Work Text:
Palm tastes like lemon candies, sweeter than sour.
Nuengdiao licks into his mouth, selfish of the taste of him, the feel of him. He is warm and solid, all smooth skin and sharp planes, and all Nuengdiao wants to do is keep Palm here, at the edge of the bed; wants, more than is considered safe and sane, to kiss him all day, every day—to never part, to control and love and breathe each other in as if each tick of time is solely for them.
“Nueng…” Palm murmurs, soft, muddled into the kiss, against Nuengidiao’s lips; and it’s dizzying, the way Nuengdiao’s body shakes, trembling against his own, how Palm can feel his breath catch, his skin burning. He’s got his hands on Nuengdiao’s hips, clutching and grabbing and keeping him close, and then Palm feels teeth at his bottom lip, feels a tongue swipe along his upper lip, and then the warmth of the kiss is gone, but he can still feel Nuengdiao’s breath, warm and moist against his mouth. Palm leans back, lifting his arms as his boyfriend grabs the hem of his shirt, up, up and over his head and onto the floor, and Palm can’t help but say his name again, simply because he can, because he’s allowed: “Nueng.”
Nuengdiao tilts his head, just as adoring as he is overwhelmed. Palm is half-shrouded in purple light, handsome and perfect with his wide eyes and his plush, swollen mouth, and Nuengdiao cannot help but wonder if Palm sees the same, if he thinks the same, with his head tilted back and his eyes never once leaving the space he occupies. His hand is shaking, just barely, just enough to be noticeable only to him and not in the dark of the room.
“Lie back,” Nuengdiao orders, breathless, already so strung with his hand to the warmth of Palm’s chest, right over the rapid beat of his heart—and Nuengdiao follows, helpless to the pull as Palm scoots back onto the bed, as he lies down, his eyes trained to the shadowed form of love above him. Nuengdiao is quick to lean in, to tilt his head opposite of Palm’s; to open his mouth and breathe him in, to kiss him with a desperate, sweet sort of fervor that mirrors that of his own heart, and it comes as no surprise to him, that Palm kisses him back in earnest, his heart bare and turned inside out all for Nuengdiao’s viewing. “You’re so good to me, Palm,” Nuengdiao murmurs, soft and praising between each kiss. “You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you?”
Palm groans, rough and raw into the kiss, his breathless agreement spoken into Nuengdiao’s mouth, soft and sweet and true, truer than possibly anything he’s ever promised to anyone before, that yes, yes—he would do anything, for Nuengdiao. He would kill and fight and bleed for him, follow his beck and call; he would kneel in front of him, bare or otherwise, and he would praise him, love him, and he would learn languages just to speak of his kindness and his heart, his eyes and his smile, his love and his duty. Palm’s dizzy with it, the onslaught of his affection, the rush that consumes him. He tilts his head, kissing and nipping and licking at Nuengdiao’s mouth, his quiet, muddled chants of yes, yes, Nueng, yes, lost in the kiss—and he takes, and he gives, and he keeps everything the boy on top of him offers him and more. Palm is eager to swallow Nuengdiao’s noises and the breathy little groans that only seem to get shorter and higher once Palm shifts, slotting his leg in between Nuengdiao’s.
“Palm,” Nuengdiao gasps, breathless into the kiss that isn’t quite a kiss, anymore—and he cannot help but stay close, can’t help but simply breathe Palm in and feel the warmth that radiates off of him. His ears are ringing. His heart is pounding. He feels choked, each moan that leaves him loud and ragged as he grinds against the thigh between his legs. Nuengdiao has never felt as hopeless as he does now: so free, so boundless and light as if the world has stopped moving, as if he has simply kept going, his wants and his needs lawless in light of how fiercely he feels them. “I want... P-Palm, I want you to—“ want me, Nuengdiao thinks, dazed and wanton and half crazy with every single little thing he feels, I want you to kiss me, to push me, to grab me and shake me and tell me you want to run away with me.
“Anything,” Palm murmurs, vehement and quiet to Nuengdiao’s throat, who shivers at the feel of tongue and teeth and lips at his neck. “Anything.”
“Please,” Nuengdiao says, more of a gasping, high breath than it is a solid plea. He’s shaking. He knows Palm can feel it, knows Palm can hear it in his voice, but Nuengdiao doesn’t try to hide it. Nuengdiao doesn’t want to be strong, or fearless, or anything other than a boy in love—because he is, he is. “Don’t be careful with me, Palm,” Nuengdiao whispers, his voice low and trembling and barely audible, but Nuengdiao knows Palm hears him—knows that he does, even in his deepest thoughts, his darkest dreams. “Because I—“
Palm kisses him, hushing him with love and a wet, long lave of a tongue into his mouth, and Nuengdiao cannot stop the moan that leaves him, the sound caught high and sweet and shameless between them. He kisses Nuengdiao like he’s starving, hungry; like he’s neither here nor there nor anywhere, tethered to the bed and the feel of the boy above him, his warmth and his shaking body. Palm kisses Nuengdiao until static fuzzes at the edge of his vision, until his lips are numb, until his mouth is red and his throat is dry, until it hurts so good and so much that it would be all the more painful just to stop.
“I told you, Nueng,” Palm whispers, his voice gone hoarse as he cranes his neck up, one last time to kiss the boy above him, and then he’s gently rolling them over, laying his body over the strong, lithe line of Nuengdiao’s own—and he looks so good here, beneath him: all pliant and wide-eyed and soft, so boyish; a dream in a dream, a place to finally fully be. Palm ducks his head, lips to Nuengdiao’s forehead as his hand trails down and in between their bodies, his fingers catching in the buttons of Nuengdiao’s shirt and popping them open as he says again, again: “Anything.”
Nuengdiao laughs, loud and sudden, straight from the heart—and Palm doesn’t think he’s ever heard him laugh like that, before: so carefree and light, with his mouth upturned and his eyes glinting in the dim lighting of the room, bright and shy. Palm stares down at him, wide-eyed and loose lipped, urged downward by Nuengdiao’s hands at his back, along his ribs, down his sides and to his hips—closer, closer, as if there isn’t already barely any room left between them. Nuengdiao tilts his chin up, spreads his legs a little wider to welcome Palm closer, and Palm feels dizzy with how it feels, to be pressed against Nuengdiao the way he is, to have his lips slotted against Nuengdiao’s the way they are, to have his heart open and raw, his breath sealed and trapped and stolen yet given, all the same.
“I know. I know, Palm,” Nuengdiao says, weak and muffled, muddled into the kiss with his hands at Palm’s sides—urging him closer, into one, as one. Palm’s hand is warm, soft against his stomach, the curve and knobs of his ribs, and Nuengdiao wants nothing but more, more, until he’s full of it, rendered helpless and thoughtless and damn near breathless with the push and pull of their mouths and their bodies, each touch and every little kiss. Nuengdiao arches up, pressing himself up and into Palm’s warmth and the heavy, reassuring weight of him as he says, just a little desperate, a little more than breathless with the confined, hard line of his cock pressed to Palm’s hip, “I love you. I like you. You’re so… You’re too good to me, for me.”
“I want to be,” Palm tells him, soft and quick, quiet, unwilling to disturb the air around them, the moment and the love and the buzzing, hot blanket of tension that’s been veiled over them ever since they kissed out on the patio, sweet and heavy, the ghost of something they’ve only barely touched upon, until now. He slips his hand down Nuengdiao’s body; lower, slow—slow enough to allow Nuengdiao time to tell him no, to stop him, but low enough for him to realize he wants it: this, him, them. “I like you. I love you, khun Nueng,” Palm murmurs, faint between them, hung in the air like a promise. He tilts his head, wanting so much to just give and take and be despite how he feels like he’ll fumble. “I want to be good to you… for you. I want to do whatever it is you want me to do. I want it to be me.”
Nuengdiao blinks, wide-eyed and so, so pink in the face with the faint lights from the window reflecting in his eyes like stars—so pretty, so bright—and Palm cannot help it, cannot hope to contain it. He leans in, one more time, uncaring of everything and anything but this, him, them as he kisses him; as he crowds in closer, the pull almost gravitational in its lull; as he slips his hand down, further, bolder, the palm of his hand a firm, balmy weight to the slight give of Nuengdiao’s lower belly, right above the button of his shorts. Palm swallows the noise that sounds from the back of Nuengdiao’s throat, soft and raw and garbled before he’s easing away, just shy of breathless with the warmth of his skin a match to his boyfriend’s own.
“Nueng…” Palm trails off, quiet and hovering, each breath that leaves him shakier, quicker than the last—and he would think it impossible, for the boy beneath him to get even prettier than he already is, but as Palm watches the way Nuengdiao’s lips part on a small noise, hardly anything at all, he comes to find he’s still wrong about a lot of things. Palm feels his heart in his throat, lodged there along with his love and his wants and his stupid, stupid hopes of their future, but it doesn’t at all stop him from shifting, doesn’t stop him from pressing his body against Nuengdiao’s, from letting the shrouded, soft form of love beneath him to feel just how much he wants—and he feels it, knows it, can see how much Nuengdiao wants, too, in the widening of his eyes and the sweet, slight part of his mouth. “Nueng,” he murmurs, still quiet, still shaky, but no less affectionate and true as he says again, “I want it to be me.”
Nuengdiao stares up at him, the noise that leaves him now light and airy, breathless and quiet—more of a huff of breath than anything else, but still, Palm finds himself clinging onto the noise and the way Nuengdiao’s mouth twitches upward, slow like nightfall, hesitant like newfound love. “Palm,” he says, barely above a whisper, yet Palm still hears him, clear as day—even over the restlessness of the wind and the pounding of his own heart in his ears, loud like a beating drum, Palm still hears him, sees him, understands him. Palm watches as Nuengdiao shifts, slow in each movement as his hips tilt up, as he fits the two of them together like pieces to a puzzle, snug and right, and Nuengdiao barely holds back the noise that bubbles up at the back of his throat as he murmurs softly, “It’s you. It’ll always be you.”
Palm feels his breath shake, his heart nothing but an off beat thud in his chest, shaking him from the inside out. He can’t think. He can barely even breathe, pulled into Nuengdiao’s innermost atmosphere as he is, as he’s always been, since the start of it all, the first time their eyes met. Palm wants. He loves. His hand slides down, just a little more, over taut fabric and the feel of Nuengdiao’s dick, hard and heavy, and it’s too much, the way his legs spread wider the firmer Palm’s touch grows—the way his head tilts, just a bit, their lips catching, their breath mingling. “Fuck,” Palm whispers, barely audible as his chest heaves with each quick, short breath that leaves him. “Nueng, I… Can I—?”
Nuengdiao’s nodding before Palm even finishes speaking, quick and desperate as he gasps out a string of yes, Palm, yes—and he tries not to let it get to his head, the way Palm visibly shakes and curses under his breath as he eases away from him, his shoulders and his hands trembling with something that Nuengdiao feels at the heart of his heart, the center of his soul. Nuengdiao’s wide-eyed as he follows Palm up, and up, his back curving, arching, his shoulders straightening as Palm slips the shirt right off his shoulders before tossing it to the side, unashamed and open as he stares. Palm’s eyes are huge, wide; his pupils are blown black in the dark, watchful, just as his hands are careful and quick to rid of clothing.
Nuengdiao laughs, high and trembling as Palm’s hand comes up to splay at his bare chest, right over his heart, warm and insistent and gentle, urging him to lay back, back onto the bed, and Nuengdiao goes, willingly, lovingly, the sight of skin and skin and skin veiled in muted, purple light before him dizzying, staggering in the way it shadows their bodies—and he would think it too much, the way Palm touches him, the way he looks at him, if he hadn’t already known just how much love and affection is nestled there, in each touch and every small, fleeting look. Nuengdiao’s eyes are lidded, his breath quick and sharp, his skin and his bones and his heart hyperaware of every move Palm makes, every single little noise he makes, and all Nuengdiao can do is try not to lose himself in it, the way it feels and the way it is, as Palm’s fingers settle at the waistband of his shorts and the clasp of the smooth, silver button below his navel until finally, finally, Palm’s tugging at his clothing, and Nuengdiao’s lifting his hips, his breath quicker, shakier and sharper as his cock is exposed to the cool air and the warmth of Palm’s hand.
“Palm,” Nuengdiao whispers, hoarse as his hips jerk upward, beyond his control and into Palm’s hand, the warmth and the want and the need he feels a carnal, visceral thing that he’s never quite experienced before—before him, before Palm, before this boy came from the shorelines and made a home for himself inside Nuengdiao’s heart, his soul, his life. Palm is all warm, smooth skin and softened, sharp lines before him, and he is hopeless, helpless as he reaches out, as he spreads his legs and coaxes Palm closer, skin to skin, heart to heart, and it feels something like a homecoming, Nuengdiao thinks, the way it is to have Palm soft and warm against him, alive, here. He can feel every inch of the boy who has vowed to love him and protect him and die with him, and fuck, Nuengdiao thinks, his heart loud in his ears and his lungs a tangled, tight mess in his chest, fuck.
“Good, khun Nueng?” Palm asks, soft—slow as he touches the boy below him, as he strokes up Nuengdiao’s cock the way he's thought about doing for days, weeks, and it’s somehow dirtier, calling out to him with an honorific, his title. He feels Nuengdiao’s mouth open against his skin, feels his breath hot and moist and shaky at his shoulder—and it goes straight through him, the tiny, breathless noises that he’s being given and the way Nuengdiao’s legs spread wider, wider as Palm touches him, his hand a smooth, effortless glide from base to tip. “Khun Nueng,” Palm says, his breath quick and sharp as his ears pick up the loud, slick sound of his hand on Nuengdiao’s dick. He slows on the stroke upward, twisting his wrist slightly before thumbing at the wet, sticky head of Nuengdiao’s cock, spreading the wetness that beads there at the slit downward as he asks again, with a brief glance in between them, just to watch, just to see, “Good?”
Nuengdiao groans, soft to the shape of Palm’s shoulder; quiet and shaken and spent, lost in the feel and the warmth and the pressure, the sound. He tilts his head, pressing his mouth to the curve that shapes Palm’s neck, loving, sweet, and he hopes that he lasts, hopes that it’s forever, hopes that this will always be something, everything to them: this, him, the two of them; and he can’t think, he can hardly even breathe, unable to remember left from right and why they’re even here, hidden far, far away from people that want to hurt them, as Palm’s lips press to his sweaty temple, as Palm’s hand tightens at the base of his cock, as Palm’s hand strokes upward, twisting, his thumb catching and rubbing at the head of his cock. Palm’s touch is so gentle, firm and sweet, and it’s all Nuengdiao can do not to come undone, to not beg and sigh and demand and bite into the soft, tender flesh of Palm’s shoulder just to suck a bruise there that’ll last for days, weeks, so deep and dark that there’s no way he’ll be able to go around without a shirt, the mark of his ownership will be so prominent, so dark, so pretty as it is hidden against golden skin, and—fuck, Nuengdiao thinks, his breath shaky, his limbs trembling.
“Please, khun Nueng,” Palm murmurs. “Answer me.”
“I—It’s good,” he gasps, choked and muffled to the soft, warm skin of Palm’s shoulder as he’s touched, as Palm touches him, slick and smooth and fuck, it’s too much, it’s too good, it sounds so wet. “Palm,” Nuengdiao rasps, the name ebbing off on a garbled, breathless moan as his cock jerks in Palm’s hand, as the slick, wet sound between them grows louder, wetter—and Nuengdiao shakes, and he shakes, his heart hammering in his ears as his eyes widen in on the sight of Palm’s hand on his cock, on the ruddy, red head of his own dick disappearing into Palm’s grip, again, again. He feels his breath falter, the muscles of his stomach tightening, anticipating. “Fuck,” Nuengdiao groans, the sound softening on a moan. “You—You’re so good, Palm, so, so good, a-and—f-fuck, you’re all for me, just for me.”
Palm feels himself shake, his heart stuttering, faltering as the air in his lungs is taken from him in one single, fell swoop. He’s seeing stars, bright and glittering in the muted, purple light around them despite the fact it isn’t at all entirely dark, despite the fact his eyes are wide, his pupils blown blacker than the sky outside regardless of the moon that hangs there. “Nueng,” Palm murmurs, soft and low and god, he feels as shaken and spent and as torn as Nuengdiao looks, all disheveled and sweaty and red in the face with his shorts unbuttoned and bunched down to his thighs, his chest and his arms bare and warm and pretty and his. “It’s good?” he asks, his voice hoarse, gravelly as the praise, as little and simple as it is, pools hot and heavy in the pit of his stomach, at the base of his spine. “I’m good, khun Nueng?”
“Y—Yes. Yes.” Nuengdiao groans as he nods, over and over, jerky, sharp little motions more than anything else, but he cannot hope to stop it; his tongue is tied, his heart is skipping and skipping and skipping as he gasps, as the noises turn and fade into garbled, choked little moans, tiny sounds that do not quite sound like anything he’s heard from his own mouth, before. “Palm. D—Don’t,” Nuengdiao chokes out, ragged and rough as Palm’s hand glides upward on his cock, slick and wet and filthy, and his breath is still caught, still short and gasping as he cranes his neck up, as he tilts his head if only to feel the warm give of Palm’s mouth against his own for a single, brief moment. “Don’t stop. Please. C-Can I…” He stumbles over his words, and despite how he’d asked for Palm not to stop, he does slow down. It makes Nuengdiao’s head spin, makes his heart race, his lungs work to take in air that isn’t quite enough, but regardless, regardless, Nuengdiao’s reaching out, his fingers shaky, his palm sweaty as he turns it upward, his eyes fluttering, open and close and open again as he feels the hard line of Palm’s dick against his hand, still confined in the taut material of his shorts. “Can I, too—?”
“Yeah. Y-Yes. Anything, Nueng,” Palm insists, quick and sigh-like to the warmth of Nuengdiao’s cheek. He shifts, the hand on Nuengdiao’s cock stilling momentarily as the boy beneath him works at the button and zipper of his shorts, slow and dazed in his pleasure, his breath quick and sharp in Palm’s ear as Nuengdiao finally begins to tug at his clothes, impatient and insistent, and it’s all Palm can do, not to shake and gasp and curse under his breath at the first, initial touch of Nuengdiao’s hand curling loose and languid around his dick. “Nueng. Nueng,” he groans, breathless as the room spins, as the air around them thins out, leaving only the heady, heavy weight of love around them as he’s touched—as Nuengdiao touches him, the pace slow and easy and wet and sticky with precum. “Fuck, Nueng.”
Nuengdiao bites at his own lip, breathless and wanton and god, he’s sure he will go insane, if Palm keeps saying his name, like that—so sweet and shaky and so fucking winded, like he can’t catch his breath, like this is everything, like it is forever, just this and him and them. He feels his heart, beating fierce and rampant in his ears, his dick, and he cannot help but roll his hips up, up and into the slick, wet slide of Palm’s hand as he works his own over Palm’s cock, the slide just as slick, just as smooth and warm and heavy.
“P-Palm,” Nuengdiao rasps, the moan he had bitten off no more than a moment prior slipping out, unbidden and loud, too loud for comfort as the wind makes the curtains flutter in its gust, but there’s no way to stop it, no, not when Palm is touching him, not when Palm’s face is tilted toward his own, their lips brushing, a kiss that isn’t quite a kiss, not yet, not quite, and fuck, Nuengdiao thinks, his head spinning, his heart thudding, his entire body shuddering as he groans, shaky and breathless, because this is forever, and everything, this and him and them. “D—Don’t stop. D-Don’t. Oh, fuck, Palm, l-like that, I—“
Palm tilts his head, further, just a bit more to kiss Nueungdiao fully, properly, mouth to mouth, their lips catching and slipping on their gasps, each little noise and every tiny, little moan that hurdles outward, unbidden and sharp in the liminal space that somehow, someway, still resides between them. Nuengdiao gasps into the kiss, his touch faltering just as his breath stutters, and Palm is weak to the sound, the feel, the sensation of Nuengdiao beneath him, pliant and pretty and pink in the face with a light, purple hue coloring the sheen of sweat on his brow and at his temple, and what else is Palm to do, what else is he to say, to feel—
“Khun Nueng. Khun Nueng.”
Nuengdiao shudders, the noise that leaves him rough, ragged as if pulled straight from the pit of his stomach and lower, lower; the cadence of Palm’s voice, the sound of his title and his name from Palm’s mouth deliriously wonderful, addictive in its quality, its hushed lull. He arches up, into the touch of Palm’s hand around his dick, tight and slick but loose enough, and oh, Nuengdiao is never going to know just how to live without this, if the time should ever come, if God ever chose to separate them and render the two of them loveless, soulless and bound to nothing but the dirt in the ground, feeble and weak and nothing like their love, the light of their hearts, the song of their blood. Nuengdiao chokes back a moan, sob-like in its harsh, guttural exhale as he nudges his nose along the line of Palm’s jaw, as he twists his wrist on the stroke upward just as Palm does the same, the same, and—
“P-Palm. Palm,” Nuengdiao gasps, his hips jerking upward, his heart thudding, beating like a festival drum in the cage built by his ribs and his sternum, loud and quick, the rhythm chaotic, thundering, but no less wonderful, no less grand and delicate, a repeated song he’ll likely play over and over, in the room of his mind, the halls of his memory, in the keys built into the hollowed margin of his heart. “I’ll—I’m... Palm,” he groans, tilting his head, his lips parted as his eyes are lidded, heavy yet weightless all at once, and he feels the same, bound and caged, free and flying, stationed in one place, the nook where they reside, the alcove they’ve built and brought up together, a space solely for them and their love and no one else, nothing else but the beat of one heart, two as one. “P-Palm, if you… fuck, i-if you…”
“Khun Nueng,” Palm says, murmured, quiet like a plea, a prayer, a secret that only the two of them understand, with a look and a touch and a brush of lips, of fingertips and breath. He touches Nuengdiao so gently, firm, yielding and unyielding all at once to make his pleasure grow, giving and taking as he is, as they are. Palm feels at home, with the salt in the air from the sea beyond the window, with the purple glow of the lights shielding them away from the moon, with the boy beneath him, who looks up at him like he is otherworldly, like he belongs, like he wants and loves and gives and takes just as much, and yes, yes, Palm is home. He is wanted and he is loved and he feels right, here, between Nuengdiao’s legs, with Nuengdiao’s breath on his clammy skin, with his touch firm and heated on his skin. “You can. You can, khun Nueng.”
“P—Palm. Again. A-Again, I—“ Nuengdiao moans, a strangled, wet noise that catches in his throat, promising to rob him of his life and his breath, leaving only his love and his affections behind, all under Palm’s whim, all in his hands, his heart. His touch stutters, stumbling and fumbling in its stroke upward on Palm’s dick, his hand shaky just as his mind is distracted, gone further and further from the shoreline and out to sea. Palm twists his wrist upward, the circle of his hand tight and steady, and the pad of his thumb against the head of his cock is just right, so good, the pressure exactly how he likes it, just enough so that there’s a rush of pleasure that rakes down his spine and another bead of precum that floods beneath Palm’s thumb, wet and sticky. “Again. Again,” Nuengdiao says, the order, the demand, more of a huff of breath than anything else, but no, yes, Palm is so good, so perfect and sweet and everything, forever.
“Khun Nueng. You’re so pretty,” Palm whispers.
“Fuck,” Nuengdiao groans, choked and shaken and absolutely gone as Palm inclines his head, as he tilts his head, his breath warm and harsh to the slopes that shape his ear, as his lips brush against the cartilage that shapes it, as Palm says, again, again, because Palm knows him, inside and out, the heart of his heart, the color and shape of his soul,
“Khun Nueng. Khun Nueng.”
“Palm.” Nuengdiao’s gasping, keening, stumbling on each and every little, ragged noise that leaves him as Palm touches him, as he twists his wrist and squeezes just beneath the head of his cock, as he calls out, over and over, whispered and sweet and breathless, khun Nueng, khun Nueng, because the tone of it, the lull of his name in Palm’s voice, it’s too much, it’s everything—another repeated song that will follow him even after the heavy hand of death, the whisper and promise of an afterlife in which he will wait, and wait, and wait for love and life and breath and this, this.
He groans, quick and rough, alive and full and bound to the feel, the moment, the whisper and the brush of Palm against him, his breath and his voice, his touch and his body. He can feel the warmth of Palm’s soul, the beat of Palm’s heart—so loud and vibrant just as his voice is easy and light, breathless and wanton, just shy of choked in his ear, and that’s it, that’s it. Nuengdiao shakes, keening and stuttering on his moans as he cums, as he lets go, as he listens to the rasp of Palm’s voice calling his name, as he focuses on the feel of Palm’s hand on his cock, the sound of his strokes wet and filthy and nasty, slick, and he cannot help it, cannot contain it, cannot hope to hold back and fend off the desire to mark what is his, what will always be his, forever and now and even before, when they were nameless faces, when Nuengdiao was more bitter than sweet, his heart closed before it opened to the lull and the warmth of Palm, Palm, Palm.
Nuengdiao tilts his head and opens his mouth, wide and wider still before he sinks his teeth into the shape of Palm’s shoulder—and he hears the way Palm gasps, the way he moans, feels the way his hand and hips stutter and the way his cock jerks, twitching, precum leaking and beading at the dark, red head of his cock, wet and wetter into his hand just as Nuengdiao sucks. He licks at the bite, kissing and bruising Palm’s skin further, harder, and there it is, again, again, the way Palm shakes, the way he shudders and gasps, his hand stilling, stumbling in each stroke upward despite the way Nuengdiao is shaking, shivering with overstimulation; and it’s then, as Nuengdiao drags his hand up Palm’s cock, wet and slick and sweet, languid, loving, as he opens his mouth only to latch on again, sucking at the marks of his teeth, deepening the bruise further, further, that Palm lets go, that he moans, long and loud into his ear as he cums between them and onto Nuengdiao’s stomach, as his body shakes, his cock throbbing and pulsing hot and wet in Nuengdiao’s hand.
“Nueng,” Palm gasps, his breath hot, moist to the crook, the curve that shapes Nuengdiao’s neck, his shoulder—and he thinks, wondering, for a moment, what it would be like and how it would feel, to have matching bruises, a paired mark of ownership, of branding, a sign for all those that look at them to know that they love and want each other more than the sea does the moon, more than the stars do the sky and more, more than the gods do their torn, parallel lovers, the ones with matching souls, the ones with mirrored love. “Nueng. Nueng, I—“
“I’m here,” Nuengdiao whispers, quick and earnest with his lips pressed to the bruise shaped by his mouth and teeth, and he hopes, and he wants, and he yearns, more than anything… “Palm. I’m here,” Nuengdiao says, murmured, soft, perhaps a little desperate, a little more than breathless as he threads his fingers through Palm’s hair, as he guides Palm’s mouth, his lips, his teeth, closer to the curve of his neck, the strum of his pulse as he says again, again, “I’m here.”
Palm shakes, shuddering, his breath strained, faltered, as if his heart is seconds, moments, one, two, three beats away from giving, from halting, from burning a hole in his chest and slipping out only to fall, offered on and to the boy beneath him, whom it already belongs to, with. He opens his mouth, wide, his tongue a hot, wet line up the side of Nuengdiao’s neck before he’s inclining his head, dipping downward as his mouth opens, wider, and his teeth sink in, his mouth latching on as Nuengdiao’s hand stays there, encouraging, at the base of his skull.
He doesn’t let go.