungry movement of his lips and the bruises being pressed into your skin. You freeze with a kind of disbelieving glee.
You can’t believe he finally did it. Holy shit, you can’t believe-
The next moment, Kurloz stumbles back, wiping his mouth with his hand and staring at you with wide, horrified eyes.
“F-“ you watch him struggle around the words, forcing them out like he does when he needs to sign but can’t. “Fuck. Fuck. I shouldn’t have up and fucking done that.”
You realise he’s staring at you, panting and out of breath, like he’s waiting for you to deck him. Instead, you laugh - something tight and painful is loosening in your chest, coiling into heat and a giddy kind of bloodlust.
“Jethus, man,” you say, and he flinches. “You’re so fucked up.”
“I-“
You’re laughing too hard to get any more words out, so you reach forward to pay back an eye for an eye; you grab his chin, force his face down, open his mouth with your own. Take your pound of flesh from his teeth and tongue. KZ lets out a choking noise, and you cackle against his skin, forcing him to lean down with a hand fisted in his hair so you don’t have to be on your toes the whole time.
“Tuna,” he gasps, and you suck his lip between your teeth and bite down. Blood bursts in your mouth, and oh, that’s good, that’s so good. He’s signing again, jerky movements: I don’t understand.
“Yeah you do.” You grasp his wrist, lick his fingers. His eyes go darker.
He knows you’re right.
From that point on, it’s just- it’s fucking electricity. It’s a bare-knuckle fight. Kurloz digs his nails into your back and you kick his legs apart, sliding between them. He tastes coppery and metallic, but beneath that is the taste of his flesh, of his underlying essence. You grab his throat and hold him still, licking into his mouth until you taste like him too; he groans, a strange rumble that you feel as much as hear, and your hips roll together almost on instinct. You’re on the same page, like you always are in the best moments, and you move more like one creature than two away from the door.
It’s kinda funny, because you really shouldn’t be winning any fight for dominance between you; Kurloz is so freaking tall, made of jagged lines and broken glass, with a strange dark kind of aloofness. But you are winning: you tug his hair hard enough that he hisses, eyes hooded, and lead him backwards towards the couch.
He fights you every step of the way. There’s something immensely satisfying about how fucking ineffectual it is, because you keep moving him and he keeps letting you. He’s stronger, but he’s also limited by how reluctant he is to hurt you. You, though? You don’t really think you could hurt him, so you’re a little more reckless.
Case in point: you squeeze ever so slightly at his neck as you kiss him, feeling his heartbeat pound out against your digits, until you’re in a convenient location. Then, as KZ twists his fingers into the cloth of your shirt, you sweep his feet out from under him with a vaguely haphazard manoeuvre.
It only works because he’s so surprised. You like that, too, the way you can surprise him. You’re the only person you know that gets to see Kurloz Makara like this, off-balance and wide-eyed as he stumbles.
You don’t give him time to catch his breath. Instead, your hands leave his throat to land heavy on his shoulders. You push slowly down, down, down, until wordlessly, he concedes.
Oh, you’re a fucking legend. Kurloz Makara, by the laws of fucking nature or some shit, should be incapable of kneeling down before anyone. But he is, and he’s breathing heavy, a darkening tint to his face.
You grin down at him sharply, grab the back of his neck, and press his face to your fly. Gay chicken, battle number god-only-knows. This is new, though. This is you - fully hard, jittery and high all over with the gold glint of victory - and him, and the way he’s not pulling away from you at all.
“Why don’t you find a use for that pretty mouth for once?”
Kurloz just looks upwards, the light glinting off his piercings like a cluster of stars, and blinks.
“You know what to do,” you tell him, with what can probably only be described as a leer.
He curls his lip at you, his familiar pride emerging from the glittery haze of horniness. Neither of you have ever been able to resist a challenge, after all; that's how you ended up here in the first place.
A moment later, fingers that aren’t your own are pulling your zip down. He doesn’t draw it out like you did, last time; Kurloz gets you out of your jeans fast, and you’re ideally positioned to see the way his gaze goes hot and unreadable when he looks at you. The next second, he’s leaning forward to mouth at your dick.
Even you’re surprised by the noise you make in response. You’re- you haven’t sucked someone off before, obviously, but you’ve been on the receiving end enough to be familiar with the sensation. KZ’s not even good at it - you can tell right away, from the look on his face as he slowly, slowly stretches his lips over your cock, that he’s never done this before.
Good.
But anyway, the basic mechanics of sucking dick aren’t hard to grasp. You’ve had a thousand better attempts before, and they were with girls, who you’re actually attracted to, and yet-
-and yet-
“Ohfuck.”
And yet, the unpracticed glide of his tongue over your dick is somehow the best thing you’ve ever felt. He’s got no clue how to do this, it shouldn’t be so hot, but jesus. The look on his face, defiance and helplessness and heat all at once as he kisses along your skin, and the way it feels to combine a battle won with the usual sex endorphins-
You are, among many things, kind of an asshole. It doesn’t help that KZ’d forgive you anything. That said, you give him roughly a minute to get used to licking at you, and then you use your grip on his hair to force him closer.
You wonder how much he can fit in his mouth. You wonder what his throat feels like.
KZ doesn’t push away when your dick hits the back of his throat, but his eyes do fly open. You keep smiling calmly, watching his eyes tear up and eyeliner start to streak.
“Not pulling out til I’m done,” you tell him lowly. “Relapse- relax your throat, yeah?”
Kurloz lets out another gaspy noise, and you play with his hair. It’s glossy and wild and perfect, and you like the idea of him writhing around on his knees as you pull it. You like the sight of those flat black eyes gazing up at you, the sight of Kurloz Makara choking on your cock.
You pull back for a second, watching a thin line of saliva connect your body to his. He tilts closer, chasing you, and you realise with a jolt that he’s enjoying himself as much as you are. He's good at hiding it, but he likes doing this. He hasn’t stopped looking at you once, even as you snap your hips against his jaw hard enough to make it click.
You draw back, let him adjust for a few moments, then slide all the way into his mouth. KZ sends you another startled look, then groans, and it’s. Fuck. You gotta get him to do that again. Now Kurloz’s found a rhythm, the overwhelming sensation of his mouth - the hot curl of his tongue next to the cold shock of its piercing - is one hell of an experience. You’re not going to last long.
“Good,” you mutter, and his ears go red.
Weirdly, you can't look away from him either - it's probably a power thing, the giddy glow of watching him kneel at your feet. His skull makeup is starting to blur around the edges. Tiny dark rivulets are snaking down his cheeks, his eyes wet, and it’s gorgeous. It’s everything you never pictured; it’s so fucking perfect, it makes you certain that this was meant to happen. One way or another, the two of you were made to do this.
You fuck into his mouth and Kurloz lets out the tiniest noise. He’s squirming in place, not just shifting weight as he accommodates for your fucking dick in his throat, but also like he doesn’t know where to put his hands. Cute.
You get too close, way too fast. Maybe it’s the feeling of triumph, or maybe it’s the sight of him. Maybe you just really like getting your dick sucked, or maybe you get off on watching him figure it out. You definitely like the expression on his face, glazed and desperate and hungry.
You come not long after, pale lines all over his face. You can’t fucking describe how good it is - you spark apart like a fork in a microwave. Your brain fizzles like a firework and you grip his throat hard enough to make him cough. Fuck yeah.
When the black spots clear from your vision, you glance down to appreciate the view. There’s jizz in KZ’s eyelashes (you win so much). There’s jizz on his lips, too, which are red and slick and swollen - oh, that’s sick, you’re saving that to memory.
For a second, you just stare at him, taken aback by a Kurloz Makara who’s too dreamy-eyed and dazed to snap you like a wishbone. Then you snort, crouching down to his level, and trace a finger over his lips.
He lets you slide your thumb into his mouth without protest, eyes fixed on you.
“Not bad,” you tell him, and mean it. “But nethxt time, you’re swallowing.”
KZ shudders, a sharp thing that threatens to pull his joints apart. You reach down to touch him - fair’s fair, and handjobs don’t count when you’re drunk - and he jerks, his eyes fluttering closed.
You press your hand against his dick, but even through the denim, you realise with giddy swoop that your assistance isn’t required. He- oh. Oh, okay. At some point during the last ten minutes of letting you fuck his face rough enough to restrict his air, KZ either gave in and started touching himself or came with no hands.
You crack a grin. You can’t help it. That’s normal, though; what’s slightly less normal is the way you lean in to kiss him again. And again. You can taste yourself on his tongue, which you think should be gross, but it mainly just tastes like success. Admittedly, making out with a guy who just blew you at 3am is kinda gay, but you’re drunk. It’s allowed.
Also, you just won gay chicken, at least for now. You have a thousand plausible reasons to be sucking a dark bruise into Kurloz’s neck, and none of them are that weird.
Eventually, you make it to the bathroom. He sits on the side of the bathtub while you get him his pretentious makeup wipes, and it’s another small glory in a night full of them: you’ve always enjoyed seeing him scrubbed clean and vulnerable, more human than usual. The heat of the water sends a dark flush into his skin, and you watch with satisfaction as it highlights all the broken capillaries in his neck.
“Y’re gonna- you’re gonna look like you got fucking mugged,” you slur out, and he shakes his head softly.
You fall asleep next to KZ, listening to him breathe.
He’s gone by the time you wake up.