Re: Quiet Home: Misha & Oliver
Now, Misha, he wasn't expecting that question any, but he didn't hesitate when it came to answering. "I do. I want you plenty, sugar." There was earnest all over his voice, and his bright blue eyes were nothing but truthful close, fingers pressing against Oliver's hips in validation of his own words. "I ain't going to do a thing 'bout it, not unless you say, but I think you're pretty as a picture."
And, Misha, he was being real careful, but even he had limits, and when Oliver buried his fingers in fine blond, Misha bit himself back a groan. His fingers closed on Oliver's hips then, fingertips pressing 'gainst clothing and wishing there was skin 'neath that touch. But Misha didn't tuck his hands under nothing. He didn't let himself touch warm skin any. He kept himself there, limited to clutching over them clothes, and it was hard as Sundays with no church for the angel without wings, the way Oliver clutched at beltloops desperate. "I ain't a ghost," Misha promised, and he punctuated the words with kisses fanned along Oliver's jaw, chin to ear, then a kiss pressed to a warm cheek lingering. "I'm here, and I ain't a ghost."
Somehow, Oliver knowing that was real important in that moment. Reality, it was something often missing for Misha, and he didn't want to go believing this wasn't real any.
Knuckles curled against Misha's spine, and there was a rustling when Misha pushed himself away from the table. He didn't crowd, least he tried not to crowd. But he did press close. He pressed close as he could, long legs bumping 'gainst long legs, and knees butting against each other. He took one hand from Oliver's hip, and he cupped the boy's cheek, and he slanted his mouth more deliberate, more wanting, so Oliver wouldn't need to go asking after being liked.