Remnants of the Earth
AEDOLIS => The Rest of Aedolis => Adstreia => Topic started by: Lion on November 10, 2017, 09:00:54 pm
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He was a rotten, scheming, no good dirty rat bastard of a coyote man, and if he had anything to say about it, all that would come about was something about getting his right comeuppance. What an asshole! Who the fuck ordered like that and then came back and did more times for every subsequent meal on the menu? Only one howling, snarling, barking scumbag would dare walking into his JJs in all of Aedolis and seek his drooling revenge:
Yavul Hyakinthos and his best goddamn friend on the entire planet.
Grisham had been mad. No, no. He’d been fuming. So much so that he didn’t know if the smoke coming up from the kitchen was because the fries were burning or if it was coming from out his ears. At the end of it though, of a very long day, Grisham found he couldn’t stay mad for long. Sure he was gonna do a murder, sure he’d thought scaring Yavul endlessly on Soul’s night had been hi-lar-ious. (And it was -insert mad cackle here-). But that all could be achieved later.
How often did Yavul make the trip up here? And when he did, Grisham sure as shit wasn’t going to waste the time they could be hanging out with being made at him. That wasn’t any fun. Nope. They had a bet to settle and since his last trip to Solarta - which had it’s own unforeseen consequences - he’d stopped by the Rosco’s and ordered fifty 5 gallon tubs of that awesome lovely Solartan mud.
Realistically, Grisham didn’t measure the length of the hallway outside his door. But it was fairly straight, and the length of it was long enough to bowl a ball down, so he saw no reason he couldn’t chuck a full grown man down there. They’d do it better this time.
Coat the floor as well as the halls, and make it extra slick. So it was better to have more than less in this case. And hitting walls would not count in a do-over. It was all or nothing.
Yavul had been waiting for him at the nearby Manolins and Grisham was still in uniform. Thank fucking dragon balls today was the last day at that awful place. At the very least, he had a newfound respect for people in the food service industry, not that he ever made it his intention to treat them with anything other than just that. The rest of the squad did a remarkably outstanding job. Even if Chatterbox did eat too many fries. Even if Sparrow almost did puke on milkshake dispenser. Something about lizard meat didn’t sit well with her.
Grisham yanked off that godawful JJ’s hat and pulled open the door, splitting his face in a toothy devilish grin, snickering evilly as if he were still in his clown jester get-up. He smelled of beef and tobacco and just a hint of dandylion from his breaks, and the scent wafted up from him as he approached Yavul and slunk the JJ’s cap on his head, making a mop of that soft brown hair of his just crown down around his face like a helmet.
“So you really like to walk the fine line between life and death, don’t you Yavvy? Walking into my JJ’s and making an order like that?! The nerve!” But Grisham was all grins, and he fixed Yavul’s hair from around his ears to better adjust the cap. “That’s a good look for you. Maybe you should take a side gig working behind the counter at JJs.”
-
There was nothing on the entire planet, and those beyond, that could make a day end better than seeing Grisham grin from ear to ear. It was just downright contagious, all teeth and mischievous intentions, and Yavul couldn't help but grin right back at him. Even as that hat descended upon his head, laced with beef-smell and slightly damp from a hard day's work, Yavul couldn't stop grinning, reaching up only once to push the brim of the hat upwards and free his vision some.
"Excuse you, sir, but as a payin' customer I am entitled to have my food prepared in a manner a' my choosin'." He said, drawling along like the fanciest sonofabitch he could possibly channel, before promptly devolving into laughter, shaking his head the whole while.
"The look on your face was fuckin' priceless, let me tell you. Gods both, I wish I'd gotten that on camera!" The truth was that the 'look on Grisham's face' had been without a single doubt the most terrifying thing Yavul had ever seen in his entire life. And he'd only just recently come face to face with a blending of his deepest heart's desire and worst fear, which made for some seriously mixed feelings. Very, very mixed.
Grisham Alberich was not a man to make mad, that was for certain. It was part of the reason why Yavul had decided to fold and let the man complete his final shift in peace. Gave Yavvy some time to walk around Adstreia, get himself a hoodie (and a beautifully rosy-pink one for Grisham) and just explore. There was also the added bonus of not having to run away from Grisham while the man was wielding a 2x4.
It would have been a good death. Well worth it, Yavul decided.
"You an' I both know that'd be downright dangerous. I'd be eatin' more burgers than I'd be servin', then I'd really be a couch." He snorted, reaching into the plastic bag that had thankfully still been here when he'd come back to reclaim it. He shoved the pink hoodie into Grisham's arms, distracting him long enough to clip a matching pink daisy barrette to the other man's hat-flattened hair.
"Presents for you! Lookit you, lookin' so pretty." Yavul snorted again, already crumbling up the plastic bag the items had been in up to this point. "You should wear that t' dinner. You know, the one I aim t' win."
Because of course, there was a reason other than petty revenge to come up to Adstreia. A reason that Yavul was willing to speak out loud, anyway-- any and all other reasons could simply keep minding their own business and go about their days. But being here in Adstreia, at that time and that place, had stakes. Mighty stakes!
Yavul had made a bet, and like so many before, he aimed to win this one. Making some last-minute adjustments to Grisham's barrette, he patted his hand against the side of the man's face with a grin.
"Ready for the guitar solo?"
-
Ok so maybe he lied a little.
He wasn't really going to chase down Yavul with a 2x4 and throttle the poor man, although every instinct in him trembled to do just that. PR would not be happy if he went did that. If Sparrow had gotten off lightly with that Ahh! It Burns! Hemorrhoid Cream commercial, he could only shudder at what they might have in mind for him should he assault another Pilot in public. Not to mention he was doing so much better in curbing his temper toward the people that really really deserved it.
He had a lot of marbles to crush and grind down into a fine fine dust.
But the little shit in front of him would get his soon enough. A bet was a bet, something something mudbowling. And free beer, and Grisham didn't exactly remember the parameters of what they would win or lose, but he didn't care as long as Yavul lost. Well, not his other arm. Unless he wanted a matching set.
Grisham glanced at that mechanical beast hanging off the coyote man's shoulder. A fine model, no skin, and could feel the hair on his own arm standing on end at the little zings of electricity still radiating off of it. Damn he was jealous and damn if that arm didn't look good on him. He wanted to rip his other one off so he could maybe get something else just like it.
But they'd both had their accidents enough for the year, for a lifetime and if there was one thing Grisham would not entertain was the thought of Yavul getting hurt. Even getting bowled down a shiny Royal suite hallway, he didn't plan on having him get more than a few buffs or scratches at most. That he could handle. Anything more, nope. No not gonna happen.
Grisham grinned wider, trying to ignore the little head tingles along his scalp at the scratchy part of the barrette into his hair. Eyes flicked down to the pink sweater in his arm. Oh... oh so he wanted to play at that did he? Well shit if he wasn't going to wear it and proudly too. Grisham made a grunt and adjusted the clip in his hair, tucking the sweater under his arm.
"Well, thanks Yavul! I needed something just like this to wear to your funeral. How thoughtful," he joked, even if the thought made his guts twist unpleasantly. But even he understood it was just a joke. Riiiiight, the bet.
He squinted his eyes, grinning against that had and taking Yavul's arm and sliding it over his shoulders instead. Grisham followed suit, with his own arm around the other's and dragged him on out of there. "You know I've been waiting forever just to hear this," he laughed, not even batting an eyelash at the possibility that he'd lose and what was it, go to a fancy dinner? Ah, they'd get to that part when it was all over.
Grisham dragged him out of that building and pulled the sweater up to sniff at it. He didn't know why, but it smelled good. Like new processed fabric, and plastic, and somehow like Yavul and that made him smile. It could have been a decorated fabric donut suit for all he cared, he'd wear it proudly. But they had to get dirty right now. Later, when there was less mud involved.
"So, how's Adstreia treating you so far, other than trying to make me have a conniption in the middle of the day," he muttered conversationally, looking off to the side glance at Yavul from time to time, side-eyeing those baby blues.
-
There was not a single moment that Yavul thought Grisham would actually bring him to harm, of course. Even if he was probably the scariest motherfucker Yavul had ever had the pleasure of befriending. Even if when Grisham really tried, he was probably the scariest motherfucker who had ever existed.
But if he was really willing to engage the train of thought, Yavul thought Grisham showing up to his funeral in a pink hoodie was just... the best. He almost hoped that when it came down to it, Grisham actually would.
Yavul inwardly winced at that particularly melancholy thought, and mentally shook his head. Nope, nope, away with that kind of thinking. This wasn't... the time. This wasn't the time at all, and for once Yavul just wanted to enjoy himself. Just enjoy being in the moment and not what it was or might've been or what was yet to come. No funerals for a long time, they'd had enough near brushes as it already stood.
...Maybe Yavul might light a candle or two when he got home. Throw cinnamon around. Something. Get Fortune to back off for maybe five minutes, if that was okay.
"Treatin'?" Yavul said, catching the tail end of what he should have been able to keep track of without this much effort. "Oh, I mean, lemme tell you, gettin' you t' turn downright puce is about the highlight a' my entire month."
In truth, the day had kind of... had its ups and downs. He half considered mentioning the whole fiasco with what-was-her-face-now-a-Cardinal, but found he had already exhausted the energy he had for that stupidity just dealing with it in the first place. Besides, he didn't want to spend the weekend with his blood boiling. He was there to have fun. Muddy, stupid, childish fun.
"But it's treatin' me pretty good. Cold as balls, but I guess that's what all them tea carts is for, huh? Spottin' a tourist from a mile away." Yavul let himself be pulled along, having next to no clue which direction they needed going in. He'd been there before, of course, and getting in earlier that morning had some semblance of which way was up or down, but Adstreia still remained largely a mystery.
Part of why he'd spent so much time wandering around after evacuating the JJ's; the other part was that he'd have felt painfully weird just hanging around Grisham's place all day long without the other man there. Not like he thought Grisham would mind or anything, but it just felt... this side of off, hovering around the apartment of the guy you had gone and caught feelings for. Vaguely stalkerish, he guessed. It was hard to put into words even for himself, let alone put any kind of expression out loud.
"Pretty much just spent th' day explorin'." he finally shrugged, and finding he liked the feel of the extra weight there pushing back, Grisham's arm pleasantly warm around his shoulders. It was nice, so, so nice, and it didn't even matter that there was a positive reek of fried food between them, because even that made him feel all the warmer against the northern cold.
He glanced to the side, caught Grisham's eye, and tried his hardest to tone down the internal wax-poetic. Considering the other man was an empath and probably did not really want to have to deal with the bucket of awkward that was trying to maintain a bro-tier repartee in the face of... whatever the hell Yavul thought he was doing, getting flustered over a goddamn side hug.
Okay, maybe that funeral could show up early. Just save him the embarrassment. Mm, no. Bet first, then shame-death. Right. Priorities.
Yavul shifted out from beside Grisham when they finally approached the apartment building, following him inside after a chip-scan granted them access. It was nice to get out of the cold, and Yavul sighed in relief, scrubbing at his face to get some of the numbness out of his cheeks.
"Gods both that mud's gonna feel chilly..."
-
"Yeah, well, relish it. It won't be happening again." Pfffft, puce.
Yeah, it wasn't every day Grisham would just let someone stare him square in the eye with every intention of embarrassing him, and him being thoroughly impotent from realistically doing anything about it. Haruxhir of course, did it on the daily, but that was to be expected. Yavul on the other hand had a particularly hardy set of guts that Mr. Dynamo had no choice but to respect.
Well, he had a choice, but he opted for respect. He admired that kind of moxy a great deal. Not that he had any real doubt. Yavul was ye old Coyote man after all. He was his best goddamn friend; weird how just a few months ago he probably would have just wanted to kick his ass because rowdy douchebags were annoying as shit.
They still were, but he'd come to admire the Valkyries in all their own class - or unreservedly lack thereof - they didn't need pomp or posh reverie to get shit done. Just do it. Life was too short to waste time.
Grisham had been leaning close to Yavul, letting the proximity of that hug and relishing in how it eased him. That much he could sense from the surface, how they both could just be without reservation or worrying about decorum. Grisham hadn't felt that comfortable in a long time, odd how easy it came with Yavul. That glowing emanating ease was what largely he'd picked up on the moment he'd walked into that room. And nerves he guessed. Weird how Mr. Coyote Man could be anxious at all.
He'd be anxious too if he'd just lost an arm and suddenly was tested in playing the guitar again with your fretting hand. Grisham was actually really excited to see it and his heart rate spiked at the thought of Yavul just cackling like an unruly child, jamming to that guitar. But a bet was a bet and no amount of sentiment would keep him from losing.
Once they were inside, Grisham carefully kept the barrette placed in his hair and staggered over to his fridge where he cracked open two beers and handed one off to Yavul. "Ok, I got fifty buckets. And most people are out, so we'll make this as fast as possible and as slick as possible." A laugh and he clanked their glasses together and stripped out of that nasty JJ's uniform and stetched out the stiff muscles of his back.
It took a little longer than expected to get the hallway covered up, removing all the planters so Yavul didn't suffer another unfortunate mishap. Rolling up carpets until the slick wood was properly coated over with a thck and even layer of mud from end to end. Grisham grinned widely and walked back inside, propping open an unempty bucket and cupping his hands with fistfuls of mud.
"Yavul. Strip," he ordered and wiggled his hands spoopy like to do just that. "Gotta slather you full of mud." Wow he could have sworn he turned the AC in here because it was feeling a little hotter than usual.
-
Oh, good, they had bumpkin first aid. Yavul grinned his thanks at the beer, taking a good deep swig while Grisham spoke, sputtering a bit at the idea of just how much mud this was going to be. Fifty buckets, god-damn! Well, maybe Yavul wouldn't need relief from friction burn after all. Relief from being a thirsty idiot, he thought while very pointedly not watching that JJ's uniform come off, that he could still use. Yup. Just drinking beer. Which was rapidly dwindling. Yup.
They definitely had learned their lesson from last time. Not the lesson of "don't use hallways as a mudslide" but more "make sure there's less shit for you to eat on the way down." By the end of the preparation phase, Yavul was spattered with little flecks of drying mud, his own hands caked in the stuff. At Grisham's command, he gave a little snort, pulling his shirt up and over his head and using that to wipe the mud off of his hands, digging into the grooves on his metal one to wipe away the worst of it.
His pants-- recently rescued from a bar wall-- were next, though he didn't use those as an impromptu washrag, instead folding them down next to his guitar case for safekeeping. Left in nothing but boxers and goosebumps, Yavul clasped his hands behind his head, keeping those dry so as to not completely muck up his guitar. Last thing he needed to do was have the thing slide right out of his fingers. He was already gonna need to wash the strap.
"Mud me!" the Valkyrie said with a grin, well aware of how ridiculous this all looked and loving every second of it. It reminded him of the sort of mischief he'd get up to as a kid, before the war, before his leadership responsibilities, before everything. His squadron was a right bunch of little imps, sure, but there was always that line between Commander and subordinate that just... vanished when it came to Grisham. Perks of matching rank, Yavul supposed. No need to stand on decorum.
Which was good, because "decorum" had absolutely nothing to do with anything they were about to do. Neeko, bless his poor patient heart, would have had a stroke. Harley would probably have found it all amusing, so long as he didn't have to do any of the attached paperwork. Or cleanup.
Yavul had been right, though-- the mud was not friendly, and he sucked in a breath at first contact. At least the chill helped keep him focused, and not let his mind immediately spin out into the gutter like it so desperately wanted every single time Grisham scooped more mud onto him. What was he, a teenager again? Good gods both.
Gingerly stepping back to the far end of the hallway, Yavul pulled out his guitar and settled the strap over his false shoulder. He'd had to get a longer chord just for this, but the coolness factor of surf-sliding down a muddy hall and riffing the whole way was just too good. His face was already sore from grinning so damn wide, and he plucked a decidedly bumpkin-y tune while he waited for Grisham to get into place.
"All right, all right! You ready to lose, Grimbones?" Another couple plucks against his strings, and Yavul backed up, bent his knees, and took off, rushing at the long stretch of muddy flooring.
At first, it went really well! His right foot almost slipped out right from under him, but he managed to keep upwards long enough to start playing, fingers flying over the board like they were still made of flesh and bone. Yeah. Yeah, he had this, he could still--
In his excitement, he almost didn't notice that his feet were getting too close together to support his balance. In his excitement, Yavul overcompensated the correction, and in his excitement, lost his footing entirely. Heels suddenly at waist-level, the rest of his lower half followed suit, the Valkyrie landing hard on his back with a loud "WOOF".
Yavul slid forward a few more feet, before finally coming to a stop. And it was only after a few seconds that he moved, fingers touching the strings to pluck that bumpkin tune again.
-
What? What was that? Some kind of bumpkin-y "F-You" just before Yavul was gonna hit the skids. Grisham made a snort and took his place holding his beer in one hand and leaning lazily where he could best view Yavul during his performance of a lifetime.
Well, he'd let the old coyote man have his time to shine in the limelight. A double or nothing bet was on the line here, and free beer. Lots and lots of free beer. Part of him wondered if the brews here in Adstreia would even compare to the ones in Solarta. Ehhh, probably not, but preparing for any eventuality was Grisham's business. Blech, thought, he didn't much care for the thought of losing.
His brow furrowed and he held his breath, watching and waiting until he shot off from his starting place and...
"Well, ain't I a sonuvabitch," he tsked hard and grit his teeth, half scowling when he heard that guitar successfully screeching along and those metal fingers flying across the fret board expertly and while he was scowling the moment he saw Yavul lose his footing, Grisham rushed off from down the hallway and shoved off, half skidding down that muddy hallway.
He stopped short, sliding on his own barefeet and leaned over his friend, who still then! plucked that tune. Grisham scoffed and that scoff gradually faded into a full on cackle, throwing his head back and everything. "Holy shitcakes," he snickered and knelt down, getting knees full of mud and reached down clasp arms around Yavul's torso, hooking them just under his arms and minding the metal bits on his left side to hoist him up against his legs.
"You all right, amigato?" he laughed, snorting a little. "At the risk of you breaking your fucking neck, I'll say that's a resounding fucking win. Did you break anything you don't mind losing?"
-
"Pride, dignity, a sense a' self-confidence what stems from bein' able to do stupid shit and pull it off," Yavul listed, counting on his flesh and bone fingers with each instance of what had been broken. His face split into a wide grin, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter all his own as he waved off the concern. He was, after all, enjoying Grisham's amusement way too much to be worried about the state of his fragile tailbone.
Still, that didn't mean he was ready to try and get up just yet. The mud had gotten absolutely everywhere after his slip-up, and Yavul wasn't exactly in the mood to deal with the awful sensation of mud in his boxers as well as a smarting back. Besides, this was a much better option, just laying amidst the gigantic mess he and Grisham had made. And what a glorious mess it was, deserving of anthems and odes and long, sweeping epics. A testament to the absolute insanity Adstreian PR would likely develop in short order.
Didn't stop it from being funny any.
Yavul settled his hands back to the strings, and strummed a few notes. It was idle noise, nothing that meant anything concrete, but that was okay, too. Par for the course, whatever that meant. Still, Yavul couldn't help a little frown, staring up into those upside-down stormy blues, the crackling notes fading away after a time.
Yavul opened his mouth, took a breath as if to say something, before letting it out in a low laugh of his own, slowly pushing his hands underneath himself to better sit up and not just lounge against Grisham's legs all evening. The mud was really goddamn chilly, and while Grisham seemed content to concede him the win, Yavul was pretty sure that didn't extend to being made into a pillow for the rest of the night.
The Valkyrie commander wiggled out from beneath his guitar, holding the instrument up nice and safely high away from the mud as he slowly got to his feet, using Grisham's shoulder to balance himself and nearly eating mud again despite it all. Good gods both, they were going to actually break their necks at this rate.
Worth it.
Yavul grunted as he stood, rubbing at the space on his back where he impacted, but satisfied that it was nothing terribly lasting. A cold beer held to his ass and he'd be right as sunshine. He unplugged his guitar, and began to extricate the wire leading all the way back to the start from the mud most of it was now buried under. Woof, but if he doubted he'd be able to use this one again. He hadn't even considered the mess. Still. Worth it.
"Fuck, it's all under my damn 'roos, that is downright un-goddamn-pleasant."
-
Grisham never did make much fuss about the ruination of objects and furniture, of clothes and old things that had worn and broken down with time. Some things just couldn't be salvaged, old couches needed to be replaced with new ones, and broken marriages were far too cracked to put the pieces back together. In that reflection you didn't see yourself, but maybe the person you used to be. It was just a veneer then, the outer layer that the rest of the world saw, and the souls inside that shell wanting nothing more than to be free.
At that point the veneer couldn't be salvaged.
For the first time in years Grisham could say that every smile he had was genuine, even the ones where he was cackling madly at nothing more than a bad joke, the nonsense in between just filler until the next bad joke. A small jolt sunk in through his stomach, heat touching his eyes at that chilly mud, made even chillier by the northern Adstreian cold. Poor old coyote man, he distantly thought, even if it was just a bit warmer in here than the rest of the building.
Weird, someone needed to check the main filtration unit here in this hallway. Grisham mumbled something inaudible about taking a crack at it later himself. It was worth a shot. Or maybe he was getting sick. Maybe they both were since Yavul felt really warm too. Yup, nothing a few glasses of brandy and some more beers wouldn't solve right up. And it'd be the right way to end the night after a week long's punishment of JJs.
Grisham stayed where he was on the ground until Yavul was up, eyes flicking to muscles of that back. Yeah he was definitely getting sick, pulse was spiking something awful too. Grisham stood carefully and once they were both safely back on the precipice of his apartment. Grisham waddled his way back to the fridge and popped open too more beers, snorting immaturely at the muddy 'roos comment.
"Worth it!" he snorted and although the horror show outside would have to be cleaned up he slowly tucked that thought away for later. Well, still, it was probably best to at least cover it up, the deep cleaning could be attended to after they had their victory drinks. Grisham carefully - very in that regard - slipped out and rolled the carpet back over the mess. Perfect, nobody would notice. The...decorative hallway plants were still stacked around his living room making his apartment look like a jungle.
Grisham snorted louder that time, cackling a little. "This reminds me of that photoshoot for Edge magazine I did where I was all slicked up with mud," he laughed. "That was fun, even if they wouldn't let me pick the other 'roos. Needed something just this side of revealing they said." Grisham shuffled over to a dresser by the far wall of the living room, just beside the television and he pulled out a copy of the cover, glossed over with lamination for posterity and he presented it to Yavul, holding it against his chest.
"Hell I'll throw this in along with a case of beers!" he was positively vibrating with glee and he shuffled over to Yavul and gently held it out for him to examine. "It's not a 'Mr. Dynamo.' But it's still Dynamo. I want you to have it. You won that shit fair and square coyote man." Grisham's heart was pounding in his chest again, that pulsation making everywhere else throb and he didn't know where to tuck his hands, instead opting to fold them in against his chest, one hand under his opposing arm.
"Are you hungry?" The question had come out with a curious note, inviting, and his darker blues met Yavul's pale ones. "Because I have left over pizza in the fridge. Victory beers too." Yeah he needed something to do with his hands; being idle made them itch, made them want to fling mud at Yavul's face. Was he bitter that he lost - again? Rat bastard did seem to have all kinds of luck when it came to these foolish bets.
In fact that thought alone made Grisham's eye twitch as he set the pizza in the microwave and he casually meandered over to a bucket of mud that he'd convenient left open in case they didn't have enough. But they did. Just super casual-like and held that clump in one hand before he promptly spun on his heel and launched it right at Yavul's face. There, how was that for luck.
-
“Just this side of revealin’, huh? Sounds like some ulterior motives t’ me.” Yavul said with a grin all his own, doing a kind of bow-legged sway through Grisham’s jungle living room to prevent getting the mud anywhere else. It was already beginning to dry, of course, thinner patches cracking with every movement, but the bulk remained, making each step around the potted plants more than a little… unpleasant.
Still, despite his internal complaints, the mud was more than a godssend when Grisham picked his way back over with that magazine cover, Yavul gingerly taking hold of it by the edges to prevent any harm coming to it. He couldn't help himself-- his mouth turned wide, grinning ear to ear as he looked down at the oh so serious look on photograph-Grisham’s face, and wondered just how much of that had been at the direction of the photographer. Probably somewhere around fifty-fifty, if he had to guess, mind awash with all the posing and maneuvering and mud-smearing that likely occured… and Grisham likely grumble-grunting the whole time. Unlike the “Mr. Dynamo" cover, it seemed here that Grim hadn't been allowed a special survivalist cigar, and this amused Yavul to no end.
But oh, gods both, the angle of the shot was… something to behold. Mm-MMM. It was hard to tell which was his favourite between the two different photoshoots, heat prickling along Yavul’s skin the more he considered just how much he actually appreciated Wardrobe’s final choice. Well done and accolades all around.
It was definitely the better prize against free beer, and as a man who regularly drunk himself into a stupor, from Yavul this was saying something. He looked up from the photographic rendition of those blue-greys to the real deal, his grin widening even further to see just how gleeful the big, bad Mr. Dynamo looked. Somewhere, some traitorous thought process considered just how handsome Grisham looked when he smiled.
Woof. Okay. Reign it in there, coyote man.
Pizza proved a viable distraction, however and Yavul carefully placed his beloved prize aside where it wouldn't get lost amongst the living room plantlife.
“Shit yeah, I'll take some piz--"
Splat.
Yavul closed his mouth into a tight line, though it was far too late for that; the mud had smacked him dead center in the face, splattering over his chest and shoulders from the impact.
He reached up with his flesh hand and scooped up the worst of the remainder, levelling a mischievous glare in Grisham’s direction.
“Oh, ho, that how you wanna be, rocket man?” he growled, before flinging the mud in his hand right back.
Cackling low and wild, Yavul darted to the side, ducking low as he scraped more mud off himself to pelt in Grisham’s direction.
-
Yes, that was exactly how he was gonna be!
Yavul was content to take his winning - even if Grisham conceded this one - and run with it, the the least Grisham could do was throw mud back in his face and be as grumpy about it as possible. Although, it was kinda hard to show just how grumpy he was through the mad cackling he was unleashing at the way the mud splattered all over Yavul's face!
Bwahahahaha!
He snorted with glee and completely forgot about the pizza in the microwave. Which was good in hindsight. It was the only spot in this entire apartment that wasn't about to be covered in muddy warfare. All was fair in it wasn't it? Grisham was too busy cackling loudly when mud came flinging his way and pelting him flat and hard in the chest. What!
"LUCKY SHOT COYOTE MAN!" Grisham growled and immediately took the whole bucket that was next to him, not even bothering dodging the pot shots that Yavul was content to take. He wanted to play, oh he'd play all right!
And with a might fling of his arms Grisham had one hand on the bucket's handle and another at the bottom of the bucket and launched it up and over to the couch where Yavul was hiding, and down on him would rain the unholy terrors of a mudflung aerial assault. Grisham cackled again and almost slipped where the mud had caked on after Yavul scraped off more and flung it at him.
"There's only so many places to hide," he growled aloud, ducking behind a set of three large potters, dragging another bucket with him along the ground and his hands moving deftly to open up the seal.
-
"Lucky shot the fattest part a' my ass!" Yavul crowed back, near barking with laughter as he bolted for cover. The couch, of course, was the most viable option, being of a good enough height to keep even Yavul's considerable frame from being terribly exposed. It still left the problem of ammo, and with some semblance of desperation he began to scrape at his legs to get the half-dried mud off his thighs and into respectable mud-balls.
"What's a-matter, Dynamo? Can't get your old bones movin' enough t' make this a fair fi--AAYE!" Yavul took the brunt of the wave of mud with a loud yelping sound, the cool substance hitting his bare skin with a loud splat, followed by several more as Yavul shook his head violently to get the worst of it out of his face without sparing his scraping efforts.
Oh, oh, it was on. Grisham had made one crucial miscalculation, and that was giving Yavul more ammo. He dropped low, scooped up mud, and flung it hard at the trio of planters Grisham had chosen to hide behind. Rinse and repeat and rinse and repeat until once more, Yavul was scraping the bottom of the barrel. Er. Or in this case, the bare floor.
Yavul launched over the couch back then, grabbing up one of the large cushions and holding it up like a shield. He needed to get to one of those spare buckets, and so he began the slow, slippery journey to gather up a bucket of his own. He made a mad dash back to where the couch could help shield him, slipping here and there and thankfully still having that couch cushion to use as a kind of bumper so he didn't crash headlong into the couch in question.
Bucket opened, and thus freshly armed, Yavul began to return fire in earnest, cackling the whole time and not minding that he kept getting slapped with mud every time his head crested over the safety of the couch. He really needed to fortify, start building up his defenses, and so divided his attention between throwing mud and gathering up the couch cushions to be a better shield.
-
"What's a-matter, Dynamo? Can't get your old bones movin' enough t' make this a fair fi--AAYE!"
Now that was the beginning of a lovely crescendo of sounds that made Grisham execute a splitting grin in sheer satisfaction. Why the heck not, since Yavul was getting so cocky even with what little mud he had. Even the vague realization that he'd given him even more mud to throw didn't ease the amount of satisfaction he got from hearing that yelp, and semi-musical splat that followed. Some blessings didn't wear disguises.
Between snickerings, and trying to find the best cover possible behind those huge round planters, Grisham felt the sting of mud several times over that splattered between them, and his face was littered with that cold wet gray, and he could taste the bits that entered his mouth. He was gagging and spat out the minerally dirt. "EUGH!" Not even the cigars he'd been sneaking that day had made him hack up his robolungs so hard.
"I'll get you for that!" Cue gratuitous empty threat. Check. Let enemy reload and reinforce their position. Check. Rain unholy fire down on them that they couldn't prepare for. The moment Yavul popped over that couch to gather up a bucket for themselves, Grisham didn't even care, and flung as much mud as he possibly could at he exposed portions of his legs, and....his muthafuckin' couch cushions!!!!
Rat Bastard! Grisham soon found his own bucket empty, and he cursed at having exhausted his own ammunition, but the buckets there were plenty. All he had to do was get to them. Yavul's position had given him the couch and a loveseat in the corner, and the fucking coffee table. These planters didn't protect from jack shit. Behind him, an eye to the bedroom door and he slipped back quickly, not even thinking or worrying about how stupid it really ones to yank off the sheets of his mattress and with a grunt, pull it up and shove it through the door, gripping the top edge of it.
It barely breached the door way - barely. But it was huge enough to give him cover and he dragged it across the mudstained flooring toward the ammunition stores, taking a bucket in hand, hooking it on one arm, and gripping a second one, and keeping that one in hand, while his roboarm snagged at the top of the mattress and dragged it back to his bedroom door.
The only fair game he'd allow was the exposure of the buckets. And maybe that wasn't the best plan because after fifteen minutes of robbing the nearby loveseat of cushions, Grisham had made himself his own planter-bunker fort and walls of his apartment looked like it'd gone through the best part of a mudcar rally. End on end, there were handprints, feet prints, and far-off flunged mud stains in that dilapidated mess of an abode.
Grisham didn't care, he played to win. And he knew that he couldn't stay hidden behind cover for very long. The mattress was in fucking ruins. Yeah there was no saving that thing. It was here and now. One mudding to end all muddings.
Grisham's posture as crusted over with drying bits of mud and the pants he'd been wearing and undershirt sagged with the weight of it. The only thing not covered in mud was underneath and well maybe his eyeballs. He could still feel the muddy flavoring on his tongue here and there. Eugh! He peeked out from the portion of his cover and when it was a little too quiet over there he knew that was the moment to strike. Couldn't have Yavul rearming himself yet again, even if there was but one bucket left in the corner.
Grisham ducked out and ran for that bucket, the last one. The mudbucket that would end this awful battle. But the moment it was on his hand, he didn't run back into cover. No, he snatched the lid off and made for Yavul's bunker, spying that opening and making a dash for it. Grisham pried off that cushion and shoved himself inside, throwing the contents at ye olde coyote man at point blank range.
-
Yavul would have been lying if he weren’t a little bit proud of using the couch cushions as a temporary shield. It was part of the Valkyrie MO, after all, and while some nagging part of him chided after ruining another man’s upholstery, the rowdy dog in him just kept barking madly in triumph. Hah! See Dyna hit him now!
Except by the time Yavul was done fortifying his position, Grisham was… gone. He blinked, eyebrows knitting tight over his eyes, suspicion in every line of his being as he poked his head up and around looking for the Hellion commander, a fistful of mud at the ready.
There was movement from back in Grisham’s bedroom, and for a moment Yavul was torn between holding his position and just bringing the thunder right to Grisham’s doorstep. But then the movement intensified, and Yavul’s eyes nearly bugged right out of his head to see Grisham dragging the entirety of his mattress out through the muddy planter jungle, over to where the rest of the buckets were.
Oh no.
Oh, hell no. Yavul wasn’t about to take this lying down, no sir, and so it was with a kind of wild, reckless abandon that he started firing again, lobbing gobs of cold wet mud over the mattress in an attempt to rain it down on Grisham from above. All he really managed to do was get mud on the Hellion’s ceiling, of course, but he was far too busy trying his damnedest to get around that mattress that Yavul didn’t quite notice he was rapidly running out of mud.
His stores spent, Yavul was finally relegated to scraping up spare handfuls where he could, laughing and snorting the whole while as he flung tiny bits and pieces of earthy mixture out, not even really aiming so much as engaging in the tried and true tactic of “spray and pray.” He’d really have to help Grisham clean all this up later, but for the moment he was just having too much fun. So much fun! Even with his hair plastered to his head and neck, even with every inch of him soaked and heavy, and even with the very real assurance that bits of grit and grain had absolutely gotten into his metal arm, Yavul was having the time of his life, the likes of which that couldn’t be rivaled no matter how—
Thap-thap-thapTHAPTHAP— Oh, fuck that was footsteps, Grisham was bullrushing him, Yavul scrambled to try and grab up one of those sodden couch cushions in time but it was far too little, far too late. Grisham upended the bucket right in Yavul’s face.
The Solartan man yelped, and then immediately regretted that particular decision, coughing on the wave of mud that ended up in his mouth. He was pretty sure he’d swallowed a good bit of it, and that alone nearly made him gag, Yavul spitting even through a wide gritty grin.
Okay, okay, that was a good one. Points given to a brave maneuver. Still, despite the resounding defeat, Yavul had one last trick up his sleeve. He reached out, his flesh hand clasping onto Grisham’s mud-soaked knee, holding him in place as well as steadying himself for what he was about to do.
He couldn’t open his eyes through all the mud to see Grisham’s face, but he could imagine it. And right then, Yavul imagined Dyna’s gruff, dirty face split with the biggest, most triumphant smile, those stormy blues glittering like the first stars on a rare, cloudless night. The mental image was beautiful, wonderful, the single most awe-inspiring thing…
And only more so because following that, Yavul imagined what Grisham’s dawning realization looked like, Yavul gripping onto his leg as the rest of him began to shake, wet hair slapping back and forth like a dog as mud went flying everywhere in a gloppy grey rain shower of terrible.
The whole thing left Yavul more than a little dizzy, and more than a little winded from all the laughing he was doing, but oh man, now that his eyes were clear and he could see Grisham’s face, it was more than worth it. Definitely worth the mud in his ass crack, that was for sure.
-
He did his job and he did it well. If there was anything that would be plastered to his epitaph it'd be just that. He did his job and he did it well. And that job right now was to end that mud battle, and let it go down in history as the day he ruined a perfectly good mattress, but more over never grinned so stupidly in his life as he did now. Because gods all he was grinning like such a fucking idiot he couldn't have been prouder.
He didn't stop to think whether this was a stalemate or sheer victory - they'd tally that shit later - but it'd been so long since he'd felt so good. The sheer relief rolled off him in droves and he could feel Yavul's elation as well. That was unmistakable. What a glorious end to such an awful awful week. It made it all worth it, really. And if he had to do it all over again for it to end on a similar note to this - fuck yes he'd do it again.
The mud bath he'd given Yavul was very becoming and Grisham was all out of breath to cackle. The noise came out like a wheeze more like, the last bucket emptied out entirely on the younger man's face. It was a nice mud sculpture, one that Grisham would have loved to immortalize with a picture or better yet a bust of. Just settle it right on his coffee table right next to Vaas' cigar box.
It'd be a face he'd get to see every morning, every night, and the very thought made his belly to a tight flip. A knot that was abruptly shoved away the moment Yavul snatched his leg.
"FUuuuuuuuuuu," was the only wheezing noise Grisham was able to make. The only sound he muttered as he got the remnants of that mud bath shook all over him. The muddy taste in his mouth and the soil in his eyes had him rubbing hard against them, his muddy hands making scraping lines down his cheeks. The moment of displeasure was brief, his brow furrowed, and mouth pulled down into a tight frown. "Fucking asshole."
A short lived expression as he shot forward and pressed him down against the floor, his hands gripping his flesh wrist and pinning it above his head, straddling his hips and the still muddy clothes he wore clinging to every crevice of Grisham's body. His heart rattled in his ribcage, thrumming wildly with adrenaline, the excitement, the heat of the moment, and his eyes flicked down to the small lines in Yavul's face, the old ones, and the new ones - made recent by events beyond their control. Those baby blues were practically on fire.
Grisham reached up with his free hand to touch Yavul's face, wiping away the mud along his lips and cheeks, swirling his thumb along the underside of his bottom lip. "You got any last words, coyote man?" he hissed, his own mouth roughly crusted over with grit. "On second thought, just save 'em for a rainy day. Ain't no old dogs dying today."
Grisham leaned down and kissed him, exhaling out his nose and letting that breath splay out against the still wet mud along Yavul's cheek, as he tilted his head into that kiss. He didn't even care that he tasted mud still, as he wanted only to pry open his lips, parting them with a breathy moan.
-
Grisham made the best fussy faces. The way his lips thinned into a tight downward-curving line, the way those stormy grey-blues lit up with a smoldering agitation, the way his brows came together to complete the whole aesthetic. It was the best, and Yavul lived to stoke that particular fire into being.
Someone in an armchair somewhere with plenty of papers on this sort of behavior might have implied that Yavul just wanted to get under Grisham’s skin in an effort to elicit some kind of potent emotional response in lieu of the one he wanted, but someone in an armchair somewhere really had no lines in this particular play. Because right now, Yavul wasn’t thinking about that, or how he’d feel on the rails headed home in just a few days’ time. Right now was all about pissing Grisham off, and he was downright snorting through the remainder of his mud.
Yavul’s laughter was cut short, however, as he was shoved onto his back and pinned there, and a sudden, violent thrill raced up his spine and back down again. Grisham wasn’t scowling anymore, but that didn’t stop Yavul’s heart from trying to thud right out of his chest, a harsh, hard rhythm that was very difficult to try and get under control before all the excess bloodflow did something terribly embarrassing.
Yavul’s metal hand lay useless at his side for a moment, before moving up to settle against Grisham’s hip— a minimal attempt to help steady the man lest he slip in all the mess, maybe, but probably a lot more to do with a primal need to touch him as much as possible. The Valkyrie swallowed, hard, some soft sound escaping him as Grisham cleared away the worst of the mess on his face, and oh gods both but the way he growled those words down at him just set every last nerve ending on fire. Winter? North? Cold? What cold, everything was suddenly so warm, his head was swimming, his pulse was hammering—
And then Grisham kissed him, and whatever was left of Yavul’s pride jumped right out the apartment windows, never to be seen again. Because he suddenly didn’t care about embarrassing, a low needy moan echoing Grisham’s own as he moved into that kiss, tasting mud and grit and cigar smoke and loving every last goddamn minute of it. Without thinking, his free hand slid up to the back of Grisham’s neck, desperate to keep him right there.
Yavul pushed up, trying to get at more of the Hellion, their lips meeting again and again in between little gasps for air. And gods both, Yavul loved it, loved this, mess and mud and grit and all.
When they did part, it was only by the barest amount, Yavul grinning wide mere millimeters from Grisham’s mouth, and rather overly tempted to give them a nip just to be mischievous. And so he did. Several times.
“I dunno, there, Dyna,” he said in between two particularly insistent bites, “I got a lot t’ say.”
-
The scowls would be in short supply this evening it seemed. Too bad, so sad. Them's the rules that no one had control over. Maybe deep throated growls, maybe little huffs of breath that Grisham somehow managed to splay out through flared nostrils the moment Yavul's lips met to his. No resistance, no need to stand on ceremony. In the quiet of that apartment, it just the two of them, and the awful horrific remnants of muddy warfare.
The sounds he made, the needy moan made Grisham's gut do another flip, heat pulsating in his lower belly and directing itself southward. From where he was pressed against the old Solartan wild dog, he felt that hardness pressed against his hips. Well, now, what did they have here? A sudden interloper on their taste tests. It wasn't just the mud now was it? Because they were both absolutely trashed from the looks of it.
Green hair matted to his forehead, his back was already starting to itch from where the grit was crusted against his spine, having gotten past the defenses his shirt had posed. Clothes that he was starting find were very confining in a time like this. Grisham growled lowly at those lip nips, only then reminded of the small scars on his own face, of the small marks of the strife in years gone by. Marks that Yavul never fixated on, or if he did he'd never made Grisham embarrassed by them.
A shudder rolled down his spine and he hummed lightly, loosing his hand from Yavul's face to reach down and feel against that particular interloper. He gripped it firmly, pressing his thumb to the base of it, nipping back at Yavul's lips. "Well, I can tell. I think it's gonna be mouthful from the feel of it," he panted, grinning and kissing him back with another heated breath.
Grisham pulled away, grunting with some reluctance because if Yavul didn't have the best lips he'd ever tasted he didn't know who did. Sitting up gave him a wonderful view of that old Solartan. Not too old, and Grisham knew that despite the missing arm - or maybe because of it, time treated him very well. Browned skin, tanned nicely, pulled over not-so taut muscle but the strength was there, apparent, and he let his hands slip down to admire it, dragging his fingers along his ribs until they reached the waistband of his boxers.
He'd sat back far enough to pull them off, guiding them off Yavul with a heavy rise and fall of his chest. Gods he was gorgeous. Just like he was in Amristah, just like he'd always be. The mud may have gotten into some of the crevices, in the spaces along his hips. No matter, Grisham idly brushed away the dried bits, bringing his face down and leaving a trail of wet kisses in the exposed skin between the mud.
Fingers wrapped around that tender cock, turgid and hot, and he gave it a few teasing strokes, and casting a brief glance to Yavul's blues, the heat from his face practically setting them on fire. Grisham flicked his tongue out to the tip, kissing at the head, testing the waters with a taste along the veins on its underside.
"Still got something to say, coyote man?" he posed the question not really expecting an answer, slipping the head just passed his lips, applying teasing pressure.
-
There was nothing about Grisham that Yavul didn’t absolutely adore. Splattered in mud, scarred and ashy and grumpy from a long day’s work, marked and burned and partially made of metal— all of it simply came together to make Grim, well… Grim. Even the mud was somehow so very him— so serious at first glance but really Dyna was just a kid at heart, playing pranks and pulling stupid goofy shit like an impromptu mudfight.
And gods both, he was beautiful for it. Something rolled through Yavul, making his ribcage shudder and his heart feel overwhelmingly light. The lack of breath made him dizzy, his vision tunnel, pupils blown wide as he gazed up at Grisham and Grisham alone.
Shit. Fuck. He had it bad.
The hum above him brought him back down to Aedolis, just in time to watch as Grisham’s hand slid down, feel the path of his fingers between them, and moan in utter delight as he gripped him through his boxers. Yavul couldn’t help himself. He clung to Grisham and bucked his hips, though for how pinned he was beneath the older man there wasn’t far he really could move. His flesh hand flexed, clenched and flexed again, wanting to actually feel Grisham’s hair beneath his fingers instead of just a vague sense that was what he was feeling.
Robotics just never were quite the same.
He kissed Grisham in earnest, as if that would somehow make up for not being able to sink both his hands in mud-soaked hair, as if it didn’t make up for it a hundred-fold. Every moment like this made up for every moment it felt like Yavul’s hands were pinned. More than made up for it, if Yavul’s nigh instantaneous excitement was anything to go by. Speaking of which…
The Valkyrie blinked as Grisham pulled away, growling out a low protest for just a moment because no, no, he wanted a lot more of that— at least until he caught on to what Grisham was up to. Yavul bit down on his lip to keep his noise of approval at a minimum, lifting his hips just enough to let the Hellion slide his boxers down and off. It certainly was a relief in more ways than one, the mud having easily soaked the fabric and was just this side of really uncomfortable. The secondary relief came from the sharp thrill at just how Grisham was looking at him, such that Yavul felt his head swim from all the heat in those grey-blues. It was dizzying, and for a moment it felt a lot like Yavul had forgotten how to breathe. Stormy seas.
Gods both but he had it bad.
“Dyna,” he hissed, legs twitching with every touch to his aching cock, tensing as shocks of pleasure sang up and down his every nerve ending. Shit but Grisham’s tongue felt good. Hands free to roam where they would— Grisham being as thoroughly occupied as he was— Yavul slid them through mud-stained green hair, careful not to pull too hard. Just enough to rub at his scalp, convey even part of the sheer magnitude of what he was feeling.
Not like he wasn’t busy vocalizing exactly that, regardless. Because as it turned out, Yavul had quite a lot to say. His head fell back, against an errant couch cushion, that sliding out from beneath him as Grisham moved his lips over his cock just right, sending the coyote man into a soft arch as he clung to the Hellion.
“Oh, fuck, Grisham,” he was pretty sure he was babbling, repeating himself over and over and potentially not even in a shared language at all, but the way Grisham’s tongue pressed against him had him seeing nothing but sparks. Who cared if he made any sense in the process? “J’ai envie de toi.”
After all, tone said far more than the words themselves. And Yavul’s tone was low, full of gravel and utterly unmistakable, staring down at Grisham and trying to commit every last line of him to memory. Because if he were to ever go blind he wanted to make sure he could remember how good the other Commander looked right then.
-
Yavul's small noises, his moans, and the little muscular twitches he made in response to Grisham was enough to send chills down a man's spine. That deep rumbling timbre, whether if was virtue of being Solartan he didn't know, could inspire fear when angered, inspire others in a rallying cry, or be utterly wanting by nothing more than a simple change of tone. He wanted to hear that moan again and again, and see how he could make that lovely voice alter and change.
Grisham poised himself with one hand firmly planted on the ground and the other his palm gripping Yavul’s hip, shuffled far enough down as he was to keep himself in place. The coyote man sure got vocal right when Grisham thought his voice was going to be snatched away. Which was absolutely not at all exactly what he wanted. Nope, not in the slightest. He didn’t want to hear him cry out his name at all, or bury his fingers in his hair, or grip him as if he were the only tether anchoring him from this world and the next.
Or however many worlds there happened to be at any given time… The only world that mattered at all to Grisham right now was the one right in front of him, and Yavul’s body splayed out beneath him.
What would have been a mild sensation of metal fingertips against his scalp was immediately exacerbated by the heat that had flooded his face. Grisham moaned softly around him, bobbing his head at the note in Yavul’s voice. The fingers in his hair encouraged him, feeling those appendages tangle in his muddy locks, taking him deeper into his mouth until he felt him at the back of his throat. Grisham eased himself, controlling his breathing and taking what didn’t fit between his lips with the hand he had gripped Yavul’s hip with, squeezing and stroking before slipping a hand just underneath to gently massage at his balls.
“J’ai envie de toi.”
He didn’t stop, although those words gave him chills, and he breathed out through flared nostrils against his cock. His eyes flicked up, momentarily meeting his, darker blue eyes to lighter ones, and seeing Yavul there so vulnerable, aching for him, sent a thrill through Grisham that had him pressing hard against the fabric of his pants. Stupid pants.
He pressed onward, swallowing hard when Yavul finished, and lathering him clean once he was done. “Say that again,” he grumbled, sitting up and pulling his shirt off himself, the scars and burn marks, and the faded tattoos along his chest and sides stretching taut over firm muscle. He was so much paler than Yavul, but flushing heat brought color to that palor, and a green hairline decorated the center of his chest and flowed down his abdomen, his heart rattling inside his chest as if it were about to burst.
“How bad you want it? Because you got it bad, amigato,” he purred, crawling back over Yavul, the taste of his come still heavy on his tongue. Droves of lust radiated off him, sheer primal need that Grisham could melt and fall right into. “So very bad, coyote man. Gotta grip you by the scruff.”
A devilish grin and Grisham hooked an arm around his neck, pulling Yavul up into another hungered kiss, nipping at the other man’s bottom lip, and his other hand fumbling with the button and zipper of his own pants. He might have been more focused to take them off if Yavul wasn’t so goddamn distracting. And nope he didn’t mind in the slightest.
With some success he managed to undo the bindings and broke the kiss long enough to sit up on his knees and pushing his pants and underwear passed his hips, freeing his girth. He didn't always sport boxers, freeballing it on a work day wasn't quite that comfortable. He wore a gray set of boxer briefs, pushing them passed his thighs, cool air grazing him and making every muscle tense.
-
It was the eyes that did it.
Yavul had been set to snap already, cock throbbing with every little movement of Grisham’s tongue, his toes curling as the Hellion moved over him, that beautiful mouth having him see sparks. He had been close, so, so close, pressure building and building until he was so sure he’d break, and then Grisham looked at him.
And Yavul couldn’t help himself. He came with a shuddering moan, though even that wasn’t enough of a relief, the sight of Grisham swallowing around him sending sharp zings of sensation up his spine, leaving Yavul flushed and wanting more. Because damn, if Grisham didn’t look good like that, all downright predatory stares and—
”Say that again.”Yavul shivered at the command, rendered mute for a moment as Grisham sat up and peeled off his shirt, revealing that network of scars and tattoos that Yavul loved to know so well. The Valkyrie licked at his lips, a slow grin overtaking him as he followed that trail of green with his eyes, pointedly staring at where it disappeared below Grisham’s waistband.
“J’ai envie de toi,” Yavul repeated, tone low and soft as his fingertips ventured over Grisham’s sides, ghosting against the hair on his abdomen before simply hooking his index fingers into Grisham’s pants, “sitoplé.”
His heart was hammering in his chest, a wild drumbeat against his ribcage as Grisham moved above him, and Yavul was so sure he’d burst when the older Pilot drew him into another soul-searing kiss. The taste was jarring, but fuck if Yavul cared, moaning with every scrape of teeth against his lip. It hadn’t been very long, but already he could feel those familiar beginnings of desire. Well, he wasn’t that old yet, it seemed.
The thought had him feeling downright cheeky. And so when he felt Grisham struggling to get his pants open, Yavul did his damnedest to give him a reason to want to get his pants open— he clung to Grisham’s shoulders, his flesh hand leaving little crescent-shaped indentations where he dug in blunt nails, all the while drawing the other man down into kiss after steamy kiss, murmuring more and more in his hometown tongue, sure to pepper in Grisham’s name as often as possible and as needy as possible.
By the time Grisham sat up, Yavul was already hardening again, flesh twitching as those mud-caked pants were pushed down and over his hips. Yavul’s mouth went dry, suddenly overtaken by the impulse to flip them over and return the earlier favor. Because hot damn, Yavul wanted him, wanted all of him, his flesh hand sliding between them to take hold of Grisham, fingers wrapped around his cock and giving him short, even strokes. Or as best he could manage at that angle.
With a quiet hum, Yavul moved to rectify that matter, his metal arm wrapping around Grisham’s shoulders to pull himself up and into the other man’s lap. Yavul rolled his hips in a slow grind, shivering as every little movement had him pressed against Grisham and vice versa, shocks of heat pooling in his abdomen and just rendering all prior reservations moot. He didn’t even care how he looked, panting and desperate and hair clinging to his face and neck, all he wanted was Grisham.
“So, so bad,” he growled, staring right into those darker blues as he did, “So very, very bad. Dyna…”
-
It seemed neither of them were that old for this. Grisham didn't know if it was the robolungs newly installed in him, or if he just wasn't smoking enough cigars in a day, but any half-baked fear that he'd be out of breath in a time like this when he'd need to stay properly ventilated promptly went out the window the second Yavul wrapped his arm around his neck, yanking his head down into one kiss after another. Everything was coming at him at once, every wave of ecstasy and want off Yavul's form was beautiful, a memory that he'd want to encase in a marble later. Not for crushing, for himself alone.
Like waves of steam off dry ice, sensation heightened, and the need apparent on his features. Grisham forced himself to focus on one thing at a time, controlling his breathing through his nostrils although it made his head dizzy and lightheaded. He moaned deeply into every kiss, the arm around his neck keeping him grounded against Yavul, the bites of nails against the tattoo of his back. "Gods, Yavul," he practically growled, thankful at long last when his pants did become free. Because if they weren't he was pretty sure those pants wouldn't have been able to contain him any longer.
Grisham's face was flushed and threads of saliva broken between them when their lips parted. Yavul could kiss him forever for all he cared, but there was time for that later, because he wanted more than that. All of it, all of him and again, however long the coyote man would have him. Vagrant thoughts drifted back to Amristah, to the burnt lasagna, to the being too drunk to do anything more than kiss before they both passed out.
That morning after though, he remembered it vividly. This was a different time, a different city, and to finally have the opportunity to feel Yavul under him again, he wouldn't trade that for anything.
The second Yavul's flesh hand wrapped delicately around his cock, Grisham's entire body tensed, jolts and sparks fireworking their way south, and he breathed out a heavy groan at even the short, delicate strokes he managed between them. He was so hard, the heaviness of his cock throbbing with want.
"I fucking need you, Yavul," he murmured, eyes falling half-lidded as the other man pulled himself into his lap. Because that's exactly what it was, and every cylinder was firing, going off at just the right timing and the moment he was settled into his lap, the sensations erupted tenfold. Flushed fleshed fused to him and Grisham met Yavul's throat with lapping strokes of his tongue. "Now. Now"
Grisham was still on his knees when he hiked up Yavul's hips, one arm cradled under his knee to pull it up nigh to his ribs. A shift in his hips and he was angled just right although he knew there was little that would make entry easy. Beads of sweat pricked at his skin, he didn't waste any time as he eased himself against that entrance, breathing out low and slow as he slid Yavul down onto him, his mechanical arm hooked at his waist secure his weight. The Valkyrie was by no means a small man, nor delicate in any sense of the word.
He was beautiful, his hair disheveled, mopping over his face, and those bright blue eyes apparent between threads of hair. Grisham met those eyes, keeping his gaze steady and rolled his hips upward, groaning hotly, the noise unable to be contained as it rumbled out in deep graveled tones, until finally he was hilted to the brim, and he settled Yavul's back against the ground, rocking his hips to that immolating need.
-
”I fucking need you, Yavul.”
Fuck if that didn’t set every last nerve ending Yavul had on fire. He shivered from his head to his toes, his blush overtaking him until he was little more than a ball of sentient heat. He could listen to Grisham say that all day, every day, that smokey rumble doing more than even the words themselves. Which was saying quite a bit, considering the words had Yavul stifling another low moan.
He shifted, adjusting his arms to better hang onto Grisham’s shoulders as his leg was lifted out from under him. Whatever noises he was hoping to hold back, though, escaped him immediately as he felt the Hellion press against him, his own cock twitching in anticipation.
It wasn’t like he thought about this constantly, or anything. Ever since the first time he’d flown up to Amristah under the shaky pretense of getting a free homecooked meal (not that they did much eating until late into the next morning), he’d wanted nothing more than this— to be pressed close to the man who’d stolen his heart so effectively. And still had it, probably in a handcrafted display jar if Yavul knew him. And Yavul loved to think that he did.
Despite the gentle entry, there was very little to ease the way, and Yavul hissed quietly as he slowly sank down on Grisham’s cock, his fingers digging into the man’s back at the initial pain of being so stretched. But like every other pain, it was so, so worth it, Yavul meeting Grisham’s eyes with a shaky breath. Sweat beaded along Yavul’s spine, against his temples, muddy hair clinging there, and he barely had a chance to get control of himself before Grisham was moving. The Hellion rolled his hips up, and all Yavul could do was hang on, rumbling moans escaping with every delicious motion.
On his back once more, Yavul lifted his other leg and hooked his ankles behind Grisham’s back. His muscles tightened, thighs and stomach working in an effort to pull the Hellion even closer, deeper, wanting nothing more than that delicious friction between them. Certainly no small man himself, the weight of Grisham above him knocked the breath right out of Yavul with every thrust, the Valkyrie’s head falling back and short, aching cries punctuating their movements.
Yavul reached up and back, trying to find something to hold onto, nails scraping at the fallen couch cushions as he rolled his hips upwards, meeting each rocking thrust with one of his own, stars bursting behind his eyes each time.
“Dyna—” he hissed, the initial pain of entry a distant memory as heat overtook him, “fuck, Dyna, tu te sens si bien, j’—”
Yavul bit down on his lip, muffling the words into little more than a long groan, unable to even articulate as Grisham’s hips met his in a way that blanked out every last thought, leaving nothing but Grisham and just how damn good it felt to be beneath him. It was like being drunk, his head swimming and skin prickling with heat, already beginning to drip precome on his own belly as he stared up into the Hellion’s eyes, relishing how intense he looked even now. Or maybe that was just Yavul relishing the fact that Grisham was looking at him.
Bit of column A, bit of column B. Either way had him biting back a downright embarrassing mewl, tightening around Grisham and rocking up into those thrusts all the faster for it.
“Sitoplé, sitoplé—!”
-
Grisham had never been good with words. A delicate tongue and touch that would have given him one hell of a career in PR, probably stuck behind a desk for the rest of his miserable life. Probably would have caused him to shoot himself in the foot just to make things more exciting. Lisa sure as shit always complained how they never talked a whole lot, and if they did, it was nothing short of arguing. A funny thought in hindsight, the empath that couldn't articulate his own feelings into words. What was even funnier now was how none of it seemed to matter.
Grisham shifted his hips and rolled them as Yavul hooked ankles around his lower back to better keep them situated against each other. Just that thought alone that the Valkyrie commander wanted that closeness and to foster it sent a shiver down his spine. Yavul was the last person he'd been close to. And if he had to admit it to himself; he was the only person he wanted to be this close to. Those same words rumbled back out him again, the second he was situated inside him. Because to hell if they weren't the goddamn truth.
He did need him, and that acknowledgement sent a pang in Grisham's chest that made him whimper over Yavul. A brief distraction, and the biting points of Yavul's fingertips, nails and all, digging into his back, pressing him onward, dragged him back to earth. No more heads in the clouds, Mr. Dynamo. The only sound he wanted breaking atmosphere right now was Yavul's voice, that wonderful Solartan twang that sent shivers down his back.
Grisham didn't waste time thinking anymore - although a nipping apology to Yavul's lips was made - something about the hiss he'd made and that lube had been in the room and going to get it would have killed the mood (yeah he said all of that with a nip). Grisham's entire body rolled forward into every thrust, his muscles clenching long enough to hold tension before releasing it and sliding back into Yavul as hard as he could each thrust. The vague thought of his size and wondering if he would even fit in him had briefly passed his mind.
Shivers sparked up from his lower abdomen, feeling Yavul stretch around him every time and the rawness of flesh making his hips and stomach burn, but gods it felt so good. He groaned heavily, everything was on fire from head to toe. Beads of sweat formed along his forehead and dribbled down his nose. He ducked his head down and pressed his face against Yavul's neck, kissing languidly there, leaving traces of wet from licking his lips, relishing in Yavul's thundering pulse as he spoke those words he didn't need to understand in order to comprehend them.
Grisham opened his eyes, peering back up to look at Yavul, as they undulated in time with one another. They fit so well together, he lean edges alongside Grisham's side as if gleaned away to fit Yavul's hips exactly to him. The Valkyrie was tight and curled his body just so, rocking his hips up to meet his with increasing vigor. Fuck if he didn't look absolutely beautiful right then and there. Grisham panted hard, meeting Yavul's gaze, the flush having taken his browned skin completely and making those eyes light up like a fucking lightning storm. And the aching moans, the cries of pleasure that erupted from gorgeous lips sent chills down into his belly once again. Nothing was more beautiful than Yavul in the throes of ecstasy.
Grisham couldn't suppress a shudder and felt words linger on his tongue, his tongue rolled up against his front teeth as if threatening on it's own to utter that first L'd syllable. But the words was stifled. Instead his arm reached up to pin Yavul's wrist against those cushions, his abdomen boiling over with heat, every muscle taut, and he rolled his hips like a meteor crash into his Coyote, encouraging him to latch onto him.
If that sweet attempt to stifle a mewl was any indication, and it was a noise he intended to make Yavul replicate.
His Coyote. Fucking A-right, he was.
A heavy, deep groan, and he stared Yavul right in the eyes. "Ain't no one else having you, Yavul," he managed to articulate at last. "F-fuuuck. Y-you're mine. Comprenez vous?"
The accent was definitely off. And it didn't come out nearly as pretty as when Yavul said it, but some time some months ago Grisham heard somebody say that in Solarta. And he thanked that crotchety old hag and internet translation for small miracles.
The stars knew Grisham didn't want anyone else.
-
Yavul was a romantic at heart. He believed in love, in finding The One, in looking into another pair of eyes and knowing without a shadow of a doubt that those were the last ones he ever wanted to see.
Grisham had gorgeous eyes; dark, stormy, full of the promise of rain and gloom but still holding that soft bit of color to let you know there was something beneath that surly surface. Mischief, creativity, boundless generosity. And right now, a burning need, one that caught Yavul in a firestorm and had him loving every minute of it.
The Valkyrie commander reached up, carded his fingers through deep green strands, tangling deep and rubbing at the other man’s scalp as they moved together, hips meeting in rough, slamming thrusts that had Yavul seeing stars. Appropriate, all things considered. Even more so as Grisham grabbed his wrists and pinned him down, eliciting a sharp gasp from the Valkyrie before that, too, dissolved into loud, aching moans. He was sure he was causing quite the racket, and only distantly worried about the noise level and just how pissed Grisham’s neighbors were going to be. Very distantly, because gods both, Grisham was hitting all the right angles, Yavul’s legs clamped tight around the Hellion’s waist to get him deeper, harder, faster—
And then Grisham said something that very nearly made Yavul’s heart stop. Something that had to do with being his, only his, something that had Yavul gasping for air and bucking wild beneath Grisham, slamming himself onto his cock. But even that wasn’t enough; he wanted more, needed more, needed to be as close to Grisham as he could for as long as he could.
Yavul hooked his leg a little higher, and angled his hips to catch Grisham off balance. They rolled together, the Valkyrie soon settling atop Dyna, his Dynamour, both his hands at Grisham’s chest as he rode him hard and fast. He shook sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes, unwilling to spare a moment to push it back manually, already so very, very close.
“Je comprends— fuck yes je comprends, Dyna, I’m gonna come—”
And he did, unable to take any more, so keyed up from his earlier orgasm and sent right past the point of no return the second those wonderful words left Grisham’s lips. They just pulled at his heart and soul, one strand at a time until he completely unraveled. He all but howled Grisham’s name as he spilled out over the other Pilot’s stomach and chest, making the mess between them even more so. Even then, Yavul continued to ride him, throbbing with every thrust and whimpering as aftershocks of pleasure shot through every fried nerve ending, already hoarse from how much use his voice had gotten that evening.
Worth it. If Yavul was going to lose his voice, he wanted the last syllables on his tongue to belong to Grisham.
-
Grisham's throat was already raw and hoarse, dry and felt like sandpaper when he tried to swallow. Sweat dribbled down his sides, down his spine, and making them both slick as Grisham drove on home. The sounds coming from Yavul echoing in his ears, loud and wild like the coyote that he was, untamed and unrelenting as he slammed into him over and over again, made goosebumps spread across Grisham's flesh. The aching cries of wanting more only drove Grisham to want to deliver until he was nothing more than a shuddering mess melting into a puddle beneath him.
Nope, Grisham's neighbors probably weren't at all happy with the amount of noise seeping out from that apartment. Such a thought was secondary to the hot mess right in front of him. Grisham's eyes flickered to Yavul's face, his hair splayed out over his features, threads sticking to his cheeks, his brow, his lips, and through the tendrils he watched those warm baby blues ignite in their vibrancy.
That was his only warning. But in the end it wasn't enough. They flashed, Yavul gasped for air and hiked his legs up, nearly squeezing the air out of Grisham's robolungs with how tightly he was holding onto him. Every bucking motion had him drawn deeper inside him, eliciting whimpers and shuddering moans from Mr. Dynamo. Already he was close and Yavul's vigor was incredibly infectious.
A shift in his hold on him and Grisham's balance was completely thrown off. He was rolled over onto his back and pinned beneath Yavul, yelping loudly in the process. "Y-yavul! Wha!" he gasped, throwing his head back and bracing his hands on Yavul's hips. Still his hips rocked upward, and his cock ached for that release.
That metal hand stung his chest a little at its cool touch, and his chest felt numb to Yavul's hold, secondary to those beckoning cries. Second to the writhing sensation that crawled through his skin, making every muscle taut the closer and closer he was drawn to the edge. Yavul made true to his word, and spilled out across his abdomen. Fingers dug so hard into Yavul's hips he thought he was going to crush him, and Grisham no longer had any control of his trembling.
"Y-Yavul! I'm...I'm gonna..." he begged. But Yavul didn't stop. Didn't relent even after he'd had his own pleasure, and those residual shockwaves eventually jolted their way through the Hellion. Grisham couldn't hold back. A few more thrusts had him throw his head back and cry out and he burst so hard inside Yavul his vision flashed white and left him in a panting sweaty mess.
"Yavul... fuck. Fuuck..." Still he clutched to those hips, arms trembling, muscles tense, and his breathing struggling to regain under some semblance of control. But no, there was no control, that flew out the window ages ago. All Grisham could do to keep himself from floating away was grip onto Yavul's legs, and gradually his grip loosened and gently stroked along his thighs. He didn't want to move and every muscle eased with relief.
Slowly he reached up a shaking right hand and brushed away the stray lose hands that still clung to his face. "Fuck, you're beautiful, coyote man," he managed to croak out. A cheesy thing to say. The worst thing to say, and Grisham immediately felt the need to swallow his own tongue at the awful cringey thing he just said, but it was too late and he just stroked Yavul's face as he slowly caught his breath. "You made a mess of me, Coyote man." And then he snorted, eyes flicking up and meeting Yavul's again. "What do you got to say for yourself? Is that the only mess you're gonna make?"
-
Yavul had a shit memory sometimes. He forgot things on the daily, failed to notice little details unless he was really trying. It took endless repetition to get anything to stick, little notes scribbled on scrap paper and taped where they’d be seen, and it was always worse when his thoughts were determined to go down a dark road. Because sometimes he even forgot scrap paper notes existed.
He was determined not to forget this. He needed to not forget this, needed to burn the sound of Grisham saying his name like that into his memory for good, forever. Because fuck, he made it sound so good. Nothing could ever compare to it, to this, and Yavul was sure nothing ever would. Desperate to cling to the moment, Yavul kept riding him just a few seconds more, barely holding the edges of his existence together. Finally, though, he simply couldn’t take anymore, slowing to a stop and settling in Grisham’s lap with a low groan of utter contentment.
He had a shit memory, but he was pretty sure he hadn’t had it that good in his entire life. Everything ached in the best way. His legs trembled as he tried to move, and Yavul quickly gave up on anything of the sort, a soft sound escaping him as those warm hands ran over his thighs because even that felt amazing. Every part of Grisham felt amazing, Yavul lost in a sea of sensation and emotion before being startled right back out of it again when Grisham’s fingers touched his face to get hair out of his eyes.
It was… so goddamn tender, Yavul’s breath caught in his throat, his chest stuttering wildly as his lungs tried to get him breathing again. But how could he? How could he even think of something so unimportant like air and breathing when Grisham spoke to him like that, called his name and told him he was…
Yavul bit down on his lip, hard, stifling what he wanted to say before he could be stupid enough to say it. And just in time, too, the coyote looking around at the utter destruction surrounding them. Yeah, they’d made quite the mess, and Yavul had had a fair hand in that. He reached to the side, snatching up his boxers and mopping up Grisham’s stomach with them before tossing them to the side again with a grin that he didn’t… quite feel.
“Careful now, Mr. Dynamo. Egg me on any an’ you’re gonna have t’ burn this place t’ the ground an’ start over.” He glanced around at all the plants and dirt and mud spatters, and gave a little sheepish grimace, “Might have t’ do th’ same regardless.”
A little more stable, Yavul shifted his legs to ease the forming cramp there, knees shaking with effort as he lifted himself up and off of Grisham’s cock. The motion brought with it the last vestiges of pain, a wince caught and buried before it could show too plainly on his face. Yavul rolled to the side, still partially on Grisham because like hell he was going to give that up until the other man made him. Just a few more minutes, that’s all he wanted, head on Grisham’s shoulder and legs stretching out to relax overworked muscles.
Just a few more minutes.
-
If Grisham had thought that just a few minutes could last an eternity, he could have taken that hypothesis and ran with it. Time had an irrelevant way of making it's point. You never saw it, you never felt it save for the aches of weariness, for the creases in the lines next to your eyes. Grisham didn't feel old now, of all the times where he'd been worn and ragged. No, instead he couldn't have felt more alive, than when Yavul was next to him.
Grisham was still shaking, the little breaths leaving him, and he never took his eyes from Yavul, embedding into memory how beautiful he looked. Cheesy lines aside, it was absolutely true. The disheveled mess his hair had made, some partly draped over his eyes, those wonderful blues looking right through him, that was an image he forced himself to memorize. Later, for a marble worthy of it.
The affection no doubt radiated off the pair of them in droves. Its definition, blending in with the aftermath of their ecstasy, comforted Grisham, and made his small touches that much more pressing. He wanted to feel him for as long as he could. More sensations to memorize. Those final bucks of his hips as he rode out the rest of his orgasm, the vague whimpers left behind. All of it that made small fireworks jolt up into Grisham's belly, pooling with the residual tingles of heat.
His fingertips continued to scrape casually along his sides after the initial clean up and dismount. He grinned up at Yavul, appreciating the gesture but considering they were both already drenched and slick and crusted over with dried mud. He took in a deep breath, opening his arm for Yavul to settle into, the man still half, draped over him, and his heart now finding some semblance of respite from all it's rattling. And the second Yavul was laying in the crook of his shoulder, Grisham's heart leapt into his throat.
It knotted there, and he pressed his tongue firmly to the roof of his mouth, trying to grin wryly. "If that's the way it's gonna be, then we might as well, make the most of it," he observed Yavul's features for a time, leaning forward to press his lips firmly to his forehead. The tingle left behind on his lips made him curl his entire body instinctively against the Valkyrie commander, letting their legs tangle and he could feel Yavul's breath against him.
"Yav...." He kept his tongue pressed even harder to the roof of his mouth. Nope, it probably would sound stupid coming out of his mouth. It always did. "We, make a pretty damn good team." That wasn't what he meant to say, but it was damn close. "We still got pizza in the microwave, but uhh, I don't really wanna go anywhere. You made yourself a fancy bunker outta my couch cushions here. That's some mighty fine ingenuity there, my coyote man."
He hummed thoughtfully and lifted his head down to kiss those gorgeous lips, keeping his mouth pressed his for some time even after. The distance between them was just short of a millimeter, enough to take in a deep breath. My coyote man, he'd made that a point to be heard. Not so good with words, but he could emphasize when he had to.
He was sorely tempted to move from that spot, but far be it from him to squander a perfectly good opportunity to hold Yavul in his arms. Instead Grisham hook his arm around the back of his neck and settled down so that Yavul was resting more on of him. "Hey there, blue eyes. How you doin'?" He winked at him. "Not bad for an old Dynamo?"
Ugh, Grisham. Stop saying stupid shit!
-
For a man who spent ninety percent of his day smoking, and the other ten percent also smoking, Grisham’s kisses were amazingly sweet. Yavul had long ago lost the ability to tell the difference between liking the smell of Grisham’s preferred brand, or liking the smell of that preferred brand because of Grisham. It was probably somewhere between the two options, made all the more potent because of the second, and leaving Yavul awash in his own overwhelming fondness.
The Hellion was far too sweet. It was like a weird, cosmic and borderline cruel joke. Yavul hadn’t initially liked him, could have gone on to hate him, could have let their north versus south rivalry roll into something that would outlast either of them. But here he was, pressed close to the other Commander and turned to let his arm drape over the other man’s chest. Warm and sated and—
”Yav…”
Yavul’s heart nearly gave out to hear his name like that so soon, and he turned to look up and into Grisham’s eyes. Mapped out the swirl of blue and grey, the way even Grisham’s lashes had a tint of green, framing his irises and making them stand out even more. Yavul had… lied, all those months ago, about the Yule paper. If he was ever to go blind he’d want his last sight to be this.
A sentimental kind of thought. Pointless, but nice all the same. Yavul swallowed, got his heartbeat back under control, and quirked his mouth into a smile at the idea of them making a great team. Because sure, sure they did. They worked well together, despite all the reasons they shouldn’t. Whether it was scorpions or spiders or increasingly not recommended uses for mud, they made a pretty good team. The best team. A team Yavul was both incredibly proud to be a part of and… incredibly heartbroken, because that’s all it was.
Not for the first time, Yavul remembered exactly who Grisham Alberich was, and not for the first time, remembered what had followed after lasagna in Amristah. No, team was good. Team was good, and Grisham was being so sweet, gently reminding him that what had just happened would, like always, stay exactly where it was. Here, on these couch cushions, just for the night and no further.
Yavul blinked, looked away for a moment, and instead watched his fingers trace invisible patterns against Grisham’s chest. Slowed, and then finally, stopped. Yavul laughed, soft and quiet, and patted Grisham’s chest with a kind of finality.
He didn’t really wanna go anywhere either. Especially not when Grisham insisted on making this as hard as possible with more sweet kisses, stoking the embers in Yavul’s chest back to life just as he’d managed to get them to burn down. A cruel, cruel joke. And Yavul kept walking right back on into it like a damn fool. He shifted, brought one hand up to card through Grisham’s hair, leaning into the kiss for just a few more greedy milliseconds. Just enough to keep him afloat, but not enough to ruin everything.
He let the Hellion pull him, originally worried that Grisham was leaving the cushions so soon but ashamed to admit he felt elated when that wasn’t the case. He settled against Grisham’s chest, arms folded beneath him to cushion his chin, and smirked.
“Not bad at all. Still got fuel t’ burn, rocket man.” He joked, hoping that he might be able to snuff out those embers for good if he just focused on being normal. Normal and not in love with a man who had absolutely zero interest in such things.
“Ain’t rightly sure if I got any legs left, though. Still waitin’ on th’ feelin’ t’ come back to ‘em.” He winked right back, and hid a yawn behind one hand.
-
If Grisham could say he'd had any plans on destroying his living room with anyone else other than Yavul Hyakinthos, he'd claim it was a doppelganger and shoot them dead, before it hunted him down and killed him and tried to steal his life. Not that Grisham believed in that nonsense. That's all that was, superstition that had no place in a small segment of time that had become his apartment, separated from the rest of Aedolis.
Grisham didn't want to be anywhere else, and couldn't imagine anyone else beside him. Grisham's senses were throbbing still, the sensations of his own high abating, and he could still feel Yavul's emotions beside him, and he let them blanket over him as the man cradled himself on his chest. Something felt...off, just a tad, like it was stamped down, or disappointment, and he blinked slowly up at the coyote man.
Yavul's mechanical arm was cool aginst his flush chest, and the sensation made his breath hitch. He forced a faint grin, his fingers grazing up Yavul's spine and admiring the dips and grooves of the muscles of his back. Committing them to memory, because these were definitely things he wanted to remember, to place into a marble and make it so that should something ever happen to his mind, he didn't lose this moment.
"Well, you don't need your legs right now," he tried to coo, leaning his head up and nip lightly at Yavul's nose, letting himself be warmed by the intimacy between them. Odd, that he'd gone so long without knowing just how good it felt. So...so good, like a man aching for water after days in the desert. There never was a six-pack he didn't drink, a stray memory blinked at him. Grisham recalled Yavul saying that in the chat. Odd how such a vague recollection popped up at a time like this.
"Hey now I still got pizza in the microwave, and a few beers," he offered, licking his lips in thought. Was it weird that he wanted to offer him food still? To treat him, as his guest, to the fullest extent of his hospitality. Was it was weird that his stomach did a flip at the thought of sharing more meals with Yavul? No...it wasn't weird at all. In fact nothing felt more natural.
He didn't want to move, could have stayed here all night for all it was worth. Grisham did move first, reluctantly and wrapped his arms around Yavul's shoulders, rolling them both over as he trapped him underneath him momentarily, stealing another set of sweet kisses. A lick of his lips again, "Ok, c'mon, let's get up and eat something. I gotta keep up my strength if I gotta keep up with you, Yavvy," another quick nip and he stepped up, not reaching for his clothes, and hovering as naked as the day he was born.
A hand reached down, inviting Yavul up to stand if he could or lay against the dilapidated wall of those muddied couch cushions. Grisham pulled the luke-warm pizza from the microwave, the slices hardened like cardboard, but it was certainly better than nothing at all. He resumed his place next to Yavul, easing the plate in front of him, and he shifted so that he was sitting thigh to thigh against him.
Grisham fell silent, looking around at the state of his apartment, reaching for a slice. "Yavul, you mentioned burning this place down. Can we really do that? And get away with it? We can find another place to live right?" The wording hadn't been meant with any malicious intent, choosing 'we' instead of 'me'. But again the phrasing seemed to come out so naturally. As if saying it any other way would just be...wrong.
-
Yavul didn’t want to need his legs ever. He smiled despite himself, against the soft little nip to his nose, chuckling light and low before leaning up to return it in kind. It was nice, so nice, to have this little moment of quiet affection. Something welled in Yavul’s chest, that same old something that had done so so many times before, and Yavul was overtaken with the urge to lean up and kiss Grisham with everything he had.
Maybe show what he could never tell.
But no, thankfully Grisham had remembered the pizza, and like that the compulsion to make a fool of himself subsided. Just in time, too, and Yavul shifted to let Grisham get up, rolling with him and feeling his heart pick up dangerously high as he found himself beneath the Hellion once more.
Was it really so bad that he wanted this more than anything in the world? Just this, just this moment of being together, him and his Dyna and reality a very solid safe distance away. His eyes slid shut as Grisham leaned in, Yavul leaning up into those soft kisses and just gently pretending he could enjoy them for the rest of his life. Very gently. He blinked his eyes open when Grisham pulled back, and took a long, slow breath.
Food, right. Food was necessary. And without Grisham so close Yavvy was far more aware of the rumbling in his stomach. And so he didn’t protest being pulled up, following Grisham across the mess to the kitchen and leaning against the island while the other man moved about as if he wasn’t completely buck-ass naked.
There was something almost domestic about that. Just being comfortable with one another to not bother with dressing for something as simple as reheated food. And despite how exhausted Yavul was of trying to keep his feelings under control, he was content to indulge in that thought a little longer. It was just so natural, being like this. He accepted his share of the pizza, settled back down against the ruined remains of the couch, and took a bite.
He didn’t really taste it, of course. He didn’t often actually taste what he ate, and tonight was no different. Just the mechanics of up and down, chewing a little longer on the more terribly hardened pieces of crust. But in Yavul’s opinion, it was one of the best meals he’d ever had in his life just for the sake of the company involved. He shifted his leg, just a bit, just enough that their thighs were touching a little more solidly. Easily played off as nothing but needing to stretch out a little more after all the strenuous activity. Which wasn’t entirely untrue, either.
We can find another place to live right?
Seriously. It was like Vebeset took personal sadistic pleasure in dangling these things in front of his face. Yavul had been about to take another bite of his pizza, but paused. His appetite was officially gone, but he couldn’t exactly stop now without raising any alarms, and so he forced down another bite. At least it gave him time to consider his words, time to pretend like the thought of “we” hadn’t rendered him completely breathless.
“Already got one.” He said, carefully, finishing up his slice to where all that remained was the decidedly inedible crust at the end. “I mean, I ain’t rightly sure they’ll overlook arson, but you know you always got a place in Amristah.”
It was the truth, too. Grisham always had a place in Amristah. And Solarta, for that matter. Anywhere Yavul was, there was space for Grisham, too. Regardless of the manner in which they shared that space, everything Yavul had was just…
Grisham’s. Wholly, completely Grisham’s. For better or worse, and everything in between. He looked to the side, watched the Hellion as he ate, far too worn out to try and act like he wasn't staring. Yavul was tempted to lean in, rest his head against Grisham's shoulder, pretend at being too tired to sit up on his own. But that was a flimsy excuse no matter how he considered it, and so Yavul leaned back against the couch cushions instead, surveying the damage and chewing at the inside of his cheek.
"Might be easier just t' pack it in. Tactical retreat from what I'm thinkin' is what monsoons used t' look like. Gods both."
-
The pizza, like everything else in that trashed Pilot Royal's apartment, was going to be replaced eventually. True. Grisham had completely wrecked his brand new couch and his actual bed just to win at a stupid game of mud flinging. Which even then he was still pretty damn sure was a draw anyhow. Even if he knew he won. The old Yote would just have to deal with that. In a very unconscious way of course. Nope, he wasn't keeping score. Not him. None at all.
Grisham's eyes blotted out the images of the little memories he'd thought he had long forgotten. Because they were never really forgotten, not for him. Little flickers of life, where he used to lay down with Lisa against his chest, where he narrowly dodged a plate being thrown at his head and the pieces all smashed to the floor. Even now he could still see them, but then they would flicker away and he suddenly didn't care.
Lisa wasn't the one that had laid against his chest, listened to his heartbeat. The mess this place had become could be cleansed, could be repaired and mended. Even his arm that had been blown to literal ketchup was replaced with something just as good as the original. Funny enough, he never cried about his arm, never mourned it's loss.
He saved his mourning for times not like this. And even then, it'd gotten him nothing.
Grisham took one last resolute bite from his pizza, head tilting to Yavul, listening quietly, before a small affectionate grin spread across his face. "Yeah, if you ain't right, amigato." He chuckled, feeling his stomach coil at the little touches, hints of contact that Yavul had made, where their legs touched, and his heart sped up, sending a small jolt south.
He set his pizza down, deciding he wasn't hungry anymore, his arm easily sliding over Yavul's and grasping their hands together. Weird how natural their palms fit in one another. "Y'know after a storm hits, clean up usually follows. Lookin' like you could use a great deal of scrubbing there, Coyote Man," he nodded decisively and pulled Yavul up to his feet, his arm snaking it's around his waist, squeezing both hands at his hips.
Grisham took a step in close, leaning in and ghosting his lips over his, not quite kissing him, although already he could feel the electricity emanating from Yavul Hykinthos' and his eyes - as stormy gray blue as ever - meeting Yavul's baby blues. "C'mon, lets go get cleaned up." He licked his lips and gently released Yavul from his grip, save for the one he had on his hand, pulling the other man along with him to the shower.
Methodical and gradual, Grisham pulled back the glass door, and started the water, jumping a little when it was cold, and soon the heat regulated itself to warm, the shower head fanning down a wide ring from above. He said nothing, instead coaxing Yavul into the shower with him, and sliding the door closed with a resolute click.
"Hey there, wild yote," he grinned slightly, leaning in and hooking an arm around his waist again. "You got a lil bit of mud there." Grisham smirked, and pressed a soft kiss to Yavul's cheek, just at the corner of his mouth, his breath splaying out against the Coyote's cheek and jawline, dragging his mouth over his. "And there." Before finally claiming his lips for his own.
-
‘A great deal of scrubbing’ was an absolute understatement. Yavul was a mess. In the heat of the moment it was easier to ignore just how bad the mess was, but the feeling of drying mud and sweat and muddy-sweat was definitely not on the top of his favorite-sensations list. And when he stood up with Grisham’s help, the slick between his legs was just all that more obvious. Yeah, no, he definitely needed a shower.
It was an awkward kind of walk to the bathroom, the Solartan stepping gingerly as the consequences of their previous activities caught up to him, every step serving as a reminder. Not that Yavul was complaining— in some base, unconscious way, he liked it. Liked the dull ache in his lower back, liked how even now his thigh muscles really did not want to work for him, and above all else, really, really liked how Grisham held his hand the whole way to the shower stall.
Yavul snorted a bit at the little jump Grisham made, hiding his amusement behind a scratch to his chin where some mud had crusted over and was just downright itchy now. All the more reason to ignore the sound he’d made and just hop right on in under the water.
Again, the domesticity of it all hit Yavul like a ton of bricks, but by that point he was able to get his heartbeat under control and just let the feeling wash off right along with the water from the showerhead. Or, he might have in theory, if Grisham hadn’t taken hold of his waist just then. It was amazing how even that little gesture had Yavul’s heart stuttering in his chest, his own arms moving up to wrap around Grisham’s shoulders.
Gods both, but Yavul loved how that felt— fitting together like this. He moved his hands through Grisham’s hair, pushing it back and out of his eyes just so Yavul could see more of those wonderful stormy grey-blues. Also to prevent any of the mud running into Grisham’s face and utterly ruining a tender moment, because Yavul would be damned if he’d be robbed of this.
He let out a soft laugh at the comment about having a ‘bit of mud’, knowing full well ‘bit’ was not the word to be used, but loving the feel of Grisham’s lips against his cheek, the feel of his breath on his skin, the soft trail of that kiss until their lips met once again. And once again, it was like a lightning strike; the hairs on Yavul’s arms stood on end, his breath hitched, and every nerve felt caught in a flare of static.
He sank into the kiss, pressing back against Grisham in slow, languid movements, his flesh hand moving through sopping green hair to rub at Grisham’s scalp while his other arm remained thoroughly wrapped about the Hellion’s shoulders, a small guarantee that Yavul would not have to give up this moment just yet. He turned his head just so, teeth scraping against Grisham’s chin in a mischievous little nip, a second and less delicate one following right behind it before he moved back up to Grisham’s mouth.
Maybe it was the water spray. Or maybe it was the mud. Or maybe it was Yavul’s own hair getting in the way. But as their lips met again, Yavul’s eyes slid shut, all his focus now on the feel of the Hellion against him, the sound of their breath in between each lingering touch, and how every little movement had his nerves singing out in absolute delight.
“…Still there?” He said, after a moment, not even bothering to open his eyes as he nuzzled close, foreheads together and noses touching.
-
The second Yavul's arms fell on his shoulders, and he could wash away the small crusted bits of mud on his face. The water and the steam that started to rise up around them sent tingles up Grisham's spine. Again it was just the two of them - even though there was no one else in that apartment - and as Grisham stepped in as close as he was, the remarkable way their bodies were in such close proximity of one another was just so fucking nice.
Grisham let out a soft breath, resting his arm at Yavul's waist, feeling the tension there, his hand rubbing at the muscles and between them, fingertips digging into his spine and rolling his fingers in that tense spot. He hummed softly, moaning into that kiss and jolts running right south the way Yavul clung to him.
He wasn't too old. Nope. Not in the slightest, and not when he was kissed like that. Like lightning, blood surged south, and the ache in his groin pressed his hard cock against Yavul's hip. His head swam, staggering from the kiss, and the playful nip that the old Yote was content to just play against him. The bastard.
Grisham grinned even wider, humming softly, that hum rolling into a deep-throated growl, his heart pounding heavily in his chest. A painful reminder of almost dying, and Yavul there to send it on home all the thrills of being alive. Grisham's eyes closed tightly, and the second kiss left him leaning heavily against the Solartan. Yavul was built, sturdy and could thankfully hold his weight enough to keep him from falling over.
Not that he had any reason to, and the only lightheadedness came from the fact that most of his blood had gone from his head. That was until he opened his eyes, half-lidded over gray blues, and feeling the Valkyrie Commander's heart against his chest. "Yeah," he murmured, and his hand slid down, pushing the residue of mud off his back.
His fingers dug in, scraping down Yavul's back to the meat of his ass, gripping it tightly as he went in for thirds, moaning into that kiss and letting himself fall into it wholeheartedly. He couldn't place any hows or why or what ifs when it came to being with him and the steady rhythm of his heart pounding in his ears reassured him that falling into him, letting go, was ok. At no other time could there have been a safer option.
His tongue found Yavul's, sliding along it before he pulled back and nipped at his lower lip, at his throat, his hard on throbbing with need and pushing wantonly against Yavul's hip. "Yavul," he whispered, voice gruff, rumbling deep from his chest. "I ain't goin' anywhere. How about you? You got something on your mind? Places to be? No? Good. Because I ain't letting you get out of this shower."
He hissed, finding a spot on the other man's throat and sucking on it, laving his tongue just at the base of it and his other hand reaching between them to grip on the Solartan's shaft, his fingers stroking tenderly around it.
"Hey Yote man. You look mighty hungry," he purred. "I got a thick juicy steak ripe for the tasting. With your name written all over it."