yousei-san (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flair) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
metamorphosis2011-07-28 09:48 am
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2011-07-28 09:48 am
Entry tags:
252;
Title: spell
Characters: Spada Belforma, Luca Milda
Rating: R, NSFW on every level.
It's been a long time coming - finishing and posting this, that is.
“Geez, Luca! Make up your mind already! If you want somethin', come and get it! For cryin' out loud...”
Luca grits his teeth, curls his fingers into the lapels of Spada's jacket; it's hard to get what you want when you don't know what it is, and he's running through a list of things in his head. Once, twice, three times; it's not on there, and he's panicking on the inside (on the outside, too, pale and shaking a little, knuckles white and eyebrows furrowed) and Spada's frown deepens just a little, just a bit, but Luca can see it (feel it) despite his concentration (the years of his father hovering over him, watching his studies, is proof enough of that) and he panics harder, squeezing his eyes shut and feeling the tears of frustration well up at the edges of his eyes.
His grip doesn't relax, and he burrows his head into the crook of Spada's neck, yanking him closer and shifting uncomfortably when he feels arms circle around his waist (with some hesitation, and who could blame him?) and settle at the small of his back. The fingers drum quietly on each arm, as if he's still waiting for something, and Luca peeks up at him through his bangs. Spada rolls his eyes, shakes him a little (the friction causes both of them to tense up and pause, just for a moment, with red slowly creeping up their necks and Luca's behaving far worse around his ears, more than need be) and he gulps. He gulps and licks his lips and stretches up, just a little, and he kisses Spada Belforma, he kisses his best friend and he touches on the subject of it not feeling weird only briefly before Spada's pulling away a little, just enough to leave an inch of space between their lips and furrow his brows in confusion.
“That what you wanted, Luca?”
“I-- no, that's-- I don't know!”
The closeness (Spada's breath on his lips, dangerously close, maybe – probably – a little too close) sends jitters of a feeling he can't quite place, but it's a feeling that makes him bite his lip and keep his eyes closed; it's a feeling that makes his knees buckle when Spada (accidentally) brushes his lips against his, and it's a feeling that makes him lean back up to kiss him again, fingers slipping down his jacket until they hook onto the belt of it. Spada seems caught on how to act – he seems to hesitate in moving forward, instead moving away, but Luca tongues his bottom lip and he's all forward motion, as if caught up in a wind. Luca breaks it this time, when Spada's tongue slips over his and he shudders violently, jerking away and biting his own tongue. The taste of iron fills his mouth and he swallows it, shuddering again at the taste.
And he allows himself to think. Too many thoughts bombard him as soon as he opens his mind again; 'He won't be your friend anymore.' and 'You're an idiot.' are the loudest ones, screaming above the rest of them, and he feels the tears prick at his eyes again.
“I'm sorry, Spada, I didn't mean to--”
“Don't start cryin' just 'cause you can't kiss, Luca. S'nothin' to be ashamed about – 'cept if you can't kiss, you'll never get Iria. Chicks like that sort of thing.”
“I... yeah.”
It's better to leave it at that, isn't it? He starts to pull away but Spada doesn't let go of him, lacing his fingers together on the small of his back and grinning. It's mischievous and Luca doesn't know if he likes the look of it (except he does, and it burns and tears at his heart in helpless excitement and his mind doesn't give him a reason why even as he demands one) and he lets his eyes narrow, just a bit, softly – and Spada kisses him, caging him, little promises on his lips (the unspoken ones are the ones he says every time, the ones about being his shield and protecting him; the spoken ones are tiny ones placed with kisses like butterflies running down his jaw and settling just below his ear, the ones that say he'll teach him, he'll guide him, there's nothin' to worry about, Iria'd never laugh at him if he learned from a master like Spada) and he believes him, just a little, just because he wants to and he's afraid if he doesn't believe him he'll stop and he doesn't want it to stop because it feels good, it feels nice – as nice as being appreciated or worried over, no, even nicer than that; he feels like a bottle of fine wine, poured gently and tasted delicately though there's nothing delicate about the way Spada pushes him against the wall and tastes him, tongue flicking against his skin every kiss.
He doesn't know what to do this his hands; one second they're in Spada's hair, the next they're around his neck and then they're at his sides, and they dance like children eager to join in the fun; he finds something to do with them the second his jacket starts to come off (what are they doing anymore?) and Spada's fingers are dancing over the buttons of his shirt. He lets his fingers dance across Spada's shoulders, lets them help Spada's jacket off (it drops to the floor and Luca's doesn't, would never, because it's made of quality fabric and if it got dirtied his mother would ask questions and they both know it and neither wants to think about the answer right now) and hooks them onto the collar of his shirt, slipping down against the hard bone that feels so solid under soft skin (clavicles to sternum, panning out across the top four ribs that connect to it, strong and proud, both on and below pectoral muscles that stretch and constrict in harsh, pounding breaths, and he wonders if now really is the time to be using Spada as a study subject for his medical exams) and slipping the buttons open one by one. It isn't long before he has to stop because Spada's arms are in the way, and the reason they're in the way is because when he finishes the last button on Luca's shirt he hangs onto the hem of it, playing with the edge on each side of the parted cloth, and stares at the scar, visible under the opened shirt and a white, ugly line on his left side. He looks like he's sick or thinking or maybe both – in honesty, if they weren't in the position they were in now Luca'd make a joke, if not vocally then mentally, about Spada and thinking too hard – before he seems to shake it off and skip up to pushing as much of his shirt as he can off of him, trailing kisses and bites from the dip in his through up and across his left shoulder (bite, kiss, bite, kiss – pain, pleasure, pain, pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, pain) and Luca can't help it.
It is the singularly most embarrassing sound he's ever made; it is the singularly most embarrassing moment of his life to half-shout, half-whisper Spada's name and fumble with the buttons on his shirt. Spada laughs, breathy and easygoing as ever, against his skin, and goes back to his neck, rubbing circles and loosening Luca's shoulders in gentle movements, almost like a massage and he relaxes, and it's all so new and foreign (the feelings, the sensations, the everything-- it almost overwhelms him, the everything of it, and he wonders through a bleary head and an even blearier mind if Spada feels the same, if he's almost overwhelmed, too, but he guesses he'd never know, because Spada's not like that; he doesn't show when he's shaken and he doesn't shake when he's shown, and it's why Luca envies him (being able to stand in front of their group and direct them where to go, being able to stand up to anything without fear, being able to show what he wants, and the envy never fades, not quite, especially not now) and it takes him a moment, but he notices something; he notices something, and, even though he doesn't want it, a little smile creeps its way onto lips parted with rapid breaths. Spada's avoiding the scar, working his way around it rather than down it, even when he gets close, from his shoulders to his sides and to his hips (he's on his knees for that one and Luca jerks towards him and Spada jumps, just for a second, and then laughs and tells him to hold his horses, women like if it you take it slow with them) and back up, repeating the motion, and Luca thinks-- Luca thinks it's ridiculous.
It's just a scar, after all, and he doesn't know it means so much more to Spada, but he finishes unbuttoning Spada's shirt as soon as he comes back up (this was taking longer than necessary, with Spada going down and coming back up without care) and takes one of his hands and puts it to the scar. Spada stares at him quizzically, opening his mouth to speak and Luca shakes his head. He kisses him and understands as soon as a tongue runs across his lips and he opens his mouth; he understands, and when they close the kiss he mouths, “It isn't your fault,” and something goes off. Spada pulls away and won't look him in the eye; he watches the way the shirt hangs off of Luca instead, loose and meant for someone slightly bigger. He grits his teeth, just for a moment, then grins and rubs their noses together, eyes cast off to the side.
“What the hell you talkin' about, Luca?”
And then Spada moves with shaking hands to undo his pants and it's the first thing he notices, that Spada's hands are actually shaking now, and he wonders if he's ever done this before and guesses no, and he's shaking, too, because how does it even work, and then he can't think and he can't answer Spada's question and maybe he doesn't want to, because he'd rather have a calloused hand down his underwear, jacking him off, than an obvious answer to a stupid question. He whimpers (okay, that's the most embarrassing sound he's ever made) when Spada stops and tugs his underwear down the rest of the way and Luca's never felt more bare to the world until now. Red-faced and red-everything'd, the flush spreads across his body and he sees Spada licks his lips once, twice, before he helps Luca unbuckle his pants and kick them off, along with his shoes and socks. Luca's fingers tremble when he caresses Spada's face and Spada rolls his eyes, turns his head just enough to take one of Luca's fingers and suck on it. The response is instantaneous – Luca's the only book he'll ever read and that's because he's an easy read, all expressions and vocals the second something gets a rise out of him, but he never meant it quite this literally, and he laughs until Luca forgoes his clothing (let his mother ask questions!) and leans off the wall some, just enough to shrug off his top layers and undo his cravat (ah, that's what they were forgetting). He kisses Spada (there's the fire, again, the one that heats his blood and he can feel it heat Luca's, too, see it and hear it in the throaty little hitches that come with every breath) and steps out of everything else when he moves forward, and they're both naked and they don't really care and while Spada would prefer it against the wall, pulling Luca back and showing him how it's done (how is it done?) he lets Luca push him towards the bed and lets himself be pushed down onto it, slipping his arms around Luca's waist and honestly, he thought they were done with the formalities but Luca won't have it.
It’s because he thirsts for knowledge that he isn’t quite done with the formalities yet. He wants to know all the little spots on Spada, just like Spada knows all of his; despite his hesitance and slowness and the impatience that shines through the way Spada kisses him and grips his hips, it’s worth the reward of hearing (feeling, seeing, sensing) the way his breath hitches and the way his name’s caught on a hastily bitten tongue, only the first syllable making it past hastily zipped lips. Luca's lips pull up into the hints of a grin and he licks his lips and runs his fingernails down Spada's spine and across his hip. He counts the vertebrae as he does so – one, three, five, seven (cervical); eight, ten, thirteen, fifteen, seventeen, nineteen (thoracic); twenty, twenty-two, twenty-four (lumbar) – and a thousand almost names and perfect profanities crosses Spada's lips in the span in a moment, and he tries to get the upper hand again but it's too late; Luca's pinning his wrists against the bed and smiling. There's something too innocent about it, and in the pit of his stomach Spada wonders if he's corrupted something (no, not yet, he could still cut it short, could still stop while he's able to) and starts to open his mouth when Luca presses a finger to his mouth and shakes his head.
“Please?”
Spada's mouth shuts almost automatically at the too-sweet voice, and Luca's smile grows. He slips his fingers into Spada's hair and leans over to whisper in his ear every bone the draws his fingers over. First comes the skull; parietal on top, occipital on back, frontal in front, temporal on each side. Face bones next; zygomatics (“Cheekbones,” he whispers when Spada shoots him a questioning look, and he kisses the ridge of them on each side) and nasal, maxilla on top and jaw on the bottom - tracing the side of it with his thumb and laughing, bringing it up and smoothing it over the optical cavities inaccessible due to beautiful grey eyes inhabiting them; the fingers trace back down his throat and he lays kisses after them, pausing at Spada's clavicles (“Collarbones!”) and sitting up to view the rest he has to do. Straddled as he is on Spada's stomach, he knows he won't be able to get to Spada's legs, not yet, but those can wait; for now he returns to tracing a map of the skeletal system on Spada, fingerpads smoothing down into the dip of his collarbones and down the middle of his chest – his sternum – and spreading his fingers out to count the ribs under the strong muscle; the first one, he murmurs, is at clavicle level, and he kisses it and the spot just under them, the second rib; ribs three through seven get danced over by ghosting fingertips (“These are the true ribs, the ones that connect to the sternum. And the next five pairs are the false ribs, and the last two of those are floating ribs, only connected by the thoracic vertebrae.”) as do the rest, and he lays his palms flat on Spada's middle and sighs, looks up to the ceiling and adjusts his position to between Spada's legs.
It's-- okay, he knows it's majorly weird, especially now that he has to look Spada's dick in the face and realize he's doing this all naked, but he (fruitlessly) fights down a blush and draws two lines down Spada's sides, ignoring the look the green-haired boy's giving him. Luca grasps his hips and kisses them, once on each side, and starts murmuring names into the skin there instead. Spada can't hear a damn thing, and he can't decipher the lip movements while Luca traces the bone path around his side and just to the north of his junk, slipping down the decline when he breaths, ragged, and he doesn't know if Luca realizes it, but Luca is the biggest fucking tease in the world, moving his hand down the dip of his groin and completely ghosting over his balls to get to the otherside and slipping up the other dip. It's the pelvic area – Luca breathes it just over his skin, because at some point he realized Spada couldn't hear him yet still didn't realize that he doesn't give a flying fuck what it is--
Femur, Luca announces, spreading thin fingers over Spada's inner thigh and he knows he's shaking and Luca isn't, and he sits up just as Luca slips his hands between his own thighs and rectifies that situation immediately. He feels all kinds of dirty watching Luca arch up and shake, unabashed moans pouring from his lips like water out of a fountain, and when he tries to reach over and steady him Luca shoots him a look, and fuck, Spada's heart races as Luca strokes himself and hitches every little breath, every sound, every moan, every name, every word, every little thing and he can't hold it anymore. He grabs Luca's wrist and yanks him half-into his lap, crashes their lips together, knows somewhere in his mind that this entire thing has actually spiraled out of control from what he taunted Luca into and knows that now's way too late to stop it (but maybe it was too late then, too, and he didn't want to believe it) but Luca's writhing at his touch and hissing his name (“Spada, let me--”) and he isn't going to have it. Between kissing Luca's lips and kissing down his body (it switches off; lips, neck, lips, collarbones, lips, shoulder, lips, scar, lips, hips, lips, inner thigh--) there's not enough air in the room for the poor boy to breathe, much less space to move in; Spada's licking Luca's lips, pleading entrance and Luca allows it, wraps his arms around Spada's neck and bucks into him incessantly, needingly, and Spada cusses against open mouths and battling tongues and shit, there's really no words he can use to justify this (teenage hormones? boys fucking everything that moves? Luca being so fucking beautiful when he's between his legs and leaning over him and moaning, panting, hoarse as hell and saying his name every time their cocks touch, every time Spada kisses the soft, bright red skin unused to this kind of handling and this sort of touching and does his best to make him feel good?) so he doesn't try to justify it. It just is, he decides.
And he wants to see Luca squirm and breathe and struggle to keep his position on his hands and knees. There's some crude, weak, horrible part of him that makes him want to see it, and he traces dotted lines on Luca's stomach and kisses him again, feels him arch and runs his fingers through the soft silver hair and down his back. Luca shakes and stutters out breaths, slips forward on the bed and half-lays on him, half-kneels and kisses him, keeps his elbows and forearms on either side of Spada's head and moans too loudly, too boldly when Spada's hands slip down the side of his body and between the two of them. Red and white and pink all over; varying shades, the most vibrant on his face and fading as it spreads, and Spada tilts his head away just enough to view what he's got to handle before he's back to kissing him in short, quiet bursts he can't keep up with because his breath is shaking, too, and even though he's always been able to keep his composure it's hard to do like this; it's hard to keep it when you're jacking you and your best friend off, watching through half-lidded eyes every movement, every shake, feeling heat and fire and smelling sweat and tasting it, too, salty and warm, hearing every catch of breath and name caught in a throat –
though his name doesn't stay caught for long, because Luca's still a kid, in some ways; for what felt like minutes (hours) it's only been a few seconds before he comes, embarrassed at how easy he does, and apologizes for the mess; despite how tired he is and apologizes and apologizes and lays them with kisses down his neck and shoulder, his collarbones and the top of his arm, and the sight of him's almost enough to make Spada come, too, but he takes a little more work (makes himself take a little more work) before he does and they're both filthy and tired and smiling, that kind of weird, bursting, happy feeling you get after an act like this; Luca lays beside him and curls up against his side and murmurs it's endorphins, exhilaration from the rush and sight and sound and Spada rolls his eyes and murmurs for him to cut the medical crap and just shut up and enjoy the damn moment. He wants to let Luca sleep it off, head on his shoulder and arms tucked between them, but it's sticky and terrible and he kisses the top of his head before he slips out and sneaks to get something to clean up with. Short work of cleaning, though, with Luca as easy to manipulate with this fingers as putty when tired, and it's with reluctance he lets him curl back up against him. Spada's never been the time to just cuddle like this, but he's not about to just leave his best friend after-- after that, and he slips his arms around Luca's waist and thumbs little circles on his hip, thinking as Luca's breath slowly evens out and the rise and fall of his chest grows ever slower.
Characters: Spada Belforma, Luca Milda
Rating: R, NSFW on every level.
It's been a long time coming - finishing and posting this, that is.
“Geez, Luca! Make up your mind already! If you want somethin', come and get it! For cryin' out loud...”
Luca grits his teeth, curls his fingers into the lapels of Spada's jacket; it's hard to get what you want when you don't know what it is, and he's running through a list of things in his head. Once, twice, three times; it's not on there, and he's panicking on the inside (on the outside, too, pale and shaking a little, knuckles white and eyebrows furrowed) and Spada's frown deepens just a little, just a bit, but Luca can see it (feel it) despite his concentration (the years of his father hovering over him, watching his studies, is proof enough of that) and he panics harder, squeezing his eyes shut and feeling the tears of frustration well up at the edges of his eyes.
His grip doesn't relax, and he burrows his head into the crook of Spada's neck, yanking him closer and shifting uncomfortably when he feels arms circle around his waist (with some hesitation, and who could blame him?) and settle at the small of his back. The fingers drum quietly on each arm, as if he's still waiting for something, and Luca peeks up at him through his bangs. Spada rolls his eyes, shakes him a little (the friction causes both of them to tense up and pause, just for a moment, with red slowly creeping up their necks and Luca's behaving far worse around his ears, more than need be) and he gulps. He gulps and licks his lips and stretches up, just a little, and he kisses Spada Belforma, he kisses his best friend and he touches on the subject of it not feeling weird only briefly before Spada's pulling away a little, just enough to leave an inch of space between their lips and furrow his brows in confusion.
“That what you wanted, Luca?”
“I-- no, that's-- I don't know!”
The closeness (Spada's breath on his lips, dangerously close, maybe – probably – a little too close) sends jitters of a feeling he can't quite place, but it's a feeling that makes him bite his lip and keep his eyes closed; it's a feeling that makes his knees buckle when Spada (accidentally) brushes his lips against his, and it's a feeling that makes him lean back up to kiss him again, fingers slipping down his jacket until they hook onto the belt of it. Spada seems caught on how to act – he seems to hesitate in moving forward, instead moving away, but Luca tongues his bottom lip and he's all forward motion, as if caught up in a wind. Luca breaks it this time, when Spada's tongue slips over his and he shudders violently, jerking away and biting his own tongue. The taste of iron fills his mouth and he swallows it, shuddering again at the taste.
And he allows himself to think. Too many thoughts bombard him as soon as he opens his mind again; 'He won't be your friend anymore.' and 'You're an idiot.' are the loudest ones, screaming above the rest of them, and he feels the tears prick at his eyes again.
“I'm sorry, Spada, I didn't mean to--”
“Don't start cryin' just 'cause you can't kiss, Luca. S'nothin' to be ashamed about – 'cept if you can't kiss, you'll never get Iria. Chicks like that sort of thing.”
“I... yeah.”
It's better to leave it at that, isn't it? He starts to pull away but Spada doesn't let go of him, lacing his fingers together on the small of his back and grinning. It's mischievous and Luca doesn't know if he likes the look of it (except he does, and it burns and tears at his heart in helpless excitement and his mind doesn't give him a reason why even as he demands one) and he lets his eyes narrow, just a bit, softly – and Spada kisses him, caging him, little promises on his lips (the unspoken ones are the ones he says every time, the ones about being his shield and protecting him; the spoken ones are tiny ones placed with kisses like butterflies running down his jaw and settling just below his ear, the ones that say he'll teach him, he'll guide him, there's nothin' to worry about, Iria'd never laugh at him if he learned from a master like Spada) and he believes him, just a little, just because he wants to and he's afraid if he doesn't believe him he'll stop and he doesn't want it to stop because it feels good, it feels nice – as nice as being appreciated or worried over, no, even nicer than that; he feels like a bottle of fine wine, poured gently and tasted delicately though there's nothing delicate about the way Spada pushes him against the wall and tastes him, tongue flicking against his skin every kiss.
He doesn't know what to do this his hands; one second they're in Spada's hair, the next they're around his neck and then they're at his sides, and they dance like children eager to join in the fun; he finds something to do with them the second his jacket starts to come off (what are they doing anymore?) and Spada's fingers are dancing over the buttons of his shirt. He lets his fingers dance across Spada's shoulders, lets them help Spada's jacket off (it drops to the floor and Luca's doesn't, would never, because it's made of quality fabric and if it got dirtied his mother would ask questions and they both know it and neither wants to think about the answer right now) and hooks them onto the collar of his shirt, slipping down against the hard bone that feels so solid under soft skin (clavicles to sternum, panning out across the top four ribs that connect to it, strong and proud, both on and below pectoral muscles that stretch and constrict in harsh, pounding breaths, and he wonders if now really is the time to be using Spada as a study subject for his medical exams) and slipping the buttons open one by one. It isn't long before he has to stop because Spada's arms are in the way, and the reason they're in the way is because when he finishes the last button on Luca's shirt he hangs onto the hem of it, playing with the edge on each side of the parted cloth, and stares at the scar, visible under the opened shirt and a white, ugly line on his left side. He looks like he's sick or thinking or maybe both – in honesty, if they weren't in the position they were in now Luca'd make a joke, if not vocally then mentally, about Spada and thinking too hard – before he seems to shake it off and skip up to pushing as much of his shirt as he can off of him, trailing kisses and bites from the dip in his through up and across his left shoulder (bite, kiss, bite, kiss – pain, pleasure, pain, pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, pain) and Luca can't help it.
It is the singularly most embarrassing sound he's ever made; it is the singularly most embarrassing moment of his life to half-shout, half-whisper Spada's name and fumble with the buttons on his shirt. Spada laughs, breathy and easygoing as ever, against his skin, and goes back to his neck, rubbing circles and loosening Luca's shoulders in gentle movements, almost like a massage and he relaxes, and it's all so new and foreign (the feelings, the sensations, the everything-- it almost overwhelms him, the everything of it, and he wonders through a bleary head and an even blearier mind if Spada feels the same, if he's almost overwhelmed, too, but he guesses he'd never know, because Spada's not like that; he doesn't show when he's shaken and he doesn't shake when he's shown, and it's why Luca envies him (being able to stand in front of their group and direct them where to go, being able to stand up to anything without fear, being able to show what he wants, and the envy never fades, not quite, especially not now) and it takes him a moment, but he notices something; he notices something, and, even though he doesn't want it, a little smile creeps its way onto lips parted with rapid breaths. Spada's avoiding the scar, working his way around it rather than down it, even when he gets close, from his shoulders to his sides and to his hips (he's on his knees for that one and Luca jerks towards him and Spada jumps, just for a second, and then laughs and tells him to hold his horses, women like if it you take it slow with them) and back up, repeating the motion, and Luca thinks-- Luca thinks it's ridiculous.
It's just a scar, after all, and he doesn't know it means so much more to Spada, but he finishes unbuttoning Spada's shirt as soon as he comes back up (this was taking longer than necessary, with Spada going down and coming back up without care) and takes one of his hands and puts it to the scar. Spada stares at him quizzically, opening his mouth to speak and Luca shakes his head. He kisses him and understands as soon as a tongue runs across his lips and he opens his mouth; he understands, and when they close the kiss he mouths, “It isn't your fault,” and something goes off. Spada pulls away and won't look him in the eye; he watches the way the shirt hangs off of Luca instead, loose and meant for someone slightly bigger. He grits his teeth, just for a moment, then grins and rubs their noses together, eyes cast off to the side.
“What the hell you talkin' about, Luca?”
And then Spada moves with shaking hands to undo his pants and it's the first thing he notices, that Spada's hands are actually shaking now, and he wonders if he's ever done this before and guesses no, and he's shaking, too, because how does it even work, and then he can't think and he can't answer Spada's question and maybe he doesn't want to, because he'd rather have a calloused hand down his underwear, jacking him off, than an obvious answer to a stupid question. He whimpers (okay, that's the most embarrassing sound he's ever made) when Spada stops and tugs his underwear down the rest of the way and Luca's never felt more bare to the world until now. Red-faced and red-everything'd, the flush spreads across his body and he sees Spada licks his lips once, twice, before he helps Luca unbuckle his pants and kick them off, along with his shoes and socks. Luca's fingers tremble when he caresses Spada's face and Spada rolls his eyes, turns his head just enough to take one of Luca's fingers and suck on it. The response is instantaneous – Luca's the only book he'll ever read and that's because he's an easy read, all expressions and vocals the second something gets a rise out of him, but he never meant it quite this literally, and he laughs until Luca forgoes his clothing (let his mother ask questions!) and leans off the wall some, just enough to shrug off his top layers and undo his cravat (ah, that's what they were forgetting). He kisses Spada (there's the fire, again, the one that heats his blood and he can feel it heat Luca's, too, see it and hear it in the throaty little hitches that come with every breath) and steps out of everything else when he moves forward, and they're both naked and they don't really care and while Spada would prefer it against the wall, pulling Luca back and showing him how it's done (how is it done?) he lets Luca push him towards the bed and lets himself be pushed down onto it, slipping his arms around Luca's waist and honestly, he thought they were done with the formalities but Luca won't have it.
It’s because he thirsts for knowledge that he isn’t quite done with the formalities yet. He wants to know all the little spots on Spada, just like Spada knows all of his; despite his hesitance and slowness and the impatience that shines through the way Spada kisses him and grips his hips, it’s worth the reward of hearing (feeling, seeing, sensing) the way his breath hitches and the way his name’s caught on a hastily bitten tongue, only the first syllable making it past hastily zipped lips. Luca's lips pull up into the hints of a grin and he licks his lips and runs his fingernails down Spada's spine and across his hip. He counts the vertebrae as he does so – one, three, five, seven (cervical); eight, ten, thirteen, fifteen, seventeen, nineteen (thoracic); twenty, twenty-two, twenty-four (lumbar) – and a thousand almost names and perfect profanities crosses Spada's lips in the span in a moment, and he tries to get the upper hand again but it's too late; Luca's pinning his wrists against the bed and smiling. There's something too innocent about it, and in the pit of his stomach Spada wonders if he's corrupted something (no, not yet, he could still cut it short, could still stop while he's able to) and starts to open his mouth when Luca presses a finger to his mouth and shakes his head.
“Please?”
Spada's mouth shuts almost automatically at the too-sweet voice, and Luca's smile grows. He slips his fingers into Spada's hair and leans over to whisper in his ear every bone the draws his fingers over. First comes the skull; parietal on top, occipital on back, frontal in front, temporal on each side. Face bones next; zygomatics (“Cheekbones,” he whispers when Spada shoots him a questioning look, and he kisses the ridge of them on each side) and nasal, maxilla on top and jaw on the bottom - tracing the side of it with his thumb and laughing, bringing it up and smoothing it over the optical cavities inaccessible due to beautiful grey eyes inhabiting them; the fingers trace back down his throat and he lays kisses after them, pausing at Spada's clavicles (“Collarbones!”) and sitting up to view the rest he has to do. Straddled as he is on Spada's stomach, he knows he won't be able to get to Spada's legs, not yet, but those can wait; for now he returns to tracing a map of the skeletal system on Spada, fingerpads smoothing down into the dip of his collarbones and down the middle of his chest – his sternum – and spreading his fingers out to count the ribs under the strong muscle; the first one, he murmurs, is at clavicle level, and he kisses it and the spot just under them, the second rib; ribs three through seven get danced over by ghosting fingertips (“These are the true ribs, the ones that connect to the sternum. And the next five pairs are the false ribs, and the last two of those are floating ribs, only connected by the thoracic vertebrae.”) as do the rest, and he lays his palms flat on Spada's middle and sighs, looks up to the ceiling and adjusts his position to between Spada's legs.
It's-- okay, he knows it's majorly weird, especially now that he has to look Spada's dick in the face and realize he's doing this all naked, but he (fruitlessly) fights down a blush and draws two lines down Spada's sides, ignoring the look the green-haired boy's giving him. Luca grasps his hips and kisses them, once on each side, and starts murmuring names into the skin there instead. Spada can't hear a damn thing, and he can't decipher the lip movements while Luca traces the bone path around his side and just to the north of his junk, slipping down the decline when he breaths, ragged, and he doesn't know if Luca realizes it, but Luca is the biggest fucking tease in the world, moving his hand down the dip of his groin and completely ghosting over his balls to get to the otherside and slipping up the other dip. It's the pelvic area – Luca breathes it just over his skin, because at some point he realized Spada couldn't hear him yet still didn't realize that he doesn't give a flying fuck what it is--
Femur, Luca announces, spreading thin fingers over Spada's inner thigh and he knows he's shaking and Luca isn't, and he sits up just as Luca slips his hands between his own thighs and rectifies that situation immediately. He feels all kinds of dirty watching Luca arch up and shake, unabashed moans pouring from his lips like water out of a fountain, and when he tries to reach over and steady him Luca shoots him a look, and fuck, Spada's heart races as Luca strokes himself and hitches every little breath, every sound, every moan, every name, every word, every little thing and he can't hold it anymore. He grabs Luca's wrist and yanks him half-into his lap, crashes their lips together, knows somewhere in his mind that this entire thing has actually spiraled out of control from what he taunted Luca into and knows that now's way too late to stop it (but maybe it was too late then, too, and he didn't want to believe it) but Luca's writhing at his touch and hissing his name (“Spada, let me--”) and he isn't going to have it. Between kissing Luca's lips and kissing down his body (it switches off; lips, neck, lips, collarbones, lips, shoulder, lips, scar, lips, hips, lips, inner thigh--) there's not enough air in the room for the poor boy to breathe, much less space to move in; Spada's licking Luca's lips, pleading entrance and Luca allows it, wraps his arms around Spada's neck and bucks into him incessantly, needingly, and Spada cusses against open mouths and battling tongues and shit, there's really no words he can use to justify this (teenage hormones? boys fucking everything that moves? Luca being so fucking beautiful when he's between his legs and leaning over him and moaning, panting, hoarse as hell and saying his name every time their cocks touch, every time Spada kisses the soft, bright red skin unused to this kind of handling and this sort of touching and does his best to make him feel good?) so he doesn't try to justify it. It just is, he decides.
And he wants to see Luca squirm and breathe and struggle to keep his position on his hands and knees. There's some crude, weak, horrible part of him that makes him want to see it, and he traces dotted lines on Luca's stomach and kisses him again, feels him arch and runs his fingers through the soft silver hair and down his back. Luca shakes and stutters out breaths, slips forward on the bed and half-lays on him, half-kneels and kisses him, keeps his elbows and forearms on either side of Spada's head and moans too loudly, too boldly when Spada's hands slip down the side of his body and between the two of them. Red and white and pink all over; varying shades, the most vibrant on his face and fading as it spreads, and Spada tilts his head away just enough to view what he's got to handle before he's back to kissing him in short, quiet bursts he can't keep up with because his breath is shaking, too, and even though he's always been able to keep his composure it's hard to do like this; it's hard to keep it when you're jacking you and your best friend off, watching through half-lidded eyes every movement, every shake, feeling heat and fire and smelling sweat and tasting it, too, salty and warm, hearing every catch of breath and name caught in a throat –
though his name doesn't stay caught for long, because Luca's still a kid, in some ways; for what felt like minutes (hours) it's only been a few seconds before he comes, embarrassed at how easy he does, and apologizes for the mess; despite how tired he is and apologizes and apologizes and lays them with kisses down his neck and shoulder, his collarbones and the top of his arm, and the sight of him's almost enough to make Spada come, too, but he takes a little more work (makes himself take a little more work) before he does and they're both filthy and tired and smiling, that kind of weird, bursting, happy feeling you get after an act like this; Luca lays beside him and curls up against his side and murmurs it's endorphins, exhilaration from the rush and sight and sound and Spada rolls his eyes and murmurs for him to cut the medical crap and just shut up and enjoy the damn moment. He wants to let Luca sleep it off, head on his shoulder and arms tucked between them, but it's sticky and terrible and he kisses the top of his head before he slips out and sneaks to get something to clean up with. Short work of cleaning, though, with Luca as easy to manipulate with this fingers as putty when tired, and it's with reluctance he lets him curl back up against him. Spada's never been the time to just cuddle like this, but he's not about to just leave his best friend after-- after that, and he slips his arms around Luca's waist and thumbs little circles on his hip, thinking as Luca's breath slowly evens out and the rise and fall of his chest grows ever slower.